Kisses From Nimbus

by P. J. 'Red' Riley

  There was no point in me asking any questions since I knew he wouldn’t be giving me any answers.

  Quarantine is used to isolate an individual, as much as possible, to minimise the risk of a security leak prior to the start of an operation. No, contact with family or friends. No relaxing visits to the pub or popping into the local shop to pick up a daily newspaper and exchange a few pleasantries with the amiable storekeeper, who might be very interested in getting to know where Special Forces are being deployed to next. No telephone, no internet or access to a post box. Even the most trusted of individuals could, inadvertently, let slip information about any planned deployment. Possibly even by talking in their sleep or writing something down without it being intended to be read by anyone else.

  It was close to midnight as we landed on the square in Hereford. Normally I would help the engineers to put the aircraft away for the rest of the night, but tonight things were different. Almost invariably, we would crack open a couple of cans of beer before sitting down for a brief chat about life in general and, of course, about how the helicopter was performing and whether any unscheduled maintenance needed to be done before being flown again. I would then sign the Flight Authorisation Sheet, which had to be done before leaving the office and the RAF Form 700, a military version of the civilian Flight Technical Log used for all aircraft throughout the Navy, Army, Royal Marines and the Royal Air Force.

  But, tonight, none of the routine administration would be completed. Even though Crocker and I were good friends he was also my superior officer. He had given me a clear and unambiguous direct order, which I was, duty bound, to obey. I had been instructed to make my way to Pontrilas without speaking to anyone. The fact that I didn’t ask any questions at the time of the order, made it clear that I understood what I was being told. So, that is exactly what I intended to do.

  Pete, the engineer, approached us as we left the aircraft, with two, freshly opened cans of Budweiser and his usual cheery. “Evening Boss. Red. How’s things?”

  He had a face like a slapped arse when the boss abruptly replied, “No thanks, Pete” and strode off towards his office in Regimental Headquarters.

  He seemed close to tears as I added insult to injury when I just looked at him and, instead of my normal friendly reply and joining him for a drink, said not a word and set off in the opposite direction to my car.

  My lasting memory of Pete is of him standing in the light of the hangar with a can of beer in each hand. He reminded me, very much, of a meerkat on sentry duty, head going from side to side as he watched us disappear, wondering what the fuck was going on.

  As I switched on the ignition to start my car, I realised that I was very low on fuel (nothing new there then, I hear you say). I felt that I now had a dilemma. I could, quite easily, leave my car where it was, walk across to the guardroom and get the duty driver to take me to Pontrilas. This option would, almost inevitably, mean me having to speak to someone and therefore disobey the direct order, not something that I wanted to do. I decided that the better option would be to risk the drive and if I ran out of fuel then I would have to accept a moonlight stroll. But what if I had to leave my car abandoned on the A465? Operation Corporate sounded to me like it could develop into a full-scale war. People get killed in wars, full-scale or not. If I didn’t make it back then my car might never be found, and my long-suffering wife would miss out on the resale value of a recently re-sprayed, eight-year-old Ford Cortina with superb go-faster stripes which I had fitted not more than a month earlier. The fuel gauge was reading ‘empty’ as I left Bradbury Lines but, fortunately, it proved to be as unreliable as the rest of the Cortina and I made it safely to the main gate of the Pontrilas Army Training Area, which was then being used as a temporary Military Quarantine facility.

  The Ministry of Defence police officer, normally referred to as ‘Mod Plod’, looked at me rather sheepishly, as he quickly pushed away his reading material and took a sip from his mug

  “Warrant Officer Riley for quarantine,” I said, rather awkwardly, not really sure as to whether or not I was now breaking my orders.

  “Ok, let’s have a look,” he replied, as he carefully positioned the steaming cup between the ‘Action in the event of Terrorist Attack’ register and the Playboy magazine he had just been leafing through.

  I stood at the guardroom hatch whilst the ‘Mod Plod’ reached over to his left and picked up a book which he opened and scrolled down the page with his finger. Looking up at me he asked me for my ‘last three’, which meant that he wanted me to recite the last three digits of my Army number. An Army number, then consisting of eight digits, was allocated uniquely to each individual serviceman, or woman, and would remain on record at the Ministry of Defence in perpetuity and is something that any service person will never forget.

  ‘Nine six eight’ I replied.

  He nodded and then appeared to make a tick against, what I assumed to be, my name.

  He was grossly overweight, sporting long unkempt sideburns and a thick moustache. He almost seemed to topple from his stool as he reached across to his right to pick up the phone.

  “One for quarantine,” he said abruptly, after a few seconds, before slamming the phone down.

  “Wait there. Someone on their way to collect you,” he almost shouted to me rather grumpily before closing the hatch in my face, almost as though he had been caught with his trousers around his ankles. To this day, I am convinced that he had been.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  A few minutes later Lofty, who I knew to be the camp sergeant major, turned up looking like he had just been dragged out of bed. Which was hardly surprising since, by that time, it must have been well past one o’clock in the morning. The usual friendly dialogue and banter were left out that night and I followed Lofty, in silence, as he ambled towards one of the unlit barrack blocks. His gait seemed to be made more unusual by the fact that he had an almost permanent stoop, probably due to his stature of over six foot four inches.

  My new accommodation was a small barrack room holding only eight old-fashioned, metal single beds, with a steel locker and bedside table for each bed space. At the far end of the room was a door displaying a sign ‘Ablutions’.

  There was no one else in the room so I assumed that I was either the first to arrive or the rest of the guys, preparing to go to war, were already bedded down in the adjacent barrack blocks.

  “The mess hall is directly across the road. Breakfast six-thirty to eight,” said Lofty, stifling a yawn.

  “You’ll find everything you need in your locker. Good night and god bless,” he said leaving me to settle down for the night.

  There was no sight or sound of any other person on camp as I walked across to the mess hall for breakfast the following morning. Expecting to find the place full of hungry squaddies, all stuffing their faces, before being sent off to the unfolding adventure close to the Antarctic, I was disappointed, instead, to find yet another empty room. Not even a cook or someone to keep the dining hall clean and tidy. The lights were on but the place was eerily quiet. On the serving counter, there was a solitary bain marie which felt warm. I lifted the lid and discovered a prepared and ready plated breakfast of eggs, bacon, sausage and beans which, assuming it was for me, I sat and ate at the nearest table which had been set for one.

  For the next three days, I lived a bizarre existence not having contact with any other living soul. I spent the vast majority of my time sitting on my bed reading, and three times a day I wandered across to the empty mess, more out of boredom than hunger, to discover what culinary delights had been left for me to tuck into.

  Not only was my solitary confinement becoming tedious, I was also beginning to get worried. Surely, by now, the task force had been assembled and a large number of the Regiment must, without a doubt, be part of it. Could it be possible that not only, had the task force been assembled but it was, at that very moment, sailing towards the Falkland Islands via Ascension? Could it also be possible that the bastards ha
d left me behind?

  I was eating my fourth, unbelievably dull, breakfast in ‘Camp Solitude’, as I had begun to call the place whenever I spoke to myself. And I didn’t just talk to myself. I had full blown, two-way conversations with the mirror, my hand, the burnt sausage on my plate, in fact, anything that I thought would listen to me. As I was waiting for a reply from the sausage, the door of the mess hall swung open and in stooped Loftie. The sight of another human being brought tears of joy to my eyes and I became almost ecstatic when he actually spoke.

  “Morning Red, how’s the scran?” he asked with a cheery smile.

  “Err… fine,” I lied, as I coughed up a bean.

  “Yeah, Andy, the chef sure does a mean breakfast. He only came on a six-month attachment from the catering corp twelve years ago, and we’ve refused to let him go back ever since,” he said as he sat down beside me.

  “Believe it or not, Andy was trained at the Savoy, or some posh gaff like that before he joined up. Bloody great cook and a hell of a nice guy.”

  My ears were ringing pleasantly at the sound of another person’s voice. I couldn’t comment on whether Andy was a nice guy, never having seen him. And I thought it better to keep my opinions on his cooking to myself.

  “No doubt you’ll be pleased to hear that, unlike our superb chef, we are letting you go,” he added, almost melodically. “A car will be at the gate at nine. Good luck and stay safe my friend,” he said as he shook my hand before turning to leave.

  The car was already waiting for me when I got to the main gate a little before the arranged time. There was an envelope on the front passenger seat addressed ‘Personal and private. W.O. Red Riley’.

  “Morning mate,” I said to the driver, who I didn’t recognise.

  “Good morning, sir,” he replied.

  “Hope you know where we are going cos I don’t have a fucking clue,” I mumbled, as I put the envelope on my knee and strapped myself in.

  “Century House in London sir,” came the reply in a more formal tone than I was used to.

  I had never been to Century House but I knew, roughly, where it was. I felt sure that it was the headquarters of MI5, the UK security services. But it could have been MI6. I couldn’t have cared less, and I had no idea what the difference was anyway. I was just glad to get away from Camp Solitude and Andy’s cooking. It didn’t surprise me one jot that he had been given the boot from the Savoy, or wherever it was, and ran away to join the Army – his food was absolutely crap.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  OPERATION LOCAL

  I sat back to enjoy the ride as we picked up the M55 motorway just north of Ross-on-Wye. Time to open the envelope. Inside I found my passport, five hundred pounds in cash and a business-class, one-way ticket to Rio de Janeiro.

  I was met at the entrance to Century House by a tall guy in a grey suit who introduced himself as Jeremy, followed by a jumble of letters and numbers which made no sense to me at all. He handed me a visitors’ pass, which I hung around my neck, and I then followed him through the security barrier. Jeremy led the way, his footsteps echoing, as we passed down a long corridor lined with impressive looking portraits and large wooden doors leading off from both sides. At the first open door, we entered, what could probably best be described as, a conference room. A large, highly polished, wooden table stood in the centre with a dozen, or so, chairs around it. At one end of the table, there was a screen and projector next to a large whiteboard on which was written ‘Operation Local’ and underlined twice. Sitting alone at the table was Brummie, who I recognised from Hereford. Brummie’s long sideburns and droopy moustache exemplifying, a Mexican, as many people referred to members of the SAS in those days. Only his steely blue eyes suggested that, in fact, his ancestors originated from much further north than South America.

  Jeremy and I joined Brummie at the table.

  “Any idea what’s happening mate?” I asked in a whisper.

  “Looks like we’re off to Copacabana Beach. Other than that, I don’t have the foggiest,” he whispered in reply.

  A short, portly, middle-aged man with a bald head and ridiculously bushy eyebrows came into the room carrying a box file and a clipboard. He stood facing us and slowly placed the file and clipboard on the table in front of him. As he did so, his hands then withdrew into the sleeves of his jacket which were much too long, reminding me of a tortoise retreating into its shell. There was a pregnant pause as he reached into his top pocket and took out a pair of pince-nez which he carefully secured onto the end of his nose.

  “Good afternoon gentlemen,” he began in a deep monotone voice.

  ‘I am H2SO4UK’. (That may not have been exactly what he said, but I do recall it sounded more like a chemical formula, for some kind of sulphuric acid, rather than it did for an appointment title).

  The tortoise’s head emerged from his right sleeve as he pointed, very deliberately, towards Brummie.

  “Warrant Officer Stone, yes?’ he said with a nod. The specs, rather amazingly, staying firmly in place.

  And then it was my turn to be confronted by the reptile.

  “And Warrant Officer Riley,” he mumbled, seeming to throw his voice to the end of his arm like a well-practiced ventriloquist.

  “Yes,” was the only word I could summon. A voice inside my head was screaming at me, ‘For Christ sake, put that fucking thing back inside its shell!’

  “Operation Local,” continued H2-something-or-other.

  “You two gentlemen will be part of a four-man Special Forces team deploying into South America in direct support of Operation Corporate. All you need to know at this stage is that you are to move forward to Rio de Janeiro and await further instructions,” he said slowly as he opened the lid of the box file.

  “You have your civilianised documentation and airline tickets. Please leave your military ID cards and your dog tags on the table before you leave here today.” He took out two large brown envelopes from the file.

  “Mister Stone. In this there are five thousand Brazilian pesos and one thousand US dollars”’ he said casually, sliding the package across the table.

  “Mister Riley, your envelope contains the same, plus an extra twenty thousand US for you to lease an aircraft of some sort, if necessary.” The much larger envelope being nudged towards me as he spoke.

  We were given two telephone numbers and the name of a hotel. Jeremy explaining that the second phone number should only be used as a back-up. Our instructions were to travel together and, under no circumstances, were we to acknowledge anyone else if we happened to recognise them. Once ensconced into our hotel rooms one of us was to ring the number and ask for Mr Brooksbank, nothing more. We would then be told where and when to meet, for us to be given any further instructions.

  “I believe you already have sufficient sterling to purchase whatever you may need for travelling. Do you have any questions?” H2 asked, as the tortoise did a neat little trick of flicking off the pince-nez specs and slipping them deftly back into his top pocket.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Later that day, as we sat eating a curry in the small Indian restaurant on Lower Sloane street, Brummie and I concocted what we would use as our reason for the visit to Rio. We decided that the two of us would pretend to be fairly rich individuals who thought it might be a good idea to sample the delights of South America. Not a particularly well thought out cover story. But it was simple and, I suspect that our powers of reasoning and rational thinking had been affected by the fact that we were on our second pint of Indian lager, having earlier spent three or four hours in the Rose and Crown pub across the road.

  The next morning, we sat in the Business Class section of a British Airways 747 bound for Galeão International Airport, quaffing champagne and eating a selection of canapés. A mug of tea and a NAAFI ‘growler’ – what we normally called a steak pie – was much more in keeping with our style. But we were making every effort to play our parts, as international playboys, to the full. It felt to me like a very
strange way to be going to war.

  Once we had settled into the small hotel in the city’s Botafogo region, we rang the number we had been given and asked for Mr Brooksbank, as instructed. After a couple of minutes, a man’s voice, with a slight Scottish accent, came on the line.

  “Hi. My name is Tim,” he said, and then without waiting for a reply went on.

  “I will leave something for you with your hotel reception within the next few days. No need to call again unless you have serious problems.” The line went dead.

  “Not very friendly,” I chuntered. “Do you fancy a walk to the beach and a couple of beers?” I asked. I didn’t need a reply. Brummie already had his rucksack, stuffed with money and his swimming kit, over his shoulder and he was heading for the door.

  Not until the third day did we receive an envelope, which had been left with reception, addressed only to our room number. Inside was a handwritten note with the details of a hotel, two telephone numbers, the name Mr Summerson and two airline tickets to Santiago de Chile for the following day.

  The short notice of the next leg of our journey left us with something of a dilemma. We had the biggest part of ten thousand Brazilian pesos left between us. We thought it best not to change it into US dollars since that might draw, unwanted, attention to us. The best solution we could come up with was to spend it, but we only had that evening in which to do it.