Looking forward to it. I forward Ch 1 to a few shipmates and have been inundated with requests for Ch 2. I had to explain that I did not pen this mater and was waiting as eagerly as they were. All the best Dog
The helicopter waiting to take off, was an American Mark 10 Super-Mega-Shitstorm-Black-Ace-Armageddon-Bitch-From-Hell-Fast-Attack Variant, (Those Americans just love to give military equipment ace macho names).
It was on detachment from 666 KickAss Air Cavalry based in Fort Bragg, North Carolina, and now on loan to the 33rd Malta Dog Shoot Naval Air Squadron - but its operational control was back behind one of those thick old wooden doors of the offices of the Special Intelligence Service (S.I.S.) in London. The pilot of this high-tech, cutting-edge, state-of-the-art flying death bringer was a 24 year old Jamaican Navy Lieutenant called "Willy-Boy" Utterthwaite RJN. He was the love-child of union between his Jamaican-born mother, and a holidaymaker from Scunthorpe. "Willy-Boy", therefore, had a tendency to speak in the standard laid-back Jamaican way - but with a somewhat confusing hint of a broad Yorkshire dialect also.
He gave his helicopter some more throttle, and depressed the transmit button of his radio.
"CONTROL TOWER - THIS IS GANJA TWO ZERO.....ISS THA' REDDY FOR UZZ T'TEKK OFF THEN CHUCK?"
"GANJA TWO ZERO-CONTROL...CLEARED TO DEPART...AND GOOD LUCK!"
"Willy-Boy" hauled back on the cyclic,
"THIS IS TOOOO ZEEERO MAN....REET! NO WURRIEZ MAN....AHHL SITHEE!"
The chopper roared upwards into the night sky, altered course and headed out to its pre-arranged rendezvous, skimming dangerously low over the flat calm waters of the Med. Willy-Boy shut off his emergency radio and slotted a Bob Marley cassette into the player he had masking-taped to the control panel. He turned the volume up to maximum, flipped a big red switch marked "AUTOPILOT", put his feet up on the cockpit windscreen, lit a bloody enormous funny looking cigarette, closed his eyes and started singing "I shot the Sheriff" as loud as he could.
SO WE HAVE AN AMERICAN MULTI-MILLION DOLLAR HELICOPTER, PILOTED BY A WEED-SMOKING JAMAICAN-YORKIE ON LOAN-DRAFT TO A MALTESE NAVAL AIR SQUADRON, CONTROLLED BY BLACK-HATS IN LONDON, ON ITS WAY TO PICK UP A LICENCED-TO-KILL SECRET AGENT, WHO IS ACTUALLY A WARDROOM STEWARD ON ONE OF HER MAJESTIES SHIPS.
...and its all true.
Far out at sea, Knocker Bond was pacing the flight-deck of HMS THRUSTER, chain-smoking duty-frees. He flicked the remains of his 13th cigarette into the luminous wake astern of the ship. Captain Bloodbath was standing in the open hangar, muttering quietly to himself.
"Steward Bond? A trained Secret Agent? Licenced to Kill? He can't even polish the Wardroom Silver collection properly!" He was still ranting under his breath as Knocker approached him.
"I know me old son - I know", said Knocker, reading the Captains thoughts.
"You lot thought I wuz just anuvver loafin' always adrift in-the-shite Jack-me-tickler-tin piss 'ead!!"
The Captain was about to reply, but Knocker held up a hand and continued to enlighten his CO.
"Bin an Operative in the f***in' S.I.S. as long as I've bin in the RN fer fu**s sake....'cos kickin' arse, killin' people and shaggin' fit birds is a lot more fun than mustering knives, forks and f***ing spoons!"
Knocker was momentarily silent.
"Ohh - and by the way mate...."
Captain Bloodbaths face contorted into yet another puzzled expression.
"The name is Bond......Smudge Bond!"
"I'M F***ING UNDERCOVER NOW MATEY!"
The Shitstorm Helo zoomed across the bows of HMS THRUSTER at 300 miles an hour, Reggae music pounded out of Will-Boys Super-Bass Loudspeakers, fixed in the passenger compartment, and great clouds of ganja smoke streamed, Red Arrow style out of the open passenger door. The 'copter circled back and made its approach towards the stern of the ship.
"O---kaaaaayyy den man", said Willy-boy as he expertly brought the machine into a hover above the flight deck.
"TIME T'LAND THIS FECKIN ELLYCOOPTER ME OWLD FLOWER!"
Twenty feet up, he shut off the engines. The machine stopped flying and thudded into the deck. Silence.
Willy-Boy Utterthwaite poked his head out of the cockpit window. The flying helmet he was attempting to wear was cellotaped to his dreadlocks, some foot-and-a-half above the actual top of his head, and it was wobbling precariously on its temporary perch. He shouted towards the two men who had taken cover in the hangar.
"Heyyy youz fellas there....Taxi for Knocker Bond...bye 'eck!"
Smudge (nee Knocker) Bond sprinted towards the waiting helicopter, Pussers grip strapped across his back. He vaulted effortlessly into the passenger compartment, sat down and strapped himself in.
"The Name's Bond.....Smudge Bond.."
Willy-Boy fired up the engines.
"Yeah man...whatever - just hang there and chill man and I get you to your briefing in Gozo.....Awreet me owld bucket o' Whippet Spew?"
Smudge Bond pulled his cap over his face.
"Just gizza shake when we get there - okay?"
The chopper took off, and Willy-Boy pulled a handful of snack-food from a pocket in his flying suit.
"Chicken Jerky man?"
"Some Caribbean fried Mango Crisps then man?"
Willy-Boy held aloft a load of wobbling, slimy vile smelling white stuff.
"Okay man...'Ad this tripe posted to me from me Uncle in Wigan...Reet neece wi' onions!"
"F***ing Shurrup...fly this bastard and shake me when we get there okay?!"
Willy fell silent, and flew hell for leather towards Gozo.
On the THRUSTER meanwhile, Captain Bloodbath had entered the Wardroom and was necking Jack Daniels, direct from the bottle. He turned over temporary command to the First Lieutenant and locked himself in his cabin for a week.
To this day, no one knows why.
Lt Utterthwaite brought the helicopter in to land on an old disused airstrip at the Southern most tip of Gozo. Smudge Bond peered through the open doorway into the early morning sunlight. Parked at the edge of the airfield runway, was an old, rusting beat-to-shit Malta Bus, its windows boarded up and the words "ROYAL MARINES" painted in green on the sides.
The vehicles roof bristled with aerials, radar antennas, satellite dishes and GPMG's. A portable barbeque had been welded on at the back of the roof, and a large wild rabbit was burning up nicely on the white hot charcoal embers.
"Definitely one of "Flood" Q's S.I.S. modifications", thought Smudge, as he leapt from the helos door. His boots kicked up clouds of fine yellow dust as he landed on the slowly warming mediterranean earth. Willy-Boy watched as Bond cautiously ambled towards the silent vehicle. All of Smudge Bonds highly trained senses switched to danger mode as he caught sight of movement on the roof of the bus.
The rabbit, suddenly realising that it was, in fact, actually still alive, squealed alarmingly, hurtled off the barbeque, bounced off the roof and shot into the rocky outcrops at the side of the runway - its singed fur leaving a smokey trail behind it.
"F***in' typical Green Machine..", muttered Smudge.
"Couldn't even be arsed to kill it before cookin' the fu**er!" The distraction had been carefully planned!
Bond was only a footstep away from the drivers door, when a massive pile of twigs, leaves and bushes sprang up from the ground beside the bus...
The undergrowth spoke...
"FREEZE MOTHERFU**ER!! OR I'LL CANCEL YER TICKET RIGHT NOW!"
Bond vented a long drawn out sigh, dropped his grip in the dirt, lit another duty free and turned to face the quivering pile of foliage. He stared directly into the rock-steady barrel of a special-issue Snipers Rifle that poked out of the mass of flora and fauna.
"Is there a fu**ing Boot-neck inside that pile of shite then?? - I think your 'ere to take me to a fu**in' briefing wings!!", he yelled.
A muffled voice eminated from inside the portable scrubland.
"EYYUPPP!! E'e TELD ME IS NAME WURR SMUDGE!", shouted Willy-Boy from the safety of his pilots seat.
"Name's Bond awright....Bootneck.....you can call me Wiggy..."
The snipers rifle disappeared inside the snipers suit and the person within chuckled quietly.
"So - you're the famous Wiggy Bond eh?"
Wiggy (Nee Knocker nee Smudge) Bond heard a zip being undone and the Royal Marine stepped out of the camouflage gear. The ShitStorm helicopter took off in a whirling cloud of pebbles and dust. The down wash from its rotors blasted the beret off the Royal Marines head and Wiggy Bond noted (with some surprise) that a cascade of long, sun-bleached honey-blonde hair fell from under it to frame the Marines blacked-out face.
"F**K ME!!....YOU'RE A BOOTY!!....A BOOTY BINT.....YOU GOT..LIKE...TITS'N'STUFF!!"
The marine smiled, revealing a set of blacked-out teeth also...he hoped.
"The name is Klamm, Mary Klamm - Corporal Mary Klamm, the one and only member of 69 PMT Squadron Womens Royal Marine Experimental Detachement - Gozo Troop!"
She continued to explain her plight.
"I was drafted to this shit-hole two years ago as a driver, and you are my first job! I have'nt had a good seeing to in twenty-three months...there's a pussers mattress in the back of that bus..so if you're NOT up for it....I WILL fu**ing shoot you!!"
Saliva started to dribble from the corners of Wiggy's mouth and all the blood rushed to his (other) head. He clambered into the back of the bus. Corporal Mary Klamm lay there on the mattress, legs akimbo, clad only in a pair of khaki nickers with the words "GET SOME!" embroidered on the gusset. Wiggy lay down beside her, gently tugging her nickers south.
"Corporal Klamm?", he said
"I don't mind bein' fu**ing surprised by a bleedin' great heap of twigs, leaves and undergrowth first thing in the mornin'..."
"Ohhhh really...", she crooned
Wiggy Bond catapulted her nickers out of the buses window. They cartwheeled through the air, and stuck themselves to a rock-face on the other side of the runway with an audible THWACK.
He gazed in wonder at her nether-regions. Something resembling a young Michael Jackson haircut sprang up into his face.
"But that's some fu**ing bush you got there lady!".
Wiggy Bond then gave her a right good portion.
Much, much later - Bond hiked up his trousers and reached into his grip. He screwed the lid off a large tin of Brut talcum powder and chucked a goodly amount into each armpit before putting on a clean T-Shirt with the words "WARDROOM STEWARDS DO IT IN OFFICERS CORNFLAKES" emblazoned on the front. Woman Marine Klamm moaned happily in her sleep, so Wiggy decided to drive himself to the briefing. He hopped over into the drivers seat and surveyed the dashboard. It was littered with a lot of "Flood" Q's Special Section Handiwork. Bolted to the steering wheel was a special issue Sinclair ZX Spectrum Satellite Navigation System.
"Yeah....got to be the work of that fu**ing nutcase "Flood" Q and his bunch of Porton Down inbred Cornish Anoraks..." thought Wiggy. He tapped the words s-e-c-r-e-t s-i-s- h-e-a-d-q-u-a-r-t-e-r-s on the satnavs keyboard, then twisted the buses ignition key. He crunched through the gears and the bus shuddered into motion. The satnav System clicked and bleeped into life. "Flood" Q - being something of a mental case, had over-written the soft female voice that usually issued directions from the Satnav, with that of an ex Regimental Sgt Major desperate for work, having been recently turned down as the new voice of the speaking clock. Apparently, he had failed the audition, when his prospective employer picked up the "Test Phone" and heard:
"AT THE FU**IN' THIRD FU**IN' BLEEP IT WILL BE OH SEVEN HUNDRED - YOU SHOWER OF IDLE BASTARDS! HANDS OFF YER COCKS AND ON WITH YER SOCKS!!"
Wiggy steered the bus on to the main road.
"LISTEN 'ERE YOU CNUT!", said the Satnav system
"YOU WILL DRIVE THIS SHITPILE IN A FU**IN' STRAIGHT LINE FOR FIVE F***IN' MILES....I SAID FIVE FU**IN' MILES...THEN...WAIT FOR IT-WAIT FOR IT!!!TURN RIGHT UP A DIRT TRACK...STOP THE FU**IN' BUS...GET THE F**K OFF IT AND POLISH ALL THE FU**IN TYRES...RIGHT??!!!"
Wiggy Bond yanked the satnav system off its mountings and chucked it out of the window. It landed in the middle of a curious flock of sheep and continued to issue directions...
"YOUR FU**IN' LUG-HOLES FULLA FU**IN' WAX THEN FU*K-NUT??! - I SAID TURN FU**IN' RIGHT DIDN'T I??.....blahhh blearrgghhhh".
The battery gave out and the sheep meandered away. Wiggy Bond put the pedal to the metal and hurtled onwards. Five miles down the road, Wiggy Bond executed a hand-brake turn onto a rock-strewn dirt track. He gunned the engine and the bus bounced along the pot-holed secret access to S.I.S's Med Hq on the Isle of Gozo. The bus screeched to a halt opposite a cave entrance with a sign above it stating:
"GOZO JOE VAGINO'S OFF-LICENCE AND SOUVENIR EMPORIUM"
A Gozonian Granny, aged at least one hundred and four was on guard at the caves entrance. She watched Wiggy Bonds approach with utter indifference.
"You give me two quids......I show you good time....we do SEX all night!", the old crone rasped
"Fu*k me! - I hope thats the Password challenge, and not a fu**in' offer", said Bond.
The old hag spat out a soggy, well masticated blob of chewing tobacco, bared her blackened toothless gums and cackled insanely.
"You Okay - go in Meester Bond!"
Bond - Wiggy Bond walked into the black gaping mouth of the cave and was swallowed up by the cool darkness.
Woman RM Klamm woke up, got dressed and locked up the bus. She marched over to the SIS Sick-Bay for her daily dusting of lice powder.
She made a mental note to tell Wiggy Bond about the crabs she could'nt shift the next time their paths crossed.....