Operation: Sahara

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Captain John Banks had a headache and Wiggo was complaining again. The two events were not unrelated.

“Oh, there’s plenty of sand, Cap. I think we can all agree on that. And it’s warm. But it’s no’ much of a fucking beach, is it?”

The small airstrip below them lay on the Egypt side of the Libyan border and was also barely ten miles north of bordering with Sudan. It had been chosen as the closest point to their destination by air, or at least the closest point they were allowed access to. Banks’ problems were mounting up already; after landing, the rest of their journey would be on foot, it would be hard going, they’d be in a foreign country without official sanction, and Wiggo was not helping.

The complaints had started back in Lossiemouth at the briefing.

The colonel had been clear enough.

“You’re on your own on this one, John. We can’t offer air support; the Libyans are a suspicious lot at the best of times, and if they find out that we’re running an op behind their backs they’ll go ballistic, maybe literally so.”

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