The Devil's Handshake

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“What’s the crack, Stevie?” asked the Commander of Charlie Three Zero, who at first glance, looked more like a local Bedouin tribesman with his dark long matted hair and scraggy long beard rather than an officer of the British Army.

“The fucking RSM wants to call a staff meeting at the pickup point!” said the Liverpudlian Corporal shaking his head as he disconnected the call from the encrypted radio.

The man smiled at the statement, the RSM who apart from being the Special Air Services (SAS) Regimental Sergeant Major also doubled as the Commander of Alpha One Zero always had a dry sense of humor.

The young officer was just twenty-seven, well-built and possessing a set of deep brown eyes that could look into one’s soul, was in the second year of his secondment as a language expert to the SAS from the Royal Gurkhas Rifles asked what the RSM wanted to discuss. Figuring it was more than likely something to do with the new intelligence from the Yanks that they had received on their prime objective—the location and destruction of Scud missiles in the western corridor of Iraq.

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