Thank you for coming to cordanttech.com The website is being built now cordanttech.com was created: August 14 2012 18:20:31. Today Saturday 25 May 2013 08:33:43 "You already know them." She looked puzzled. "I do?" "Colin, Finbar, Simon and me." She was now totally confused. "Think about it. Who has been fighting a terrorist war for years? We showed the Afghans what PIRA use, we showed them how to make the timer units. PIRA's stuff is easy to make, reliable and it works. It's the best improvized kit in the world. We even use it ourselves, so why not show our new best mates? That's our job, right: to help fuck up the bad boys." The next evening in Pakistan was spent constructing a sit rep that took the piss out of the int collator who'd thought up this little PIRA gem, and she found it as funny as I did, which was all rather nice, because I was finding that I liked the way her nose twitched when something amused her and her face creased into a big, radiant smile. It was strange that we got on so well, because in many ways we were chalk and cheese. I had joined the Army because I was too thick to do anything else. I'd seen the adverts that said I could be a helicopter pilot serving Queen and country, and an uncle of mine, who was an ex serviceman told me that girls loved a uniform. As far as I was concerned, all you had to do to get permanently tanned and laid was saunter down to the recruiting office. To a sixteen-year-old kid who thought that the world beyond my south London housing estate was just hearsay, it was no wonder the posters sucked me in. I couldn't wait to go to Cyprus wherever that was and fly my helicopter over beaches packed with girls who were just gagging for me to land and let them play with my joystick. Strangely, however, that wasn't quite the way things turned out. I took the entry tests, but the Army seemed to take the view that somebody who could only just about do up his own boot laces without getting confused was not about to take sole charge of a multimillion-pound Chinook. So, the infantry it was, then. Sarah, on the other hand, was smart. Private Benjamin she wasn't. Not that I knew much about her; ironically, she was just as good as I was at not giving anything away. No, I realized later, she was better. And to be honest that pissed me off. I wanted to know all about her strengths and weaknesses, her hopes and fears, her likes and dislikes, because armed with that information I could properly plan and carry out an attack on her expensive designer underwear. Since part of our cover while in Pakistan was that we were a couple and had to share the same hotel room much to Colin's fury I thought I might be in with a chance. At least, that was at the back of my mind at the start. I soon surprised myself by finding that, more than to get into her pants, I wanted to get inside her head. I realized I actually liked her. I liked her a lot, and I'd never felt that way about anyone before. As time went by, however, I was making no progress. I could never get any sort of handle on who this woman really was. It was like playing a computer game and never getting past level one. It wasn't that she was aloof; she was a great mixer. She'd go out with the team, and even accepted dinner with me a couple of times. She had a way of making me feel like a puppy jumping around at her feet waiting for a doggie treat. I knew, though, that I had the dreamer's disease, and that nothing would happen between us. What the fuck would she want from someone like me, apart from my ability to rip people apart for her if they got too scary? On that point I'd obviously acquitted myself all right, because Sarah was the one who suggested that I apply for a job with the service once I lefr the Regiment. Even now, after five years, I still didn't know if I should kiss her for that, or give her the good news with a two-pound ball hammer. I drank more beer and tried to watch the TV screen in front of me, but really I couldn't be assed. I thought back again to the Afghanistan job. The United States and its allies gave tens of thousands of assault rifles and rocket-propelled grenades, millions of rounds of ammunition and hundreds of Stinger missiles to the mujahedin. By the time the war ended in 1989 the muj's stock of Stingers was far from exhausted, and the CIA soon had a multimillion-dollar reward operation going, in an attempt to get them back before they were sold to any terrorist group who fancied a couple to play with. As far as I knew, the offer still stood. I turned onto my side, trying to get comfortable, and thought that maybe I should be going back to try and get some of that reward for myself. It was about time I made some money. © ISPmanager licensed