Alpha Two Zero
Alpha Two Zero (1990). Cyril Clunge's seminal work based very loosely upon his own exploits within Special Forces and the book which launched a thousand imitators. The story centres on an incident at a country house and is perfect example of how a well rehearsed operation can go badly wrong when comms goes tits up.
A balcony party is in full swing at the residence of the Chief Executive of Scandinavian Airlines - coincidentally also known as SAS. A badly-worded invite and some confusion as to who is exactly on the guest list leads to an all out assault and chaos quickly ensues.
The hush was palpable, broken intermittently by the sound of laughter, the clink of glasses and muted music. On the residence roof, Jimmy 'Slotter' Harris and Bob 'Fiji Bob' Bobalobalob - his tough Fijian 'oppo'- waited for the order to commence the assault.
Sweating under their protective hoods and respirators, Jimmy and Bob glanced at each other, each knowing their precise role in the action to come and each checking their personal equipment for the hundredth time. Jimmy looked, felt and, damn it, even smelt good as he glanced at his Traser® watch, the luminous hands slowly approaching the start time for the assault.
This was Jimmy's first live op with the regiment and it had to be right, otherwise he'd never live it down with the rest of the lads. "No worries mucker, you'll do just fine!" Bob reassured him. The tension was palpable - the beads of sweat glinting in the moonlight and their pulses racing so much that it sounded like a freight train in their heads. Surely someone must have heard them? Then Jimmy's earpiece burst in to life: "Blue Team. Go, go, go!"
Both troopers leaped off the roof in perfect black-clad unison, the rope screaming through their descenders. White plastered brickwork flashed in front of him before Harris's Adidas GSG9® boots hit the patio floor. "Oh darling this is so exciting" a guest was heard to exclaim. But her delight quickly turned to astonishment as Harris levelled his Hockler and emptied a full magazine of nine millimetre in to a nearby golden chocolate pyramid of Ferrero Rocher®.
Harris's earpiece shrieked in to life: "Aaagh, my fucking arse. "My Webtex® rig has jammed!" Harris instinctively spun around to see his colleague suspended over a blazing fondue set. The tough Fijian wasted no time in drawing his issue dagger and swept the razor-sharp blade through his rope in a swift, deft movement before crashing to the floor, his arse aflame.
By now, pandemonium had broken out and party goers fell about themselves in all directions amid the fury of lead and flashing steel. "On me mucker!" cried Harris as he quickly changed magazines before pouring a stream of accurate fire in to an ice sculpture of a Viking longboat and a swan, shattering the masterpiece in to a million pieces. Fiji Bob had by now doused his blazing, cheese-encrusted buttocks after throwing himself in to a conveniently placed ice bucket.
Another trooper, part of the rear entry team, appeared through a doorway. Johnny 'Three Bollocks' McKenzie was a popular figure in the regiment due to his birth defect. Also affectionately known as 'ET - The Extra Testicle', Johnny wasted no time in joining the affray, throwing a stun grenade in to a giant meringue centrepiece.
Likewise, Harris threw two more grenades in to a Black Forest gateaux and a punch bowl before emptying yet another mag and sawing in half a table of hors d'oeuvres and cheesy nibbles. The ensuing explosions were catastrophic: the whole room and its occupants covered in foodstuff, drink and deadly shards of ice. It was the mother of all food fights.
The screams abated to be replaced by a stunned silence. The troopers kicked their way across a wasteland of vol-au-vents and chipolatas before an enraged challenge rang out. "What the bloody fuck do you think you're doing?" A cake-spattered guest picked himself up and slowly walked towards the troopers. "I'll have every single one of you cnuts on Platform 2, Monday morning!" The voice sounded uncannily familiar to the troopers and their suspicions were confirmed when the guest wiped away the gateaux from his eyes. "Fuck me" exclaimed Harris, "it's the Boss!"
Indeed it was the CO, who happened to be a personal friend of the host. "Just what sort of cake and arse party do you call this?" demanded the colonel. The troopers stifled a laugh. "Well?" The big Fijian pointed to his behind - covered in melted Camembert. A grin slowly appeared on the boss's face as he realised that it truly was a cake and arse party and the troopers fell about in hysterics. "It looks like the drinks are on me boys" chortled the CO, as all concerned withdrew to the study for brandy and cigars. But not before Harris had peppered the ceiling with another mag-full of nine mill for dramatic effect.
Fiji Bob and Jimmy in reflective mood after the assault.
Much doubt has been cast upon this work after former TA SAS soldier Mick McStab exposed several flaws in the details. McStab travelled to Berkshire to interview several individuals, including a bulldozer driver, who were actually on the balcony of the residence and who have absolutely no recollection of the supposed events. McStab reached the conclusion that Clunge is nothing more than a lying cnut as party goers from Berkshire are well known never to tell a lie.
A rip-roaring actioner from cover to cover - The Grauniad
Our boys at their very worst - The Sun
An utter disgrace - Food & Drink
Totally unbelievable - Mars & Minerva