Personal Protection (A Spider Shepherd Short Story) Read Free Page B

‘Anyone disagree?’ asked Jock.  There were no objections; everyone could see the sense of his suggestions.
    ‘Now, let’s talk training,’ said Shepherd. ‘Geordie?’
    ‘I’m assuming that most of the guys we’ll be training won’t be university educated,’ Geordie said. He glanced at Rusty for confirmation.
    ‘They’ll probably be illiterate,’ said Rusty. ‘But that doesn’t mean they’re unintelligent and their powers of recall may surprise you. Because they don’t write anything down, their memories are generally pretty good. They’ll speak very little English, though.’
    ‘Okay, so we’re best sticking to an uncomplicated syllabus,’ Geordie said, ‘with much of the normal intellectual content removed. We can take out the complicated large convoy drills and keep it simple, with just the three vehicle drills.  We don’t need to do any visiting Heads of State planning now; we can do that later when the internal security situation has stabilized, and we can cut out the counter-bombardment and anti-sniper training completely.’
    They spent the next two days planning the training, assembling the equipment and stores they would need and loading them on to an RAF Hercules. On the evening of the second day they took off and flew due south over the waters of the Mediterranean before turning east to cross the desolate, desert wastes of Saudi Arabia. They followed the old pre-jet age route of pipelines and pumping stations before entering the target country covertly, flying at low level without navigation lights. In the distance they could see the glare from the capital’s glass and steel skyscrapers piercing the night, lit up like an Arab Las Vegas. But as they flew on into the ink black night, the vast emptiness of the desert was broken only by the occasional tiny flicker of a Bedu camp fire.
    The Hercules landed at an air strip deep in the desert and they unloaded their stores and equipment under the curious gaze of the men they would soon be training. Rusty took charge of the stores and having seen them stowed to his satisfaction he began sorting out the camp routine, planning training sessions and meals around the regular Muslim calls to prayer.
    The training base was a tented camp with rudimentary facilities and, like all desert locations, it was burning hot by day, and bitterly cold as soon as night fell.  The SAS men shared two tents while the Arabs slept in a large communal marquee. There were a couple of showers, one for the Brits and the other for the Arabs, which were topped up daily by a municipal water bowser that trundled in across the desert each morning.  The same vehicle also supplied the water for all of the other camp requirements.
    The Sheikh arrived early the next morning in a convoy of vehicles that raised a dust trail that could be seen from miles away. Armoured vehicles and troop trucks travelled at the head and tail of the convoy, with three armoured Mercedes limousines with blacked out windows in the centre.
    Geordie laughed out loud at the convoy. ‘All we’re missing are marching bands and fireworks. Is there no Arabic word for covert?’
    ‘He’s a Sheik,’ said Rusty. ‘That’s how he travels.’
    ‘How do I address him, Rusty?’ Shepherd said as they watched the convoy rumbling towards them.
    ‘When you first greet him you should call him “Ya Sheikh min al Shayookh” which means “Oh Sheikh of the Sheikhs”. The Ya always precedes the greeting and makes it more respectful.  After that you should call him  “Ya Sheikh” unless you’re talking to him later on a private, one to one basis, then you should call him “Ya Seedee” which means “Oh Sir” But he’s Western educated, just calling him “Sir” will probably be just fine.’ 
    The convoy swept into the compound and after a pause to allow some of the dust cloud to dissipate, the sheikh emerged from his Mercedes, followed by his retinue. He wore traditional dress - a thobe in dazzling