

Road to Recovery

By

Tony Wilson

Copyright 2012 Tony Wilson

Smashwords Edition

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Licence Notes

Thank you for downloading this free ebook. Although this is a free book, it remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com where they can also discover the other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

The moral right of Tony Wilson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

Discover the rest of the titles in this trilogy by Tony Wilson

Onward and Upward

Above and Beyond

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Cover designed by Tony Wilson

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Table of Contents

(Click on any chapter heading to return to the Table of Contents)

Title Page

Licence Page

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Authors Notes

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Chapter 1

It was supposed to be 'another wonderful day in paradise', so why on earth am I laying flat on my back in a helicopter when Sheila and I are supposed to be on a short break in our motor-home, perhaps it had something to do with all the tubes stuffed down my throat. Let me think, I remember Sheila (my wife of 32 years), Bonnie and Clyde (our Yorkshire terriers of five years) and I – Andrew Michaels (of 55 years) arriving in the pouring rain at the caravan site just north of Granada, after a pleasant drive down from our Villa (of 5 years). We are, or as it would now seem, were, going to meet up with some of our friends that we regularly seem to bump into on out travels, any excuse for G & T. The excuse this time - I am in serious need of some R&R as I slipped a disc three weeks ago, a bit feeble as excuses go but definitely good for the sympathy vote. Funny, I cannot remember meeting up with them.

With perfect timing it had started to rain just as we arrived at the site (it could at least have waited for another half an hour), and I remember dutifully checking into the office and then plugging 'Winnie' into her new home (I call her that because she is a _Winnebago_ , not just because she is poo coloured). Leaving our two now very muddy hounds in their travelling cage we headed out into the rain in search of a cup of tea, or perhaps something slightly stronger.

As we walked passed a nearby pitch we noticed that the owners of a rather nice (for nice - read large) caravan were having a considerable amount of trouble positioning their 'box on wheels' on their sloping, and by now very wet and slippery pitch. As we consider ourselves to be fairly helpful sort of people I offered them our services, bad move. From what I remember of them they seemed to be a rather quiet, retiring sort of couple, the sort that I imagined would probably have preferred to do all the pushing and shoving on their own, but even they had come to realise that in this rain, and with the sloping terrain, they were not going to move it anywhere with just the two of them. Sheila and I opted for the rear of their caravan, and expending a fair amount of our valuable energy the four of us finally got the thing moving in generally the right direction, but unfortunately the rain, mud and finally the wind then decided to enter into the equation, and things moved on quite quickly after that. The caravan started to slide, and then he (the owner of the delinquent caravan) decided to slip, and after first banging his head on a conveniently placed rock, slid gracefully under it, with his head strategically placed for one of the wheels to run squarely over it - now was about the time that I should have remembered why the doctor had ordered me away. Whilst trying to stop the sliding caravan from crushing his head my tender back decided that it was not really ready for such abuse and I had that all too familiar feeling of _pain_ , followed by the sensation of my spine wanting to bend in two – backwards. I knew that I wasn't going to stop this man made titan in my condition but summoning up some unknown inner strength I managed to pull the rear of the van around, just far enough for it to collide with a rather large tree. I suppose the logic behind my action was that this poor soul would prefer to have a dented caravan rather than a flat head. All went well until too late I realised that 'I' was between the immovable tree and the careening caravan. At moments like that I think you are supposed to have your whole life flash before you, wrong, all I could think was 'I hope Sheila will be alright driving Winnie back home on her own' – and now I am laying on my back in a helicopter, 'wonder where Sheila is'. I then decided that it was a good time to take a little nap.

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Five years ago we took the plunge and went for early retirement. Both children had gone off to do other things in the world so we sold the house and 'family' business, and after settling all our debts (and a few of the children's) we had enough left over to go on a much deserved 'once in a lifetime cruise', and purchase an idyllic three bed roomed luxury villa. It came complete with swimming pool and Jacuzzi and is situated close to a small village fifty kilometres inland from Alicante - just far enough away from the coast for us to be in among the 'real Spanish', and away from the summer crowds.

Two years later, bored to tears and not wanting to get into the 'G&T's at 12:00' routine, we blew a chunk of our savings on an American motor home. We promoted Doris, our Columbian 'limpiadora' (cleaner), who helps Sheila around the villa for a few hours each week, to 'Jefá del Casa' (boss of the house) and she now regularly looks after the villa and pool for us (with a little help from husband Pedro) as we spend more and more time away succumbing to the wander lust. In fact in the past 3 years we have covered most of Spain and Portugal, plus a fair amount of France and Italy, and meeting some fascinating people on the way. A week among the olive groves, rolling green countryside and convivial company was just what the doctor ordered, literally, as I had slipped the disc whilst cleaning the pool and apparently I now need to get out and about again and take some 'light exercise'. For some strange reason walking to the car and winding my own watch don't constitute 'exercise'.

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The next time I woke I found myself on terra firma with a rather elderly gentleman in a white coat trying to talk to me in Spanish, stupid man, didn't he know that I was English; everyone should speak my language shouldn't they? If they didn't then all I had to do was wave my hands and shout louder - then they would of course understand me. Then it slowly dawned on me that I could neither wave my hands (or any other part of my anatomy for that matter) nor even whisper any profanities at him, damn those tubes. I then guiltily wished that Sheila and I had carried on with those interminable Spanish lessons. Being a self-made man (and proud of it) I didn't even know what a conjugated verb was in English so how could it be of any possible use to me in Spanish! 'Time for another nap, hope I can sleep alright tonight'.

What turned out to be five days later I slowly realised that someone was holding my hand, it of course would be my Sheila, she was always there for me, no doubt about it; then PAIN, she/him/it was sticking what turned out to be a new cannula into the back of my hand, apparently the previous one had just blocked. Not my problem, go away and molest someone else, 'I want to talk to my wife' I tried to scream. There was no sign of Sheila but as I looked frantically around I was greeted by the equally pleasing sight of Alice, our very beautiful and talented violin playing daughter standing beside the bed. 'How had she got here so fast?' I thought, 'Concorde was no longer flying', Sheila must be getting me a coffee, 'time for another nap'.

The next time I woke it was dark, with just a dim light glowing above my bed, 'my bed? I don't have a light over my bed, dim or otherwise'. It then slowly started to come back to me, the rain, the caravan, the mud, the stranger falling under the wheel, and the lack of Sheila in the helicopter. 'Where is Sheila, I want to see my wife' I tried to croak, and the blood started to turn to ice in my veins.

Alice woke with a start; she had been catnapping on the recliner chair beside the bed, and throwing off a blanket she was quickly sat on the side of my bed. Gently taking my hand in hers she started coming out with all the usual platitudes, 'shush, go back to sleep, take it easy, don't move, we'll talk more later', but it was obvious even to a mere male like me that she had been crying BIG TIME. She tried to calm me down - but to no avail, then I tried to sit up and lash out, at anything, or anyone, I wanted my wife, my lovely beautiful 'always there for me', wife, **'and I want her NOW!'**

Nurses came running, a Doctor came running, and a needle was slid into the cannula, and just as I was slipping off into blissful unconsciousness, in the half-light I could have sworn that I saw my Sheila silhouetted in the doorway. She was dressed in white, waving, and there was a strange glowing light behind her, 'oh well time to sort that one out another day'.

This time it was daylight when I woke, and I was securely 'supported' by straps and pillows so that I could not move, and was sufficiently pleased with myself to realise that I was on medication - big time. Alice was sitting quietly in the now upright recliner, and I had never seen her looking so sad, not even when 'Snowball' her Angora rabbit had finally 'gone to be with Jesus'. Sheila was definitely right; she was very beautiful, in a delicate sort of way, but we also knew that behind that slight exterior there was a tough little cookie lurking. Robin, our Veterinarian son, who a few days after the solemn ceremony with 'Snowball' had wanted for some strange reason to dig the poor animal back up, just so that he could 'have a quick look inside', and whose long suffering girlfriend couldn't even drag him away from his patients for a much needed naughty weekend, stood quietly behind her, and it then slowly sank into my drug befuddled mind that something had happened that day, and my children were dreading having to tell me. 'What happen to her' I croaked, grasping the bull by the horns, I realised that no matter how dreadful I felt I was still their father and must look after my children, it was not for them to break such bitter news to me. Between them they explained to me that on that fateful day, after I had passed out the caravan wheel had unfortunately caught Mr Albright (our intrepid caravanner) on his neck, but had then quickly released him again as the van pivoted around me and my tree: and their mother, who had been pulling on the other corner, was spun into a nearby picnic table, which winded her, and gave her a nasty pain in the chest. The Paramedics quickly arrived, and first attended to me and 'Mr Albright', but after we were 'stabilised' one of them then checked a distraught Sheila over. He suspected that she may have cracked a few ribs, but unfortunately there was not enough room in the air ambulance for all of us so she would have to travel by road ambulance as a patient – no arguing. Once I was safely airborne he gave her a sedative to ease the pain, and with lights flashing and sirens blaring they set off for the hospital. About 10 minutes into the journey she died, without any warning her aorta ruptured. Robin tried to assure me that 'she wouldn't have felt a thing. Nobody could have done anything to save her' he went on, but I found that small consolation for the meaning of my life ending.

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As I was being admitted, the hospital had found a battered business card of an 'Abagado' (Solicitor) in my wallet; it was fortunately 'my Abagado', Vicente. The hospital contacted him, and as he had previously sorted out our Spanish wills he had all the details on Alice & Robin to hand. He quickly rang Robin, and with his help they were both in Spain within 4 hours; he even met them at the airport. Vicente also set in motion the procedure for Sheila's cremation, which took place two days later. We had both stated in our wills that this was our preferred choice and Alice, who attended the service with Vicente, was particularly surprised at the turn out. Apparently our local English radio station had covered 'the story', and word had quickly spread.

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Over the next few days Alice & Robin 'brought me up to speed' (what a horrible saying) on what had happened to me. My recently slipped disc had taken a turn for the worse whilst I had been trying to manhandle the caravan, and it had 'crumbled'. Surgeons had done what they could, managing to remove most of the shattered disc during the second of my operations, but unfortunately the pieces that remained were far too close to my spinal cord for 'them' to attempt removal. It would require Specialists on a far higher pay grade too remove those splinters. The corner of the caravan had crushed my chest, damaging several vital organs, and doing something very nasty to my spleen before leaving me to slump to the ground, so my first operation had been to try and resolve some of these issues, but unfortunately with only very limited success, apparently I was 'quite a mess' inside. If that was not bad enough, when I had briefly come round after my second operation (Robin insisted that I'd had enough medication inside me to render a medium sized cart-horse comatose), with all the moving around I tried to do I had somehow twisted my spine slightly, driving some of the remaining splinters even closer to my spinal cord and temporarily paralysing myself, hence a third operation, and all the straps & pillows. After getting the use of my legs back for me the Surgeon's then tidied up the needlework, and as I was now 'in a stable condition', they called it a day. Apparently three operations in two days are not very good for you. One thing that neither of them got around to explaining to me though was when they were going to repair my broken heart.

Roger & Jeannette (our free cuppa friends) had visited me in hospital the day following the accident (although I was still well and truly out of it) and explained to Robin what had happened, and then went on to tell him that after O.K'ing it with a distraught Sheila they had persuaded a Paramedic to lift the motor home keys out of my jacket pocket so they could attend to Bonnie and Clyde. Both the 'babies' and 'Winnie' were now at their home and would all be well looked after until things were sorted out.

Over the next twenty-four hours (about ten days after the accident) it seemed to me that the entire Senior Medical Staff of the hospital took turns with a new game of 'Do you want the bad news – or the even worse news'. My spleen had gone, my liver and kidneys were just about irreparable, my intestines (along with my colon) were a mess; and to top it all my back was 'way beyond their scope of expertise', although with the amount of drugs that I was on I wasn't particularly bothered, although it did seem to upset Alice and Robin, they were still taking it in turns to be at my bedside 24/7.

A few days later, as I lay there thinking that things couldn't get much worse, I sensed rather than heard someone enter the room. As my eyes came into focus I saw a pale, thinish man, about my age gazing across at me from a wheelchair. It didn't need Alice to introduce me, this was Mr Albright, and if I had somehow forgotten his face (which I never would), the neck brace and wheelchair were a sure giveaway. After very stiffly introducing himself, not all of it down to his brace, George Albright gingerly shook my hand; fortunately all the drips were going into my left arm so that experience was relatively pain free, and after the introductions he thanked me for saving his life.

'Don't mention it' I thought, 'anyone would have done the same, saved yours, ruined mine - fair swap'. I don't remember what I actually said but as Alice didn't give me one of her 'looks', I must have uttered the right responses.

He then enquired about my injuries, although he seemed to know more about them than I did, he had obviously done his homework, well it was his guilt trip, let him enjoy it. Just as I was about to make some feeble excuse about being tired he came to what seemed to be the main event, 'apparently in some cultures it is customary for the person that saves another's life to take responsibility for them thereafter'.

'God' I thought, 'now he wants to sue me'; surely things can't get any worse, but just as I was about to tell him too politely 'go away and speak to my Solicitor' (or words to that effect) he went on to explain that he wanted to reverse the custom. He was a very wealthy man, he had more than enough money to last him and his wife for several lifetimes, so it was his wish that as a way of trying to repay me for saving his life, and to compensate me in some small way for my tragic loss he wanted to split his wealth evenly with me 50/50, just like that, oh and to also arrange for me to receive the best medical treatment that money could buy (out of his half – of course). I not so much thought that all my dreams had come true, more 'get this raving nutcase out of my sight'. I had not only just lost my wife, and nearly my life, but now it seems that I was being forced to lay here and listen to the demented ravings of a deluded, guilt ridden stranger, but I was fortunately saved from doing myself further physical harm by the timely arrival of Robin.

'Hi Mr Albright' he chirped 'I've just been speaking with the hospital Administrator; the Air Ambulance will be here within the hour'.

Perhaps I had been just a tad hasty in my initial assessment.

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Chapter 2

George Albright's father had been a fairly prosperous doctor, although he only had a small country practice with few real patients, but that didn't seem to be a problem at all; in fact it allowed him time to indulge his real passion – medical research. George wasn't exactly sure what that meant but it seemed to keep them 'in a manner too which they quickly became accustomed'. Throughout his formative years George attended private schools (to which his father willingly donated heavily to all their causes, new gym, new swimming pool etc.) and he turned out to be one of the fortunate few that didn't have to study very hard to pass exams, it was assumed by all and sundry that he had a natural talent when it came to examinations. It was also assumed that he would follow in his father's footsteps, but during his first year at medical college things seemed to change. No matter how hard he tried to study (in between the parties of course), his progress started to seriously flounder, and finally, in desperation, he went to his father, pleading with him to pull a few strings. The only response he got was 'work harder, I've done my bit, now it's up to you'. This of course made George quickly realise that partying and late nights didn't ensure good exam results, large donations did.

Towards the end of his first year George had a phone call, not from family or friends, but from a reporter.

'Do you have any comment on your father's dealings with MEDILUX?'

Of course he had heard of MEDILUX, his father had been dealing with them, one of the largest Pharmaceutical Companies in the Country for years. He always seemed to be writing reports about one 'clinical trial' or other for them, but having the sense to utter the time honoured words 'no comment' he hung up and then tried to ring his father, first at the family home - no reply, 'he must still be at his surgery' - no reply there either. As he was returning to his room he overheard the name MEDILUX mentioned on a neighbouring student's television, and standing just outside her door he was informed by a very prim and proper Television Newscaster that the said company was in turmoil, and Members of the Board `and others' were under investigation, for among other things 'falsifying results of clinical trials'. As the report continued on he began to realise where his family's wealth had come from, and it was certainly not from the small country practice. George returned to his room, and medicine suddenly didn't seem as interesting as it had done twenty minutes earlier. Even if he did manage to 'pull his socks up' and struggle through all the exams he had a shrewd suspicion that the name 'Dr George Albright' (he had been named after his father), was not going to be synonymous with good medical ethics, but what to do next? A couple of acquaintances had recently been extolling the virtues of 'trading' and 'playing the markets' in 'the big smoke', while at the same time showing off their flash new motors. This sounded right up his street, and it was, he took to it like the proverbial duck to water – and although he didn't realise it at the time his timing was perfect. One quick phone call and he was on the next train to London, within a couple of days he had a job, within three months he had his own flash motor and within six he was naming his own terms. A year after that he went for broke, and putting all his eggs into one basket, and committing himself in a big way to 'new-fangled modern technology' he became the master of his own destiny. He started off quite modestly really, no staff to eat up profits, just emerging computers and a rapidly expanding market. His first million was the hardest - that took him almost a year. The rest; the multimillion, the first billion etc. came quite easily after that.

His father managed to stay out of the courts; instead he became a statistic in someone else's court case. Some months earlier, to cut yet more corners he had apparently become a self-medicating human guinea pig, using, as it turned out to be, one of the more dubious concoctions that MEDILUX were conducting trials on. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, he succumbed to a very quick, but relatively painless demise; poetic justice, and his mother Maud survived her husband by no more than 3 months. George believed that it was not so much that she couldn't live without his father, more; she just couldn't live without his money.

Having no other surviving relatives George found himself friendless, relative-less, and starting to get rich, and as time progressed George did indeed become very, very rich, which could have tended to cause problems for a lesser person. Fame, expensive cars, private jets, begging letters and so forth, but not for our intrepid George, he came across Millie, a financial wiz at the local bank. Like himself an only child, with absolutely no interest whatsoever in increasing the world's population, and 'sensible' about money. First she fell in love with his bank account, then to everyone's surprise she actually fell in love with George, and George reciprocated in kind. They shared the same values; hard work, a love of cutting edge technology, and not spending their gains wantonly. Don't get me wrong they spent some of it, in fact quite a lot of it. They went on the cruises, not in the 'best' suites, that would have attracted all the attention, rather the 'nice ones', the ones that Bank Managers and Company Directors could afford. When they flew, yes it was First Class, but they never caused a fuss, always keeping in the background, as though they had just been given an 'upgrade' by the airline, in fact George's only passion, outside of his dealings (and Millie), was flying. Not in the aluminium tubes that passed for mass transport, more the canvas and string of vintage biplanes. Millie, bless her heart, had seen the way her beloved George gazed on those 'vintage string bags' whenever their paths crossed, so realising that his birthday was looming she got her man, a man who could quite literally have 'almost anything that the modern world could offer', half an hour of history. It was a thirty minute flight in a Tiger Moth biplane, operated by a local flying school. When the pilot was eventually allowed to land, pleading that they really were flying on fumes, George leapt out of the aircraft and made a bee-line for the office. He quickly signed up for a course of flying lessons and promptly climbed back into the by now re-fuelled aircraft for his first one, and George found out that he also had an aptitude for something else in life, he sailed, sorry flew through the course with flying colours. On gaining his wings he took Millie up for a celebratory spin – literally - and after she had filled a conveniently located paper bag she demanded that he return her post haste to terra firma, and then explained to him, in no uncertain terms, that THIS was 'his' hobby, she was sticking firmly to her embroidery, and so his flying ability rapidly grew as he found more and more time to indulge his hobby, firstly by hiring the 'Tiggy' Moth at every possible opportunity, then by buying it. He then came upon the second love of his life (or was it his third?), a beautifully refurbished bright yellow North American Aviation 'Harvard'. This Second World War training aircraft only had one set of wings, and no canvas, but he didn't care – it had wheels that went up & down. He purchased a 'quarter' share in this wonderful machine; people accepted that it was expected that a man with 'a little money' shared such an exotic toy with other likeminded friends - he failed to mention to anyone that he had also purchased the other 'three-quarters' as well.

But how did George and Millie end up with a caravan? By the way please don't call her Mildred, as in that popular sit com TV show of yester years, George did once and it nearly cost him a divorce. I wonder if I will ever pluck up the courage to call her 'The Dragon', nah I think not, now back to the question, so how did they end up with a caravan? Well, on the cruises that they went on they usually met people who turned out to be short term 'best of buddies', and then went their separate ways, and that suited them both just fine, neither of them were into long term `best friends`. They were not anti-social, far from it; they really did enjoy the company of other people, just in very small doses, and whilst George met quite a few 'acquaintances' as he flew around the countryside enjoying his hobby, Millie preferred to stay at home with her embroidery, she really was not in any way shape or form interested in the cylinder head temperature of a passing Spitfire. What they needed was a pastime that involved them both, and so one morning, as they were returning from watching the current 'must see' show that they had both liked the sound of (on Broadway), they were sitting quietly in the corner of the British Airways First Class Lounge when they overheard a quite well known Politician singing the praises of caravanning. 'I love it,' she was saying, 'it can be done in comfort; you meet the nicest of people, everyone is treated as equal, and if you do find the odd unpleasant person you just up sticks and move site'. This may have just been a typical Politician earning her crust on the way back from an International Caravanning Convention, but, 'What do you think Millie?'

'I like the sound of the 'comfort' bit George'.

'So do I, alright let's give it a try, what have we to lose?' (How about your head George)

Six weeks later (they don't hang about), fully kitted out with a new Toyota four by four and the latest top of the range caravan, complete with all the must have gadgets, except for one ('Sorry Sir, awaiting delivery of the electric mover, we will fit it as soon as you return, they really are very popular you know') they went in search of the sun. They decided to do it the quick way, ferry to Santander, a quick overnight stop near Toledo (they didn't even unhitch the caravan), and then into a rather pleasant sounding site just north of Granada, 'Alhambra Palace here we come' they thought, then came the rains!!!!

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Chapter 3

As promised the Air Ambulance arrived within the hour, apparently when you have George's kind of money it does, if you wished to stay in business, and from the seemingly chaotic General Hospital we were all moved, Robin, Alice and I to a superb 5 star hotel that George and Millie were staying at, that also just happened to do medical things on the side, (and I used to think that BUPA was the height of luxury). First I was shown (or rather pushed into) my beautifully appointed suite, which consisted of two large interconnecting rooms. My room had all the medical bits in it thankfully; the second was my lounge, for when I was 'ambulatory'. As I was not at the moment (and for a considerable amount of time to come), then 'perhaps my guests could use it when I was 'resting', or if they wished to take their meals up here rather than walk all the way to the Restaurant'.

'The menu of course is replaced every day', the Maître D΄, sorry - Ward Manager assured me, god forbid that my visitors should be forced to have Beef Wellington two days running - whilst I was tucking into whatever was flowing down the blue tube.

Alice and Robin were apparently sharing the 'suite' next door, and their rooms had been equipped with king sized beds, 'what no lounges for them - however will they cope?', and then, after the pleasantries were over, they started on me with a vengeance, 'no peace for the wicked'. First I was re-examined, re-x-rayed and re-scanned from every conceivable angle, with and without some very strange tasting (when they went via my lips) fluids flowing through my body, and life slowly started to come back into focus, despite still missing my Sheila terribly. Alice and Robin gently started to prod me into taking some, not a lot, but some interest in my injuries and treatments, and to that end, a week after I had arrived, they held a 'case conference'. I didn't particularly enjoy being referred to as a 'case', but it seemed to be the only way that 'they' could communicate with each other in large numbers. I was still tucked 'securely' into a bed, but it was now a much nicer bed. It was more comfortable; it looked more like a normal bed, and the sheets were heavenly, I doubt that even Sheila would be able to get them crisper, damn it; I must stop thinking that way, _WHY MUST I?_ The panel of experts, made up of more Professors' & 'Senor's' than I thought could ever physically fit into one room arrived on time. They introduced themselves and announced to all and sundry what their particular 'speciality' was', it was thus ensured that when 'billing time' came a face could be put to the name, and George, Millie, Robin and Alice were somehow prised into a matching set of what looked like extremely expensive chairs next to my bed. I presumed that George was here because he was footing the bill (I hoped) and that my children were here for moral support, or was it morbid curiosity. As previously explained to me (but not really taken in, in my drug befuddled state) multiple operations within a few days, no matter how urgently they may be needed, were definitely not a good idea, so my next round of operations would have to wait at least three months. Then they started on the good news. My colon and intestines were, given time, treatable here, but a transplant was the only solution for my liver. With some very fancy surgery my kidneys might just be saved, but both these operations unfortunately could not be performed 'in house' because of my back. To give me any chance of a normal life (without my Sheila?) I would have to be flown, in a rather larger Air Ambulance than the previous one, to America, where the multiple operations could be carried out in a more controlled environment.

'Great' I muttered to myself, not at the expectation of getting more air-miles, or meeting some lovely 'have a nice day' Americans, more along the lines of 'I really do hope that George means what he says', and the answer to that question came in the form of a very formally, if not slightly eccentrically dressed Caribbean type gentleman three days later.

Mr Agrampara came with a very stout box chained firmly to his wrist, and accompanied by my Bank Manager, a very attractive young lady, who turned out to be an 'Independent Financial Adviser', and my Solicitor.

On seeing Vicente I quickly, considering my physical state, grabbed his hand, and pulled him to me. My eyes welled up, how could I ever thank this man enough? As we 'man hugged' words for perhaps the first time in my life truly failed me, and it slowly dawned on me that I was not alone, I was surrounded by people who genuinely wanted to help me. As I slowly released him, and giving him the largest lopsided 'thank you' grin I could muster, I knew that I had finally 'turned the corner', life would move on, even without my Sheila by my side.

Senor Gonzales Joven, my Bank Manager, was however another kettle of fish altogether. When we had first arrived in Spain he had kept Sheila and I waiting for over half an hour, just so that he could 'formally welcome us to his Bank' - totally in Spanish of course. He 'unfortunately' couldn't speak a word of English, but 'fortunately' he provided an Interpreter – at a price. Now he suddenly seemed to be almost fluent in my native tongue (as it seemed that everyone else around here was), and all over me like a rash.

After initial introductions Mr Agrampara quickly explained, in his equally formal and quaint style, why each of them was here. He 'managed' Mr Albright's affairs on the 'Islands'. Vicente our, sorry my Solicitor, whom Sheila and I had implicitly entrusted our millions with (it was pesetas' in those days, not Euros) when we had decided to start our new life on the Costa Blanca was here to validate the identity of himself, and to reassure me that 'he' was indeed genuine. Senor Gonzales Joven was here because he had seen multitudinous Euro signs flashing in his mind's eye, not an exactly verbatim explanation but close enough, and finally Senorita Juli Sanches Perez, who was apparently a high flyer with a very highly respected firm of international financiers (and 2nd cousin to Senor Gonzales), and the current owner of at least one very, very short business suit. She was here to offer me any 'independent' advice that I might require after the current proceedings had been concluded, she obviously hadn't met Millie!

Vicente handed me a very official looking report, conveniently certified in both English and Spanish, and explained that he had personally carried out his investigations 'to the best of his ability', and he was 'absolutely positive' that these persons were 'whom they claimed to be' (praise the lord). Apparently my son had given George, Vicente's details (he knew that I trusted him implicitly), as he thought that I might be slightly dubious of the claims about to be made to me by a total stranger. I think that it can be safely said that that was the greatest understatement ever uttered in the whole wide world, and then Robin and Alice, along with Millie, were asked to leave the room, not only the room but the whole suite, no eavesdropping however inadvertently, heavy stuff. George was in effect his boss, and also the current owner of all the monies so he was allowed to stay. Once secure in the fact that he wasn't going to be mugged by a violin wielding veterinarian embroiderer he opened the box, hereafter known as 'the Tardis', that was shackled to his wrist (a major feat in its own right), and started removing the tools of his trade, and after, with the help of Vicente and Senor Gonzales Joven, confirming that I was in fact me, and that I was of sound mind (if not body), and I was willing to accept the gift as agreed (sic), he started. My fingers were printed and hands scanned, my retinas were scanned, a sample of my hair (?) and hand writing was taken, a comprehensive recording of my voice was taken and finally my photograph and physical measurements were taken, after of course Vicente had confirmed that 'these' were indeed my latest dental records. Is nothing sacred anymore? - in the world of high finance apparently not. After dismissing Vicente, Juli, and my Bank Manager, but keeping George, I settled down to a crash course in 'money'. Even the dialysis machine, oxygen pump and assorted modern medical miracles flashing away around me seemed to pause in awe as he quietly spoke in fluent Bankereese, swiftly followed by my heart when the numbers finally started being crunched. Accounts were signed, telephone numbers were exchanged, not only his number but ALL my new Banks as well. Passwords were constructed, code words invented, challenges and responses were concocted - and all dutifully recorded in my new 'little black book'. It was really a password and fingerprint protected laptop, which had fortunately already come preloaded in the 'Tardis' with most of the details. It would eventually be securely locked away in my suite's new 'upgraded' safe, along with the rest of the bumf that goes along with turning me into the world's 'joint twelfth' richest man. When events finally came to their natural, and physically exhausting conclusion, Mr Agrampara, whom I had by this time asked (and he had kindly accepted) to be my 'Manager on the Islands' as well, wished me the fondest of farewells (after all I was now his boss as well), and departed.

Not giving the door time to close behind Mr Agrampara, Senor Bank Manager burst in. I assured him that his Bank would of course be my 'Bank of choice' in Spain (nothing in writing of course) and then politely asked him to leave. He reluctantly left, being replaced by Juli.

'PLEASE call me Juli, ALL my friends do', but after convincing her that my headache was indeed genuine she quickly made sure that her 'home and office direct numbers' were both on my speed dial and sulkily left.

After her exit Vicente entered, and after again offering me his 'deepest sympathies on my tragic loss' and with an almost apologetic 'if I can ever be of any assistance to you in the future', he quietly departed. Well I knew that I was going to be seeing at least one of them again, and as it turned out, in the very near future.

As Millie and the children made their way back into my room they found me in a state of shock, which on this occasion had certainly got nothing to do with the accident. After giving, with George's help, Alice and Robin a quick résumé of what had taken place, the Albright's thankfully left us to try and come to terms with what had just happened. At first we were reluctant to talk about the situation, then after about ten seconds the questions started to flow, then suddenly 'we are rich', 'never have to work again', 'get a new car, a new house, a new mansion, a new aeroplane – or two'. Finally we started to calm down; trying to think sensibly, after all Sheila was watching over us from her urn, we shouldn't be too happy. 'Robin, in the short term do you want to continue working?' I asked.

'Yes definitely' he quickly replied. So it was decided that in the said short term he would return to his practice to get things sorted out. Alice on the other hand thankfully decided to stay, for a 'little while' at least, and look after planet Andrew. She gave half a thought about possibly losing not only her new 'fella', but also her place in the Orchestra, but I quickly pointed out that if she did, then I would jolly well buy her a new one – Orchestra that is. Mr Agrampara had informed me in a slightly more light hearted moment, just before he had departed, that 'it would be virtually impossible for me to dent my capital, as no matter how hard I tried, the interest that would be accruing from my 'investments' would be climbing even faster', and then he went on to say that when I recovered from my injuries 'I should go and live what most other people only fantasize about'.

Finally, just before a stern looking Nurse, in her designer uniform, ordered them out Alice and Robin left me to get some rest; after all they were only in the adjacent suite, and as I lay there in the failing light my mind was in turmoil, so much to think about, so many decisions to make:-

The children - 25 million each (£, $ or €'s?)

My parents - 10 million each

Sheila's parents – the same

My sister - 10 million

Sheila's 2 brothers - the same

Their offspring - 5 million each

Doris and her husband - 1 million

Etc, etc, etc.

Who should be on the list? Should I double it, treble it, or was it too much, and how do I get it to them without receiving a very nice thank you letter from the Chancellor of the Exchequer? Decisions, decisions, decisions, and then I remembered Millie's parting comment; she had seen the look of absolute panic on my face and gently patting me on the arm, had uttered those immortal words.

'Don't worry; you have now entered the world of the consultant'.

Apparently there were 'consultants' to advise me on virtually anything'. I was to even find out later that there were 'consultants' that could advise me on which 'consultants' to use, but Hey Ho that was for another day, for now let me concentrate on my headache, and it was a blinder.

The next day I awoke extremely confused and upset. In that brief moment between sound asleep and wide awake I had been thinking of 'the money', it had only been a month since I had lost my reason for living. The first thing that I had always thought of on waking since the accident was Sheila, and the last thing at night, before I drifted off into a drug induced sleep was the same, until last night. When I had finally dosed off, with the aid of the usual 'little something to make me sleep' injected into my cannula I was thinking of the money, and this morning, when I awoke I had been thinking of the same, how could I. It then dawned on me that despite my terrible loss the world HAD continued to revolve, and no matter how wretched I personally felt, things were happening in both mine and my children's lives that needed my immediate attention. Life would somehow continue, even without my Sheila, and after my liquid breakfast and some light physiotherapy I was allowed my first visitors of the day; Alice of course didn't count as she was family.

George, despite my first impression, was turning out to be a very nice person, but Millie; well she was in a league of her own, she was an absolute treasure. Gently, using her 'financial expertise', she started introducing me, slowly at first, to the intricacies of handling so much money. Like it or not I was now a Mega Millionaire, or should that be Mega Billionaire? One false move and I could bankrupt a small (and apparently not so small) Country, so the first thing to do was to learn how to safely move 'it' about.

Alice retrieved my 'little black book' from the safe, plugged it in, and with the aid of my finger (print) sorted out the wireless connection that all good 5 star hotels/hospitals 'must have'. Whatever happened to _'don't switch on your mobile, it will kill someone.'_ Obviously we were all very well protected by our wallets. First pick a bank and then ring their number; surely they must all be asleep in the Caribbean at this time? Explain who I was, to at least 3 different people, and then if by any chance they had received any of my details, give them my new account number, explain how much I wanted to transfer, give them my own Bank account details and wait until tomorrow to see if Senor Gonzales Joven had turned into a happy man. Wrong, with the help of what I would imagine was a very securely encrypted internet connection all my details seemed to be 'up and running'. 'Good morning, or is it afternoon there? I am Mister Andrew Michaels and hopefully I have some sort of an account with your bank'.

'Indeed you do Sir' came the crisp reply, 'but first may I, on behalf of the bank and all its employees offer you our heartfelt condolences on your recent loss'.

Through the shock I muttered 'thank you'; this definitely wasn't going to plan.

'And also may I take this opportunity to welcome you to our establishment'. Formalities out of the way he then cheerfully informed me that it was in fact three o'clock in the morning where he was, 'but don't let that worry you Sir, this is what we are here for, now please how can I be of assistance?'

Taking a deep breath I tentatively whispered 'can you transfer five million Euros into my Spanish bank account please,' (that should keep me going for a little while).

'Your 'Banco de Sol' account Sir - ending in 664?'

'Err yes' I replied, and a moment later 'all done Sir, it is now in your Spanish account, can I be of any further assistance?' Obviously all those passwords, challenges and responses and other security precautions, including no doubt my inside leg measurement were only needed if the voice recognition technology malfunctioned. I think the younger generation use the term 'gob smacked', it is a very apt expression. It seems that I had now entered a financial world that I never even knew existed. Money indeed talks, and finding that the 'Banco de Sol' icon already existed on the 'desktop' screen of my 'little black book' (I told the truth about the colour, it is indeed black, it just doesn't have any paper pages) I clicked the relevant 'on line banking' prompts and waited with baited breath to find out if I was in fact really awake, or just having a very vivid dream. 'Bingo', Senor Gonzales Joven was, as I lay there absolutely stunned, finding out that he was indeed a VERY happy man.

My first major decision concerned our villa, and it came quite easily really. Realising that I was going to be hospitalised for at least another 9 months, maybe even a year, and having no real wish to revisit a place which held so many happy memories for me I gave it to Doris, along with a small sum (well 'small sum' to me) to help her with the upkeep. It would be in her name only of course, just in case Pedro wasn't her everlasting love (after all he was number three). She had always been so keen and cheerful when helping Sheila around the villa, no job was too small (or too dirty), especially when Bonnie had her 'tummy problems'. She looked after our home as if it were her own, well now it was. One phone call to Vicente, plus a brief fax giving him the authority to act on my behalf in this matter and it happened. Doris sorted out what she thought were my personal affects, or items that might have especially fond memories for me and set them to one side to await Alice's visit, which Alice arranged for a week later. She spent a day sadly going through it all, aided by Doris, Vicente, and a team of storage people (whom he had thoughtfully arranged to be there) – then I became 'of no fixed abode' as all the papers, computers, DVD's, photos, and myriad bits and pieces of memorabilia that contributed to the memories of 32 years of happy marriage, went into secure storage. Not even our 'relocating' to Spain five years earlier had helped reduce the pile significantly. Doris had even found the original boxes, stored away at the back of the basement, for Sheila's cherished 'Lladro' collection. If the memories that came with those beautiful figurines turned out to be too much for me, then Alice I'm sure would always have a suitable home for them. Most of our clothes went to the 'clothes bank', even mine, there was no guarantee that once I had recovered they would even fit me again, and Alice had a shrewd suspicion that I may now be able to afford new ones (hopefully with a bit more style), and after asking Vicente to deal with the villa, I quickly realised that I was definitely going to need serious help, permanently. I had Alice on hand for the time being, but I realised that she would, sooner or later, have to depart to sort out her own life. She had even recently started practicing again with her beloved violin, after a totally besotted hospital Administrator found her a suitable 'rehearsal' room (out of ear shot of the paying guests of course) in an attempt to gain favour (nice try José). I knew from our 'little chats' in the past that Vicente was not only an up and coming local 'Abagado', with 2 small offices, a Partner, and a couple of secretary/researcher/typists, but he was also very active in 'Human' and 'Civil Rights' issues. He had been to Brussels and Madrid many times representing various clients, and not always being financially rewarded for his efforts. 'Pro bono' work it seemed was a cross that he had to bare, but as long as he could put food on the family table his wife was happy, so a week or so after Alice had sadly sorted out the villa I asked Vicente over for a 'little' chat. I had done some thinking and had come to the conclusion that Vicente fitted the bill perfectly. He was honest, reliable, thoughtful, had an outstanding sense of responsibility, and also I trusted him implicitly. After what seemed like hours of negotiating, (but Alice thought it was 'quite quick really') we agreed that I would retain him on a very attractive annual fee (plus expenses of course) to be my 'Man Friday' in the legal field. I wasn't 'unreasonable', all I expected in return was for him to be available 24/7. Eventually I relented slightly and agreed not only to allow him a little time to sleep but also to let him continue representing a few of his 'Human' and 'Civil Rights' clients in his spare time (and also to fund them when necessary), not a lot, but a few, just enough to ensure that his 'feel good factor' was filled. The only condition that I insisted on was that if he was not available then someone of a similar ilk to him was, and I even agreed, in a moment of weakness, to include the chartering of aircraft instead of rail fares in his expenses. I could not, for the life of me see why he should spend all his time lounging around in uncomfortable railway carriages when he could be doing something constructive for me, and this, as it turned out was the beginning of not only a very profitable arrangement for him (no more worries for his wife about where the money for her families next meal was coming from), but also the beginning of a very successful business arrangement for me. From now on any problems of even a slightly legalistic nature and he was my man. Welcome to the first of many into my fold.

~~~~

Chapter 4

It was six weeks into my enforced stay in this lap of luxury when Alice made a friend; they met by accident in the palatial greeting hall (not for this illustrious place a common reception area). Maria, as it turned out her name was, was trying to get permission to travel around the hospital quietly soliciting donations for the local Hospice, and Alice, on her way to her rehearsal room, and being a naturally inquisitive (nosey) soul, heard everything. Maria was explaining that her Mother was in the local Hospice, awaiting the inevitable, and she was doing her penance, fund raising for them whilst her mother was having her daily treatment. The Welcome Co-ordinator (AKA Receptionist) was having none of it, and Alice could see that Maria was getting more and more distraught.

Intervening, to the great relief of the 'Co-ordinator' Alice gently guided Maria to the cafeteria, after all a cappuccino always made her feel better; perhaps it would work on this poor woman as well. After brief introductions, and two much slower, 'absolutely divine' cuppas, Maria poured out all her woes; she was at her lowest ebb and seemed to sense in Alice a kindred spirit. Maria's mother was 'terminal', Maria had accepted that fact several months ago, what she had not seen coming was how her father would deal with it; he took off with all their savings, and a girl less than half his age. Fortunately for her mother their insurance was covering the costs of the Hospice but Maria still had to live. She had an eight year old daughter to support, and had just been informed by her faithful employers, the 'Ayuntamiento' (Town Hall), that they had arbitrarily terminated her employment, quoting absenteeism as the reason. No amount of pleading had made them change their mind, and of course her savings were now dwindling at an alarming rate.

As Alice listened with growing anger she had a revelation; she was good at those, `Vicente - just his cup of tea` (he doesn't like cappuccino), it was time to get Daddy involved. After putting the coffees (and two ring donuts that had just happened to find their way in front of them) onto her suite's account she steered Maria, by this time not quite so distraught, up in the lift and along to see Daddy, and Daddy was day dreaming, day dreaming of what he usually day dreamed about at this time of day, Mummy, until the door to his room opened and he noticed, just behind his daughter, a sad faced beautiful young woman, no not beautiful, stunning, and that stopped his day dreaming dead in its tracks.

Maria was dressed in a faintly patterned crisp white long sleeved shirt and jet black fitted denims, showing off her figure to perfection. She had accessorised with a slim black patent leather belt and shiny black high heeled boots, which all went perfectly with her short, but very stylish, jet black hair, and her eyes - somebody could easily get lost in those eyes. A very recently widowed middle aged gentleman should not go, or even worse, lie around noticing things like this he though, as he quickly transferred his gaze back to his daughter.

'Hello my wonderful popsy wopsy' she purred, and I could hear my wallet groaning as it lay quietly in the bedside table drawer. In the past that greeting had usually ended up with me parting with some of my hard earned cash. With me concentrating perhaps a tad too hard on Alice's face (rather than doing what most men would have done and stared in awe at that beautiful young woman behind her) she started explaining, in quite graphic detail (she would have made a wonderful actress if the violin lessons had been wasted) how she had met Maria, and what had ensued thereafter, finally ending with a flourishing _'and Vicente should take them all to the ICC at The Hague'_. She then threw herself at the mercy of the court, or rather me. I quickly explained to her that only war criminals went to the International Criminal Court at The Hague but that didn't seem to faze her in the slightest, in fact taking it at face value it actually seemed like a good idea to me as well, not only getting Vicente involved but also sending them to 'The Hague'. In my opinion they should all be shot for the way they had treated her, and then I made eye contact with Maria, and that could have been a big mistake for a lesser person, but fortunately I managed to stop myself from falling into those ebony pools and forced myself into conducting a civilized conversation with her.

Maria José Fernandez Cortez left college after completing her business studies (with a side line in languages) and went to work for a time in the city's Tourism Department. From what I gathered she then had to take a short career break to attend to the birth of her daughter Myra, which it transpired was the result of a very unwelcome advance by her supervisor after a rather protracted 'drinks after work' session. Being new to the job, and knowing that the Guardia Civil (Police) and her new employers would most likely take his side - after all she had willingly consumed a considerable amount of alcohol (and she was a female) - she took the other route. After finding out his home address she rang the doorbell, and with him standing in shock behind his wife, she told her everything. As she exited, head held high, she vowed never to touch another drop of alcohol again, and a few weeks later, after finding out that she was pregnant she really did do just that.

The supervisor never did return to work. First he claimed ill health, and then resigned 'due to personal problems', and disappeared, moving on to pastures new. Good riddance she thought, but that wouldn't help her bring up a new born baby. Fortunately her elder sister, who had a tribe of her own to contend with, came to the rescue.

'One more won't even be noticed' she informed her, so safe in the knowledge that her gorgeous little Myra was in safe hands she went back to work, trying to salvage a career out of her disaster, but the new Supervisor was not a very happy little fellow, he knew exactly what had transpired with his predecessor, so, about six weeks after her return from maternity leave, when a 'very' Senior Manageress from the Main Offices 'noticed her' and offered her the position as her PA, he didn't stand in her way in the slightest; in fact he even helped her to pack up her personal items. More money, better hours, a chance to really use her college education; and to crown it all a female boss, and she thought that things couldn't get any better - but they did. A year later her new boss got the bosses job and took Maria with her. This really did put her on the fast track. Hard work, and a little luck had put her well and truly among the 'movers' and 'shakers'.

All went well for 7 glorious years, Myra was growing into a lovely child, and her sister was as good as her word, looking after her as if she was one of her own. The only cloud in the sky was their Mother's failing health, and it was failing quite rapidly. Despite chemotherapy and other conventional (and not so conventional treatments) she started to sink fast. This was also about the time that her father, not the most supportive of characters at the best of times decided to reassess his living arrangements; taking anything of value, plus their neighbour's 20 year old slow witted daughter with him, and to really put the icing on the cake her situation at work deteriorated as well. Aurora, her boss, met the love of her life and quickly took early retirement, and her replacement was a bully. He wanted to change everything, whether it was needed or not, both in and out of the office, and he even brought his own little 'typist' with him. She was not a threat to Maria's position, although she thought she was, she wasn't even a very good a typist. The only thing that she seemed to excel at was stirring - and it wasn't just the coffee, and life in the office was quickly becoming quite unbearable, and then her mother was taken into hospital for the last time, and after the shortest of stays she was transferred to the Hospice. The prognosis was not good and Maria had to apply for a leave of absence to dedicate twenty-four hours a day to looking after her mother, this was Spain, it was expected of her, and six weeks later (about a week ago) she received the letter terminating her employment. She had immediately taken valuable time out from looking after her mother to try and sort things out, but her new boss refused to even see her, and that 'harridan' was actually sat at HER desk, smiling. Personnel/Human Resources were 'very sorry'.

The Hospice was always looking for fund raisers to help raise the much needed cash that was always needed to provide those little, and not so little, extras that made the residents final days more endurable. Maria took to it willingly; she appreciated that her efforts would be too late for her mother, but not for future residents, and that was why, perhaps a little naively, she was at the hospital pleading to be allowed to enter their portals to seek donations.

'What is the target' I asked.

'A Quarter of a Million Euros' she embarrassingly whispered.

'You've got it' I blurted out, and if I had been more in touch with my feminine side I'm sure that by now I would have tears streaming down my face (damn it – where did I put those tissues). What a courageous young woman, and despite all the adversity she was still continuing to struggle on, not letting herself go, and thinking of others before herself. When we, sorry they, had wiped the tears from their eyes they both quietly sipped at cups of lukewarm 'Earl Grey' that a nurse had just poured them. It had been hot, in its bone china teapot, when an English Nurse had quietly bought it in some time earlier, but she had then rather 'inappropriately' gotten engrossed in Maria's story. Even she, a hardened experienced Nurse was moved, and after blushing slightly she made her apologies and left, promising a 'fresh pot'. As I mulled things over in my mind (Alice had learned years ago that this was the time to keep her lips buttoned tightly shut), it started to become clear, 'it was obvious', but there was a BIG problem, and I politely asked Maria if she would mind waiting in my lounge for a few moments, whilst I conferred with Alice.

'Thank you so very much for the donation Daddy' Alice started, 'do you think Vicente can help her?'

'I doubt it, this is Spain' I replied, 'but 'I' might be able to, but there is a problem, Maria is a beautiful young woman, and I am now a rich Widower, what will people say?'

Alice burst into laughter, the first spontaneous laughter that I had heard in months, 'you are a silly old pickle Daddy', and she giggled, 'isn't it obvious, she now 'bats' for the other side.'

Ten minutes later I had my very own P.A, and Vicente would be happy to learn that I was now an 'Equal Opportunities Employer'.

First things first, get Maria a set of wheels; her 'lease car' had been snatched back by the Ayuntamiento the same day that the letter had arrived, and with a quick call to a local car hire firm Vicente had it _sorted_ , 'the keys will be in Maria's hands within half an hour' he promised, and they were. He also _sorted_ a plastic card for her with the bank; 'of course they would arrange it immediately', and not a mention of their favourite word – _mańana_. Vicente didn't seem to mind helping out with these non-legal favours, after all when Maria was finally ensconced in her new position this type of job would come within her jurisdiction. She spent about an hour with us discussing her new responsibilities, and I quickly realised that she knew more about what would be required of her than I would ever know, so after tucking the keys to her new car into the rear pocket of 'those' jeans she returned to her mother – lucky keys. I had insisted that she concentrate her immediate attentions on her mother, until she felt that she was in more of a position to give me her full attention, but as I watched those keys depart, a horrible thought flitted through my mind, 'I hope she won't be too long. Two days later Senor Gonzales Joven delivered Maria's new piece of plastic in person, along with at least half a tree's worth of papers and leaflets. Fortunately my Physiotherapist 'Marco' arrived just in the nick of time and requested him quite firmly to leave, and 'leave him to it'. Promising him that I would look through the paperwork 'with interest' he yet again reluctantly departed from my room. I then handed the paperwork to Marco who, following my explicit instructions (and with a large grin on his face) promptly filed it all - in the nearby shredder. As Marco was coming to the end of his sadistic massications Alice popped in for a quick chat before she went off to visit her new friend and her mother at the Hospice. Handing Alice Maria's new card, I asked her to make sure that Maria signed it and fully understood that she should not be afraid to use it, I had no wish for my new P.A. to arrive for work with a shelf load of debts; we could always sort something out later. I really am a trusting soul. Alice returned in floods of tears an hour later, she had arrived too late; ten minutes earlier Maria's Mother had peacefully gone to sleep, never to awaken, and Maria had been quietly sitting beside her now sheet draped Mother. Alice should then have quietly turned around and left, but she didn't want her new friend to have financial worries on top of everything else, so Maria obediently signed the card that Alice handed her, and blankly acknowledged the instructions given to her, then Alice decided that this really was the time for her to leave; very soon this room was going to be full of grieving relatives, but as she leaned over to give Maria a sympathetic hug before departing Maria suddenly sprang out of her chair, turned, and savagely grabbed hold of a startled Alice, then started sobbing uncontrollably into her shoulder. This was her time to grieve, with a kindred spirit, before the rest of her family arrived, after all someone had to organise things. By the time her sister arrived fifteen minutes later Alice had departed and Maria was dry eyed and effortlessly taking charge, this was the way she did things.

That was on the Thursday, the following Monday morning at nine a.m. sharp Maria entered my room. She was immaculately dressed in a chić light-weight business suit and was visibly 'chomping at the bit' ready to start. After I had offered her my commiserations I expressed my surprise that she wasn't at home sorting out the funeral arrangements. She explained to me that in Spain it was normal for families to hold the funeral of a loved one the very next day, and 'all had gone according to plan' she assured me. She had not needed to use the card, although it had been a very reassuring feeling to have had it in her back pocket, just in case \- lucky card.

Maria's English was perfect, and so apparently was her Castellano (the Spanish national language), Valenciano (the local dialect), Italian and Portuguese, but her French and German were only 'passable' though. She had a natural talent for languages, and over the years she had nurtured it, this was some smart lady. She went on to explain that it was not her style to sit around wailing and getting through boxes of tissues, so her Sister was looking after Myra, and here she was raring to go. Her sister was perfectly happy to continue having Myra during the day, however there might be a problem if I required her (Maria not her Sister) to be away overnight.

'Put that number one on the list of things to sort out' I told her.

Alice had mentioned to her faithful hound, sorry hospital Administrator, that Maria would at some time soon be joining me (although neither of us had quite expected it to be this soon). He assured her that 'very suitable' office furniture could be provided by the hospital 'as and when' we required it. Maria required it `now`, and two hours later she had her office. It was really my lounge but as I wasn't ambulatory yet, and not I suspect for quite a while, I didn't have a pressing need for it. She also had a small desk placed in my room, for dictation, but she had no outside phone line, apparently the telephone and ADSL (broadband) line would take 'a few days'. This was a normal response from Telefonica; the cable was actually strung about four hours later; again that was normal according to my experience. Reluctantly using the hospitals phone (she didn't trust their security one little bit) a suitable 'consultant' was found and they proudly informed her that they would have 'compatible' computers, telephones, fax, printers, as well as all the other bits of high tech office paraphernalia installed by lunch time tomorrow. That of course was not acceptable to 'my P.A.', so five hours after arriving it looked as if she had been at the desk for years. I liked her style.

Maria and I worked well together from the start, whether it was (a) when I was telling her what to do, (b) bouncing idea's around with her, or (c) when she was one step ahead of me and discretely telling me what to tell her to do next, and it was usually (c); she needed no close supervision and very little direction. One of her first jobs was to compose her own job description. I really didn't have a clue what was required of her but by the end of her first day with me, at 9:00 pm to be precise, it was on my desk (well bed side table), along with a brief e-mail from Vicente. She had most likely used her previous job description as the starting point, then with the help of the World Wide Web, Vicente, and maybe the odd consultant or two she had produced a very impressive document. The e-mail informed me that he had read the three fun packed pages of the attached final draft and confirmed that it seemed to be a good basis to start from (?). I had some good employer's rights, three months' notice etc., and she had some nice little perks, company car, good holiday entitlement, child care provision etc. He also pointed out that it did not violate her 'Civil or Employment Rights'; I was really pleased about that. The only thing he might disagree with me about was her salary. We had used her final salary at her previous employment, and added a bit for good luck, so it was not too bad for this end of Spain, but in the 'private sector', Vicente pointed out, a person of her calibre could easily expect to pick up bucket loads more Euros, and if I wanted to keep her for any length of time then I might reconsider the figure, and in due course maybe even add a few more 'perks'. First day in the job and she almost doubles her salary, 'not bad' I thought, 'I hope she doesn't expect that every day'. Right, where's my little black book, yellow pages, car dealers & designer business suites, who is working for whom?

~~~~

Chapter 5

Within three days another vacancy arose. Apparently whilst I had been lying around enjoying myself (?) over the past couple of months, word had slowly leaked out to the press that there was a new guy on the block, and various tabloid newspapers dispatched reporters and/or paparazzi with indecent haste to 'try and dish the dirt'. They were effectively kept at bay by the hospitals security staff: that was in their job descriptions. Apparently what wasn't in them was the bit about protecting me from knife wielding maniacs. A smartly dressed Dutch gentleman, carrying a large bouquet of seasonal flowers, and posing as a visitor gained access to my floor. Exchanging the flowers for a suitable white coat which he found on a hook in the empty staff rest area he strolled into my room. Alice was fortunately off rehearsing, but Maria was at her dictation desk, which was situated just behind the door, busily engrossed in a confirmation letter to the child care company that we had just decided that she should use, and he immediately started raving at me in Flemish, not one of my stronger languages; in fact I couldn't understand a word of it. I found out later that he thought that it was 'immoral' that I should have all that money all to myself, and when I didn't instantly agree to redistribute my newly acquired wealth in his direction he started cutting my tubes, knocking over machines, and generally causing mayhem, and I promptly died, well almost. Fortunately, in his demented state, he thought he could stab one of my life support systems to death with his all metal knife, and although the machine did have some of my bodily fluids flowing through it, his knife point actually entered a ventilation slot, and he neatly sliced through a very high voltage electric cable. The shock catapulted him backwards across the room, and he finally came to rest sitting dazed against the front of Maria's new desk. Maria, who up until then had been unable to react (as the incident had taken only a few seconds), metaphorically speaking sprang into action. With an enormous amount of nervous energy she grasped her shiny new laptop in both hands, leant over her desk, and fitted it neatly over his head. Sitting back down she absent mindedly wondered if the letter that she had been working on would have been 'auto saved'. Doctors, Nurses and security guards rushed in, fortunately the guards went to our intruder and the medical staff came to me. It was close, but they kept me alive, just.

Two days later, as I lay watching the sun pass its zenith (and fortunately now fully recovered from that particular 'near death experience'), and idly thinking that perhaps some of the staff should receive a 'small token of my appreciation' on my final departure through those hallowed portals below, the 'Head Doorman' himself (also known as El Director) and his supporting cast entered, and like all good hotel/hospital Directors he was fluent in 'Politics'. I was a wonderful `this`, and fantastic `that`, but what it eventually boiled down too was that I was a lousy security risk. After some discussion, a few shrugs, and much huffing and puffing he finally agreed that his security guards would protect me, on double time of course (and at my expense) twenty-four hours a day - for two days. After that however forthcoming events must dictate that they would be required to return to normal duties. _HOWEVER_ , he knew of a reputable local company that could take on the task thereafter. Putting his Brother, Uncle or golfing buddy on hold, Maria, Alice and I pulled up the UK yellow pages on my un-dented laptop and started to scour the 'Security', 'Body Guard' and 'Close Protection' Agencies that advertised under various headings - in the Hereford area. That was not a random choice of area, about a year ago I had read in a novel (it was in black and white so it must be true) that retired SAS soldiers either went off to fight someone else's war, got themselves a pub, or went into Close Personal Protection, 'body guarding' for the uninitiated, and after a couple of false starts (they must have thought I was a right lunatic, and wondered which tree I had just fallen out of) I finally got my spiel off pat and spoke to a rather brash sounding gentleman. He was 'my main man', and he could sort anything out. After listening to my tale of woe he changed his tune slightly, and after taking down my telephone number he promised that 'if he was able to help', 'you will be contacted shortly'. Hopefully he read the tabloids and believed me.

How long is shortly? About 20 minutes.

The phone rang, 'Mr Michaels please'. Maria quickly passed me the phone; she didn't want to argue with this voice.

'Andrew Michaels' I groaned.

'I understand that you have a slight security problem' stated the mystery voice.

'It might be slight to you buddy' I thought, 'but it's pretty big to me'. 'That's correct' I replied and started to explain, but after about half a sentence I was silenced.

'Why don't you use a local firm?' he growled, and I quickly explained that I wanted English speakers around me; I hoped that it would make me feel safer.

'Finding Spanish speaking operatives at short notice might be difficult, but I will see what can be done'. 'I will also need to discuss the general arrangements with you face to face, which hospital are you in, and what is your ward number - please'.

I gave him my 'suite' number and the hospitals details as requested.

'Thank you, he growled, oh and by the way you may call me 'Colonel'', and with that he hung up.

As I stared at the now redundant instrument I thought 'I'm sure I will, or anything else you wish me to call you'. No contact number, no Company name, not even any indication of when he would arrive, but I was sure of one thing, he would. It was that kind of voice, the kind of voice that you argued with at your peril, but when it promised that something would happen, it happened, and apparently it did, about four o'clock the following morning. Waking my hospital guard, who was sound asleep on the settee in Maria's office, sweetly dreaming of how he was going to spend the extra Euros in his pay packet the 'Colonel' sent him packing. The Guard had not questioned who these men were; crossing these guys was certainly not in his 'job description', not even in the small print, and 'the Colonel' then left two very stocky and very wide awake gentlemen in his place. He returned at seven o'clock the next morning and of course I was sound asleep, I never was a 'morning person', and so he quietly sat down at Maria's small desk; her chair had a straight back, not for him the padded islands of comfort that were supplied for my visitors, and remained sitting there until I was finally raised from my beauty sleep at around eight thirty by a pretty Swedish Nurse doing her chores. I took one look at him as he sat there and knew immediately who he was. 'Good morning Colonel, have you been here long?'

He placed what passed for a smile on his face, and totally ignored my question. 'I have two operatives in your secretary's office (which would go down like a lead balloon if Maria ever heard him calling her that, she was my PA), and have two others in a nearby hotel, resting, oh and I have hired, on your behalf, two suitable vehicles for their use. Two vehicles for four people, 'bit O.T.T'. I thought, but who was going to argue with him, certainly not me. He then went on to explain that as this was a 'foreign' country (this nearly did get me going, after all we were now in the EU and it was my adopted country, nearly, but not quite) the paperwork would take a little while to complete. This I wasn't going to argue with, the Spanish had turned 'Bureaucracy' into an art form. It transpired that apparently it would take a little while before his 'operatives' would be 'carrying', but, he assured me, they had made 'alternative' arrangements in the meantime. I was mortified, not that it would take time, more that it seemed that I was turning Maria's office into a 'Wild West Show', had things degenerated this far? Then my mind went back three days - yes they had. 'Were these arrangements acceptable?' he asked.

'Yes of course they were, very' I replied, and then he moved on to the boring bits, contracts, money, 'Code of Conduct' for his 'boys', and more frighteningly, to use the vernacular, 'Rules of Engagement'. Who was to be protected, and to what degree, they obviously didn't want to shoot someone if they weren't going to get paid for it.

'You?' he said. 'Of course' I replied.

'Maria?' Again I said 'of course'.

'Family members?' - 'Oh yes'.

'Other members of staff?' - 'Yes', but my voice was getting lower, I didn't have any other members of staff here at the moment, but I had a very shrewd suspicion that that would change in the near future.

'Doctors, Nurses and visitors?'

'Well yes, I suppose'. That was when we entered the 'grey area', and he was very good at 'grey areas'.

Now that I was his client he started to relax, and I could almost see the broom handle being removed from a certain part of his anatomy. After, for him anyway, the usual formalities were completed (even with the regular interruptions related to a 'high dependency suite') we settled down for a 'quiet chat'. He had a special request, about ten minutes earlier he had heard movement in Maria's office and went to investigate (the lounge/office had its own door to the outside world). On his return he'd had two smiling 'boys' with him, it was shift changeover. They were 'pleased to meet me', and 'sorry about my recent loss, accident and incident' and then Charlie, the shorter of the two patted a bulge under his armpit and cheekily informed me that `I would now be able to sleep soundly at night`.

With the amount of drugs that were being pumped into my system there was no doubt about that, but what I did realise however was that this 'Colonel', whoever he was, was one influential guy. I would put money on it that if he had to move a mountain, he would, with one arm tied firmly behind his back. Giving Charlie a look that would have stopped a charging Rhino in its tracks he sent them off for some well-deserved shut eye, and as he steered them out of my room, and I lay there thinking that the reference to Sheila hadn't been quite so painful (I must slowly be coming to terms with reality), I heard him say to someone out of my line of sight, 'five minutes', before he returned to my room, but our 'little Chat' took a little longer than 'five minutes'.

What he wanted to ask me was a personal favour, and he would fully understand if I couldn't help. Outside was a David Williams, Warrant Officer First Class (retired), who a couple of months earlier had been 'medically retired' from the Army. It soon transpired that this particular ex-Warrant Officer had been someone very 'special', even in a Special Forces Unit. The Colonel hinted that even though ex-WO Williams had been decorated several times previously, his last mission had been something even more 'special', but unfortunately not only had he suffered appallingly physically, but `something else` had happened, and as soon as it was deemed safe by the hierarchy, they had quietly given him a 'Medical' discharge. It was the Colonel's humble opinion however that the Generals couldn't allow a mere Warrant Officer to become the most highly decorated member of the Armed Services, so they simply got rid of him. He continued, not in any great detail of course, intimating that he had also had the honour of leading him into action, and had a 'lot' to thank him for. He was not going to permit such a brave man to sink into obscurity, so ' _would I permit him to let this man (who did not at the moment meet the standards of physical fitness that were normally required of an operative) to remain out here with me in Spain, solely to supervise the other operatives, not of course in an operational capacity, and certainly at no additional expense to me'_.

I doubted that bit, it was most likely already included somewhere in the sums but I liked his style.

As he went back into Maria's office to collect this demigod I wondered whether I should either bow or prostrate myself when he entered. I did neither, if I hadn't been firmly strapped down I would have leaped out of my bed, not out of any respect or awe, but to give him room to get into it. He needed it far more than I did. GOD he looked awful. I had often used the expression about feeling 'like death warmed up', well here was living proof, just, that you could actually look like it as well, and with not a very high calorific output.

~~~~

Chapter 6

David Brian Williams was bright, not only academically, but practically as well. Upon leaving his local Sixth Form College he joined the Army, having first attained the requisite number of 'A' levels for direct entry into the Army Air Corp as an acting Sergeant (provisional), much to his father's disgust; he was supposed to go into the family business. After first completing his basic 'square bashing' as a lowly private he picked up his sergeants stripes.

'Better put them on with Velcro luv' the rather jealous young stores WRAC muttered, 'You've got to pass the flying bit yet', and he did. After soloing in a 'conventional' aircraft at 'Basic' Flying School, he moved quickly on to the 'Rotary Wing' (helicopters) 'Advanced' Flying School and was promptly told to 'forget what you have just learned, you now have an extra pole in the cockpit to contend with'. He found the pole down by his left hand side, and quickly came to terms with how to push, shove and lift the 'collective' (the new pole), 'cyclic stick' (the control column) and 'rudder pedals' (minus the brakes as he now had skids instead of wheels) until the spritely little 'Gazelle' did exactly what he wanted it to do. Sometimes however he wanted it to grow a set of doors; he didn't like it one little bit when they were occasionally removed - for 'operational' reasons. As he 'passed out', with his Father (now proudly) looking on, along with his Mother, Sisters and it seemed like Uncle Tom Cobbly and all, he daydreamed of moving on to 'Operational' Training on the new Westland Lynx. Not quite, after some well-deserved leave the by now Acting Sergeant Pilot Williams DB AAC, his stripes and wings now very securely sewn on, found himself flying around the sky's in a Westland Scout, an even older type of helicopter, but at least it could be fitted with a multitude of guns, rockets and other assorted military paraphernalia. His first operational unit was based not in Germany, or one of the exotic hot spots around the World, but Middle Wallop, Stockbridge, Hampshire, in the sunny UK, where he fitted in well. He spent many a happy hour polishing the Perspex, both inside and out (with the special cleaner provided) on the aircraft that he normally flew, the Staff Sergeant in charge of flight maintenance insisted on it, 'you fly it, you clean it, and if you make any of your passengers puke, you clean that up as well'. He would never forget the smell of that cleaning polish, each time he used it the smell would linger on his fingers for days.

As he was only a Sergeant Pilot he picked up more than his fair share of routine assignments. 'Routine' usually involved Bodmin Moor, rain, Royal Navy Wessex and Wasp's (the Navy's version of his Scout), the odd Lynx, occasionally a Chinook, and umpteen numbers of 'Squaddies' (Army) and 'Hairy Fairies' (Royal Navy maintenance crews), dressed in their new camouflage 'you can't see me suits', all learning how to become 'Booties' (Royal Marines). As a fully trained Pilot 'they', for the most part, left him to his own devices, only calling on him when absolutely necessary, and this was especially true when it was one of the Navy Commando Support Squadrons working up, all their Pilots were Officers so he didn't really fit in, so he would usually set up his 'office' in the small boiler room attached to the field kitchen. It was lovely and warm, even in the depths of winter, and it was definitely better than a tent. He usually shared it with his 'duel trade' REME fitter and a couple of other NCO's that weren't under training. Most mornings, after his early morning run, he would go up for an 'air test' with his fitter, or one of his other sleeping companions, fly down to the local village, park in a handy field and collect the newspapers, cigarettes and 'nutty' (that was what the Navy quaintly called sweets), and return in time for a well-earned mid-morning brew. This went on regularly for almost two years, and he quite enjoyed it, just as long as they kept the doors on his machine he was a very happy 'Waffoo' (Navy slang for the collective name of aeronautical gentlemen'). One day however, towards the end of a particularly wet detachment, the _powers that be_ decided, at very short notice, to convert his perfectly watertight Scout into a gun ship, so off came the doors, and along came a Navy ordnance 'tiffy' to fit a GPMG (machine gun) mount, very 'Heath Robinson-ish' to one of his machines skids, as it was obvious that they didn't have the correct fittings to hand. Apparently his fitter didn't have the right 'dual trade' in his repertoire either, as he was very conspicuous by his absence, and so off they went, David in the driving seat and one 'very reluctant' volunteer 'bomb head' (armourer), with a big black machine gun and several boxes of blank ammunition in the back. To say the least, their mission wasn't a total success. While shooting up the guest Pongo's (another name for Army types) as they jumped in and out of a 'Wezzy' 5, (Wessex mk5 helicopter), in the mud below, first the bag catching the ejected shells split, causing vast quantities of used brass cartridge cases to roll around the cockpit floor, then the GPMG, with all the vibration, shook itself loose and vacated the aircraft. Fortunately the 'bomb head' had the sense to let it go, after all it wasn't his, and luckily it didn't hit anyone on arrival on terra firma, only a big rock that was quite innocently lying there minding its own business. They obviously had to land and pick the thing up; you can't just leave something like that lying around in the mud, so as gently as he could he set the now unarmed gunship down into the mud, but unfortunately not that gently. With the assistance of the 'down wash' from the main rotor blades they were covered; him, his 'bomb head', and the entire aircraft (both inside and out), in mud, glorious mud. Things did not improve very much after that either. His passenger, for that was what he now was, retrieved the rather bent weapon, tied it down in the cargo bay (ten minutes earlier it had been the weapons bay) and he lifted off; enter more mud. On his way back to 'the line', the place where he could 'park' his Scout, the passenger, or rather the contents of his stomach decided it had had enough, and with all that wide open space beside him, he let it arrive on the cargo bay floor. Just to put the final touch to a perfect flight it then started to rain. After they landed, and with the help of his very reluctant fitter they cleaned the beast, inside and out, after all he 'out ranked' them both and R.H.I.P ('rank has its privileges'), but just before his by now 'thoroughly hacked off' matelot departed, with a machine gun that could now fire round corners over his shoulder, David asked him to explain one thing, 'what on earth is a tiffy?'

Spitting at a passing frog the sailor explained that at the utterance of 'that' word you had to spit, not only at a frog, anything would do, and then went on to explain that they (tiff's - spit) were direct entry whiz kids who after 4 or 5 years in the classroom, and with perhaps just a smidging of 'hands on' training, passed out as 'Senior Rates'. 'They can tell you the square root of a jar of pickles - but can't actually open one'.

David looked at the machine gun and nodded. What 'quaint old nautical expressions' and 'customs' one came across on these wonderful little adventures, and they came complete with their own language. To be fair they had 'Artificers' in the REME (the Army's mechanics), so he knew they were really highly skilled technicians, but as he always liked to say, 'mustn't let the truth get in the way of a good story', and in future he most certainly wouldn't forget to spit.

On return to his Squadron the next day, tired, dirty, and 'thoroughly hacked off', he had a long luxurious shower in the Aircrew rest room and then sat down to watch 'live' on television the SAS storming the Iranian Embassy. Remembering that he had recently seen a memo on the bulletin board saying ' _if you are fed up with life, come and join us, you may not live long but you will certainly enjoy it while it lasts'_ (perhaps not a literal translation, but close enough), he grabbed his beret and marched smartly into the Adjutant's Office, requesting a transfer to the SAS, and apparently the SAS had, at that time, priority when it came to the allocation of 'available resources', and he was an 'available resource'. Despite being a Pilot, and a rather 'valuable' one at that, according to his Squadron Commander (that was news to him), he was still only an 'available resource' so his CO had no option but to pass on his request. That evening he rang his parents, they were mortified. He then rang his friend Charlie, he was much more enthusiastic.

David first came across Charlie Watkins when, on a fine summers day, he saw the usual gaggle of playground bullies picking on a new boy, the boy was quite short for his age but fairly stocky. He appeared to be riding out the verbal abuse so far, but David correctly assumed that things were going to get a lot worse. Remembering what his father always said, 'right is right, wrong is wrong, and always stick up for the underdog' (what that had to do with the price of cod he didn't know) he went to the new boy's aid and what quickly ensued was a playground scrap of epic proportions, two second years against four third years, the outcome was a foregone conclusion, they massacred them, and as the Headmaster was handing out 'six of the best' to all and sundry, a friendship was born that no one could put asunder, a few tried but they usually ended up with a visit to the Headmaster as well. Away from school they became almost inseparable. As they re-enacted the usual things that boys of their age re-enacted David would lead the charge over the parapet, with Charlie close behind, covering his back. That was what Charlie did best; not a born leader but everybody wanted him on their side.

When David moved on to the Sixth Form College to do his 'A' levels, Charlie went off and joined the Army as a 'boy soldier', and by the time David joined the Air Corp several years later Charlie was by then a 'real' soldier in the Royal Tank Regiment, where his lack of height stood him in good stead; he could actually fit into the driving seat of a Main Battle Tank and not bang his head on the hatch above him. Charlie quite enjoyed driving around Salisbury Plain in his new 'super toy', but what he didn't enjoy were the 'live' firings at high speed, over rough terrain. When he wasn't trying to knock himself senseless on the hatch, the gunner was trying to deafen him with the 105mm gun, just inches above him, so when David, sorry Sergeant Williams, rang him to tell him his news, the by now Lance Bombardier Watkins CF decided that enough was enough, and it was time to join his friend, so he did, on the next 'Induction Course'.

The specially designed three week long course was to find out if they had the right 'intestinal fortitude' to start the 'proper' training. They both expected a hard time but it was a nightmare. Both thought they were 'above average' when it came to physical fitness, wrong, it was horrendous; the SAS only wanted the 'best of the best' so the course was deliberately designed to be both physically and mentally draining, with an overdose of sleep deprivation thrown in. One of their 'favourite' recollections was that on returning exhausted from a midnight cross-country run, with only a rock filled haversack on their backs to keep them company, they were herded (by this time only ten out of the original sixteen) into a dimly lit shed. Scattered around the floor were an assortment of parts, some of which, they were reliably informed, would make up fully functioning AK47's. None of them had ever seen a complete Soviet AK47 Assault Rifle close up, never mind in bits.

'Right', screamed a sweet and gentle natured Corporal, at the top of his oversized lung's, 'the first one to assemble a weapon, double down to the indoor range (about a mile away) with it, and get five bulls will get to lie in until oh six 'undred tomorrow. The rest of you lot will be up at oh five 'undred for some invigorating PT'. As six o'clock was the normal time that they were aroused from their exhausted slumber, that is if they weren't already out and about doing some inane act of insanity, it wasn't so much that the winner won, it was that the rest lost. 'If any of you, god forbid, ever manage to pass out from 'real' training you will be able to do this in under a minute, blindfolded'. David and Charlie joined forces, 'team work - ten extra points', and with more luck than judgement they managed to assemble two weapons in less than ten minutes; both weapons seemed to look right, butt at one end, hole at the other to let the rounds come out, and a slot in the middle for the magazine. It was now time to show all and sundry that they had faith in their own workmanship. They were 'joint first' as they arrived at the range and stumbled inside; and on a table they found an assorted pile of loaded magazines. They found the right ones, and were about to snap them into place when both weapons were wrenched from their hands, and quickly the waiting Instructors checked them over. While it would seem that the Instructors didn't mind them 'half' killing' themselves outside (after all they were all volunteers), in here they didn't want them to 'actually' kill themselves with an exploding, incorrectly assembled weapon, much too much paperwork. With magazines now firmly clipped into place they stepped up to the firing line and whilst David would do almost anything for his best friend, an extra hour's kip was something else, so five quick pulls on the trigger and he was the proud owner of an extra hours sleep. Sweet dreams.

They kept their substantive ranks and three weeks later, as 'just plain' Sergeant Williams and equally plain Lance Corporal Watkins they reported to the Stirling Lines for the first time, and they both had their heads held high. Only seven had finally finished the Course, and out of them only five were finally accepted. That was about average. They survived basic training and received their converted 'who dares wins' beret badges. David then going on to sub specialise as a sniper, Charlie as a medic. It really didn't seem right for a person with Charlie's skill with a K-Bar (a US Marines fighting knife) to choose to be a medic, but he was to make a fine one, even using his razor sharp knife on more than one occasion to help save lives, then they both joined a troop that had been involved in the 'Embassy' siege, so as the new boys on the block they had a lot to live up too, and they did, both quickly becoming indispensable members of their team.

During the Falklands Conflict David collected the first of his Distinguished Conduct Medals. He and his spotter were well camouflaged on the side of a hill covering his colleagues with his hand built sniper's rifle, as they reconnoitred 'up close' a coastal installation that the Argentineans had constructed after they had occupied South Georgia earlier that month. Plans to retake the Island were well advanced, but a great deal of intelligence was still required - and quickly, so they were 'quickly' bundled into a Special Duties Hercules at the Ascension Islands and carried out a halo parachute decent (high altitude departure from the aircraft, low altitude opening of their parachutes) over the Island. Their landing was so accurate that David almost landed on top of the SBS (Special Boats Service) Corporal who was awaiting their arrival. These men were the Royal Marines equivalent of the SAS (their motto being 'Not by Strength, by Guile') and the Corporal's small three man team had been inserted from a submarine a few days earlier, for a 'quickie' recon. They had then been diverted just as they were about to return to the submarine to join up with their Army compatriots'. The now joint service 'recon' went well, until it was time for them to exit the area. As the team were stealthily making their way back along the floor of the valley below, David, high above, spotted a large contingent of Argentinean soldiers heading their way, so his spotter radioed the patrol, which immediately went to ground. The team were in a very precarious position but fortunately for them it must have been an Argentinean training exercise, with hastily assembled conscripts, rather than a serious patrol. There were an awful lot of them but most of them seemed to be more interested in some football result or other rather than looking for insurgents, but unfortunately it then suddenly seemed to be about time for their comfort break. The Argentineans really didn't seem to be in any hurry to move on, and it would only be a matter of time before his patrol was compromised so David, despite being well concealed high above, deliberately exposed his position to the conscripts below, hoping to distract their attention away from his friends, and praying that this was the first time that any of the conscripts had actually pulled a trigger, he opened up, clearing a much needed escape route for his comrades. All the team got out, with most of them in one piece, but there must have been at least one regular soldier below because three rifle rounds found their marks, two in David, one in his shoulder and the other in his side - breaking a couple of his ribs, and another giving his spotter a very nasty graze on the side of his head, knocking him unconscious. He continued firing despite the agonising pain, not even pausing to self-inject morphine, there just wasn't time, until finally, just as his team below made good their escape, a fourth round shattered the scope on his rifle, blinding him in one eye. Now really was the time to think of his and his spotter's safety. Somehow, half dragging his now semi-conscious colleague they made their way up over the top of the hill and around the enemy, with only his side arm (and one usable arm and eye) for protection. Fortunately they avoided detection and about three hours later they staggered into their now safe colleagues' camp. He was about to go into shock, and was suffering from loss of blood so Charlie, now a full Corporal grabbed his medical kit and prepared to give his friend an emergency blood transfusion. He connected the tube directly onto the intravenous cannula already in David's arm, they all had a cannula inserted into their arm before each operation, and then it was taped over, just in case such a situation as this arose. Charlie patched David up as well as he could, which under the circumstances was 'way above his pay grade' but it was enough so that they could all reach the pre-arranged rendezvous point where a long range 'Chinook' swiftly lifted them off the Island and onto SS Uganda's waiting flight deck. Surgeon's then completed Charlie's handy work. Major Jake, their leader on that raid, who would very soon be ending up as 'the Colonel' of 22nd Regiment SAS, had no hesitation in recommending his Staff Sergeant for a medal, and Charlie was also 'Mentioned in Dispatches'. Apparently he'd had a busy few minutes as well, when the exiting troops had come across a small group of conscripts foolishly taking a quick cigarette break. They couldn't go around them so Charlie had quietly gone through, ensuring that they all gave up smoking - permanently, then a few minutes later, when they were all relatively safe, he had continued using his knife, but this time on his injured mates. Medical supplies may have been running low but not his new found skills.

The tri-service medical team, which had been hastily embarked on SS Uganda in the UK, included the QARANC's (Queen Alexandra's Royal Army Nursing Corp) prettiest Nurse; well David thought she was when he opened his good eye following surgery. Her name was Caroline she told him, he wasn't really interested in her surname; the Padre back at Base would soon be changing that. They quickly became inseparable, and as he slowly recovered (although his eye was still a particular worry) Caroline became his 'personal' Nurse, only leaving his side when other duties called. After the Sir Galahad tragedy David, who was by now on the mend and classified as 'walking wounded', was moved to an empty first class cabin and didn't see her for four days. It was an interminably long period of time, and although he understood that what she was doing was important he just wasn't used to this new feeling inside him, so when she finally managed to get the time to visit him, the first thing that he said to her, as she stood exhausted in the doorway was - 'will you please marry me?' Later, when she had been suitably 'relaxed' they went to find a Padre. David didn't have to wait until they returned to England too change her surname.

When the RAF finally got the Stanley Airfield open for none 'active service' aircraft, he was first flown by a medevac VC10 to a BMH (British Military Hospital) in Germany. There, with specialist equipment they sorted his eye out, as there was no requirement for a one eyed sniper in the Regiment, then by a noisy old Hercules to England. They may be married but Caroline was still doing her job on the Uganda, so when it sailed majestically into harbour with Caroline still on board, David was waiting proudly on the dockyard jetty with a smile on his face, and a leave chit and the keys to their newly rented flat in his pocket. A sympathetic Appointment's Clerk had even arranged for Caroline to be transferred to his base's hospital, after a belated honeymoon of course, and David and Caroline quickly settled down to military life as a married couple.

David did the 'long' Spanish language course and then expected to be sent on a quick rest tour to some friendly, Spanish speaking Country, as an adviser to their Special Forces. He did, but to many Countries, and for a very long time. He was still operational, but more and more of his time was soon being spent training others, and he was very good at it. He was a natural in fact; 6 weeks here, 3 months there, it was the perfect life for them. When he was at base, when not honing his skills on his new rifle, or passing on his knowledge to a younger generation, he was getting himself a name as a marksman of renown. Of course a member of the SAS could not be seen shooting at International Competitions, but he was there, in the background giving invaluable support.

As time marched on both David and Caroline progressed well through the ranks, so when a young sniper fell off his motorcycle Caroline's Nurses treated him, and David replaced him, and found himself, at very short notice, lying behind a sand dune watching a group of Saddam's Republican Guard bivouacking around their tanks. He was by now a Warrant Officer 2nd class, and starting to feel his age, he was not that old; he was just 'experienced', having more 'experience' than the rest of his patrol, and instead of his trusty rifle he held a high tech laser designator in his hands, and it was sighted on what he estimated was the 'middle of the pack' tank. Not that it really mattered too much to the majority of the bombs that were heading in the tanks general direction at that very moment; they were 'dumb' bombs. As the Armourer in charge of loading the bombs into one venerable old B52 bomber had told its pilot (who was younger than his aircraft), 'If you manage to get this thing airborne (by the grace of the curvature of the Earth), and you find the target, I will give you a 100% guarantee that every bomb that releases will hit the ground, where, I haven't got a clue, but somewhere'. When a B52 'carpet bombs', be assured it requires an awfully large 'carpet', but some of the aircraft though were loaded with the newer 'smart' bombs; they had the ability to 'home in' where David's designator was pointing, and this verily enhanced the Bombardiers' chance of actually hitting something, but unfortunately it was one of the 'dumber' variety of bombs that arrived in their vicinity, its tail cone had either detached itself, or been knocked off by another bomb on exiting the aircraft, either way it took on the flying characteristics of a house brick and decided on a route of its own. After tumbling through the sky it chose to land on a conveniently placed camouflage net, unfortunately the conveniently placed camouflage net in question was inconveniently placed over the top of one of David's patrol wagons, and the canvas didn't seem to slow down the 500 lb. armour piercing bomb in the slightest. The bomb itself had not armed, as its arming vane was still fluttering to earth somewhere else, but that did not matter in the slightest, anything of that weight and at terminal velocity was going to wreak havoc anyhow. It passed through the canvas and the wagon in a milli-second, causing the wagon, which held spare fuel and enough explosives to start a small war of its own, to erupt, and it didn't help matters that one of the other wagons was in its 'exploding circle', and so were seven of David's team. David was fortunately close to neither vehicle, so leaving the designator pointing at the tanks he clambered into his own vehicle and returned to the scene of devastation. There is absolutely nothing 'friendly' about 'friendly fire', three of his team were dead, four others were very badly injured, and he had to assume that their position had been compromised, after all there were clouds of smoke now billowing up into the sky from the wrecked vehicles. He quickly had the team's medic, who was fortunately only slightly injured, and the two remaining uninjured members of his team load the dead and injured into two of the surviving vehicles, and topping the vehicles up with all the remaining medical supplies, and most of the water, he sent them post haste back to safety, but David remained behind with his own truck, a small amount of water, a considerable amount of weapons and ammunition, and an even larger supply of explosives of every description. He knew that it would take time for the Iraqis' to get organised, but they would eventually come and investigate (and seek revenge) so he set as many booby traps as he could around the wreckage site, and then slowly moved out after his men, every now and then planting more land mines and claymores in, and to the sides of their track, and despite being fairly well occupied with the remainder of the bombs raining down around him, one vigilant soldier had indeed noticed their predicament, and when the bombing had run its course, and some semblance of order was regained, he reported his observation to the surviving Senior (but very junior) Officer who was 'well out of his depth'. Panicking, the Officer dispatched a sizable force to exact retribution, but unfortunately most the men he sent were relatively inexperienced, only a couple of the NCOs having ever seen any action before, in Iraq, and they were woefully inadequately supplied, so when they finally caught up with David a day and a half later, there were considerably less of them than when they had started out, due to his handiwork. He was waiting for them in a place of his choosing, and he was surrounded by weapons and ammunition; if he was going to go down he would take as many of them as he could with him, but he didn't go down, in fact he didn't even get a scratch, but a lot of Sadam's elite did. In the half-light he put up a barrage of withering fire, changing weapons often, and sometimes firing two at once, and quickly the opposition decided that they'd had enough; they had lost their Officer and one of their NCO's earlier that day, so thinking that they had come upon a sizable force they made a tactical decision - 'RUN'. David was convinced that they wouldn't have stopped until they reached Baghdad.

Distinguished Conduct Medal number two, or more correctly a bar to his existing one was pinned onto his chest by a 'very' Senior Royal (the same one that had pinned on his first one) a little while later, although his proudest moment came later in the year when Caroline presented him with his new daughter Cindy, and life again settled back down. Caroline left the QARANC to become a full time housewife and mother, she had been convinced that she would hate it but as it turned out she took to it like the proverbial duck to water, and with more time on her hands she became more and more involved in the welfare side of the Regiment. As the wife of a Warrant Officer it was expected of her. David, after consulting with her chose to extend his time in the Army, and as less and less of it was spent on the operational side, more and more of it was spent on planning and advising, until Afghanistan became a hot spot.

David had actually met Hamid Shah several times in his travels, when Hamid was a good guy, but now he was the right hand man of Osama Bin Laden, with a lucrative side line in killing and maiming British soldiers with his own versions of road side IED's (improvised explosive devices), so he was now a bad guy, a very very bad guy, so David was obviously the person of choice to be in Kabul, the Capital of Afghanistan, co-ordinating the hunt for him, and was on hand when they heard a rumour that Shah was to have an important high level meeting in the Compound of a prominent Warlord in 4 days' time. An SAS Team was already on standby, all their gear packed, so a plan was quickly devised and they were ready for the off. At the last minute briefing inside the helicopter hangar just prior to their departure, the 'Rupert' (Officer) in charge (a young Lieutenant from one of the Cavalry Regiments on his first tour with the SAS) arbitrarily decided that David was too near his retirement (too old) to go on the actual mission. David of course was just a tad upset, and they then had a 'full, frank and meaningful' discussion. David explaining that he was the only one who had actually met Hamid Shah face to face, but the Rupert's reply was to wave a handful of blurred photos in his face, this continued on for several minutes until David asked for a 'word in private'. The remainder of the team left to finish loading their personal gear into the Chinook Special Forces helicopter, and they then continued, but now with even more colourful language. David quickly realised that not only was he getting nowhere fast, but also that British Soldiers lives were at stake, so when the Rupert stated adamantly that David would only go 'over his dead body', the statement was slightly inaccurate, what he should have said was 'over my unconscious body'. David hit him with a perfect right cross to the chin, and the Officer went down like a sack of potatoes; this was too important an issue to pamper to some young kids wish to glory hunt, then he grabbed his rifle and satchel and ran after the rest of the team.

Staff Sergeant Charlie Watkins gave his friend a quizzical look as he ran up the ramp of the 'burning and turning' aircraft.

'Changed his mind' David shouted above the noise.

Charlie was not going to argue, after all he agreed whole heartedly with David, and so with a curt nod to the RAF Load Master they were airborne, but not very high, just high enough to slide over the top of a pallet that had something 'large' under a securely tied down canvas tarpaulin, on it. When the pallet was safely hooked on, the Pilots climbed their aircraft away, setting course for a very desolate place. Once safely en route at low level (to keep away from the prying eyes of the Taliban) David called the team together and briefly related to them what had just transpired. He had been thinking, and unfortunately the situation was too serious to be kept from them, after all he was now technically a criminal, and there was still time, just, to return to base and pick up the Lieutenant, so he left them to discuss the matter and went to the rear of the Chinook, and looked out over the shoulder of a gunner who was scanning the area behind them. As he watched Kabul disappear into the distance he thought that the Lieutenant wasn't such a bad lad, in fact he had the makings of a good leader. The only real problem that he had was that he was always seeking the glory for himself, and perhaps he was just a little intimidated by David's decorations and reputation. When David turned round he saw Charlie and the rest of the team organising their equipment and this verily confused him, they should still have been discussing his situation, so he went up to Charlie and shouted over the noise 'What is the decision?'
'What decision?' Charlie shouted back.

'The Rupert' David shouted in exasperation.

'Sorry' Charlie replied, 'Never heard a word you said, bloody noisy chopper'.

Slung under the aircraft, under a tarpaulin, was a very old and battered Toyota pickup truck. Well it looked old and battered but it was anything but. It was fitted with extra fuel tanks, and under its load of Castor Beans was a space for two of the team to slide into, along with their 'non civilian' equipment. The team themselves were dressed, and smelled, like normal everyday farmers off to find a market for their beans, but underneath their outer garments it was a different matter, Kevlar vests, small arms, personal radios and other assorted military paraphernalia, including of course their fighting knives.

When the Pilots arrived at their pre-designated spot on the desolate landscape they circled, checking that they were not being observed, and then set the pallet down on a dirt track that was the only excuse for a road for miles around. After releasing the load they then touched the rear wheels of the Chinook down to allow David and his team, plus the Load Master and his team to disembark and then quickly lifted it off again. When the Toyota had been unloaded the Load Master called the Chinook back in and quickly re-embarked, and once airborne the now empty pallet was re-slung by Charlie and one of the team, and the Pilots flew off into the distance. A few miles away, finding a suitably deserted spot they jettisoned the now redundant pallet; it was to be a one way trip for the Toyota. During the tiring and very boring drive over barren and desolate terrain they hardly saw a soul, but finally at dawn on the third day they were under camouflage netting and looking up at the compound. The Warlord had selected it well, it was impossible to look down into it, and the only gate into the place was around the other side, facing flat, open, and totally barren waste-land. During the day they rested and then that evening David, Charlie and one of his troopers went on a scouting mission to find a spot for him to lie up and observe who went through the gate. They found a suitable dip in the ground about a kilometre out from the gate, and by dawn David had himself well camouflaged, with only his sniper's scope and the laser designator in front of him, and Charlie and he were in contact by means of their new 'burst' portable radios. As they talked the radios automatically compressed their words and then at short intervals fired them off in quick bursts, on different frequencies, being expanded on arrival at the intended recipients' radio into understandable language. It took a little getting used to but once mastered it was worth it, the system was completely undetectable by any 'would be' eavesdroppers, they could chat away to their hearts content.

About an hour after the sun had cleared the horizon, and the ground was nicely heating up, David felt a stirring, not in his stomach, but beside him. He then felt a stabbing pain in his side, and it took him a few moments to fully understand what was happening. What he had done was pick the only dip in the area that was home to a nest of Vipers. A female Adder had found a hole in the side of his dip and given birth to her young. As the air temperature rose, the by now fledgling Adders sensed David and slowly came out to investigate, and then, one by one they sank their fangs into his torso. Whilst one bite from an adult viper might only be fatal to a child or an elderly person - even without the antidote, a fit and healthy adult would most likely survive, just. They would be incapacitated for several days, and feel like death for a week or so, but usually they pulled through, but unfortunately for David it wasn't just one, it was a whole nest of them, and slowly they continued to take turns to inject him with their venom. After the first two or three strikes David seriously considered vacating the hollow, he knew that with his skills he had a better than even chance of making it to safety, even in the open countryside. There were patrols of sorts out and about - but nothing to serious - and he knew that there was a phial of antidote in the Toyota, so he should be ok, so quickly he took one final scan of the area through his scope before he made his escape, but to his horror he saw a cloud of dust in the distance, then another, and another. The final total was eight vehicles, all coming in from different directions. It looked as though the meeting was on, but even if he could call up an air strike before making his escape, which one should he tell them to target? After the first hit, the occupants of the remaining vehicles would be out of them and hot footing it in all directions across the scrubland, a one in eight chance of hitting Hamid Shah, good odds, for him, if he was indeed out there at all. David knew that he had to be absolutely certain it was Shah; he couldn't afford to make a mistake and call in the jets to kill innocent farmers; whose only crime was having a council meeting. He knew then that he had to remain where he was and wait for them to arrive. Contacting Charlie he explained his predicament, and of course Charlie wanted to come and get him out, but David insisted that he had to stay put. It would most likely cost him his life but he knew that it would be worth it if he succeeded, Shah was an evil person. In the end David had to give Charlie a 'direct order' to remain where he was, and then order the other two members of the team to restrain him if he refused. He hoped that Caroline would understand. Injecting himself with pain relief he continued to lay there, alone, unable to move, just watching as the Land Cruisers slowly came closer, and being bitten, time after time after time. About an hour later the vehicles started to arrive at regular intervals. He scoped the occupants of each wagon, no sign of Hamid Shah - until around noon. Just as he was about to slip into oblivion the penultimate Cruiser pulled up and the VIP occupant exited from the wrong door, right into any waiting snipers sights. It was a very basic mistake to make for a supposedly Senior Taliban leader, so David slowly started to scan the men in his vicinity, but he was slipping fast. A breath of wind blew the Ghutra that covered most of the heads and faces away from the face of one of his 'escorts', just for a second but that was enough, it was definitely Hamid, he was one hundred percent certain, and David watched him as he 'escorted' the decoy into a building that was fortunately in his line of sight, and disappear behind its stout wooden door. With virtually the last of his energy David sighted the target designator on the door, locked it on, and then keyed his microphone. 'Target confirmed - designator set' and then he drifted off into oblivion.

It was planned that two Royal Air Force Tornados would then target the compound with their 'smart' bombs, and then 'Plan A' was that if possible David would exit his position unnoticed in all the confusion. 'Plan B' was that if that was not possible he would remain in place until after nightfall, and then make his escape under cover of darkness. As any combat veteran knows the best of plans only last until the first gun is fired, or as in this case, the first viper strikes. Six bomb laden Tornado's swept in and they flattened the place, using practically every bomb in the dump, and even as the last of the bombs were falling Charlie was dragging David out into the open, as the other two team members crouched down, weapons pointed at the compound, searching vainly for targets. Hamid Shah, the Warlord, and most of their compatriots were already on their way to a better World. Suddenly two Apache assault helicopters, coming out of nowhere, came to the hover just in front of the two crouched team members, making them feel somewhat redundant. The Apaches, 'that had just happened to be passing', hosed anything that they thought might move with their 30mm chain guns, and reducing to scrap any vehicle or building left recognisable with their Hellfire missiles and Hydra 70 rockets. Charlie and the rest of the team then cut David's clothing away, Charlie getting bitten by an Adder that had taken up residence in David's under garments for his troubles, but ignoring his own pain he injected their only ampoule of antidote into his friend's Cannula. It was completely ineffectual of course, he knew that but he had to try, then suddenly a dust storm arrived, caused fortunately by 'their' Chinook. It thumped down only feet away from them, and it seemed to Charlie that from every one of its many orifices it was pouring streams of lead at the compound, just in case there was a survivor in there who was feeling lucky, and they dragged David on board and were swiftly on their way to Kabul at 'military emergency' power settings (flat out). While David had been lying there being bitten, Charlie's screams for assistance, to anyone that would listen, were rewarded. All military personnel recognise outstanding bravery when they come across it, and everyone that could, willingly leapt to his aid. Even a detachment of 23 Regiment SAS (Territorial's) on exercise in the Welsh Black Mountains sent their moral support.

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Lt. Fitzpatrick slowly regained consciousness in the deserted office and staggered to the hangar door, just in time to see his helicopter disappearing into the distance, and cast his mind back to the punch, he had been middleweight champion of his Regiment for two years running so he knew a good punch when he felt one, and that was a good one, and he hadn't seen it coming. Perhaps it had been a little unwise of him to take on the Senior Warrant Officer in that way, and it reminded him of one of those pearls of wisdom that his Instructors at Sandhurst used to pass on, 'a junior Officer takes on the RSM or a Warrant Officer at his peril, unless he has thought long and hard about it beforehand. Gerald knew that he had thought neither long, nor hard, before he had tried to take on WO David Williams (and he now had an aching jaw to prove it) but although the SAS was a very unconventional service, striking an Officer was still a serious offence, or so he thought. A few minutes later when he returned to their Headquarters Block (and much to the surprise of the occupants as they all thought that he was travelling at 140 knots in a south westerly direction) he learned a lesson that would stay with him for the rest of his distinguished career, 'you do not take on David Williams, or his ilk, lightly'. He was shown into the Senior Officers office and the door was firmly closed behind him. Half an hour later he came out, grasping his hastily hand written orders returning him to Credenhill, Hereford, their new Regimental Headquarters, for 'de-briefing'.

\--------------------

By the time they got David to some serious medical help, most of the damage had been done. The venom from the fledgling vipers, although nowhere near as potent as a fully grown adult, had been flowing through his system for too long. Everywhere his blood travelled, the poison was taken, and did its worst. His internal systems started to fail, but the medical staff worked miracles, spurred on to greater levels by the reports of his valour, and somehow they kept him alive.

When it was safe to do so David was transferred back to a specialist hospital in the UK, and Caroline and Cindy were constantly at his bed side. It was a civilian hospital in central London so apart from his friends, and a few colleagues who 'just happened to be passing so they thought that would pop in for a quick chat', he saw no one in authority. He wasn't arrested or punished in anyway, and if he hadn't known better the incident might never have happened, and Lt. Fitzpatrick was, according to his mates, last seen heading off to somewhere in Iraq, as a 'Liaison Officer'. Of course he had to tell Caroline what had really happened, and she was behind him one hundred per-cent, she was so proud of him. If he lost his pension - so what, they would survive.

After two months in the hospital he was deemed stable enough to be released into the care of the Military Medical Services. He was expecting to be moved to Credenhill but he was wrong, he was transferred instead by Sea King helicopter to a Royal Naval Air Station in Cornwall. HMS Seahawk has no connection with the Special Forces whatsoever, it is an anti-submarine helicopter base, miles from anywhere, at the bottom end of Cornwall, and that seemed to be the main reason why the 'powers that be' had him sent there. Secondary for them, but fortunately extremely lucky for David was the fact that the Stations SMO (Senior Medical Officer), a Surgeon Commander, had extensive knowledge of exotic diseases and 'other related subjects', and one of his 'other related subjects' was snake venoms and their effects. Surgeon Commander Beatty was in his element when David arrived, he hadn't really had a chance to practice his specialities on anyone since arriving at the base just over a year ago. He'd only had one case of an infected mosquito bite on a returning sailor. She had received the bite on her elbow whilst on deployment with her squadron in the Far East, and the ships M.O. was having trouble getting it to respond to treatment. It had then been decided to send her back to the cooler climes of Cornwall where her Squadron (and boyfriend) were based when not at sea.

Caroline (Cindy had reluctantly returned to her Army sponsored boarding school) moved temporarily into a guest house in the nearby town of Helston (famous for its furry {flora} dance), and assisted when she could as Commander Beatty worked tirelessly on David, and he slowly made headway, improving David's quality of life, eventually getting him onto a drugs regime that didn't require constant drips. It meant that David was more mobile, but there was only so much that the SMO could do, what David really needed was his blood drained from him, filtered, and before being returned, all his vital organs thoroughly flushed through. It sounded easy, after all mechanics do that all the time to car engines, the problem was that if they (Surgeons, not car mechanics) tried it on a human being then that person would most likely die, unless they happened to be in a VERY expensive specialist hospital in New York. Cmdr. Beatty had requested that David be sent there as a matter of urgency, and usually in these sorts of cases it was a distinct possibility; but every time he raised the subject with the Army he met a brick wall. Something was afoot, and he found out that it was more than twelve inches when he submitted his final report. He had stabilised David, he was out of danger and had a quality of life of sorts, if he took a fistful of pills and potions every day for the rest of his life, but Cmdr. Beatty could do no more, so again he requested the funding to send him to America, with an implied threat that 'he would take it further' if necessary. The following Saturday, as he was mowing the lawn of his Married Quarter he received a visit from a very Senior Army Officer in civilian clothes.

'Out of deference to his rank', after all he did have 'scrambled egg' (Senior Officers Braiding) on the peak of his cap, 'they were bringing him into the loop'. He explained that the official reason that they would not be sending WO Williams to America was that funding was being withheld because in the current financial climate, it was deemed not to be 'cost effective', in other words David was too near retirement, and if the SMO was to force the issue one of two things would happen. Usually in these situations WO Williams would be transferred back to his base where they would find him a 'cushy little number' to see out his time, and then he would retire on a normal pension, OR (better still) he could be medically retired immediately, _on the recommendation of a Senior Medical Officer_. He would then be on a full Medical Pension (Tax Free), making him financially more secure, but unfortunately in David's particular case if he were to go the first route, and released back to his unit, he would face a Court Martial for striking an Officer.

By now Cmdr. Beatty knew most of the details of David's military history and his time in Afghanistan (although nothing about him striking an Officer), and also knew that such bravery would normally go well rewarded, he had even overheard several of David's friends going on about him deserving the 'VC', and when he raised this point with the Officer (he wouldn't call him a gentleman), he was told in no uncertain terms that the 'hierarchy' would insist that the Officer involved would be pressing charges, so no medal. It then slowly dawned on him that they would never let David return to mainstream military life, behind all this blustering was the fact that there was no way that a 'mere' Warrant Officer would be allowed to become the most highly decorated person in the Army, or any other Service for that matter, and as he sat there dazed, Cmdr. Beatty felt ashamed to be in the Military; how could the system treat such a brave a man like this - out of pure jealousy? He guessed that there would never be a Court Martial, David and his colleagues would never be allowed their day in court, but he knew that they had him over a barrel. If he made any trouble, David (and perhaps his own service career) would suffer, so he signed the forms that the stranger handed him - and David quietly left the Army.

David did not settle down well into civilian life, he had always been fit and active, and now he couldn't even put on his shoes without help from Caroline. He also had nothing to occupy himself with; he really wasn't a jigsaw'ry type of person. Caroline and he had purchased their own home several years previously, it was a detached 4 bed-roomed bungalow in a 'quieter' part of Hereford, and the mortgage was now manageable, but they could still not afford to keep Cindy at the private school in the long term without the help of the Army grant, and that had unfortunately ceased on his 'retirement'. They could keep her at the school until the end of the current term but when the new one started she would have to go to the local Comprehensive, and Cindy was not a happy little bunny, she was only eleven but with the lower class sizes in the private sector she was streets ahead of her peers, she would have nothing at all in common with them.

The Regiment of course hadn't forgotten David, it would be a long time before his exploits were forgotten, and about a month after his medical discharge, at a special ceremony at Credenhill they presented him with his faithful hand built rifle. It was a hand crafted .50 calibre BMG McMillan TAC-50 bolt action rifle, which had a 'proven' effective range of over 1½ miles, and it was the last thing that Charlie had grabbed as they boarded the helicopter in Afghanistan. It was now residing in a beautifully polished presentation case, and was presented to him by the Officer Commanding 22 Regiment SAS. He then promptly accepted it back from David, as it was to be given pride of place in the Regimental Museum, also it was doubted that the local constabulary would look favourably on his 'small memento' of his time in the Service, and after the ceremony 'The Colonel' (also a guest) made David an offer that he could not refuse, so he didn't, hoping that the extra money would be the solution to Cindy's problems. He of course realised that he was being 'looked after' but it didn't matter, it gave him back some of his dignity. His body might be letting him down but his brain was just fine, a little rusty perhaps but all it needed was a purpose in life to get it ticking again.

The Colonel, realising that David's on-going treatment must take priority, kept him close to the office. On a good day David would put in a full day's work, but on a bad day it would be a couple of hours at the most, and slowly the bad days were increasing, although he didn't mind, he knew exactly what he was taking on when he made David the offer. David had once saved his life, now he was going to save his (metaphorically speaking), after all he could now well afford it. The Colonel reckoned that what David really needed was a large dose of sun, so as he spoke to Andrew, that first time, an idea gelled in the back of his mind, then it burst forth -'David' he growled, as he slammed the phone down, 'go and get your bags packed, you are off for about a month, pack for the sun and be back here in an hour'. It was make or break time for David, he was having one of his fairly bad days but if he could just pull this off the Colonel hoped it would boost David's self-esteem no end, and perhaps be the turning point for him, and as David drove home to collect his bags the Colonel rang Caroline at work, she was now working full time for the Army Welfare Service. He explained his idea and 'suggested' that if things didn't perhaps go as well as he hoped, then she might like to take a spot of holiday entitlement and have a short break in the sun to support her husband.

Sat at her desk Caroline burst into tears, she hadn't realised just how well thought of her husband was. Total strangers were coming up to her on the street, or in the supermarket, asking her how he was, and offering their help, several with the added proviso of 'anything, anytime, anywhere', but David really had only one genuine Guardian Angel, the Colonel, he was her husband's life saver. He had started to become quite depressed before the Colonel's offer but now he was a different person, mentally if not physically, but unfortunately he was now becoming a little bored with just working in the office; he needed to be stretched further, mentally and maybe also a little physically. Perhaps this indeed was just what the doctor ordered, and the Colonel's parting comments to her had been the final decider,

'If anything does go wrong, at least he will be working in a hospital, and Charlie will be there to look after him'.

Caroline used up some of her 'flexi time' and left to help her husband pack, and to say goodbye, just like the good old days.

The Regiment had not been the same without David around, who seemed to be seeing out his time in the Army with the Royal Navy in Cornwall, so when his time was up Charlie didn't re-enlist. He left the Army, and after visiting his friend in Cornwall he got a job in Personal Protection - with the Colonel.

~~~~

Chapter 7

'Good morning Boss' David groaned as he came to a stop beside my bed, I thought he was speaking to the Colonel but no, it was me he was addressing. 'Sorry about the way I look but the pills should kick in soon'. He then shook my hand, surprisingly firmly as it turned out, and continued 'Is it all right if I take a seat?'

As a refusal might have been construed as a form of physical torture I agreed with his request, at the same time pondering the fact that if the pills didn't kick in, he wouldn't be getting out of that chair any time soon (not without medical assistance anyway), and the Colonel pulled Maria's chair across and sat beside him. After formal introductions he gave me a brief outline of what David's duties would be, and then went on to explain that in his Firm the client was always the Boss, and David would be calling me that, if I was in agreement, although to the rest of the team I would be just Sir or Mr Michaels. As the Colonel continued on with his 'welcome speech' I did what could arguably be described as the bravest thing in my life, I interrupted him! He was shocked, nay mortified, nobody had done that to him, not in a very long time, and David smiled, perhaps the pills were starting to kick in.

'First things first' I stammered, 'David's health, are you sure he will be alright out here?' and then the Colonel and I then had an in-depth conversation about David, with David sitting there amiably listening on.

'I agree', he said, 'that he looks a bit ropey at the moment, but I put that down to lack of sleep and (with tongue in cheek) jet lag' (one hour's time difference with England???). 'He will be fine in a little while' he promised, and thankfully he was. We then came to an agreement as to who was responsible for what, 'David wise'. The Colonel assured me that his Companies insurance would cover all eventualities, but I doubted that, a good 'pre-existing illness' clause would surely get them off the hook, so I made it perfectly clear that if there was ever going to be a problem, in the first instance I would take care of things. I was certainly not going to lie around waiting while some pen pusher in Tim-buck-too made up his or her mind whether David was to be treated or not, while David was struggling to draw his last breath. I had no intention of having him terminate his contract with life on my watch, and after the Colonel departed David suggested that we have a more 'in depth' chat later, which was an excellent idea as a veritable queue was forming at my door.

Maria was the first in, apparently she had arrived for work only to find (in her mind at least) utter confusion in 'her' office. She'd had a quick chat with 'her' new 'minders' and then contacted 'her' Hospital Administrator (is this a takeover bid already, I asked myself?) to arrange for a desk, chair and telephone extension for David, and suitable chairs and a coffee table for the heavies - sorry Close Protection Operatives.

Following Maria it was George and Millie's turn (I really do think that I should have traffic lights installed) and they were all dressed up \- with nowhere to go - or so I thought. George then explained that he was now fit enough to leave hospital, in fact he had been for a little while, but Millie had, up until now, though it wise to keep an eye on me. There was enough chaos and confusion in the financial World without me adding my ten-penn'th (or billion or so); although he went on to explain that they wouldn't be going too far. Apparently while George was immobilised Millie and he had decided that life really was too short, so they were going to go for retirement - big time. Word was now out in the press anyway of who and what he was, so there really was no going back to the old ways. Then he went on to explain that as he had been laying there in his enforced idleness he had fallen in love again, and as Millie was sitting beside him with a smile on her face, I gathered that it must be another aeroplane. Correct, it was a North American Mustang, or to be more precise it was a P51K powered by a Packard built Rolls Royce Merlin engine. It turned out that it was a Cavalier Aircraft Corporation 'conversion', so it had had all the Military bits and pieces removed and modern avionics fitted. During the conversion a passenger seat had also been installed just behind the pilot, in place of the fuselage fuel tank and military radio, and it would be all his in just a few weeks. He also just happened to have a print out to hand, complete with photos of the machine in question - it really did look the 'biz', 'but where on earth are you going to keep it?' I asked.

'That's the easy part' he chuckled, 'I've just bought it an airfield of its very own'. He handed Maria the co-ordinates, and using Google Earth she had a rather dilapidated looking airfield on her laptops screen in seconds. It was situated a little further down the coast, in the Costa del Sol region, near to a place called San Miguel del Mar. It had been a joint Spanish Air force/Navy Establishment in its heyday, although the Navy had been noticeable by its absence for quite a few years prior to its closure. Apparently, in its final years as an Air Base it had been used more and more as the unofficial 'retirement' home for senior Air Force General's, with just the odd Mirage 111, F1, or C130 Hercules popping in to justify its existence, but with the introduction of the F/A-18 into the Air Forces inventory, the new aircraft proved to be too technically advanced (and noisy) to warrant major investment in the airfields infrastructure, so in the early nineties the Base was de-commissioned and put up for sale on the open market. A civilian Security Company then took possession of the base on behalf of the Government, and since then not a lot of interest had been shown in it by anybody. The problem was that land thereabouts was relatively cheap and plentiful, and the village of San Miguel Del Mar had, to put it bluntly, 'passed its sell by date'. It had definitely seen better days, and as the fishing fleet dwindled, so had the youth of the town. A modern international Airport was within an hour's drive of the airfield, and a small but thriving private airfield was within twenty minutes flying time, so no one wanted the land, runways, or the by now very dilapidated harbour - until George saw the advertisement. It was love at first sight, and he purchased it, sight unseen, three weeks later - at a 'special' price of course.

He retained the existing security company to keep it secure for him, and hired a specialist company to titivate the main runway, some of the taxiways, and one of the hangars for his P51K, and Millie had her input of course. As there was a total dearth of habitable accommodation on the site she found a firm on the internet that supplied luxury mobile homes, the type that had tiny wheels but nowhere to go, and had them create a temporary home for them, until something more permanent could be sorted out. To start with there would be six units, including a lounge and bedroom for themselves, plus guest rooms, kitchen and an office. There was also to be a small swimming pool and Jacuzzi outside - with plenty of room to 'expand'. They would definitely be slumming it in luxury, and whilst their new home was being sorted out they were off to convalesce on a Caribbean Cruise, but of course 'I would always be welcome there, whenever the urge took me'. It was then loads of hugs and kisses (and a handshake from George) and they were off - just like that.

The next one in, well she had actually walked in during George's vivid description of his new aeroplane, and promptly fallen asleep in the chair, was Alice. She was missing her Bert (the least she could have done was fallen for a Cuthbert or Algernon), and also her place in the Orchestra was still waiting, so it was reluctantly agreed that she would depart for cooler climes later that day, after all I now had Maria, plus David and his team to look after me, and I also suspected that she was raring to have a go at some serious retail therapy, her new motto, if you've got it, try and spend it!

After Alice came Roger and Jeannette, or rather 'spotty' Jean as I would be calling her from now on.

'Lovely to see you - Winnie and the dogs doing fine' I asked?

'Yes they all were', BUT there was a slight problem; Jeannette had developed an allergic reaction to them. Well only to Bonnie and Clyde, but that was enough, and in a way I was pleased, not that Jeannette (sorry spotty Jean) was suffering, but that Bonnie and Clyde would be moving on. They had been with them for nearly three months and I was getting worried that they wouldn't recognise me when I finally got them back. It wasn't an insurmountable problem, and after a nice chat with Rog' and Jean (at some distance from her of course) Charlie was volunteered by David to drive to their home and collect the troublesome duo, poor Charlie was not going to be getting much sleep today. He was then to deliver them to the Mascota (pet) Centre that we used when we were off in England visiting the children. Bonnie and Clyde just loved America, who owned it, she always spoiled them rotten, and even when they only went to visit Begonia, the resident vet, or the peluquería (for a shampoo and trim) they always seemed happy to be there. Finally it was the turn of the Maître D΄, sorry Ward Manager.

'Good news' (well it might be for him) 'you are off to America in ten days' time'.

That came as a bit of a shock to me as I was getting quite used to all the machines surrounding me, they were like family. I was even beginning to give them pet names, perhaps I could adopt one when I finally left!

That evening Alice went off with tears in her eyes (and plastic in hand) to dear old Blighty. Maria was really getting into the swing of things; A Gulfstream IV G400 was waiting at the Airport to whisk her away in luxury. It was really a bit O.T.T of course but as the Air Taxi Service Manager explained - it was short notice, and it now seemed that I had an account with a 24 hour Global Air Taxi Company, any type, any size, anywhere; don't people take the train anymore?

For my peace of mind, the first thing that I did when I had five minutes to think was to get David checked over by a phlebotomist. Not only did the name sound painful but she was as well, in fact she turned out to be a right pain in the arm! '

Roll up your sleeve please', and in went the needle, and out came an armful of blood, which was quickly sent away for analysis.

They found out that one of David's pills was really only suitable for temperate climates, it didn't like the heat one little bit, so a quick pill change and within a day they promised that he would pass for a human being – in subdued lighting, and despite me being a pain in the arm to him, David and I got on well. He explained that normally he would go through 'the procedure' with me, about what I should do if 'I was threatened', or if 'this', or 'that', situation arose, but as I was firmly strapped to a bed he would skip those bits for the time being, and as he and his team settled in, David started to spend more and more time in my room. His role was not very labour intensive so we would chat about our families and life in general (and of course put the world to rights at the same time), although he never pushed the bounds of professionalism, and it certainly helped to pass the time for me. In a soppy moment I even had Maria (with the Colonel's connivance) fly Caroline out (in luxury of course) for a surprise weekend break with him, Cindy could come along as well if it wasn't going to be one of 'those' weekends. The following Saturday I met Caroline and Cindy, they both seemed extremely nice, and an idea began to form in my mind. Early days yet - but it was there.

~~~~

Chapter 8

The transfer to America was a logistical nightmare. All I wanted them to do was just give me a jab, put me in a box and send me off by DHL, but apparently there are strict rules about transporting 'livestock', and I would be breaking most of them, so the nightmare began. First a team of specialists flew in from States side, and then over the next few days they gradually altered my medication so that I would be more able to withstand the transfer, both physically and mentally, and also to prepare me for what was to come when I finally arrived there. I would also have to be transferred off of my 'bed like bed' and placed onto a special stretcher, hopefully without permanently paralyzing me in the process, and all those wonderful machines that I had grown to love (or hate) would then slowly have to be replaced with special lightweight ones, specially designed for use in air ambulances - something to do with voltages, plug sizes or whatever.

Once I was stable, it was into a helicopter for the short trip to a waiting Boeing 727, and when I was safely strapped into this flying ambulance we were on the move, I wondered if it had blues and two's on its roof. It must have, as there was no waiting around for an available slot, Air Traffic Control just carved one, and soon we; that was me, Alice, Maria, David and Charlie, plus a host of Doctors and Nurses were on our way. Alice, Maria and the Medical Staff were obvious choices to come on board the aircraft with me but David and Charlie were with me ostensibly to ensure that there was a smooth handover to their colonial counterparts when we arrived in New York, but in reality it was my way of saying thank you to them for doing all those little extras which they willingly did on occasions. Charlie had fallen in love with Bonnie and Clyde when he had transferred them to the kennels; it wasn't a hard thing to do, and I wasn't surprised that when he had a few days off he hired a beach apartment (subsidised by yours truly) and took them on a holiday. They all then spent four hectic days cavorting around the beach; the fact that Charlie's on/off girlfriend had flown in for a 'bit of Sun' as well was totally irrelevant, but were was Robin? He was already in America - waiting for me.

As I lay there lightly sedated, and listening to the gentle hiss of aluminium sliding through the rarefied air I became aware of a commotion going on around me, and it wasn't me that they were 'commoting' over. The three Doctors, whom I was paying loads of dosh too, to be on board to look after me, very quickly lost interest in that fact. They were very worried, I was very worried, Charlie was very worried, in fact everyone on board the aircraft was 'very worried' \---- about David. By now we were well over half way to the Big Apple and it appeared that several of David's pills were throwing a wobbly big time; these must have been the ones that didn't like altitude, and he quickly regained the pallor of our first acquaintance. Once the Doctors had been 'brought up to speed' (ugh – another saying that I hate) on his recent medical history by Charlie, and I confirmed that I would initially be covering the cost of any treatment they were on the radio pronto. There also must have been quite a comprehensive first aid box on board because after a needle full of different concoctions was emptied into his arm he seemed to stabilize. Two of the Doctors then had a quiet chat with me again, 'did I realise that what David really needed was a full system flush through (or words to that effect), and it was going to be very expensive'. Here I was lying in my own luxurious piece of hired hardware, and all that they were worried about was a few extra shillings, sorry cents on the bill.

'Damn the expense' I told them, 'go for it', and so as the Pratt and Whitney engines wound up, to push the rest of the aircraft to its maximum permitted airspeed, 'flat out' in other words, preparations were being made for two patients to be offloaded at JFK, and as I lay there, all but totally ignored, I called Maria over and had her make arrangements for Caroline and Cindy to be flown over and accommodated close to David's hospital. I didn't care what sort of aircraft they used, just as long as it was fast.

There was no delay when we entered American airspace, the Pilots carried out a _straight in_ approach and suddenly we were down, and when we came a screeching halt, there were no polite 'after you', 'Oh no, after you please' - Medics came streaming on board and David, with Charlie in tow, was whisked away, to the accompaniment of a cacophony of sirens. I had briefed Charlie before we landed on what I expected, and he almost hugged me. He had my verbal 'piece of plastic' in his hand, all he had to do was get David sorted out, and after the Lord Mayor's procession came the dust cart, or to be more precise me. I was again lightly sedated and then the reverse of how I had gotten into the aircraft was carried out, but there were no sirens for me, and on arrival at my new abode they didn't even let me have a good night's sleep, or even a cup of tea before they started.

I was wheeled in through the front doors and straight into theatre, where I was to meet up with Robin, or at least a part of him, later on. The team that had flown over the week previous, and had accompanied me over on the 727 had prepared me well; I was all ready for the cut and thrust that lay ahead, and so was Robin. He was in a nearby ward waiting for the word to be moved to an adjacent theatre - but first things first. Very carefully they removed the remaining slivers of disc that had been edging ever closer to my spinal column, and then equally carefully rolled me over, in a specially designed frame, and handed me over to the next team. This team then carried out a liver Allograft (liver transplant) on me. About 60% of Robin's liver (his right lobe) was installed in me, after of course first taking out my old one. It is called a Living Donor Liver Transplant (LDLT), which is more complicated than a normal transplant, but the chances of rejection, or complications for me were greatly reduced, and within four to six weeks Robin's liver should have returned to full function, and finally, before sewing me back up, the plumbers moved in and did some fancy knife-work on my kidneys and a few other bits and pieces that they found lying around inside, and once they had finished the needlework (Millie would have been very proud of it) the machines were unplugged and hey presto, I worked. Well I think that is what happened - I was sound asleep at the time.

I was in theatre for about twelve hours, and comatose for a considerably lot longer time than that, but, as my mind wandered about, just before I re-entered the real world I suddenly thought, 'isn't it quiet', and it was. There was none of the 'clackety clack', or 'hufferty pufferty' machines doing their jobs keeping me alive, there was just silence, and it was lovely. Perhaps I wouldn't adopt one of them after all.

When I opened my eyes, either the Surgeon's had done their jobs and I would see Sheila, sorry Alice, or I would see St Peter, so risking it I gingerly opened them and Alice looked beautiful, and although Yanks are OK they can't furnish out a suite for nuts. My room looked just like a hospital room, boring I thought, I must be on the mend.

Alice explained to me that I had been sedated for three days following the operations, and in that time most of my bodily functions had started functioning again. The rest were expected to after a coke and a plate of hamburger and fries, and she also had the latest news from Charlie; David was also out of theatre and on the mend. He had received the operation that he should have had six months ago, it would take some time but his prognosis was good, and Caroline and Cindy also sent their thanks, best wishes, and loads of kisses. That was all well and good I thought, but where were David's colonial counterparts?

They turned out to be a bit more 'in your face' than their continental cousins. Admittedly they were nice, very nice in fact, very much like David and his team, except that they didn't wear jackets (well not in the hospital anyway) and were dripping artillery and militia paraphernalia from every imaginable attachment point. A few days later one of them even showed me why they couldn't wear shorts, a back-up pistol strapped to one ankle, a throwing knife to the other.

Robin was wheeled in to see me the next day, along with his girlfriend; well she used to be his girlfriend. It had been his idea about the LDLT in the first place and although I had half-heartedly tried to talk him out of it, he was adamant, and he was now well on the road to recovery. He also had two pieces of important news for me, one, his girlfriend was now his wife, grand display of huge engagement and wedding rings (they got married just before my allograft, just in case), and the second...... 'Stop, let me guess, I'm going to be a grandfather'. If I had it wrong and they had just got a new puppy I was in serious trouble but no, the 'six month bump' on my new daughter-in-law was a dead giveaway. They had obviously found the time for 'that' weekend.

David and I were making good progress in our respective hospitals, and Caroline and Cindy commuted many times over the following few weeks to keep me 'up to speed' with his progress, as they were in no hurry to fly back to the UK, they had just made Caroline redundant (was it overstaffing or sour grapes?) and Cindy was now on her summer holidays.

It was three weeks into my great American adventure; Alice, Robin and his new wife Emma were winging their way home, in an Executive Air Ambulance of course, when I had a brainwave, so I rang Vicente. I didn't know what the time was in Spain but for the amount of Euro's that I was paying him it must be about the same time as here, so let him earn his shekels. He answered the phone after the second ring and after the usual pleasantries I asked him to look into 'scholarships'.

'Certainly' he replied, not a trace of sleep or surprise in his voice, 'I will Fax Maria with some details within the hour'.

Fifty-seven and a half minutes later I rang David and asked him if he was up for a short trip, an hour later the four of them were in my room, David in a wheelchair.

'Forgive me if you think I am interfering but, .......', I then explained about the scholarship for Cindy. Cindy and Caroline hugged and kissed me; then both burst into tears, and as we chatted about it I had another brainwave; part of Cindy's wider education must surely include a trip to Disney World, and when they returned from their educational experience it was almost time for us to fly back to Spain. David and I were both in a safe enough condition to undertake the flight back over the pond, I had given David the choice of going back to England, but after a chat with Caroline and Cindy he decided to take up my offer of returning to my hotel/hospital, only this time as a patient, where his 'girls' could put in some serious sun worshiping time, mind you Charlie was the real winner out of all this; he was being paid top dollar, as they say on this side of the oggin (another quaint old nautical expression), but he was looking after the wrong person.

On the flight back I had a long talk with Maria; her next project was going to be to find me somewhere to live. As I had given Doris the villa I was 'of no fixed abode' so when I was finally fit enough to leave the hospital, hopefully in about three months' time, I needed somewhere to park my backside. I had been thinking about it a lot recently and realized that I could have as many homes as I wanted, anywhere in the World, but no, I wanted to stay in Spain, that is where my memories of Sheila were - plus I liked the heat. Maria was relieved at that, she had obviously been thinking along these lines too as she had Myra to think of. We then had a long talk about Myra, 'would it not be better for her', I suggested, 'if she went to a private school?' 'I know she is young but at least she would have stability', I suspected that we would be doing quite a lot of travelling in the future. She tried to raise the question of fees but I pointed out that as her employer I would make it one of her P.A. perks (Vicente would be pleased) and so in the end we decided that in relation to the first issue she would look into suites in suitable hotels in the Valencia Region. In the short term this would be perfect for me, it would give me time to look around for something more permanent. On the second issue, of Myra, she promised to think about it!

We arrived back in Spain in the early evening and were met by David's replacement, Rodney.

'Hello boss, please call me Rodders', (I think not), and as I was being wheeled from the aircraft (for short trips I was now allowed into a wheelchair) to the waiting Helicopter, Vicente approached me. Why? I didn't pay him to sit around airports on the off chance that I might be passing through. I then saw his face; this was business, not pleasure, and as we lifted off, and headed out towards the hospital he started....

~~~~

Chapter 9

George and Millie really enjoyed their cruise, and when it was finally over they went directly to their new home. They arrived tanned and relaxed at San Miguel del Mar for the very first time, and found a semi-usable airfield, a very nice 'temporary' living area, an exceptionally beautiful P51K parked in front of a rusty old hangar, and Marcus - their new P.A., Millie had found him 'on line'.

'He was perfect' she had told George, 'he can do all the things that you don't want to do around the place'.

'George thought that Marcus was going to be kept very busy', and both of them were ecstatic, he because of the WW2 fighter, and she because the pool was much larger than she expected (she was still a feet and inches type of girl), and there were also about twenty people waiting to meet them. The Security Guards at the gate would keep out unwanted visitors so these, they correctly assumed, were wanted, and Millie put her foot down; important things first, toy last, so they met with the two people from the Mobile Home Company. George dutifully looked at all the rooms, the pool and the Jacuzzi with Millie, then signed the appropriate forms and they left (the Mobile Home people). Millie, with George sulkily in attendance then talked with three people from the Property Management Company. They would be looking after the cleaning, shopping and cooking for them. In fact two of them were their new cook/housekeepers ('but George darling if we only have one we would have to give her days off, and think of my nails'), and so thirty minutes after arriving, with all the trivia out of the way, George walked over to his new baby, leaving Millie and Marcus to deal with the rest of moving into their new home. Woman's work! Now down to the serious stuff.

\--------------------

On day five of their three week cruise (that George had booked on-line without telling Millie), the Cruise Liner 'just happened' to be passing Florida so George asked Millie, in an off-handed sort of way, if she would mind if he went for a quick spin in a dual control Mustang, that 'just happened' to be based close by.

Sensing that she had been set up she enquired 'and how long will that take?'

' _Oh only about five days' he replied, and so that evening he went reluctantly on his way (well until he was out of sight of Millie anyway) and did a conversion course on duel control TF51's at Kissimmee. For five exhilarating days he lived and breathed TF51's. He spent every available hour either in a classroom, in the hangar, or in the air, and at the end of the fifth day he had his Letter of Authorization in his hand._

\--------------------

His new War bird was immaculate, and the other fifteen people were there to get him airborne. First he had to sign some papers (for the aircraft), which got rid of three of them, and then he signed for a large truck load of equipment and spares, another two were on their way. Another scribble, this time for a tanker full of fuel (no half measures here) and another two were gone, quickly followed by the man with the cans (of assorted oils and greases). That left seven people to help him get into the air, more than enough. It took them just over an hour but he then had the best forty minutes of his life, and that included his honeymoon. Three of the remainder had agreed to remain with him for three months, servicing the aircraft and generally sorting out the hangar and workshops. He was putting them up in the local hotel, which unfortunately was a bit run down, but George reckoned that if they didn't like it then they could jolly well lump it - for the amount of money that he was paying them they were lucky that he didn't have them sleeping in a tent under the aircrafts wing.

Over the next few weeks Millie was happy 'homebuilding', doing her embroidery, and making new friends. A few of the neighbours, not used to the airfield being used as an airfield, had come over to investigate what the strange noise was all about, conveniently forgetting that they had all been willing to buy their properties at a reduced price because of its close proximity, but now they didn't want it to reflect in the the selling price, but after some sweet talking and a cuppa, and then another, and another, everything was fine - and George blissfully continued making the noise. He also kept on pestering Millie to go up with him in that new passenger seat, but wisely she kept on repeating 'when you get more experience, then I will', so he got more experience, in fact he got quite a lot more experience over the ensuing weeks, and even devised his own aerobatic routine. It not only looked quite impressive from the ground, but it made him feel invincible in the air, so one day, after a particularly good flight he asked Millie to come outside and watch his routine. He, (or rather Marcus) had had an 'Air Band' radio fitted into his Toyota (now permanently minus the caravan) and this enabled Millie to chat to him as he taxied out to the end of the runway and take off. He did the display to perfection, and it suitably impressed Millie no end. After landing, as he taxied in, he had an idea, he checked the fuel contents, just about half full, 'perfect', so as he deplaned he told the mechanics that he might be going up again soon so to leave the machine outside for a while, and after they had a quick mug of coffee it took him only a few minutes to persuade Millie to go for that quick flight. As they walked hand in hand back to the aircraft I was boarding my 727 in New York, and Millie was clutching her brand new 'bone dome', and she was verily excited. He prised her into the rear seat and strapped her in. After connecting her intercom lead he quickly clambered into the front seat and prepared himself, and the Mustang for flight, but when he was ready to start the mighty Packard Merlin there was no sign of the mechanics, so against all the rules he started the engine, 'that will bring them out' he thought, and it did, at the run. First out was the junior mechanic, who he signalled to remove the chocks, and as he started to taxi out the senior mechanic (who must have been taking a comfort break) came out of the hangar, overalls around his ankles, frantically waving his arms. George was in no mood for an argument so he continued to taxi out to the end of the runway, but as he lined up for take-off the senior mechanic came onto the radio; and he was not a very happy little bunny.

' _There was no one on the fire extinguisher, I haven't finished 'pre-flighting' the aircraft, .......'_ _,_ halfway through the tirade George switched off the radio, he was in a happy mood and no one was going to spoil it. He had Millie on board and he was really going to impress her. _'.......although I have refuelled her, and I hope that you have taken out the ballast weights from under the passenger seat'._ The mechanic got no reply, he had tried his best, but after all it was George's aircraft so the three of them stood watching as the sleek machine gracefully lifted off from the runway.

Once airborne George set the Mustang up for the display routine, and he started it with a flourish. Millie was laughing and screaming alternately, she was having a ball, and George was really pleased that Millie was happy, but at the back of his mind he sensed that something was not feeling quite right, 'it must be Millie's extra weight' he thought. As he came in for the grand finale they were inverted (upside down) and he eased the stick back slightly, and they started plummeting towards the ground in a half loop. He had done this manoeuvre multitudinous times before, and from the ground it was always spectacular to watch, especially when he came out of the bottom of the loop at what seemed like (but really wasn't) feet from the ground, and roared off out to sea. George had mentally made allowances for Millie's extra weight, and so started the manoeuvre slightly higher than usual, but half way down, and with the control column getting closer to his stomach George had a thought, 'the ballast weights – damn' (or words to that effect), not too big a problem he thought, the fuel tanks were only half full, 'that would more than compensate'. He quickly glanced down at the fuel gauge, and there it was where it should be, only it was reading almost full - 'oops' (again 'or words to that effect'). As he struggled to pull the stick back into his spine, the now not quite so nimble fighter slowly started to ease out of its dive, and agonisingly slowly it levelled out, this time with the propeller tips quite literally just a few feet above the ground, and then the beautiful fighter started to wallow about sickeningly; its centre of gravity was way out of limits. With the extra weight, and the increased 'g' force, it made the Mustang virtually un-flyable. Virtually, but not totally, and somehow George managed to claw the nose of the aircraft up slightly, and it started to climb, not a lot, but a little.

In the middle of the airfield was a rusty old radio mast. It should have been painted with bright red and white bands to bring it to the attention of passing pilots, and about two metres shorter, for George and Millie's sake. The gleaming P51K, with two very lovely people on board careered into the top of the mast, and it was instantly turned into a flaming ball of junk.

~~~~

Chapter 10

As we made our way to the Hospital/Hotel Vicente ran through the details for me, and somehow I felt responsible, if I hadn't encouraged them to 'go for it', perhaps they would still be alive. After we had landed he stood sombrely on the helipad and said 'I'll give you a few days to settle back in, and then I will come back and sort things out'.

'Sort things out?' I enquired.

'Sorry' he replied, 'I thought you knew, you are their sole heir', and just like that I was the ninth richest person on the Planet, and the owner of one rather dilapidated old airfield, but I didn't have very long to mourn.

Whilst I was in America I had started to miss Bonnie and Clyde big time, then I had a brilliant idea, they could come and move in with me at the hospital. I was now on the mend so all the major bits of medical hardware were now things of the past. Maria doubted it, but she would make enquiries, but Charlie, who was paying one of his flying visits remembered that there were a few suites on the ground floor, and they all had patio's that led directly out into the hospital grounds. Maria contacted El Director in person, and he was righteously mortified, until Maria agreed with him totally, and told him that she would then ring around and find out what the other hospitals could offer.

Suddenly he thought it was a wonderful idea. 'He should have thought of it himself' he spluttered, 'after all the ground floor suites are much more expensive, sorry, definitely more suited to my needs now that I was off life support, and hygiene was not so critical'.

Was he calling my dogs dirty? Then I remembered all those muddy paw prints, yep, and so when I arrived in my new room, in my new super-duper, all singing, all dancing, top of the range electric wheel chair (what no loo), they were waiting for me. As we were leaving the States Charlie had apparently rung ahead and arranged for one of the new team, who were already 'in Country, acclimatizing' (sunbathing), to go and collect them from the kennels, and they had phenomenal memories; it was all the new minders could do to keep them off me, and once they had quietened down slightly Charlie took them off for a long walk, 'to tire them out', whilst I was given the full Cooks' tour. I had my room of course, complete with French Windows that led onto the patio; then came a lounge, fully equipped with all the things that a lounge should have, but renamed 'the kennel'; El Director had had a brainwave. As the lounge also had French Windows that led onto the same patio, he had a dog flap installed in one of them. He then had four very tastefully designed (but not very big) _'no dogs beyond this point'_ signs made, colour co-ordinated to match the furnishings of course, and placed either side of each of the room's internal doors. This he hoped would satisfy any prying Health and Safety Inspector. It was an excellent idea, but there was only one small problem, we had been very lax pet owners, we had never taught either of them to read.

Back to the tour, Maria had, while we were still in America, made a command decision, and I was wheeled into the adjacent suite!! The first room was now her office, complete with reception area; and the second was for Rodney and his boys. It was to be their 'rest room' when they weren't at their station in the main corridor outside my door, or on the patio. 'Are there any rooms left in this hospital for other paying guests' I wondered. Actually there was, but David's suite was the next one along - and I was paying for that one as well!!!!!

When the Nurses finally managed to get me into my bed, and the doctors had finished prodding and poking me around, and admiring the needlework of their Americano Compañeros, I closed my eyes and had a few minutes to myself, time to remember George and Millie. I had now started to look on them both as friends rather than just 'ships that pass in the night', and I would miss them dearly, especially Millie with all her financial wizardry. I pressed my beeper for Maria and she quickly entered. 'I need a few words with Vicente, will you please contact him on his mobile'.

'I can do better than that' she replied, 'he is still in my office using the telephone'. So 'in two shakes of a gnats tail' Vicente entered, and quickly ran through what he thought would be happening over the next few days. There was already a Spanish Air Accident Investigation Team at the crash site, but as the Mustang was an American built historic aircraft they had also requested assistance from their American counterparts. They had far greater experience when dealing with this type of aircraft, and two experienced investigators were already on their way over, then he got very embarrassed, 'when the remains of George and Millie are removed, they will have to be taken away for a post-mortem examination'.

That shocked me, I had assumed that they had already been removed, but no, the Investigators had to carry out their investigation first, removing their bodies might destroy valuable evidence. I then told Vicente that after all the necessary formalities had been carried out, and their bodies were released, would he please arrange their funerals, if of course it didn't conflict with their wishes, and I wanted to be there.

After Vicente's departure Bonnie and Clyde bounded in, but not quite as 'bounding' as before, and within fifteen minutes Clyde was sound asleep in their basket, curled up into one of Sheila's jumpers (how either of those items had arrived in my room I hadn't a clue), and Bonnie was asleep on a folded up blanket against my right foot. From then on that was where they slept, no matter how hard the nursing staff tried, every time they left the room Bonnie was back up on my bed, and the heavy mob also had a new clause in their job descriptions, 'dog walkers to the Boss', not that they took much persuading.

Mr Agrampara arrived with a Mr Carmichael (George and Millie's English solicitor), Marcus (their P.A.), and Vicente, four days later, and after introductions, and the obligatory commiserations, Marcus was sent off for a chat with Maria, and we got down to business. Mr Carmichael read the Will, there were a couple of minor bequeaths (only a couple of million or so) and the rest was left to me, including that damned airfield.

Then it was Mr Agrampara's turn, and there was something definitely wrong with him, something was not quite right, then I got it - not a Tardis in sight, just an ordinary looking briefcase. Removing a DVD from the briefcase he inserted it into my little black book's disk drive, and after pressing a few keys, and sticking 'his' thumb over 'my' reader, it whirled and clicked for a few moments, and then I really WAS the ninth richest person in the World - just like that. I of course had to sign some papers, it could not quite be as easy as that, but ten minutes later it was all done and dusted and Mr Agrampara and Mr Carmichael were on their way - well almost, not before Mr Agrampara hoped that I would now start calling him by his Christian name 'Miracle' (Mr Agrampara really is a bit of a mouthful). There just had to be a story behind that name so I asked him how on earth he had ended up being called Miracle.

Apparently his mother had been a long time in labour (three days), with only her sister to hold her hand as his father had gone off 'wetting the baby's head' at the first sign of a contraction. As the midwife finally prised him out, he let out an enormous cry and his mother shouted out 'what is it?' (They already had seven girls between them, and both desperately wanted a boy). His Aunty, eyes and arms raised up to the ceiling cried out 'It's a Miracle', and so with no husband close by to argue, that was the naming ceremony over with.

I didn't know if he was winding me up or not, but I just had to push on, 'did you have any problems with that name at school?' I asked trying to keep a straight face.

'Oh no, I always used my first Christian name – 'Itza', and quietly closed the door behind him.

As I lay their clutching my sides, stomach, and every other healing scar, I vowed never to put it to the test, he might just be telling the truth.

Vicente was now getting used to these proceedings so ten minutes later he was following the other two out of the room, but Marcus, what was I to do with him? It seemed as though I had inherited him as well, whether I liked it or not. I already had a P.A, so what had he got going for him that I needed? Then it hit me, he knew the airfield. I had never been there but he had, so, 'Marcus I have a job for you'.

'Yes Mr Michaels, and what might that be?' he politely asked, eagerly looking in the direction of Maria's office.

'Airfield Manager'. He was Gob smacked - with a capital G; he had definitely not seen that one coming.

'Err, I, oh, what, but', he stammered; at a total loss for words so I put him out of his misery. I explained that it was only a temporary post, just until I was well enough to find him something more suitable. He gave a large sigh of relief; he had only just got the P.A. job, which was turning out to be quite a doddle, and he didn't want to end up back in the dole queue again. His principle tasks initially were to sort out the crash site, George and Millie's effects, the security of the airfield, and to learn some Spanish. Utilising Google Earth he then gave me quite a detailed run down on what it was actually like there, but I must say that my initial impression wasn't that favourable, although a seed was sown in my mind.

A few days later, whilst Caroline was topping up her tan, David and I were having one of our 'quite little chats', and as usual we were putting the world to rights. We had just finished our morning exercises (apparently we were both making excellent progress) and the conversation turned to the airfield. I was wondering whether to call in some consultants to advise me on what to do with it, and as usual I was interested in David's input. We started off by chatting about the harbour; apparently there had been a flotilla of gunboats there in the past, so it was quite substantial, and I had always fancied a boat, but then one thing led to another and we ended up on the subject of security of the whole place, and he imagined that sooner or later the private security firm would have to go, replaced with something in-house, perhaps with a high tech passive surveillance back-up. I didn't have a clue what he was prattling on about, so I asked him to put his money where his mouth was, and take on the job. That shut him up - but it hadn't been a spur of the moment thing for me, the idea had been floating around in my mind for a few days. It was there, it was mine, so I might as well use it, the airfield that is. I needed a place to call home, and that was as good a place as any (but definitely after a large amount of TLC), and what I finally offered him, after speaking with Vicente, Maria and a consultant or two, was the position of Director of Security. He would be on the same salary as Maria, I would house him, he could choose his own company (armoured) vehicle, etc, etc; all I asked in return was for him to protect me, my family, my friends, my employees, my visitors and my property 24/7. I had learned a thing or two from the Colonel.

I spoke to the Colonel later that day and he thought that it was an excellent idea, although tongue in cheek, he thought I should pay him a 'finder's fee'. I asked him to what address I should send the medical bills when I got them from America, and he laughingly called it quits, although his parting quip did catch me out, 'and I suppose you will be taking Charlie as well?' Of course I would, I just hadn't thought of it yet, Bonnie and Clyde would never forgive me, and so Charlie became his Deputy, and if he was the Deputy, did that make David the Sherriff?

If I was to have two of them, then I might as well have all three, so on return from her sun worshiping I had a quiet word with Caroline. How would she feel if I were to offer her the position of Gentleman's Gentleman, or whatever the female equivalent of that was? What I needed was someone to sort out my medications, clothes and meals, but there would definitely be no cooking or cleaning involved (and she could even have her own car as well), Maria would be sorting those sorts of things out. She gave the briefest of glances to David and jumped at the idea; after all she was still unemployed, and was starting to get a very square derrière sitting around watching her husband getting better.

~~~~

Chapter 11

Over ten years ago the Military had finally pulled out of 'El Campo' (the Field) and left it in the hands of 'Seguridad en Total' ('SeT'), a private Security Company, and they in turn left it in the hands of Carlos. Carlos had once been a high flyer in the Policía Nacional, the National Police Force. He'd had it made, he had all the right qualifications, knew all the right people, and was about to become the youngest Inspector in Madrid – but then his wife's Mother became ill. Very ill according to her, and as his wife was an only child it fell to her to look after her. Her Mother had been born and brought up in San Miguel del Mar, and her Father had been a fisherman. He never returned from his final trip fifteen years previously, but her Mother had never given up hope, she was still waiting for him, so she flatly refused to move into her Daughter's home in Madrid 'just in case', so Carlos had to give up his job and move lock, stock, and barrel into his mother-in-law's apartment, along with his wife and their new born baby. As apartments go it was very large; four bedrooms and two salones (living rooms) so there was ample room for them all, and the only blot on the landscape was that he didn't have a job, but he didn't expect that to be a problem, there was always the local force.

As San Miguel was only a Pueblo (village or small town) they did not warrant a Comisaria (a Policía National Police Station), and the Guardia Civil barracks had closed several years earlier at the beginning of San Miguel's decline. They had been replaced by the 'Police Local', who were not in the slightest bit interested in a high flyer from Madrid. He did not know one street from the next, or who the best plumber was if there was a leaking pipe, so when, about two months after they had moved in with his mother-in-law, and getting very desperate for a job, Carlos heard that El Campo was finally closing. Using his contacts in Madrid he found out which Company had obtained the contract for the security of the airfield, climbed into his car and was waiting outside the company's main offices in Madrid when they re-opened for business after their afternoon siesta. He couldn't afford to mess about; this was his last hope of a reasonable job in the dying Pueblo so it was no holds barred, and after a ten minute wait he was shown into to the owners' office. Unfortunately the owner already had someone else in mind to take on the San Miguel Contract (his Nephew), but fifteen minutes later he changed it, of course Carlos was perfectly qualified to head up this particular contract - and he really didn't want the Tax people going over his files, or the Health and Safety people swarming all over his operations, or Policía National looking to hard into his recent applications, or ..... . So Carlos got the job, he hired a dozen local people to do the patrolling, had the electricity to the office at the main entrance restored (to keep him cool or warm, depending on the season) and had the telephone connected (so his wife could contact him if she had a problem with her Mother), and he also did an excellent job of keeping the contract within budget, and this verily pleased Head Office. He was a natural at the job, and so he was left very much to his own devices, which pleased him no end as well, and so everyone settled down into a nice cosy routine. The only real problem he ever encountered was about a year later, and it involved a group of gypsies that decided to move onto a piece of waste land close to the Pueblo. Gypsies being Gypsies they decided to push their luck and see what they could pilfer from the closed up buildings on the airfield. There was only one problem with that idea - Carlos; he was already one step ahead of them. There was a 'rabbit problem' he declared, and borrowing a couple of shotguns he sent his patrols off to sort the problem out. After one Gypsy intruder's rear end had been mistaken for a rabbit there were no more problems at the airfield, and that evening the 'Police Local' decided to have some off road practice with their new 4x4 patrol vehicle, co-incidentally in the same area that the Gypsies had set up their camp in. They took the gentle hints and decided to rapidly relocate to pastures new. With his decisive action Carlos had not only cleared up the problem, but also sent out a clear message to the local populace, he was serious about his responsibilities, and so everyone quietly settled down to wait for a buyer, and waited, and waited.

As the years slowly passed, it wasn't their wages (they were all being paid Madrid rates, with plenty of overtime guaranteed), it was the boredom that was Carlos's main problem, he started to notice an alarming increase in the turnover of man (and woman) power, in fact at this rate he was going to run out of suitable local person-power before very long, so his role changed from Jefé (Boss) to Entertainments Manager, or so it seemed to him, and he turned out to be good at both. One of his many schemes was to get his staff interested in learning a second language, 'after all it cannot do you any harm, and it might just stand you in good stead with a buyer' (had he got a crystal ball or what!), and it just so happened that Thomas, one of his regular patrolmen, was English. He, Thomas, had married a beautiful young Spanish girl that he had met whilst on holiday (ten days is a really long time to know someone before you get married - isn't it?) and then he took her home to meet Mummy. It was hate at first sight so they quickly moved back to Spain, permanently. He had been in Adult Education, as an English Teacher; teaching English to people whose first language wasn't English (immigrants), so he thought it would be easy to find a job along the same lines, teaching Spaniards English. Unfortunately an awful lot of English speaking Spaniards had the same idea - and they had the advantage of speaking Spanish as well. He got jobs where he could, picking up Spanish along the way, in bars, on building sites, and finally as a Security Guard, but he still missed teaching. He had been in the job at El Campo for about six months when Carlos approached him with a proposition. 'What did he think about teaching some of his fellow Compañeros English'; 'just to help pass the time', and Carlos would slip him a few extra shifts every now and then if he was up for it. As Thomas now had two small children to feed as well as a rather enlarged wife, the extra money would certainly come in handy - and he would earn it by doing something that he really enjoyed doing, so he started with a vengeance, first with half a dozen students, then as competition between them took hold they all joined in, Carlos included, and by the time El Campo was finally sold, fortunately to an Englishman, they all prided themselves on the quality of their English, although they all spoke it with a broad Brummy accent.

When George purchased El Campo he wasn't in the slightest bit interested in Carlos or the rest of his Brummy speaking staff. One quick chat over the phone with his boss and as long as Carlos kept the riff raff out, George would be happy to settle the account whenever it was submitted. Happy news, life could continue on as before. His Wife's Mother was still at death's door, but he imagined that she would be until her dying day, whenever that was, and perhaps now Head Office would approve his requisition for a new pickup truck.

That had been over two months ago, and now Carlos sat in his new pickup truck watching the Accident Investigators doing their work, and wondering what the future might hold for them all. Perhaps the person who inherited El Campo might not be as disinterested in him and his security force as Senor Albright, then his radio burst into life, he was needed back at his Office – like yesterday.

Vicente had arrived at the gates totally unannounced, identified himself - and then went through Carlos, his office, and all the paperwork like a whirling Dervish, but in the end he seemed quite content. He gave Carlos a few details of who the new owner was (and where he was) and then left, saying that he should carry on as usual and someone would be in touch soon but that was not to Carlos's liking, so he put on a clean uniform shirt and climbed into the pickup. They didn't really have much of uniform, just a jacket and hat, but he had decided that one was needed, to inspire team spirit; so over the years one had developed. The Patrol staff wore black shirts, black denim trousers (or shorts), black trainers (or sandals), and a black baseball cap with their name on it (Carlos provided those out of his own pocket). He wore the same, except for a white shirt.

When he arrived at the hospital he explained to a 'Welcome Co-ordinator' who he was, and who he wanted to see. He was then shown a very nice armchair and asked to wait a moment. It was indeed a very nice armchair; the question was - was he actually allowed to sit in it, or just stand and admire it? As the 'Co-ordinator' had disappeared he took a gamble and sat down, but a few minutes later he leapt to his feet again, when this type of guy approached, you did; either that or run. He turned out to be an Englishman, with a large bulge under his jacket, and he checked Carlos's identity and business card, and then rang Carlos's Office. As he was standing there watching this person ringing his office number he knew that he couldn't answer it, but fortunately one of his team did, and after grilling the unfortunate patrolwoman on the other end of the telephone about the whereabouts of her boss, and what he looked like, he then made another call, this time to Vicente. When Rodders was finally totally satisfied that Carlos was in fact Carlos, he was shown into a room, no patient in it - just Maria primly sat behind her desk waiting for him. He instantly decided that he wasn't going to bluff his way passed this lady, so he told her the truth, and again he briefly explained what he wanted to speak to Mr Michaels about, and then she left him sat in her reception area, to be further interrogated by two small dogs. After licking his face for about ten minutes he was shown, cap in hand, into Andrew's lounge, still escorted by the two savage guard dogs!!!

'Good afternoon Senor de Selva, my name is Andrew Michaels and this is Senor Williams my Director of Security' I said as we all shook hands. As we were both in our wheelchairs I pointed Carlos in the direction of Bonnie and Clyde's favourite leather settee, and I was already beginning to like him, he was a dog lover. When the three of them were firmly ensconced on the settee I told Carlos to explain to us why he was here, from the very beginning. Vicente had only just got off the phone, 'bringing me up to speed' (ugh) on Carlos and El Campo, but I needed to build up more of a picture in my mind of what the airfield was really like. It took him a good half hour, but he was very articulate (well as articulate as a Spanish Brummy can be), and concise. He was clearly worried about the future of his staff (no mention of himself though, I liked that) as 'SeT' didn't rate employee's security of employment very highly, if the contract finished – so did their jobs, and when he finished I asked him to wait outside, again escorted by the savage beasts.

'Well David, what do you think, this is your domain?' and what David wanted was information, on Carlos and every one of his security guards, starting with Police reports, so when Carlos came back in I let David take the lead; after all he was most likely going to be his new 'boss', at least in the short term.

An hour later Carlos departed a slightly happier person, but if I was serious about setting up permanent home at El Campo then I had to 'think big' about the long term housing situation there. Apart from George and Millie's mobile homes, that were definitely only temporary, there was nothing habitable at El Campo. The majority of buildings were of wooden construction and had all definitely seen better days. The only solid building of any significance was the old Officer's Mess, and that was huge, but brother was it ugly, and there was also another problem with it, apparently the local Ayuntamiento had made it into the Spanish equivalent of a listed building (the builder must have been the Mayor's Uncle or something). What it was desperately in need of was for its vertical dimensions to be minimised (flattened), with the aid of a few tons of dynamite, but unfortunately that was not permitted. Looking at it on Google it reminded me of a match box that had been painted grey, stood on its edge; then had a bright orange pitched roof plonked along the top of it, it was out of all proportion. I needed advice, and quickly, but not from 'consultants', that would take too long, and I also needed someone that I could trust not to try and bankrupt me at every stage of the way. Then I had another one of my brainwaves, when we lived in England I had always enjoyed a round or two of golf with my friend Paul. He was an architect, and was employed by a local Housing Association, so he should know all about houses, even though mine was slightly larger than your average Council house.

Ring, ring, click, - 'good-morning-this-is-Monastery-Housing-Association-and-this-is-Monica-speaking-how-may-I-be-of-assistance?' a pre-programmed voice, on a totally different planet to me asked. I would lay odds that she was multi-tasking, answering the phone and doing her nails at the same time.

'I would like to speak to Paul Malling please'.

'Would that be the Mr Malling in Technical Services?'

How many other Paul Malling's were there at Monastery Housing Association I wondered? 'No, the other one' I replied.

'But we only have one' came the plaintive reply, and that got us back on the same planet.

'Then that must be the one I want then' I sarcastically replied, and then sat in my wheelchair and waited, and waited, and waited, to be connected, and just as I was about to fall asleep my nail varnishing friend was back on the line.

'Whom may I say is calling?'

I had obviously been punished sufficiently, 'Andrew Michaels' I replied.

'What time' asked a familiar voice?

'What time for what?' I replied.

'Please tell me you are calling to set up a round of golf', he pleaded, 'I am bored to tears here, and how is Spain, not given up already?'

I explained my situation, and after expressing his shock about Sheila, and envy about my financial situation he went on to explain that his department had just finished a large housing scheme, and were waiting for the funding for the next one. They were all sat around now catching up on their filing and twiddling their thumbs (I must have pleased someone because everything seemed to be slipping into place), and then we then had an in-depth laugh at my predicament. I gave him the co-ordinates of El Campo and he Googled them onto his computer and 'god it's ugly!' came down the phone.

'I hope you are referring to my new home Paul; and not the tea lady standing behind you'.

'We don't work for the Council any more, we have vending machines now', and he agreed with me about the vertical dimensions, but disagreed about the dynamite, Semtex was a much better option, and as we chatted, I could hear in the background what sounded like people taking a mouthful of tea, and finding that the milk was off, make that 'yuck' sound. His colleagues were obviously looking over his shoulder at my new home to be. 'To say the least it will be a bit of a challenge, but I imagine it could be done, eventually, a bit like turning a sow's ear into a silk purse'.

I then started to put on the pressure 'would your esteemed leader consider letting you do some 'Consulting' work for me for a few weeks, top dollar?' The mention of money had the desired effect, and things then started to get serious, I was suddenly in a conference call with 'him upstairs', not God, but close enough, and what 'him upstairs' and I finally agreed upon was an open ended Contract. I could keep 'them' for as long as I wanted, just as long as 'they' were back in time for their next scheme in about six to ten weeks, when funding would hopefully be approved.

Who were 'them?' well of course Paul as my Principle Architect, but also Eddy as his 'Clerk of Works'. 'What is a Clerk of Works? I asked, I could just imagine somebody sat in a wicker chair, quill poised, noting down things that happened 'at work'. Well he did that: and a lot more besides.

'He is the Client's representative on a building site', Paul explained, 'no work is carried out on site, by anyone, without his approval. He checks that everything is carried out safely and to the agreed specifications'.

He seemed like a very nice person to have on my side.

After the conference part of the call came to an end, Paul, Eddy and I then sorted out the logistics of the operation. When required, Monastery Housing hired a Clerk of Works Portacabin from the local branch of a National Hire Firm. This sounded simple enough, too simple, what I ended up with was Eddy's cabin, an architect's cabin, an onsite shower cum rest room cabin, a 'secure' store cabin, two Portaloo cabins, a portable generator, a portable air con unit, a water tank and a multitude of other assorted 'must have' items. Today was Wednesday; the company guaranteed that all the items would be at El Campo 10am the following Tuesday morning. All I (for 'I' read Marcus) had to do was have a suitable crane standing by. So why didn't I hire all this gear in Spain? Well, because Paul and Eddy had used these cabins many times before, so they knew what to expect - and because of the guarantee (no mańana). We have a convoy, and Maria had a headache.

' _Tell Marcus about the crane. Arrange for an aircraft to fly Paul, Eddie and their wives (if they wish to come) from Southampton Airport to El Campo first thing Monday morning'_ (flying directly into El Campo had been sorted out previously between the Air Charter Company, Air Traffic Control and Immigration by George, it was going to be very handy) _, and arrange for two hire cars, four by four's I would think to be waiting for them, and rent a villa (with a pool please) for them to live in. Oh, and you had better arrange for some food and someone to clean the Villa for them as well. Have Marcus and Carlos meet up with them on their arrival, and after they have dropped off their bags (and their wives) at the villa, have all four of them flown by helicopter up here for a conference, and then perhaps a drop of lunch afterwards please.'_ Maria's headache had nothing to do with arranging Paul and Eddy's arrival, half a dozen phone calls and it was all arranged, it was just 'one of those days'.

That first conference was an eye opener, for me anyway. Paul must have used the entire resources of a very bored Technical Services Department, and spent endless hours on the telephone with Vicente, Marcus, and Carlos because the artist's impression of 'Phase I' that I was shown bore absolutely no resemblance to any image on my laptop. No wooden huts or criss-crossing roads. No derelict buildings or parade grounds - just a very welcoming entrance, and a wide road that led up to a flower covered roundabout. There were two roads leading off the roundabout, one off onto the taxiway 'airside', and the other, the one off to the right, led to a very pleasant looking two storey mansion, complete with its own helipad. Paul must have had either his plans, or his marbles mixed up, but then there was something vaguely familiar about the place! He assured me that it was indeed the old Officer's Mess - but I'm not stupid, I can count, there were two floors missing (perhaps a small amount of Semtex had been used after all), and the remainder of the building looked 'in proportion'; it had lost its narrow look.

The first thing that Vicente had done after having a long discussion with Paul over the phone was to hop on board a helicopter (he was getting used to the perks) and fly down to the airfield, and Carlos then drove him to the local Ayuntamiento. He marched straight into the Mayor's office, totally un-announced, and invited him out to lunch 'at a nice little place' that Vicente knew about (and the Mayor only drooled over). A fifteen minute helicopter ride later (and that included hovering over the Mayor's poor wife as she was trying to hang out her unmentionables on the washing line) and they were seated at a very secluded table in arguably the most expensive restaurant this side of Madrid. Over a lazy á la carte meal, complete with several bottles of the very best wine of course, Vicente found out the reason for the Preservation Order, and he had been almost spot on. They finally came to an 'arrangement', Vicente would of course never get involved in bribery or anything illegal - BUT - the building would remain, it had to - the Mayor's father had built it, although 'substantial alterations' may just be permitted. The more it was altered, the more public works around the Pueblo I would be 'funding'. The Harbour wall was in need of repair, the main Plaza needed some TLC, the Health Centre was too small, and I was positive that the list would grow and grow! A helicopter ride and two meals on expenses and 'planning permission' (and all the rest of the red tape) had been circumvented, and 'family honour' of course had been preserved.

What Paul had come up with was an optical illusion. First he extended outwards the four floors, both to the front and the rear, creating patio like areas outside the building, supported by beautiful arched pillars. He then continued the roof downwards (and outwards) to meet the outer edge of the uppermost 'patio' of the floor below. The top floor had effectively been swallowed up into an enlarged roof, and we now had a three storey building. Although the 'new' roofing did have cut outs in it to enable the top floor rooms to have some natural light, and small patios of their own. Then he re-defined 'ground level'. Over a substantial area around the building he had slowly raised the ground, until it was level with the first floor. Apart from a small moat, the ground floor was now a basement, so we now had a two storey building sat on a small hill – fiendishly clever, 'but why can't we just have grand steps, or something, leading up to the new front doors?' I rather naively asked.

'It would defeat the object of me 'lowering' the building stupid', Paul thought, but actually said 'you find me an aircraft that can climb steps and I will give you steps'. This way he kept his job and our friendship (and still made me look like a pillock at the same time). He had also included in the design a new section of roof. It protruded out from the centre of the original roof, covering the grand entrance and a newly created stretch of the taxiway. No walls of course, aircraft don't like walls, just a roof and something to hold it up at the end. It later turned out that the 'something' would become the new Control Tower, which would also conveniently overlook the helipad. One of course cannot get one's self wet when one is vacating one's aeroplane in the rain, now can one? Decadent or what!, and as well as all the wooden huts disappearing, one of the hangars would also have to go; it was in the way of the new taxiway to the front door. 'And how many hangars do you really need anyway Andrew?'

I had never given it a thought, but as long as everything was 'aesthetically pleasing' I am sure that I would be very happy. Another thing that had also never crossed my mind was 'do I really need a bomb dump?', so taking a gamble on the future state of the World I told him to get rid of that too; it was after-all an absolutely terrible eye-sore, and then we had a whale of a time on the finer details, but the basic lay-out was marvellous, I could just see myself living there, then I then tentatively broached the subject of the title, 'Phase I'. 'If there is a 'Phase I', does that mean that there will be a 'Phase II'?'

'Correct, and a Phase III, and possibly a Phase IV'.

' _Phase I'_ _was to be the conversion of my home (I've got to stop calling it 'the building') and the tidying up of the living areas in general (gates, fences, etc)._

' _Phase II'_ _or 'air side' (the airfield) requires contractors with specialist skills so that would be tendered for separately. 'Can we perhaps pencil them in for next week?'_

I loved Paul's jokes, just like the good old days - but he wasn't joking.

' _Shore side' (_ _Phase III_ _) was to be my very own Marina, and that again required more specialist companies, and another week was pencilled in._

_Phase IV_ _was something that he had tucked away at the back of his mind, but he would have a chat with me about it later when he had done some homework!_

Tomorrow was the day that the Portacabins were arriving from England so they would be busy sorting them out, but on Wednesday Paul had arranged for two firms of Spanish contractors to come and meet me. We would go over my requirements with them, and then they would go away to prepare detailed plans, predictions and estimates. They already had a general idea of what was expected of them as Paul had already faxed them some rough sketches, so both companies would only have one month to tender for the work. The building industry was suffering from the slowdown in the economy, both here and abroad so it was a 'buyers' market', and I was a buyer.

~~~~

Chapter 12

David's physical health was improving daily; the oil change in America had been a total success, although he would still require periodic dialysis for the next few months, and medication for the foreseeable future, but his long term prognosis was very optimistic. His mental health however was another thing altogether \- or so he felt, the paperwork was driving him crazy. He carefully vetted Carlos and all but two of his staff (when they had heard that Police checks were required they quietly handed in their notices - 'SeT' had not been that fussy), and then David's first action was to promote Carlos to 'Acting Manager of Uniformed Security', with the rank of Captain, and it was to prove a good move. Carlos's first task as El Capitan was to contact SeT and terminate his employment with them, no notice was evidently required. His second was to dispense with their services, that would take a month, and his third was to come to an agreement with them on purchasing the vehicles, radio equipment and the rest of their gear at El Campo, it would help him out greatly in the short term. They were happy to oblige, it meant that they could just close the books on the place, it had been a good little earner for them over the years, but they realised that it could not go on forever, and for a small financial consideration they would even forget about the months' notice. As for the drop outs, they agreed to remain on the books until replacements were found - just so long as the Police weren't involved. Carlos then went on a recruiting drive, but not for very long. As security was now going to be 'in-house', for a 'very rich guy', and they would in all probability be 'armed', word quickly spread in the Security Industry, worldwide, and applications came flooding in. Those chosen would be well paid, and would certainly be the crème de la crème. The 'structure' that David wanted initially (and I agreed to), was:-

One Captain – (possibly Carlos)

One Lieutenant – His Deputy

One Senior Sergeant – day to day Manager

One Corporal – Office bound hi-tec specialist

Plus five teams of five Officers, with a Sergeant in charge of each team.

Carlos did the initial cull (the 'wanabe Policemen' and those who just wanted to kill someone), and David did the final selection. He chose forty-four in all (including all the survivors of Carlos's team) as he expected to lose a few very soon. Maria sent out the letters, they were long letters, and they were deliberately in English. One thing that I had insisted on very early in the proceedings was that all my Security Staff must have a good smattering of English. I did not want, in years to come, a grandson of mine going up to an Officer and saying 'Excuse me Sir, but there is a man with a gun behind that door', and getting a smile and a pat on the head in reply. A notice was metaphorically going up at the entrance gates; _You are now entering little England, its first language is English_. From now on, with the amount of money that I was now starting to shell out, I had no intention of finding out what any more conjugated verbs were, Spanish or otherwise.

I was well on the mend, and so a couple of weeks later the hospital let me out on a day trip, not to Margate but for my first visit to El Campo, and I was more than pleased with what I saw. Fortunately all signs of the tragic accident had been removed from the crash site, and as we circled overhead, in a very comfortable helicopter, Paul and Eddy pointing out things of interest, I then had another of my thoughts; they were becoming very indispensable members of my team, so on my return to the hospital, a couple of hours later, I rang England and had a full, frank, and meaningful discussion with Mr Mattius, (him upstairs) at Monastery Housing Association.

'He would not, under any circumstances, extend Paul and Eddy's time with me; in fact the funding for their next project had come through earlier than expected and he wanted them back sooner rather than later'.

I threatened to buy Monastery Housing Association, sack him, and open up a branch office in Spain.

'Sorry you cannot do that _'Sir'_ ; we are a non-profit making organisation funded by the Housing Corporation which in turn is a Government Quango'.

What a mouthful but it most likely meant that his job was safe, blast!, time for plan 'B', throw money at the situation, 'alright how much to extend their contracts with me, give me a price'.

'I want them back in their office by next Monday', and then hung up.

I noticed that he had not said 'I need them back' - it was 'I want them back' - and in my language that was fighting talk, so plan 'C' involved a meeting with Vicente, Paul and Eddy in my office/hospital room the next day. I hinted at what might have transpired between him upstairs and yours truly, and then asked them bluntly 'do you want to go back to Monastery?'

'Do we have a choice? Paul asked, but he was thinking on his feet, and so I laid my cards on the table, if they were to resign from Monastery I would employ them as 'consultants' until the completion of works (whenever that maybe) and then I would guarantee the financial backing if they wished to go into business on their own.

'What about your contract with Monastery?' Eddy asked, but Vicente had already browsed the document, which had been very hastily drawn up by the Housing Association, and he had rubbed his hands with glee. In his opinion it wasn't worth the paper it was printed on. It was an open Contract with no end date stated; it just needed a verbal termination. Their idea was that they would summon them back at the last minute, therefore maximising the 'consultation fee' – BUT - as I was not an Agent of the association I was not in a position to be obligated to pass on any messages to them. All Paul and Eddy had to do was to refrain from answering any phone calls, or accepting any registered mail from the Housing Association until their 'notices' had expired. They went into my lounge to talk things over; after all it was a life changing decision for both of them, and they had their families to think of as well. Their wives were now both back in England after their brief holiday, as both of them had their own jobs and children to tend to, but twenty minutes later two very happy chappies came back into my room and shook my hand. Once a few of the formalities (plus four more scholarships) with Vicente and Maria were sorted out, they cheerfully left my room - well almost. As they left my room, through the extra wide 'wheelchair access door', they somehow carelessly bumped ever so slightly into each another. It wasn't much of a bump as bumps go, but it was enough to worry a passing Professor of Medicine, enough for him to sign them both off work sick for a month, 'and if they didn't improve in that time, he would certainly consider renewing the notes for at least a further two months'. I doubted that Eddy would need another note, he only had to give one month's notice to Monastery Housing, but Paul had to give three.

A few days later I again left the hospital, this time in a limo - to attend the service at a nearby Crematorium for George and Millie. There were only a few people at the service, although Mr Agrampara was among them, he had flown in especially for it. For the life of me I couldn't understand why they didn't have more friends. They were two of the nicest people you could ever wish to meet; I suppose they just liked to 'keep to themselves'. A preliminary report by the Accident Investigators had just found that 'pilot error' was the probable cause of the accident, which was a pity, but not totally unexpected. Not knowing quite what to do with their urns I instructed Marcus to place them with the rest of their personal effects in one of the hangars; they certainly didn't have anywhere else to go at the present time, although at the same time I made a promise to myself, they were going to have somewhere 'special' for their final resting place.

I accepted the most expensive tender for 'Phase I', not because of the cost (there had only been a million or so in it – what a pittance!), but because when they had come to see me at that initial meeting a month ago, the successful Company had come into my room speaking English. The other team had come in speaking Spanish, expecting me 'as I now lived in Spain' to speak their language. Translation was not the problem, arrogance was, and it also helped that the winners could start immediately, so a week later, as I exited through those illustrious portals (as an in-patient anyway) for the last time, with Bonnie, Clyde, Maria and Rodders' and his crew in tow, work had already commenced on my new home.

Around the same time that I had met the contractors for the first time I realised that I was starting to attract a veritable cacophony of staff around me. I was definitely in need of more living and office space at El Campo, so, 'Marcus, sort it out', and he did. He contacted the mobile home manufacturers, and they provided me post haste with what seemed like a mini city, more bedrooms, a gymnasium, canteen, medical centre, cinema and rest rooms, lots of rest rooms, and Paul also took this opportunity to re-locate the whole kit and caboodle 'air side', in between the runways to be more precise, 'away from all that dust, noise, and construction work when it eventually got started', well that was his excuse anyway, although I guessed that it was really just an excuse to get me out from under his feet.

By the time I arrived there David was already firmly ensconced at El Campo. He had returned from his convalescent leave feeling fitter than he had done since leaving Afghanistan, and raring to go, and Charlie had been busy preparing the ground work for the forthcoming week long 'Induction Course'. It was the pre cursor to three weeks of training that David felt was the minimum that the new Security Officers would require before they took on the job, and they had all been warned at the interview stage, and by letter, what to expect. The induction course was obviously not as strenuous as the SAS version - but it was close enough. It would give David an idea of each person's 'strengths and weaknesses', as he had to choose two Officers and seven NCO's from among them, as Carlos had insisted that he be judged on his merits, along with the rest of the applicants. The Colonel provided half a dozen 'Corporal types' to help out on the course and a local security firm thought that all their Christmas's had come at once, they had the job of covering all the routine security at El Campo for a month, at an extortionate rate. It meant that David could concentrate all his efforts on the course, and then get the survivors kitted out, trained, and working as a team before taking over the task – and at the end of the first week David had his 'structure'. Carlos had come through with flying colours and was confirmed as the Manager of Uniformed Security, and his Lieutenant was to be Thomas, the Englishman. Pierre, a recently retired NCO in the French Foreign Legion was to be the new Senior Sergeant and Agnetha, from Sweden (who David nearly had to send back there because of her fear of firearms) was to be the Corporal. The main requirement for her post was to be able to oversee all the high tech security systems that the teams would be using, computer literacy not killing ability was her priority, so a pepper spray on her belt would suffice (and it also helped her case that Charlie 'quite liked her'). Between the four of them they could speak eleven languages, so English was not a problem either.

With week one over, David ended up with thirty-six 'uniformed' personnel (twelve of them female) but no 'uniforms', but fortunately Caroline's father was in 'Gentlemen's Tailoring'. Before he had ever been let anywhere near a potential customer, he had had to correctly predict all the measurements and/or sizes of a gentleman that had just entered the store for the first time, and Caroline, from an early age, used to compete with her father at this 'game', and so she became a natural at 'sizing people up'. It also helped that she had taste oozing from every pore, so when the subject of uniforms arose she took the lead. I spent hours (well almost forty-five minutes) browsing through catalogues searching for the right combination of style and practicality, and what we (I) finally decided upon was that when the Officers were on the day shift, at the entrance to El Campo, they would wear something along the lines of a Guardia Civil uniform, only in a slightly different shade of green, a brown leather belt, complete with a holster and hand cuffs, and peaked caps. The first impression that I wanted visitors to El Campo to get was that my home was guarded by smart and efficient Officers, and at night, and when they were out and about on their patrols I wanted them business like. This attire would be based on the 'Police Local' Para Military style black 'jump suits', that were tucked into Commando style boots, matt black nylon 'duty belts' and baseball caps, but what was standard on both uniforms was the Heckler and Koch USP semi-automatic pistol, complete with a fifteen round magazine that was packed full of shiny 9x19mm parabellum cartridges, just in case. David had chosen this weapon because it was adaptable to each Officer's requirements (left or right handed) and its reliability record. He had also come to an agreement with the Authorities; side arm's would be permitted on El Campo for the Uniformed Officers, just as long as David would be available to 'fine tune' the firearms skills of selected Officers from the neighbouring Police Forces in my new indoor range. That was news to me, the indoor range bit, yet another thing to be added to the building specs.

For the first week the hopefuls had been living in tents at the outer reaches of the airfield. Now, for those that did not have local accommodation I had to find them somewhere to live, temporarily. Charlie had anticipated this a month previously, so when I used the term 'I', again it was used very loosely. 'Maria, tell Marcus that we need more huts, he's got a month'.

The second week started with a lorry turning up with a reputable Military Outfitters logo on either side of it. Two days were set aside to sort out the uniforms but because of Caroline's skills one of those days wasn't needed. Once they had all been kitted out by the Outfitter, alterations noted, and all the insignias (and any stripes) had been loosely pinned onto the garments, they were sent off to their seamstress's, and then on to the cleaners. I wanted them all to be the D.B's (immaculate) on their first day on the job (as well as every day thereafter). The next day they were back in overalls, but now they were black, and they had their new black 'duty belts' on. This was to be their 'patrolling' belt, which had their black nylon side arm holster (minus the gun at this stage) and pouches and/or clips for spare magazines, handcuffs, CS spray, flashlight, multi-tool, radio, baton and Uncle Tom Cobley and all. Charlie had set up a temporary outdoor shooting range, well out of earshot of any passes by, and for the next three days David, Charlie and Pierre gave the _probable's_ an intensive weapons training course. Even Agnetha got three bulls at five paces - with her pepper spray. As they were one day ahead of schedule David gave them a treat; he let Pierre 'explain' to them all, the Officers and Patrol Officers alike, how he expected them to be turned out, and especially how to shine their boots and shoes - to HIS satisfaction. There would be a few sore, and boot-polish ingrained fingers over the next few weeks.

The third week was a toughie. It included physical training, unarmed combat, some 'light' square bashing and team building exercises, and more and more David let the Officers and NCO's take over, until by the end of that week it was Carlos, Thomas and Pierre that were devising the exercises, and the Sergeants implementing them.

Week four started with me meeting them all for the first time. I had arrived, with my entourage in tow, in two helicopters on the Saturday, and it was nice to be finally in a place of my own, even though I didn't have my Sheila beside me, and the original mobile homes had been George and Millie's. As I approached the smart lines early (for me anyway) on Monday morning, Pierre called them all to attention. I had never had this happen to me before, and it sort of threw me a bit, but Charlie was having a whale of a time, and then Carlos introduced us (Bonnie, Clyde and me) to them all. As I shook each of them by the hand, and asked him/her where they were from, in English of course, they all confidently answered me, although I could easily tell which of them had been in Carlos's original team, and just as I was reluctantly about to give them an impromptu 'welcome to the fold' speech, I was saved by the bell, or rather a horn. A large car transporter with five Toyota pickups, a Range Rover and a LDV Maxus Minibus arrived; each of the four by four's coming ready fitted with all the usual flashing lights, spot lights, sirens, radios etc. Each team would have their own pickup, Carlos, Thomas, and Pierre would share the Range Rover, and Agnetha would be responsible for the mini bus, but as sure as eggs were eggs the fleet would grow. Under the watchful eye of Pierre the vehicles were unloaded, handed over to the teams, and as we watched them drive off (for yet more training) Bonnie and Clyde knew that they had made a lot more friends, and I felt very safe.

It was Friday midday and I was all dressed up in a brand new suite, the Gucci I think (after all it was a chilly 22 degrees, well it was nearly Christmas) and I was going to a parade. Any of the participants that had relatives or friends that resided locally (and a few not so locally) invited them to their 'Passing Out' Parade. The Pueblo Band arrived, with more instrumentalists than my entire Security Force, but that didn't matter, my boys and girls were definitely the centre of attention. Paul had cleared an area for us all to enjoy ourselves in, and Marcus had hired a load of tables and chairs; and from somewhere had appeared a dais. We had all had a quick rehearsal the evening before, but with the trainees dressed in their overalls, not their best bibs and tuckers - and all had gone well until Bonnie and Clyde decided to join in, and they promptly turned the whole serious proceedings into absolute mayhem. Everybody had worked so hard over the past four weeks, but Bonnie and Clyde wanted to play, so who were we to argue, and so everyone played. It was nice to see them all let their hair down, and as I watched Charlie, Bonnie and Clyde disappear under a mound of human flesh David slid up beside me, a smile on his face and quietly said 'they'll do', praise indeed from their Boss.

The Parade went spectacularly well, first they all marched on, and the Sergeants inspected them, and reported to Pierre, who inspected them, and reported to Thomas, who inspected them, and reported to Carlos, who thankfully did not inspect them, but reported to me, for me to inspect them. Was there anything left for me to find? So as I moved slowly along the lines I again shook each by the hand, congratulated him or her and then handed them their shiny new name badge and side-arm (or pepper spray in Agnetha's case) that Maria was efficiently (if rather nervously) passing to me. They were now fully trained, and they all held their heads up high. After my, David's and Carlos's 'little' speeches they marched passed the dais with David and I looking down from above, and they really looked the 'biz' in their new uniforms. Two of the teams were dressed in their new patrol blacks, as they were now calling them, and were in the centre rank, flanked either side by the rest in their daytime best. It all made for some grand photographs. For after the ceremony Marcus had organised a bar and buffet for everyone, and as I circulated, my right arm gradually felt as if it was going to be ripped from my shoulder from all the hand-shaking, and I was definitely seeing stars from all the flashes that accompanied the obligatory photographs. I even had to have a photograph with the Band. Never had I ever had this amount of attention heaped on me before, but I definitely think I could get used to it. Finally, pleading that I was feeling a little peaky I left them all to it. Actually I felt absolutely knac - sorry done in, and promptly went to bed for a siesta. They would all have the weekend to recuperate, but at 0700 Monday, sharp, they would all be starting for real.

~~~~

Chapter 13

Christmas, did I hear somebody mention Christmas? Well it does come around once a year, whether you like it or not. Alice, a month or so ago had thought that it would be a nice idea if both mine and her mother's families were to get together, and remember her at Christmas, ahhh what a lovely thought.

There was to be Alice and her fella, who turned out to be a woman [I think].

Robin, Emma and little Mark, who wanted to spend Christmas together in their new home.

My Parents, who wanted to be in Eastbourne,

Sheila's Parents, who wanted to be in Las Vegas,

My Sister, who had just broken up with her husband, so now wanted to go back on the pull, big time (and hadn't spoken to me since our move to Spain),

and finally Sheila's two Brothers, plus their wives, who hadn't spoken to each other in a lot longer than that.

Unfortunately there wasn't enough room at the inn for their offspring but it still managed to turn into a nightmare. They all turned up on Christmas Eve for the family get together (or perhaps it should have been called a ding dong). First Sheila's Mother had a go at her bickering children - 'grow up and act your ages'. Then my Sister poked her oar in, 'leave them alone, it's Christmas'. This was swiftly followed by my Parents, who told their daughter to butt out of other families stupid business (wherever did they learn that expression from), Robin didn't think his Gran should be so 'un-Christmas like' to his favourite Aunty Trish (how many Aunty Trish's did he have?), and Alice was furious that everyone seemed to be ignoring her Bert, and by six o'clock almost all of them had decided to have an early night, almost, but unfortunately not all. Alice, with Bertha in tow 'please call me Bert' (not in a million years) came to try and clear the air. She started to explain about her 'inner feelings' to me. It was perfect timing, daughter dear, I was working on a corker of a headache, and with all that was going on around me I was not perhaps in the perfect frame of mind to try and come to terms with this particular family crisis; a little advanced warning would have gone a long way to smoothing the transition from daddies little girl to – well I couldn't even bring myself to think of a name. 'Not now Alice' I pleaded, 'another time please', but rest assured, I thought, we were definitely going to be having a long talk, soon, and alone. With that Alice then called me a bigoted old sod and stormed off, Bert trailing behind. I didn't think of myself as old, just going grey gracefully, but as for bigoted, I was perfectly happy to let the person next to me have his or her own beliefs, just as long as they didn't try pushing them into my face, and Alice it seemed had deliberately engineered this whole situation to back me into a corner. We would definitely be having that talk soon, and now it seemed that Maria, with the appearance of the infamous Burt, wasn't speaking to anyone either. By nine o'clock that evening Bob - Sheila's Father, and I sat beside the pool sharing a bottle of Glenfiddich, which was my first alcoholic drink since the accident, watching the spectacular firework display that Marcus had arranged, well at least Cindy and Myra were enjoying it, unlike Bonnie and Clyde who were curled up in my shower tray, they were definitely not fireworky type hounds, and of course Christmas dinner turned out to be a feast to remember. As we all sat on the veranda, trying to enjoy what the catering company had provided (and I must admit that it was very tasty), in stony silence, the tarmac laying machine then decided to do its business, upwind of us. The Spanish have their main Christmas event (The Three Kings) on the sixth of January, so quite a few of them, especially the older ones, don't even take the 25th off; obviously it was an oldie driving the machine, and that evening, as I watched the last of them flying off into the sunset (Air Taxi firms obviously don't recognise Christmas either) I remembered a comment that Bob had made to me that previous evening 'Sheila would certainly not recognise any of us now'. How true, and so I spent the next few days 'resting', with the 'rest' of the Glenfiddich - until Caroline put her foot down and stopped me, 'it's not a good idea when you are on so much medication'. Of course virtually all my guests had rung and apologised, but if anything it made me feel worse, I was surrounded by people but felt so totally alone. I was missing Sheila so very much; and I just couldn't get her out of my mind. I know that grieving is a natural process, but even I realised that this was becoming something more, and I had to do something drastic about it before I did something stupid, so the next morning, after tucking into my half a ruby grapefruit I yelled to Maria, 'Maria, I need a holiday'. She now had her own office next to my lounge, but it was still easier to scream at her rather than to try and find the intercom. Maria also seemed to be inheriting Marcus, as all the dust and dirt of the great outdoors was obviously not his place of choice when it came to parking his rear end, as he was now spending more and more time with her, perhaps he was a kindred spirit too. Perhaps also he would be the perfect person to park his rear end here and mind the shop while we; myself, Maria, David, Caroline, Charlie, Bonnie and Clyde vacated.

I was slowly getting the feeling that I had finally cracked it - it wasn't the largest cruise liner that I wanted to go on, or the most expensive accommodation that I wanted to rest my weary head in, I just wanted the best - of everything. If I was going to live this fantasy, as Itza had once put it, I might as well make the most of it - before I woke up, so while surfing the net later in the day with Maria (she was now reluctantly talking to me) we came across a cruise line that had luxury yachts, but not a sail in sight, and as we browsed through their web site, checking out the deck plans and such, I noticed the 'owner's suite'; now that definitely had a ring to it. It took her some digging but Maria finally had the details, first off, to occupy that particular suite you had to be the owner of the Company; or at least a sizeable chunk of it. Less than a hundred shares and you might get an extra bottle of champers on arrival, and possibly a dinner date with the Captain. Between one and five hundred got you an automatic upgrade - but above that you started to talk percentages. Own twenty per-cent of the company and you have the use of the owner's suite, if it was available, and if you owned forty per-cent, or more, it was available, and you could tell the Captain where to go. But who knows about Companies? Why Miracle, of course, or as I now preferred to call him, Itza. Vicente had assured me that Itza's names were kosher, and that I must get him to tell me all about his friends 'Victorious' and 'Ark-Royal' sometime. I had finally worked out the time differences, and rang him about ten o'clock in the morning, his morning. A quick rundown on what I was after and he was off; well off my telephone at least, but he was back on it again about two hours later. 'Good stock, viable Company, good management - too good; nobody wants to sell, it is a nice little earner'. It seemed that he could get me a free bottle of Champagne and possibly an upgrade, but that was it – unless – (he must have been closely related to Alice in a former life as I felt my wallet give a distinct twitch). He knew somebody, who knew somebody, who had heard a rumour that somebody might just be looking to realise some capital big time; but without upsetting the applecart. It turned out that one of the founders of the Company was ever so slightly bored with the nautical life, and wanted to move into aviation. Well he would now be able to buy himself an aeroplane, or two, and I got my upgrade – into the owner's suite. I would not be quite telling the Captain where to go - but almost.

'Question - are dogs allowed on board your vessels?'

'Only working dogs Sir, are you either blind or deaf?'

(Wait for it - this is the bit that I like) 'No, but I do own thirty-five percent of the Company', and without pausing to draw breath he came straight back 'and how many dogs will be accompanying you Sir?' I hadn't asked Bonnie or Clyde, but I was sure that they would be up for a nautical adventure. It wasn't the suite that was the problem, 'that' was waiting for me anytime; it was the rest of the accommodation for my travelling companions. It would be about three weeks before that all became available, but I could wait, just, and as it turned out we would need all that time anyway to sort out the paperwork for Bonnie and Clyde.

Three days later Maria took a call 'when was I available for a 'chat'?', and the next day a very charming lady popped in for the said chat. She was the CEO of the cruise line that I had just upgraded myself onto, and she was charm personified, but also very worried, 'what were my intentions?' I was mortified; I had only just lost Sheila. Nope, I had got it all wrong; what were my intentions regarding her Company. 'Totally honourable' I assured her, no hidden agendas or ulterior motives. I explained that I felt that I needed a bolt hole to escape too every now and then, and her yachts fitted the bill nicely. A little financial involvement in the Company might just stand me in good stead in the booking stakes, and I was right on the button. There was only one President's Cruise booked, to Asia, and that was on another of the lines yachts, so apart from that one suite the choice of boats was mine, decisions, decisions, decisions. Once she realised that I was not embarking on a hostile takeover bid, and I intended to be a very silent partner, she relaxed, and much to my surprise we then had a very pleasant lunch at Vicente and the Mayor's favourite watering hole, complete with helicopter ride. It was nice to relax in the company of the opposite sex again, she was happily divorced, but there was no hint of flirtation on either side, although I was definitely feeling ever so slightly on the mend.

As I patiently waited for my cruise I started to take more of an interest in the goings on at El Campo. Most of the old huts and redundant buildings were now history. The Security Officers had been relocated into temporary accommodation, at a temporary gate, whilst the new entrance was being constructed, and the airfield was well into its refurbishment, but unfortunately work was also about to start on the Marina.

'Andrew, what size yacht are you going to get?'

'I don't know Paul, is it important?'

'Well the architect needs to know, for the size of the jetty'.

'OK, let's say about 150 meters then shall we'.

When he stopped choking I explained that I certainly didn't want the largest private yacht in the world, one of the top half dozen would certainly be enough.

Paul then decided that it was now safe to _allow me_ to go on a guided tour of my _soon to be_ new home, and the main building I must say was now looking very different; all the rubbish had been cleared from out of the inside, along, it seemed, with most of the internal walls.

The Sub-Basement (originally the basement) would now be for freezers, storage, air-conditioning machinery etc, along with a workshop and garage - got to have somewhere to park the odd limo or two.

The Basement (originally the ground floor) would be for the kitchen, laundry, and other domestic work areas, along with their related offices.

The Ground Floor (originally the first floor {you getting the idea?}) was now going to be home to the grand main entrance. After first passing down a short, but elaborate entrance hall, my guests would find themselves in the 'Atrium', which according to Paul was going to be the heart of the whole building, and according to the artist's impression it was going to be one huge open area. The floor above it had already been removed; as had the rear exterior wall of both the floors, and the new roof and wall would to be almost entirely constructed of glass, being braced with stainless-steel girders. The flooring around the pool area, which was going to be slap bang in the centre, would be sunk about two meters down, into part of the new basement below, and the pool itself would extend outside - although the outside portion of it could be isolated when not in use, or in the cooler months, by retractable glass partitions. The huge irregular shaped pool would eventually end up with paddle and bubble areas, a bar in middle, complete with sub-marine seating, and have a large water mushroom to one side. It will of course also have slides and every pool toy imaginable - for children of all ages. There will eventually also be a Jacuzzi, complete with a waterfall, and patio areas scattered among the boulders, bushes and flowers, that will eventually gracefully rise up from the pool surround, to the marble pathways. The two grand marble pathways, one curving around each side of the pool area, will not only lead out to the rear elevation, but also to the central corridors in each wing. The corridor leading off to the left of the Atrium will eventually lead to my private quarters, although Maria would have the use of a small broom cupboard next to my office. There will be my lounge, office, entertaining rooms, billiard room, and whatever else the architect's felt that I 'must have' (including a small cinema and private gymnasium), and it will then finally lead through into the 'Ballroom'; well that was what Paul called it, although most of the 'balling' would have to be done outside on a new patio built onto the end of the building. The corridor leading off to the right would be the senior staff members' wing where David, Charlie, and any other senior staff members that I may end up collecting along the way, will have their offices, along with a small Medical Centre, Steam Room, massage tables and gymnasium. Their central corridor will eventually lead out into a new restaurant/cafeteria area for the staff, which will be tacked onto the outside of the end wall, and this will be encased in a huge glass lean-to, Paul must have shares in a glazing company! Halfway up the end wall, overlooking the main floor, there will be a mezzanine dining area for the senior staff, who will also have access to it from the new first floor as well.

On the first floor (the old second floor {you still with me on this?), off to the left of the Atrium, there will be my master suite. It will overlook the Atrium on the inside and the airfield at the front, very nice, and it will also have a private glass bubble that Paul calls a lift, taking me from the steel and glass balcony that will encircle the Atrium; down to the pool area (I suppose it will save me wearing out the stairs!!), as well to all floors above and below. On the other side of my corridor was to be an identical suite, almost, which also overlooking the Atrium on the inside, but the swimming pool to the rear. That would definitely be for my favoured guests. Behind each of these main suites were another ten slightly smaller ones, five on either side, they weren't going to be as sumptuous as mine – but not far from it. Over to the right of the Atrium I had a problem. I would already have eleven guest rooms, how many more will I need? so what I had finally decided on was a compromise. There will be twelve self-contained flats, that could either be used as senior staff accommodation if they wished (or needed) to 'live in', or overspill guest accommodation in an emergency, oh to be so popular! That central corridor will then continue on through the end wall out onto the mezzanine floor in the restaurant/cafeteria area.

In the Attic (you've guessed it - the old third floor), there will be, what seemed to me anyway, hundreds of small one bed roomed flats, each with its own bathroom and balcony, for junior staff if ever required. Paul had asked me if I just wanted this floor left empty but I told him to carry on and complete it. I would hate to find out later that I had a use for it and have to get the builders back in again, what inconvenience!

With all those empty rooms it made me think of people to fill them. Who will cook, clean, and generally work in them? 'I think I need a conference' - I thought, so Maria, David and I sat down that afternoon; they were definitely becoming my 'A' team. The subject was, 'who else do we need on the 'A' team, or in the 'B', 'C', or any other teams that we could think of'. 'Staffing', that was the real subject, and Vicente as usual had already beaten me to it. A while ago, after I had taken on David, Caroline and Charlie he had sent Maria an e-mail asking her to start a file on 'future employment needs', and it was starting to get quite thick. We went all around the houses, figuratively speaking, I could get consultants involved but that would take forever (and it wouldn't be as much fun), so perhaps we should keep it 'in house' for a while, and start at the top. After consulting 'Wikipedia' on Maria's laptop I found out that what I really needed was a housekeeper, butler, and chef to organise the lower echelons - and where pray does one get them all from? - Yellow Pages of course. Which Yellow Pages? London, that's - or should one say 'that is', the World centre of snobbery, so I let Maria make first contact, letting them know that I wasn't on the bones of my backside, and after briefly explaining what I wanted, twice, to two different people she was put on hold!! I didn't like that one little bit – I don't do 'hold', even with posh music, - perhaps another agency? Just as I was about to say something, a third person came on the line and asked to speak to me, and this lady was snobbery personified; I nearly grabbed my forelock as she spoke for the first time.

'Many commiserations on my recent loss', she hoped that 'I was over my nasty experience with that madman' and 'was now able to enjoy life more fully now that I was finally out of hospital'.

Maria certainly hadn't mentioned anything personal about me, apart from my name, but apparently that was enough; I was obviously the main topic of conversation around every walnut coffee table in London, and I didn't really have to explain to her what I needed, she obviously knew already, and it was a wonderfully nice feeling telling her that 'NO - I did not want a cook/housekeeper; I wanted a Head Chef and a Housekeeper, along with a Butler', and once we both arrived on the same wavelength things then progressed. 'Permanent positions in Spain, and living in (if they wished). They would be senior management, and as such would be responsible for all the hiring's and/or firings in their departments, and it would also be an advantage if they had at least a smattering of Spanish – oh! and be willing to rough it in temporary accommodation until my permanent home was ready in about six months' time.

This got her thinking, it was a long time since a request like this had come along as not many people could afford large households nowadays. 'Would it be acceptable to me if the housekeeper and butler were related?' she asked. I presumed that they would not be distant cousins, and I was right, husband and wife, although the wife would 'of course' be the senior – 'aren't they always' I thought.

'That would be perfectly acceptable' I graciously confirmed, and then went on to explain that I was off on my 'hols' in two weeks' time, the inevitable interviews would have to be fitted around them, so the final plan of attack was; she would make enquiries and get back to me with a short-list of interested parties within a week. I could then peruse their CV's at my leisure, and if I felt that any of them looked promising she would arrange for me to interview them in London. It sounded pretty straight forward to me. They wanted a job with me in Spain, I wanted them to work for me in Spain, but I was the one that had to travel a thousand miles to meet them, something wrong somewhere.

There had been a short-list of twenty-five (I wondered how long the long-list had been), which I had finally whittled down to nine, three for each position (including one couple) so I flew directly into London City Airport, and then had a quick drive in a waiting limo to the Dorchester. The hotel had advised me that the Park Suites had the best views and they were right, mine had a glorious view of wet trees, wet grass and wet roads, it was of course raining, but the view was still stunning. I was going to make the most of my visit, a show, the 'Eye' and my personal favourite the Science Museum, but first the interviews.

The Dorchester could provide me with a meeting room, so that's where I met them,, but first off I had to meet up with the people from the Agency, and I would have spotted the 'voice on the phone' at a thousand paces; everyone in her vicinity was prostrate in front of her, what a presence, then it was 'call me Handsworthy' and down to business; and the first one up was for the Head Chef's position, and he thought that I was a culinary dullard (and wasn't far wrong), the second only really wanted to be in the employ of a titled person, and the third one was a Frenchman called Marcel. He was totally p***ed off - and it showed. He was Head Chef at a very reputable London hotel but his girlfriend had just dumped him, his current employers were slave drivers, forcing him (in his opinion) to work in a pig sty - and he didn't like the rain. What he wanted was somewhere away from the rain.

As 'the rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain' not on the coast, it is relatively dry in my neck of the woods, so one tick.

He wanted to create dishes for people interested in the taste of food, not the cost, and that would appreciate his expertise (check out my waistline, it was expanding quite quickly), two ticks.

He wanted to 'create' his gastronomic wonders in a clean and modern environment; the kitchen hadn't even been built yet, you cannot get any more modern than that, three ticks.

and finally he wanted to be a million miles from his ex – 'would a thousand do?'

'Yes'.

'The job is yours if you want it' I said, and he kissed me, as only a Frenchman can get away with, but there was a slight problem, he had to give a months' notice. That was perfectly acceptable to me; although it would later transpire that he would be flying out to Spain with me.

Next up was the Housekeepers position - the first one wouldn't even get out of bed for the kind of money that I was offering, and the second one had a very personal hygiene problem.
The first Butler had a nose that glowed in the dark, and 100 proof breathe to go with it, and the second one seemed to be a very sweet boy, but definitely not my type.

The last two came as a matching set.

Nigel Blake had always wanted to go into 'Service'. It was his one and only ambition, so when he left school he applied for, and was accepted into the position of Footman to the 15th Earl of Frampton, and this made him very happy. Lord and Lady Frampton were firmly set in the era before the war, the Boar War. They liked things done the old way (It was only in 1952 that they reluctantly allowed electricity to be installed in Frampton Hall), and Nigel loved it, he knew his place and readily accepted it. He turned out to be a favourite of the Earls' and was promoted to Valet on his twenty-third birthday, although not as a birthday present, the previous holder of the title had eloped with the Housekeeper - not a union likely to get the Earl's blessing. It was an idyllic existence, he had respect, he travelled (Lord and Lady Frampton had a villa on the coast just outside Barcelona), and his position definitely attracted the ladies, so all was well with his life until a new parlour-maid came onto the scene; she soon put a stop to his shenanigans'; she married him (of course with the Earl's blessing). Neither of them wanted children; that would only have complicated matters, then on his thirtieth birthday 'Old Alfred' dropped dead, so he became a Footman again - but this time 'First Footman' or Deputy Butler. Florence, his wife, had two years earlier been promoted to Lady's Maid, so again all was in balance in both the Frampton and Blake households, well at least for the next two years - then Lady Frampton ran off with the milkman. Actually he was the owner of a large dairy producing conglomerate, and had his feet firmly planted in the twenty-first century, and it further transpired that the Housekeeper had aided in the dalliance, and she was quickly sent packing. Florence was out of a job, as her mistress was gone, but there was the position of Housekeeper to fill. Lord Frampton was too distraught to worry about whether she was too junior for the post, so she got the job, and that made Nigel's immediate boss, 'Young Alfred' (the Butler), junior to his wife, so this meant that she was now two levels above him in the pecking order, and this could have caused problems in lesser households, but not the Blake's, Nigel had been under the thumb for years. Five years later, just when Nigel was hoping to replace 'Young Alfred' as Butler (after all he had been doing his job for years) the 15th Earl passed away, and unfortunately the 16th Earl apparent (Viscount Frampton of Leigh) was into to the highlife big time, he definitely had no wish to spend valuable partying time on the slowly decaying Frampton Hall. He was a Right Honourable man though, so when he sold Frampton Hall, to the first buyer that came along, he asked that the present staff should be well looked after, and came in person to break the news of the sale to them (there just happened to be a Hunt Ball in the vicinity that weekend), so all the staff dutifully lined up in the Grand Hall to await his Lordships pleasure. When he entered the Hall, for that last time, he was accompanied by a young man in flowing robes, and the Right Honourable 16th Earl of Frampton explained to them that he had sold Frampton Hall to the 'All Seeing Eye' (the spiritual leader of a new age religious sect), but he strenuously assured them all that during the hard fought negotiations (one quick telephone call) the sect had agreed that all their positions would be considered safe following his departure (although nothing was actually put in writing). He then wished them all a fond farewell and departed. The 'All Seeing Eye' then fell to his knees in front of them all, and after he had offered a prayer of thanksgiving to his benevolent and forgiving God he stood up and fired them all. Those living in tied accommodation had four weeks to vacate their homes.

Nigel and Florence thought that their world had ended, but Florence had the sense to ring around several of the agencies in London offering their services, and two days later she received a call back, asking if they would consider positions in Spain, and a week later they were sat having an interview in the Dorchester.

~~~~

Chapter 14

How on earth did we all fit into the aircraft that was taking me home? Simple - I just hired a larger aircraft. I hadn't expected to come home with any of my new finds, people usually have to give some form of notice, but somehow things all seemed to be falling into place for me, and I even had Marcel along for the ride - 'what about your notice?' I asked him when we were safely airborne.

'I told my boss what I thought of him, and poked him in the chest' he sheepishly mumbled. That didn't seem too heinous a crime I thought; until he went on to explain that he had been holding a razor sharp meat cleaver in his hand at the time. Security had then escorted him off the premises so he presumed that his employment was terminated.

Remind me to hide the meat cleavers.

With more and more people residing in or about El Campo it was time for me to go shopping (which I always enjoyed); so the next day, at the crack of ten o'clock, Paul, Charlie, Marcus and I had a race against time. The first Inmobiliario (Estate Agent) was taken by surprise, and we bought up half a dozen villas at below the asking price. The next one tried to almost double his prices; telephones obviously work very well in this part of Spain, so we left him standing in his doorway muttering foul Spanish incantations at our backs. The third one only put his prices up by about ten percent; I could live with that, so we purchased another three brand new town houses, plus the villa that I was already renting for Paul and Eddy, but my prize buy of the day was a skeleton. It was an arrangement of concrete pillars on a concrete base, with a partially completed roof on top of it. The builder had found that he could not sell any of the apartments that he was constructing, so after completing the framework he just stopped work, cutting his losses, and putting the whole project on hold. With Paul and Maria's help we negotiated a price for the whole site, six floors (maybe two, three or even four apartments per floor, depending on their sizes), an underground car park and a reasonable amount of land surrounding it, more than enough for a large swimming pool. Paul almost had a seizure at the thought of more work but I pacified him, my home was his number one priority, everything else could wait, either that or we hire a Spanish architect, problem sorted. Marcus will have to visit an optician though; yet again he never saw it coming. Good bye assistant P.A, hello Property Manager (designate). I really was getting into the swing of things, and by late afternoon we had a Spanish builder on board, the same one that had actually constructed the skeleton in the first place, but this time he was working for me. A local architect was then recruited to manage the whole project, under the direction of Paul of course (and with regular visits from Eddie), and a furniture store was found that could totally outfit all the properties, down to the last bottle opener, when they were finally completed. I even wanted the second hand properties refurnished, nothing second hand for my staff, although Vicente was not a happy bunny; if I had spoken to him first he could have saved me at least ten percent, ahhh well!, it's only money.

Whilst we were wandering around the Pueblo, buying up properties left, right and centre, I slowly got more and more agitated at the sight of all the graffiti that seemed to be appearing on every available flat surface. One thing that had always annoyed me was graffiti, even in its more artistic form, so after I had spoken to Vicente about purchasing the new properties I raised this issue with him, more as a general gripe than anything serious, oops I should really watch what I say. One of Vicente's new associates had only that morning been sounding off on the same subject, could this new eager beaver do some research into the subject for me? Certainly I said, and then I promptly forgot all about it.

Roll on my holidays, or should I say vacation as I was going over to that side of the pond again, it was three days away, and I was visibly chomping at the bit. According to my favourite hospital consultant I was making spectacular' progress, but I was still not 100% - a holiday was just what the doctor ordered, and even without his advice I definitely needed some serious R & R as it seemed to me that every new day was turning out to be one long meeting; decisions, decisions and yet more decisions. What with Paul, with his day to day questions about the 'Main House' as it was now being called; 'when I had said gold taps in the master suite, did I mean real gold or just gold plated?' David, with his problems, 'what type of wireless motion sensor network had I decided on, to go around El Campo, temperature, sound, vibration or pressure?' Of course that was one of the easy ones, as I knew the answer right off the top of my head, 'ALL of them', or perhaps just as I was settling down to five minutes with Bonnie and Clyde, Maria wanted to finalise the job descriptions of the next batch of recruits. After the holiday I would seriously have to structure my days, a time and a place for everything.

Unfortunately the one area that was really giving me a king sized headache was Phase III. El Campo airfield was situated on a plateau, just high enough up so that it wasn't overlooked by the surrounding area, and its boundary, to a good percentage of the southern edge of the airfield was water, or to be more precise the Mediterranean, and most of this was a rocky cliff, most, but not all. It was as if a giant excavator had taken a huge bite out of the eastern corner of the plateau leaving a huge natural cove, and this cove was shared with the village of San Miguel del Mar, so a dividing jetty had been constructed in line with the edge of the plateau, thus effectively separating the military base from the village. A substantial sea-wall had then been constructed almost entirely encasing the entire cove, but leaving two entrances, one either side of the jetty, created two harbours, one civilian and one military. There had been ample room in the military harbour for the Navy to operate a variety of vessels from within it. It was well situated in a pleasant part of the Country, well protected from the elements and so it usually had three or four Patrol Craft of varying sizes in residence, with the occasional visit from a passing Frigate or Destroyer, but unfortunately, as a cost cutting measure, the Spanish Armada (Navy) reluctantly abandoned its favourite mini base in the sun, leaving the Air Force with a fair to middling harbour for their air/sea rescue launch, and a few recreational dinghies. When the Air force finally departed, the harbour mouth was sealed off with chains and underwater obstacles, and the whole complex left to rot, until a local company (well they are only based about fifty kilometres away), that specialised in the design and construction of Marinas worldwide finally won the highly contested contract for Phase III. They had already started to clear the site, and had drawn up the preliminary drawings, but what they needed now were more detailed plans, and that needed serious input from me. Paul was a great help, but he wasn't a sailor, and he also had his own projects to oversee. Consultants were a godsend, but they really didn't have a clue what I wanted. The reason for that was simple - I didn't have a clue what I wanted myself. Perhaps I was getting a little ahead of myself. What I really needed was someone to tell me what I needed, perhaps a clairvoyant!

~~~~

Chapter 15

`It` was by far the largest one to drop in on me to date, and `It` of course was an aeroplane. Phase II, the air-side refurbishment was going extremely well, so much so that I was now open for business for the big boys. `It` was about to take me and my little gang of intrepid adventurers all the way to the Caribbean in one hop, and `it` was an Airbus A318 elite. There was only room to transport eighteen passengers in it, but oh boy in what luxury. Even Bonnie and Clyde had their own little area, complete with a plug in air freshener type gadget that told them that this indeed was their place to 'go'. My one big dread about the flight had been that with one cock of his leg, Clyde could send us all plummeting to an untimely demise. The A318 elite looked very similar to any of the Airbus A320's plying their wares around the skies, unless you have a good eye for detail. It was 6 metres shorter, 80 centimetres higher, 14 tonnes lighter, and one heck of a lot plusher on the inside than your average A320, and as I climbed the steps to board this shining piece of opulent technology I reflected on my recent past. A year ago I had been a very happily married man, completely content with my lot, and now, as I reached the top of the steps, and was about to step inside one of the most luxurious aircraft on the Planet (and surrounded by an amazing amount of people whose only purpose in life, at this moment in time, seemed to be to please me); I felt so totally alone. Perhaps it was a sixth sense that dogs have but Bonnie scratched at my leg for a cuddle. I picked her up and she nuzzled into my neck, she was missing Sheila just as much as I was.

We arrived at Pole Caraïbes Airport on the Island of Guadeloupe, in what is called either the French Caribbean or the French West Indies, depending on which map you are looking at, in glorious sunshine. Whilst the weather in Spain wasn't bad it was still winter time, and this was serious wall to wall sunshine. When Sheila and I had started our 'cruise of a lifetime' we'd had to walk across the gangway to be greeted by smiling members of the crew. Today I didn't even have to make it to the seaside. After saying goodbye to the flight and cabin staff I disembarked from the A318, only to be greeted by what must have been a substantial part of the crew of the Sea Sprite. We had cleared Customs on board the aircraft so as the crewmembers loaded our cases into the bowels of a nearby coach, I was greeted on behalf of the Master, Captain Hill by Chief Officer Webb; I suppose that someone had to be left behind on board to make sure that no one stole the boat. Not so the stiff formality of the senior officers on board the larger cruise liners, his was a relaxed informality that said 'welcome', we are the best, and you WILL be enjoying your stay with us'. Although Maria, David, Caroline and Charlie were _my_ staff, to these people they were still guests, and were being treated as such by First Officer Carol Carter. Even Bonnie and Clyde had a new best friend; a friendly stewardess called Laura, who it appeared, had been assigned to them for the duration. The short trip to the Bas-du-Font Marina was of course different. I couldn't just be transported there in a taxi, or even anything as mundane as a bus. No, apparently this particularly heavily customised coach had once been the personal transport of Kylie on one of her World tours. The Sea Sprite was riding majestically at anchor just outside the Marina, but fortunately we weren't expected to swim out to her, there just happened to be a gleaming 1970's era Riva Aquarama 'runabout' tied up at the pontoon, just waiting to give me a heart attack, and after donning our life jackets (they even had special jackets for Bonnie and Clyde) Maria and First Officer Carter slid into the rear seat with Bonnie, and Clyde and I took up residence on the plush front passenger seat. After casting off the driver, coxswain, pilot, madman then asked us very politely too 'hold on' – and then rammed the throttles forward to their stops. Fortunately we weren't too far from the Marina's exit into the Caribbean, so we were only doing about twice the legal speed limit as we broke out into the mirror smooth sea, and what the delinquent driver had failed to clarify was what we had to 'hold on' too? Was it our stomachs, the seats, the dogs, or a combination of all three at once, and we went hurtling past my 'new home for the next three weeks' doing at least 40 knots, with absolutely no indication from the driver that he was going to be slowing down any time soon, and the twin Cadillac engines seemed to be only just getting into their stride. At first I thought this might just be an elaborate kidnap plot, but then we started to weave in and out among the rest of the anchored boats, and then we went in circles, first one way, and then the other, then figure of eights and I finally realised that this was FUN - Caribbean style. Just as I was about to argue this point with the steering person, Clyde put his front paws on the beautiful Honduras cedar wood dashboard, stuck his head over the top of the windscreen, and into the blast of warm air. With eyes just tiny slits he started to 'sail' his ears in the slipstream, then he let the wind enter into his mouth - puffing out his cheeks, then his stub of a tail started thrashing about - he was having serious fun, so if it was good enough for him then it was good enough for the rest of us. It was not for the Borne Line to just 'transfer' me from shore to ship, it had to be an experience, although Maria might disagree - she seemed to be hanging onto First Officer Carters arm for dear life! After swopping places with the coxswain I then had twenty minutes of reverting back to a ten year old (I have seriously got to get myself one of these little beauties), but finally 'all good things etc etc', and we slid alongside the Sea Sprites accommodation ladder, where two very petite sea-persons, complete with shiny boat hooks held the Riva steady whilst we disembarked and climbing up to the main deck, where I was greeted by a beaming Captain Hill, obviously that experience was only a sample of what was to come. David, Caroline, Charlie and the luggage were already on board as they had embarked by means of the usual 'Tupperware' boat, while I had been 'reverting'. For me twenty coats of maritime varnish on mahogany, for them fresh anti-fouling on plastic. Perhaps we weren't all going to be treated as 'equals' after all. Laura took the hounds off for their conducted tour, the First Officer took a shaky Maria off to her new cabin, and the Captain showed me to my suite (obviously he had nothing better to do), and oh boy was it something, even more opulent than the glossy photos and on-line videos, and just in case the Captain ever got lost, I had a panoramic view of where we were going, that is if I could be bothered to get off my very own personal sun lounger, on my very own sun deck - no rolled up beach towels at dawn for me. The suite was out of this world, and it was huge, where the rest of the passengers would sleep I had no idea, there couldn't possibly have been any more room left on the ship for their cabins, and I even had my own stewardess to point me in the right direction if I got lost. After a brief conducted tour, just to make sure that everything was to my liking, Captain Hill then asked me if it would be alright for him to slip anchor???, he was the driver - shouldn't he know, so I quietly explained to him that all I was after was a cabin up-grade; I had no grandiose scheme to become Captain Blackbeard, but we would have a little chat later, if that was alright with him, but until then 'business as usual please'. Sara, my stewardess efficiently unpacked my cases. There had been none of the 'ten kilos of hand baggage and twenty kilos in the hold Sir' when we embarked on the Elite, I could have taken my entire wardrobe, in their wardrobes, up the steps and no one would have batted an eyelid; although watching Sara unpack case after case I wondered if Caroline had left anything of mine behind, but first things first, watch the Sea Sprite slip anchor; after all I had my very own sun deck, which just happened to be conveniently situated one deck below the ships bridge, it was the second best view in the house; and then after that perhaps a bath, or maybe a shower, or a Jacuzzi, or a steam bath, or a sauna, or a massage or a ........, yet more decisions, decisions, decisions.

Over dinner that evening Captain Hill and I had our 'little chat', and we came to an agreement, he would drive the ship and I would sleep; well for the first week anyway. I was still recuperating from all my surgery, and according to Caroline (and a few others) I had been 'slightly' overdoing things for the past month or so, so I slept for England (and Spain) in a huge bed with Egyptian linen sheets, on the sun lounger with hot and cold running drinks, on a massage table with rough and smooth pummelling hands, and in the bath, much to the consternation of Sara, but after a week I felt like a new man and started to take an interest in my own personal itinerary, although whilst I had slept Bonnie and Clyde, with Charlie and Laura in tow had apparently been hard at work having fun, fun, fun; with loads of new and exotic sniffs.

Before we had left Spain Maria and Caroline had taken on new roles, Tour Organisers to the boss and we sat down together and compiled my very own personal itinerary. We of course used the ships itinerary as a base as I didn't quite have enough shares in the Line to tell the Captain where to go, but I certainly didn't want to re-visit any old haunts, too many fond memories of Sheila, so we crossed those off and substituted lazy days, sailing days, and beach BBQ days for them. Unfortunately though, starting on the eighth day of my cruise there was a block of five 'no–no' days all together, so I came up with the solution, a holiday from the holiday, or to be more precise a flying visit to see Itza, and then on to Palm Beach, Florida for a few days - just to see how I was now supposed to live. After surprisingly few mutterings of discontent from Maria and Charlie they agreed to remain on board and dog sit (it's a tough job - but someone's got to do it) whilst David, Caroline and I flew by a commercial airline to Nassau in the Bahamas, and it made a nice change from chartering my own aircraft; I got to speak to real people and hold my own passport. Itza had casually invited me to visit him and his family in Nassau 'any time I was passing' on one of his flying visits to see me, so as I was now 'passing', Maria gave him a call and it was fixed. She gave him the date, but no time - he didn't want one, we were just instructed to hop onto any flight into Lynden Pindling International Airport, on New Providence Island - 'and be as early as possible please', so we arrived at just before ten o'clock in the morning and were greeted by a 'taxi driver' holding up a plaque for David and Caroline; I suppose someone might just have recognised my name. I didn't have a clue what time he started holding up that plaque but I bet his arm was aching by now. We all clambered into his taxi, Nassau is famous for its stretched limo taxis, but this was a monster, and after he closed the passenger door behind me I'm sure that it would have been quicker for him to catch a bus up to his door. It turned out that it was not a real taxi; it just looked like one, and Itza's chauffeur then took us on a wonderful two hour tour of the Island, just to get a 'feel' for the place. He pointed out all the places of interest (over the intercom of course) and gave us ample opportunity to visit some of the sights if we wished, then at twelve thirty sharp we turned into a beautiful tree lined street, where every house was well kept and had masses of brightly coloured flowers outside, either in hanging baskets, or if the owners were lucky, in small gardens. There was the occasional sixties era motorcar parked at the side of the road but we were in the only moving vehicle, and we had just gone through a very large NO ENTRY sign. That apparently was not a problem as pedestrians and jay walkers alike gave us friendly waves as we passed. We drew up outside what looked to me like a very old wooden boarding house, complete with large veranda, and there was Itza sitting in a swinging chair, sipping a long drink and occasionally glancing at a laptop that was lying on the coffee table beside him. As we disembarked from the limo he stood, came down a couple of wooden steps and did the 'meet and greet' bit perfectly, welcoming us to his beautiful Island. I casually mentioned to him that his driver had come through a no entry sign on entering the street and hoped that he wouldn't be in too much trouble, but all Itza did was laugh, and told me that he would have been in more trouble if he hadn't gone through it; there was one at either end of the street, to keep out the uninvited. It turned out that he owned the street, all the houses and also the vintage cars. He also employed all the pedestrians and the veranda was actually his office - welcome to his world. Itza had been born and brought up on this street, and his ambition was to make sure that it remained just the same as it had been in his happy childhood. He went on to explain that he had known George and Millie for a considerably long period of time, and as he had watched the master at work he became a very good student. He didn't 'need' to be my Manager in the Caribbean; he 'wanted' to be, and all the monies that he now earned went directly into a 'Charitable Trust' that he had set up for disadvantaged local children.

After freshening up in one of the houses, which turned out to be superbly appointed guests quarters, complete with maid service, Itza took responsibility for me and sent David and Caroline off for some quality time together, and after wrapping myself around a very large rum punch (in a real coconut shell) we settled down for a quiet chat, he had wanted one for a while so this was his chance. We talked at length about financial matters in general (which I hadn't a clue about), my portfolio in particular (which I had even less of a clue about), and his Charitable Trust - now 'that' I was interested in, and I hinted that perhaps I might just go along that road myself at a later date. He quickly offered to send Vicente the latest up to date details on setting one up, plus a few of his ideas on suitably categories of beneficiaries, well it would give Vicente something else to get his teeth into.

Time flew by and finally my stomach reminded me that it was time to think about dinner, and after the usual preparations everyone congregated on the veranda, where he introduced us to his wife Delight and his six boys. Unlike his mother he had wanted a daughter but after six attempts Delight had put her foot down, enough was enough. The 'boys' then went off to dine with their own wives and children but Delight, who was definitely delightful to be around, fortunately remained with us, and we quickly clambered into the limo, I wasn't the only one that was ravenous, but not for us a plush five star restaurant, it turned out that we had a table reserved at Goldie's Restaurant and bar. Apparently when it had been time to re-decorate the wooden exterior the owner couldn't make up his mind what colour to paint it, so short listing about twenty contrasting colours he had each plank painted a different colour, and when they ran out of colours they started over again, and again; no chance of missing this place on a dark night! Battling our way into the noisy and informal 'restaurant' we found our table and started by tucking into Conch, a local delicacy. Then I had 'whatever it was' as deep fried fritters in a spicy and garlicky sauce, accompanied by peas and rice then plantain bananas, coming up every now and then for a breath and a quick chat. It was of course all washed down by yet more rum punches – I was certainly getting a taste for those things. What a night, but I was glad that Bonnie and Clyde were safely on board the Sea Sprite, with all that garlic they wouldn't have gotten within six feet of me (nearly 2 meters for the 'converted').

The next morning we were off, fortunately at a civilised hour, on another boat trip, but not just any old boat though, it was a Mega Yacht, and the owner was actually richer than me; he was number five or six I think. He, and his 'trophy wife (number three), to be, welcomed us as if we were the only guests on board, in fact they were the consummate professional 'hosts with the mosts', and warmly invited us to make ourselves at home, then went off to greet the other fifty or sixty guests; and we never saw them again. The 'Yacht' was definitely in the top ten when it came to size, and it had all the requisite add on extras, submarines, helicopters, speed boats and every conceivable electronic gizmo and gadgetry - but it certainly didn't rock my boat. I might as well have been on the Sea Sprite or any other medium sized Cruise Liner; I will definitely have to rethink my choice of boats. Don't get me wrong, I had a very pleasant day; Itza and Delight were the perfect surrogate hosts as they had been on board as guests several times before, so they knew their way around, and David and Caroline thoroughly enjoyed themselves as well, finding out what made this monster yacht tick (besides its four very large engines), but I personally had expected much more bang for the bucks (as my colonial cousins would say).

On return from our yachting experience Itza and I had a long chat, way into the early hours. It seemed like ages ago that he had told me to go and 'live the fantasy' when I finally got out of hospital, but now he was qualifying it by saying that sometimes the reality of a fantasy is not all that it's cracked up to be (I assure you that it made perfect sense to me in the early hours, and after four or five rum punch's). One of my all-time favourite sayings has always been _be careful what you wish for – it might just come true_. I was definitely in need of a reality check – enter Palm Beach!

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Chapter 16

The next morning we left Nassau, and if ever I had needed an Air-Ambulance, it was then, but according to Caroline a hang-over wasn't covered by the travel insurance, and so eventually we landed at Palm Beach International Airport, Florida and promptly forget all about reality. Palm Beach's motto is 'The best of everything' and so naturally its Airport's motto is `Gateway to – The best of everything', and I absently mulled this profound statement over as I settled down to a quiet round of golf on the airports indoor putting green, what planet had I just landed on? David had just been off tracking down our baggage, for some obscure reason they were about to go on their merry way back to Spain, and to compensate me in some small way for this heinous act I was presented with a courtesy Limo for my troubles, mine for my stay, although they did expect me to put petrol in it at my own expense, the cheek of it. I had fortunately just missed Palm Beach's 'high season', thank the lord, but the place was still wall to wall millionaires, and most of them were members of the 'lucky sperm club' (Donald Trumpp's saying, not mine), inherited money as opposed to those unfortunate ones that had to (ugh) work for it. I wonder what club I belonged to, the caravan wreckers club perhaps. We made our way to The Breakers Hotel and Resort in one piece, but after Spain's comparatively empty roads, driving here was a nightmare, most of the drivers drove as though they owned the road; but then again looking at the size of their cars they most likely did. I had never been to Palm Beach before but people assured me that it was definitely 'in my league', but as we checked in I felt like the office junior being sent on an errand to the Board Room. I could just hear them saying behind my back 'oh him, he's only the ninth'. I was of course covering all David and Caroline's expenses but I was definitely tempted to slip them some extra spending money. We were met by the French 'Chef Concierge' in person and shown to our adjoining Flagler Club suites, the absolute crème de la crème of opulent living, then after freshening up we went on a walkabout. We stayed together, not as employer and bodyguards, but as a mutual support society, we had to laugh at the prices, either that or burst into tears. First we tried the hotels shopping arcade and that was a hoot, then we went for it big time and ventured out into the heart of the Palm Beach's 'shop till you drop' zone. Out of sheer desperation, and to say that I had actually bought something in Palm Beach, I secretly purchased four watches, one for each of my travelling companions as a thank you present, nigh on twenty grand each, but that did include $250 each for wrapping them up prettily. Then I remembered Bonnie and Clyde, so off we went and found a suitable 'lost reality' shop, and I calmly spent a further eight grand on matching collars for them, although I did save on the fancy wrapping paper, they just wouldn't have appreciated it. David and Caroline got Cindy a _'my parents went to Palm Beach and all they got me was this lousy tee-shirt'_ tee-shirt - I promised to stand guarantor on the mortgage, and then that evening we got all dressed up and decided to go for a Chinese, well as Chinese as the hotels ECHO restaurant got, I never did get the hang of the stainless steel chop sticks, and so the last thing that I said to David and Caroline as I bid them goodnight was 'please wake me up in time for the first flight off of this fantasy island'. Then it was off to bed, to dream of Bonnie and Clyde who only loved me for myself - not my money.

Next morning, as our aircraft climbed swiftly away from Palm Beach International, I leaned back into in my seat and cast my mind back over the past twenty four hours. You can't blame the 'lucky sperm club' members, that environment was what they had been put on this planet to enjoy, it was just that I had been totally out of my depth. All my adult life I had always been comfortable in one-to-one situations with 'normal' people, and was even starting to get to grips with Lawyers and Architects, but put me in among a group of my new peers, like yesterday, and I found myself totally out of my depth. I think I will definitely have to go back to school before trying that little experience again.

As I was coming back from my holiday from my holiday a day early, the Sea Sprite was not anchored serenely in Marigot Bay off the island of St Martin, waiting for us, we had all had a 'senior' moment (forgotten), it wouldn't be arriving until tomorrow; I bet Maria wouldn't have made that mistake. I had two choices, either Island hop in a teeny weeny little aircraft, or find a local hostelry for the night. What we had also forgotten, was the reason why Sea Sprite was putting into Marigot Bay in the first place, it was carnival time, and trying to find a bed and breakfast guest house with three vacancies would be all but impossible, but fortunately I wasn't looking for a B&B. What we 'found' was La Samanna, a five star resort that boasted among other things five 'speciality suites', and due to a last minute cancellation I found myself in one of them, the Orient-Express styled Terrace suite, but unfortunately David and Caroline had to rough it in one of the common or garden beach front suites; I hope they will eventually forgive me. After a swim and a change of clothes we were off to Marigot town for some serious partying, I had a lot to catch up on after Palm Beach, so I ate when I felt like it, danced in the streets when the mood took me, and then decided to watch the grand parade; until I became part of it. Much to the consternation of David I was adopted by a group of very scantily dressed students. I had been convinced, prior to today that it would be impossible for me to enjoy life again to this extent but I was wrong, what a party. When I was asked what I 'did' I replied 'retired', well it wasn't a lie, and after that they wouldn't allow me put my hand in my pocket, after all I must be on the bread line – well almost, and the next morning, or what was left of it, I had yet another hangover, and yet again it was well and truly deserved. Later that afternoon, as I lay soaking up the sun's rays and slowly becoming a member of the human race again I watched the Sea Sprite sail majestically passed me off shore; it reminded me of my pets, oh well - time to join the real World again, and two hours later I arrived back on board, after surreptitiously paying off my new 'friends' accommodation bills, to be welcomed at the top of the ladder by an exuberant Clyde, but there was no sign of Bonnie. I found her lying on my bed; she had been there ever since I had left, not eating a thing, just curled up into a ball. She obviously thought that I had left her as well, time for a cuddle – big time.

That evening, as the rest of the guests departed for the Carnival, I remained on board, ostensibly to avoid meeting up with my new friends from last night (Caroline doubted that I would be able to survive another night like that) but the real reason was to spend some quality time with Bonnie and Clyde. Charlie had put Bonnie's behaviour down to the heat, but I was convinced that she was still missing Sheila. Later that evening the three of us were sharing a lounger on the stern of the ghost ship Sea Sprite, watching a cocktail party getting under way on the flight deck of a nearby Destroyer: it was on a courtesy call to the Island and as usual they really did know how to do things like that, it was a speciality of the Grey Funnel Line (Royal Navy). The ship looked magnificent, bathed in floodlighting. First Officer Carter was doing her evening rounds when she spotted us quietly sitting there, and asked if she could join us for a few minutes. I readily agreed and she parked herself on an adjacent lounger. She politely asked how my mini holiday had gone, and I briefly glossed over the details. I then mentioned the Mega Yacht, more to wind her up (in the nicest possible way) than anything else, but then I nodded towards the Destroyer, 'now that is what I call a ship, not that floating gin palace'. She laughed and agreed with me, then told me that she would 'give her right arm for ten minutes in command of one of those'.

I gave a chuckle and told her that if I ever came across a second hand one she would always be welcome to have a go on it. We both then sat there watching the cocktail party for a few more minutes, lost in our own separate thoughts, and then she was off 'to make sure the ship wasn't sinking'. She seemed like a very nice lady, and Maria thought so too.

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Chapter 17

First Officer Carol Carter had been born at a very early age, but she hadn't been a First Officer then, in fact it could have been safely said that it would have been over her mother's dead body, but then that may have had something to do with her (the mother) having had a thing for a sailor in her formative years - only to be dumped at the altar for a parrot (but that's another story). As Carol grew up she showed absolutely no interest in the family's Garden Centre business, all she ever wanted to do was mess about on boats, and this worried her mother greatly as the dastardly sailor (minus his parrot this time) had turned up again just before her second wedding day (this time it was to her current husband), and tried for a reconciliation (i.e. he had his wicked way with her again), then he dumped her again; and Carol had been born just nine months into the marriage. Her husband had green fingers and got sea sick on the Gosport Ferry (on a calm day), so she was very keen to keep her headstrong daughter away from all things nautical, but she wasn't very successful.

For her tenth birthday, after she had ceremonially burned her dolls and all things 'girly' a week before, she finally beat her parents (father) into submission and got her first dinghy.

For her eleventh birthday, after sending her 'tiny' dinghy to Valhalla (setting it on fire and then casting it off into the river) a week earlier, she got an even bigger and faster dinghy.

For her twelfth birthday she got a fire extinguisher, not really, she got an RYA sailing course on the Isle of Wight; and a racing dinghy as her passing out present.

Her thirteenth birthday was spent at the helm of a brand new Olympic class racing dinghy, fortunately provided by her sponsors, she was getting that good.

Her fourteenth birthday was spent at the European Youth Olympic Festival picking up a gold medal.

Her fifteenth birthday was spent tuning up her new ocean going racing yacht, provided by even more sponsors - which was rigged for 'solo' sailing.

Her sixteenth birthday was spent in bed with her new boyfriend, she had found out that she didn't like the 'solo' bit very much.

Her seventeenth birthday was spent looking after her three month old baby son, alone, and by her eighteenth birthday her mother had stepped in, taking over the looking after of her grandson full time, and sent Carol off to College, but it was six months into her courses that her mother finally found out that she was studying all things nautical.

Her nineteenth, twentieth and twenty-first birthdays were spent studying, but on her twenty-second birthday she set sail on a very small cruise liner, as a Deck Cadet, to learn the ropes (literally as well as figuratively) and to start building up her mandatory sea time, her aim was to achieve her Officer of the Watch Certificate in record time, which she did. Finally after four and a half years of training she became the Third Officer on a medium sized cruise liner, and then as time progressed she was promoted to Second Officer on the lines new liner. After distinguishing herself during a fire on board her ship she was offered the position of First Officer on one of the company's smaller vessels, it may have been smaller, but it was still a welcome promotion, or so she thought. After two years a new Captain developed a 'thing' for her and when she rejected him, firmly, her life became a misery. Fortunately her previous Chief Officer had obtained a position with the Borne Line as Chief Officer on the brand new Sea Sprite, and when the Captain suddenly became ill and had to take early retirement, her mentor was made up to Master. The First Officer was made up to Chief Officer, and Captain Hill was aware of Carol's predicament. After one surreptitious phone call she applied for, and was accepted as First Officer of Sea Sprite, but then her previous Captain carried out a very effective smear campaign against her. She was a First Officer in a small Line, and fully qualified for command, but with a long wait for promotion, and no other Line would now touch her, so she was stuck there with nowhere to go, career wise, but despite her predicament she enjoyed life on the Sea Sprite, although she was starting to miss her son Scott more and more as the years progressed. Of course she had him to herself on her leaves, and he came and stayed with her on his holidays, but now that he had left College, and was into I.T. in a big way, the holidays were getting further and further apart. She wasn't involved with a man, in fact for the past five years she had only had 'friendships' with a few female passengers, as early on in her career she had made it a strict rule never to get involved with any of the crew; that really was a death wish, but life suddenly took a turn for the better as she stood in the sunshine at the bottom of the steps that were leading up to a very shiny Airbus A318 Elite. As she watched Maria glide down from the aircrafts plush interior her heart skipped a beat, but when she found out that Maria was P.A. to one of the World's richest men she assumed that she would be untouchable, until they were sat in the back of the Riva, with Maria hanging on to her arm for dear life, and they hadn't even cast off yet, and within a few days Carol and Maria became inseparable, helped along immensely when Maria's boss took off for Bermuda and the States without her.

As she chatted to Mr Michaels on the stern, and watched the party on the Destroyer get into full swing she realised that she didn't want to spend the next umpteen years trapped in this luxurious existence. She wanted a life closer to her son (and perhaps with someone like Maria) and so after making her excuses she continued on with her rounds, whimsically mulling over what Mr Michaels had just said, and then it hit her (an idea); what if Mr Michaels had been just be a teensy weensy bit serious about the second-hand Destroyer, well it wasn't really second hand.

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Chapter 18

President Malcolm Mugubutu came to power on the back of a rocket propelled grenade, and even before his immediate predecessor had been safely tucked up in his coffin he had started making his plans - to find somewhere safe for all that money that he intended to make, but he had an aversion to flying; three of his predecessors had aircraft related accidents, if you can call one heat seeking ground to air missile, and two suitcase bombs – accidents, so it would have to be by other means.

After completing his education at a private school Malcolm joined his Countries small Navy and was promptly sent away to England to train as an Officer Cadet at the Britannia Royal Naval College at Dartmouth. He did his sea training on a Destroyer and instantly took a liking to that class of ship, but upon returning to his strife torn Country he transferred from the Navy, with its three un-seaworthy frigates, into the GFU, not so much a Secret Police Force, more a wanabe President's training ground. He was a natural, and after placing the first suitcase device himself (he hated the word bomb, it was so uncouth), transporting the Stinger Missile and its launcher from a neighbouring country in the boot of his car (for someone else to use), and designing the second suitcase device (it was actually in a laptop computer but who's complaining), he rose through the ranks, not surprisingly in three stages. His predecessor was well aware of Malcolm's talents, after all he had availed himself of them just prior to becoming President himself, so he kept a close eye on Malcolm, especially where aircraft were concerned, but unfortunately whilst he had one eye on the sky, and the other one on the virtually non-existent skirt of his new Minister of Cultural Affairs sat beside him, the soon to be 'late' President didn't notice the 'next' Vice President pointing at him, with a bog standard dime a dozen RPG.

President Mugubutu quickly became known to his loyal subjects (on pain of death) as 'President 10%', as any financial transaction anywhere in the Country attracted a 10% Presidential tariff. It didn't do much for the Countries failing economy, but it certainly filled his coffers quite quickly. But how was he going to get those by now very heavy coffers to a nice secluded island, if the need for a quick exit ever arose? His natural distrust of aircraft meant that the only means left open to him was by sea, utilising his rag tag navy, but there was a slight problem, one of the frigates had just sunk at its mooring, the second ones engine had blown up when the crew tried to start it, and a witch doctor had just put a hex on the third frigate – although the witch doctor concerned also just happened to be the third frigates Chief Stoker, perhaps there was a tad of self-preservation in his incantations, definitely time to think about modernising his maritime force, so through an intermediary (who was later to become his successor) Malcolm contacted a shipyard in Germany, and they dispatched a team of Naval Architects post haste to design him his new floating 'bank vault', which, so as not to look too suspicious, would look like a Destroyer, but that was where the similarity would end.

  1. One hundred and fifty(ish) metres in length.

  2. About six or seven thousand tonnes in weight.

  3. Something like twenty metres wide.

  4. Approximately seven metres draught.

  5. Two Rolls Royce/Northrop Grumman DCN WR-21 gas turbines, with 2 Converteam electric motors.

He wasn't too fussy about the unimportant things, but he did require the vessel to go from 0 – 30 (knots) in the blink of an eye (in a worst case scenario). It also had to have a range of about seven thousand nautical miles; that should get him well clear of any suitcases. Among the multitudinous other specifications that were on his wish list was that his ship should have a large helicopter hangar, and a reinforced flight deck, so that it would be able to accommodate heavy lift helicopters, all that money wouldn't be easy to transport. Bow and stern thrusters were an obvious necessity, where he intended to keep the ship there weren't too many tugs, but zero speed stabilisers were a pure indulgence, he had hated all that bobbing about when HMS Battleaxe had been riding at anchor. He then thought about who was going to man it (he was definitely not into equal opportunities) or more to the point who could he trust, and that turned out to be not a lot of people, so everything must be automated wherever possible, reducing to an absolute minimum the number of crew. Now, as it was ostensibly going to be a warship then there had better be some bits and pieces on it that went bang. A modulated five inch multipurpose rapid fire gun, suitable for anti-aircraft, anti-ship and shore bombardment was an absolute must, as were some surface to air missiles, and perhaps a few torpedo tubes, plus a 20mm Phalanx close support weapons system (or two), and of course loads of saluting cannons for when he came on board. The Naval Architects couldn't believe their ears, but as long as President Mugubutu put down a hefty deposit, and paid his stage payments on time they would design and build him a world class warship, even though it was extremely doubtful that any sane Government would ever provide the weapons systems that were on his wish list, well perhaps the saluting cannons might not be too much of a problem, but they would cross those bridges when they came to them, and their final design was spectacular, beautiful flared bows, sleek superstructure, and a nice hefty flight deck, so after drawing up a watertight contract and receiving the initial deposit (sorry sir, no discount for cash) they started constructing 'Yard Number 246' with a vengeance, after all there was no telling how long the President's presidency was going to last. By the time the ship yard had got to the main deck level, the main propulsion system had already been installed, and most of the interior shell had been completed, although virtually no military paraphernalia had been supplied for fitting. There was a large hole on the fore deck where a five inch gun module could slip in, and they just left flat the areas for the missile system and other associated weaponry, covering them with boxes and tarpaulins, just in case the yard was Googled by the President. They had just completed the flight deck and were starting on the aircraft hangar and bridge superstructures when they came across a small problem, the money stopped, or more precisely, President Mugubutu stopped – breathing. He had been superseded, and unfortunately the only person in his Country who knew anything about YN 246 was the new President, and he hated boats, he had much better things to spend all his new found wealth on, so the engines and machinery were mothballed, the hull and superstructure was cocooned and the whole thing was left to quietly gather dust, but the dockyard had no problem with that, they had half expected it to happen. In the contract (in very small print) it stated that if stage payments ceased, then after two years YN 246 would become the property of the ship yard, for them to do with as they pleased, and although it was a beautifully constructed ship they doubted that they would ever be able to find a buyer for it, it was just so impractical, so it would most likely go to the breakers yard.

~~~~

Chapter 19

Carol had heard about YN 246 from one of her German 'friends' who just happened to be a Naval Architect-ress, or whatever the feminine form of Architect was, and that had been about a year ago, so she made her way quickly to Maria's suite to discuss her idea with her. After being excitedly told about it, and then realising that all Carol wanted to do was talk, Maria went back to sleep, but not being too put off by Maria's response she then handed over her watch to the Third Officer, that was what Third Officers were for, found a computer, and then started to compile as much information as she could about YN 246, which turned out to be virtually nothing, so in desperation she rang the ship yard. It was one o'clock here, six o'clock in the morning in Germany, so she doubted that there would be anyone there that she could talk too, but she would give it a try anyway, and it was a good start when she found the switchboard manned, so she asked to speak to someone in authority. To her surprise she got Herr Flik, the owner of the yard, and he was a very worried man, yet another order was in the process of going down the tubes and he was becoming even more worried by the minute. First things first, 'is YN 246 still in its cocoon?' she asked (she was English so she instinctively knew that everyone else spoke it as well).

'Yes' came the reply.

'How long had it been in it?'

'Twenty-two months'.

'Had a buyer been found for it yet?'

'I wish' he groaned, and then Carol 'hypothetically' asked if it would be possible to convert YN 246 into a private yacht. That got Herr Flik's attention 100%, if this wasn't some mad fräulein on a bender, and he could just pull this off, it might tide the ship yard over the recession, perhaps he wouldn't have to lay off any of his key workers after all. She explained that at the moment this was only 'pie in the sky', what she urgently required to enable her to take the plan on to its next stage were details, drawings, and possible a conversion scheme. Normally at this stage Herr Flik would have hung up the phone and thought 'dumkoff', but desperate times require desperate measures so on another line he instructed the switchboard operator to rouse all the architects and tell them he wanted them, or their resignations at or on their boards in thirty minutes, and for the remainder of the night every printer and fax machine on board the Sea Sprite was churning out bumf for her, first in German, then after another phone call, in English. All the Naval Architects, excluding her 'friend' who had moved on to pastures new a few months earlier, were at their boards, or into their CAD programmes in record time, and each one was given the same instruction, come up with something quick, and think big.

~~~~

Chapter 20

The following morning I awoke raring to go, but the problem was, where to? After a quick five laps of the ship, with Clyde and a very reluctant Bonnie in tow, a shower and a light breakfast I called Maria into my lounge, she was chirpiness personified, and had a tan fit to die for. She looked relaxed, refreshed and completely happy with life – I must be paying her too much, 'Maria will you please get me the name and number of 'that' woman at the Employment Agency in London'. She leaned across and pressed a few buttons on my laptop, and there it was, obviously my fingers hadn't gone to the same school as hers. When I had met 'Handsworthy' at the interviews in the Dorchester we had seemed to get on quite well, no blood had been spilt, and as she was the only really 'Posh' person that I knew, what had I to lose?

Ring, Ring, 'Handsworthy Placement Agency', Veronica speaking how may I be of assistance?'

'Good morning (I think) Veronica this is Andrew Michaels; would it be at all possible to have a quick word with Mrs Handsworthy please?'

'One moment please, I will see if **Lady** Handsworthy is available'

'Hyacinth Handsworthy speaking, how was Palm Beach then Andrew?'

Things were definitely not going to plan:-

  1. She was a Lady

  2. We were now on first name terms, whether I liked it or not, and

  3. She yet again knew all about me – spooky.

'Third' things first, 'how on earth do you know about Palm Beach' I spluttered?

'Remember that lady with the terrible blue rinse hair colouring that you had a few words with as she waited to go ashore last night?' she said, 'well, that is my sister, and we speak on the telephone almost every day,' I could almost hear the smile in her voice 'no spy cameras, I promise'. That answered the third question, now for the first, 'I didn't realise that I was talking to royalty, can I get off my knees yet?' Now that the ice was broken we 'small talked' for a few minutes then I told her all about Palm Beach.

'What a lovely place, but I must admit that it is definitely an acquired taste, but how can I help you?' I explained that what I needed was a swift course in how to be 'posh', and also, as an afterthought, how to organise and run a large household. It had been nagging away at the back of my mind since taking on the last batch of staff.

'You will do fine, all you need is your self-confidence building up', and then she propositioned me - in the nicest possible way. As I still had over a week left on the Sea Sprite she would, in a couple of days' time, fly out to El Campo (of course at my expense) and 'go through them like a dose of salts', and after I arrived back in Spain she would then spend a few days with me 'gently rounding off the edges \- but what I really needed', she half-jokingly said, 'was a Lady of the House' (in other words a wife).

Now that shook me up, 'too soon' I retorted, perhaps not quite as light heartedly as the rest of the conversation had been, but she persevered.

'How soon is the 'right' time then Andrew? I am sure that if Sheila were listening to us right now she would agree with me, how long do you have to punish yourself for something that was not your fault? If the right person comes along don't let her slip by'.

'You don't own a Lonely Hearts Agency as well do you?' I asked, trying to pass her comments off lightly, but she had hit a nerve, and so we quickly concluded the conversation; still on friendly terms - just. As I put the phone down I cast my mind back to the night before last, when I had been at the carnival. One of the young students had blithely informed me that 'if I didn't have anywhere to kip, I could always use her bed, she could use the company'. I was mortified, and when I replied that I had a daughter older that her, she retorted 'and your point is?

The world had definitely changed in thirty years, or perhaps it was just me!

I was snapped out of my daydreams by Maria, 'Carol, sorry First Officer Carter would like a quick word with you'. Perhaps the ship **was** sinking, and after telling Maria to warn El Campo of the impending storm I asked her to show her in.

First Officer Carter stood in front of me and didn't say a word, she just removed five printouts from a thick folder that she was carrying and laid them out in front of me. The first was an artist's impression of a beautiful looking Destroyer carving its way majestically through rough seas. The second was a copy of a photograph of what I presumed was the same ship, but under construction, and the third, fourth and fifth were hastily drawn sketches of what had to be the same ship again, but now converted into a yacht.

'Well First Officer Carter, or may I call you Carol, I presume that this has something to do with your right arm? - please continue'.

Carol started, she realised that I might only have been joking last night, but hoping against hope that I hadn't, she went through what she had done, and when I didn't throw her out she sat down and re-opened up the folder, and we went through the remainder of what she had collected, page by page. One of the other sketches in the folder was particularly dreadful, it had what looked like a conservatory built over the area between the hangar and bridge structures, very imaginative (I think not), this was apparently the feeble effort by the SNO (Senior Naval Architect), although I had immediately take a liking to one of the original three sketch's, it was signed D. Duk (he had to be called Donald) and I put it to one side. I also liked some of the interior layouts done on a CAD (computer aided design) package by a M. Monroe, this has to be a wind-up, and those went to one side as well. I then rang Herr Flik, introduced myself and after very little preamble it was agreed that he would put a hold on the scrapping of YN 246, which was due to start in two months' time, and carry out a feasibility study for me on the practicalities of converting her into a floating gin palace, or should that be rum punch palace. I also suggested that Donald (that indeed was his nick name) and Marta (drat) should be allowed to run with their ideas, they seemed to be thinking along the same lines that I was. Initially he was not too happy about this, he would much prefer that the Companies SNO, his brother, head up the study, but when I told him that I had already seen his contribution and would instantly pull out of the project if he ever came within a thousand metres of my ship (my ship?), he reluctantly agreed. We then agreed a fixed price for the study, deductible from the purchase price of course if I went ahead with the project, and he agreed that they would start the study the moment the money arrived in their company account. It would be there within the hour, but I would lay odds that they were already all hard at work as we spoke, and I must think of another name for her, YN 246 just didn't trip of the tongue very easily. When I put the phone down I looked up at Carol and smiled, then asked her the sixty-four thousand dollar question, 'and what is in this for you then?'

Lowering her eyes she whispered 'Perhaps the Chief Officer's berth?'

Who were you kidding lady, your sights are set a lot higher than that.

After she left to resume her duties, the poor Third Officer must be on the verge of collapse by now, I remembered what Captain Hill had said whilst he had been showing me around my accommodation that first day on board, 'pop up and see me anytime', so I popped up and saw him, but when he realised my impromptu visit wasn't just a social call we retired to his sea cabin, hoping that the ship wouldn't hit anything whilst he was off the bridge, a fairly safe bet as we were still at anchor. I talked him through what had just gone on in my suite, and showed him a few of the sketches and the photo. He whistled through his teeth, agreed with me that it had the makings of a fine ship, he had seen the quality of Herr Flik's ships first hand, and it were first class, but he correctly guessed that my real reason for the visit was Carol Carter. As I was now a senior share holder in the Borne Line, and as such 'almost' his boss, he felt that he could talk confidentially to me about her, so dispatching the luckless Third Officer to fetch Carol's file from below we then went through it page by page, and apart from the write-up from the Captain of her last ship, her career had been exemplary throughout, and whilst she had been on Sea Sprite, she had, on numerous occasions, 'acted up' to Chief Officer, a rank that she had by law to be capable of assuming at a moment's notice, and once, during an outbreak of something very nasty, to Captain for a week, and didn't break anything. 'She has all the qualifications necessary to take a vessel such as this (Sea Sprite), and that (he nodded at the printouts) to sea, although she might have to complete a couple of refresher courses first to keep the insurers happy'. On a personal note he felt sorry for her, she was an excellent Officer, but due to circumstances beyond her control she was in all probability blocked from ever having her own command, so I asked him, off the record, 'Would I be making a mistake if I took her on as the Captain of my ship, if not YN 246 then whatever I ended up with?'

He looked me straight in the eyes and said a firm and emphatic 'no'.

Assuming that I would want her to supervise the feasibility study he could, if I wished, let me have her as an 'advisor' for one month, starting today, (he was unusually 'flush' with deck officers at the moment), but he didn't have the authority to release her from her contract with the Company, she had only recently signed on for a further four months, although he could, if I didn't have a problem with it, dismiss her from the ship (sack her) whenever I liked, and then he hinted at her sexual orientation. 'Unofficially' he knew of her dalliances with some of the guests, after all he was the Master, he should know of these things, even though she had been very discreet (that explained the smile on Maria's face). It hadn't interfered with the smooth running of his ship so he had done a 'Nelson' and turned a blind eye, but if it were to be bought to his attention 'officially', perhaps by a senior shareholder, then he would have to quietly dismiss her (perhaps while she was away consulting in Germany), as her actions constituted a dismissible offence in the 'Code of Conduct' of the Borne Line. It was definitely time to have a think, and seek some advice, so back in my suite I rang Vicente, and he promised to look into the matter and ring me back as soon as possible, which he did, just before dinner.

After dinner, as I left the Captain's table I walked over to Carol's table and quietly asked her if she would mind calling in to see me a little later on. I think some of the other guests thought that I was propositioning her, but I didn't mind, it would do my street cred no end of good, apparently it was much needed. Ten minutes later I sat with a fine cognac in my hand (Carol only wanted tonic water as she said she was on duty later) and offered her the position of Director of Maritime Services, which meant that she would be responsible to me for all things maritime in the Michaels household, including that damn Marina. She sat there dazed for a minute - then took the glass out of my hand and drained it. We talked for over two hours about what her responsibilities would be, her salary, her perks, her immediate thoughts on my marina, and what seemed like a hundred other things, including what Captain Hill had hinted at (my 'code of Conduct' was more flexible than the Bourne Lines), and then I asked her how long I would have to wait for her decision. She walked over to the drinks cabinet, poured two large Cognac's and then after handing me one, chinked our glasses and pointed out that she didn't have to worry about 'drinking and driving' the Sea Sprite anymore, she was just about to be sacked. After downing her drink, for Dutch courage I think, she went off to inform Captain Hill of her decision, hoping as she went that he hadn't decided on an uncustomary early night, although as she had departed I asked her to be back in my suite by one o'clock. Why did I want a beautiful woman to come to my suite at one o'clock in the morning? – Simple - because I wanted to hold a staff meeting of course, what other reason could there possibly be?

My rather naive idea had been to formally introduce her to the rest of my motley crew, but on her way to see Captain Hill, Carol had quickly stopped off to tell Maria the good news, and Maria had then told Carol, who told David, who told Charlie, and so as I was about to telephone Maria to tell her to go and wake the others up, they all came traipsing in. But why, may you ask, couldn't the introductions wait until morning, well the Sea Sprite was going to weigh anchor at eight o'clock (sorry 08:00 – or was it the third watch of the first bell or some-such thing)), and by then I wanted Carol and Caroline ashore and on their way to El Campo.

Before we left Spain I'd had a quiet chat with Caroline about her position in the new order of things. I would soon be having a genuine 'gentleman's gentleman', although I hoped she would still continue to carry out this function whilst we were on trips like this one, that didn't necessitate taking a huge entourage with me, and she readily agreed, it would mean that she would still be with her David (ahhh), but the major change that I envisaged for her was that she would perhaps become a sort of 'Director without Portfolio', a 'Girl Friday', after all I couldn't afford to lose her, I would most probably forget my name! At the moment she was the only one of my staff that called me Andrew, I was 'Boss' to David and Charlie, 'Jefé' (boss in Spanish) to Maria, and 'Sir or Usted' (a more formal form of Sir) to everyone else, although I must sort something out with Carol, I don't think that I would like to be called Admiral. It was in Caroline's new capacity of 'Girl Friday' that I was sending her off in the morning with Carol, to introduce her to the people at El Campo, get her settled in, show her around, and to get her kitted out with a car, credit cards, some really expensive 'power suites' and a new uniform or two (with loads and loads of gold braid). If Carol was going to represent me at meetings, then I wanted her looking the db's, sorry - the business; and she was going to start representing me very soon - with the Marina Architects.

The next morning, or a little later that morning to be more precise, I was up bright and early (well early anyway). I saw Carol and Caroline off, then watched the Sea Sprite up anchor and hot foot it out to sea, trying to get as far away from land as she possibly could, as apparently the weather was 'perfect'. Captain Hill promised us something special, and as the Sea Sprite increased speed to her maximum 'comfortable' speed, we all settled down to wait and find out what he had in store for us, so, as I wandered around the ship with my faithful hounds at my side, I came across a beautiful bit of shippery, or whatever its correct terminology was, it was the flag staff at the stern. The red 'duster' was flapping about in the breeze above my head, and as I leaned against the varnished pole I felt all the vibrations of the ship reverberating through my head, and it was as though she was talking to me; and as I watched the wake of Sea Sprite disappearing off towards the horizon I felt a strange peace descend over me; it was a truly relaxing experience. I must make sure that YN 246 has one of these.

That evening, as darkness started to descend, Captain Hill slowed the ship, and we all went to the pictures. There was a cinema on board of course, but this was to be something different. The luckless Third Officer had obtained a copy of the latest George Clooney block buster, and after all the exterior lights were switched off (except of course for the navigation lights) he showed it to us on a large screen that had been specially rigged up outside. Bonnie lay quietly on my lap, and Clyde on Charlie's, and as the film came to its gripping conclusion the operator shut the projector off, and then did absolutely nothing; and we all sat in total darkness. Suddenly Bonnie gave a yelp, which made everyone jump, leapt off my lap and jumped up onto a nearby locker beside the guard rail. She was looking up at the stars, and there were millions upon millions of them, this must be the something special that Captain Hill had promised us. Away from the industrial haze of the land the sky was a mass of stars, it was as though a huge jet black bowl had been painted on its inside with millions of tiny specs of lights, and then placed on the horizon all around us, and as I held firmly onto her lead, I noticed that Bonnie was looking at one part of the sky in particular, then she started barking and wagging her tail, she hadn't acted like this in almost a year. After I quietened her down a little I remembered a visit that I'd had to my Nan when I was a young lad. It was shortly after Pops had suddenly died, and my Mum and Dad had taken me to the funeral. We were staying the night with Nan, to help her through the ordeal, and after everyone else had gone home I became very upset, I was missing Pops terribly. Nan took my hand and led me outside to look up at the stars, and as we looked at them she told me 'those twinkling lights are all our friends and relatives that have gone away'. 'They are all holding lanterns and are waving them at us, to let us know that they still remember us, and that one there (pointing to the extra bright Polar Star) is Pops, wave to him'. I waved to him, and instantly came to terms with his departing; from then on only having the fondest of memories of him. Bonnie continued to stare at that one particular patch of stars, still giving the occasional yelp, and then one of stars momentarily flared up much brighter than the others, and then subsided again. She then gave another yelp, jumped down, and started to play with Clyde, something she hadn't done since before we had embarked on the Sea Sprite. Of course as I had grown older I hadn't believed Nan when she had repeated that story over, and over, and over again, but I still blew Sheila a goodnight kiss – just in case.

~~~~

Chapter 21

As the Elite circled above El Campo I looked down at it from my own personal window, and wondered if the Pilot had got lost, it looked so totally different. First off all the runways, taxi-tracks, and new roads were all finished, including the new section of taxi-track in front of the house, and the house, well that looked finished as well. I knew that the interior wouldn't be completed yet, but the outside looked just like one of Pauls drawings. The upgraded perimeter fencing surrounding El Campo was complete, as was the new guard room building, although the new indoor range opposite it was still just a large hole in the ground, after all it was a late stage add-on. The bomb dump no longer existed, and there were hectic signs of activity down at the Marina, although one thing that I hadn't expected to see was the very large hole beside my temporary quarters, and as we taxied in I was half expecting a long line of angry Managers, but all that was waiting for me at the bottom of the steps was a small line of Edwardian servants, and when I was finally reunited with my favourite armchair the only person to enter my domain was Hyacinth.

'Are you comfortable, would you care for a drink? **and** I am so terribly sorry about my comments, they were totally out of order', she was all of a fluster.

Royalty standing, and apologising to me whilst I was seated, I must be getting important, so I stood up and gave her a hug (and a kiss on the cheeks Spanish style), that stopped her in mid flow, but I was the one that really needed the hug, I hadn't had one since Alice had left. After a long chat with her about the cruise, the stars, and her observations on my marital status, we had another hug, but no kisses this time, her husband might get jealous, and then we got down to business; hadn't the woman ever heard of 'jet lag'? As promised she had gone through the place like the proverbial dose of salts, but surprisingly there had only been one major problem - and I had already seen that at the bottom of the disembarkation steps, Nigel had progressed from the Boer War, but only into the Edwardian era. The maids were up in arms, and his wife was in despair, but he had dug his heals in; 'he just knew that it was just what his Lordship wanted', another name to be added to the list of what I would answer to. There had also been a few minor problems with the layout of the kitchen, serving areas and restaurant, but Paul had readily agreed to her suggestions after she had taken him and his wife out to dinner at mine and Vicente's favourite watering hole (on my tab of course), and 'oh what a delightful new Director of your own private Navy', god almighty, not another one. Most other departments had suffered to varying degrees, but fortunately their problems had been resolved without recourse to my restaurant tab, but what to do about Nigel? Never fear, Hyacinth knew a man, he was a Toastmaster who ran courses for budding Butlers twice a year, perhaps he could help! Hyacinth then instructed Maria, who hadn't even had a chance to say hello to Carol, to find the number, and fifteen minutes later Nigel's name was on the next refresher course for professional Butlers. It just happened to be starting in three days' time, and would last for 'approximately' one month, how 'approximate' was dependent on course members' progress. At the moment Nigel was the only course member. I broke the news to Nigel a little while later, under the guise of retraining him as a Major-domo, as I had of course taken Lady Handsworthy's advice (passed the buck). A Butler was really too old fashioned a position to have in a modern household. He graciously accepted my offer, and looked forward to meeting Ivor again (the owner of the school); neither of us mentioned the fact that Major-domo was just a fancy name for Butler. The only other person that I wanted to see before I had a very early night was Paul; I was very intrigued by the hole that had appeared in the middle of my front garden, and after he poured us both a large Scotch (I explained to him as he entered that 'the sun was well and truly over the yard arm' as I was still on ships time) he collapsed into my second favourite chair, and swore to do that 'Lady' serious harm if she ever came within theodolite throwing distance of him, but then he quickly calmed down. Her 'suggestions' had only set him back about three days in the overall scheme of things, and his wife thought she was amazing for her age (meow), then he settled down to explain to me the reason for my new hole. It wasn't just any old hole he informed me; it was related to the mysterious 'Phase IV', but he would come to that in a moment.

'But', I asked him, 'where had everything from inside my new hole gone?'

'It had been re-located', he informed me. During the replacement of the fencing surrounding El Campo several of the long runs 'undulated', and had kinks in them. When the fence had originally been constructed, that had been perfectly acceptable, wire can go up and down, and around corners - but beams of light can't. As with many things at El Campo, security was going high tech, so the new fencing had to be straight and level. Laser beams and the like preferred straight lines, so some areas of the perimeter had to be raised up, in fact quite a lot of it had to be, to bring the new fencing up to the right level, and there was also the matter of my missing ground floor. The earth required to gradually build up the surrounding area to the first floor level had to come from somewhere, and I guessed correctly, it had come from my new hole. I am not stupid by any means, 'but surly when all the works requiring fresh earth are completed, won't he have to fill the new hole in; it sort of defeated the object of the exercise?'

'No, I need the hole for Phase IV', or at least part of it. 'Just imagine Andrew - your very own eighteen hole golf course, with a mix of par-three, four, and five holes, and all beautifully landscaped around your very own lake, that has an island in the middle'. 'It would be absolutely perfect for one of the holes, along the lines of the 'seventeenth' at Sawgrass'.

I was starting to drool at his description - until he got to the bit about the island.

He saw my face drop and quickly went on, 'think of all the balls that you will be able to salvage from the waters around it'. Once he'd had a few minutes to spare, after the initial contracts were all up and running, Paul had commissioned a geological survey of the triangular area of land that was surrounded by the three runways (and where my temporary home is situated). The Geologists had used their feet and walked the site, drilled boreholes, and obtained aerial photography and satellite imagery to give them a very comprehensive three dimensional picture of what lay under the dusty surface, and what they found was a large area that was relatively free of bedrock, and which was ideally suited for excavating, and then turning into a man-made lake. There were only two problems; one was a rock pinnacle that terminated just below the soil surface, near to one end of the soon to be 'very much larger hole'. It had at one time been higher, but when the airfield had been constructed engineers had 'reduced' it, but that problem could be overcome by the creation of my very own island. The second problem was more serious. Paul couldn't convert the finished hole into a lake, in other words he couldn't find the water to fill it. The local water authority had a strict policy of not supplying water on this scale for non-domestic (recreational) use, or for even watering the greens after completion. Sea water obviously couldn't be used, and although the survey had shown water deposits below the surface, they were really only suitably for El Campo's fresh water needs, plus watering of the greens and 'topping up' the lake, if the deposits were to remain at sustainable levels (not sucked dry). Paul had then remembered a small article that he had read whilst bringing himself up to date on the latest construction techniques in one of his professional magazines (when he was bored to tears at Monastery H.A., just before I had rung him that first time). A company had recently been formed by a group of entrepreneurs to lasso any passing icebergs and turn them into fresh water, or something along those lines. Paul had then gone into their web site and according to the blurb it would seem that I would make the perfect client. He estimated that I would need about seven tanker loads of water to fill the lake, their ships weren't very big, and they were just about at the production stage, that was the other problem solved. I know that you can't just dig eighteen small holes around a lake, put flags in them, and call it a golf course, you needed a Golf Course Architect, so Paul had three of them visiting me after the weekend – lucky old me.

After a good night's sleep I decided to come up to speed (why do I use these phrases if I dislike them so much?) on what had been happening around the homestead whilst I had been away enjoying myself, and although Maria was half asleep, she must be suffering from jet lag (or something), she quickly sorted out an itinerary for me. Paul would accompany me around all the different areas, but only the pertinent Managers would meet me at their particular areas of responsibility, I wasn't into large entourages, and so an hour later we were off; first stop, the new main gate

We were met by David, Charlie and Carlos, and I first looked down the freshly surfaced road that wound its way up to the new car park outside the gates, very grand, and then I looked into the hole that was not only going to become the new indoor shooting range, but was also going to have bachelor accommodation built above it - that had been Carlos's idea, as apparently there was a dearth of suitable accommodation for the bachelors in San Miguel; I hope that the floors are going to be well bullet proofed. We then went through the shell of the Main Guard Room, and it had an awful lot of wires protruding from its walls, I hoped that someone knew where they all went to. Apparently there was going to be a tremendous amount of hi-tec gadgetry in this building but I was assured that Agnetha was well on top of it, with Charlie's help. I then walked over and had a look at the new roundabout, that sent the traffic either onto the airfield or over to my new home. It was complete apart from the obligatory palm trees, bushes and flowers which would be arriving in a few days.

Into Paul's Jeep again, and off we went to the main house (via the new ramp) and disembarked in front of a set of horrible metal doors, although Paul quickly assured me that the new hand carved wooden ones would be in place before I moved in. After donning my own personal white plastic 'hard hat' (with BOSS in gold letters on the front of it) we walked through the partially completed entrance hall, and into a breath-taking view. The Atrium was by no means complete, but with very little imagination I could visualise what the finished product would be like. The makings of the pool were there, and the Jacuzzi was actually in place, although it still had its protective covering over it. The steps leading down to poolside were formed, but as yet were not finished in marble, as were the passageways that led around the sides of the Atrium. High above my head was a sloping glass roof, and in front of me a huge glass wall. Apparently they hadn't been too difficult to design, manufacture and install, as they were of a fairly proven design, but unfortunately the thing that was taking the time was the hand formed glass and steel walkway which was to encircle the Atrium at first floor level, but yet again it would be installed before I moved in. I hope so, either that or I would have to make sure that I had an extra-large lock on my glass bubble (lift); it was now opening into open space. We walked down one of the almost complete corridors, and into another beautiful new lift, which rose almost imperceptibly up to the top floor. I was shocked; the whole floor was complete, including the furniture. Paul's simplistic explanation was 'throw enough money at a job and it won't take long'; after all it was basically a fairly straight forward conversion scheme, the likes of which he did for Monastery all the time. As we walked along the long corridor that stretched the entire length of the building, we came upon a tee junction, now that was new. Where had that come from? Then I remembered; the roof over the new taxi-track. It was a triangular shaped passageway, lit by velux skylights and traditional strip lighting, but when we came to the end of the passageway we were greeted by yet another temporary door; Paul opened it up, but held firmly onto me, my new control tower wasn't being installed until next week. We then descended one floor into mine and my guest's new suites. All the rooms were formed, all the marble floors were laid, and most of the fittings were installed, and I guessed that it wouldn't be long before they were habitable. My rooms were going to be the 'bee's knees' (I was going to say the 'dog's spherical's' but it might have upset Paul), even in their unfinished state they were something. Up until this moment I hadn't really 'clicked' with my new home, but now I just couldn't wait to move in. We couldn't get over to the other wing at this level, the walkway was missing, but not so my 'bubble', my own personal lift. As we both squeezed in I looked around for the button, nada, nunca, nothing. How did I make the damn thing go down, jump up and down? Paul pointed to a small silver panel just above the floor, it was apparently a touch sensitive pad, and all I had to do was touch it with my toe. 'Is this the latest 'must have' feature?' I asked Paul.

'Only if you have a brace of Yorkies' he replied, it wasn't so much at 'toe' height as 'nose' height. Their own lift, how decadent; I hope they would let me use it occasionally. A quick trip around the ground floor offices and the ball room, which were all well on the way to completion, and then it was into the lift again and down to 'below stairs'. The new basement was neatly divided into two sections by the swimming pool coming down from above, but they were joined by a corridor which ran under the entrance hall above. Under my wing was the laundry, ironing rooms and other things related to the management of the house, as well as all the 'household' offices, and under the other wing was the kitchen, well I call it a kitchen, it seemed ready to feed the five thousand, without the aid of any fish; and the food preparation and serving areas were all 'cooking on gas'. Food, once prepared either went up dumb waiters situated in the 'household' section, and then up into my personal dining room, or the grand dining room, or went by a conveyor belt up into the restaurant/cafeteria. I was fascinated, it all looked complete, and Marcel (my Head Chef) was beside himself with glee; and he took great pleasure in showing me his new collection of meat cleavers. The conveyor belt was more like an escalator, as it had a system of large rectangular trays which rose automatically when the belt was on an incline, to keep the food containers level; and Paul asked me if I felt like behaving like a tray of beans.

I was intrigued, so I foolishly said yes. I didn't realise that this actually meant climbing up onto the belt, but still I apprehensively clambered aboard; after all if it was safe enough for a tray of beans then it must be safe enough for me, and with a quick nod to Marcel, and the press of a button we rose serenely up into the restaurant/cafeteria, or as I will from now on be referring to it as, 'the greenhouse'. The serving areas were compete, down to a coffee pot bubbling away on the counter, and the mezzanine floor restaurant was also finished, as was the one underneath it - the one underneath it? That was definitely not on any plans that I had ever seen. This was one of Lady Hyacinth's ideas; she reckoned that Marcel would soon get very bored serving up a banquet-for-one every day just for me, plus Menu-del-Dia for everyone else, so what she had come up with was that I (and I use the word 'I' very loosely) could instigate a system that involved my friends and neighbours. Perhaps every now and then they could come over for a 'free lunch'. They would have to specify what they would like to eat beforehand, challenging Marcel to produce their favourite dishes. Throw in a conducted tour around the place and she reckoned that we would have a queue stretching twice around the block. Looking at the area it looked very plush; it could seat eight people in surroundings comparable to any Five Star Restaurant. There would have to be strict guidelines to stop the system being abused but I thought it was an excellent idea, and it would also keep the remainder of the catering staff on their toes as well.

After the house it was back into Paul's Jeep - next stop were the hangars. The nearest one to the house, 'A' hangar was for aircraft (how surprising), and at the moment it held George's Tiger Moth and the Harvard, which were tucked away under covers in a corner. In a lined off section there was a ground equipment area with everything from tools to the mobile steps that I had descended when vacating the Elite, but there was still ample room for visiting corporate jets – whoopee.

'B' hangar at the moment held all the vehicles. It was our temporary car park but most of them would be moved into the underground car park, in the sub-basement when it was finished. I hadn't visited the sub-basement on my tour as 'it's just full of builders stuff' Paul had informed me, and I had definitely had enough of 'builders stuff'. When the vehicles were finally relocated, this hangar would be home to my two new Airfield fire engines, and the crash and salvage equipment (I don't like the sound of them), plus it would also be the overflow hangar for any visiting aircraft, oh to be so popular. Marcus, at my instigation had contacted a specialist Agency which had quickly provided, under contract, a specialist, trained in airfield safety. That someone had turned out to be an ex-Fleet Air Arm Chief Aircraft Handler named 'Chalky' White, apparently in the Navy that was what all Whites were nicknamed, although I doubted if Vicente would be very happy, 'Chalky' was of Nigerian decent. He was also a very experienced aircraft handling, fire fighting, Air Traffic Controller, and he had already started to train up volunteer firemen (and firewomen) from David's security staff; they would receive extra pay for their extracurricular activities, and he would man my control tower personally when it was completed. Among his many and varied duties he would be controlling all airfield movements when aircraft were about, via a mass of traffic lights situated on the ground at strategic points around the taxi-way, but at the moment, when a large aircraft visited, I had to borrow fire fighting tenders from the nearby International Airport, but when Chalky had finished his training programme, with the exception for the very very large aircraft, I would be self-sufficient.

'C' hangar, I had apparently agreed, could be used by any of my staff for their own personal projects, at the moment there was a half completed steam engine in it, a stripped down motor boat and half a dozen caravans - including George's repaired one. It was the first time that I had seen it since the accident and I definitely wasn't happy about it, it would have to go, and quickly. I also glanced around for Winnie, but then I remembered that I had left it with Roger and spotty Jean as a thank you for looking after Bonnie and Clyde. There was also a smaller hangar (perhaps I would call it little c, or C and a half) on the end of the line. It was being used for outside mobile machinery at the moment, anything from a JCB to a dust cart; I was certainly collecting the gear.

These weren't the only hangars that I had decided to keep, on the other side of the airfield, between what was the old bomb dump, and the Marina were three quite large ones (now named X,Y & Z), along with their own capacious hard standing. In their previous lives one had been used for long term maintenance projects on aircraft, and the other two for aircraft storage. They were in surprisingly good condition so on the spur of the moment I had decided to have them renovated, along with the shells of two offices/workshops/crew room complexes situated between them – why – I hadn't the faintest idea; it just seemed like a good idea at the time. They were definitely work in progress (lowest priority), but who knows perhaps one day I would find a use for them.

Finally, it was a smooth drive down a freshly tarmac'd road and into to the Marina for a chat with Carol, and she was resplendent in a designer power suit, and yellow wellies, very fetching, and between them Paul and Carol pointed out what I had yet again apparently agreed to. First the jetty and the sea wall would be renovated and security barriers installed on the top of them. On the landward side of the sea wall the narrow walkway would be extended into a full blown jetty; capable of taking Lorries or cranes, and that was where YN 246, or whatever I ended up with, would lay alongside, after a dredger had first cleared away years of silt. As I looked on, there were a series of large wooden piles being driven into the seabed close to the shore, but when finished, they would extend out towards the seawall. Pontoons would then be shackled to them and they would become home to the smaller boats, harbour craft, and possibly some dinghies. The existing slipway would be smartened up, and then used for launching or hauling boats in or out of the water, and up into the new workshop at the end of it. On the level ground, beside the new workshop would be the new Maritime Services main building. It would house the offices, store rooms and restrooms, along with a sail loft, rigging shop for the dinghies, classroom/conference room and the duty boatman's office and bedroom. I liked the idea of a classroom; I was all in favour of any of my family, friends or staff learning to sail. To one side of the slipway would go my new boat house, in which the Riva Aquarama runabout, that I had just 'had to have' on arrival in the Caribbean, would reside, out of the rain; when I wasn't tearing about the Mediterranean in her. Carol raised the point that she would soon need a good Bosun to look after the place. 'That', I explained, 'was why I was paying her so many Euros, it was definitely her problem'. All the hirings and firings were her 'part of ship' now, just keep me updated regularly, and then I asked her when she was visiting YN 246.

'Alice was paying me a quick visit tomorrow (which was news to me) so she would be using the same aircraft to fly on to Germany'.

She would soon get the hang of it and hire her own, instead of borrowing someone else's.

As Paul and I drove back to my air-side quarters I asked him when I could expect to move into my new home?

The basement, with its household and kitchen areas could be fully functioning in as little as three weeks, along with the greenhouse; and the training of the staff had already begun. I could be eating over there from then on, if I wished, but the living accommodation would take about a further three weeks to complete, with the landscaping, depending on the weather taking a further month, but what Mrs Blake (the House Keeper) had hinted at was that it would be very convenient if I were to be away for about three weeks following the completion of the works, it would give her time to get things cleaned properly and have everything up and running smoothly before I moved in. That sounded like a very good idea to me; I needed some quality time with my children; not just flying visits.

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Chapter 22

As she looked down on YN 246 for the first time, it looked so very small and insignificant tucked away in its huge dry dock. This was after all the place where mighty Battleships had been born; a mere Destroyer would not have even warranted a footnote in the shipyards glory days, but this was not its glory days; a rowing boat would make today's front page news.

Carol was met at the airport by Donald and Marta, and were all sedately transported in Herr Flik's private car (a vintage Rolls Royce, he appreciated good engineering) directly to the Shipyard, but the chauffer paused momentarily at a vantage point that overlooked the yard; to give Carol her first glimpse of what they all hoped would become a lifebelt for them, and then, as they continued on, and approached the dockyard gate, the traffic was stopped, to make way for them. She assumed that it was for the car, just in case Herr Flik was on board, but as she approached the main admin building she began to realise that it was for her, everyone but the night watchman was there to greet her. Herr Flik welcomed her and whisked her inside into her office (all she had expected was a Portacabin, was this luxury, or what), and Helmut, 'please you call me Helmut', explained that it had once been his brother's office, but his services were now no longer required, and so they all, well as many as could fit into it had a welcoming drink, that tried to take the lining off her throat, and burn a hole in her stomach wall, she quite liked it. After what seemed like a hundred introductions things started to quieten down, until finally there was just Herr Flik (sorry Helmut), Donald and Marta and a mound of drawings left in the room. After another application of tonsil lubricant, this time not quite so destructive to her vital organs, even Helmut left, to let her get down to business, no rest for the wicked. First Donald explained that her bags would be taken by the chauffer to her hotel suite, and then he would return with the keys to a dockyard car, which she could use for the duration of her stay, she hoped it hadn't been used by Helmut's brother prior to her arrival, it might be booby-trapped, and then it was really down to business. Both of them could speak passable English, but Marta's was fractionally better so she took the lead, and as Carol was escorted out of the office, and climbed into a waiting Jeep, she explained that she should expect to be treated as a celebrity for the next few days; a lot was riding on this order. That was good news to Carol; she would pass it on to the negotiating team, if things got that far, it might save them a few million. As they neared YN 246 her first impression was quickly washed aside, it was big, it was beautiful, and hopefully it was going to be hers, maybe not as the owner but as Captain, that was much more to her liking: all the fun – none of the expense. All the cocooning had been removed, as well as a substantial amount of the mothballing, and the whole vessel had been given a spring clean, for a ship under construction she looked pretty neat and tidy, and as Carol looked down on it in the dry dock, she felt an affinity starting to grow inside her, 'Andrew just had to buy this beauty'. It felt strange calling her new employer by his first name but that was what he wanted, and if that back there was the reception that she got, she dreaded to think what it would be like for him. Donning a hard hat, which had Kapitan printed on the front, and gold braid felt-tipped on the peak (who said that Germans don't have a sense of humour), they walked over the gangplank, and as her foot touched the steel deck for that first time it was as though she had received an electric shock, which was impossible, the dock side electricity supply had yet to be switched on. It was as if the ship was communicating with her; and that was another good sign. After they had walked the main deck and the flight deck above it, she had a look around the partially completed bridge. It definitely felt as though she had come home; the signs were getting better all the time; there was nobody as superstitious as a mariner. After someone had found the electrics switch they ventured below decks, and she was verily surprised - with the installation of the floor covering and a coat or two of paint most areas would be finished, and the engine room looked as though it was ready to respond to the bridge's commands. They finally found daylight and exiting YN 246, and gingerly made their way down several flights of well-worn stone steps to the bottom of the dock. It was just awesome to stand under the keel and look up at all those thousands of tonnes poised just above her head, but she felt safe, she knew that this ship, her ship, would not hurt her, although as they returned to her office she vowed to wear something more practical the following day, then the three of them quickly went through some preliminary drawings. Carol liked Donald's exterior work, but again it was Marta's interior designs that she preferred, and she was definitely the computer wiz-kid of the pair, but they seemed to work well together, and that was the main thing. It was certainly going to be a long hard couple of weeks.

After five days the three of them flew down to El Campo for a working weekend. They went through reams of new drawings, and talked through loads of ideas with Andrew, and then it was back to the drawing board early Monday morning for more fine-tuning, but what was becoming clear though was the direction in which they were all heading; they were definitely all singing from the same hymn sheet:-

YN 246 will at all costs keep her seaworthiness; her capabilities would not be degraded just for the sake of looking aesthetically pleasing (pretty).

All her weather decks will be sheathed in two inch thick teak planking, although the flight deck would remain as it was - steel, and capable of taking any helicopter up to the size of a large Chinook.

The superstructure, with the exception of the flight deck will be constructed of aluminium alloys, instead of steel, to reduce top weight (as hopefully there wouldn't be to many exocets' arriving unannounced), and the open space between the bridge and the flight deck/hangar will be filled in (there is no real requirement for torpedo tubes on a civilian ship), and the owner/guest accommodation located in it.

The flush main (or upper deck) already extended unbroken from stem to stern, and the outside 'weather' deck (as the name suggests it will be open to the elements), will eventually run continuously around the entire superstructure, surrounding the owners and guests cabins, the owners harbour suit taking up the entire aft end of it. All cabins will have large toughened windows overlooking the weather deck, but they will be protected from inclement weather by large metal screens which will hinge down from the deck-head above when needed.

The deck above the sleeping quarters will be where the guests living areas will be situated. The lounge, dining room and other facilities; and when there are no helicopters on board the guests will also be able to walk aft through heavy duty fire doors into the hangar, and then out onto the flight deck, perhaps for a cockers 'P' (cocktail party) or two. The weather decks outside this area will also lead around the outsides of the hangar and back to the flight deck.

Above the living areas deck will be the bridge deck, and this will be the operational heart of the ship. Aft of the bridge, the superstructure will lead back as far as the hangar, and it will be where all the navigation, radio and monitoring equipment for the engines and other machinery will be situated. It will also be where the owners' and the Captains' sea cabins will be located.

The open flying bridge, will be above that, and the sleek low funnel, which will be situated just aft of it, will be home to the two huge RR/Northrop Grumman engines exhausts.

Up about the flying bridge will be a huge array of aerials, antennas and other bits of hi-tec-ery; she was going to be that sort of ship.

Down below the main deck, the almost complete crew deck already ran from the bow, right back to the stern (with corridors leading around the engine room space), and it will be home to the galley, the crew's living quarters; which will of course all be upgraded to a standard befitting a luxury yacht. The ship's sick bay/hospital will also be situated on this level along with a few other communal services.

As 246 will have quite a few empty spaces within its hull (no requirement for all the military bits and pieces of the previous would-be owner) there will also be emergency accommodation for any survivors or evacuees that she might encounter on her travels. Aft of the engine room, that bit of the deck will be reserved for the Officers and Senior Rates accommodation.

The services deck, below the crews deck, will be where the offices, laundry, store rooms, cold stores, and other assorted service compartments will be situated, although the part of the deck that was below the Officers accommodation at the stern would be left empty for the time being – or perhaps not – David had had a quiet word with her.

_Below the service deck the remaining decks are where the bulky machinery, fuel tanks and the rest of the gubbins that makes a ship tick, are,_ but for now, the area forward of the bridge was causing a bit of a problem - Andrew had specifically stated that he had absolutely no requirement for an anti-aircraft missile system, or even a quick fire multi-purpose gun, so there was now just a big flat area in front of the bridge, where the missiles should have gone, and a hole in the fore deck where the big gun would have slotted in. The hole wasn't much of a problem; paint its insides blue, fill it with water and call it a swimming pool. It might be a strange place to have a pool, but when the nearest piece of land might be a thousand miles away, who was going to notice, but what to do with the redundant missile launching area was not so easy to resolve. If it was left empty the superstructure looked like a box on top of the hull. Put a king size open air Jacuzzi there (as Donald had suggested) and there would be no end of problems trying to protect it from the elements, but then Marta put in her two penn'th; how about an observation area. Her idea was to extend the superstructure of the accommodation deck level forward x amount of meters and put a bit of a sloping roof on it, just until the ship's silhouette looked about right (she was very precise), install armoured windows in the forward end (with very BIG windscreen wipers on them) and voila; in a storm it would become the best stomach churning roller coaster ride in the world, especially if the stabilisers were switched off. Now that definitely had possibilities.

By the end of week two, and two further flying visits to El Campo, the general layout had been agreed with Andrew, and then the drawings, by this time quiet numerous and detailed, were handed over to the rest of the design team (and the number crunching department) to carry out the detail work. As the two years would not be up for a few weeks, and with the initial stage out of the way, perhaps she could squeeze in a quick break with her Scott. She was certainly not regretting her job change so far, especially as she hadn't ended up being fired from the Borne Line, but first she had to introduce Andrew to YN 246.

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Chapter 23

Captain Hill contacted Mrs Borne before he did anything irreparable about First Officer Carter, and she was verily pleased that he did. Stephanie Borne quickly rang her financial advisors, stock broker, solicitor, and finally me that very same day, 'Andrew, will it be convenient for me to call on you again sometime very soon?' quickly followed by 'I promise you there will be no funny business'. Her husband had died five years previously, and if she was going to go in for any of 'that' it would be with Captain Colin Hill - unless she had a better offer, but the only day that was suitable to us both was unfortunately the same day that the three golf course architects were visiting, still it couldn't be helped as she was off on the 'Chairman's Grand Cruise the following day. She hated the title Chairperson (I was starting to like her more and more) so I agreed to squeeze her in - was that an 'ooh!' that I heard down the phone? 'Oh, by the way Stephanie, do you know anything about golf?'

'Anything about golf?' she retorted, 'I am a demon, every spare minute I get is spent on the golf course'. It even turned out that she was the President of her local very high profile golf club, and she readily agreed to help me with my plan. She arrived early, and after a quick chat with Paul and Eddie, she was 'up to speed', she used that phrase a lot (going off of her again), apparently she had dealt with course designers many times before and enjoyed taking them apart. Before they arrived the architects had all done their homework well; they had received the aerial photos and Geological Survey report from Paul, and an in-depth breakdown of Andrew Michaels, his wealth, his demeanour and golfing ability from professional investigators. They then drew their plans and thought that it was going to be like taking candy from a baby; but they hadn't factored Stephanie Borne into their equations. They arrived at lunch-time, of course expecting one, but as everyone knows there is no such thing as a 'free lunch'. We sent two of them off on walkabouts with Eddie, and invited the remaining one into my office; it was like leading a lamb into the lion's den. It didn't take long – a quarter of an hour later and he was out again, in total shock, and swiftly back off to his drawing board, and the same thing happened to the other two, they would all have another two weeks to come up with very much improved designs, and forget the silly money.

Following the slaughter of the architects I took Stephanie for a well-deserved free lunch at my favourite restaurant (as I was forever paying the tab there I now claimed it as my own) and over a lazy meal Steph (getting more informal by the minute) came to the point of the visit, and it wasn't Carol, well not directly. She explained that she only held forty-five percent of the shares in the Company, her late husband had been a great sailor but unfortunately a lousy businessman, and as I owned an awful lot (but not quite enough to carry out a hostile takeover bid) she wondered if (eyelids batting) I would let her have some of mine, not all of them, just enough to give her a fifty-one percent controlling interest in the company. Whilst some unscrupulous people might hike the price up a bit, Steph wondered if 'as I didn't really need the extra money' I would let her have them at the current market price - and as a thank you she would waive Carol's contract. If I was ever stupid enough to let her go, not having a blot on her records would improve Carol's chances of obtaining another position immensely, so after confirming that I would still be eligible for the owner's suites I readily agreed: although hopefully I would soon be having my own owner's suite.

After bidding Steph a fond farewell (too fond for my liking, I was ever so slightly tempted to have that extra bottle of wine) I returned to my 'thought of the day', what to call YN 246? Numbers were definitely out, and so was any name with Sheila in it, I knew that I had to move on, but the 'Lady S' had a nice ring to it; after all, the 'S' could stand for any number of names.

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Chapter 24

It was at the end of Carol's second week that I finally met up with YN 246; she hadn't officially been named yet, and on Carol's advice I told no one at the dockyard of my intended visit, so dockyard security wouldn't let me in, but fortunately just as I was about to go away in a huff Carol came and signed for me. Unfortunately there was no getting away from the boring bits, meeting Herr Flik and his Directors formally in the Board Room and the design team in their offices, but then after that everyone seemed to get in on the act - even the coffee lady (renamed tea lady for Carol's benefit) spoke almost perfect English, but finally Carol, with Herr Flik, Donald and Marta in tow managed to formally introduce me to the new love in my life, although she was a lot lighter than when Carol had first met her. As Carol, Donald and Marta agreed that some part or other of the structure was definitely redundant, out it came, after all it was going to end up on the scrap heap one way or another, and she was turning out to be a beauty, even though she was only half completed. When we returned to the Board Room it was a double dose off schnapps all round, but thankfully not Herr Flik's extra potent variety, and then it was time to go to the pictures. What the design team had done was create a virtual image of Lady S, so first off they showed me how she would look like naked (stripped to bare metal), and then they got the paintbrush out, first the hull. 'What colour would you like it?'

That was easy, 'green'.

'What shade of green?' they asked, and that was a slightly more difficult question to answer as they had thirty-eight different shaded of green in their repertoire, and I quickly became torn between Kelly, Office and British Racing Green, but that could be finalised later, although I definitely wanted a gold stripe running down the side of the hull, just like the Royal Yacht.

'Real gold?'

What a stupid question.

The superstructure would be mainly white, although lemon chiffon looked quite nice as well, but a compromise was quickly reached and the Lady S set sail, in this programme she was already Lady S, it was written on her stern (in gold lettering of course), and the programmers really put her through her paces, whether it was cruising in the Caribbean, riding at anchor at sunset, or full speed ahead in stormy waters, with and without stabilisers. Computers have certainly come a long way since my old Atari 'Pong' days. I was even promised a copy of the programme to help me to fine tune my requirements if the order went ahead, 'if I had a computer large enough to run it' – cheeky! but even before the hard sell began I already knew in my own mind that this ship was for me, although I wouldn't let on just yet, it might just save me a few million Euro's, and finally, as I thanked Carol for a job well done – so far – and said my goodbyes to all and sundry I told her to take a short break before returning to El Campo, and go and have some quality time with her son, after what she had come up with in just 2 weeks she deserved it, and then it was back to El Campo for me - for something to eat.

It was a grand occasion when the greenhouse opened its doors for business for the first time, and of course I had to be the first one to officially sample the fair, although fortunately the catering staff had all been using the cafeteria for over a week, perks of the job. Marcel was resplendent in his chefs' whites, Nigel, just back from his three week course (he was a quick learner) was wearing his new Gucci business suit, Florence, his wife, was almost in a very expensive designer label, and the waiting staff were more than happy in their new with it uniforms, but I was in jeans and jumper; nobody had bothered to tell me that it was also going to be a party. By decree I had let it be known to all and sundry that all members of staff, whilst gainfully employed within the bounds of El Campo could use the Cafeteria for their meals free of charge, and Managers could use the mezzanine restaurant at any time as one of their perks, and today it seemed that virtually every one of my employee's, and there were now starting to be an awful lot of them, were at work; either that or catching up with their paperwork, and as is the norm in Spain wine was on the tables, so by late afternoon there was a very relaxed atmosphere, I had the feeling that this place was going to be well used. As I sat on the mezzanine, suitably 'relaxed', I looked down and watched Paul and Eddie bathe in their reflected glory. They had both done an excellent job on the greenhouse BUT their time with me was on the wane, not for a while hopefully, as the Marina had still to be finished, and the golf course had yet to be even started, but I would imagine that they must be thinking of what lay ahead for them 'post Andrew Michaels'. Originally I had offered to finance them if they wished to set up in business together - but recently I had been thinking of giving them both a career change. Paul had been, before my accident, my friend. As a consultant at El Campo he was still my friend, and so I had no intention of embarrassing him by offering to employ him. I had something in mind that would suit him much better. He was a Christian, not a bible bashing, in your face, church going Christian; I sometimes found those types to be not very 'Christian like' behind closed doors. Paul **was Christian** , in everything he did; he always saw the good in people, and would be the first to offer a helping hand to those in need, and readily forgave those that had transgressed, but had then repented; he was also always the first to put his hand in his pocket to help a worthwhile cause - and what I had in mind was to become his pocket.

When Itza had told me about his Charitable Trust I asked Vicente to look into the possibility of setting up the same sort of thing for me, and he had finally come back to me a few weeks ago, and it had given me a lot to think about. One of the many worthwhile causes that Itza thought might be of interest to me was 'green issues', not the colour of my boat but doing something to help save the planet. Very noble I thought, but what could I do on my own, apart from throwing loads of money at every crackpot scheme that came along. Then I thought of Paul, he would make the perfect Trust Fund Manager. What would Paul do with loads of money? Good question - so I leaned over the mezzanine rail and gave him a wave. Once I had his attention I signalled him to come up and see me.

'Paul, what would you do if I gave you a hundred million Euros'?'

'Retire' he retorted, 'I was just explaining to Maria how we joined the framework to the end wall and you called me away to play games - humph'.

I am sure that Maria would be thanking me later for saving her from a fate worse than death, but I came back at him with 'I am not playing games'.

When he picked his jaw up off the floor I explained what I had in mind, my carbon footprint was terrible, so what I needed was for him to do some serious 'offsetting' for me. El Campo would soon become self-sufficient in its water and electricity needs once the solar panel farm (in place of the old bomb dump) was up and running (or rather, sat there sunbathing), and the groundwater extraction pumps were on line, but all this jetting about was seriously blotting my copy book in the eyes of the eco-warriors, and I dreaded to think what the Lady S would do to it. I really needed someone I could trust to do some serious 'offsetting' for me, big time. A rather glazed Paul (it had nothing to do with the 'relaxed' atmosphere) left 'to think about it', and suddenly the attachment fittings didn't seem as important as they did a few minutes ago.

That was one of them gob smacked, now for the other one. El Campo was starting to flourish in its own right, but it needed nurturing. Someone had to start looking after it full time, and no one knew the place better that Eddie.

'Eddie have you got a minute please.'

He bounded up the staircase three steps at a time, and when he arrived I benevolently asked him 'Eddie, would you care to become my Estate Manager?'

'Love to, when?'

'After the house is finished'.

'Great', and then he was back amid a large gaggle of females.

Well that had taken all of twenty seconds - what will I do for the remaining forty.

~~~~

Chapter 25

Three weeks later I was sent to Coventry by Mrs Blake, I had done nothing wrong, that was where Robin and family had finally decided to set up home. It wasn't in the city centre of course; prices were much too extortionate there; it was in a delightful little village on the outskirts. They had managed to find a quaint little country house on the side of an idyllic lake, it only had twenty rooms but we all managed to squeeze in somehow. Their 'new' home was in fact a seventeenth century listed building, apparently designed by Inigo Jones himself, and of course when I say 'their' new home, guess who actually signed the cheque, I had to get them a belated wedding present now didn't I.

I spent the first two weeks doing what every new grandfather does, watch the nanny feed his grandson, watch her change his nappy (whilst I held my nose), and watch her push him around the grounds (I'm not into the 'hands on' way of doing things, although I do like children – especially with roast potatoes and broccoli), although I did manage to push him down to the pub occasionally. When I wasn't exerting myself doing all that grandfatherly stuff I walked Bonnie and Clyde, and tried to hone my sailing and golfing skills (or lack of them), then my tranquillity came to an abrupt end. Alice turned up, with Bert in tow.

I knew from the moment that they set foot in the house that I wasn't in for a smooth ride; Alice was in a foul mood. They must have had a domestic on the way down, although Bertha was surprisingly quiet, unlike at Christmas, and she wouldn't even meet my eyes, so I knew the problem must be big.

When I had finally come to terms with my increased bank balance, as I had lain there in the hospital, I gave Robin and Alice half a million pounds each to play with, whilst I sorted out something more permanent, and what Vicente finally advised me to do was set up a trust fund for each of them. The problem wasn't Robin, he had his head well and truly screwed on right, it was Alice - I dreaded to think what she would do with mega bucks, so what I created was a twenty-five million Pound inter vivos trust (living will) for each of them, with my old English Solicitor as trustee, he was not only a very conscientious Solicitor, he was also a very good friend. The children would always have 'loose change' in the bank but any serious withdrawals would require his counter signature before the transaction went ahead, with the situations being reassessed every year on their birthdays, and the trusts seemed to have worked fine, until Robin's birthday six weeks ago, as he was now married I released the full amount to him, but Alice apparently had then assumed that I would do the same thing for her on her birthday a couple of weeks ago, and promised Bertha untold gifts. When I didn't, she went ballistic; I was everything nasty under the sun, starting with homophobic. I must admit that it had been a bit of a shock when Alice had 'outed' herself, but I had come to terms with that. What I hadn't come to terms with was Bertha's demeanour, I just didn't like her. Even if she hadn't been involved with my daughter I doubt if I would have ever passed more than two words with her, she really wasn't my type, in more ways than one. If that makes me a snob then so be it, I would not be forced into liking someone at someone else's behest.

Alice at first was livid, then she calmed down slightly, and after a quiet word with Bertha she suggested that the three of us go for a pub lunch tomorrow to try and find some common ground between us. I doubted if it would work but I was willing to give it a try, although what I didn't realise was that it was Berta's idea in the first place.

The next day at one o'clock sharp Robin's chauffer dropped Alice, Bertha, David, Caroline, Charlie and myself off at the entrance to the pub car park, I had arbitrarily decided at the beginning of my visit that the limo was much too large a vehicle to manoeuvre safely around its car park, and anyway the exercise would do me good!! As we left the limo and slowly made our way towards the pubs entrance, Bertha and Alice held back (they were trying to find something that Bertha had apparently dropped), and a very nice man stepped forward and pointed a very big gun at David and Charlie (I would normally have called him an uncouth yob but I am sure that someone would try suing me for loads of dosh), and his associate flung his arm around my throat and rammed a very hard gun muzzle into my neck, now that smarted, I hoped that Charlie would hurry up and sneeze!

_Eight months ago, as I lay immobile in hospital, after David had given his armful of blood, he had deliberately omitted to go through 'the procedure' about what I should do if situations like this arose, as I was bed ridden, but fortunately as I regained my health he gradually introduced me to them, and for the last couple of months, two or three times a week David and Charlie would create scenarios of what to do if 'this', or 'that' was to happen, in the comfort of my temporary gym, and this situation was covered in book one, chapter one, page one, line one - wait until Charlie sneezes,_ and Charlie sneezed _._

Fortunately Charlie's hands were in plain sight so the gunmen glanced at him, realised that he wasn't a threat, just had a cold - and returned to the job in hand, but unfortunately for him as Charlie sneezed, I retracted my undercarriage. I didn't just bend my knees or lean forward - after months of training I beat gravity. It took me a while to perfect the technique, on very soft mats, but I finally had – and getting some very sore knees in the process.

'Tweedle Dumb' (for want of a better name), whose job it was to hold on to me found that I was disappearing rapidly in a downward direction, and there was nothing that he could do about it, I was, metaphorically speaking, a dead weight. He lifted heavy things most days but even he couldn't hold me up using just one arm, and as he watched me writhe in agony on the concrete car park he felt a pain in his left shoulder. He looked down and saw the handle of a knife protruding from it. 'Ouch! that hurt' he thought, and then his left arm went numb. Fortunately he was left handed and the gun dropped to the concrete beside me.

'Tweedle Dee' (ditto), whose job it was to cover both Charlie and David glanced at Charlie, and seeing that both of Charlie's hands were in plain sight he switched his gaze back to David, but unfortunately in that time David had grown a third eye, or to be more precise, a black eye, with a foresight above it, and out of this eye came a lump of lead travelling at three hundred and fifty metres per second. After the back of his head was removed he dropped his weapon as well, but unfortunately the fun and games weren't quite finished yet as a very grand Daimler limo was entering the very same car park as these events were unfolding, and on the back seat of the car resided the Lord Chief Justice of England and Wales, also on his way to for pub lunch, and as he was a very important person he warranted an SO1 (Special Protection Branch of the Metropolitan Police) bodyguard. On seeing what was unfolding before him Inspector James Wood ordered the driver beside him to reverse out of harm's way, but unfortunately there was a large lorry stationary behind them, waiting in a queue of traffic for the traffic lights to change, but 'all was not lost' though he thought, no bullet from a hand gun was ever going to penetrate this vehicle, so he told his Lordship to 'hit the deck' just in case (which he didn't) and then sat back to watch the fun and games. He had immediately recognised David Williams from several of the specialist courses that he had attended over the years, so he knew that David had the situation well under control, until he spotted a battered old Volvo start up its engine, smoke billowing from its exhaust and come charging out of its parking bay - directly at David's back. Instinctively Inspector Wood leaped from the car and drew his personal weapon. Resting it on top of the door frame he squeezed off two quick shots, then another two, just as David had taught him. The first two rounds entered the near side front tyre of the Volvo and caused the desired effect; the car swerved and collided with a parked car, and the second two entered the car's front grill, passed through the radiator and rearranged some electrical bits and pieces in the engine bay, causing the engine to take no further interest in the proceedings.

David, after 'double tapping' (killing) 'Tweedle Dee' heard a car start up behind him and then felt four bullets pass close by, and as he instinctively dove for cover behind another parked car he caught a brief glimpse of the new gunman, and fortunately he recognised him. He had taught an awful lot of people in his time in the Army but this one he remembered. His performances in the team building exercises that they usually carried out on completion of his courses (in the bar) were legendary, and as he disentangled himself from a bicycle that had been lurking behind the car David saw Inspector Wood race by him and point his gun directly at the driver of the Volvo.

After the 'borrowed' car had come to rest against (crashed into) another vehicle 'Tweedle (Even) Dumber' did arguably the brightest thing in his entire life, he did absolutely nothing. With his hands in plain sight on the steering wheel Inspector Wood had no reason to terminate his existence, so he just kept pointing his gun at an imaginary spot just between his eyes, and as he sat there looking down the business end of Inspector Woods hand gun he wished that he had never listened to his sister, and just stuck to joy riding, then he wondered where that horrible smell was coming from.

Where was I whilst all these jollifications were going on, I was on the ground writhing in agony. I had broken an ankle and knac...damaged both my knees, but no one seemed to want to take the slightest bit of interest in me, until Caroline, who had hit the ground a milli-second after me, crawled across and started to behave like a nurse. Then I thought of Alice, with all these bullets flying around I wanted to make sure that she was safe. I looked in the direction of the car park entrance and saw that Alice was alongside the Daimler. First I saw her screaming at Bertha, then as Bertha tried to flee the scene, dear sweet little Alice grappled her to the ground and started to pound her head onto the concrete; this was definitely not turning into a relationship made in heaven, and as I lay there struggling to push Caroline off me, so that I could somehow hobble to Alice's aid, a rather distinguished gentleman exited the Daimler's rear door and pulled Alice off of her, unfortunately before she could do too much permanent damage to her. The Chauffer also exited the car and sat on Bertha, it wasn't a very scientific form of restraint but as Bertha was unconscious, it was totally effective.

As Tweedle Dumber was being dragged out of the car by Inspector Wood, he started to scream at the chauffer to get off his sister, and then, with just a little more encouragement, he then started to suffer from verbal diarrhoea as well. Apparently his sister Bertha had been rather miffed when it looked as though she wasn't going to get anything significant out of Alice, so she hastily recruited two local thugs and Dwain (Tweedle Dumber) to kidnap me, and then hold me to ransom, obviously they hadn't heard of the expression 'working for a living'.

When two armed response vehicles full of SO19 team members arrived a few minutes later they found Tweedle Dumb with a tie-wrap around his wrists, and a knife handle protruding from his shoulder, propped up against the Volvo's front wheel, Tweedle Dumber handcuffed to its door frame (and smelling to high heaven), Alice sobbing uncontrollably into the shoulder of the Lord Chief Justice, David and Charlie trying to look innocent (with two big guns in their hands), me writhing on the concrete (with Caroline still trying to tend me), and Inspector Wood preserving the crime scene. Lord Fox wouldn't let the incoherent Alice go just yet, he wasn't one hundred percent sure where she fitted into all of this, but he hoped she was one of the good guys as he really liked her perfume.

Inspector Wood had already been on his personal radio so there was no more gunplay, although the car park would be nicknamed the 'OK Corral' for many years to come, and with the Lord Chief Justice as an eye witness there weren't going to be too many problems for David and Charlie, but they still had to temporarily give up their firearms and submit to a seemingly endless amount of questions 'back at the station', so when the first Ambulance arrived I was loaded into it, and the Lord Chief Justice detailed off two SO 19 team members to babysit me until The Colonel could organise something - who was going to argue with him.

After a week in hospital I flew home with a new-fangled fibre-glass 'plaster cast' on my leg, as broken ankles go it was pretty pitiful - but it still hurt like hell. My knees initially were a bit more problematic, but after the Surgeons' carried out a double arthroscopy on them (to trim off some damaged cartilage) I was 'up and hobbling' a couple of days later. The Gulfstream G450 came to rest directly outside my new hand carved wooden front doors - yet another thing to go on my wish list (the plane not the doors), and I hobbled down its steps, directly into a strategically placed wheel chair, Caroline had decided that with all the sightseeing that I was about to be doing it would be best done from the comfort of my trusty old chair.

I was met by all and sundry, and after a group photograph I accepted the keys to my new home 'officially' from Paul, more photographs, and as I glided serenely into the Atrium I was stunned (even more photographs), everything was finished. Trees and bushes abounded and in the pool, happily splashing about were Robin, Emma, baby Mark and a rather shy Alice, swiftly joined by Bonnie and Clyde (you've guessed it, yet more photographs). Alice and I had talked ourselves silly over the past few days, I knew (and more importantly, the Police knew) that she had not been complicit in Bertha's plot, and as she had only used 'reasonable' force to restrain a fleeing suspect there would be no action taken against her, although she did receive a rather nice letter from the Lord Chief Justice asking her what the name of her perfume was, his wife's birthday was coming up soon. David and Charlie were also free to come back to Spain with me, although they would have to return in due course to attend the Coroners Court hearing, and that was fine by me, although I would object bitterly if Tweedle Dumber (Dwain) sent me his dry cleaning bill. The rest of the tour was very enjoyable (although I would happily have used David's new gun on the photographer). All departments were up and running, and everything was to my total satisfaction, if it hadn't been then I had threatened to knock a couple of noughts off the final bill – although there were so many of them I doubted if anyone would noticed, but after nearly two hours of sightseeing the final room on my tour was my bed room, where I remained, comatose, until the next day.

Whilst I had been away enjoying myself (?) in England my temporary encampment had been removed and the 'hole' had grown even larger, reaching its final dimensions, although it had yet to be properly landscaped, and the first tanker of water wasn't due for a couple of weeks, although I was rather disappointed that there wasn't a giant plug and chain at the bottom of it.

Now that I was in my permanent home I could entertain visitors like a normal person, and from day one I had streams of them, ranging from family to virtual strangers. I was now on the 'must visit' list with a vengeance, although it wasn't all one way though, I started to receive reciprocal invitations, but usually somewhere in the shrubbery there was an unattached lady or two.

A little while ago, after I had been on my spending spree in the Pueblo buying up properties left, right and centre, I had mentioned to Vicente in passing that I disliked graffiti with a vengeance, and lo and behold the very next morning I looked in my diary, which now resided centre stage on my huge brand new 'antique' desk and found that I had my first visitor, **'** _11:00 - J.A. - graffiti_ **'** , and at 10:55 sharp Maria showed J.A. in. J.A., or José Antonio to his friends (I would hate to be his enemy, his surnames were absolutely unpronounceable) had the sort of face that you took one look at and instantly knew that you could safely store your butter in his mouth, knowing that it wouldn't melt. In a solicitor this was a very good thing. He was Vicente's associate and he could, metaphorically speaking, rip someone's throat out at the drop of a hat - and then they would thank him very much for doing so. He also had a vehement dislike of graffiti 'artists' as his mother's apartment overlooked a large 'multi-coloured' wall, so Vicente had let him loose with my gripe. He realised that it would take years for a national campaign to bear any fruit so he was more than happy to start small, in San Miguel, as a sort of practice run. He'd had quiet meetings with the Mayor, Politicians, Police, and local businessmen; they all liked him very much and of course didn't mind one little bit when he asked them for this 'small' favour, or that 'small' favour. They really didn't have a clue what they were letting themselves in for. José Antonio had quietly cajoled the Politicians into tweaking a couple of existing local bye laws, and slightly amend another one; after all they were not all that important, and he was now in a position to spring his trap \- but he needed some help from me and my money to do so. Although they didn't realise it, the Politicians had made it an offence for anyone within the bounds of San Miguel to display graffiti in any form, even if they didn't paint it on themselves. No matter where these 'artists' did their handiwork, someone, somewhere owned that surface, and now the owner had a legal obligation to remove it. The 'Police Local' were already willing to prosecute the 'artists' for vandalism but unfortunately it was a very difficult and time consuming job, and now on top of all that they would have to find out who owned the surface, and then give its owner thirty days to remove it. If the owner failed to remove it then the Ayuntamiento (Local Council) had to, within another thirty days, and then send the bill to the owner, and this is where I came in; responsible people were usually strongly against this type of vandalism, until it hit them in their pockets, whether it was directly, as the owner of a shop or property (occupied or empty), or indirectly when it came to paying their (slightly) increased taxes, so to make the pill easier to swallow Vicente had suggested to J.A. that perhaps I might be persuaded to provide funds to take some of the sting out of it initially. The Ayuntamiento would have to employ a small specialist team to remove the graffiti and to contact the owners, so for the first year perhaps I could sponsor it. I would in effect be cleaning up the Pueblo, once, but after that the residents would be on their own. It would make people realise that these 'artists' were criminals not cult hero's. I thought that it was a great idea, and was well up to providing the funding, but how to spring the trap? The next day I was due to give a speech in the Pueblo, perhaps we might be able to use that occasion to our own ends.

One of the first things that I had done for San Miguel when I arrived was to fund a large extension of the Centro de Salud (Health Centre), and provide some much needed modern equipment to go in it. Sheila would have liked that, so it was going to be named after her; and I doubted that she would object to me slipping the 'graffiti' bit in along the way. José Antonio and I thought long and hard about how to do this, but in the end it was a total waste of time, the residents of San Miguel loved the idea. I think they would have even paid the first year's bill themselves, and the Mayor wasn't the slightest bit miffed that we had gone behind his back; he would claim the scheme as his own and rake in the votes come election time. At the end of the ceremony José Antonio was even signing autographs. As a Yorkshire friend of mine used to say, 'there's now't as queer as folk', and one of the first customers to use the new medical wing was a young man, he was naked and covered from head to toe in spray paint and indelible marker; I think that the message had well and truly gone out.

~~~~

Chapter 26

My next big adventure came three weeks later when Carol, sorry Captain Carter took me to Dubai for its International Boat Show; apparently I needed a tender. My ankle was still tender, would that do? Apparently not, so we arrived in Dubai amid a blaze of sunshine and wall to wall luxury, and found that the boats came in every conceivable shape and size - in and out of the water. It had been bad enough trying to climb out of my bed that morning; I should really have had a Sherpa guide, and now I was expected to navigate the show, but all was not lost; Carol of course had a short list. We toured the stands and embarked and disembarked on untold craft of various shapes and sizes but nothing seemed to 'rock my boat', until over lunch in the VIP tent I read my palm. It wasn't exactly 'my' palm, it was the publicity blurb on a Palm Marine boat, a Palm Sports 540, not the largest boat in the show by a long chalk, but it seemed to hit a spot, so off we went to find the relevant stand, which was the easy part, the hard part was actually getting to speak to a sales person. They all eyed me up and down suspiciously, noting, I suppose, that I was fairly respectably dressed, but only had an entourage of eight (upgraded security post Bertha), but finally one of them deemed me worthy of a few moments of her time.

'I am looking for a tender' I said.

That wiped the artificial smile off her face, 'those types of boats are on the 'other' side of the showground' she retorted.

'I was thinking more on the lines of that one' I said, nodding at the 540. That got the smile back,

'How large is your yacht?' she asked in amazement.

'Oh about 152 metres, give or take'. After that I had a new friend for life, well at least until the sales were completed.

Fortunately for her I didn't just buy a Sport 540, by the end of the day _in the bag with it_ went a Palm Islander 600, all sixty-three feet (19.3 metres) of European styling (apparently), that could do over thirty knots. It would be ideal for those shorter trips when it just couldn't be bothered to get the Lady S out.

A Palm Islander 420 _also went in_ , forty-two feet (13.4 metres) of sophisticated luxury (I must stop reading all those brochures), but that could only do twenty-nine knots: I suppose it would be OK for pottering about in; perhaps for a quick (ish) trip to a local beach, and I wouldn't even worry too much if the family used it occasionally.

The next day _into the now rather crowded bag_ went two work boats for use around the Marina, runabouts that I wouldn't mind too much if they got splattered with the odd paint spot or two. Two RIB's (inflatable's with rigid hulls and two huge outboard engines on their sterns) _went in the side pockets_ , great boats for tearing around the Mediterranean at fantastic speeds in, or more importantly to act as safety boats whilst my family and friends were learning to sail in the dinghies. 'What dinghies?' I hear you ask. Half a dozen Ian Proctor Wayfarer dinghies _went into their own bag (one cannot mix motor with sail now can one)_ , in my youth I had been taught to sail in one of these, so why shouldn't the rest of my family suffer now, _along with_ a Dufour eleven metre 365 sailing yacht, for either when the price of fuel went up, or more importantly, when I wanted to serenely commune with nature. The price tag for this Marina load of boats?, don't even go there; mind you I did collect a container load of 'freebies', and Carol was a very happy little bunny, she now had lots of new toys to play with; after me of course, and Bob could now start earning his pay.

One of Carol's first acquisitions on joining me was Bob Stokoe; he had been the Bosun on the Sea Sprite until he had retired eighteen months ago 'to go and spend some quality time with his family', at his wife's repeated request, and Carol knew from what area he hailed from, so it only took her a few minutes to find his phone number and give him a ring. At her first attempt she got his wife, who wasn't best pleased at hearing from one of Bob's former colleagues, especially a female one – it could only mean trouble? She had hated him being away for long periods of time (although since his return she had changed her mind on that subject), although she **had** enjoyed the money, so perhaps this wasn't trouble, so she told Carol to ring back 'after six' and hung up.

Carol rang back 'after six' and Bob didn't seem like his old self at all; his voice sounded sort of flat as he answered the phone, although it did pick up an octave when she identified herself, and so she quickly came to the point. 'Would you be interested in a position in Spain pottering about with boats?'

She then got his recent life history, in graphic detail. Apparently after he had left the Borne Line he went to work for a local ship yard doing repairs on private yachts, until the yard went bust. He then got a job selling maritime insurance, until that company also went bust, and now he was a bloody traffic warden, 'what the frigging hell do you think my answer will be?' Twenty minutes later his wife came onto the phone, apologised most profusely for her previous telephone manner and then went to pack Bob's overnight bag, he was going off for an interview, but fortunately he was on a 'short list' of one.

'Bob the Bosun' only had a small wooden hut as an office at the moment, but he didn't mind that one little bit, he was looking out of the window at his new offices and workshops that were being constructed to his own specifications as he watched, but he was dragged from his daydreams (he didn't have a lot to do as he was the Bosun of a boatless Marina) by his new 'all singing, all dancing' mobile telephone. The caller I.D. informed him that it was his new boss calling, 'good afternoon Ma'am, Bosun speaking, how can I help?'

'Bad news Bosun' she said, and his stomach churned, at least the insurance job had lasted almost six months, and then Captain Carter continued, 'you will now have to work for a living. A dozen boats of varying sizes will be arriving within the next month or so, and how are the pontoons coming along?'

Earlier that morning he had just finished testing the lights, water and electricity supplies on the new pontoons on behalf of Mr Michaels. Apart from a few fancy fenders that needed splicing on, they were all complete.

'Cooking on gas Ma'am, they are all hot to trot', he liked his metaphors.

'I presume that means that they are ready for use? Carol chuckled; he was way too long in the tooth to try and change.

The pontoons were indeed ready, as was the slipway. The renovations to the sea wall and jetty were also complete, along with their associated security systems, and the new jetty for the Lady S (Mr Michaels had gone ahead with the purchase) was well under way, as was his workshops, offices and the boat house, and as he hung up he had a thought, with all these boats Captain Carter would soon have to be made a Commodore.

~~~~

Chapter 27

When I returned to El Campo from Dubai, for the first time it really felt as though I was returning home, and it was a nice feeling. I was even getting a little used to all the attention being heaped on me, and as I had just bought all those boats, I was eagerly looking forward to learning to fly!!!!! One afternoon, just prior to my Dubai visit, after a lazy picnic lunch on the hill overlooking the Marina (I enjoyed work, I could watch it all day long) David had a proposition that he hoped wouldn't upset me too much. There were two perfectly good aircraft in 'A' hangar, George's Tiger Moth and Harvard, and both were in excellent condition (I had inherited them along with the airfield), so he wondered if I would let him get them made airworthy so that he could get back into flying again'.

'Rubbish' I said, 'I will pay, and then you can teach me to fly', so David went off to England for a week to do some refresher training and returned just in time to take the Tiger Moth up for its 'post storage' test flight. Whilst he had been away a team of mechanics had come in and checked both aircraft over. They were fine, and after the Inspectors had carried out their checks both aircraft were given a clean bill of health (Certificates of Airworthiness). The next day we were departing for Dubai, so after the obligatory test flight I went up with David for a quick 'jolly' (his name for a pleasure trip), but I wanted more, a lot more. David explained that he could take me up for jollies whenever I felt like one, but unfortunately he couldn't teach me to fly, but he knew a man that could.

Group Captain Edward (Teddy) Heslop (retired) was a certified Chief Flying Instructor (he'd had a hand in teaching both royal 'children' to fly) and he and his wife had moved to Spain on his retirement from the Royal Air Force, but were both now getting just a tad bored with all the sun, sand and sangria – they had given the other 'S' up a long time ago, and David had met him the night before, following his return from England. He was having a quiet night out with Caroline at a local restaurant and they had got talking to the people on the next table, one thing led to another and an idea was born, telephone numbers were exchanged, and the next day David was ringing him back. Although Teddy would willingly have taught me for free I insisted on paying him, even if it was only 'in kind', 'how about flying hours in the Harvard?' I suggested, but as he quickly started to spend more and more time at the airfield that idea went straight out of the window, there just weren't enough 'flying hours' left in a day, and so he quickly became my CFI (Chief Flying Instructor).

Within a week of my return from Dubai he was teaching seven of my staff (plus me) to fly and the poor old Tiggy Moth would soon be starting to wilt at its seams. I would have to get something more suitable post haste, perhaps a Cessna Skyhawk - or two, and life soon became one long round of fun and frolics. If I wasn't learning to fly, boating, visiting the Lady S, or total strangers (for what usually turned out to be a quiet weekend for two - ugh), I was improving my swing with Paul.

Phase IV was progressing well, and I was convinced that it definitely must be coming 'flat packed', as every time I went aloft with Teddy it seemed to have progressed another leap or bound, and the architect was convinced that I was checking up on him. I was, but only so that Paul and I could 'test drive' the next hole to be finished, and neither of us could wait for the course to be finally complete, especially as I had made a decision very early on in the process that the eighth hole/ninth tee would be on the Island, and there would be no bridge to it, we would have to use special boats to get to and from it. 'CAROL more boats please'.

One of my first true house guests turned out to be the Colonel, and he sort of invited himself, but it was still nice to see him (and meet his lady wife) again. After an outdoor 'hog roast' (sorry no vegetarian equivalent), several cold San Mig's and a very 'good' (large) Brandy he presented me with a beautifully embossed invitation to an 'Anniversary Banquet' at the Guildhall in London at the beginning of October; the only condition was that I had to bring David and Charlie along with me. This intrigued me so I asked him what the 'Anniversary' was in aid of, so he told me.

The Lady S was coming along fine; and I was collecting an awful lot of 'frequent flyer air miles' commuting back and forth to Germany, but I realised early on that the shipyard might be great at building warships and commercial vessels to an exceptionally standard, but unfortunately in a luxury yacht some of the finished standards were expected to be even higher, so the yard arranged for an English company from Gosport, which specialised in building luxury yachts, to set up a temporary site in the yards fitting-out shed, to 'fit-out' the posh bits.

Because of her chequered past, below decks were all but complete way before the Lady S was floated-out. The only really major 'heavy' work was the construction of the new superstructure, and so once the plans were finalised it flew (or should that be 'sailed') along, and early autumn found me watching the floating out ceremony; and it came a close second to watching paint dry as it was an awfully large dock to fill with water, but as she was towed over to the fitting-out jetty I started to have an inkling of just how Carol must be feeling, and with luck she should be able to bring her home to me just before Easter, but the Lady S wasn't the only boat that I had to play with; I now had a Marina full of them. The Marina would be finished well before Lady S came home to roost, although one thing that I had well and truly 'thrown my teddy out of the pram over' was the Boat House, it wasn't finished, and my newly restored Riva Aquarama was getting wet. Not only her beautifully smooth and shiny bottom that was floating in the water, but the twenty odd coats of marine varnish on her top, it was raining. I had spent a wonderful day at Hurley, on the river Thames looking over my 'new' Aquarama. It was having the finishing touches done to a minor repair, and a colour change for its blue leather upholstery (my eyes are green, it would clash), and I enjoyed wandering around watching their craftsmen lovingly restoring and/or constructing a host of other beautiful boats, NO – enough is enough. My Aquarama was second-hand – or is it now pre-loved - it had to be, they had stopped building them in 1972 but it had just undergone a lovingly restored. The previous owner had 'dinked' it slightly on its first outing after the restoration and had promptly had a minor heart attack, his wife then insisted on him putting it up for sale before he could do any more damage to it, and kill himself off completely. I hope that it wasn't an omen!!!!

Virtually from the day that each of my new boats arrived I had to join a queue to take them out. Carol was busy recruiting a permanent crew for the Lady S, but had realised early on that she only really needed a glorified harbour crew; after all I wasn't going to be spending months at a time at sea, so at my first monthly 'A' team meeting of all the departmental heads after moving into my new home, we discussed this problem. As Carol pointed out, a full crew on board the Lady S at all times would probably send them all stir crazy, most of the time they would have absolutely nothing to do, so what she suggested was that the crew would effectively be split into three. The 'service' part of the crew, that would solely be looking after me and my guests (catering, waiting, cleaning etc) when I was embarked, would come from 'volunteers' from my existing service staff. If that turned out to be a problem them perhaps we might look into revising their contracts, but I doubted that that would be necessary, those that embarked would be receiving a daily 'sea going' bonus. The small 'permanent' ship's crew would be recruited by Carol, but when the Lady S was alongside at El Campo they would come under the day to day supervision of the Bosun, not only looking after the Lady S but operating and tending all my other boats as well, but to enable the Lady S to function safely at sea 24/7, extra seamen (and women) would be purloined from the other departments around El Campo, staff that wouldn't normally be going to sea (security, ground staff etc). They would receive additional training, and again receive a sea going bonus.

David saw where this was leading to and 'forcefully' pointed out that he was already providing 'volunteer' fire fighters, any more 'volunteers' and it would reduce the effectiveness of his teams, so to overcome this problem I agreed that he could start recruiting and training more staff to cover any shortfalls. I wonder if the Colonels Corporals were still available, and Carol and the Bosun would devise a course for those that wished to become part time sailors.

Rule one: They must all be able to jump into the staff swimming pool from its diving board with overalls on, and then swim two lengths of the pool without touching the sides. SPLASH, I've never seen so many fully clothed people in a swimming pool before.

Rule two: Every volunteer would earn their seagoing rank, just because a sergeant may volunteer, it won't follow that he would automatically become a Petty Officer.

Rule three: When embarked on the Lady S they will wear the same uniform as the permanent crew, 'CAROLINE, get your cotton out'.

As intended the Islander 600 was the perfect training boat, and Carol or the Bosun would regularly take her out to put everyone through their paces, and as time progressed, and more and more of my staff became 'nautically' proficient, I started to enjoy visiting the local Marinas and Yacht Clubs in her, if you have a smart and efficient crew – why not show them off.

Every trainee, when he/she had passed the initial training stage was flown up to Germany to acquaint them with the Lady S in person, but if they thought it was going to be a holiday, think again, Captain Carter was turning into a very hard taskmistress.

~~~~

Chapter 28

On the evening of the first of October I found myself standing in the reception area of the Dorchester Hotel, all dressed up in my finery, along with David, Charlie, Maria (as my arm candy), Caroline and Agnetha (she and Charlie were now an 'item') and surrounded by a group of the Colonel's 'finest', as it was David and Charlie's night off. David and Charlie were resplendent in their D.J.'s, complete with rows of eye catching miniature medals on their chests, and we were all patiently waiting for the Colonel, and of course he walked in dead on the designated hour, with his long suffering wife on his arm. It was handshakes and/or kisses all round and then 'time we were off'. The Colonel was in charge tonight.

As we exited the main entrance we were greeted by the sight of what must have been the largest Hummer (based on the US Armies Humvee) in the world, it was the stretchiest limo I have ever seen, and it was surrounded by a group of bikers. Not your ordinary 'Hells Angels' type of biker, more your top of the range 'Royal Corps of Signals White Helmets Motor Cycle Display Team' type of biker, resplendent in their finest livery. As we clambered into the vehicle the Colonel directed us all too where we should sit, if I had been in charge of that operation I would have needed an A-Z of the vehicle, and a road-stewardess poured us all a drink. Once the Colonel's boys were aboard more conventional Range Rovers we buckled up and were off, and the White Helmets must have been going our way because they followed us (in front, at the sides and behind, along with some friendly police motorcyclists that also just happened to be passing) all the way to the Guildhall, it was really very convenient, especially when we were going around Piccadilly Circus. At the end of the noisy drive (everyone seemed to be wanting to try out their sirens) the driver got a trifle disorientated, he followed the motorcycles into an area not normally used by motor vehicles, although it was very convenient for us as we came to a halt quite close to the main entrance. We could have got even closer if it hadn't been for a group of soldiers standing about, in two straight lines. As a lowly civilian it looked to me like there must be a representative from every Regiment and Unit in the British Army, but I may have been mistaken, and then the door next to David opened and the Colonel indicated to him to exit first, most inappropriate - but the Colonel must know best. A Sergeant with a black eye was holding the door open for him, and he was saluting, 'Not for me Paddy, I was only a lowly Warrant Officer, not worthy of a salute'.

'*ollocks' came the reply, and he remained saluting.

David had realised early on in the journey that 'something was up' then as he stood there with the long lines of the honour guard in front of him the penny finally dropped. He had been wondering what the 'Anniversary Banquet' was in aid of, but every time he asked me I had given him a vague answer, now he knew. It was the second anniversary of his 'incident' in Afghanistan, so David, with Caroline proudly on his arm (and the rest of us traipsing along behind) acknowledged each representative as he walked stiff backed between the lines. As we arrived at the main entrance David (the rest of us were totally ignored) was greeted by the Colonel of 22 Regiment SAS - Colonel Jameson, who gave him a ground shaking salute (about a 8.5 on the Richter Scale), and then escorted him through the foyer into the glass ambulatory to where a line of Officers and men were waiting to greet him. He knew some of them, but not all. The first one in the line-up was Surgeon Commander (now Captain) Beatty RN from RNAS Culdrose, who came to attention, shook his hand and whispered 'you deserve a lot more than tonight'.

'Tonight???' then it was on to the next one. The rest of the tri-service line up were the other two members of his team from Afghanistan, the Royal Air Force crews from the Chinook and Tornado aircraft, and the Army Air Corp crews of the Apache helicopters. A few familiar faces were there from the supporting cast of that memorable day, followed right at the very end of the line by a sheepish Captain Gerald Fitzpatrick - complete with an oversized symbolic plaster on his chin; he had obviously learnt his lesson. Captain Fitzpatrick quickly whispered that the only time that the 'incident' had ever been mentioned had been in the office before he had been sent cap in hand back to England, and all that they had said at Credenhill was that they understood that he had blotted his copybook big time, and wondered where they were going to send him to carry out his penance. He had no idea how the Generals had found out, mind you the second in command of that Afghanistan detachment was very conspicuous by his absence that evening. As he was steered towards the Great Hall the huge doors were opened by two more sergeants, one with another black eye and the other with a fat lip. Apparently the Regimental Sergeant Major had let the Sergeants Mess choose who would have the honour of opening the doors for David, there was a long list of volunteers, but it was whittled down to just the three of them in the boxing ring, and as he entered the eight hundred year old medieval banqueting hall all conversation stopped instantly, and virtually everyone leapt to their feet and stood to attention. As Colonel Jameson steered David towards the 'top table', through wall to wall gold braid, most of the 'top table' remained seated, they hadn't a clue what was going on, they thought that this was just another very expensive 'free dinner', and hadn't twigged on that they just happened to be the ones that had been involved in the decision to 'retire' David - most, but not all. A 'very senior' Royal and his two sons rose to their feet and came around to the front of the table, much to the puzzlement of the rest of the tables occupants and came to a halt in front of David, and came to attention, the father in his Royal Navy uniform perhaps not quite as smartly as his sons in their Army and Royal Air Force ones, but he made up for it in gold braid, and David stood open mouthed as Colonel Jameson introduced him to the royal party, 'your Royal Highness Sir, may I have the honour of introducing Warrant Officer first class ('retired' in a low voice) David Brian Williams, Distinguished Conduct Medal and bar to you.'

'We really will have to stop meeting like this Warrant Officer' the most senior of them said, 'but that aside it really is an honour to meet you again.' After introducing David to his sons we, that open mouthed gaggle following on behind, were also introduced to their Royal Highnesses, the senior one commenting to me that 'apparently you have a rather nice house out in Spain Mr Michaels, I would consider it an honour to be invited to look around it sometime', then came the main event of the evening, the presentation, and as we stood to one side His Royal Highness presented David with a beautiful half sized silver replica of his trusty BMG McMillan snipers rifle. 'Apparently every unit has contributed towards this' (don't forget me I thought), and then, as the RSM struggled (without flinching a muscle) to hold it out, he continued, 'please note your miniatures (medals) along the front of the plinth' and indicating the centre one, the only one that David didn't recognise, he continued in a louder voice, 'especially this one'. It was a beautifully hand painted 'miniature' of Queen Victoria, mounted on a very fine filigree Maltese cross. 'You now have your very own 'Victoria Cross', and I hope that Mummy will not miss the painting'. The five Generals still seated at the Top Table, upon hearing the Royals comments knew that their Military careers all hung in the balance and stood up, two of them quickly going over to congratulate David (after all, history would show {they hoped} that all they had done was rubber stamp the decision), and the other three quietly slipped away, no doubt pondering what debilitating diseases that they could contract that would end their military careers, after all they all had an absolute penchant for medical discharges.

Before everyone sat down I had a quick word with David, this was a military occasion, not for mere civilians, so I explained that I would make my excuses and take Maria out for a slap up meal as compensation. Caroline overheard my comments and asked if she could tag along, she didn't want to cramp her husband's style on his special night, after all she could watch the video anytime, although Agnetha opted to remain; it was her ambition to drink Charlie under the table - and these tables looked pretty fancy to her, and so as I slipped away, a beautiful woman on each arm, and the Colonel's finest reluctantly tagging along behind, I watched the Royal Marines band preparing to perform (among other things) their world famous 'sunset' routine for the honoured guest. The Marines obviously hadn't forgotten South Georgia all those years ago either. I hope David wasn't going to expect this kind of treatment every time we went out; it was going to cost me a small fortune to placate these two women.

~~~~

Chapter 29

On returning to the sanity of El Campo I concentrated more and more on my flying lessons, and after twenty-two hours dual I went solo. My first trip by myself was no problem, I was so busy that I didn't have time to notice the empty seat beside me, but on my second one I did, and I nearly had to change my trousers after the flight.

My first 'passenger' turned out to be Clyde (Bonnie didn't like the noise one little bit and so always gave aircraft a wide berth), it was to be my sixth solo flight and I was starting to feel really confident (cocky) so when I climbed into the Cessna and found Clyde curled up on the co-pilots seat I started the engine and expected him to scarper. When he gave no indication that he wanted to vacate the aircraft, I decided to let him come along for the ride, and although I wasn't allowed to take up human passengers yet, I didn't think canine ones counted, so I gave Chalky a quick call on the radio and he got someone to go and retrieved one of the dog harnesses from the back of my very own 4x4, and somehow we managed to clip Clyde safely in. From then on he became my confidant in the air; he let me talk through all sorts of problems with him, and never once telling Teddy. With almost sixty hours in the air (and an awful lot more in the hangar and classroom) I paid a 'flying' visit to the UK, and came back clutching my Private Pilot's Licence, although unfortunately I wasn't finished with either the classroom or Teddy just yet, my aim was to eventually fly my own Gulfstream G450, it would take time, but one thing that I certainly had a lot of now was time!

Paul left my employ when the Marina was completed, as I had sorted out the Trust Fund details by then. Indirectly he became a very wealthy man; he had the use of several hundred million Euros, give or take, although he couldn't spend a cent of it. What he had to do was invest it (with the help of a lot of very wise people) and use the profits that were generated to aid 'green projects'. My Carbon footprint quickly disappeared as I became the proud owner of new forests in Kenya, Guatemala and El Salvador, and untold new trees in the UK. There was even talk of naming a wind turbine farm after me in Scotland. At least the eco-warriors won't be after my blood now, and Eddie, now a happily divorced man would continue supervising Phase IV, although it will now be in his new capacity as Estate Manager, with a seat at the 'A' team table.

By the middle of December I was able to fly Maria, David and most of my senior staff to Germany in my brand new twin engine Beechcraft King Air 350. Apparently I had to get to the Gulfstream in stages and this twin turbo prop aircraft was stage three, thankfully there will only be one more stage to go as the G450 was already on order, although Teddy was sat in the seat beside me as I still hadn't quite got all the requisite licences yet to haul passengers around in it, but I was getting there, I can now see what George had seen in this flying malarkey, it is certainly exhilarating, but why were we all going to Germany in the freezing cold? We were all going for a boat trip.

The Lady S was off to sea for the first time although a lot of her luxury bits and bobs were still to be fitted, but the dockyard reckoned that she wouldn't sink if they took her out into deep water. It was going to be more of a 'jolly' for us, as the dockyard personnel would be putting her through her paces, but I wouldn't miss it for the world; and Carol would just have to sit on her hands. All of Lady S's systems that could be, had been thoroughly tested while she was tied up alongside the jetty, but there were certain things that just cannot be simulated alongside; she needed to be put through her paces in the wide open spaces of the North Sea. The dockyard matey's had prepared her well, so as soon as we were all on board the Lady S edged her bow away from the jetty, and then it was 'slow ahead both': and she worked beautifully. That first trip out was purely to make sure that all the systems were operating correctly; the stabilisers and the horn were my favourites. My 'special' horn was an 'optional extra'; I just had to have one fitted. As a child I had loved that bit in the movie 'The Guns of Navarone' where the Destroyers had come charging in at the last moment with their horns a whoop, whoop, whooping; the stuff that childhood dreams are made of, but unfortunately the Lady S had gas turbine engines, not steam boilers, but somehow the wiz kids had created a very passable imitation of the real thing, complete with 'steam', and I quickly found out why they couldn't test it whilst alongside - it was absolutely deafening. Contractors working parties were also on board for the first trip, busily checking over and calibrating their particular bits of equipment, but as virtually all the technology and systems in the Lady S were of a proven design, most of gear worked 'as advertised' first time, but as winter had well and truly set in in the North Sea, my personal favourite place on that first trip turned out to be the observation lounge, especially when the stabilisers were switched off; and you've guessed it the windscreen wipers worked perfectly as well. I would just have to save the flag pole for better weather.

All the sea trials proceeded exceptionally well and so very soon some of my own crew were partaking in the trips - then eventually the big day arrived, Caroline took her out for the first time with only my own crew on board, not a dockyard matey in sight. I let her have that special day to herself; she had well and truly earned it, and I was also sure that she didn't want the extra bother of having me getting under her feet, then just before Easter I handed over the cheque to Herr Flik (and new cars to Donald and Marta), and the keys were all mine. Of course it wasn't quite as simple as that; they had to have a grand ceremony first, and there was quite a sizable crowd on the jetty to wave us off, some of them even having a tear in their eye, but they needn't have worried, I'm sure that in the paperwork somewhere it said that the guarantee was only valid if I took her back for her ten thousand nautical mile service, and as spring slowly sprung Carol took the Lady S out at every possible opportunity, working up the crew and ironing out any niggly little problems, although they usually turned out to be 'finger trouble' on the part of the crew. The Lady S was jammed packed full of High-Tec gadgetry so as a temporary measure Carol hired a computer geek to go through all the systems and train the crew up as necessary. He turned out to have a natural flair for turning computer 'gobbledy gook' into understandable language, and he also got on extremely well with Carol, which was very fortunate as his name was Scott Carter – her son, he was now a freelance I.T. specialist, but there was nothing free about his fee. As often as I could I would go along for a jolly, to exercise my sea legs and finally to get myself acquainted with my collapsible flag pole (helicopters don't seem to like having to fly around it when they are trying to land), although sometimes I would deliberately be left behind, 'plausible deniability' David called it. Although I didn't know it, that empty space in the stern was no longer empty; the Lady S now had a sting in her tail, and when Carol was finally satisfied with my new toy and its crew, I decided that what was needed was a 'shake down' cruise, to see if she was really worth all those Euro's, so our first voyage of discovery would be to Dubai; I had enjoyed my few days there, but I wanted to see more than just a boat show and my hotel room. Then we would be a quick trip back home, the pretty way - via Cape Town. Carol estimated that the whole trip should take about six weeks, but that would depend on how much rubber-necking there was to do on the way, and almost all of mine and Sheila's families wanted to go on the first test drive so from the start the trip had all the makings of a repeat performance of that dreadful Christmas: but none of them had yet met my secret weapon - Lady Hyacinth. She was going to be the referee, and from day one it seemed to work.

I left El Campo in the capable hands of Eddie and Mrs Blake, but took her husband (Nigel), along with Marcel, Bob the Bosun and a fair amount of 'volunteers' off for my first adventure, although some willing 'volunteers' had to remain behind to do the boring bits like looking after El Campo, although a change-over was planned in Cape Town to give everyone a fair crack of the whip.

First off we scooted up the Mediterranean to Malta. Two nights in Valletta Grand Harbour and then we headed for the Suez Canal, now that was serious sightseeing. Carol timed our arrival to perfection, breakfast slipping past Port Said and lunch passing Suez. Neither of us had ever 'done' the Suez Canal before but fortunately the pilot had, mega times, so we didn't get lost, and once we were in the Gulf of Suez it was time for some serious sun worshipping and swimming, you really couldn't tell that a five inch 'quick fire' gun was supposed to have gone into the hole; it looked just like a regular swimming pool to me. The next morning we woke up in the Red Sea, metaphorically speaking, this was the life, and everyone was settling down to enjoy the trip, even Lady Hyacinth was happy with my staff, praise indeed, and all went well until we entered the Gulf of Aden. The next morning I awoke to find some made-to-measure canvas bags covering some very strange looking objects on the Bridge wings, and at various other locations around my beautiful ship, and there was an even larger bag covering something forward of the pool: Bob the Bosun had obviously been very busy before we had left El Campo. Apparently during the night a 'pirate warning' had gone out, not Blackbeard with his cutlass and Jolly Roger, but Somali pirates armed with AK47's and RPG's. They were using high speed launches to come alongside ships, board them, and then either empty the ships safe or hold the vessel and its crew for ransom. Things had been quiet for the past few months but now it would seem that they were back with a vengeance, but fortunately Carol and David had been training the crew for such an eventuality, on their 'plausible deniability' trips. So much for 'plausible deniability', that hadn't lasted very long, and now the cat was well and truly out of the bag, or rather their new canvas bags, if you can call Browning .50 calibre M2 heavy machine guns cats. Fortunately most of the 'volunteer' sailors were David's Security Officers, and overnight they had switched from being very smart sailors, back into a well-trained militia force. They were not only all now dressed in their patrol blacks, but they also had on Kevlar helmets and flak jackets, with a Steyr AUG assault rifle slung over their shoulder (they certainly don't wear them at El Campo!!!), and the two Sergeants that were on board, masquerading as sailors, now that the guns were out, were back to being Sergeants, but where had all this hardware come from? - Plausible deniability. If I had ever been asked if there were any guns on board I wouldn't have been knowingly lying when I said no. Methinks that Carol and David had not been telling me the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, thank goodness!!!

The guests all thought this was great fun, something a bit O.T.T. that had been laid on especially for their entertainment, and I let the rather naïve ones among them continue to think that, but that all changed at 14:32 local: -

' _Mayday, Mayday, Mayday, this is 'Fair-weather Sailor' calling. We are being harassed by pirates and fear that we are about to be boarded. We are in the company of three other yachts and our position is................'._

A group of yachts had assumed that there was safety in numbers and against all advice had decided to sail out of the Red Sea and into the Gulf of Aden - to take some photographs of Somalia (?). What plonkers!

The task force Commander of 'Combined Task Force 150' answered the mayday, but unfortunately his nearest warship was three hours away, and even worse its helicopter was unserviceable. CTF 150 is a multinational task force that was formed to escort high value ships safely through the area, as well as carrying out anti-piracy operations, but unfortunately for the 'Fair-weather Sailor' the force was spread very thin. The skipper of the yacht was not happy, they were keeping the pirates at bay with their flares, fire extinguishers and beer bottles, but they were running out of beer very quickly, so Carol, David and I went into my sea cabin and it took us less than a minute to come to a decision, if four yachts could hold the pirate vessel at bay, then it should be no problem for us, and Carol was hotfoot onto the radio:-

' _Task force leader this is 'M.Y. Lady S', we are in a position to offer assistance to the 'Fair-weather Sailor' and will be with them in less than two zero minutes – over'._

' _Motor Yacht Lady S, this is task force leader, do not, I repeat do not attempt a rescue, the pirates are armed and dangerous \- over'._

' _Task force leader, so are we – out'._

Carol can be very forceful when she wants to be, so the pedal was firmly pushed to the metal and we took off like a racing greyhound. Metal screens were lowered over the accommodation windows, all passengers were herded below into the crew area (out of harms [and our] way) and Charlie was sent off up into the bow, with a headset on under his helmet. I thought I looked rather fetching in my matching blue Kevlar helmet and flak jacket – Rambo eat your heart out.

We were about three minutes away from the yachts when the skipper of the 'Fair-weather Sailor' screamed over the radio that there was a large dhow bearing down on them _'loaded to the gunwales with gun toting pirates'_ **,** at least he knew his nautical terminology, although using our radar it had become obvious to us that the high speed launch was not a novice; he was just the sheep dog, herding the yachts into a bay so that the Shepherd could then come in for the coup de grâce. We had already seen the dhow approaching them on our radar and were making 'appropriate' preparations to deal with it, even as he was screaming into his microphone. We were approaching the confrontation from behind a spur of land which jutted out into sea; it perfectly masked our approach from all and sundry.

'Charlie, prepare to engage' David said quietly into his microphone.

'Roger' came the reply (funny, I thought David's middle name was Brian) and out of the large canvas bag came a Swedish BILL2 anti-tank guided weapon (Doesn't everyone have one of these handy, just in case of a situation like this?), and as we cleared the headland there was the dhow two thousand metres ahead of us - perfect!

'Ready' came Charlie's calm voice over the loudspeaker.

I gave David the nod and he quietly said 'engage'.

A trail of smoke streaked off into the distance, but as it closed on the vessel the missile looked as though it was going too high, wrong, it was performing perfectly. It was designed to deliberately overfly its intended target and then detonate its warheads above it, striking downwards at a tank's thinnest armour, on its top; or in this case an un-armoured dhow, that only had stacked sand bags along the edges of its decks for protection. These conveniently helped to channel the missiles explosives downwards, and then the dhow was no more, and as the Lady S continued charging in, tracer rounds from several heavy machine guns converged on the luckless launch, ripping it to shreds as well, and then unthinkingly I reached above my head and grabbed the cord of my 'optional extra' and yanked hard on it. **Whoop, Whoop, Whoop** \- and it was all captured in glorious colour, although I didn't realise it at the time.

As we slowed and started to circle the yachts the crews were 'very happy' to see us, and after Carol confirmed with them that no one was injured she was on the radio again:-

' _Task force leader this is Warship Lady S, mission accomplished, no casualties on our side, do we qualify for a CTF 150 sticker now?'_

Quickly we rounded up the miscreant chicks and set off to meet up with the Pakistani Frigate, the one with the poorly budgie, in an arrowhead formation, with the Lady S slowly bringing up the rear, and as we slowly wend our way along the coast, twice piratical gentlemen (thieving gits) of the local area tried to borrow one of them. The first one came to the conclusion very quickly that it was better to be a live coward rather than a dead hero, and the second one erupted in a cloud of smoke and flames – budgie was better. With the Pakistani helicopter circling over our heads we finally met up with its mother ship and she reluctantly took over the task of seeing the yachts back into the safety of the Red Sea, but as we were about to depart, the skipper of the 'Fair-weather Sailor', who had been very quiet up until now, asked us if we could spare a few bottles of beer, they had run out. Carol quickly went over to the signal flag locker and selected two flags, and one of the crew, grinning from ear to ear, then clipped them on to a signal halyard and hauled them aloft, the flags? Foxtrot and Oscar of course, Carol was much too much of a lady to say it out loud.

The next day, around lunch time, I had my first flying visit of the trip, in the shape of a very large Royal Navy helicopter. Several of Carol's many work-up exercises for the crew had involved embarking helicopters when underway so the flight deck crew, under Chalky (I knew that I had agreed to let him come along for some obscure reason) performed to perfection, and the Merlin gently set down slap bang on its spot, and after Chalky's crew had gone in and chocked and lashed the Merlin firmly to the deck the Commodore in charge of CTF 150 exited. It was the turn of the Royal Navy to be Task Force Leader so Commodore 'Hank' Williams RN had the mantle at the moment. Carol met him and his little band on the flight deck and escorted them through the rear of the hangar and into my world. He was open mouthed at the scrumptiousness of it all; he was definitely in the wrong Navy. After introductions all round and a quick 'snifter' (I was getting the hang of this 'yard arm' time) he had the quick Cook's tour of Lady S, ending up on the bridge. He gave a little speech to the assembled throng, complimenting everyone on their selfless act and then presented me with a plaque. It had the CTF 150 crest mounted on it with a shiny brass plate below it, and etched into it was 'Lady S ~ for conspicuous bravery ~ Somalia', and yesterday's date. The 'Buffer' on his ship had obviously been very busy throughout the night. He shook hands and presented each of the leading participants of the altercation with an embroidered CTF 150 patch (and left a large box of goodies for everyone else) then made his excuses and left, but not before first passing on his Senior Pilot's compliments about the professionalism of my flight deck crew, perhaps I should have the Lady S re-painted grey!!!

As we continued on with our interrupted journey the crew started to become very busy. Earlier, when I had said that all our relatives had wanted to come on Lady S's test drive, I wasn't entirely accurate. What they really wanted was to be in on its first 'Cockers P', my first full blown cocktail party - in Dubai. When I had approached Lady Hyacinth about coming on part, or even the entire shakedown cruise she had readily agreed, and was turning into the consummate 'Lady of the house', without any of the complications, but a week after speaking to her I received a call from Clarence house. Funny, I didn't know any Clarence's, or their houses - and then the penny dropped. It was the 'very senior Royals' P.P.S., I could almost feel his 'grey suite' down the telephone. He would just like to make me aware of the fact that 'if' I happened to be holding a soirée on the evening of the twenty-third (when the Lady S would just happen be alongside in Dubai); HRH would look favourably on any invitation that might just be in the post, as he was in Dubai promoting British business that week; and that helped polarised things no end, but as the crew busily slaved away Scott came looking for me, and he found me 'chilling' in my sea cabin.

'Have you been watching Sky News?' he blurted out.

'Nope, only a chat show on the Beeb'.

'Well I think you should change the habit of a lifetime and give it a whirl'.

So exerting an enormous amount of energy I pointed the remote at the plasma TV that was tucked away in the corner (it was a very large corner), pressed the correct button and - JESUS H CHRIST!!!! There was the Lady S whooping her way into the bay, shooting up all and sundry. The banner headline at the bottom of the screen screamed _'Breaking news - British Billionaire takes on Somali pirates single handed'._ I hate inaccuracies in the media, I'm sure that I had someone else on board with me at the time, and for the next few hours Carol, David, Charlie and I watched the story unfold. I couldn't quite work out if I was a latter day hero or a billionaire buccaneer, and I don't think that they had worked that bit out yet either, but the holder of what must have been a very expensive camcorder was certainly in line for an award. First off there were close-ups of the two pirate vessels, then, following a shout from behind him, the cameraman smoothly panned round and got the Lady S quickly into focus, just as Charlie squeezed the trigger. He then tracked the missile to its destination (some of that footage was deliberately obscured), and then swung quickly back to the Lady S; just in time for the fireworks display from the heavy machine guns. Another smooth pan round - disintegrating speed boat (more obscuration)(is that a word?) then back to the Lady S, and there she was, in absolutely perfect filming weather, charging majestically into the bay, horn a whoop, whoop whooping away (I liked that bit), J Lee Thompson (Director of the Guns of Navarone) eat your heart out. The final shot (in the shortened version) was me, still resplendent in my Kevlar helmet and flak jacket magnanimously waving down at them, oops!

After the incident, as we were still escorting the yachts back to safety I'd had the sense to get on the satellite phone to Vicente, who then got on his mobile phone (he was shopping in Carrefour) to experts in International and Maritime law, and a little while later he got back to me saying that the consensus of opinion of the experts was that there should be no problem with what I had just done (the buck stops here), Lady S was clearly in Sovereign, not International waters and so it would be up to the Somali Government to take any action against me if they felt that I had something to answer for - and at the moment they couldn't even agree on what day of the week it was.

From then on our radio was going nonstop; every journalist on the planet wanted an interview or quote, and as the story on the TV grew legs, anyone remotely connected to me, my crew, my friends, or my ship was interviewed. I thought that Herr Flik's 'tea' (or had she now reverted back to 'coffee') lady gave an exceptionally good one; she gave a particularly glowing description of Carol.

As the ruler of Dubai's personal pilot edged Lady S alongside his personal jetty I already knew the reason why our docking arrangements had been changed, ever since coming within flying distance of civilisation we'd had aircraft circling above us, and the closer we got to land the more boats came out to greet us as well (usually packed to the 'gunwales' with reporters and photographers). Security would have been a nightmare on a public jetty so we had been moved to the Sheikh's well protected private one. I had offered to skip Dubai altogether if I was going to be the cause of too much bother, but they wouldn't hear of it, I was their new hero, and on the jetty to greet me, apart from half the Princes and Sheikh's in the known World, and what seemed to me like the remainder of my staff from El Campo (they obviously had no intentions of missing out on any of the fun) was, tucked right at the very back in the shadows, the consultant I was searching for, Vicente thought I might need him - his speciality, the media, and he was the first to come on board, and was quickly frog marched into my cabin.

'Call me Max' had been very busy over the past twenty-four hours, and once the introductions were over he took charge, media wise, and within a few hours the media scrum was 'chaotic', which was a vast improvement over 'absolute mayhem', and by the next morning (cockers P day) sanity had finally returned, but it was at a price. Sky news, who had broken the story (god bless their little cotton socks) would have 'exclusivity' (that's a nice word – I also like Ayuntamiento, that's another nice word, I really am a sad little Muppet), but it would cost me my virginity! (He considered me a media 'virgin'), but he reckoned that it would be well worth it, and so an hour later Kay and her film crew were shepherded on board and 'Max the Media' went to work. He had already selected where the interview would take place (on the flying bridge), what the questions were going to be, along with what my answers would be, so why had Sky agreed to this? - Because he had offered them a 'fly on the wall exclusive' later on. When the Lady S had done the Cape Town bit, and gone up the left hand side of Africa they would be allowed to embark a film crew at Gibraltar. They could then remain on board, filming away to their hearts content until we finally arrived back at El Campo, with several 'fairly' uncensored interviews with Carol and I, guaranteed, although Max would still retain some editorial control. Sky must have thought that it was worth it because they grabbed at it with both hands, and threw in a cheque book for good measure, they agreed to make a hefty donation 'to a charity of my choice'; I was starting to like them, not a lot \- but a little, and the interview went surprisingly well. Kay first warmed me up with some easy background questions without the cameras rolling (Max only had to jump down her throat once), and then 'hey presto', that evening, just before the cockers P got under way I watched myself giving my first television interview, but I wonder how that flak jacket had gotten itself into the background?

The cocktail party was jammed packed with Royalty and 'A' list'ers, and it was a roaring success, which was a bit of a surprise to me as I had only invited a handful of guests. Apparently in Dubai invitations are for lesser beings, and HRH didn't even wait until we got to the flight deck; he had a go at me as soon as he stepped off the gangway.

'Where is my invitation?' young 'Billy' had visited El Campo a few weeks earlier with his girlfriend and they had apparently thoroughly enjoyed themselves. My 'rule number one' had been 'I don't do the subservient serf bit away from the cameras', and apparently it had gone down very well.

After meeting and greeting Carol, Lady Hyacinth, David ('hello David, how was your hangover?') and the rest of my 'A' team and the family, he then went on to congratulate me on my recent escapade, 'I suppose you will be expecting a banquet at the Guildhall next'. We then had a lazy stroll around Lady S, and as we walked through the various rooms he kept on favourably comparing them with the late Royal Yacht Britannia. I was half expecting him to ask if he could borrow her the next time he went off on a State visit. He did, but he was only joking – I think!

After the last of my guests had departed I gathered everyone in the hangar for a well-deserved drink, especially the 'guides' who had all evening been patiently shown my visitors every nook and cranny of the ship. One guide had even overheard a very Princely Prince wondering if perhaps there was a Ticonderoga (a class of U.S. Navy Cruiser) hull going spare, to them size is extremely important, and just as I was finishing off a well-deserved Bacardi and coke - with a bacon butty chaser (Marcel was staring to get a very 'well rounded' repertoire), we heard a cacophony of sirens coming up the jetty, oops, had the Islamic fundamentalists got x-ray vision and seen through the hangar walls? No it was just two of the bosses Rolls Royce pick-up trucks doing deliveries. In the back of the first one was a BILL2 anti-tank missile, to replace the one that Charlie had used. They must have found a spare one just laying around, and in the back of the other, surrounded by Sikh bodyguards resplendent in their rich uniforms, Turbans, flowing beards, rather nasty looking swords, and sub machine guns (that sort of spoiled the effect), was a rather large box. What was in the box? An equally large centre piece to go on my lounge table, apparently Sheila's favourite Lladro piece was not ostentatious enough for a man of my stature. If ever I got brassic enough to have to start flogging things off, I don't know which would have the higher price tag, Lady S or that centre piece. The next morning, at the crack of mid-day I was awoken by a rather large yacht coming alongside, was the jetty getting that crowded? Nope, it turned out to be the Royal re-fuelling barge. They quickly topped the Lady S up with four Star, and then were off, just like that - and not a green shield stamp in sight: mind you I suppose you have to pay for your fuel to qualify for them, another sign of their appreciation. I really was enjoying my stay in Dubai.

~~~~

Chapter 30

I left most of my family and visitors behind in Dubai, in almost all cases it was for them to join in the media frenzy, and so I decided to take a quiet potter down the coast to Mombasa in Kenya, for some seriously big game hunting, with a camera! For stage two of my trip around Africa I had Alice, she was doing the whole (guilt)trip with me, the 'Colonel', his wife, Lady H and her husband - who was the absolute opposite of his wife, very down to earth, and once we were safely out of sight of land I went looking for David, and grabbing him by the scruff of the neck I dragged him kicking and screaming to the stern of the boat, then I woke up and asked him to show me my 'plausible deniability', it really was a bit late for that little secret. In the Senior Rates quarters there was a very large watertight hatch in the deck, with a very small padlock on it. As padlocks go it was a very nice little padlock, but with a half decent pair of bolt croppers most five year olds would be among the machine guns in no time at all. He unlocked it, lifted up the counter-balanced hatch and lo and behold there it was - a ladder. Bravely I descended into the unknown, and ended up in the middle of an empty room, one that I had visited several times during Lady S's construction. Perhaps David had thrown all the incriminating evidence overboard! Then I spied two watertight doors at the rear of the open space, 'ah ha! Eureka!' I shouted as I flung open the first door, and found another empty room, oops better luck next time. Walking across to the other door, which Charlie and the Colonel had kindly opened for me I peered inside (no eureka this time, I had learned my lesson) and there it was again, another empty room.

'Alright' I said, 'what have you done with them?'

'Nothing, they are still there!' said a smiling David.

Unless they all had an 'invisibility mode' switch on them all was not as it would seem. I played their little game and checked over both rooms very carefully, noting the slope of the Lady S's stern at the far end, and I even counted the rows of tiles across the floor of each room. I then added them together and counted how many tiles were across the larger space, there were exactly the same number, so no hidden compartment between them. When I finally gave up David went over to one of the Formica panels that covered the steel bulkhead (wall), which also just happened to be midway between the two doors, and taking a small remote controller out of his pocket, the same type that would open a garage door, aimed it at the panel and pressed the button. The panel moved backwards slightly and then slide away to one side. In front of me was a very stout looking armoured door, with a fingerprint/ key pad to one side. David placed his thumb on the pad, tapped in a few numbers, and the heavy door swung silently open. I walked down a narrow-ish corridor, about the same length as the two smaller rooms and almost bumped into the stern of the Lady S, almost - but not quite. Not before I stepped through a fairly large and well stocked toy cupboard. Strapped to the bulkheads were toys of every description, there were pistols, assault rifles, pump action shotguns, even a snipers rifle, the same type that David had used in the Army. There were heavy machine guns, light machine guns, RPG's, and a pile of boxes strapped to the floor, some had BILL2 stencilled on the outside, others had FIM-92F stencilled on them, the latest version of the American 'Stinger' ground to air missile. The Lady S really did have a sting(er) in her tail. Along the real stern of the Lady S was a work bench with every conceivable tool clipped above it, and a row of 'patrol blacks' on hooks, and below them were each individual officer's personal equipment, even down to their boots and socks. As each of the hooks had a number stencilled above it, it obviously meant that every sea going Security Officer of mine had a number not a name; again plausible deniability for them. I asked David how the floor tile count had worked out to be the same.

'The same type and colour of tiles as the larger room, just slightly smaller sizes' he chuckled.

Another optical illusion, I had obviously not been kept 'fully in the loop' at every stage of Lady S's construction – thank goodness, but from now on if any inquisitive customs official asked me if the Lady S had any weapons on board I would have to give them my version of the answer that Royal Navy Captains give when asked if their ship was carrying nuclear weapons, _'I can neither confirm nor deny that I have any weapons on board'._ If they want my money then they will just have to do a 'Nelson'.

As we passed down the coast of Somalia I half expected a flotilla of gunboats to come charging out seeking revenge, but there was nothing, not a single one venturing forth, mind you that may have had something to do with the American Cruiser that was tagging along with us for the next four days. The US Navy Captain took the opportunity to let his helicopters have a spot of deck landing practice on my flight deck, so twice a day a couple of his aircraft would drop a few sailors off (they were actually crammed full to the gunwales, if helicopters have gunwales) so that they could have a spot of R&R. They could laze around the pool, wander around the Lady S, perhaps watch a movie or play the latest video games, have a free lunch (or dinner, depending if they were the morning or afternoon shift) and a FEW beers – which was a treat as American warships are 'dry', and then they went back to reality. On the last evening, just before we ran into Mombasa, I laid on a formal dinner for the Captain and most of his Officers, and of course Marcel performed spectacularly, I had to show our American cousins that we could dish up more than just hamburgers and fries! During those four days I had around four hundred visitors on board the Lady S and not one piece of silverware went missing, and neither was one single sailor more than 'slightly merry' on return to his/her ship - although my new table centrepiece was firmly locked away in the safe, just in case.

The Lady S spent ten days alongside in Mombasa (giving my own crew some well-deserved R&R) whilst my much depleted band of visitors and I flew off for the camera safari, although I left Bonnie and Clyde behind on board; I didn't want them to end up as some lion's Yorkshire pudding!! We spent a week on a Land Rover safari, enjoying the sights and sounds (and sometimes the smells) of the wilds, then it was into Elsa's Kopje safari lodge for a few days to get some feeling back into our rather numb nether regions. Once I was reunited with Bonnie and Clyde (and after being well and truly checked over for strange 'sniffs') we were off, but not very far, next stop Zanzibar, Alice wanted to swim with the Dolphins, and what an unforgettable experience that was. After that we were off on a longer trip, this time down to the Atlantic Ocean, after first squeezing between Madagascar and Mozambique, the gap was actually over two hundred nautical miles wide, but it looked awfully narrow on the map. Cape Town was definitely on our 'must visit' list, not only because it had a petrol pump large enough to fill up the Lady S (we had covered just over five thousand nautical miles since leaving Dubai) but also for the photo opportunities; photo of me at the top of Table Mountain, photo of me beside the Cape of Good Hope Lighthouse, photo of me with one foot in the Indian Ocean and the other in the Atlantic Ocean, and nearly one of me giving a two fingered salute to some reporters and photographers, don't they ever give up.

After the scheduled crew change (although somehow only about a quarter of them actually departed for Spain) most of my remaining guests also reluctantly departed, leaving just Alice and I to make our own weary way back up hill to meet up with Paul. We met him off the coast of the Republic of the Congo (not the larger Democratic Republic of the Congo) and were flown by light aircraft up to a Gorilla Reserve that I was funding. Yet more reporters were there, but fortunately these were of the friendly variety, what they wanted was to find out about my 'green credentials', which Paul was more than happy to fill them in on (I nearly said 'bring them up to speed on'), as he knew far more about them than I did. He even had a glossy hand-out for each of them, explaining what 'I' was doing, very eco-friendly I'm sure. After that he joined us on the Lady S for a couple of days of sea time and then it was more P.R. work (is there no rest for the wicked?) in Ghana, and by the time we left there I was feeling very humbled indeed, what I needed was some serious partying to snap me out of it.

Alice's 'most favouritest (?) place in the whole wide world' was apparently the Canary's, not the birds, the Islands, and as it just happened to be on our way home she suggested that we give it a whirl, so we 'whirled', but unfortunately it was for only one night, and then we took off like the proverbial greyhound. It had nothing to do with the night life, or the fact that my friend from Marigot town on St Martin was in the first bar that we visited (and things then definitely started to warm up), it was the Atlantic; it was going to get very, very lumpy - very, very quickly. What was brewing was possibly going to turn out to be the worst storm that the Atlantic had seen in twenty-five years, and ships of all sizes were running for cover, so the next morning Carol had a quiet word in my shell like hangover and suggested that we beat a hasty retreat into the shelter of Gibraltar. That was to be our next port of call anyway as Alice needed some new undies from Marks and Sparks!

As we slipped through the Straits of Gibraltar just ahead of the storm I was sat in my own personal 'high chair' on the bridge. Carol of course had one as well, but mine was slightly better, RHIP as David would say, and she was just giving a sigh of relief from hers when the radio burst into life.

' _Mayday, mayday, mayday, this is the container ship 'Tonkun'. One of my containers has exploded causing debris to enter my engine room, and other containers to break loose. My Chief Engineer is seriously injured and I am taking on water. My rudder machinery is damaged and I am starting to list to port. My position is .....'._

'Poor sods' Carol muttered as the Tonkun's plea was answered by Gibraltar military radio, 'with that list it will take her out into the centre of the storm', but there was nothing we could do, and an hour later we tied up behind RFA (Royal Fleet Auxiliary) Fort Brockhurst, a large 'one stop' replenishment ship belonging to the Royal Navy. Alice went to her cabin to prepare for some serious retail therapy, so as I was at a loose end I strolled through the hangar and out on to the flight deck for a breath of fresh air, and casually glanced up at the Fort Brockhurst's flight deck (we were stern to stern) – big mistake!!! Looking down at me was its Captain and two regular naval Officers - and they were in deep conversation. I rather foolishly waved up at them, and changed my life forever.

Ten minutes later Captain 'Tosh' McGregor was sat in my lounge, along with Lt Commander 'Spiv' Leahy RN and Lt 'Calvin' Kline USN, an American 'exchange' pilot (why can't they all use their given names like the rest of us). A lot had happened in the past hour, and it was very clear that there were no suitable ships in the area that could go to the Tonkun's aid; it took more than just good intentions to affect a rescue of this magnitude in storm force seas. The Fort Brockhurst had limped into Gibraltar earlier that day, she had been returning to the UK after her stint with CTF 150 when one of her propeller shaft bearings had disintegrated, so she definitely couldn't go to the Tonkun's aid, BUT she still had her three serviceable Sea King helicopters in the hangar. 'Question, would two of them fit into the Lady S's?'

'Why', may you ask 'were they asking me this question?' Because the injured engineer on the Tonkun was Chief Engineer 'Jock' McGregor, Captain 'Tosh' McGregor's brother, so Alice's shopping trip was put on hold; in fact she was unceremoniously booted off the Lady S, along with Bonnie, Clyde, and every person that was not essential to the rescue mission. A jackstay was quickly slung between the two flight decks and pallets of 'essentials' were soon sliding down, to be whisked away by the special pallet handling trolleys that the Brockhurst provided, to be secured to the sides of the hangar, under the professional eye of 'Chalky'. A long 'rather large diameter' hose suddenly floated from the Brockhurst along to the Lady S. It was quickly manhandled onto the weather deck and connected to a convenient coupling, and within minutes fuel was gushing into Lady S's depleted tanks, then a second smaller bore hose quickly followed, and this topped up our aircraft fuel tanks with AVCAT (Aviation 'Carrier' turbine fuel, which is used by gas turbine (jet) engined aircraft at sea). Never had the tanks ever been so full, but it was not all one way, as goodies were sliding down the jackstay, fragile 'breakables' were being hauled up, for the Brockhurst to look after until we returned. Bone china is apparently very susceptible to damage when it is thrown across a galley floor in high seas, and so their Stores Officer sent us over three hundred stainless steel trays that had indented compartments in them - they took the food direct, so no plates were required. As all this was going on Marcus was getting very busy, I had absolutely no idea whatsoever what he was doing on board, but he was now working away like a Trojan. He was now the Lady S's Accommodation Officer. As 844 ('B flight') Naval Air Squadron aircrew and maintainers came pouring on board he allocated them bunks, although the aircrew had some of the plusher cabins as they were hopefully going to be well and truly earning their keep in a few days' time. We also inherited another Watch Keeping Officer for the bridge (he was experienced in manoeuvring ships during flying operations, especially in bad weather) and a Flight Deck Officer, much to Chalky's disgust. Finally a large dockside crane positioned itself between the two ships and swung into action. First over was a mobile electricity generator for use by the aircraft, and then two very heavy diesel-engine powered mechanical handlers, for moving the aircraft about on the soon to be heaving flight deck. Finally two shiny Westland Sea King HC4's, blades folded back, were swung over, they already had their bright yellow 'Forth Road Bridge' frames fitted, safely clamping the five heavy main rotor blades to the fuselage, for when we ventured out into the stormy Atlantic. Chalky supervised the moving of the two 'cabs' into the hangar, he was well into his element. It was a squeeze with all the extra equipment but he slotted them in side by side and 'nose to tail'. They were then firmly lashed down to the steel deck using special chain lashings which had heavy duty turnbuckles on them. The three undercarriage legs of each aircraft 'had more chains coming off of them than you could shake a big stick at', according to one Petty Officer Air Engineering Mechanic, more quaint nautical language, perhaps David could act as interpreter. With both aircraft safely on board, and all the Lady S's fuel and fresh water tanks topped up, we were ready to slip. 'Pontius', the pilot came on board and Carol waved at the Stevedores to remove the gangway, and they very nearly did. Just as the crane was taking the weight two taxis' screeched to a halt alongside Lady S, and out poured a Sky TV crew. I had forgotten all about them, and if I had known that Sandra Bolting was involved I would have instantly reneged on the deal anyway. The local press and TV stations had gotten to hear about our impending rescue attempt and were out in force on the jetty, snapping and filming away, along with a sizable crowd of well-wishers, but they scattered to the four winds as the infamous Sandra Bolting carved a path to the 'about to become airborne' gangway; her instantly recognisable mane of blonde hair bouncing around her shoulders. A Stevedore shouted a warning but she contemptuously ignored him and leapt onto the gangway. Not wanting to become famous as the one that finally 'did her in' the crane driver lowered the now airborne gangway gently back down. It was touch and go but I made it to the end of the gangway seconds before she arrived on board. When we were off Somalia, I had often wondered what I would have done if pirates had actually tried to board my ship. Would I fight them to the death, or put my hands in the air? I then found out the answer, I would have taken their brief case.

~~~~

Chapter 31

Sandra Bolting (nee Goodison) was the archetypal 'middle England' child; she had everything that a child could ever wish for, ponies, the latest Cindy's, invitations to all the right parties, and up until her seventh birthday party blissfully happy parents. Especially for her birthday party her doting father had gone out and purchased a movie camera and was happily filming the hordes of screaming children gorging themselves to destruction, and then being sick down the sides of his Chesterfield sofa, when his gorgeous little Sandra looked down the business end of the camera - and realised her life's ambition. She grabbed a nearby hair brush, and with daddy following her every move with the whirring camera, she rammed the business end of the microphone (nee hairbrush) into her mother's smiling face and said, smiling primly into the camera, 'and what are your thoughts on daddy sleeping with the maid?'

Her privileged upbringing didn't seem to falter as the only child in a single parent family, in fact it improved two fold, she now had twice as many ponies and Cindy dolls - and two maids! Her father of course forgave his lovely daughter, 'after all she was only imitating what she had seen on television, it was a passing phase', but unfortunately the urge to become an investigative reporter didn't 'pass', and with each passing year it grew stronger. As soon as it was prudently possible Sandra was dispatched to a variety of boarding schools, and her education didn't seem to suffer in the slightest from frequent relocations. At regular intervals her parents (they were still talking, just) were asked to make alternative arrangements for their daughter's education. She was developing a nose for a scandal and this request always seemed to follow a resignation or two at her current school. All her time was geared to journalism in all its forms; at every school that she attended she became the editor of the school's news sheet (if they didn't have one, then she started one), until of course her parents had to quickly move her on to the next unsuspecting school, she loved it; 'the truth must always prevail'.

While at University she started doing a series of articles for the Uni-rag on 'promiscuity' among her peers (which was very well received by the boys, it saved them a fortune in wasted drinks and chat up lines), and quickly came to the conclusion that she must be the only virgin left in town. Her ex-friends were always saying 'don't knock it until you've tried it' so at one of the regular Saturday night parties at her shared house she selected a likely looking candidate - and decided to try 'it'. First she got a little tipsy, to loosen herself up, and then she had a few more for 'Dutch' courage, then heart in her mouth she grabbed the very confused (drunk) young man (whose boyfriend had just dumped him) and dragged him off to her room. Five minutes later, as they lay back enjoying a quick cigarette she noticed the unused condom on her bedside table, 'oh bother' (or words to that effect) she muttered, in her haste she had forgotten all about it, and for the next two weeks she sweated it out, but fortunately in the end she was not 'with child', although it was a wakeup call for her - definitely no more rumpy pumpy until there was a wedding band wrapped firmly around her finger.

On leaving Uni she started at the bottom at a local daily newspaper, but within a week, with her breeding and connections she soon had her own column, unfortunately though it was the society column and she hated it. No one else wanted to 'do' society so she was very much left to her own devices, but slowly, over the next few months her 'column inches' grew longer, and inched their way ever closer to the front page. Within twenty-four hours her final article for the local newspaper (as she was literally packing and 'getting out of Dodge') went 'National', but fortunately the proprietor (oops, I nearly said 'that dirty old man') of a 'fair to middling' national multi media group took an interest in her and her career. He offered her his 'protection' and a new job, and from then on her career really blossomed. He of course tried it on, but surprisingly only the once, when they were going to a fancy dress party (dressed as Laurel and Hardy), usually he was quite content for her to be just his 'arm candy'. Over the next few years, as her career gained momentum (with more and more corpses in the metaphorical undergrowth) she repeatedly asked her benefactor, who was many years her senior, to move her to the burgeoning Television News side of his empire. He of course refused, with her tenacity and looks that would be the last he ever saw of her, so instead he asked her to marry him. He was in the running for a Lordship, but rumours were starting to circulate about his 'extracurricular activities', so he had to do something desperate: they were married in Westminster Abby. After several months of being the 'little housewife' Sandra realised that there was something missing from their marriage, no rumpy pumpy. She had thought that their honeymoon had been a little strange, separate rooms and him popping into the hotel every few days to change his clothes, but she assumed that he was either 'shy' or 'on a story', and things didn't improve in that department once they returned to England either. Her mother, who was desperate to become a 'Nana', and was starting to listen to some of the rumours that abounded about her son-in-law (who was almost as old she was), confronted him, 'get her pregnant \- or else'. She didn't specify what the 'or else' was, but he assumed that it had something to do with changing rumours into facts. Casting his mind back to the one and only time that they had 'nearly done it' he went to the local fancy dress hire shop and hired his wife a 'Laurel' outfit. Two bottles of wine and another cigarette later she was pregnant - this time it took nearly ten minutes.

Sandra took to motherhood like a duck to water, and for several years she doted on her son Algernon, but unfortunately he wasn't destined to become a 'Right Honourable'. Her husband didn't get his 'Lordship', or even a 'Sir'; what he got was arrested, for doing naughty things with minors in Bangkok (in the same hotel that they had stayed in on their honeymoon). With the use of copious amounts of money he managed to flee the Country, after first purchasing bail and forged travel documents, under an assumed name, and returned to the arms of his ever loving wife, who promptly threw him out onto the street, literally (as recorded for posterity on the front page of a rival's newspaper). Unfortunately before she could get him through the Courts his Empire virtually collapsed, although there was still enough left in the final settlement to keep her comfortable for a good few years to come.

With Algernon safely away at boarding school she returned to journalism with a vengeance, the years had been spectacularly kind to her, so with her mane of blond hair blowing in the breeze she started to carve a niche for herself in TV journalism. Over the next few years, following the resignation of many high profile political and high finance figures she gained the reputation of being the one to be wary of at a press conference, which brought her to the attention of Sky. They were well aware of her capabilities so took her on as a political editor; and she quickly became one of 'the' faces of Sky. As she was financially independent Sandra could occasionally afford to take liberties with her assignments, so when she heard about the fly on the wall assignment on the Lady S she put her name forward, forcefully; her trophy cabinet was looking decidedly bare at the moment. Her assigner approved her request, but only if she helped with some on the job training for Lucy Crosby. Lucy was a very beautiful and very experienced Weather Forecaster in her own right, and a few years earlier she had successfully made the transition from forecasting to presenting the weather reports, but it still wasn't 'rocking her boat', she wanted to be stretched even further. Sky, with ever an eye to the future, decided to go along with her request to move into mainstream presenting, who knows, they might one day soon have need of her considerable talents, with all the global warming issues looming on the horizon. After exiting the British Airways A320 at Gibraltar Airport Sandra switched on her mobile phone, and was immediately inundated with calls. Her team - Lucy, 2 cameramen and a Director had wangled a couple of extra days in Gibraltar to acclimatise themselves (top up their tans), so she wasn't expecting anything earth shattering, wrong. The Lady S had come in early and was about to embark on yet another rescue mission, and the message came over loud and clear - 'if you want to keep your job, be on it', so they barged their way through immigration, waving their press cards and passports to all and sundry. They left two bags in baggage reclaim as they were taking too long to come through (and fortunately there was nothing of any importance in either of them, only the cameramen's clothing), and they grabbed the first two taxies that appeared on the horizon. If anyone in the queue had felt the urge to object, no one did, one look from her steely blue eyes shut them all up. As her taxi screeched to a halt (it is surprising how fast a taxi can go when you shove a fist full of notes on its dashboard) she realised that she had to stop that gangway from being removed, so she clambered out of the taxi, stormed up to it and leapt onto the 'about to become airborne' gangway, and started marching purposefully towards the top (which was by now well and truly in the air). _Clunk,_ the gangway landed back on the Lady S's weather deck again, just as she reached the top. She stood there, handed Andrew Michaels her brief case - and hoped that he would last more than ten minutes!!!!

~~~~

Chapter 32

As I took her hand and helped her down on to the weather deck my stomach started to churn, funny - I had never been sea sick before. When all her team were finally on board I waved to the crane driver to remove the offending item, as there wasn't going to be time to argue the toss with Ms Bolting and try to get her to leave, we had to leave right now, anyway if she became too much of a handful I could always clap her in irons; now that might be fun. Fortunately Scott was nearby and I handed the team over to him as he had been gazing open mouthed at Lucy, and seemed to be suffering from sea sickness as well. He led them off, to sort out their up-links or something, and it was then back to the business at hand (and to try and stop thinking about that hair), I had been helping Doc Martin sort out some of the down loaded medical supplies from the Fort Brockhurst before we hit the open sea, until I had been so rudely interrupted. When I had equipped the new wing out at the Health Centre in San Miguel I had added the funding of two Doctors and four Nurses on their must have list. They were to be additional to the regular compliment of medical staff, and their primary duties were to be 'available', one at a time, for embarkation on the Lady S when she went to sea for any period of time. When not waterborne then their first priority was to look after El Campo's employees (one thing I didn't want was for my employees to be sat around half the day waiting to see a doctor), if after that they had nothing to do (the majority of the time) then the Health Centre could use them to their hearts content. Doctora Clara Botella and two of the Nurses had done their stint down to Cape Town, and now it was the turn of Doctora Raquel Martinez Goñi (of course everyone called her Doc Martin) and the other two Nurses. Both Doctora's had, until recently been Doctors with the Spanish Navy, and fortuitously Doc Martin's last posting had been with a Search and Rescue unit. When we finally got all her goodie boxes down to the sick bay, which, if I do say so myself is a pretty damn fine sick bay, and once everything was stowed away it was time for me to get to the bridge before it got really lumpy, and on arrival I noticed two things immediately.

Number one: - Pontius still had the con, wasn't he supposed to be on his way back to Gib? No, apparently his pilot cutter had developed engine trouble (two days ago) so he was along for the ride, and coincidentally he also just happened to have a very large overnight bag along with him to.

Number two: - which for some reason was much more important Sa.. sorry Ms Bolting had put on some fresh perfume.

Scott, for the past week had been playing, not chess or Rummikub but with my satellite bits and pieces. He had been in contact with the engineers at Sky and between them they had devised a wireless network around most of the Lady S, and after quickly connecting a couple of extra boxes that the cameramen had brought out with them (fortunately not in their underwear bags), the three of them started to cheer away in one of the rooms behind the bridge, a TV monitor above my head burst into life, and there was Scott in glorious colour, and then he was in stereo. Apparently when both cameras were switched on there was a split screen option – yawn. As I watched the screen they made their way through to the bridge and Scott quickly explained that this particular screen was not the one to worry about, that was the 'internal' monitor; it was the one next to it, which was currently showing Sky news.

'Why?' I naively asked.

'Because in ten minutes time the Lady S Broadcasting Corporation is going on air'.

Ten minutes later, as we exited the Straits of Gibraltar, and out into the raging storm, Sandra, dressed in a rather fetching 'one size fit all' bright orange one piece survival suit started the first live broadcast from outside on the Port Bridge Wing. I, and a few million other people watched as her hair flew in every direction, until a passing wave plastered it to her face, and she was laughing uncontrollably. This was definitely not the old Sandra Bolting that we all loved to hate! This first transmission was mainly to check that the up-link to the satellite was working correctly, as apparently among all the hi tec gadgetry that I had on board were giro stabilised satellite dishes (at this rate I will soon be sound asleep), but it also served another unexpected purpose, it caught the attention of an awful lot of other broadcasting stations around the world as at the moment the world was very quiet, news wise. An hour later, as it was quickly getting dark, her next live broadcast had an estimated viewing figure of around fifty million. As Sarah was strutting her stuff the rest of us were battening down the hatches, literally. The pool had been drained and a hefty cover had been slid over the hole, all the shutters over the cabin windows were down and locked, and everything that could be tied down - was, and the observation room was packed.

The Tonkun was now in mid Atlantic, slowly trying to make her way towards the African coast, but she had yet to face the full force of the storm. After scouring her manifest the consensus of opinion was that the explosion had originated from a container full of 'office material' which had been hard up against the engine room bulkhead. As the owners of container could not now be traced, this lead to the further assumption that it was not office but 'terrorist' material inside it, and it had become 'unstable' (gone bang). The Tonkun was still losing containers from her listing deck and one had, to make matters even worse, clipped one of her propeller blades on its way to Davey Jones's locker, causing unacceptable vibrations above anything but 'slow ahead', and Chief Engineer 'Jock' McGregor's situation was not improving either; he had been blown off a catwalk in the Engine Room by the concussion and had landed on top of the huge diesel engine, not only suffering spinal injuries, but severe burns as well. He was now strapped to a spine board but his condition was deteriorating, the ships medical 'expert' was doing her best, but she was not even 'medically' up to a qualified Nurse's level. Along with the Captain and the Chief Engineer were another twenty-two crew members and three wives (including 'Jocks') but Carol estimated that it would take us over thirty-six hours to reach the Tonkun if we were not to endanger ourselves in these monstrous seas, which would mean that they, and we, would be spending two nights and a day battling the storm before we would even be in a position to try and help them. Lucy forgot all about being a presenter, temporarily at least; that rather nice Scott had found her an office and quickly turned it into a Meteorological Centre for her, and within a couple of hours she not only had the Lady S's comprehensive weather radar information to hand, but now she was 'talking' directly to a Royal Air Force Sentry AEW1 that was orbiting high above the storm, downloading an even 'bigger picture' to her.

Lt Cdr Leahy came to the bridge to brief me on what was happening down at the 'blunt end'. Both aircraft (call signs 411 and 412) were safely tucked up in the hangar; and were fully fuelled and ready to go. As both were winch equipped Westland Sea King HC4's they were configured for the transport role (not anti-submarine) so each crew consisted of two Pilots and a Crewman, but no Observer (Navigator). Under-manning would not be the problem though as all three of the flight's aircraft crews were on board, although this could very well be a moot point as in these seas it would be impossible to even range the aircraft onto the flight deck, never mind launch them into the air. Hopefully conditions would miraculously improve significantly when we neared the Tonkun.

Every hour, on the hour _Ms Bolting_ was 'live on air' (now inside the bridge), and to give her her due she was very professional. She didn't exaggerate the situation, although I doubted that our situation could ever be exaggerated, but one thing that I did notice thought was that each time she broadcast she seemed to be getting closer and closer to my chair. I had lost 'Max the Media' at Gibraltar, and now I was dearly wishing that he was not prone to chronic sea sickness, then, as she was winding up her last live update of the evening she turned to me (totally against all the ground rules that I had laid down), shoved her hairbrush (nee microphone) into my face and asked me what I thought the chances were of a successful rescue. I was tired, dishevelled, hungry, thinking of other things, and not in a very communicative frame of mind so before 'engaging brain' I told her to 'go away' and annoy someone else.

She smoothly moved the microphone back to her bright red lips (Bewitching Coral I think) and primly said into it 'another time perhaps Mr Michaels, and now back to you in the studio Kay'. She calmly waited until the camera was switched off (and with the bridge in total silence) she glared at me, stamped her foot, burst into tears and shouted _'thank you very much Andrew'_ before storming off.

I didn't realise that we were now on first name terms.

Apparently out of the seventy million people watching, over two hundred of them went to their local bookies and got odds of a 'thousand to one' that we would end up as an 'item' before the end of the trip, what losers!

My bridge highchair was of the fully reclinable variety, with a built in five point harness for good measure, but by midnight I'd had enough. Everything was running smoothly (except for the ship) so I bade everyone left on the bridge a fond farewell and retired to my sea cabin. **'** _Switch that bloody light off you pig'_ drifted up from a dishevelled duvet on my bunk as I switched on my cabin light, now that did surprise me, I had never heard a duvet talk before, and from beneath its mass a tousled head of blonde hair appeared, and in a more subdued growl she explained that as I had all the right connections (electronics wise) in my sea cabin - she had commandeered it as her 'Press Office'.

I gave her ten minutes to vacate my premises and then went off to ablute.

On re-entering my cabin I found it in darkness, a good start, and blindly made my way to the bunk. As bunks go it was quite large, almost a double size, and I was in serious need of some zzzzzeds, but as I wrapped myself in the duvet I felt an object lying beside me. As it was at body temperature I gathered that my last words to her had fallen on deaf ears so with a 'humf' I turned my back on her back, and was asleep in seconds.

About one o'clock I woke up for a second and noticed that she had turned in her sleep and was now curled up into my back, damned woman!

At two o'clock I awoke to find that I had turned in my sleep and now had a face full of hair, the 'crew cut' really had a lot going for it!

At three o'clock I woke to find that the duvet had gone on a voyage of discovery of its own and she was now laying with one arm across my chest, and a leg crooked over mine. Somehow my arm had also gone up and around her shoulder; I would definitely have to have a word with that arm in the morning!

At five o'clock I awoke and found that apparently we hadn't moved a muscle, the only thing that was different was the fact that we were now both stark naked – then I remembered four o'clock!!!

Sandra's alarm was set for six thirty (mine was set for eight o'clock, could this be a sign of things to come?) so that she had time to prepare herself physically (makeup) and factually for the first live broadcast of the day at eight o'clock, BUT IN THE REAL WORLD, at three minutes to eight she flew onto the bridge and grabbed the prompting notes out of Lucy's hand (who had been dragged out of her 'Met Office' moments before as no one could find Sandra), and quickly glancing through them she raised her head just as the Director said 'live in five, four, three, - , -, -, and the odds immediately plummeted to 'evens', and two minutes later there 'wasn't a hope in hell's chance' of placing a bet anywhere on the planet when I walked onto the bridge. She stopped mid flow to watch me (enigmatic smile on her face) walk to my chair, according to the Producer it took me eight and a half very long seconds to get there. A poll taken later estimated that 55% of the eighty-five million viewers watching went ahhh, and 60% of the male viewers had their wildest fantasy blown out of the window.

Once the broadcast was out of the way it was down to the serious business, but there wasn't a lot of it. The Tonkun was still afloat, although her situation was getting steadily worse, Chief Engineer McGregor was 'stable' but in considerable pain, and the weather was becoming evil; everyone was running out of superlatives for it. The only glimmer of light that we had was that Lucy, who had been up all night (with 'her' Scott to keep her company) had spotted an 'anomaly' in the downloaded weather charts. She thought that it looked as though an 'eye' might be starting to form in the storm, and using her copious skills (and with Carol's invaluable input) she 'estimated' where it would be at 'R' hour (rescue hour). If the eye did indeed fully form, and continued on its current track the Tonkun would enter it around eight o'clock tomorrow morning, if everything went right, dedos cruzados (fingers crossed). The chances of that were very slim but we had to hope for the best, and so Carol altered course slightly and increased the Lady S's speed by five knots, and for the next twenty two hours life on board became almost unbearable, but by the end of that time the Lady S had slipped around in front of the Tonkun (so as to miss her debris field, hitting a floating forty foot container could seriously damage, or even sink us) and we were now just entering the perfectly formed eye. We of course were fortunate and could stay in the eye for as long as we wanted to, but the Tonkun would only clip the edge of it for about an hour or so (her rudder was now totally seized so she couldn't manoeuvre at all) but hopefully that would be long enough.

It was still dark but the ship was a hive of activity, even I was up and about. Down in the hangar, as the sea state quickly subsided the two cumbersome 'Forth Road Bridge' frameworks (so nicknamed because of all the tubes that made up their assemblies) were removed and the Sea Kings were readied for flight. First Chalky carefully eased 412 out onto the still pitching deck, although it was now within tolerable limits thanks to the Lady S's stabilisers, and the aircrew started its number one engine. After spreading the main rotors Spiv then started number two engine and released the rotor brake. This was the most dangerous part of the operation as the heavy blades could flex considerably in the gusty conditions and hit the deck, but years of practice paid off and he had her safely 'burning and turning' in seconds.

Once 412 was stable Doc Martin (now engulfed in a slightly oversized immersion suit) and the extra' crewy (crewman) ducked down under the thrashing blades and ran to the aircrafts steps. Once they were inside and securely strapped in 412 sprang into the air and came to the hover just off the port quarter, she was now acting as plane guard for 411. Twenty minutes later 411, with Calvin strapped in its right hand seat, and 412 made their way in loose formation to the Tonkun, it was now daylight and they were all fervently hoping that she would soon be sufficiently stable for them to carry out the rescue, and sitting in the rear doorway of 411 was Sandra and a cameraman, and they were going out live to over one hundred million viewers worldwide. We had of course had a very 'full, frank, and meaningful' discussion about her going on the flight but eventually I reluctantly came round to her way of thinking (not that I had much choice), after all it was her job, it was what she had trained years for, and last but not least it was her 'fifteen minutes of fame'; I hoped that it was not also going to be her swan song. Spiv had been dragged into the 'discussion' and pointed out, from a safe distance, that there was not a logistical problem with her going along as each HC4 was capable of carrying 27 fully equipped Booties (Royal Marines) over four hundred miles (and good P.R. for the Royal Navy was always very welcome). As both she and the cameraman had recently done a piece on the North Sea oil rigs they were both fully up-to-date with their 'dunker' training (underwater escape training from a helicopter simulator), they had to be before they had been allowed to fly out to the rigs, and they would also be spending several hours with 'Tug' and 'Muddy', the two crewies, in the back of 411 before it got ranged, going through what they could and could not do. One breach of the agreement and she would find herself filming water.

As the Lady S had been battling her way to the Tonkun Spiv had been on the radio, discussing with its Captain how the rescue would go down, to the very last detail. From who would be 'first down' to the 'last up', but first the Tonkun's crew would have to rid as large an area as possible of any overhead obstructions, and as the ship was now listing heavily to port that would have to be the starboard bridge wing. Whip aerials had been hacked down and rigging from the mast had been dumped ignominiously overboard so when Spiv judged the seas to be at their calmest he eased 412 into a hover just above the waiting crew.

First down the winch went Tug, the spare crewy, and once he was safely on board he slipped the rescue strop under the armpits of the first of the waiting wives and she was whisked safely away. An estimated one hundred and twenty million people gave a cheer, as 411 was hovering safely to one side 'just in case', with Sandra and her cameraman covering the whole scene from its doorway. The next down was Doc Martin and her bag of tricks and then the air-transportable stretcher, and Doc Martin got to work on Jock (and the burns of the engineer that had dragged him clear of the engine) as Tug dispatched the Tonkun's crew with practiced ease.

After eighteen lifts the strain was starting to tell on Spiv so he and Calvin swopped places, becoming 411's plane guard - and then finally it was the turn of Jock's wife, and then the Captain. After they were safely inside 411 it was planned that Tug would bring the stretcher up, with Jock now firmly strapped into it, and once that was safely on board he would return down to the Tonkun to 'double lift' Doc quickly back up to the aircraft, as she needed every second of time to prepare Jock for the transfer.

As the winch was taking the Captain up Tug helped Doc lift the stretcher into the open, and just as the returning hook came within his reach there was a muffled explosion from deep below in the bowels of the ship, and the vibration from its giant engine ceased. Tug quickly hooked the stretcher on and slipped into his harness; his job was now to protect Jock as he rose up to the waiting aircraft, Doc should be fine until he returned. As he signalled Muddy to hoist away, the ship underneath him gave a violent shake, but then he was safely airborne, or so he thought. They were at the end of the very long cable, and a gust of wind caused them to swing away from the ship, which was good, but as the winch was only hauling them up slowly the return swing could easily slam them against the Tonkun's mast, which was bad.

Below them Doc picked herself up off the deck and looked towards the bow of the Tonkun; it was disappearing fast but the aft end of the ship wasn't, the ship was breaking in two, so as the stern of the Tonkun rose into the air, Doc, standing on the edge of the bridge wing, rose with it, and as the structure reached the highest point in its final journey, before it plunged beneath the waves forever, she found Tug and the stretcher less than a metre away from her. She flung herself between the lifting wires and landed on top of the stretcher, but fortunately with its high sides Jock was protected, and she very quickly assumed a very unladylike position, wrapping her arms and legs around the stretcher and hanging on for dear life. At this point close to one hundred and fifty million people around the world started to breathe again. As there were now three people plus a stretcher on the end of the thin wire Calvin decided to not tempt fate by trying to hoist them all up, instead he slowly flew them back towards the waiting Lady S, the stretcher and its compliment just a few metres above the waves; as recorded from above by the Cameraman of the Year. As 411 approached the Lady S the runner up in the Cameraman of the Year category recorded, from his vantage point on the flight deck, every second of Lt Cline USN slowly easing his precious load up, and then over the edge of the rolling deck. Calvin then skilfully stopped any swing and gently lowering it to the waiting flight deck crew, on split screen of course. As his feet and the stretcher touched the deck Tug quickly disconnected the winch hook and 411 was off, to recover the winch wire in her own time, and once Doc Martin had been prised off the top of the stretcher it was bodily lifted up and gently taken down to the sick bay, for Doc to continue her ministrations on him, but this time she had a fully equipped sick bay at her disposal, and the extra burns treatment medication that the Fort Brockhurst had sent over would help her immensely. As soon as the deck was clear 411, hook cable now fully rewound was skilfully re-directed back in and Calvin lowered her onto her spot. Once she was safely chocked and lashed down, but with the blades still turning, first Jock's rescuer was lead off to the sick bay for treatment, and then the remainder of the survivors filed out. As each vacated the aircraft they were collected by a member of the Lady S's crew, whose instructions were clear, 'look after them as if they are your own granny'. Fortunately all the crew members involved had a happy family life so they were all well looked after, although most of the survivors just wanting a hot shower, some food, and a good day's sleep. As Sandra jumped down from 411's cargo door I rushed in and gave her a very 'public' hug and kiss, in fact it was estimated that 78% of the one hundred and eighty million people watching thought that we would make beautiful babies together. They must be joking, baby making was for the younger generation; but we would certainly keep in practice - just in case I changed my mind. Once the aircraft was empty of all its passengers the lashings were removed and Calvin was quickly airborne again as there was no time for him to shut his aircraft down and move it into the hangar, there was another helicopter full of survivors waiting in the wings.

With all its passengers safely on their way below Spiv shut 412 down, and after the maintainers had given the insides of her engines a fresh water wash to get rid of all the salt she was carefully eased back into the hangar, and then the whole process was repeated all over again with 411. These were the real unsung heroes of the whole operation, the maintainers and handlers, without their tireless work the aircraft would never have even left the hangar, never mind got into the air; even though there was a tiff or two (spit, spit) amongst them.

Sandra, after exiting 411, had gone directly to the bridge, where for the next four hours she remained live on air (with her lipstick ever so slightly smudged) re-telling the story over and over again, but each time from the viewpoint off a different person that was directly involved in the rescue. The Pilots and Crewies, Carol, Lucy (in her capacity as the weather lady), the Captain of the Tonkun, Jock's wife (some holiday this had turned out to be), and then as the viewing figures started to decline - me, but fortunately not for long, 'atmospheric interference' suddenly interrupted us (thanks Scott, I owe you one) so Sandra quickly handed over to the studio and collapsed into my arms. She had been running on pure adrenalin for almost eight hour and was absolutely exhausted, so with the help of David we bundled her into my sea cabin, and she was sound asleep before I had peeled the immersion suite off of her.

Following the rescue, the Lady S lazily circled around in the eye of the storm whilst Doc Martin, along with her two Nurses and Caroline worked away on Jock and his mechanic, but finally, as day turned to night they had done all they could, what they both needed now was specialist treatment shore side - and the quicker the better, so Carol eased Lady S back into the storm and we headed back in the direction of Gibraltar, but this time at a more sensible speed, Jock's back couldn't take the punishing gyrations of Lady S's mad dash out to rescue him, and so thirty-six hours later, as dawn was breaking, first 411 and then 412 lifted off from the Lady S's flight deck for the last time. Jock, his wife and Doc Martin were in the back of 'one one' and his mechanic, Caroline and a Nurse were in the back of 'one two'. Although both helicopters could easily have taken more passengers it was going to be a long over-water trip, so they were acting as 'mutual SAR's' (recovery aircraft) for each other, just in case one of them had to ditch. Both take-offs were made live on air, as there might just have be some insomniac watching TV at that hour, but as the storm was quickly abating it wasn't a very spectacular event, and fortunately the time spent 'live' was also abating, every question that could be, had been asked what seemed like a thousand times so Sandra and Lucy (now back to being a Presenter) were slowly winding down and preparing for the real world in a day or so's time. Sandra and I had of course by now officially become an 'item' (as were Scott and Lucy) but the closer we came to land the more apprehensive we were both becoming, 'was this just a 'flash in the pan', were we just 'two ships passing in the night' (no pun intended), so we both agreed that she would continue with her career, and I would return to El Campo to let things settle down, and then see how we felt in a few weeks' time; but we hadn't factored the British Prime Minister into our thinking.

The Lady S was certainly taking the pretty way home, and she wouldn't be arriving in Gibraltar until the early hours of the next day, which to my way of thinking was a good thing, we would quietly slip in, in the dead of the night, and then get some well-deserved rest - what utter rubbish.

As Pontius, now back to being a Pilot, guided us in, at two o'clock in the morning, the 'Rock' (and a good chunk of Spain) became ablaze with light. One thing that we certainly didn't need to do was switch on our navigation lights, with all the rockets and flares in the air it was brighter than day. Boats of every shape and size were coming out to greet us, and they were all crammed to their proverbial gunwales with well-wishers and film crews, and as we approached the harbour I let Sandra do the honours. She yanked down hard on the rope above our heads and then she yanked it down again and again **\- WHOOP, WHOOP, WHOOP**. So it was two in the morning - I doubted if anyone was asleep within a hundred miles. The whooping must have been a signal that they were hopefully waiting for as even more fireworks streaked skyward, this year Guy Fawkes really was coming early, and along the side of the Fort Brockhurst, in bright multi coloured lights were the words THANK YOU, any time I thought.

As we finally slid alongside the jetty, the same one that we had left less than a week ago, I scanned it for Max and Alice. Max I had no problem spotting, he was in the centre of the media scrum earning his fee, but Alice was harder to spot. What finally gave her away were the two barking Yorkies trying to yank her arm out of its socket - but she was oblivious to them, she appeared to be crying into some young man's shoulder. Now that was an unexpected turn up for the books! When the gangway was safely across Alice led the three of them on board, and as she reached the deck she released Bonnie and Clyde. They then did a fair impersonation of a brace of greyhounds and were soon clambering all over me, licking and slurping away, which of course I loved; but I was really intrigued by the stranger, and as he and Alice entered the bridge Alice ran happily across to me and gave me a big hug and a kiss, and there were no signs of any tears anywhere, and the stranger did the same - only to Sandra. 'Pistols at dawn young man - unhand my wench!' Then I realised that they were not unwanted advances, hopefully this young man was Algernon, her son.

~~~~

Chapter 33

Algernon (please call me Gerry) first realised that his mother was off on another one of her adventures when he was quietly sitting on the top deck of a London bus. He looked out of the window and there, on about ten television screens was his mother, the bus had stopped outside the Sony shop. He didn't really pay the screens too much attention (sometimes it was a bit embarrassing having a famous mother) until a passing wave drenched her, and she laughed - now this was something new, so battling his way against the tide of embarking humanity he scrambled off the bus and ran into the shop. A large crowd had gathered around an even larger television screen, so he quickly pushed his way to the front. After quickly explaining who he was to an irate Irishman, Paddy then explained to him what his mother had been up to (as opposed to his first instinct of loosening a few of this rude young man's teeth), and then both of them remained transfixed to the screen, along with an ever growing crowd, until the shop manager pleaded that his dinner was getting cold. Hailing a passing taxi Algernon gave the driver the address of his flat and fished his iPhone out of his 'man bag'. With the taxi waiting outside he quickly packed a grip, rushed Jaws (his goldfish) around to his neighbour, grabbed his passport, and the driver got him to the airport with five minutes to spare, and as he sat back into his seat, on the last flight of the day to Gibraltar, he wondered what all the panic was about. His mother was forever getting herself into hotspots and he had never reacted like this before, then he remembered her sea drenched smile - and fell into a troubled sleep.

Finding a suitable hotel in Gibraltar was not very difficult; he just took his mother's advice. 'Start at the best and work down' was her maxim (she was usually on expenses) and usually it never failed, and this time was no exception. The next morning, as he tucked into his 'full English' with his table pride of place in front of a hastily installed television set, he waited for his mother's first live broadcast of the day, and the black pudding was just inches from his mouth when his mother's dishevelled face lit up the screen; and the delicacy never completed its journey. As he watched, with the two cameramen jockeying to find the best angle, his mother paused, and an enigmatic smile came onto her face. As one camera held his mother in close-up, the other one panned around and picked up an equally dishevelled Mr Michaels, and it slowly followed him as he walked to his chair - on glorious split screen of course; _'the Director must have a really evil sense of humour'_ he thought, as he groaned **'Oh Mother'**.

Behind him he heard an equally exasperating **'Oh Father'** , and turned his head, just in time to see a rather nice ear flash in front of his eyes. After devouring his suspended black pudding Alice commented 'As you didn't look as though you were going to eat it, it was a shame to let it go cold', and then continued on 'was your comment figuratively or biologically speaking?'

After collecting his shattered wits he indignantly retorted, 'biologically'.

'Mine too', and then quickly sat in the empty chair across from him, latched onto his half eaten breakfast and devoured it, she was ravenous, with all the worry she hadn't eaten a thing since leaving the Lady S. Two hours - and another two full English Breakfasts later, they were both 'almost up to speed' on each other's life history, then surreptitiously she arrived at the question that she had wanted to ask at the very beginning, 'girlfriends?'

'Plenty, but none life threatening, and you?'

'Oh the same,' she casually answered then, 'do you like dogs?'

With that they collected Bonnie and Clyde and departed on her delayed retail therapy, although they never passed a shop with a television set in its window without pausing to catch up on the latest news.

~~~~

Chapter 34

The remainder of the night was spent entertaining Gibraltar, or at least a large part of it (doesn't anyone ever sleep around here?) and then finally, after a quiet hour to ourselves, the moment that we had both been dreading arrived, Sandra and I had to part. We had already agreed countless times that it was of course the right thing to do, to let things settle down etc, etc, etc but it didn't seem to be helping very much. Fort Brockhurst provided a boat for us as it was still too manic on the jetty to safely set foot on it (and the Lady S's boats were still well and truly 'battened down') and we slipped quietly away to the airport (with about twenty other assorted boats following us). The rest of Sandra's team (plus Scott), slipped on board my brand new, never seen by me Gulfstream G450 (with Teddy and David at the controls [Grrrrrr]) as we stood holding each other (ahhh) at the bottom of the steps, and at that point if it hadn't been for her bosses plaintive cries for help (a mystery virus was decimating his staff), I think that she would have finally done the sensible thing and 'pulled a sickie', but duty called, and as I watched the graceful aircraft climb away towards England I wished that my 'duty wouldn't call', I desperately wanted to be on that aircraft with her. I'd had absolutely no sleep at all last night but now I was expected to entertain the Governor of Gibraltar, the Chief Minister and a host of local dignitaries, a representative of the owner of the Tonkun, a Royal Navy Admiral or two, a 'very Senior Royal's son (not the one that had had the naughty weekend at El Campo, the one that had just traded his polo pony in for a gunship), a couple of 'favoured' Journalists, and anyone else that Mad Max could squeeze onto the 'A' list - I had drawn a line at a 'B' list. I could easily have climbed on board my aircraft and disappeared off into the wild blue yonder with her, but I didn't want to turn into the type of person that just left his staff to pick up the pieces, so it was with a heavy heart that I climbed back on board the waiting boat and made my way back to Lady S.

As we approached the Lady S a rather swish motor boat crammed full of scantily clad dolly birds careered past, and I was showered with ladies undergarments, and not very large ones at that, just large enough to have a telephone number scribbled in a strategic place on each of them. Too late ladies I'm already taken - now that thought cheered me up, and that night/morning Sandra and I fell asleep talking on the phone, and we were both shocked into consciousness by her blasted alarm clock (she was definitely not bringing that with her to El Campo!) but we agreed after a few minutes that there would be no repeat of her 'morning after' television appearance.

The local shipyard had kindly offered me the use of their facilities, so the Lady S was going to spend a few days in dry dock having her 'bottom touched up' (lucky thing) and a few minor bits and bobs sorted out, although she had come through the whole experience virtually unscathed, just a few dents here and there, so after a shower and a very late breakfast (I'd often had lunch earlier) I went off to do the rounds of my crew, to thank them for their sterling efforts over the past few days and to hint that 'Santa' might just be coming early (in their pay packets), but virtually to a man (and/or woman) they thanked me, but what they would really like was a small commemorative patch that they could wear on their uniforms, similar to the CTF 150 patches that some had already received. They were genuinely proud of being part of the past few days and they would like, if I was agreeable, to have something to show for it, sort of a campaign medal.

'Caroline, get your sketch pad out, oh and Marcus, another parade please'.

That evening, as I was taking my first lesson in how to fly the G450, I had a few passengers along for the ride, Doc Martin and her Nurses, Maria (who was still miffed at having to baby sit Alice at Gibraltar), Charlie (with the hounds) and Alice, with a rather shy Gerry sat beside her. He had wondered if I wouldn't mind if he hung out with Alice for a bit.

'A bit of what' I asked myself, mind you I quite liked the name Algernon, then, once we were safely back on the ground I sent Teddy off on a secret mission, had a brief word with Mrs Blake about our next royal visitor, and then I suddenly felt deflated, the after effects of sustained adrenaline does that to you, and I felt strangely 'funny', then I realised why - El Campo wasn't moving. I was sitting alone on the island in the centre of my man made (sorry, Paul made) lake and there was no noise or vibration to be had, it would take me some time to get used to the peace and quiet again, and as I sat there in my special place, thinking over what had gone on during the past few hectic days, I debated the fact with myself that had I been wrong to fall so hard, or so quickly for Sandra - or was I, as Alice had said, simply moving on to the next stage in my life; I hoped so.

The next afternoon I sat watching Sandra, I was still in Spain, she was still in England, but it was the Prime Ministers monthly press conference - and the cameras couldn't keep away from her. As she entered the room all the journalists had stood and applauded her, and now she stood, veritably glowing, with her peers, waiting for the main man himself to enter the room. The Prime Minister entered and magnanimously congratulated Sandra on her 'little adventure', and then reluctantly asked her for the first question of the session. He wasn't very happy about even being in the same room as her, but with (hopefully) millions watching he had to put on a brave face. He wasn't one hundred percent convinced that Adam had been struck down by the mysterious virus that was decimating Sky presenters, meaning that 'she' had to replace him at the last minute. What he really believed was that the 'Dragon Lady', sorry Ms Bolting, was plotting something. She had already brought two of his cabinet down, was he to be the third? What on earth had she 'got' on him? and so he stood there, perspiration starting to trickle down his brow, waiting for her question, and it turned out to be an absolute gift, the sort or question that politicians loved. He could prevaricate, placate every faction of his fractured party and look as though he was all things to all people, but there was a catch, it (sorry she) had asked for a favour - could she also ask the last question of the session as well? His heart stopped, that was it - his career in politics was over, and it was off onto the after dinner speaking circuit.

Somehow he made it through the session, trying to string his last few minutes in politics out as long as he could, but finally the last question of his Prime Ministerial career was about to be asked, 'and as promised the final question of this session from you please Ms Bolting'. He stood there physically shaking, the whole of the audience had their pens and mobiles poised, television programs had been interrupted as Directors and Producers realised that something monumental was about to go down, and Sandra rose elegantly to her feet. Then, with a sweet smile on her face, and a gentle tone in her voice she purred 'Mister Prime Minister, I understand that (his knees started to buckle) it is your wife's birthday today (the damn woman has found out about the bracelet), and I am sure that I speak on behalf of the entire press corps in wishing her a happy birthday, she is such a lovely lady', and then she sat down. You could have heard a pin drop, and the Prime Minister stormed off, that harridan was really going to drag it out. He was safely in his ministerial limo before he realised that he had bought the bracelet quite legitimately on e-bay, it looked more expensive than it really was, she must have something else on him.

That evening he cancelled dinner with the visiting President of Pakistan and went to bed early, after first liberally dosing himself up with his favourite sleeping potion, but even that tasted sour, and so the next morning he could wait no longer and rang Sandra's boss. He still owed him a few favours from when he had been on the back benches many years ago. 'Spanky (they had both been at the same public school together) put me out my misery, what has the 'bitc*' got on me'.

A very confused 'Spanky' (he had quite enjoyed some of the schools 'rituals') thought for a moment, then realised what was going through Slimey's mind, 'nothing old fruit, she's just in love'. Spanky then went back to watching Sandra interviewing a very 'liberal' Cabinet Minister, who it was rumoured, had been more active in 'Physical Education' than she should have been, they were just finishing swapping Yorkshire pudding recipes - enough was enough.

As Sandra left the Building on indefinite leave she realised that her father had been right all along, journalism had just been a 'passing phase', it had just taken her a little time to realise it. She plucked her mobile out of her Gucci shoulder bag and speed dialled Andrew (star one).

'Hello darling, do you like Yorkshire pudding? I've just been told this fabulous recipe'.

Although I had already passed the new recipe on to Marcel (who wasn't impressed with it one little bit, but then what do the French know about real food) I played along. 'Why don't you come and make it for me?' I answered.

'I thought you would never ask' she purred, and then I asked her exactly where she was.

'Outside Sky Head Quarters, I'm just about to cross over the road.

'Stand perfectly still' I said 'don't move a muscle, oh, and do you have your passport with you?'

'Of course I do silly' she retorted 'I used to be a journalist'.

I liked the 'used to be' bit, and picked up my desk phone, speed dialled David and as soon as he replied I told him to 'pick her up'. Switching back to my mobile I asked her 'Do you need anything from your apartment'.

'Not really' came the puzzled reply, and then in the background I heard the throaty roar of a powerful four by four pull up alongside her. A door slammed as the passenger exited to open the rear door, and I heard Caroline say 'Ma'am'.

'I presume that you are hungry' she said as she slid into the back seat of the vehicle.

'Yes, very' I replied, 'and then afterwards perhaps we can have some of your Yorkshire pudding',

In the time that it took David to drive to London City Airport Teddy had the Gulfstream up and running, and a few minutes later, after he had watched the G450 lift smoothly off the runway, and disappear into the distance, the Aircraft Marshaller looked down at the 'tip' in his hand, the keys to an 'almost' new Jeep, 'some people really do have more money that sense' he muttered under his breath 'Thank the Lord'.

Sandra flew down the aircraft steps and straight into my arms, and after finally coming up for air I took her hand and led her away from the house, the sightseeing could wait till later, first off I wanted to introduce her to some very nice people. We quietly walked to the landing stage at the lakes edge, climbed aboard a motor boat and cast off, and as we slowly made our way to the island I looked up at the overcast sky and gave a mock shiver, 'sorry about the weather, I know that in all the books it says come to 'sunny Spain' \- I'm sure that we can sue someone'.

She gave me a big hug and quietly whispered into my ear 'as long as I am with you it could be snowing and I would still be perfectly happy'.

Hmm I thought, think of all the money that I could save on air-conditioning if we relocated to Switzerland, and then we arrived at my island. I tied the boat up to the landing stage and helped her ashore, and we walked hand in hand into its 'special feature'. It looked like your average mini volcano, just to the side of the eighth hole, and uninitiated golfers might justifiably think that I'd had it put there to make the hole more 'interesting', but they would be wrong, it was there because I could visit it every time I came on the golf course, whether I was doing the full sixteen holes, or just the first or the last eight. I had already told Sandra all about my volcano, and shown her the photos when we were on board the Lady S, so we quietly walked hand in hand into its entrance. It wasn't a concealed entrance, anyone was more than welcome to enter it any time they wished, it just wasn't an 'in your face' type of entrance that demanded that you 'had' to enter every time you arrived on the island. We walked down the short tunnel towards its centre, and Sandra gripped my hand even tighter as we exited it. In front of us was a huge cube of brown marble, about two metres square. The top was mirror smooth and sloped gently down towards us, but the sides were rough-hewn, just as they had been when the block had first arrived at the masons. Surrounding the marble block was a wide walkway with gently curved wooden benches set against the sloping walls, and when the sun was out I could quietly sit there, either in the sunshine or the shade, depending on how the mood took me, putting the world to rights with Sheila, George and Millie.

On the gleaming surface of the marble slab were two gold plaques, not gold plated plaques, or gold painted plaques but 'gold' plaques; and their surfaces had been engraved by a Master Engraver, and they covered three pewter urns. Sandra turned to me, tears starting to run down her cheeks and said in a husky voice 'Would you care to introduce me to Sheila, George and Millie'.

I had promised George and Millie that I would find them a suitable resting place, and this huge marble slab 'rested' directly on the concrete base of that rusty old aerial that had taken them from this world. It was the last place on the planet that they had been together, and now that they had relocated to a 'better' place, their earthly remains would still remain together on that very same spot, for all eternity, and I was sure that they wouldn't mind sharing it with Sheila.

Together we walked hand in hand up to the slab and Sandra reached out with her free hand and ran her finger tips lightly over the engraved words, 'Sheila, loving wife and mother – we will always love and miss you' on the smaller plaque, and 'George and Millie – still together, and truly missed' on the 'double', along with the dates.

Still holding her hand I introduced Sandra to them, and then surprisingly Sandra started speaking quietly to them, as if they were standing in front of her. She wished them a safe onward journey and promised all three of them that if it was meant to be, she would, with all her heart, look after me for them, and then finally she raised the tips of her fingers to her tear soaked lips, kissed them lightly, and then placed the moist tips on Sheila's plaque – and as if on cue the sun came out from behind the last cloud in the sky.

As we exited the tunnel, arms around each other, I looked up at the perfect blue sky and commented to my new true love, 'it looks as though it's going to be another wonderful day in paradise'.

###

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About the author

I spent twenty-two years in the Fleet Air Arm (Royal Navy) as an Aircraft Mechanic, most of my time as a Maintenance Supervisor. Following a brief time driving heavy goods vehicles I then spent a further fourteen years as a Housing Officer for a Local Authority/Housing Association before being medically retired.

I have two children (and a growing number of grandchildren) from my first marriage, and following my retirement, met, married, and relocated to Spain with Melva.

This book is the first in my _Andrew Michaels_ **trilogy**. Continue following his adventures in:-

Onward and Upward

and

Above and Beyond

Connect with me Online:

http://www.tonywilson.es

 https://www.smashwords.com/profile/tonywilson

