Nobody's Perfect

One

'I believe that God wants everybody to be free. That's what I believe. And that's one part of my foreign policy'.
-George W.Bush, 13 October 2004-

'To the end there shall be war.'
-The book of Daniel, 9:26-
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Northern Serbia December 1998

17:00 hrs
Chet Freeman didn't know which smelled worse: himself or the bar he was sitting in.

They'd taken up position by a table next to the toilets. From a surveillance point of view it was perfect: they could see every part of the bar, and there was a direct line to the exit in case of a clus-terfuck. From a comfort point of view it was the pits, not least because of the reek of piss and stale cigarette smoke. Chet had I been in some rough joints in his time, but this place made the Lamb and Flag in Hereford look like the fucking Ritz.

At least it was warm. The snow had been falling for about an hour and was already a couple of inches thick on the ground. But warmth was the only thing this bar had going for it. A broken fruit machine in the One corner. A picture of Milosevic on the nicotine stained wall alongside it. Three strip lights on the ceiling, of which the middle one buzzed and flickered on and off. Other than that, a short bar with a grossly overweight Barman and only two optics fixed to the wall behind it - slivovitz and vodka - and ten plastic-topped tables screwed to the ground, each with red Coca-Cola ashtray over flowering with butts. This was a place for drinking and smoking, nothing more. True, there was an old TV fixed to the centre wall behind the bar itself. It was on loud enough to hear, but of the 23 men - no women - pulling on bottles of warm beer, no one even glanced at it.

Chet looked at his Watch. 17.03. give it another three hours and he'd put money on most of these guys being dead drunk. Or, in one case, just dead.

He scratched at his leg. an insect, properly drawn by his stinking clothes, had bitten him just above the knee. He could feel the bulge Of the bite even though the coarse material of his trousers. He scratched it hard and took a small sip from his bottle of Zajecarsko, the local beer.

'Jesus, Buddy, if I didn't know you better, I'd have said you actually just drunk some of that piss.'

Chet's mate Luke Mercer had a shaved head, slightly crooked teeth and a south London accent. He spoke quietly and his voice was almost drowned out by the noise of Boyzone wailing from the TV. They didn't want anybody to hear they were talking English. Luke looked as rough as Chet. Three days' stubble, and another three days' dirt beneath it. A black donkey jacket flecked with cement. Worker's shoes, dirty and heavy. Luke so closely resembled bled a labourer that on one would give him a second look, not here where everyone was dressed in the same way. Their fellow drinkers might be surprised to learn, though, that the donkey jacket concealed A shoulder holster packing a Sig 9mm pistol and a mike for covert comms fitted under the lapel. The tiny pink radio earpieces each man had in one ear were invisible to anyone who wasn't looking for them. They were linked to the radio transmitters in the pockets of that tough, battered trousers. This would keep them in contact with the other two members of the unit, Sean Richards
- a grizzled old-timer with flecks of grey in his beard, who was as much a fixture of B Squadron as the squadron hangar back in - and Marty Blakemore, fresh to the Regiment from 3 Para and keen to make a good impression on his first major op (operation).

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Funny enough this started as a English Home work as I progressed with it. it came to me that I could do more with it so here it is, (obviously there was no swearing before, but hey that give you as a reader more understanding of Chet Freeman is.

Thanks for reading hope you enjoy if you did then give this a favour and comment

-Haz