Bloodworth necked another Nescafé and pointed at the OS map on the hood of the landy.
"5 Para can get you anywhere. Adj, over to you."
The Adj looked a bit ropey but tried to be game, "Yessir......but Lenton, it's a bit iffy, Sir. Trot has it sewn up, hard ID on some jokers with blowpipe and a few psychos with Barretts in the tower blocks. Loads of enthusiasts with gympys....its....iffy."
Bloodworth's eyes narrowed, "5 Para doesn't do iffy, Adj. What's this park here? Cracking DZ."
The RSM looked at the map, "Clubhouse, lake, looks like a golf course. To me. Sir."
"A golf course! C'mon, a golf course....and one....with a hellish looking fairway on the 8th. We wake up trot with some rockets and a bit of brassing, land the toms, pile in, secure the perimeter. Captain Mystery here and his hooligans tear off and we give the fairway a work over. First light. Vertical envelopment! Death from Above! Trot doesn't golf!"
Bloodworth was off, his O Group trailing in his wake as he snapped out orders; someone had left the Jaffa cakes on the dashboard. I took the packet.