Crisis Four [antikvár]

Monday 16 October 1995 The Syrians don't fuck around if they think you're invading their air space. Within minutes of crossing the border, your aircraft w^ill be greeted by a three-ship intercept, flying so close you can wave at the pilots. They won't wave back; they've come to get a visual ID on you, and if they don't like what they see they'll hose you down with their air-to-air missiles. The same rule doesn't apply, of course, when friendly commercial aircraft blip onto their radar screens, and that was why our team of four had opted for this particular method of infiltration. If Damascus had had the slightest clue about what was about to happen aboard our British Airways flight from Delhi to London, their fighters would have been scrambled the moment the Boeing 747 left Saudi Arabian territory. I was twisting and turning, trying to get comfortable, feeling jealous of all the people sitting upstairs behind the driver, probably on their fifth gin and tonic since take off, watching their second movie and tucking into their third helping of boeuf en croute. Reg 1 was in front of me. Six feet two, and built like a brick shit-house, he was probably having an even worse time in the 11