Scud Hunters & Desert Storm Chaos | SAS Int Cell, Fibre Optic Sabotage & Survival | The Parallel Four

Chapter Thirty-Two drops The Parallel Four deep into Operation Desert Storm — six weeks of hit-and-run raids, storm-soaked bivvies, and black humour on the edge of war. Behind enemy lines, Stephen and Johan keep their Unimog “The Beast” roaring through night moves, refuelling marathons, and firefights that turn routine into legend. From cutting fibre optic lines under fire to ambushing convoys and even destroying a mobile Scud launcher, they prove that courage often looks like chaos covered in sand.

Meanwhile, back in the Intelligence Cell, Vinka and Marlin hold the line on the maps and airwaves — decoding chatter, tracking movements, and quietly ensuring their husbands make it home. When word filters through of “two British madmen in a Unimog,” the grin says it all.

This is the Gulf War told the way only veterans can: with heart, humour, and heat-blurred honesty. Tea, teamwork, and tactical genius in equal measure.

The Parallel Four Book Two Chapter Thirty Two

Writing The Parallel Four has been a journey in itself—a walk through memories, dreams, and all the little moments that shape who we become. Some parts of this story are true. Some are truer than I’d care to admit. And some—well, let’s just say they’re inspired by what might’ve happened if life had taken a different turn.

The characters you’ll meet in these pages—Stephen, Johan, Vinka, Marlin, Tim, and Petra—are fictional, but they live and breathe with the spirit of real people I’ve known, loved, and lost. Their world is stitched together from scraps of real places, actual events, and a few wild yarns that got better with each retelling down the pub.

Poplar, Hitchin, and the snowy reaches of Sweden aren’t just backdrops—they’re characters in their own right. They’ve shaped this story as much as the people in it. And if you happen to recognise a place, a turn of phrase, or a certain kind of mischief from your own youth… well, consider that my nod to you.

This first book takes us from scraped knees to stolen kisses, from playground politics to life’s first real goodbyes. It’s about growing up, making mistakes, and finding the people who’ll stand by you no matter what—even if they sometimes drive you round the bend.

To those who remember the ‘50s and ‘60s—this one’s a memory jogger. To the younger lot—it’s a peek into a time when life moved slower, but feelings still ran just as fast.

And finally, to Stephen, Johan, Vinka, Marlin, Tim, and Petra—six hearts bound by the wonder of first love. Not the fleeting kind that fades with time, but the rare and lasting kind that deepens, steadies, and endures—a love that grows with them, becoming part of who they are, and who they will always be. And though this is only the beginning, the road ahead will test them in ways they cannot yet imagine—through training, through battle, and through the choices that will shape the rest of their lives.

Transcript

Chapter Thirty Two.

Travelling at night and laying up during the day might sound like a peaceful desert road trip—until you try doing it in hostile territory with nothing but sand, flat horizons, and a gnawing feeling that someone out there has a pair of binoculars and bad intentions.

The trick was always the same:

Find a spot flat enough to hide in, high enough to defend, and with a clear escape route that didn’t involve reversing into a hedge of camel thorn or, worse, a wad of unexploded something.

Every time we laid up, we’d throw cam nets over the vehicles like oversized mosquito nets, then set up all-round defence with six lads on sentry rotation.

The rest of us would grab what sleep we could, but not before sorting the essentials.

Because let’s be honest: no one wants to be caught in a firefight with their trousers down or their boots off.

And yes—admin before kip was gospel.

We only had to do the dreaded “drop everything and leg it” once—

just before dusk, the worst time possible.

One minute, you’re snoring in a doss bag, dreaming of bacon butties…

The next, someone’s hissing “Stand to!” and you’re half-dressed, stuffing kit into your bergen, trying not to trip over your rifle or someone else’s webbing.

It was chaos.

It was real.

Somehow, it was exactly where we wanted to be.

We’d been behind the lines for about two weeks when we finally got our first helicopter resupply. Spirits were sky-high—right up until we remembered we’d have to hump all the gear ourselves.

We rolled into the RV like a ragtag mob from Mad Max—sunburnt, sand-blasted, and smelling like we’d lost an argument with a camel.

Perimeter went up sharpish.

Sentries posted.

Everyone else stood ready, eyes on the sky, waiting for the mighty thunder of the Chinook.

And sure enough, down it came—

an angry metal dragon, blades thrashing the air, kicking up a sandstorm so fierce it would’ve made Lawrence of Arabia dive for cover.

Visibility dropped to zero.

I swear I saw a camel cartwheeling past like tumbleweed.

Once the rotor rage settled and the desert stopped spinning, we squinted into the clearing dust, expecting neat stacks of jerry cans to keep us fuelled.

Instead, the RAF, in their infinite wisdom, had decided to gift us half a dozen 200-litre drums.

Because clearly, we were running a BP forecourt out there in the middle of nowhere.

Still—no complaints.

At least it wasn’t more baked beans.

Refuelling the patrol by manually decanting from 200-litre barrels was exactly as fun as it sounds—

somewhere between a root canal and folding wet tents in a gale.

What should’ve taken twenty minutes turned into a soul-destroying marathon of swearing, splashing, and hand blisters.

Funnels were improvised, hoses kinked, and someone—probably Johan—managed to get covered head-to-toe in petrol. Again.

Naturally, we made it bearable the only way squaddies know how:

sarcastic banter, a few choice insults, and a lot of moaning about how this wasn’t in the recruiting brochure.

To add insult to fuel-soaked injury, the RAF had also decided to leave us a generous heap of Arab-style winter coats.

Big, wool-lined, and clearly designed by someone who’d never seen rain, they were great for warmth…

utterly useless for waterproofing.

We looked like a bargain-bin SAS cosplay troupe—

straight out of The Desert Rats: The Musical.

Still, credit where it’s due:

Wet? Absolutely.

Heavy? Like dragging a sodden horse blanket.

Warm? Surprisingly so.

Style? Impeccable.

We could’ve walked onto a West End stage or into a sandstorm without missing a beat.

Once we’d finished the world’s slowest refuel operation, redistributed ammo, passed around water like it was holy nectar, and jammed the last of the “chicken-something” rations into the back of the Unimog, we were just about ready to roll again.

That’s when the weather threw a wobbly.

No gentle drizzle or dramatic lightning to look good in silhouette—no, this was a full-blown biblical storm that the locals claimed hadn’t hit in decades. Rain lashed sideways, the wind howled like a banshee on the lash, and the ground beneath us turned into something resembling cold porridge mixed with treacle.

We tried to push on.

Big mistake.

The Land Rovers started sinking, the bikes became art installations, and even our mighty Unimog began to wobble like a drunk hippo in custard. Visibility dropped to about the length of your arm, and morale wasn’t far behind it. After a brief discussion—half of which was shouted through clenched teeth and the rest drowned out by the wind—we all agreed:

Hunker down. Wait it out. Pray. Brew up.

The Arab coats, which earlier had us looking like the understudies from Aladdin Goes Commando, now weighed as much as a wet Labrador each. But they were warm, and in that moment, that was all that mattered. Even if we now rustled when we moved.

We set up sentry rotations, double-checked the cam nets, which had all turned into very convincing puddles and slumped down wherever was driest—which wasn’t saying much. There was no sleep, just a few minutes of leaning back with a brew and watching the storm batter the canvas like it owed it money.

The upside? Brew time and no incoming fire.

The downside? Everything else.

Int Cell — Eastern Saudi, Forward Operating Base

Night has folded over the desert like a heavy woollen blanket. In the Intelligence Cell the light is thin and the air hums with quiet urgency — radios whisper, maps sit under mugs, and sand has found its way into everything. The storm’s tantrum is almost over, but its fingerprints are all over our kit.

I lean back in my chair, an enamel mug warming my knee, and flick the latest report with my finger. “They’ve stopped moving again,” I mutter. “Bloody storm.”

Marlin doesn’t look up from the sat-map. “Unimog’s still pinging from the same grid. Looks like they’ve hunkered down.” She smirks without taking her eyes off the screen. “Bet Johan’s already made tea and started a poker game.”

I can’t help a laugh. “And Stephen’s probably reorganising their rations by alphabetical order. He gets like that when he’s cold and bored.”

Marlin smiles into her mug. “Did you hear about that ambush a few nights ago?”

I raise an eyebrow. “The one at the FRV? The one our lads walked away from without a scratch?”

She taps the paper, as if to prove it. “Confirmed. They held the line until the patrol got back. One vehicle gone, several enemy down — not a mark on the convoy. Johan went full Viking, and Stephen drove like the Ace Café run all over again.”

I shake my head, pretending to be cross. My eyes are actually bright. “Idiots.”

“Brave idiots,” Marlin corrected.

“Very brave.” My voice softens. “But if he ever tries charging an armed convoy again in a bloody Unimog, I’ll throttle him myself.”

Marlin grins. “You’ll have to beat me to it.”

We drink our coffee in the small, comfortable silence that only people who’ve shared winters and front-lines ever find. I lean closer, quieter. “Do you ever think about what we’ll tell the kids, if—”

“Every day,” Marlin interrupts, steady as always. “But I also think about how proud they’ll be when they hear what we did. What we all did.”

I nod, because it’s true. Still, I’d rather tell them that story sitting in the kitchen, with a kettle on and the twins underfoot, not with sand in my boots and the desert wind at the door.

Outside, the storm grumbles once more and drifts east.

We go back to our maps and our radios — two Swedish sergeants: wives, mothers, and warriors — holding on to the small, stubborn hope that the next call sign will not be followed by static.

SOMEWHERE NEAR THE IRAQI MSR – NIGHT

Our Unimog hummed along the flat desert like a bored hippo in camo. The plan was simple—on paper: sneak up to the main supply route, locate the fibre optic line, and give it a proper British unplugging.

Now, when you hear fibre optic cable, you might think of polite little wires tiptoeing underground. Nope. These things were buried deep, reinforced, and—as our dear friends in Int kindly warned us—booby-trapped to kingdom come. Oh, and they’d marked them out with raised manhole covers. How thoughtful.

But—and there’s always a but—the covers were alarmed. Not like Marlin when Johan leaves his socks in the sink. I mean actual alarms. Trip one, and you wouldn’t just get a flashing light—you’d get a full welcome committee with AKs, RPGs, and a deep dislike of British manners.

So we did what any sensible lunatics would do—we sent the Pinky lads ahead to find a decent access point while we hung back with The Beast, quietly preparing our box of technical mayhem. Johan was checking the detcord and timers like a chef prepping a soufflé. I was on overwatch, chewing what might’ve once been beef jerky and wondering if it was older than me.

Vinka’s voice crackled through the radio, calm as ever.

“Stephen, love… please don’t blow yourself up. We’re quite fond of you back here.”

I clicked the mic. “Wouldn’t dream of it, sweetheart. Johan’s the one holding the bang.”

Johan gave me a deadpan look and held up a brick of C4. “You’re the one driving. We both go.”

The Pinky reported back—one promising site, no immediate movement. We rolled up just off the MSR, blacked out and silent. The fibre run was right there, plain as day. All we had to do now was dig down, cut it, drop a little delayed surprise, and disappear before anyone noticed their phones had stopped working.

Easy peasy.

Except—Johan whispered, “Cover’s got a wire. Pressure switch, maybe.”

“Lovely,” I muttered. “I’ll get the kettle.”

So, rather than ringing the doorbell, we got sneaky. About ten metres away from the manhole, because we weren’t that daft, we picked a nice, quiet spot to start digging—emphasis on start. Turns out, Iraqi engineers weren’t big on shallow infrastructure. The ground felt like it had been seasoned with concrete, sun-baked for a decade, and cursed by ancient builders.

Johan muttered, “We need a pneumatic drill, not a bloody entrenching tool.”

I wiped the sweat off my brow with a sleeve already doing overtime as a towel. “You should’ve brought the Black & Decker, mate.”

After what felt like hours—probably thirty minutes—we finally hit something that didn’t fight back. A thick black snake of fibre optic cable, snuggled into its little trench. We gave it a gentle tug. It didn’t budge. So we wrapped a rope round it, tied it to the Pinky’s tow hook, and gave the universal signal for “give it some welly.”

With a cough and a growl, the Land Rover pulled away. The cable stretched, groaned—and then twang—shot out of the ground like a spooked ferret. Sand, stones, and one very surprised beetle went flying.

“result”, I grinned, brushing off the debris.

Johan crouched beside the cable, knife in hand. “Snip or boom?”

“Let’s be polite—do both.”

We cut it, obviously. Then Johan got busy with his little Tupperware of chaos—pressure plates, wire traps, and a nasty surprise rigged to blow if anyone so much as sneezed near the repair job. It was almost artistic, in a ‘Health & Safety would have a fit’ kind of way.

As we backed off, satisfied, I couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Extreme gardening, that’s what this is. Bit of digging, bit of pruning, and a touch of landscaping with explosives.”

Johan just nodded. “We should get a business card printed.”

We had two more resupply ops while we were in-country, and I don’t think any of us breathed properly until the Chinook had lifted off and disappeared into the shimmering heat haze. Having a massive flying target plonk itself down in the middle of your totally covert, definitely secret lay-up area does wonders for the nerves. It’s like shouting “we’re over here!” in Morse code using rotor blades.

Still, both drops went surprisingly smoothly. No contacts during landing, no heroic fire-fights, and no one accidentally setting off their own booby trap. A minor miracle, really. We even got decent kit for once—fresh batteries, dry socks, more of those winter coats that made us look like extras from Lawrence of Arabia: The Pantomime, and actual food that didn’t come in a green bag marked “Menu A: disappointment.”

By some divine alignment of the military stars, we made it through the whole op without a single serious injury. Unless, of course, you count Corporal Dave nearly losing his toes to frostbite.

Yeah—frostbite. In Iraq.

We didn’t believe it at first either. But there he was, poor sod, boots off, toes like pork scratchings, huddled in a bivvy bag with a look that said, “I thought deserts were supposed to be warm.”

Turns out those desert nights can get colder than a mother-in-law’s stare. The kind of cold that creeps in while you’re asleep and starts nibbling your extremities like a vengeful hamster. After that, no one skimped on socks again. You’d have thought we were prepping for Everest base camp—four pairs on, one stuffed inside the doss bag, and another for the emergency brew-up.

Lesson learned. The desert doesn’t just want to shoot you—it wants to freeze you first.

The second resupply turned up in a convoy of four-tonners, looking like some demented milk round from hell. Out hopped a handful of mechanics, all swagger and spanners, ready to breathe life back into our poor, sand-choked wagons. “Who’s been abusing the clutch like it owes you money?” one of them barked, elbow-deep in engine grease before we’d even finished unloading.

By this point, all four half-squadrons had linked up in one glorious, dusty, caffeine-fuelled blob. The air was thick with petrol fumes, suncream, and the sound of people pretending they hadn’t lost any of their kit. We spread out across a dried-up wadi that looked like a battlefield staging area straight out of a war film—except with more tea bags and less dramatic music.

As we were sorting kit, redistributing ammo, and arguing over who nicked the last packet of Fruit Pastilles, the RSM strolled over looking like he’d just stepped off a recruiting poster—sunglasses, moustache, and that terrifying aura only an RSM can carry.

“All sergeants—circle up,” he growled.

Just like that, we had what may very well have been the first-ever Sergeants’ Mess meeting held behind enemy lines.

No bar. No mess silver. No crisply starched mess jackets. Just a bunch of knackered sergeants in cam cream and sand-covered boots, sat around in a rough circle on folding chairs, ammo tins, and the occasional jerry can. Mud on our boots, sand in our brews, grenades nestled casually beside our knees—just in case.

The RSM opened proceedings with a time-honoured phrase: “Right, you bunch of reprobates…”

What followed was half briefing, half stand-up comedy. There was some actual business—maintenance rotations, ammo usage rates, rules of engagement reminders—but mostly it was a masterclass in sarcasm and trench humour.

Someone asked whether we were due a bottle of port, given it was technically a Mess function.

“Yeah, sure,” someone else quipped. “We’ll just nip to Tesco Basra.”

Then came the unanimous vote that next time a Land Rover needed a full service, someone else could do it. Preferably someone who hadn’t welded their intake valves shut with Iraqi sand.

Minutes were not taken. Beers were not served. But spirits were lifted, someone pulled out a pack of biscuits brown, and for a few surreal minutes, we weren’t behind enemy lines—we were just back in the Mess, moaning about everything and laughing anyway.

During our third and last resupply, in between inhaling enough dust to sandblast a Land Rover and wrestling with jerry cans like they were rabid badgers, someone wandered over and handed us a fresh nightmare on a clipboard: new orders. We were now officially on Scud hunting detail.

Brilliant...

Apparently, someone at the top had decided the best way to find and destroy Saddam’s mobile missile launchers was to send in a gang of hairy, sleep-deprived lunatics in V8 Land Rovers, armed to the eyebrows and running on caffeine, beef jerky, and sheer bloody-mindedness. We weren’t just soldiers anymore—we were missile detectives in a Mad Max remake.

The fixed launchers had already been smashed to smithereens courtesy of the US Air Force and their subtle-as-a-brick “shock and awe” tactics—basically, flatten everything and then check the rubble. But these mobile launchers? Whole different kettle of chaos. They’d set up in the middle of nowhere, fire a missile, then pack up and leg it before anyone could say “incoming.” Slick, sneaky, and slippery as a greased weasel in a sandstorm.

Now they were our problem.

Cue a collective groan, a couple of sarcastic cheers, and someone muttering, “Well, I did say I wanted a bit more excitement…”

After a few days of bouncing across the desert like caffeinated tumbleweeds, eating more dust than a Hoover bag and starting to have actual conversations with our own socks, we finally found one.

There it was—tucked under a road intersection like it was waiting for a lift or hiding from a furious RSM. A mobile Scud launcher. No missile mounted, mind—but unmistakably the real deal. It looked guilty. You know the sort—too neat, too still, like a naughty schoolboy pretending to revise while hiding a comic in his textbook.

Naturally, the debate kicked off. Do we hit it now, take the win, and run? Or do we sit tight, see if it gets reloaded, and nail it when it’s a real threat?

We opted for the stakeout. Dug in behind a low ridge with scopes up, flasks out, and eyes peeled.

Hour one: Nothing.

Hour two: One of the lads started naming the dust devils like pets.

Hour three: A couple of vehicles moved nearby—too casual to ignore. And the launcher crew? Suddenly twitchy. Johan muttered, “Something’s coming.”

Sod waiting.

A Milan missile was pulled from its rack like the wrath of the gods in a cardboard tube. Target locked. Breath held.

Whoosh.

Boom.

Dust. Glorious, cinematic, face-slapping dust. That Scud launcher didn’t just explode—it disassembled, enthusiastically. Bits of it were last seen flying towards Basra.

Johan let out a war cry that sounded suspiciously like a laugh, and someone behind us yelled, “Hollywood’d have cut that scene—too unrealistic!”

We were gone before the echo faded. No selfies, no after-action report—just a fast exfil with a trail of satisfaction in our wake.

Naturally, just as we were patting ourselves on the back and deciding who got to tell the story first when we got home, all hell broke loose.

Apparently, blowing up a Scud launcher attracts attention. Who knew?

A few dozen Iraqis—clearly unimpressed with our fireworks display—decided it was their turn to make some noise. Tracer rounds lit up the twilight like deranged fireflies, and before we knew it, rounds were cracking overhead and someone shouted, “Incoming!” with that particular tone that means start running yesterday.

Time to bug out.

We kicked into textbook fire and manoeuvre—though, truth be told, there was a lot more manoeuvre than fire. Johan covered our retreat with short bursts from the GPMG while I slalomed the Unimog through the dips and ridges like I was auditioning for the Dakar Rally. Pinkies peeled off in pairs, tyres kicking up rooster tails of sand, while the rest of us laid smoke and vanished into the desert dusk like disgruntled ghosts.

After about an hour of adrenaline-soaked silence and the occasional “is everyone still breathing” check, we regrouped at the fallback RV. Helmets off, nerves steadying, ammo redistributed—because what’s more comforting than a fresh belt of 7.62, eh?

Then, from somewhere off in the distance—pop pop pop—gunfire again.

Except… it wasn’t coming our way.

It sounded messy. Uncoordinated. Like a pub brawl where everyone forgot which side they were on.

Johan cocked his head and grinned, “Bet you a brew they’re arguing over whose fault it was.”

I just nodded. “Poor sod who left the keys in the Scud probably copped it first.”

There was nothing left for us to do but brew up, sit tight, and wait for the next bit of desert mayhem to come our way.

Back in the Int Cell, the air was thick with caffeine, heat, and the hum of overloaded equipment. The radio crackled like it was chewing gravel, maps were layered in acetate and scribbled-on with every colour but sense, and someone had spilled coffee on the list of known enemy movements—again.

Marlin and I had barely paused for breath since the last round of intercepts. We were holed up in what could generously be described as a “command post,” but in reality was more like a sand-blasted shipping container with delusions of grandeur.

Still, the work was important. We were tracking every whisper, click, and squawk that bounced across enemy comms. Some were routine—troop movements, supply shortages, the occasional Iraqi having a meltdown over broken toilets. But then… something different.

I tapped my headset. “You catching this, Vinka?”

I turned the gain knob and leaned in. Through the static, a few phrases in rapid Arabic crackled through.

“…British dogs… fire from the dunes…”

“…one of ours blew up…”

“…they ran—no, they charged…”

Marlin’s eyebrows rose as she scribbled notes in shorthand. “Sounds like someone made quite the entrance.”

I smirked. “Reckon that’s our lunatics. Johan and Stephen, bless their modest hearts.”

Marlin laughed softly, still writing. “Only our blokes would turn a resupply run into a war story.”

“And probably stole their biscuits while they were at it,” I said, folding my arms. “We’ll confirm it later through SIGINT, but sounds like they’ve just embarrassed half a platoon.”

A moment passed between us.

“They’re alright,” Marlin said quietly.

“Yeah,” I nodded. “They’re alright.”

We turned back to the consoles, the desert still buzzing in our ears, our boys still somewhere out there—mad, magnificent, and very much ours.

By this point, our time behind the lines was coming to a close. Six weeks of hit-and-run raids, blowing up fibre optic cables, flattening comms stations, causing mayhem, and generally being a right pain in Saddam’s backside. We’d had a few close calls, exchanged a fair amount of hot led with Iraqi forces, and sweated out more salt than the Dead Sea.

Truth be told, it had been equal parts exhilarating and terrifying. One minute you’re handing out water bottles and trying not to trip over a camel spider, the next you’re launching grenades at a convoy like it’s Guy Fawkes Night in Basra.

Fortunately for us, most of the Iraqi troops we encountered appeared to have received their training from a blindfolded scarecrow. Either they were too scared to look while pulling the trigger, or they genuinely thought the safest way to fire was with their eyes closed. I mean, I’m not complaining, but if your best tactic is “spray and pray” while legging it in the opposite direction, maybe it’s time to rethink the whole soldiering business.

Mind you, we didn’t exactly stroll through it untouched. A few lads picked up scrapes, our boots had more desert in ’em than the Sahara itself, and at least one of us developed a fairly intense relationship with a packet of Imodium. But through it all, Johan and I were totally knackered, filthy, and a bit more sun-dried than usual, but in one piece.