Smoke was billowing everywhere, and now all the call signs were sending information back on the net that their areas were clear and what the casualty state was.

Fat Boy said, "We have a wounded woman."

I looked around, and one of the Yankees was holding her leg.

I got on to the net: "This is Three, we have a wounded Yankee, request medic backup, over."

"Roger that, Three. He is on his way, out."

Dave went to the door to lead him to the casualty. I then got on the net and gave my sitrep.

By now the whole of the front of the building was floodlit, and the hostage reception was ready for custom.

"All stations, evacuate the Yankees, evacuate the Yankees."

It looked like a human conveyor belt as we moved people out. They mustn't have time to think, they must be scared; you shout and holier to control them into the arms of the hostage reception. Everybody was picking them up and shoving them, shouting: "Get up, get up!

Move, move, move!"

They got as hard a time as if they were confirmed terrorists, lined up facedown on the floor and handcuffed.

"Stay still, no talking!"

They were covered with pistols.

The SSM came along with a torch, grasped hold of each person's head, and pulled it back, shining the powerful beam into his eyes.

"Name?"

When he was satisfied that everyone was who he said he was, they were put on transport and moved away to the police cordon.

"h.e.l.lo, Alpha One, this is Two. We have a possible I.E.D [improvised explosive device]. We have marked it and are moving out.

Over."

They would put a small flashing yellow light on it.

The same would be done for a man down; yellow light penetrates smoke better than white.

Someone else was getting direction from CRW.

"Alpha One, roger. RP with A.T.O, all call signs evacuate the building, over."

We all acknowledged, quite pleased to be evacuating.

We could get back to the admin area, have a quick debrief, and then it would be wacky races back to Hereford. There was a great rule that whoever came on the helis went back on them. That was fine, apart from having to listen to Steve bang on about his latest squash game.

The exercise had gone smoothly. We'd been good, and so we should have been. We were on the ranges every day, leaping onto buildings, screaming through the CQB house, running around with the vehicles, up and down ladders, practicing until we could almost do it blindfolded.

The only thing that didn't improve with the training was that we lived our lives with a ring around our faces where the seal of the respirator pressed down.

The X rays had been members of CRW apart from the woman, who was from the Home Office. They had been working to a brief that only they knew; however, it could have changed at any time, depending on the actions of us and the other agencies involved. If they had seen anything to arouse their suspicions, they would have reacted.

Part of learning to fight terrorists was knowing how to be one, and the blokes in the Regiment, and particularly CRW, were probably the most professional in the world. With our skills and knowledge we could bring down governments in months.

Things started to go really well with Fiona. We were sitting in the front room one day having a romantic conversation about electricity bills, and I said, "This is quite stupid. Why don't we move in together? You virtually live in my house anyway, so why don't you come in?"

"I want'to do that," Fiona said, "but only if you let me go halves on everything."

"I buy the washing machine, you buy the hoover?" It sounded good, to me, and since I was on the team, at least there was the chance of some time together. We used it to the full.

The house started to take shape. It was a nice little place, in a smart part of town; we really got busy redecorating, putting new doors up, and we both chipped in to. have heating installed. Gradually furniture and curtains appeared. As far as I was concerned, I'd be there forever; there was no reason to move. It really felt like home.

In June 1986 I had one of those mornings when I got into work at eight o'clock and was out again by ninethirty. I came home; I'd been trying to fix the exhaust on the Renault 5 because the bracket kept falling off and I was d.a.m.ned if I was going to pay fifteen pounds to have it sorted out. I was trying to hold it on with bits of coat hanger and all sorts.

I'd spent the afternoon doing that, came in, and was sitting down having a cup of tea, watching the telly.

Fiona had been downtown for a doctor's appointment; she came in, stood in the doorway, and said, "I've got something to tell you. I wasn't too sure of your reaction, so I wanted to make sure. Andy, I'm pregnant."

I felt as if I'd taken a straight right from Mike Tyson. I said, "This is really good. What do you reckon?"

"I don't know. I don't know if it's good or bad. Do you think we should have the baby? I'm for it if you are."

"Right, okay, let's do it-let's have a baby."

Was it the right time, was it the wrong time? whoever knows? It was scary, but it was nice, a wonderful feeling of having created something worthwhile. So there I was, the expectant father.

As the pregnancy progressed, Fiona started to go through a bad patch, getting very tired with anemia.

She'd get up in the mornings, walk around, then have to get her head down again. It was lucky that I was on the team because every spare moment I had I could get back and make her cups of tea and just be there. It would have been tough for her if I'd had to go away; somebody would have had to be there to look after her.

Money was tight. I was still on trooper's pay, although I had reached the dizzy heights of lance-corporal.

The next step was the big one; corporal's pay was very good indeed. I hoped I'd have sorted that out by the time the baby was born. Whatever happened, nothing could take away from me how good it felt to have a home and a child on the way.

Around Christmas time, when Fiona was about seven months pregnant, I found out that I had to go away on a team job in February. When I worked out the dates, I found that it was the day before she was due to have our baby.

"That's no problem," she said. "We'll look up a few old wives' tales and jump up and down in the rhubarb patch or something to bring the baby a day earlier. It might be early anyway. Let's keep our fingers crossed."

She went for all the tests and asked, "What are the chances of getting the baby induced a day early? My boyfriend's got to go away and will be away for a few months. He wants to be present at the birth."

I was getting quite upset about it because I really wanted to be there; this was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to me.

But the team job wasn't going to be knocked back a day just because Lance-corporal McNab was going to have a baby.

I started combing magazines for possible "cures."

"You'll have to get your finger out the day before," I said to Fiona, handing her the latest concoction I'd read about-something like Worcester sauce and pineapple juice. "Give this baby a good talking-to.

Explain the facts of life; it's got to come out early."

Life went on. John McCarthy had been kidnapped in Beirut in April 1986.

In January 1987 so was Terry Waite. It wasn't long before the press were speculating about what kind of role the Regiment might be playing in securing their release. On 28 January 1987, just a week or so after Waite's disappearance, we all got into the crew room in the morning, normal routine. It was a really miserable old day, windy and raining.

Blokes had brought day sacks in as usual, with newspapers and magazines in case we got bored. We pa.s.sed them around, drinking tea and chatting.

The big debate was whether we should have a sports afternoon, a big tradition in the British Army.

We went down to the CQB house for a couple of hours, got back, swept the hangar out, and then binned it. For once we were all nodding in agreement: a sports afternoon, a good thing to do.

Gar was sitting there reading the paper, and he said, "f.u.c.king h.e.l.l, look, this is news to me."

The Dally Express had the headline: S.A.S SCOUR CRISIS CITY FOR WAFTE.

"Pity we're going gn this other job," Gar said. "We might have been getting a suntan soon by the looks of things."

n.o.body was really that concerned about it. If it didn't involve us immediately, we weren't particularly interested.

I said to Gar, "It was obvious he was going to get lifted. I don't think there's a bookie in the land would have taken a bet on him not joining McCarthy."

"I know," Gar said. "And now some lucky f.u.c.ker's going to be asked to risk his life to get him out." Because she'd been so sick during her pregnancy, Fiona had to go into hospital for the last three or four days. I visited her as often as I could and kept badgering the nurses into agreeing to induce.

"Don't worry," they said, "we'll sort it all out."

I went into work and explained the situation to the SSM. "What's the latest time I can get away on the Tuesday?" I asked.

The SSM went over to the clerk and said, "Danny, what's the score on that job? What time are they leaving?"

Danny shuffled through bits of paper and said, "If he gets his toe down, if he leaves at half past one, he'll get to Heathrow on time."

"There you go," said the SSM. "Half past one."

As I started walking out, he said, "Andy, make sure you're there.

Don't f.u.c.k up."

I went back to the hospital, saw Fiona, and said, "Tomorrow, at one-thirty, I have to walk out of here whether we have our child or not."

"I understand, but don't worry, we'll sort something out with the doctors."

I was getting quite upset; I really wanted to be there when my baby was born. I kissed her good-bye and said, "Get your finger out! Get this baby born!"

By now her parents had traveled up from Hampshire and were going to stay at the house while I was away.

Her mother said, "Don't worry, if she comes into labor now, you stay with her until one o'clock and then I'll come over."

I drove back to work to sort myself out so everything was ready to go. I had to run around to find somebody else who was on the team job with me.

Johnny two Combs was on it, but I couldn't find him. I went up to the gym and there were Fat Boy and Paul Hill on the weights, taking the p.i.s.s out of each other.

Paul had joined the army after a career as a croupier in clubs.

He had an outrageous lifestyle and was the ultimate party animal, out every night, coming in to work knackered in the morning. He and Fat Boy were in the Far East once, playing blackjack in a really downmarket casino. Paul with all his experience and expertise was counting the cards and all sorts-and losing left, right, and center.

Fat Boy, so p.i.s.sed he could hardly sit in his chair, walked awa ' with a fortune. y I said, "My kit's packed; it's in the block. When you go, can you make sure it gets on the wagon?"

"No drama."

I got back in the car, went home, and spent the night sitting by the telephone.

Nothing happened.

Next morning, the moment I got in the shower, the phone rang.

Fiona's father said, "She's going into labor. They said there's no rush. Go down in about an hour."

I was at the hospital ten minutes later.

The contractions started, and we sat there drinking tea. She was moved to another room; they put the radio on and brought in the papers.

She was scared; I was scared for her. Then she said, "If the baby doesn't come before you have to go, it's not a problem, but I'd really love you to be here."

It was the first time-ever that I'd thought: I don't want to go away.

Tomorrow, maybe even in another few hours, but for this moment I don't want to go. I so much wanted to see this thing that I had created; I had never felt so much affection and attachment as I did for this child that I hadn't even seen.

At nine o'clock a nurse came in and said there was a phone call.

f.u.c.k! Fiona and I looked at each other. We were both thinking the same, that they wanted me down there now.

I picked up the phone, and it was Paul. "There's been a change of plan," he said.

My whole body sankHe started laughing. "Gotcha! just to say, we've decided we might as well all leave together at half one."

The labor continued. There was me drinking more tea, her getting worse with the contractions, and then, at midday, all the pain started.

She was swearing and hollering, even with an epidural, calling me every name under the sun. I felt useless. There was nothing I could do except hold her hand. Then she didn't want me to do that. Then she did.

It was a noisy hour. I felt guilty because she was in pain, and even guiltier that I knew I had to leave.

Ever the sensitive father-to-be, I said, "Look, you'd really better go for it here. I'm off in half an hour."

"I know, I know, I know."

Her mum poked her head around the door at quarter past one.

I gave Fiona a kiss on the forehead and said, "I've got to go."