Born from the union of a speed boat racer and a professional athlete, I was probably hooked on it in my mother’s womb. Being involved in the races with Dad only did it for me until my teenage years, then I wanted, needed more. A career in the forces was an obvious choice.
As a little boy the sirens used to mesmerize me. I’d like to say that these days they’re just a part of my everyday life, but God, a bit ashamed to admit it, they still turn me on.
It doesn’t help now that Sgt Chesterfield aka Chez drives like a maniac, speeding through red lights at 70mph. When I question her, she replies over her shoulder, “The sirens are loud enough for the fuckers to hear.”
She has the same devilish grin, her eyes flare up the same way, as when I first saw her with a detonator in her hand in Shoeburyness getting her fix at a controlled explosion site. “Can’t help it, I just fucking love blowing things up.” And let me tell you, it’s not only bombs she has that effect on.
She wipes pearls of sweat off her forehead before doing a 180°-handbrake-dirt-cloud drift, parking up in front of an abandoned factory building. She springs out of the vehicle leaving the engine and the blue lights on, shaking her long blonde curls out of her beret, while I get the bomb suits from the storage compartment.
“I let you take charge,” she announces. “I’ll be no2. Whatever we’ll find in there, I’m sure you can handle it. I’ll only intervene if you do something foolish.” Being here is foolish… risking our lives every day is foolish.
But my cock disagrees. It craves this high and her lunatic attitude drives me insane. And her hair... I just want to wrap it around my fist and… As we raid the collapsing building part of me thinks, fuck that bomb, just drag her into one of these decaying rooms. I know she’d be up for it, she’d let me know in no uncertain terms by rubbing my hard-on while we detonated WW2 warheads in situ. “It’s ok,” she’d said suggestively stroking her thigh, “danger does it to the best of us. Just make sure you find an appropriate outlet.”
Despite her constantly ripping out pages from the rulebook, I’ve so far remained professional and kept my rocket in my pants. But we’re walking on tightrope now and once I lose it, she won’t know what’d hit her.
I follow procedures stringently, securing the building room by room. Then in a foul-smelling locker room we find the device on a makeshift brick table. The deafening high-pitched wail of sirens penetrate the walls and I watch her lips tremble as she curses under her breath, making the room spin around as I briefly consider passing the reins back to her.
As I proceed to peel off a cosmetic cover from the IED, I reveal a timer with angrily flashing numbers, 17:54.