by Andy McNab
We watched and waited while the other three caught the football.
Eno leaned over. 'I'm gagging for a fag.'
'Why the fuck do you smoke? It costs a fortune, and you stink.'
'Yeah, but it's a good kick-start. I'll give it up one of these days.'
'What – when you're less stressed than sitting here nice and warm with a brew and a clear field of fire instead of lying out there?'
Eno grinned back. 'Yep, this is the way to go to war.'
'Never tempt Providence,' Frank might have said if he'd been in the room. He came in and told us to stand to. TCG had just been on the net. The job had changed. The duty officer at the RUC police station in Kesh, County Donegal, had received a phone call shortly after midnight. 'This is the Fermanagh Brigade of the IRA: there are blast incendiaries in the Drumrush Lodge, Kesh. The reason for this is that they serve the bastard security forces there.'
41
I knew Drumrush Lodge. It was a restaurant on the Kesh–Beleek road, not far from the Bannagh river. TCG was taking the threat as genuine.
Frank pulled the curtains on the french windows before Eno hit the lights. 'Ken has cancelled 2 Para. TCG wants the troop down at the Lodge – now!'
Ken had already got the rest of the troop together in two cars heading for the Lodge. It was about a thirty-minute drive for them too. We followed Frank into the front room and listened in to Ken on the net. 'All call signs. We don't know if the devices have already been placed. We don't know if it's a come-on for the RUC and they're waiting. We don't know if they have a device to kick off and then wait for a shoot. So let's keep flexible heads and crack on.'
Frank got back. 'Roger that. We're going to take the target's vehicle.' He gave the registration number and colour of the Escort as Boss S checked the maps.
All four of us were soon piled into the target's old van. He wasn't fazed. He'd seen it all before.
Frank drove, Boss S next to him with the map. The weather had closed right in. Freezing fog brought visibility down to no more than about thirty feet. The roads were icy. Our headlights bounced straight back at us, like we were caught in a whiteout.
Tiny was driving one of the other cars, with Ken, Nish, and Jocky from Eight Troop. The other contained Cyril, Saddlebags and Al.
As soon as Frank took the Escort over thirty, it fishtailed off the road. Frank corrected the slide and brought down the speed before we ended up in the ditch.
Boss S gave Ken the sitrep. 'We won't make thirty minutes. The ice is slowing us.'
Frank took a corner and the back started to wander again.
'Roger that.'
We only found out later that the ASU had already packed a thousand pounds of ammonium nitrate and fuel oil (ANFO) explosive into nine beer kegs and placed them in a culvert by the entrance to the Lodge. That amount of ANFO would make a five- or six-metre-wide crater and take out anyone and anything in the surrounding area. It was going to be detonated from just over three hundred metres away by two players who were lying in wait for the fog to lift and the RUC to arrive. Their firing point was on high ground, giving a good field of fire and escape route. Some of their mates had taken up fire positions along the link road into the Lodge. They planned to shoot any survivors, and warn the detonation team of any RUC going into the Lodge while the fog was still down.
Minky got on the net. 'We're hearing a blue van, possibly a Toyota, may be part of the job.'
'Roger that.' All call signs acknowledged.
Eno gave voice to what we were all thinking. 'It's a fucking come-on, must be. The information's flowing too easy.'
The Boss was bent over, map reading with a small Maglite between his teeth. 'Down here, turn left. Not far, maybe ten to go.'
Ken piped up from Boss S's foot well. 'OK, all call signs – listen in. We'll block the link road on both sides about one hundred from the Lodge, then move in on foot. This call sign will take the first end. Cyril, move past us and block the other end. Frank, call me when you get here.'
'Cyril?'
Click-click.
'Frank?'
Click-click.
While we made best speed, Tiny was skidding to a halt. Nish and Jocky jumped out and covered front and rear, and Ken stayed with the radio, waiting for Cyril to pass and block the other end before they moved in on target. None of them had a personal radio, and visibility had deteriorated to three metres.
Nish was forward of the car, crouched in a ditch, when he heard a van door slide open in the fog somewhere ahead of him. He climbed onto the road, his HK53 in the shoulder. He was moving forward as Cyril's lights pierced the gloom. He got into a fire position a couple of paces past a five-bar gate. His barrel pointed in the direction he thought the noise had come from. With no visual points of reference, sound became confusing, hard to pinpoint. Stop and listen was the best way. It cut down your noise, so you could concentrate on theirs.
The gate rattled behind him.
Feet landed his side of the hedge.
Nish saw breath condense in the air. Who the fuck was it? Tiny? Jocky? Ken? His weapon was pointing through the hedge. He couldn't pull it back and turn without giving himself away.
He could hear laboured, rasping breath, then the ssssh-hiss of a radio.
Nish couldn't do a thing. Cyril's crew weren't yet in place. If he took this guy on now, the rest of the ASU would run – and might even detonate on the way out. One player wasn't enough.
42
We were trying to make distance in the Escort. All we got was a 'Stand by, stand by,' from Cyril. Then: 'We got a Toyota van static on the link road. Driver's door open. No movement. We'll move forward to block the road, then get back and take them on.'
'Roger that. We'll get closer to take any runners. Frank, where are you?'
The car fishtailed once more as Frank hit the gas. 'Five minutes . . .'
Ken and Tiny moved into a cut-off position to catch any runners. Jocky stayed with the car and radio.
They watched the headlights approach and took cover just off the road. Cyril parked up. His team stepped quietly from the vehicle. They checked their mags were on tight and pistols secure in their leg holsters, thumbs pushing down on their safeties to single shot.
All the while, they were being watched by two of the ASU who'd been placing the IED.
Cyril and Saddlebags moved back down the link road towards the Toyota, weapons in the shoulder. They stuck close to keep eye contact. They moved, stopped, listened, trying to work out what was ahead, hoping they weren't walking into someone else's barrels.
Al stayed with their vehicle and threw caltrops across the road, spiked chains that stopped a vehicle by shredding its tyres. If the van or any other vehicle in the trap tried to do a runner, Al would be able to brass them up as they came to a grinding halt.
The two players watched and listened, not sure how many Special Forces were on the ground. They weren't going to move until they had to.
Cyril and Saddlebags heard footsteps coming towards them from the direction of the Toyota. They stopped, let the target come to them.
Cyril took him on with his HK53. 'Stand still! Security forces!' He said it just loud enough to make himself heard, not loud enough to alert the whole gang.
'It's OK, it's only me!'
Whoever 'me' was, maybe he hoped Cyril was part of an army patrol so he'd have time to think of something or get some back-up. I would have done.
'Stand still or I will fire – do you understand?'
The footsteps stopped. Cyril moved forward as Saddlebags covered.
The boy ran.
'Stop! Stop or I'll shoot!'
Ken's team heard the shouts and moved in.
The moment it went noisy, Al knew they needed light. He left his fire position by the caltrops and grabbed a Schermuly flare from the boot of the car.
Everyone on the ground heard the whoosh, like a massive firework as it powered upwards. Most of the flare's effect was masked by the fog, but it caught enoug
h of the running shadow.
Cyril and Saddlebags fired warning shots to the side of him. He carried on running, over a ditch and a fence into a field. They were going to lose him.
The two ASU close to Al knew they had a decision to make. They stood up and hosed down Al, at exactly the same time Cyril and Saddlebags opened fire.
Al took one round, but spun to face the muzzle flashes. The ASU legged it.
From Ken on the net we heard, 'Contact, contact, wait out.'
We couldn't see what was happening but we didn't need telling. We had our windows down and the weapon reports carried loud and clear.
Ken's team couldn't move forward now in case of a blue-on-blue. They had to stay put and wait for runners, or for Jocky to take down any vehicles. If Cyril and Saddlebags needed help they'd shout for it.
Cyril and Saddlebags had cornered the runner. He'd stopped when he felt the thump of rounds near his feet. Cyril dragged him onto the road and pushed his face into the ground. 'If you move, I'll shoot you.'
He searched him. Saddlebags was covering. 'Al! Plasticuffs!'
They had some in their car.
We were nearly there now. Ken was on the net. 'RV with Jocky. We're going to find the rest.'
Saddlebags wasn't getting any reply from Al so they dragged the player back to the car.
Saddlebags went to the boot. It was then that he found Al lying in a pool of blood.
'Man down! Man down!'
43
Al had taken rounds in the arm and chest.
Saddlebags gave Cyril his HK53 and grabbed the trauma pack from the boot. He needed to stop the bleeding and get some fluid into Al fast.
Cyril got on the net while he covered Al. 'All call signs, man down. It's Al – we need a heli. Get a helicopter in now. We're losing him!'
Minky came straight back. 'Roger that, confirm it's Al. Confirm it's Al, over.' They needed to match the blood type.
'Yep, it's Al. Get it in now!'
The net fell quiet for two minutes.
Minky again: 'We can't get a heli up – fog. I'm trying for an ambulance. We're going to get something in for you, wait out, wait out.'
Ken cut in, his voice thick with anger: 'Fuck the weather, I want a heli in now!'
The boy on the floor must have worked out he was in the shit. He jumped up and lunged past Cyril. Cyril dropped Saddlebags's HK53 so he could use his arm to drop him.
He was too late. The boy had melted into the fog, and so had the weapon.
'He's got a 'fifty-three!'
They both went after him.
Saddlebags drew down his pistol. They both fired and the boy dropped.
Ken, like the rest of us, had no idea what was going on. 'Contact, wait out.'
We finally arrived. Frank stopped the Escort and got on the net. 'I'm stopping anything moving out of the area.' He was remarkably cool, considering his best friend had just been shot. But then again, he still had a job to do.
We started to follow up in the area. It was difficult. Night-viewing aids were useless in these conditions; it was all down to the Mark-1 eyeball. If we bumped into any of them, it would be more by luck than judgement.
We'd heard Minky call forward the local unit's Quick Reaction Force (QRF) to cordon off the area. With luck, the players would still be inside the cordon. I was glad we were in uniform: I wouldn't have wanted to be in civvies with a weapon in my hands when the QRF turned up.
Some of their Land Rovers had already skidded into ditches. When the remainder arrived, we could tell by the radio traffic there were more chiefs than Indians. All they knew was that there had been casualties, and there were still terrorists in the area. Every time a tree branch moved it was reported or shot at.
There were bursts of gunfire in the distance. We got on the net every time. We wanted to react to it. Minky came back: 'Stand down, stand down.' It was the QRF, firing at shadows.
Ken was severely pissed off. 'Get this to the QRF – we will contain this area. They are to stay where they are. They are not to fire at anything unless one of us tells them to or they are being fired at. No patrols, no movement; stay in the vehicles. Tell them not to react to anything until they're told.'
Minky said: 'The QRF report movement in some hedgerows by the river. Are any of our call signs down by the river, over?'
Frank didn't waste a second. 'Me and Andy will take that.'
'Roger that. Frank's going down to the river. Ken, acknowledge.'
Click-click.
We lay in the frozen grass getting our bearings as the QRF fired another couple of rounds.
Frank knew what he wanted. 'Andy, get your IR [infra-red] torch and keep three metres in front of me. Flush them out.'
I switched the IR torch on. It would illuminate darkened areas better than the night-sight; it was like using a normal torch, except it could only be seen through the night-sight.
I took a deep breath and played the beam over the hedge as I moved along it, like some kind of high-tech pheasant-beater. But this beater also had a weapon, and it was set at full auto. It was going to be jungle rules: give it a full mag to make sure there's nothing left of them to fight back.
The river on the other side of the hedge was in full flow. Ice cracked under my feet like I was walking on crisps packets. I was in a semi-crouch, safety catch off, butt in the shoulder. I tried not to breathe too hard, kept as small as I could, eyes out on stalks.
Frank was five or six paces behind, butt in the shoulder, aiming along my IR beam so he could take anybody on. Because he was detached, it would be easier for him to react than me.
Blue lights strobed through the fog, catching us like dancers in a disco.
I took two or three steps, stopped, ran the IR beam up and down.
We moved on, stopped, moved on.
Visibility was still shit. There was a commotion in the distance; still more shooting. Running around here somewhere were players who'd just had a contact. They'd be flapping, they'd want to get out of it, and they'd be armed.
At any moment I was expecting to hear a burst of gunfire and to feel the rounds thud into my body. But fuck it, this was what I did for a living. Besides, I wanted to kill them.
We found nothing, and then came the news we'd been dreading. There was no further need for an ambulance, let alone a helicopter.
Al Slater was dead.
44
The fog still hadn't lifted when we drove away in the early hours of the morning. The RUC, the QRF and the sniffer dogs had moved in. The area was sealed off and searched for IEDs, and Bomb Disposal set about defusing the thousand pounds of ANFO.
It was a slow drive back on icy roads. Not much was said, certainly in our wagon, which would have to go back to its owner at some stage. Boss S gave out normal voice procedure as we passed checkpoints, radioing them in to Minky so he could mark the troop's progress. I was cold, and wet from the fog. My eyes stung from lack of sleep and disappointment.
