by Steven Clark
There are not many men or women who are able to tick all those boxes.
All the officers had to go through psychological evaluation on a regular basis and particularly so after an Operation to assess their mental fortitude. If an ordinary officer made a mistake, it could normally be rectified without too much of a problem. Bit different for the firearms lads. If they made a mistake, the wrong person or the innocent civilian may end up on the mortuary slab and the personal implications for that officer would be devastating. The implications for his family would be just as devastating.
‘What did you do today dad?’
‘Well sunshine, it’s like this. I meant to shoot the bad guy who was holding the gun to the hostage’s head, but he leaned down at the last moment and I shot the lady that he was holding instead. How was your day at school love?’
How does the officer involved come to terms with the fact that he has killed an innocent person, does his family know, can he ever tell them. How do they react if they do know, could he ever pick up a firearm again, would he ever be allowed to? The questions, the doubts, the waking up in the middle of the night with the images of a head exploding. Could anyone ever truly come to terms with something like this? A thousand questions and ‘what if’s’. How many answers?
On the film set, you could re-shoot the scene time and again to get it right.
‘Quiet please, Action. No that hasn’t worked people, let’s try that one more time, turn your head a little more to the right, and, Action.’
Real life, on the other hand, isn’t like that. No rehearsals, no second chances.
‘Hey mate, he doesn’t look too good.’ Dave Watkins was pointing towards Joe the lorry driver.
‘What are you on about?’ said shotgun.
Joe was sweating profusely and his face was flushed. Dave knew that Joe’s sickly appearance was about more than the situation he had become embroiled in, he was quite ill.
‘I need to stop for a minute. I need my pills.’
‘What pills?’ said the gunman.
‘They’re by my bunk behind you. Got a bit of a heart problem. I’ll be OK, but I need to get them. I can control things when I take one a few times a day, but if I get stressed, I need to take extra ones. It won’t take a minute, but I need to pop one under my tongue. I can’t do it while I’m driving. I need to stop just for a few minutes.’
Like most modern lorries, there was a sleeping compartment behind the drivers seat for when they were doing out of town or long distance runs.
‘Where are they?’
‘In the little locker; behind the officer.’
‘Right bollocks, reach behind you and get his pills.’ said Johnson to Dave. ‘If you fuck about, you’ll have two arseholes where you once had only one. Understand?’
Both control rooms were listening to the unfolding conversation and tensions were increasing all round.
‘Be advised Romeo Victor One and Two, target vehicle is weaving between the nearside and centre lanes and is slowing.’
The helicopter was hovering about one mile back and zooming in using the broadcast quality TV camera housed in the mission pod underneath the aircraft. The crew also had an array of other cameras which, depending on the situation they were dealing with, could be utilised. A good quality digital camera for taking still photographs was also part of the kit. Steve didn’t think they’d be using the still camera today. The TV quality camera was also a thermal imaging unit and really came into its own during the hours of darkness when picking up heat sources. It was so powerful; it could even pick up a heat source from within a household refuse bin.
On occasions, ground patrol officers had been directed to a ‘wheely’ bin in the driveway of a house (a favourite spot for hiding by escaping thieves etc) only for the officers to discover that the heat source was in fact a load of composting grass and garden clippings.
The quiet conversation in the chopper was interrupted by the spotter, ‘Target vehicle moving to nearside lane. Stop, stop, stop, vehicle has stopped on hard shoulder, repeat, vehicle is stationary, all persons remain in the vehicle at this time.’ The helicopter hovered at a safe distance waiting for the vehicle to move once more.
Joe managed to bring the wagon to a stop before crashing. The pain was crippling, he could feel the tell tale band of his heart condition tightening quickly around his chest and he thought he was about to collapse. He had stamped hard on the brakes and caused the wheels to lock and skid to a halt. Dave was suddenly off balance as he was reaching behind into the bunk area. He was violently thrown forward with the momentum of the quickly slowing vehicle and his shoulder hit the windscreen with considerable force.
His police radio dislodged from the harness under his tunic and Dave saw it tumble, almost in slow motion. Dave was screaming in silence; this isn’t happening, this is not fucking happening. The radio struck the dashboard hard, bounced up onto the windscreen, then down onto his knee, and fell to the floor of the cab under Dave’s feet. Both the gunman and Dave looked at each other, the floor of the cab, and then back to each other.
He screamed at Dave. ‘You fucking twat.’ He turned the stock of the sawn off round and hit Dave hard between the eyes. The skin on his forehead split instantly and he was severely stunned as his head snapped back and smashed into the metal pillar of the passenger door causing another wound to open on the back of his head. Johnson’s eyes bulged and all the veins stood out on his neck as he screamed at Dave.
‘Who’s listening? Who knows; who fuckin knows we’re here?’ He moved towards Dave who was trying to push himself back up into the passenger seat.
Joe leant on his drivers’ door handle, more in accident than intent as he cowered away from the madman sat alongside him. He was trying to get as far away from him as possible. The handle moved and the door suddenly opened and the momentum of his weight made him tumble onto the road surface several feet below. Out of instinct and abject terror, he jumped to his feet and ran and stumbled towards the rear of the lorry.
A car and a motorcycle swerved and narrowly missed him. Horns sounded, brakes and tyres squealed and screeched. The smell of burning rubber filled the air. There was no sound of tearing metal no screams of pain. Miraculously, there were no accidents, no motorway carnage.
Joe ran unsteadily along the hard shoulder. Each footstep taking him further away from the mayhem behind. He might die from a heart attack, he thought as the exertion took its toll on his body, but at least he wouldn’t die at the hands of the maniac he had escaped from.
‘You fucker, you’re gonna die.’ Shotgun lifted the sawn off to shoulder height and pulled the trigger. As the muzzle erupted, Dave ducked down and fell to the floor of the lorry. The passenger door window behind him shattered and fragments of glass and plastic door trim sprayed out in a wide arc onto the grass embankment of the Motorway hard shoulder.
‘Be advised, shots fired, repeat, shots have been fired. One male, believed to be the driver, out of the vehicle on hard shoulder approximately one hundred metres to the rear of the wagon. Appears unharmed. Casualties inside vehicle not known, repeat, not known if there are any casualties in the vehicle.’
The two control rooms, and the two Armed Response vehicles, now also stopped on the hard shoulder two miles behind the stationary lorry, listened in stunned silence to the calm, matter of fact, commentary of Steve Wilson as he viewed the scene through the camera lens of the helicopter.
‘The male who exited the driver’s side door is a heavy set man of about 55 years; he is now collapsed on the embankment on the safe side of the Armco barrier on the hard shoulder about 300 yards to the rear of the target vehicle.’
The high powered camera zoomed in to its maximum telephoto capacity.
‘A white Vauxhall cavalier motor car, has just pulled up on the hard shoulder. The driver, a male about 30 years of age and a female who looks to be about 25 years appear to be tending him. The male believed to be the lorry driver is making gestures towards the wagon. He is
now being helped into the rear of the cavalier by the female who has climbed in alongside him. The other male is getting into the drivers side of the cavalier. The vehicle has rejoined the main carriageway at high speed and has now passed the stationary lorry. I will maintain my position to the rear of the target vehicle. I am not in a position at this time to give any further details regarding the occupants of the cavalier. Hotel Charlie One to control, please acknowledge this information.’
In many respects, there was no requirement for Steve Wilson to have given such a commentary regarding the unfolding drama as the camera footage was being relayed back live to the Incident Room and the Incident Commander and his team were viewing the same scene as Steve. It was merely normal procedure in the event that the camera failed. Steve’s commentary was also being tape recorded for later transcription in the event that it may be required at any future trial proceedings.
He knew the driver of the cavalier would be stopped at some point up the motorway and that the lorry driver would be debriefed and given medical aid. He would later learn that the cavalier driver and his friend were merely good Samaritans who had nothing whatsoever to do with the unfolding drama. They had seen the driver stumble from his wagon and collapse on the grass verge and had stopped to help.
At the moment, his thoughts were diverted elsewhere. He may have sounded calm, but inside, his heart was pounding. Had Dave Watkins survived the blast?
Dave was crouched on the floor of the wagon. His hand was near the radio. The control rooms heard the shots and could hear him screaming at the gunman. Then, silence.
Chapter 6
Dave thought he was shouting at his attacker, but he couldn’t hear his own words. The blast so near to his ears had stunned and momentarily deafened him. The gunman saw Dave’s hand near to the radio. He had fired the two shells in the sawn off intending to take Dave’s head off and had shattered the passenger window instead. Small pieces of shotgun pellets were embedded in the plastic fascia and metal surround of the door where seconds earlier the glass had been.
He saw the blood coming from his victims’ forehead. As Dave was crouching on the floor of the cab, he hammered the stock of the shotgun onto the radio twice and the plastic casing shattered into several pieces. There was no way that radio would ever work again. He raised the gun again, and violently struck Dave a further blow on the top of his head. He lifted the butt of the gun once more intending to smash his victims head to a pulp. He stopped and looked at the broken and bloody figure below him.
Dave was in severe pain. His head was spinning and he slumped further onto the floor. He looked up and could see that the features of his would be assassin had changed. Gone was the contorted rage and bulging eyeballs to be replaced by a calmness that Dave had not seen throughout his ordeal so far. Ordinarily, he would have been thankful for the change of demeanour. Not now! In that instant, he knew he was about to die. They looked into each others eyes. No words were exchanged as the gunman placed his foot on Dave’s chest and pinned him strongly to the floor. With his right leg twisted under his body and the weight of his attacker pushing down on him, he was still too stunned, too weakened to even attempt to get up. He was resigned to his fate. He knew it would be quick. Two twelve bore shotgun cartridges into his face at this range left little to the imagination.
Johnson broke the barrel of the shotgun and the two spent shells ejected automatically. A little wisp of smoke followed the cartridges out of the barrel and Dave watched silently as they tumbled through the air, almost in slow motion, and exited through the open driver’s door to fall to the road surface of the motorway several feet below. The car driver passing the stationary Lorry on the hard shoulder was oblivious to the drama unfolding several feet away from him and dismissed the double ping noise as a bit of motorway debris as the two shells were thrown further up the carriageway by the front bumper of his car only to be crushed flat by the next lorry thundering behind.
Johnson reached into his pocket and without taking his eyes off his prey, slowly and very deliberately, placed two new cartridges into the breech and snapped the barrel shut in a well practised manoeuvre. He levelled the gun at Dave. He said nothing as his fingers tightened on the trigger once more. He didn’t need to tell his victim that he was about to die. He could see the terror in his targets eyes. He smiled slightly. Being the sadistic bastard that he knew himself to be, he liked to see the power he had. It didn’t matter to him whether or not the victim was animal or human. For him, it was the cries of pain and suffering he enjoyed most.
Dave shouted at him. ‘Don’t shoot, don’t shoot. I can get us out. I can drive, I can drive.’
Dave stretched his hands out towards the gunman in a futile gesture to deflect the shells as and when the muzzle erupted once more. It was an instinctive action, he knew full well that when he fired, his hands would be ripped off first before the force of the blast continued, taking his head from his shoulders. He felt the pressure of Johnson’s foot ease slightly from his chest. Dave hadn’t realised that he had closed his eyes waiting for the blast which hadn’t come so far. He looked up and saw the gunman look away from him out of the windscreen of the wagon. A sort of distant look as though he was thinking; weighing up his options. The situation had changed dramatically during the last few minutes and he looked around the cab surveying the damage.
Johnson was now fully aware that the police would have been tracking the lorry for some time. It suddenly dawned on him that what he thought were the innocuous comments of a frightened copper when he was making references to ‘Switch Island’ and ‘stopping at the Burtonwood services’ earlier in the journey were nothing of the kind. This clever bastard was actually giving directions to the listening ears as to where they were heading.
The pain in Dave’s chest intensified again as Johnson exerted more pressure with his foot. Plans would have to change he thought. If he killed his captive now, he would surely die as well. He had no doubt that somewhere close by would be a number of firearms officers and marksmen. They probably weren’t in a position yet to take him out as the situation had only just changed, but he knew it wouldn’t take long. They would quickly block off the Motorway, take out the tyres to prevent him moving and take great delight in killing him. Particularly if he had killed one of their own, there was no way, even if he tried to surrender, that they would let him live.
The inquest would surely be told by the firearms officer that I had made a sudden and threatening movement and, even though I had thrown out my shotgun, he believed I was armed with another gun and shot me because, ‘I thought he was about to shoot at me, another officer, or a member of the public and I shot him in order to prevent further loss of life.’
Still, whilst the situation had changed dramatically, he was now quite sure that they wouldn’t be listening any more as he eyed the shattered remnants of the police radio. He looked back at Dave.
‘What d’ya mean you can drive?’
‘I was in the army for six years before joining the police. Before you leave, you can do loads of things so you can get a job in civvy street. I did a resettlement course; they taught me to drive fork lift trucks and lorries. I can drive us out of here. Tell me where you want to go and I’ll get us there.’
The control rooms obviously weren’t aware of any of this conversation as a consequence of the smashed radio. They had watched the live pictures as the lorry driver had stumbled from the cab. They had heard the blast and seen the window explode. They had even seen the two cartridge shells flying through the air as a result of the helicopter’s powerful camera. Nobody knew whether or not he was alive or dead, for the last few minutes, there had been only silence. Only two people were aware that Dave had survived the blast and they were both in the cab of the wagon.
Johnson knew that he had to make himself as small a target as possible. He didn’t know whether or not any one could see into the cab. ‘When I climb onto the bunk, you slide over onto the driver’s seat. If you fuck about, you will die. Under
stood?’
‘Yes, I understand what you’re saying’ said Dave having noticed the emphasis the gunman had placed on the word ‘will’.
Dave rubbed at his eyes. ‘I can’t see properly with the blood coming down my face. It’s running into my eyes. Can I have a few minutes to sort myself out before we move?’
‘You’ve got five minutes’ said Johnson as he settled back in the bunk and Dave was only too aware that the twin barrels of the shotgun were only inches away, trained on his head. He looked in the driver’s door compartment and amongst the tachograph charts, old delivery papers and general rubbish that all drivers seem to accumulate over time; found a bottle of water, a couple of fairly clean rags and a roll of black insulation tape. He dampened one of the rags and as he looked in the mirror, he saw that he had a jagged almost vertical two inch split on his forehead right between the eyes. With the skin being so thin at this part of the skull, he could clearly see the bone beneath.
That will give me a mean look when it heals, thought Dave as he gently dabbed at the wound. He mentally castigated himself for his stupid thoughts. Even so, he wondered why the mind works in such strange ways. Why was he thinking such utter crap when there was blood everywhere and serious gashes to his face and head and he was getting weaker with every passing minute? At least, he thought again, I’m thinking positively in that I’m going to get out of this in one piece.
Well, almost one piece. As he looked in the mirror again, he suddenly realised just how close he had come to having his head blown off. He saw that part of his right earlobe was missing and the blood was dripping steadily onto his tunic. The right shoulder of the jacket was torn and shredded and the red stain seeping through told him that further injury lay underneath.
