“Hey! Can I help you, Sir?” She was very pretty and looked super-hot in her outfit. Joe was ready to fire all cylinders at her until the Sergeant escorting us pulled him back, promising me that by the end of the week he would have her name and shagged her – and not necessarily in that order!
The marine sergeant opened another door, which led us into a further room where another beautiful marine met us. Joe was foaming at the mouth! She looked rather manly to me, but it had been a while for our Joe – nearly a month for the poor blighter in fact. He needed it at least twice a week, or it all got too much, as I could plainly see.
The door swung open and another marine caught the swinging door, shut it behind us firmly, and then pushed the bolt across.
“Take a seat, guys! Can I get you some refreshments?
Joe answered for the both of us. “Hello, mate! I’ll have two cans of your finest chilled Pepsi please, not too heavy on the ice, maybe a dash of lemon but I ain’t too fussed, brother – oh, and ta very much.”
“Right, gentleman, I hope you are settling in well. We have a great deal of work ahead of us if we are to have a successful mission. Do we all understand?” We all nodded, Joe put his finger up to acknowledge his question. He was too busy sucking on his ice cube to speak. Yeah, and that was no shit either. These bastards had everything, typical Yanks.
“Listen in, guys.” The projector screen starts up; I can hear it buzzing from my plastic seat. I finished my last sip of Pepsi.
“This is your last briefing before we start training tomorrow. Later on Simon, the training coordinator, will task you individually with what area or branch y’all will lead throughout this training camp.”
“Have we got a Michael from the UK here with us?” I put up my hand to acknowledge him; a girl walked into the room and attracted his attention.
“Michael, would you follow the lieutenant, please. Oh, and take Joe with you too.”
Joe and I wanted to know what was going on; why we had been pulled out of the meeting. I guessed it had all gone shit state and they were going to fly us back to the UK.
“Where are we going, Lieutenant?”
“Just down here, guys.”
“Michael, what the fuck is going on! If they send us back I’m going to kick some heads in, I promise you.”
She opened a door and told us to sit down once we got inside. I was very surprised to see Stan sat there waiting for us. The JFK building was bloody huge. There were flags, pictures of the president, military mottos, awards, the bloody lot. If I was American, I’d be darn well proud too! We were escorted into a small room that I had not seen before. I felt rather out of my comfort zone. Joe followed me in whilst Stan and his mate fucked off somewhere else. The room was dark. A line of chairs and a small table were the only things in there. I looked over to my right hand side and saw a CCTV camera looking down at us from the ceiling. A tall marine left us alone for ten minutes to chat amongst ourselves, returning with glasses of Pepsi with ice. We were very thankful, as it was rather stuffy in there.
“Cheers, mate!” said Joe.
“What’s this all about then, mate?” The marine looked up at the camera. You’ll soon see, Sir. It won’t be long now, Sir.” Joe smiled.
All of a sudden a light came on. In front of me was a glass window looking into another room, with one table and four chairs. Two armed marines entered the room with M16 rifles and stood to attention against the back wall. They cleared the room before two suits came in. They were in the dark suits, and looked very tall: American of course. Both were clean-shaven, with swept back brown hair and expensive sun glasses. They were definitely CIA.
They sat down, pouring themselves a glass of chilled water. One of the suits turned on a fan to cool the room down. I was now definitely intrigued as to what the hell these guys were up to! Was this a test for us to pass?
I heard a bang outside our door, but it had no relevance as to what was happening here. As I blinked, then took a mouthful of water, the back door opened. The others had come in through a different door to this; I was desperate to find out what was happening.
The suits stood up! The two marines continued to stand to attention in the shadows, and two further marines walked in with what I can only describe as a human figure, bent over with a brown sack over his head. He was dressed in an orange jump suit with a number on the back and his hands cuffed behind him. He looked in agony the poor bastard. The marines sat him down opposite the two suits. The two suits sat behind the desk facing us at the window. One of the suits leant forward and pushed down on the tape machine button. He grabbed hold of a microphone, which was static on a wooden stand, and pulled it closer to his mouth.
“Testing, testing! One, two – one, two!” He looked up at the camera. A voice suddenly shot out across the air which made even me jump! The marines took off the prisoner’s hood and turned the body around, still handcuffed from behind.
I sank to my feet in shock! My stomach sank into my balls. How could this be? It was Ryan Killeen! The suits continued. “Yeah, that’s a good signal, go ahead!”
There must have been a control room recording the interview, and I started to take notes secretly in case this was a test for us at a later date. I wasn’t going to get caught out that easy.
“Ok, can everyone hear me clearly?” Everyone nodded in agreement. Stan entered our little room. He told me that he wanted me to watch.
“Ok, let’s start.” The suit read from a piece of paper into the microphone and tape player.
“The time is 12:10hrs, and we are here today to ask you, the accused, Ryan Killeen, questions relating to the Terrorism Act. Do you understand?”
“The accused has nothing to say!”
I stood up from my chair. Joe had no idea what was going on. I felt sick inside my stomach: I jumped at the glass window and punched the glass. They on the opposite side, never even flinched. Stan entered the room and calmed me down.
“I’m sorry Michael but we wanted you to see this!”
“How the fuck did you catch him, Stan? What is he doing here?”
“He was picked up at Islamabad airport under false papers. It was only because you guys were due in that we had someone from the CIA at the security desk when he was flagged up. The locals would have just let him through with minimal checks. He was just unlucky, and we on the other hand were the lucky ones.”
“We caught him weeks ago, Michael.”
Joe didn’t know what to do with himself, he just sat there listening to me and Stan.
“Right! Mr Killeen, can you give me your date of birth please?”
“The accused has not answered.”
“Can you tell me your full name please and spell your middle name?”
“The accused has not answered.”
“Can you tell me you country of birth, Mr Killeen?”
“The accused has not answered.”
“Mr Killeen, do you feel that you’ve been treated unfairly? Do you need any medical treatment?”
“The accused has not answered.”
“Mr Killeen, you need to start talking to us or life is going to become very uncomfortable for you. Do you understand me?”
“Go fuck yourself, you American cunts!” The suits leant back in their chairs.
“You’ve let yourself down, Mr Killeen, haven’t you now?”
“Fuck off, you fucking cunt!”
“Mr Killeen, tell me about your relationship with Mohammed Santé Janjev!”
“Bollocks!”
“Tell me about your dealings with Mohammed Santé Janjev!”
“Piss off, cunt.”
One of the suits turned the tape player off. Killeen continued to sit there, his head down and with hunched shoulders, still cuffed from behind. The suits walked up to the guards. One of them whispered in the marine’s ear, and then both suits left the room. Once the CIA had left, the room erupted and I could hear swearing, explosive chants. When the light came on again, Killeen was standing face-first
against the brick wall. Both marines pushed the back of his head so it banged against the brick, causing his face to bleed. The marines kicked the living shit out of him, and Killeen was now on the floor. I couldn’t hear anything. Then they picked him up and walked him over to a large sink. The marines filled the sink up with water, and dunked his head in until he was barely conscious. They slapped him about, not letting him lose consciousness completely, and he vomited water from his lungs, but they kept it up. He looked exhausted.
Once they’d kick-started his body back up again, they replaced the sack and stood him in a stress position against the wall. If he dared move, he’d get a kidney punch with an iron bar. He soon learned not to move a muscle. Then the light went out and he was lost to view!
“What was happening? Where had Killeen gone?”
“They are using white noise Michael.” (White noise is a loud noise that fucks up a person’s brain after a long period of time in a stress position).
“That wanker killed my wife, remember! You’re not going to let him live are you? Let me in there; let me have five minutes with him.”
Stan responded. “He’s CIA property, Michael: you can’t have him, I just wanted to show you that we do, and his life is going to be fucking hell from now on. Joe, take Michael back to his bunk and keep an eye on him for me, ok!”
“Ok boss, will do.” Joe was really supportive after that. He he’d had no idea what was going on until now. We made our way back to our bunks and got our heads down for the night. It was training as usual tomorrow morning!
I spent the next morning on the ranges with Joe and Gunnery Sergeant Turner. He wouldn’t teach you a thing he was a typical yank, with Ray bans and bandana.
“Right, gents! Here are the weapons. Pick up the pistol and clear it for my inspection.”
Joe and I carried out our drills; the Sergeant passed by and inspected our 9mm pistols.
“Now pick up your ammo and follow me.” We followed on behind.
“Aim those weapons down the range and listen in to my commands.” Joe winked at me.
“Load!” I placed the magazine in the weapon.
“You will see a target pop up in a minute. You are to fire 10 rounds into the target. Are there any questions?”
“No, Sergeant!”
I pointed the pistol down-range; there was a slight breeze, but nothing too serious. I held the pistol firmly, my finger clasped round the trigger. I was ready, and I felt confident. I fired 10 rounds into the target, and Joe did the same.
“Unload your weapons!” I took out my magazine and placed it inside my smock.
“Prepare weapons for inspection!” I held my pistol out ready for inspection.
“Holster your pistols! Let’s go and check those targets, chaps; I hope you hit them, or we’re in big trouble! Ha-ha!” Gunny laughed as we raced off down the range.
“Spot on, Joe! What about you?”
Joe was laughing. “Shit bags! Look at the state of that!”
“What you moaning at, dick-head?” I picked up his target. Jesus, what a group! What a superb shot!
“Gunny, give me that pistol – I’m gonna go again.” This time all ten rounds hit the target: I had never seen such a grouping in all my time. Superb!
We spent the rest of the day repeating pistol drills until we could do it blindfolded, and we only got better. After our tenth shoot, I finally beat Joe’s score, on points; the winner got the beers in. The next day we upgraded to the bigger stuff, long-range rifles. Approaching the range we were presented with the American issue M24 sniper rifle, which to our surprise was slightly heavier than our British counterpart, the L115A3, otherwise known as the L96. The M24 was a great weapon for long distance shots, and would kill anything in its sights, using just one shot. I dropped down into the prone position: Joe positioned himself the same. I dug the rifle into the ground, securing its position. After completing all my checks, I fed a 7.62mm round into the chamber, pushing the cocking handle forwards and loading the round into the chamber with ease. It took a five round magazine.
“Target spotted!” Joe was on the ball.
“Target, 1000 metres. Slight wind. Right to left, FIRE!”
I had the target in view. I was confident, I could feel the breeze. I figured out my position, took control, held my breath and carefully squeezed the trigger. I then released and pulled away from the target, loading another round into the chamber, awaiting instructions from Joe. A spotter’s job was to be my eyes and ears. He would know when, how and where my shot was going to hit.
“HIT – HIT – HIT!”
“Congratulations! You Brits sure know how to shoot. God damn, man, come on – I’ll buy you a beer!” Gunny led the way. That night we were in the bar and pissed as men could be.
“Joe, tell everyone how we met, mate! Do that fucking ghost story you told us that time, buds? Go on, tell them it, mate; it was fucking funny beaver. Listen to this, mate!”
“If I have to! For fuck sake, Michael! OK! The story! We met up after I passed selection, and with a few other lads we drove down to the Isle of Wight for the Pop Festival. Has anyone ever been? It’s fucking great – I totally recommend it! It’s an all weekender, brilliant bands! Load of hot girls. Anyway, we met up with a few birds, got rat-arsed as you can imagine and took them back to our tent. It was fucking cold that night weren’t it, Michael?” I nodded in agreement.
“The girls were getting frisky. One of them was so fucking gullible it was mad, mate, and she was pissed as a fart.”
“What ghost story, dick-head?” Stan was waiting patiently!”
“Hold on mate, I’m getting there.”
“Anyway, as I was sayin’ bud. This girl sat in front of me, and as she was fit as fuck, we decided the best way to keep her with us through the night was to scare the shit out of her.”
“So!” Stan jumped in again.
“Well, I told her the famous ghost story.”
“Go on then.” We laughed.
“It was a dark cold night in the winter of 1989. A girl, a young mother, was travelling home in the late hours after visiting family in Kansas. She had been to visit her mother, recently out of hospital. She left Kansas at 21:00hrs to begin her 34 mile journey back home. A slight drift of rain had started and was causing minor problems on the roads, visibility straining. Her windscreen wipers were under immense pressure as the rain fell. She turned up the heater, and then turned off her radio; she needed to concentrate. She was repeating the route she had travelled a thousand times over – a relatively straight run back home. She was living at her father’s address where he lived with his new wife, Mary.
Anyway, she started driving up Millard road towards the woods, when she noticed a pram on the side of the road. She had to investigate, as a torch or something was lighting up the inside of the cot. Well, she had to have a look: it was in her nature.
As she beamed her headlights behind the pram with the rain coming down, she felt suddenly frightened. It looked spooky outside: the trees blew from side to side, the mist picked up and her view was lowered.
She stumbled forwards towards the pram, looked inside, picked up a plastic doll, and gripped the torch. She knew something was up, so she dumped the doll and ran to the car as fast as she could without looking back.
A second later, a motor vehicle came up fast and hard to her rear, flashing its headlights and tooting its horn. She was very afraid: her heart was beating so fast, she knew that it was a killer; it was all a nasty plot. She started crying at the wheel, she knew what was going to happen if she did not act fast. She started screaming as loud as possible, swearing, spitting, dribbling, and foaming at the mouth. The predator behind her was constantly flashing his headlights, tooting his horn, trying to overtake. She couldn’t hold on for much longer, and she was on the point of giving up.
By the skin of her teeth, she made it back. Street lamps lit up the sides of the road but the predator still continued tooting his horn and flashing his lights, constantly
trying to overtake.
She was terrified! Her eyes were red with fear, her hands were shaking, and she knew she had run out of time. She could see her house, so she swung the car over the front lawn, got out, and fell on the front door, banging it as she went down and screaming, “Help me, help me! Somebody help me, please!”
Her father was just sitting down when he heard his daughter banging on the door. He went to open it and she fell inside, weeping with fear. “What’s up, my dear, what’s happened to you? Tell me!” She was still shaking with fear.
At the bottom of the drive, the predator’s vehicle was now parked up, blocking their driveway, headlights still on. The father saw a large male purposefully walking up the drive. He held out his hands and stopped him.
“It’s him Dad, it’s him! He has been following me! He’s a murderer, Daddy.”
The man stopped in his tracks and shouted for them all to listen to him!
He was out of breath; “Listen, when you got out your car to investigate the pram, I was driving just behind you, and you mustn’t have heard me, as the rain was so heavy by then. Well, I was near you. I stopped and turned my lights off, as I thought something was happening and it freaked me out. Anyway, as you walked back to your car, I saw a figure get into the back – that’s why I’ve been tooting my horn, trying to attract your attention. I thought, if I keep this up, he’ll be too scared to do anything!”
The driver and her father went to the rear of her car, opened it up and there he was! The driver pulled him out by the scruff of his neck and the father called the police. They later found out that he was a convicted murderer out on bail. If it was not for the “predator”, she’d have been killed.”
Sabre Six : File 51 Page 11
