by Shaun Clarke
Dubois glanced at Lieutenant Cranfield, who stepped forward again.
‘We have it on the best of authority that the British government is about to abandon the special category status that’s allowed convicted terrorists rights not enjoyed by prisoners anywhere else in the United Kingdom. Under the new rules, loyalist and republican terrorists in the newly built H-blocks at the Maze Prison will be treated as ordinary felons. The drill parades and other paramilitary trappings that have been permitted in internment camps will no longer be allowed. This is bound to become a major issue in the nationalist community and increase the activities of the IRA. For that reason, I would ask you to remember this. In the past two decades the IRA have killed about 1800 people, including over a hundred citizens of the British mainland, about eight hundred locals, nearly three hundred policemen and 635 soldiers. Make sure you don’t personally add to that number.’
He waited until his words had sunk in, then nodded at Captain Dubois.
‘Please make your way to the motor pool,’ Dubois told the men. ‘There you’ll find a list containing the name of your driver and the number of your Q car. Your first patrol will be tomorrow morning, just after first light. Be careful. Good luck.’
Still holding their manila folders in their hands, the men filed out of the briefing room, leaving Captain Dubois and Lieutenant Cranfield alone. When the last of the SAS troopers and Sergeant Lovelock had left, Dubois removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped sweat from his forehead.
‘That was close,’ he said. ‘Damn it, Cranfield, I knew we shouldn’t have done it.’
‘Small potatoes,’ Cranfield replied, though he didn’t feel as confident as he sounded. ‘The Irish eat lots of those.’
Chapter 4
They left the camp at dawn, driving out through the high, corrugated-iron gates, between the two heavily reinforced sangars and, just beyond them, on both sides, the perimeter lights and coils of barbed wire. The gates whined electronically as they opened and shut. The car’s exit, Martin knew, was being observed and noted by the guard in the operations room via the closed-circuit TV camera. Even before the gates had closed behind the car, the driver was turning into the narrow country road that would take them on the picturesque, winding, five-mile journey through the morning mist to the M1.
Martin had been very impressed with the previous day’s briefing and now, sitting in the rear seat beside Gumboot, he was excited and slightly fearful, even though he had his 9mm Browning High Power handgun in the cross-draw position (in a Len Dixon holster over the rib cage, with four 13-round magazines) and had been shown where the other weapons were concealed.
Also concealed was a Pace Communications Landmaster III hand-held transceiver with a webbing harness, miniature microphone, earphone and encoder, located near the floor between the two front seats; and a 35mm Nikon F-801 camera with a matrix metering system, sophisticated autofocus, electronic rangefinder and long exposure. It was hidden under the Ordnance Survey map of Belfast that was spread for the purpose over Ricketts’s lap.
The Q car had been specially adapted to carry a variety of concealed non-standard-issue weapons, including the short, compact Ingram 9mm sub-machine-gun with detachable suppressor and pull-out shoulder-and-hip stock, ideal for anti-terrorist work.
All of the men in the car were wearing the same scruffy civilian clothing that they had worn on the night ferry.
As their driver, Sergeant Lovelock, took the Al, which led all the way to the heart of Republican Belfast, Martin unholstered the Browning and held it on his lap, as he had been instructed, hiding it under a folded newspaper. Nevertheless, he held it at the ready, with his thumb on the safety-catch and his trigger finger resting on the trigger guard.
It was an early morning in January, and there was a heavy layer of frost on the ground, with spikes of ice hanging dramatically from the wintry trees. The windscreen was filthy and frosted over again even as it was wiped clean by the automatic wipers. The motorway ran straight as an arrow between hills covered with grass and gorse, on which cows and sheep roamed, disturbed only by the AH-7 Lynx helicopters rising and falling over the Army OPs.
‘The early morning resups,’ Sergeant Lovelock explained. ‘Men and supplies. Don’t fancy static OPs myself, stuck up there for hours, either sweltering in the heat or freezing your nuts off under all that turf and netting. Not my idea of fun.’
‘You’re the man who gave us the manila folders at the meeting,’ Ricketts said.
‘You’re not blind,’ Lovelock replied.
‘You prefer being in a Q car?’ Ricketts asked him.
‘That’s for sure. I like being able to move around instead of just waiting for something to happen. When my time comes, you can bury me in an OP, but not before then. So what’s it like in the SAS?’
‘It’s great.’
‘You guys get to a lot of exciting places.’
Ricketts chuckled. ‘Right. Like Belfast. So what do you think about the SAS? Does it bother you to have to work with us?’
‘Not at all. In fact, I was thinking of applying when I get posted back to the mainland. I was in the Queen’s Royal Lancers before being transferred to the Intelligence Corps, posted here for special duties, which meant 14 Intelligence Company. It’s OK, but I need something with a little more variety. If your Lieutenant Cranfield’s anything to go by, you guys must be all you’re cracked up to be. Cranfield’s like fucking James Bond! A real tough guy.’
A couple of Saracen armoured trucks, bristling with weapons and troops, passed the Q car, heading the other way, back to Bessbrook.
‘A good officer,’ Ricketts said. ‘Being in Intelligence yourself, you probably appreciate the type.’
‘We’re not as free and easy in the Army as you are in the SAS. That’s the difference between Captain Dubois and your Lieutenant Cranfield, as you probably noticed. Dubois’s a good officer, but he tends to take his job pretty seriously. Cranfield, though good as well, is a lot more informal and headstrong. His SAS training, right?’
‘More to do with his personality, I’d think,’ Ricketts said, glancing at Gumboot and Martin in the mirror and receiving a wink from the first. ‘Though he is, undoubtedly, quite a character and well known to be headstrong.’
From Gumboot’s wink and Ricketts’s tone, Martin sensed that Ricketts was leading to something specific.
‘Absolutely,’ Lovelock replied. ‘Enough to have taken out that fucking IRA tout, no matter what he told you. Christ, Dubois’ face was a picture. He knows it wasn’t the IRA!’
‘Is that the word about the place – that Cranfield did it?’
‘Sure is. Him and Dubois and a couple of 14 Intelligence Company sergeants, they went out there and took him out. They did it for Phillips and the ten sources knocked off by the IRA. It was a pure revenge hit.’
‘That isn’t like the SAS,’ Ricketts said.
‘It’s like Cranfield,’ Lovelock insisted. ‘Believe me, he did it – which is why Dubois was shitting himself when your friend raised the subject.’
‘But Cranfield has never admitted he did it.’
‘Of course not. He’d be in deep shit if he did. The killing has incensed the IRA and brought a lot of flak down on 14 Intelligence Company in general and the SAS in particular. That’s why Dubois and Cranfield can’t admit that they did it.’
‘So what makes a lot of people think they did it?’
‘Because Cranfield and Dubois have often sneaked across the border to snatch members of the IRA and bring them back to be captured, as it were, by the RUC. It’s illegal, but they do it. Combine that knowledge with the fact that Cranfield was openly stating that he was going to avenge the suicide of Phillips, as well as the death of his ten sources and … Well, what would you think?’
‘I’d keep my thoughts to myself,’ Ricketts replied.
‘OK, Sarge, point taken.’
As they neared Belfast, a stretch of mountain loomed up out of the mist. Ricketts checked his OS map
, looked back up at the mountain and said, ‘Divis, known locally as the Black Mountain.’ Lovelock nodded his agreement as he left the motorway and entered Westlink.
‘So this is the guided tour,’ he said. ‘We’re now heading for the Grosvenor Road roundabout. When we get there, we’ll drive along Grosvenor Road, past the Royal Victoria Hospital – where most of the kneecapped or otherwise wounded get treated – then head up the Springfield Road towards Turf Lodge, the heart of “Provo Land” – if it has a heart, that is.’
‘It’s that bad?’
‘Fucking right. This is the worst killing ground in Europe and don’t ever forget it.’
‘What are the rules regarding the killings?’
‘There aren’t any. Though oddly enough, the Provos are more controlled than the Prods. The IRA are pretty methodical about who they kill or torture, whereas the loyalists tend to work on impulse – usually when they’re angry. When they go for it, any victim will do – an innocent shopper, a teenager idling on a street corner, a pensioner in the bookie’s – anyone convenient enough to be snatched. As for IRA tortures, they can’t be any worse than what loyalists do with baseball bats, butcher’s knives, or blowtorches. We find the victims hanging from fucking rafters and they’re never a pretty sight. Freedom fighters? Don’t even mention that word to me. These bastards are terrorists and psychopaths and should all be put down.’
Lovelock stopped the car at the Grosvenor Road roundabout, which was already busy. Eventually, when he had a clear run, he slipped into the traffic and turned into Grosvenor Road itself. Almost immediately, they passed a police station and regular Army checkpoint, surrounded by high, sandbagged walls and manned by heavily armed soldiers, all wearing DPM (Disruptive Pattern Material) clothing, helmets with chin straps and standard-issue boots. Apart from the private manning the 7.62mm L4 Light Machine Gun, the soldiers were carrying M16 rifles and had stun and smoke grenades on their webbing. The Q car was allowed to pass without being stopped. Further on, a soldier with an SA-80 assault rifle was keeping a Sapper covered while the latter carefully checked the contents of a rubbish bin. ‘The Provos have Russian-manufactured RPG 7s,’ Lovelock explained, ‘which fire rocket-propelled grenades up to about 500 metres. The Provos use them mainly against police stations, army barracks and armoured “pigs” – they’re troop carriers – and Saracen armoured cars. They also command-detonate dustbins filled with explosives from across the waste ground, which is why that Sapper’s checking all the bins near the police station and the checkpoint. Usually, when explosives are placed in dustbins, it’s done during the night, so the Sappers check this area every morning.’
Glancing out of his window, Martin saw that they were passing an enormous Victorian building on the left. When they reached the entrance, which was guarded by RUC officers wearing flak jackets and carrying the ubiquitous 5.56mm Ruger Mini-14 assault rifle, he saw ambulances inside and realized that it was the Royal Victoria Hospital.
‘There it is,’ Lovelock said sardonically. ‘Kneecap Heaven. Go in there and you’ll find them sitting or lying on stretchers, just waiting their turn. It’s a daily occurrence – just part of the way of life here. It’s fucking amazing what those bastards do to their own kind.’
‘I thought they only did it to touts and other kinds of traitors,’ Martin said, his curiosity aroused.
‘No,’ Lovelock said. ‘They do it for a lot of things. Not wanting cops on their turf, the paramilitaries keep their own law, which means punishing car thieves, burglars, sex offenders, or so-called traitors in their own, rough fashion. Fuck, man, the people in these ghettos are so terrified of the IRA that when they receive a visit from them, saying they have to report for punishment, they actually go to the place selected for punishment of their own accord. Knowing what’s going to happen to them, they sometimes try to anaesthetize themselves beforehand by getting pissed or bombed out on Valium. I mean, the whole business has become so routine, so commonplace, that the victims are even allowed to remove their pants or other clothing so they won’t be damaged by the bullets. When the punishment’s over, the paramilitaries will even call for an ambulance to take you away. You end up in that hospital, and often get compensation from the British government. If you do, you receive another visit from the guys who kneecapped you, demanding part of your compensation. Naturally, you hand it over with a big smile, before wobbling back to your bed of pain and nursing your wounds.’
This part of Belfast looked like London after the Blitz: rows of terraced houses with their doors and windows bricked up and gardens piled high with rubble. The pavements outside the pubs and certain shops were barricaded with large concrete blocks and sandbags. The windows were caged in heavy-duty wire netting as protection against car bombs and petrol bombers.
‘OK,’ Lovelock said. ‘A few words of warning before we get into bandit country. Everything that Captain Dubois told you yesterday was true, but here’s some more to remember. You can’t leave a car in the streets. If you do, either it’ll be vandalized by the kids; stolen for joyriding or to be sold or otherwise used by one of the paramilitary groups; or blown up by the Army because it might contain a bomb. Even if you leave it in a secure location, when returning to it you approach it from behind and bounce it on its springs, so as to trigger the small bomb that might have been planted under the driver’s seat. Plan all journeys carefully before you leave and avoid enemy territory wherever possible. When driving, keep your windows locked at all times. If you’re parked at a red light and someone approaches you, go through the red light and keep going until out of sight. If someone approaches you before you can move off, the only thing to say is: ‘Fuck off!’ If they don’t, take off as quickly as possible. If you’re in paramilitary territory and you knock someone down, don’t stop. If you do, you’ll be killed.’
The Grosvenor Road led across the Falls to Springfield, Ballymurphy and Turf Lodge, where everyone looked poor and suspicious, notably the gangs of young men – the ‘dickers’ – who stood menacingly on street corners, keeping their eyes out for newcomers or anything else they felt was threatening, particularly the SF patrols. Invariably, with the gangs, there were young people on crutches or with arms in slings, looking proud to be wounded.
‘Have they been kneecapped?’ Gumboot asked.
‘Correct,’ Lovelock replied. ‘Look, you can even tell what kind of Catholic you’re dealing with by checking just how he’s been kneecapped. If it’s a wound from a dainty little .22, which doesn’t shatter bone, and it’s either in a fleshy bit of the thigh or in the ankle, then the victim is only a minor thief or police informer. For something more serious he’ll be shot in the back of the knee with a high-velocity rifle or pistol, which means the artery is severed and the kneecap blown right off. Now the six-pack, that’s the major one, which makes you a real bad lot. With the six-pack he gets a bullet in each elbow, knee and ankle. That puts him on crutches for a long time and lets everyone see that he’s a bad ‘un. Now if that’s what they can do to their own, what the hell do you think they’re capable of when they drag an enemy, one of us, into an abandoned warehouse and string us up to the rafters for what they like to imagine is a bit of proper military interrogation?’
‘I’d rather not dwell on it,’ Martin said.
‘Very wise,’ Ricketts told him.
‘Any quick way of telling the difference between Prods and Catholics?’ Gumboot asked.
Lovelock laughed. ‘Well, what can I say? A pigeon fancier is probably Protestant. A hurley player is definitely a Catholic, or Taig, as the Prods call them. Both sides play cricket, but only Orangemen are Rangers fans … and so on. You’ll soon pick up the differences.’
He drove them around Turf Lodge to Andersonstown, then back to the Falls Road, the Provo heartland and one of the deadliest killing grounds in Northern Ireland – or anywhere else in the Western world. The streets of the ‘war zone’, as Lovelock called it, were clogged with armoured Land Rovers and forbidding army fortresses looming again
st the sky. British Army barricades, topped with barbed wire and protected by machine-gun crews atop Saracen armoured cars, were blocking off the entrance to many streets, with the foot soldiers well armed and looking like Martians in their DPM uniforms, boots, webbing, camouflaged helmets and chin-protectors. The soldiers were checking everyone entering the barricaded areas and, in many instances, taking them aside to search them roughly.
‘This is the heaviest security I’ve ever seen,’ Ricketts said. ‘To find it on British soil is just unbelievable.’
‘And that’s only the visible presence,’ Lovelock replied. ‘There are also static OPs with high-power cameras on the roofs of distant skyscrapers, recording every movement in these streets. There are also spies in the ceilings of suspected IRA buildings and bugs on the telephones. Caught between us and the IRA, ever vigilant in their more direct way, the people in these streets have little privacy, which only makes them more paranoid.’
Looking out and instinctively tightening his grip on his Browning, Martin noticed that the traffic was heading towards the distant Cave Hill. The black taxis were packed with passengers too frightened to use public transport or walk. Grey-painted RUC mobiles and British Army ‘pigs’ were passing constantly. In both kinds of vehicles, the officers were scanning the upper windows and roofs on either side of the road, looking for possible sniper positions.
‘Look at ’em,’ Lovelock said, indicating the men and youths loitering on street corners, the overweight housewives trudging wearily in and out of shops, and the grubby children who were clambering over a burnt-out car, smashing its remaining windows with sticks and screaming like banshees. ‘Most of ’em don’t give a fuck about a United Ireland; they simply give in to the paramilitaries out of fear. Believe me, if you had a nationwide election, Sinn Fein wouldn’t stand a prayer of a chance against Fine Gael or Fianna Fail. If that happened, the Prods would come under the rule of Dublin conservatives who hate the IRA as much as they do. Unfortunately, the dumb fucks don’t see it that way. The political wing of the IRA is fighting a centuries-old war and the Prods are convinced that if the IRA wins, they, the loyalists, will be left to the mercy of the bloodthirsty Micks. It’s all paranoid nonsense.’
