by Shaun Clarke
The hard man he recognized from the intelligence photo as Michael Quinn was struggling vigorously and bawling abuse as two soldiers with truncheons dragged him off the pavement and forced him up into one of the RUC paddy-wagons. At the same time, another man, whom Ricketts suspected was the tout, was being half-dragged from the area directly below the loft to be thrown into the same vehicle.
That, Ricketts reasoned, was a good idea, as the tout would now appear to be one of those high on the Brits’ wanted list. It would make him look good in the eyes of his mates and neighbours, including Quinn.
When the doors of the paddy-wagon had been slammed shut on Quinn and the tout, the housewives and children on the pavements bawled even more abuse at the soldiers and RUC officers. The latter, however, were already getting back into their vehicles and the engines were roaring into life.
As the first of the Saracens and pigs moved off along the street, an even louder roaring came from directly above the house. Looking up as high as he could through the peep-hole, Ricketts saw the Gazelle observation helicopter flying directly overhead, heading back to Armagh. By the time it had disappeared beyond row upon row of rooftops, the last of the Saracens, pigs and paddy-wagons had also disappeared from below, leaving the street to the irate or shocked inhabitants.
Some of the women hurried into their houses, only to rush out again, complaining tearfully about the devastation inside.
Disturbed by that sight, Ricketts dropped the slate back over the peep-hole and turned back to face the other three in the loft. Gumboot and Taff had already unpacked a lot of the kit and were balefully examining the plastic bags intended for their own shit and piss. Lampton, meanwhile, was opening the tripod for the audio surveillance transceiver.
Take off your boots,’ he told them as he unfolded the tripod, ‘and don’t put them on again until we leave this place.’
‘Home sweet home,’ Ricketts murmured, gazing around the dark, freezing, cobwebbed loft.
‘I’ve lived in worse,’ Gumboot said.
Chapter 9
That evening, close to midnight, with the covert OP already established opposite Michael Quinn’s house in Belfast, Sergeant ‘Dead-eye Dick’ Parker and Troopers Jock McGregor, Danny ‘Baby Face’ Porter and Martin Renshaw, were driven out of Bessbrook in a dark-blue high-sided van to set up a second covert OP overlooking Quinn’s weekend home in the ‘bandit country’ of south Armagh.
Though normally the overt OPs were manned and resupped by helicopter, this one would be left alone during its existence and was being set up in strict secrecy. The van, therefore, was being driven by a British Army REME corporal in civilian clothing, guarded by a crack marksman paratrooper, also wearing normal clothes. The OP’s SAS team, on the other hand, were wearing DPM windproof clothing, Danner boots with Gore-tex lining, and soft, peaked, camouflaged combat caps. The exposed parts of their faces, necks and hands were smeared with stick camouflage, suitable for blending in with local foliage.
Stopped repeatedly by Army roadblocks, the men in the van had to show their IDs, which in this case were genuine. They were always then allowed to proceed. Nevertheless, the many stops slowed them down considerably and it was just after two in the morning when they finally reached their destination.
Quinn’s weekend house was in rolling farmlands in Kilevy, surrounded by the hills along the Al and high enough to afford a glimpse of Carlingford Lough and the Irish Sea. When the REME corporal parked the van and switched off his headlights in a pitch-black winding lane near Kilevy, the men hurriedly climbed out, with Dead-eye Dick, Jock, the paratrooper and the REME driver going into all-round defence as Martin and Danny unloaded the equipment.
No one spoke.
When the unloading was completed, the four SAS men strapped on their heavily laden bergens, distributed the rest of the equipment between them, then clambered over a fence to begin the long march up a dark, windswept, grassy hill. As they did so, the REME driver, still protected by the paratrooper, turned the van around and headed back to Bessbrook.
The men marching uphill were heavily burdened indeed, with overpacked bergens weighing over fifty pounds and the rest of their weapons, ammunition, equipment, water and rations, either fixed to their webbing or carried by hand, thus making an even greater burden. As the weapons included a GPMG, a couple of L42A1 Lee Enfield .303 bolt-action sniper rifles with starlight ‘scopes, M16 assault rifles with M203 grenade launchers, and two 5.56mm Colt Commando semi-automatics with 30-round box magazines, and as the equipment included various surveillance systems and recording machines, as well as a PRC 319 radio, it was a daunting load to carry for any distance.
‘Donkey soldiers,’ Jock whispered to Martin. ‘That’s what the firqats called us in Oman and that’s what we are now. Bloody donkeys!’
Martin tried to laugh, but was so breathless he nearly choked, so instead maintained silence.
Ordered apart by Sergeant ‘Dead-eye Dick’ Parker, the men advanced up the hill in a well-spaced line, with Jock out front as ‘point’ man, or lead scout, Danny and Martin in the middle to cover both flanks, and Dead-eye bringing up the rear as ‘Tail-end Charlie’. They made it to the OP by a zigzagging route that took in a series of pre-designated RVs, or rendezvous points: the gate of a fence, a copse of trees, a particular hill. Though this took up more time, it was a vital part of their anti-ambush tactics. Eventually, however, after a final rendezvous, or FRV, during which they checked the map with the aid of a pencil torch, they arrived at the location chosen for the OP.
‘OK,’ Dead-eye Dick, the Patrol Commander, said, lowering his own heavy loads to the ground. ‘This is where we dig in.’
The location was the windy summit of a hill with a glimpse of the lough and sea on one side and, on the other, an unobstructed view of Quinn’s cottage – necessary not only for eyeball recces, but for the line-of-sight path required for the laser surveillance system. The location had also been chosen because it was on the direct line of a hedgerow that snaked over the crest of the hill and could be used as the protective wall of the OP.
The clouds were low and patchy, showing stars between, and moonlight made strips of sea glint occasionally in the distance. The wind was cold and strong, howling like a banshee, and frost glinted here and there on the grassy ground.
While the other men sorted out their kit, Jock used the PRC 319 to establish communications with the base at Bessbrook. Having confirmed that the OP had ‘comms’, or communications, from this location, Dead-eye took guard and radio watch, leaving the experienced Jock, with the help of Danny and Martin, to prepare the OP.
While it was unlikely that they would be seen by enemy aircraft, of which there were none, it was possible that a British Army helicopter crew, not knowing of their mission, would mistake them for a PIRA murder squad. For this reason, the first thing they did was put up a hessian screen, with a poncho and camouflage net for overhead cover, supported on wooden stakes, looped at one end over the hedgerow, and held down with iron pickets and rope.
Once this basic form of protection had been raised, the three men used spades and pickaxes to dig out a large rectangular area suitable for a long-term, top-to-tail OP, with one end running under the hedgerow.
Four shallow ‘scrapes’ were then dug in the main scrape: one for the observer, one for the sentry, and two as ‘rest bays’. One of the latter was for the man having a proper sleep in a sleeping bag; the other was for the man resting from guard or observation duties while taking care of his personal administration matters – such as jotting down his observations – or perhaps just having a snack and a rest while remaining awake.
A fifth shallow scrape was dug out of the middle of the triangular OP as a ‘kit-well’ for water, high-calorie foods, weapons, spare ammunition, batteries, toiletries and other equipment.
The soil from the scrapes was scattered around the ground a good distance away from the OP. The hessian-and-net covering of the OP was then covered in grass, gorse and vegetation torn fro
m the hedgerow.
A camouflaged entry/exit hole was made in the hessian hanging to the ground at the rear end of the OP. Last, but most important, a camouflaged rectangular viewing hole was shaped from the hedgerow and hessian covering the side of the OP overlooking the target – in this case Quinn’s cottage and the road passing it, located about 150 metres away, across the road at the bottom of the hill.
With the OP completed, the rest of the equipment was unpacked and prepared for use.
It was now that the newcomer, Martin Renshaw, came into his own. A former electrical research engineer with Marconi, then with the Pilatus Britten-Norman experimental aircraft production company in the Isle of Wight, Martin had joined the army specifically to get into the Royal Corps of Signals and, through that regiment, into the SAS. Immediately after being badged by the latter, he had spent six weeks each at the Hereford and Royal Signals establishments at Catterick and Blandford, where he had learned about the special surveillance requirements of the SAS, with particular regard to Counter-Terrorist (CT) operations in Northern Ireland. He was therefore particularly thrilled to be here at last and about to put all his training to work.
‘Let’s see what you can do, kid,’ Dead-eye said. ‘You can play with your toys now.’
The tripod which Martin set up in front of the viewing hole overlooking Quinn’s house was not for the GPMG, which would only be used in dire emergency, but for the cumbersome Thorn EMI multi-role thermal imager, including an infrared capability. Looking like an exceptionally large video camera, it could scan outside walls, track body heat, and reveal the position of those inside the building, by day or by night, in smoke or fog.
‘If he leaves the room,’ Martin said, ‘we’re all going to know it.’
Complementing the large, tripod-mounted thermal imager were two other items of highly advanced equipment.
Photographs of those entering or leaving Quinn’s cottage, whether by day or by night, would be taken with a Davin Optical Modulux image intensifier connected to a Nikon 35mm SLR camera with interchangeable long-distance and binocular lenses.
‘It can also be used as a night sight,’ Martin explained enthusiastically, ‘but it only works in the visible spectrum and its effectiveness is reduced by smoke, fog, and even dense foliage. Nevertheless, for our long-distance, day and night photographic needs it can’t really be bettered.’
He also set up a Hawkeye Systems Model HT10 thermal imaging camera capable of detecting men and vehicles at long distances, either in low light or in total darkness, while producing high-quality video pictures with up to seven times magnification. While the thermal picture was displayed automatically on an integral video monitor for direct viewing, it could also be displayed on a separate monitor for remote applications, such as recording for later visual analysis.
‘What the hell’s that?’ Jock asked Martin, when the latter set up two more tripods and fixed what looked like complicated transmitters, or recording devices, to them.
Camouflaged in hessian, the end of the camera-shaped object was poking through the viewing hole. The other object, which looked like a radio receiver, was joined to the first by a complex web of electric cables.
‘It’s an STG laser surveillance system,’ Martin said as he made his adjustments.
‘What the fuck’s STG?’
‘Surveillance Technology Group.’
‘So that’s a laser gun?’
‘No, not a gun. It’s a laser surveillance transmitter. We’ll use it to record conversations in Quinn’s place and transmit them back here. I’m setting the transmitter on what’s known as a line-of-sight path to the cottage, to direct an invisible beam on to the front window.’
‘An invisible beam?’ Jock asked sceptically.
‘Yes. Imagine the window as the diaphragm of a microphone with oscillating sound waves. The invisible beam bounces off the window, back to the optical receiver in our OP. The receiver then converts the modulated beam into audio signals, which in turn are filtered, amplified and converted into clear conversation. The conversation can then be monitored through headphones and simultaneously recorded on a tape-recorder. Pretty neat, eh?’
‘Fucking Star Wars,’ Jock said. ‘Anything to help us see in the dark if those PIRA fuckers try to take us by surprise?’
‘Yes,’ Martin said, now in his element and enjoying himself. ‘We’ve got a hand-held thermal imager operating on SWIR – that’s short-wavelength infrared. Also, a little number called “Iris”, which is an infrared intruder-detection system, remote controlled and effective over up to five kilometres. Each of the two men on guard will have one or the other of those to give them an extra set of eyes and ears.’
‘I’m going right back to my childhood,’ Jock said. ‘Fucking Flash Gordon.’
‘That was long before your childhood,’ Danny told him, ‘even though you do look that age.’
‘Fuck you, kid,’ Jock said.
Finally, when the surveillance equipment was set up, Dead-eye took a couple of brown, plastic-backed ‘bingo’ books out of his bergen and laid them on the ground below the viewing hole, beside the legs of the tripods. Already containing the names of wanted men, missing vehicles and suspected addresses, the notebooks would soon also contain details of everything seen and heard during this lengthy recce.
Dead-eye turned away from the viewing hole and looked directly at Martin.
‘Are you ready?’ he asked in his curiously chilling monotone.
‘Yes,’ Martin said.
‘OK.’ Dead-eye fixed his gaze on Jock and Danny. ‘You two stay here. We’re going down to Quinn’s house, but we’ll be back in about an hour. If any of these instruments indicate that someone’s coming, check that it’s us before you open fire and blow our nuts off.’
‘Will do!’ Jock chirped. ‘But why are you going to Quinn’s house at this hour of the morning?’
‘We only have coverage of the front of Quinn’s place,’ Dead-eye explained, ‘so while the bastard’s being held in Castlereagh detention barracks, this electrical wizard, Trooper Renshaw, is going to plant miniaturized bugs at the side and rear of the cottage. Don’t ask me how.’
Before anyone could say anything else, Dead-eye picked up a 5.56mm Colt Commando semiautomatic and a couple of 30-round box magazines, then crawled out of the OP. Seeing him go, Martin hurriedly took an olive-green canvas shoulder bag from the kit-well, slung it over his right shoulder, picked up an M16 assault rifle, then followed him out.
It was still dark and cold outside, with the wind howling across the fields, but they made their way rapidly, carefully, down the hill until they reached the road running past the cottage. After glancing left and right to check that no vehicles were coming, they crossed the road, opened the garden gate, closed it carefully behind them, then hurried up the path, stopping near the front door.
Dead-eye glanced left and right, then cocked his head as if listening. ‘No dogs,’ he whispered. When Martin nodded his agreement, Dead-eye led him around the side of the cottage and stopped by the kitchen window.
‘Here?’
‘Yes,’ Martin said.
While Dead-eye kept watch with the Colt Commando crooked in his left forearm, in what is known as the Belfast Cradle, Martin found a stepladder in the back garden, placed it against the wall by the window, climbed it, then used a small hand drill to quietly bore a hole through the top of the wooden window frame. When this was done, he pushed a fibre-optic probe camera, less than an eighth of an inch thick, through the hole, fixed its wired end to the outside of the window frame, then attached a miniaturized transmitter to the frame, right next to the probe, and wired the probe to it. Though it would have been visible to a keen eye, it was unlikely that anyone not deliberately looking would see either the tiny probe or the small transmitter.
‘One more,’ Martin said. Removing the step-ladder from the wall and carrying it around to the back of the house, he placed it over the window of what appeared to be a rear living room and fixed
another probe and transmitter to the top of the wooden frame. When the job was completed, he returned the ladder to where he had found it and carefully checked that nothing else had been disturbed. Satisfied, he glanced once more at his handiwork, then said: ‘OK. The laser surveillance system in the OP will pick up from the front room, the probe in the side will pick up from the kitchen, and the probe at the back will pick up from the other living room. That should just about do it.’
‘The bedrooms and the bog?’ Dead-eye asked without a flicker of irony.
‘We can’t have everything,’ Martin replied with a broad grin. ‘Come on, boss, let’s get out of here.’
With Dead-eye again in the lead and still cradling his Colt Commando, they crossed the road and made their way back up the dark hill. A good distance away from the OP, but within speaking range, they stopped and identified themselves, each personally announcing his own presence for voice identification. Given Jock’s permission to continue, they made their way up to the summit, slipped through a space in the hedgerow, dropped on to their hands and knees, then crawled breathlessly back into the OP.
‘All done,’ Dead-eye said. ‘Now let’s wait for that Irish bastard to come calling.’
Coins were tossed to see who would take first watch. Dead-eye and Danny lost the toss, allowing Jock and Martin to crawl gratefully into the scrapes and catch up on lost sleep.
The OP overlooking Quinn’s cottage on the stretch of road that ran to and from Belfast was now a functioning unit. At approximately the same time, as they all knew, a third covert OP was being set up, also overlooking the cottage, but further south, to cover the road leading to Dublin.
Whichever direction Quinn decided to travel in, they had him well covered.
