Wicked Game

by Matt Johnson

  I enjoyed the army so much that instead of leaving after three years, I signed on for a regular commission. The last three of my eight years’ service had been spent as a troop commander in various parts of the world with the 22nd SAS Regiment.

  I hadn’t always wanted to try SAS selection. It was only when I met some of their lads on a training exercise in Germany that the idea entered my head. Generally speaking, artillery officers don’t apply for Special Forces. My application surprised even my closest friends in the mess at Woolwich.

  Although I made it through the selection process at the first attempt, I was a long way from being the best applicant the SAS ever had. And this was amply demonstrated by the hill-phase endurance test. It’s ironically called the Fan Dance. Forty-five miles on foot in twenty hours, carrying so much kit that most men needed help simply to stand up.

  After crossing the finish line with just a few minutes to spare, I developed both a deep respect and hatred of the Brecon Beacons, the range of mountains where the test took place. It’s a beautiful place, incredible scenery and wonderful landscape, but I always seemed to see it through a fog of pain.

  To this day, I don’t really remember the last five miles. I just kept moving forward, my brain in a form of numbed haze. I passed four casualties in the final stages, including another of the three officer candidates, a Captain from the Royal Irish Rangers.

  Perhaps I was stupid, but I lost time as I stopped to speak to all of them to see if they needed help. One of the lads from the Engineers had collapsed face-down near a stream. Poor bastard was being weighed down by his bergen and would probably have drowned if I hadn’t come around the corner. I wasted several minutes dragging him into the shelter of a rocky outcrop before trudging on.

  A few yards after crossing the line, my legs gave up the fight and I ended up on my back, bergen beneath me, flailing about like a stranded beetle. Strong hands helped me to my feet and a mug of tea was shoved into my hand. The corporal who handed it to me laughed at my reaction to the super-sweet liquid.

  ‘Get it down you, butt,’ he barked.

  ‘You’re Welsh?’ I said as I took a second gulp.

  ‘From the valleys.’

  ‘My mother’s from Swansea.’

  ‘Like I give a shit. Now get moving, on the lorry and double quick,’ came the reply.

  I’d been put in my place. Officer or not.

  Over the coming year I spent all my time on the shooting range, in the jungle, on escape and evasion exercises or acquiring the skills needed on the counter-terrorist team.

  I made the cut, and in late 1978 was assigned to B squadron.

  Chapter 4

  5th January 1980. Northern Ireland

  It was just before seven a.m. when I stopped at the perimeter checkpoint before pulling out into the main street. The police guard looked closely at my pass and then at me. I guessed he was comparing the pristine facial features on the photograph to the curly hair and suntan I was then sporting. Like I always did at the gate, I winked.

  With only the vaguest hint of a smile, the guard nodded me through. I hid the pass behind the dash of the Rover. The meeting with the RUC bosses was at nine. I’d figured the drive should take me about an hour. That would leave me plenty of time to sample the police canteen’s excellent breakfast.

  That day I was in plain clothes; it helped to avoid being noticed. The terrorists had spotters everywhere. Dickers, we called them. Often they were impossible to recognise. One might look like a schoolgirl, another like a postman.

  The previous day, an Air Corps Sergeant had offered me an early ride to the meeting in a helicopter, but hell, I enjoyed driving and it had promised to be a beautiful day. With hindsight, I should have taken that heli.

  As I neared the edge of the town I was waved straight through the vehicle checkpoint at the entrance to the main ‘A’ road. I eased down the accelerator, the smooth, powerful V8 engine bringing the Rover effortlessly up to seventy. The Rover was bog standard, apart from the Kevlar fitted to the rear of the seats and inside the doors. Kevlar was light, bullet-proof and didn’t affect the car’s performance. It wouldn’t stop armour-piercing rounds but it certainly gave me some reassurance.

  As a member of mobility troop, I’d had some advanced driver training. I’d never been that good a driver, though, I didn’t have the concentration. I could do some of the tricks, handbrake turns, that sort of stuff, but wasn’t an expert like some of the guys. Given the choice, in a scrape I’d leave the driving to someone else. I was better at talking.

  We changed the external appearance of the Rover as often as possible. Number plates and tax disc came first, vinyl roof at other times. Paint was more difficult, but at least once a month someone found himself looking for the wrong-coloured car when he needed it in a hurry.

  I slowed down to sixty as the road narrowed to a single lane.

  The weather forecast was right. It looked like being a nice day in the province, blue skies, a gentle breeze and with the odd cloud. Like I said, my favourite kind of day.

  Approaching Drumquin, I spotted a blue Mk2 Cortina waiting at a side junction. To this day, I don’t know if it was curiosity or a sense of self-preservation that made me take a second look at the occupants. There were three. All men, all late teens or early twenties, all in casual clothes. They didn’t look directly at me, but the one in the back caught my eye. He looked hard at the Rover and then started writing something down.

  I eased off the gas and watched them carefully in the rear-view mirror. The Cortina pulled out and drove off in the opposite direction.

  I had just started to relax when I saw the rear-seat passenger turn his head around. He was watching me. A dicker.

  The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.

  It was just before eight when I arrived at Castlederg. For the whole journey I’d checked my mirrors for any sign that I was being followed. There was none.

  Castlederg Police Station was protected by a checkpoint and mechanical gates. Spiked metal ramps prevented car bombers getting too close, high walls, barbed wire and weld mesh prevented any direct assault and reduced the risk of mortar attacks.

  The constable on guard duty was polite but firm and took the precaution of telephoning to confirm my appointment and identity before allowing me entry. I always wore a hat when leaving and entering police and army premises, you never knew who was watching.

  Identification formalities over, I eased the Rover through the gates and parked outside the canteen. Painted in large white letters on the wall behind the only available bay were the words ‘Chief Supt’. I pulled into it and turned off the engine. As I tucked the Beretta beneath the driver’s seat, I reached into my jacket pocket, paused for a moment and then cursed. I’d forgotten to bring a spare magazine. It was a careless mistake and, no doubt, one that the quartermaster would rib me about on my return.

  Eight o’clock is always a good time to get breakfast in a police canteen. The frying pans are hot and un-christened as the early shift doesn’t start arriving until nine. You always get a full selection from the menu and a friendly reception from the canteen cooks, who have time to rustle up ‘something special’. I ordered my usual – poached eggs, fried bread, bacon, mushrooms and tomatoes. Amongst my many weaknesses, a cooked breakfast is a big one. I washed it down with a good strong brew, took a trip to the lav, had a browse through the Belfast Telegraph, and then had a quick read through my report on the previous week’s contact.

  It was exactly nine o’clock when I walked into the assistant chief constable’s reception office.

  ‘Prompt, as usual, Captain.’ The secretary smiled warmly from behind her typewriter. ‘Go straight in, they’re just having coffee.’

  Chapter 5

  I didn’t appreciate it as I walked in to join the waiting police officers, but Assistant Chief Constable Kieran O’Keefe was a worried man. The reasons were about to be made clear to me.

  The seating was arranged in a circle. I sat myself
down in the only empty seat, a soft leather armchair.

  O’Keefe made the introductions. All the attendees were either senior policemen or heads of police units. I was introduced as ‘Captain X’. That made me smile. It was standard practice to give Special Forces soldiers a cipher or codename, but this one evoked childhood memories of Captain Kirk and Star Trek. I sensed a degree of discomfort in the room when my real name wasn’t provided. Not everyone agreed with soldiers being allowed such a concession.

  Behind me, someone closed the heavy double doors.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ O’Keefe began, ‘I have asked the Captain to come here today in order to apprise us of the problems facing officers in armed contact with the provisional IRA and to advise us on best practice.’

  O’Keefe had a nice turn of phrase. I was actually there to talk about killing terrorists. The previous week, I had led an observation on an unattended arms cache when a known member of the Provisionals had arrived at the scene and started to dig it up. The Provo, a lad called Masterson, had ended up dead.

  O’Keefe looked towards me as he suggested that I might answer questions about the shooting. I nodded in agreement. I had nothing to hide; we had acted within the rules of engagement and Masterson’s weapon had been recovered.

  As O’Keefe drew his introduction to a close, he mentioned there had been a lot of reports in the press about contacts between the security forces and the terrorist factions that were resulting in fatalities. Journalists were starting to claim that both the police and the army were operating a shoot-to-kill policy.

  I’d heard the rumours and read the articles. But I was also aware that the official line was to treat the idea as ludicrous. The army is a small world. If something as serious as a shoot-to-kill strategy was in place, we would have heard about it. There had been nothing. Which meant I was possibly the first Special Forces officer to be involved in a discussion on the subject. It was certainly the first time I had heard any RUC senior officer use the term ‘shoot-to-kill’.

  It looked like the agenda for the meeting had changed.

  O’Keefe ended his opening speech with the announcement that he had appointed one of his best detectives to lead a small team that would be looking into all fatalities involving contact with the police or army. He also informed the meeting that an outside investigation officer was likely to be appointed soon. Favourite for the job was the deputy chief constable from Liverpool.

  For several moments, I stared into space. I needed to think. I’d prepared myself for a discussion about the new terrorist cell I had heard about, not to give a detailed explanation of the methods my team were using to identify and take on the terrorists.

  Aware that my body had stiffened and my sense of annoyance might show, I did my utmost to appear relaxed. I looked around at the others present. I only recognised one man: Detective Superintendent Dan Connell. Everyone knew Connell, if not personally then by reputation. He was old school, one of the RUC’s best investigators.

  One thing struck me. On entering the room, I had been surprised I was the only military. I would have expected to have seen some spooks from the intelligence corps. But there were none. And now I was starting to realise why. This was an investigation and I was the suspect.

  Connell led the conversation. I sat forward in my chair. From the looks the group gave me, I could see that I had their attention. I did my best to describe in detail how my small, four-man patrol had flown in to observe the arms dump that had been discovered accidentally by an RUC patrol. I avoided ‘army speak’ to avoid confusing them. If there is one thing soldiers are guilty of it’s talking in our own stilted language. Some police officers understood the lingo, most didn’t. So, I kept it simple. A cache of weapons had been left undisturbed in a dustbin buried underground in the middle of a deserted farmyard. Our team had been briefed to surround and observe the farmyard so that anyone arriving to collect something from the dustbin could be arrested.

  I described how, after two days in position, the team’s patience had been rewarded: at two a.m. a lone male had entered the yard and started digging up the dustbin. The man had been challenged. When he responded to this by drawing a weapon from his pocket, he had been shot dead. I spared them a description of the injuries an MP5 had caused to the unfortunate boy’s face.

  The subsequent question-and-answer session lasted for about half an hour. Several times I had to go over points I had already explained. My suspicion was right – this was definitely more cross-examination than de-brief. Connell, in particular, asked a lot of questions about the pre-op briefing and instructions given to soldiers in the event of contact.

  In those days, I had little experience of interview technique. But I knew that most of the policemen, particularly someone like Connell, who had worked his way up through the ranks, knew how to tell the difference between a story and an account. They would be examining any repeated words or descriptions to see whether I, the ‘suspect’, was padding out a story to make it believable, or if I was describing the truth. I guess they figured I was kosher.

  At last, we moved on to discuss the reason why I had attended the meeting in the first place. There was a threat from a new IRA cell that was operating in the area. Connell gave us a run-down.

  The main suspects were brothers – Michael and Richard Webb. They were very junior members of the Provisionals. Until recently the Webb boys had run messages, carried ammunition and guns, and assisted members of the active service units by keeping watch. However, intelligence sources reported that they had now both been blooded.

  Richard, at seventeen, was the eldest by two years. His olive skin and dark hair gave him a Greek appearance and so he’d become known as ‘Dick the Spic’. He had been christened as a sniper. An experienced IRA gunman had allowed him to fire an old Lee Enfield at an RUC patrol from the roof of a tower block. Richard missed and had almost been caught by the pursuing patrol.

  Michael, still only fifteen, had planted a small bomb in a Protestant pub. He had telephoned a warning but had forgotten to use a code word and in the half-hearted moves to evacuate the pub, the barman had been killed.

  Apparently, the two boys now considered themselves to be old hands.

  Connell handed around a set of photographs for us to look at. I hadn’t seen either of the boys before. I did, however, recognise one of the people with whom he was pictured.

  ‘John Boyle,’ I said.

  ‘That’s right, Captain,’ replied O’Keefe. ‘We think that Boyle may be using the two boys to plan an attack.’

  ‘Do we have any idea of the target?’ I asked.

  Connell paused and closed his eyes for a moment. ‘We believe the target is … the Assistant Chief Constable.’

  We all remained silent.

  O’Keefe was rigid and showed no emotion as Connell continued with his report. It was a frightening prospect, knowing that you were a specific target. Every RUC officer took precautions, general checks and methods to minimise the risk, but to be made aware that you had been singled out upped the ante considerably.

  A report from Special Branch judged the threat from Boyle and his team to be ‘moderate’. That told me little. I guessed it meant that the risk was real but not imminent.

  We talked at length about the threat, precautions O’Keefe could take and ways in which the threat might be countered.

  Just before the meeting closed, O’Keefe fixed me with a cold stare. ‘What are your thoughts on these new lads, Captain?’ he asked.

  ‘Do you want a soldier’s view or one that is more acceptable, sir,’ I replied.

  ‘Just say what you’re thinking.’

  ‘Ok, I will. You know as well as I do that Special Branch can tell us who these guys are, where they live, where they drink, and the touts will even tell us other stuff about them. But you want them stopped, I guess.’

  ‘We want all forms of terrorism stopped, Captain. Not just this particular team.’

  ‘I understand that, sir, believe me. What I’m try
ing to say is that you operate from a perspective that treats these men as criminals.’ I could see from the attentive stares of those present that I had their attention.

  ‘Do go on,’ said O’Keefe.

  ‘With respect, sir. I’m a soldier and I think and act like one. People like me have been brought here to put fear back into the minds of the Provos.’

  ‘And how would you propose we should do that?’

  ‘Make it clear to them that if they target coppers they pay with their lives.’

  ‘Are you saying what I think you’re saying? That we should actually operate a shoot-to-kill policy?’

  ‘I’m saying we treat them like enemy soldiers and not like civilian criminals. If they pick up the gun and try to kill us, they know that the fight they are getting into is likely to leave them dead. Make them afraid.’

  ‘Like they fear the SAS, you mean?’

  ‘I mean so they understand that if they target us, we will come after them.’

  O’Connell coughed. It was a timely intervention, interrupting what was turning into a political debate.

  It was now ten o’clock. O’Keefe called time on the meeting.

  I was the first to leave. As I walked through the ACC’s reception, the secretary was at her desk. I gave her a wink; she smiled in reply.

  ‘What’s your name?’ I asked.

  ‘Samantha.’ Nice name, I thought. Reminded me of a pretty little kid that was at school with my younger brother.

  ‘Be seeing you soon, Samantha.’

  ‘I hope so.’ The voice was warm, the smile broad. Different time, different place I’d be in there, I thought.