by Tony Criddle
IN THE LAP OF THE GODS
Tony Criddle
Published by Palmer Higgs Pty Ltd
First published 2015
© 2014 Tony Criddle
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright restricted above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the Author’s imagination, or if real, are used in a fictitious context.
A Cataloguing-in-Publication record is available from the National Library of Australia.
ISBN: 978 0 9942381 4 6 (pbk)
978 0 9942381 5 3 (ebk–ePub)
Designed, typeset and printed by Palmer Higgs
palmerhiggs.com.au
Distributed by Dennis Jones and Associates
dennisjones.com.au
Even if we are prepared to die for a belief,
it does not necessarily mean it’s true.
VOLTAIRE
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter six
Chapter seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Prologue
Farhad Amini had never been into that parochial crap much, but a vicious Devonian Saturday got him thinking. Bitter, growling winds burrowed through his saturated, mud-spattered rugby jersey as if it wasn’t there, and the goose-bumps on his cream, wrinkled skin felt almost as big as marbles under the dripping cotton.
Sure, the high sandy plateaus of his country could dish out unforgiving cold or scorching heat at times, but dry chills you could wrap up against and a blistering sun you could shelter from. It was the damp, energy sapping purgatory of this country’s winter that was almost impossible to avoid.
But it’s experience that dots the ‘I’ and crosses the ‘T’s. This was Amini’s first time in England. He wouldn’t know that Devon’s relentless winter of 65/66 had already been longer and harsher than most the south-west endured. The colder months in the West Country were usually short lived, but that year it had been hammered by savage meteorologic challenges that left a crust of inches deep snow blanketing anything even vaguely stationary. It was as if winter had some sort of grudge to settle.
The north of UK had also copped its fair share of those demented elements, while south of Dartmouth a confused, wind-lashed sea sent salt-laden moisture smashing relentlessly into dripping cliff faces. Aggressive, dark rain clouds rolling north above them threw an eerie shroud over the whole of that picturesque river valley. The lower buildings drifted in and out of focus while the higher houses remained totally invisible.
Slightly lower, the imposing granite slabs of the naval college spasmodically drifted into view as wispy shreds of stratus tumbled across the normally colourful hills, and it was cold, very cold, like the storage room at an abattoir. Anything outside took on slick wet shades of white or black.
Only one playing field was in use on that miserable Saturday, and this being the college it had to be for rugby union. The lack of spectators was not a big surprise either, but half way along a sideline four miserable, oilskin wrapped bodies watched thirty young men and a referee slog across the quagmire of the field. And as if to emphasis their misery, although huddled together, the managers and trainers were somehow still apart, deliberately not acknowledging each other let alone speaking. It wasn’t a matter of choice to be there, it was expected of them, although no-one else would have been that insane.
Dark, clinging mud streaked the referee indiscriminately while the two teams were completely saturated, and only the silver whistle clamped firmly in wind-burnt jaws distinguished him easily from the players. His two linesmen, though a bit cleaner were certainly no drier, and their noses dripped incessantly too. Surely only the British would play in this sort of weather.
But this was a new sort of patriotism for Farhad Amini. It was a tradition of the hard kind, the annual blood match between the army cadets at Sandhurst and youngsters at the naval college, and it would be played even in a raging blizzard.
By then no-one was quite sure when these vicious bouts had started except it was some time in the late 1800s. And although both teams also played the air force cadets at Cranwell, that one didn’t count as much. This game had become the blood match, part of a tribal tradition, whereas the air force had only been around long enough to develop habits. Inevitably, army and navy thought even those were a shade on the dubious side.
Not all of the players were from the UK either. A lot of countries sent their young officers to train in British military academies. It was more cost effective than running expensive schools for a limited number of students, and they standardised and duplicated skills that had worked over several violent centuries. No big surprise therefore that his team contained several players with colouring closer to roasted coffee than to dollops of single cream. But then again maybe not. The clinging slime had homogenised their normally diverse complexions on that turbulent, vicious day. Origins didn’t count much in this match, only the service you belonged to.
But the fight was hard and bitter even in that frigid, energy sucking weather. It was close to ignoble to lose the derby on your home turf, almost a scandal, but right then it was navy under intense pressure. They were two points down with only three minutes left to play, and worse still the sailors had been beaten back to their own twenty-five yard line with the ball buried deep in the middle of a loose ruck. In truth, the scrum was little more than a pile of straining, cursing bodies collapsed near the centre of the navy quarter line. The backs from both teams stretched across the field in an arrowhead, all ready for a final desperate effort.
Almost miraculously the navy’s scrum-half fielded the ball cleanly from the pile of straining bodies and spun it high to his right. It was agonisingly beyond the reach of a straining three quarter, but thudded safely int
o the hands of the navy’s full-back hovering not far behind. And he was a Welshman with rugby in his blood. It didn’t stay there long.
Nick Evans needed a short jiggle to set him on the correct foot then he punted the ovoid leather towards the touchline near army’s goal. The ball soared high and true, surprisingly away from, and not in front of his own back line, and kicked so hard it momentarily disappeared into the base of the low, ragged cloud base.
And the jink told Farhad Amini what was coming. Grass strips down the wings had escaped much of the churning traffic of mid-field, and a last desperate ploy for just these conditions had been worked out by Amini and the full-back some time before.
The Iranian exploded from stationary to full flight in just two steps, like a gazelle from the high desert plateaus of his native homeland. He didn’t lose speed or distance by watching the ball either, it would be there or it wouldn’t be. Everyone else was caught on the wrong foot.
Farhad Reza Amini, ‘Fred’ to his mates, didn’t look up until close to the opposition’s twenty-five and by then the ball was dropping gently towards him. It bounced high and true, a few feet in front of him. He fielded it cleanly and streaked headlong for the posts.
A desperate army full-back floundering in the wet, sticky mire of mid field got a hand to Amini’s ankle but it was already too late. Amini started to topple but hung onto the ball as if his life depended on it, slithered through the mud for the last few yards and scoring convincingly between the posts. The short kick was superfluous. Navy had won.
Chapter One
Ulster, Early 70s
It took some vigorous and pointed persuasion before a ‘Five’ informer gave up the location of a planned culvert bomb near the A28 from Strabane to Armagh. It was on a rough gravel road paralleling the border with County Monahan and there was a demonic logic to it. The quiet stretch of border was patrolled by the British randomly but often, and the PIRA would know that. A sting was organised and Nick Evans was part of it.
He got orders to lead another Wessex Mark Five from HMAS Sea Eagle, a navy air station near Londonderry, a few days later. They forged low level through the random mists and dripping clouds heading to Newry barracks in County Down, only twenty-seven miles east of where it would happen. 845 Naval Air Squadron would be back-up and contingency.
Just on dusk the choppers flew a deliberately disjointed patrol above the moorlands and green handkerchief sized fields, sometimes at 500 feet sometimes lower, sometimes with lights blazing and sometimes without. Occasionally they crossed paths, at others they were miles apart, but they were careful to stay on the British side of the border.
And four Special Boat Service specialists (SBS), the Royal Marine’s equivalent of the SAS, hunkered in jump-seats in the cabin of Nick’s machine. Part of the plan was to get them somewhere that overlooked the culvert unseen, and just as dusk was biting his number two flew overhead with navigation lights on and anti-collision lights flashing brightly. Nick had already picked his spot.
He flipped his night-vision goggles down and virtually auto-rotated into a small, wet vale that meandered towards the border, squeezing as near as he dared to a crop of vague, mature trees hugging the sides of the mini-valley. From there the team had a clear line of sight to the culvert and would be between the road and the border. Whiskey Alpha’s wheels never got closer than a couple of feet from the ground and the SBS disappeared before the machine had fully stopped.
Nick weaved randomly at low level for several more miles before putting his lights back on and zoom climbing to join his mate from a random direction. He gave it another fifteen minutes then lead back to Newry in loose formation.
Job number one for the SBS was to suss out the authenticity of the information. The PROVOS weren’t going to risk setting up ambushes until the random patrol had passed for the day, so if it did happen the SBS would witness it and switch the op on. Their secondary task was to block the PROVOS escape route to the border. Permanently.
The SBS had been there two days when a Royal Marine Land Rover patrolled through just after dawn. Nothing happened right away, but maybe an hour later three males in a ute spent time in the culvert. The vehicle soon drove off but two of the males disappeared into a wooded hollow close to the road. Game, set and match. The SBS team sent the flash message.
They couldn’t see it through the dripping murk, but a watery sun had just cleared the horizon when two long wheel-base Land Rovers with eight Marines aboard sloshed along a by-road from the north. Tension was on the high side. There were several iffy spots on that lonely, wooded tract, and none of them thought their flack jackets were sissy. They kept a rigid fifty metres apart.
The plan called for the vehicles to pause briefly short of the culvert and four of the marines to sweep through the trees from the north. The terrorists would have to be close to detonate with a cell phone at the right moment, and the SBS were ideally placed to take out any that the patrol missed. With only ten minutes to go, things were on the hairy side.
There was no warning at all, just a large explosion close to the lead Rover’s front near-side wheel. Dirt, flora, flame and scrap metal arced high towards the low, sullen clouds, and even though it was travelling slowly the lead vehicle canted and flipped onto its side. The blast was ear shattering, and the noise from falling dirt and debris drowned out the screech of abrading aluminium as the vehicle body slid along the gravel track. The driver and passenger up front died instantly, but the two marines in back were a little luckier. Both were ejected as the vehicle tipped.
One was perforated by shrapnel to go with his broken arm, the other badly shaken but functional. Both were covered in grime and body parts.
The driver of the second Rover braked frantically, twisting into a side skid as he halted some fifteen metres from the wreck ahead, and as they scrambled for cover the high-pitched whine of Kalashnikovs on rapid fire stuttered into life from behind, causing them to duck even lower. Angry, invisible bullets tore jagged, bright gashes in the aluminium bodywork, and two more marines got ventilated. One permanently. The troop sergeant and radio operator bailed out unscathed.
Controlled taps of three from the sergeant’s SLR thudded into the trees as the radio man dragged the injured driver into the ditch beside the road. Shortly after, another SLR joined in from the ditch ahead, pinpointing disembodied wraiths of blue smoke drifting low in the hazy undergrowth behind. The sergeant screamed at the trooper to radio in as he rapidly changed magazines. The Royal wiped his mate’s blood from his face with a grubby hankie before complying.
That misty dawn was getting towards perfect for covert operations if you didn’t have to fly in it. Nick, his wingman and their crewmen perched in Newry ops centre over a brew, talking to someone in a green beret, dark blue trews and a woolly pulley. The gold bars on his epaulettes held apart by a red flash said he was a navy doctor, but the beret said he had completed a commando course and was attached to a Marine Commando.
The chat was quiet and tense, and with violent action due to kick in, the radio was switched to external speakers, and they heard the marine’s company commander chatting to the OIC of the ops centre. The crisp, controlled broadcast was not what they expected.
“Newry ops, surveillance one, do you read?” A marine corporal grabbed for the plastic mike and acknowledged.
“I’m relaying for two section. They can’t get through on VHF and the truck HF is knackered. They were ambushed over four miles north of our position and both Rovers are out of action. They’ve got three dead including their Sunray (leader), two injured and three in action. An IED took out the lead Rover and they’re pinned down by automatic fire. They need help ASAP.”
The OIC took the mike. “Are you in a position to assist?”
“Negative on immediate Newry. We haven’t got transport so we’ll have to yomp, and it’ll take nearly an hour with our kit. We’ve got to clear the woods in front of us first as well. The two we saw go in may still be there. It’s a doubtful, but we can’t
risk it.”
“Roger, stand-by.”
But Nick was ahead of him.
“Bernie, flash up Whiskey Alpha for me then follow in Hotel. Pick up the SBS guys on the road when you get there and fly top cover when I go in. We’ve got eight boot-necks with their dead and wounded so I won’t have space or weight for anything else. Doc and Chalkie get a med kit, stretchers and some body bags aboard Alpha, and make sure you’ve got the light machine gun as well. I’ll be with you in five. Any questions?” They shook their heads. “Okay go.” They were out the door almost as soon as Nick finished speaking.
He took the grid references off the major’s map, told him what he was going to do, then started running himself.
Nick could see that the Met-man’s report wasn’t a furphy as he raced towards the big olive green Wessex. Sullen, grey clouds collided a few hundred feet above while insistent drizzle draped everything in dripping, shiny silver. Grey wisps of radiation fog snuck grimy tentacles upwards around his legs.
And Bernie hadn’t hung around. Both of Alpha’s engines were roaring when Nick raced outside, and the black rotor blades were already beating at close to operational speed, the swirling vortexes from the hefty down-draft outlined by twisting strands of water vapour. Nick paused, waiting for a thumbs up from his wing-man in the co-pilot’s seat, and caught the thumbs up from Chalkie on the way in. They were ready to go when he was. Bernie wasn’t half way to his own helicopter, forty yards away, when he lifted.
Nick towered out to clear the corrugated fence that stopped aimed shots into the compound, then accelerated north-west just above the swilling radiation fog. The bruised, angry cloud wasn’t much more than 200 feet above him when he crossed the two twisted, cavorting channels of the Clanrye River, and from there he turned north towards the cross-roads. He latched on to the A28 and had only twenty odd miles to the site.
Nick Evans racked up the speed to max as he tore along the glistening road. Looming in and out of the low, rolling cloud base, he startling traffic going both ways as the purple bottoms of disjointed cloud forced him to skim even closer to the dirt. Finding Dunmacmay Road was hard at that speed and height, but by then he was practically driving along the highway, not flying above it, anyway. But spot it he did. He banked left and a few minutes later a disembodied voice filled his earphones.
