by Chris Ryan
'Easy,' Farrell replied. 'Some Paddy gets a job working on the farm. Maybe he does a bit of pigeon- shooting or something. Gets to know the woods, finds the old well. Next thing he's in the pub, blathering about it, and there's a man listening. Or maybe the Paddy falls out with the farmer. Maybe he gets the sack and thinks, I'll luck this fellow up a bit. Use his property without him knowing.'
'Is that how guys get drawn into the organisation? As simple as that?'
'Sometimes, yes.'
I stared at our prisoner, with his heavy but still handsome face and his thick, wiry black hair. The swelling on his lip had gone down, and his eyes were back to normal, so that he looked quite presentable again.
'Don't you ever feel guilty about some of the things you do?' I asked.
'Guilty?' He gave a kind of snort. 'What about? It was those stupid fuckers of ancient Greeks who invented the idea of guilt. They thought there were creatures called the Furies who came after you if you did something bad. They called them the Eumenides, the Kindly Ones, to try and make them seem less frightening. It was all a load ofbollocks, of course — but people 5have been foolish enough to go on believing it ever since.'
'Some people call it conscience,' Ton7# said drily.
It was on the tip of my tongue to ask why the dickers had been out, watching the approaches to the hide, but instead I said, 'How does someone like you get into the PIP, A? I mean, you went to university. You're an educated guy. You could have a good job and a settled life. If you'd gone straight you could be making a good living by now.'
'Making a living!' Again Farrell gave that derisive snort. 'What d'you think you'd be like if you'd been brought up in Belfast? You'd be the worst fucking killer of the lot. I know. That's all you army fellers are, anyway — trained killers. Are you not? A tribe of murdering bastards.'
As Farrell glared at me and I glared back at him, I suddenly realised that we'd all started chatting over the weapon and listening to his advice as if he were one of us. The way he'd been talking, he could have been a sniper instructor. Obviously he was hot on the subject; but not only that — it had sounded as if he'd had training from Americans. Some of the phrases he'd used were out of American text books.
In a flash it occurred to me that maybe it was he who had done all that damage in Ulster. Maybe he was the mysterious long-range assassin who'd harassed the security forces so badly. To my disgust I realised I'd been drawn into discussion with him in a way I'd vowed I would avoid. It was bad enough that for a few minutes I'd been treating him as an ordinary human being; far worse was the fact that I'd talked things over as though speaking with an acknowledged expert.
Once again I felt that he was casting some sort of spell over me. To break it I stood up and said, 'There's one thing certain. Once this is over, if I ever come across you again, make no mistake, you'll be going down.'
'The same yourself,'. Farrell spat back. 'If you ever set eyes on me again you'll need to start saying your prayers.'
I took a deep breath and moved away. 'Let's spruce up the barrel,' I said. 'We need a target, too.'
The PIRA had included a cleaning kit within the tube: a springy steel rod with a jag on the end, and a roll of white flannel four inches wide, marked off by red lines every two inches. For smaller calibres, like 7.62mm or 9mm, a single piece of four-by-two is enough to make a tight fit in the bael; but for this cannon I cut a double piece, a four-by-four, and wrapped it round the jag. Even that lump went through the barrel without too much friction, and when it came out at the other end it was perfectly clean. With the bolt out, I held the rifle up and looked straight through the barrel towards a lamp. The swirl of the rifling gleamed in the light, and I could see that the PIRA had taken good care of their prized weapon. I also had a close look at the telescopic sight, a high-quality optic with magnification variable up to the power of nine.
While I worked, watched by Farrell, Doughnut and Tony sorted out a target. The best option was a shallow cardboard box, eighteen inches wide and three feet long, in which some groceries had come up from the cottage. The bottom of the box was unmarked, and in the middle of it they stuck a piece of white paper six inches square, using paste made out of flour and water as glue. The result was a good aiming-mark in the middle of a target about the width of a man's torso. For zeroing purposes we could have done with a broader background. Although above and below the bull there was at least a foot to spare, if the first shot went more than nine or ten inches wide of centre we'd probably never see its point of impact.
Once again we were in for a short night. It was close to one in the morning before we stopped fiddling about, and I'd already set reveille for 0500.
'What about you?' I said to Farrell as Tony was about to chain him to his bed. 'You coming with us in the morning?'
'Sure I am. I need to know the rifle's in order. I wouldn't want to rely on what you fellers might tell me.'
'OK, then. Five o'clock it is.'
I'd known the answer to those questions before I asked them. Tony's prediction about Farrell wanting to witness the practice shoot was spot-on. Even though we seemed to have conned the bastard properly about our intentions, he wanted proof that we'd be able to hit the target.
'He's fired this thing himself,' I said quietly to Tony when we were alone again. 'This actual rifle. I'm sure he has.'
FOURTEEN
In the morning we used our covert radios openly for the first time. I told Farrell we'd been out and bought them specially, as they'd be the only means of coordinating our operations efficiently during the Chequers shoot.
'Bloody ruinous they were, too,' I added.
'How much?' he asked.
'I wouldn't like to say.' lather than take the Granada, which somebody might have spotted the night before, we drove the dark- blue Opel lekord in which the lads had come upcountry.
As far as our prisoner knew it belonged to Stew, but in fact it had come from the pool at Llangwern. We'd given Farrell a DPM smock to wear over his sweatshirt, and because the grass would be soaked with dew we all wore rubber boots. The Haskins was in the boot, cradled in bubble-wrap alongside our makeshift target, and I'd brought one belt of twelve rounds.
We pulled out of the stinking farmyard soon after five-thirty, and by six, after a twisting up-and-down drive across the hills, we were on the ridge above the- range. It was another dull, murky morning and the light was late in coming, but my intention was that we'd get our rounds off the moment we could see properly, and clear out before any locals came looking to find out what was causing the disturbance.
I planned to walk in down the muddy track which had defeated the Granada the afternoon before, and on the map we'd pinpointed the spot at which the path came up to join the road. As we arrived I did a drive- past, to make sure nobody was hanging about.
Half a mile down the road we found a single, enormous old beech tree standing out from the upper edge of the forest, and the moment I saw it I said, 'OK, if anything happens, that's our EtkV.' With that established, I went back and parked the car out of sight of the road, in the neck of the muddy lane.
The Haskins was an awkward bastard to carry. The easiest way seemed to be to grasp it near the muzzle and hold it with the barrel slung back over my shoulder and the rest of the weapon hanging behind me. So we set off down the steep hill, Tony cuffed to Farrell and holding the target in his spare hand.
Down among the trees in the valley the light was even worse than I'd expected, but it improved marginally as we came out on to the 700-yard firing point. As I looked up the long corridor of grass with my binoculars, I saw some small brown animal standing out in the open.
'What's that?' I asked, handing Tony the glasses.
He watched for a moment and said, 'Some kind of deer. Now there are two of them.'
'Can't be deer, surely.' I took the binos back.
'They're too small. Wait a minute, though. You're right. They're muntjac. Barking deer.'
Tony began asking what in hell a barking d
eer was when suddenly Farrell exclaimed, 'Shoot one of the fuckers!'
'Why?'
'It's a perfect target! Four hundred yards. If you can hit that it'll show the rifle's bang on. Get down, man!
Shoot!'
I almost agreed. Then my mind skipped back to an episode on an exercise in Africa, when one of our lads had shot some small animal and the local Bushmen had gone ballistic, saying he'd angered the spirits of the mountain. Next day an SAS guy fell off the rocks while climbing and was killed, and the whole troop got so badly spooked that we couldn't get our arses out of that place fast enough.
No, I thought. I'm not going to run a risk by killing something needlessly. In any case, if we shot one of the deer we'd have a body to dispose of. Luckily, before I could argue, both animals moved offinto cover and the chance was gone.
Farrell didn't hide his disappointment. 'You'd a great chance there,' he griped. 'You were too slow by far.'
Ignoring him, I asked Tony to take the target down range. 'In fact,' I added, peering at the butt in the far distance, 'in this light, our spotter scope's not going to be a lot of use. See if you can tuck yourselves into a niche that's safe, somewhere close to the target. Then call the shots back to me on the radio.'
'Sure,' Tony agreed, then turned to Farrell. 'Come on, Danny Boy.'
As the two figures moved away side by side, I followed in their wake as far as the next firing-point. At the edge of the sloped bank a little white-painted marker post had '600' cut into it.
I made myself comfortable. As I'd expected, the grass was wet, but I paid no attention as I settled the angular stock of the Haskins into my shoulder and looked through the sight. The heavy rifle sat rock-steady on its bipod, and the light-gathering capacity of the scope was excellent. Through the lens the prospect looked far brighter, and with the magnification set on six the men came up a good size in the scope. Wait though, I told myself, they're still only half-way to the target area. I moved the sight off Farrell's back and tried the trigger with a dry pull. Click! went the action, and once again it felt good.
Through my binos I watched the pair move up towards the target bank. In the trees around me the wood pigeons were cooing — a soft, heavy sound that suited the dull morning. Not a breath of breeze stirred the forest, so wind was not a factor. Poor light tends to make you shoot high, I remembered; on the other hand, moisture in the air tends to make the bullet drop.
So today, I guessed, one circumstance should cancel the other out, and I decided to fire right at the centre of the aiming mark.
Now the men were on the bank. I saw Tony looking round for something to steady the box. He must have found a flint or a clod of earth, because in a moment he had the target standing uptight.
His voice in my earpiece asked, 'See that OK, Geordie?'
'Fine, thanks.'
'OK. There's a kind of a cave cut into the side of the hill about thirty yards back. We'll get a great view from there. I'll tell you when we're in.'
'That's good. I'm ready when you are.'
The whole point of long-range shooting is to be relaxed. The worst thing, for a sniper, is to have to react suddenly to a command like 'Standby, standby… GO!'
Far better if he can take his own time and think himself into the right frame of mind. Now, with nothing to pressure me, I concentrated on lying tight, elbows and wrists tucked in, and settling my breathing down into a steady rhythm. My technique has always been to take the shot so gently that, when it goes off, it comes almost as a surprise.
When Tony called that he was in place, I acknowledged briefly. Then I loaded one massive round into the breech, breathed down again, took up the first pressure on the trigger, and at the end of an outbreath squeezed the shot off.
BOOM!
The noise was colossal, and the report thundered away into the wooded valley; but the recoil was less than I'd expected. Although the heavy weapon pumped back into my shoulder all right, the twin shock-absorber arms had taken the meat out of the jolt.
All at once the sky above the range was full of pigeons — black shapes going like the clappers in every direction. My ears were still tinging from the explosion, but I could tell that the chorus of cooing had come to an abrupt end.
'Great shot!' Tony was reporting. 'It's dead central, twelve o'clock, two inches above the top of the white.'
'OK,' I said, 'I'll try another. Same point of aim.'
I loaded a second round and went through the same sequenc tuck in, breathe down into a rhythm, try not to blink or flinch… take up first trigger pressure… breathe out…
BOOM!
'Same again,' came Tony's voice. 'Dead centre, two inches above your first shot. Perfect grouping.'
'I'm aiming at the centre of the white. So the MPI's six inches high. Is that right?'
'Exactly.'
'OK, then. I'm going to put the sight down three clicks and fire again. Standby.'
It took me a couple of minute to make the adjustment with the little turret on top of the scope: Then I told Tony I was ready, settled again and touched off a third round.
'Dead on,' he called. 'Now you're in the white, an inch below the top edge. You're not going to do better than that.'
I was on the point of saying we'd call it a day when
Tony came back on the air with, 'Watch it, Geordie.
Some goddamn vehicle's pulled up by that barrier. It's a Land lover. Two guys.'
Instinctively I collapsed the legs of the rifle to lower its profile, and wriggled backwards down the slope of the firing point. Then I realised that two empty cartridge cases were lying there in the grass. Leaving the weapon, I wormed forward again to grab them just in time to see two figures appear at the entrance we'd come to the previous day. They popped into view as if they'd been running, and looked wildly up and down the range. Then, spotting the target, they ran towards that.
'Tony,' I said, 'I'm going to fire a diversionary shot.
Then I'm heading for the vehicle. Get out of there when you see a chance. Make your own way up and R.V at the tree as soon as you can.'
'Poger,' he called.
I got my binos and the empty cases into the pockets of my smock, loaded a fourth round, moved into the bushes at the side of the grass, took a good grip of the rifle and fired it into the ground from a standing position. This time the recoil nearly blew me over backwards, but I kept on my feet, pushed through the cover to regain the path and started up the earth track.
For the first hundred yards or so I ran. Then lack of breath forced me down to a fast walk. Over the past few days [hadn't been able to do any training, and now the effects were coming through. What with the gradient and the weight of the rifle, I was soon gasping like a pair of bellows. All the same, I kept going fast to the crest of the hill, and when I reached the edge of the wood I paused to get my breath back.
As soon as I'd recovered I tried to call Tony, but got no answer. From the angle of the hill, I knew he must be out of my line-of-sight, and probably wouldn't come back on the net until he too had climbed out of the valley.
The Rekord was where we'd left it, with nobody in sight. In a couple of seconds I had the rifle rolled back into its protective wrapping and laid under an old blanket in the boot. I also pulled off my DPM smock and threw that in. Already I was thinking, Shit! I can't stay here now. Those guys in the Land Rover might power up to the ridge at any moment.
Rather than risk a confrontation, I started the engine and drove away northwards, back towards base. As long as nobody associated the car with the shots, it wouldn't attract attention. My plan was to turn round after a couple of minutes, make a reverse run past the big tree, and keep talking until Tony came back on the air.
But I'd only been going about thirty seconds when a police car appeared, travelling fast in the opposite direction,Even though the two guys in it hardly looked at me as they hurtled past, I didn't like the speed at which they were moving. It looked as though they were responding to a callout.
I dro
ve on slowly, trying to read the local map as I went. Finding I couldn't see it properly, I pulled into a lay-by and took a steady look. That reassured me.
A car following the main road, as the police were, would have to go six or seven miles on a roundabout route before it could reach the rifle range. That would give Tony and Farrell at least ten minutes to get clear.
'Chill out,' I told myself. 'They'll makd it, no bother.'
I got out of the car and raised the bonnet as if I had engine problems. An old banger of a white pickup truck came from the south and went by without slowing. As the minutes passed I began to sweat. Calls on the radio produced no answer. What the hell could the other two be doing? The worst scenario was that they'd got captured. The idea was horrendous. IfFarrell fell into the hands of the police at this stage, our entire plan would be scuppered. I tried to put that possibility out of my head.
More likely, I told myself, they were stuck in the thicket above the range. During our recce the night before I'd noticed that there were few big trees on that side of the hill. It looked as though a fire or a storm had taken out the main crop, and all that was left was hawthorn, brambles and other scrub which had grown up in the vacuum. One man, crawling on hands and knees, could probably push his way along tunnels made by deer; but for two, cuffed to each other, progress would be a nightmare. I thought of the wait-a-while thorns which had torn us to pieces in the Colombian jungle, and of Farrell collapsing at the edge of the forest.
Ten minutes after seeing the police car, I turned round and made a run past the big tree, calling all the way on the radio. Nothing. Driving on, I found the road twisted downhill through another big wood, then emerged into open farmland as it dropped into a valley.
I followed it right down to a T-junction at the bottom, and there turned to come back.
Another drive-past, more calls. Still nothing.
Back at my lay-by, I pulled in again and called Whinger on the mobile.
'Bit of a fuck-up,' I went.
'Been compromised?'
