by Chris Ryan
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 drove 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, pr
ogress 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?'
'Yes and no.'
I told him what had happened. 'Anything doing your end?'
'All quiet in the shit-house, but things are moving outside.'
'How?'
'I don't know exactly. You'll have to ask Fraser. But apparently the PIRA are getting nervous. I don't know what they've seen, but they're starting to feel pressure coming on them. There's been some talk about moving the hostages.'
'Oh, God! I'll call the incident room. And listen…
Whinger?'
'Yes?'
'I'll be back there just as soon as Tony and Farre11 emerge from this fucking jungle.'
'OK, mate. We'll be waiting for you.'
I restarted, turned and headed south again. 'Hello,
Tony, hello, Tony, are you reading me? Over.'
Still nothing.
At the bottom of the hill I stopped and called the incident room. Fraser was off duty, but Yorky was there. 'Yes,' he confirmed. 'SB have got it down to three locations. One's a semi in Sudbury, next to Wembley. One's a block of flats in Greenford, and the third's a house in Ealing. They're all under round-the-clock surveillance, but we desperately need confirmation.'
'Can't we hit all three at once?'
'It's not on, Geordie. We're not certain of any of them. Until we are sure, it's not worth the risk. If it turned out we were wrong and the hostages were somewhere else, they'd certainly get topped.'
'What's this about the PIKA moving them?'
'It's only talk so far. Nothing's happened yet.'
'Where's our team now?'
'Still on standby in Hounslow Barracks. They couldn't be better placed - only a few rriinutes from all three locations.'
I took a deep breath and asked, 'What's the position on approval for the shoot?'
'Nothing confirmed yet.'
'Ah, shit!'
'How are you doing, Geordie?' Yorky sounded quite concerned, like some old uncle.
'Slight local difficulty. But basically, we've got the weapon and done the practice shoot. Once we're out of here, we're going ahead with the recce of the park itself.'
'You'd better carry on, then. As soon as we hear anything, we'll pass it to your safe house.'
'Roger, Yorky… and thanks.'
I was about to switch off when I heard him say, 'Hello?'
'Yes?'
'The Commander's just come back in. I'll put him on.'
I waited a moment, then heard Fraser's cheerful voice. 'Geordie? How's it going?'
'So so.' I filled him in on what I'd told Yorky, and got back the same stuff about the three locations. But then Fraser added, 'From what we're hearing, the PI1LA aren't very happy with your man.'
'Don't they want him back, then?'
'Oh yes, they want him all tight. But now their aim is to top him.'
'Delightful!'
'It is,' Fraser agreed. 'Does he realise that?'
'He knows he's in the shit. But he's that arrogant, he probably thinks he can talk his way out of it. At least, that's how we read him.'
I switched off feeling very low. This thing seemed never-ending. It had dragged on so long already that I couldn't imagine it coming to any definite conclusion.
I tried to galvanise myself with the thought that it was going to have to come to a conclusion within twenty- four hours - by this time tomorrow. Either the shoot would go down as the Prime Minister walked out into his rose garden before breakfast, or the PIRA's patience would run out.
Yet again I turned, drove up the hill and past the big tree. No answer on the radio. It could still be that the curve of the hill was blocking us, even if Tony had climbed clear of the range and was struggling up through the scrub. He, if anyone, would get Farrell out of the mess safely. I trusted Tony at least as much as I trusted any of my British mates, not only for his physical strength and capability, but for his levelheadedness.
Back at the lay-by, I pulled in for the third time and sat looking at the map. I'd just tried the radio yet again when I looked in the mirror and saw a car coming up from behind.
Police. Pulling in behind me, too. Jesus! I sat tight, watching, while the two men got out and advanced on the lekord. I just had time to scramble the earpiece and throat-mike out of sight before they drew level.
I wound down the window and said, 'Good morning.'
They “returned the greeting civilly enough, but immediately began to ask questions. The boss figure was a sergeant - beefy, red-faced, with a big belly, like a rugger player gone to seed.
'Can I ask what you're doing here?'
'On my way up to Great Missenden. Had a bit of time in hand.'
'You came the other way just now.'
'That's fight. I was delivering a parcel.'
'Where to?'
'An address in Stonor.'
'Do much delivering, do you?'
I was uncomfortably aware that the second copper was walking round behind the car, giving it the close eyeball. Probably they thought I was a poacher, and had a deer in the back. Probably they were scanning for traces of blood.
'Look,' I said. 'What's the matter?'
'Nothing,' went the sergeant. 'May I have a look in
the boot of your car?'
I got out and faced the guy, to find that he was a couple of inches taller than me. 'You'd much better not,' I said.
'What's in there, then?'
'Nothing to do with you.'
'We haven't been poaching, have we?'
'Certainly not.'
'So why all the secrecy?'
'I can't explain.'
The radio in the sergeant's breast pocket began honking off, and he was distracted for a moment as he dealt with the call. What could I do? It was possible that the police in the Chequers area had already been squared away and told to stand off, but the guys down here would know nothing about our operation. If I did a runner I'd be chased, and the car would be traced, and Tony would be stranded. If I refused to open up, I might be arrested for obstructing the police.
Before I could take a decision the sergeant said, 'I'm afraid I require you to open the boot.'
'Listen…' I stood between him and the back of the car. 'I'm a member of special forces, on a classified operation. Will you please get on the phone to my control room?'
Without answering, the sergeant lumbered forward and jabbed his thumb on the boot catch. Short of knocking him out of the way, there was nothing I could do to stop him. Up came the lid. With the movement of the car through the bends, the rifle had rolled over once, partially unwrapping itself, and the barrel lay there plain to see.
'What the hell . . .?' began the sergeant. His beefy face suddenly turned even redder as a surge of adrenalin flushed up through him until I thought he was on for vertical take-off, leaching down, he pulled away the bubble-wrap and exposed the main body of the weapon. 'What the devil is this?'
'It's a Haskins five-oh sniper rifle,' I told him in the most casual voice I could muster.
A second later I saw him reaching for his radio in a kind of automatic twitch.
'NO!' I said sharply. 'Don't put through any.report.
Not until you've spoken to my control. Here.'
I pulled out my mobile, dialled the incident room, and providentially got straight through to Fraser. 'John,'
I said. 'Geordie. I have a problem. I'm with a police sergeant. He's seen I've got a big rifle in my possession, and I need you to explain what we're at.'
'All right.' Fraser sounded imperturbable as ever.
'Where are you?'
'Out in the Chilterns, above the range I told you about.'
'Has he caught you. with the weapon?'
'Yes.'
'OK, I'll speak to him.'
