by James Adams
The four members of 14th Int and Sy Group each wore black or brown bomber jackets, jeans and running shoes, and they were all smoking. Lung cancer had become a hazard of the posting as the men always carry packs of cigarettes to offer to any local they meet. To cement the relationship they have to light up as well.
One man seated in an orange chair off to one side wore a green duvet jacket, black jeans and a pair of Timberland walking shoes. He had replaced his army watch with a black plastic-strapped shock-proof diving watch (good to four atmospheres, tells the time in three zones and will remember the wife’s birthday). That was SAS uniform.
Bryan was amused to note that he himself was wearing the senior officer’s civilian uniform of twill trousers, wool shirt, plain tie, tweed jacket and Barbour jacket. Ah well, he thought, you have to expect soldiers to conform to something.
“Right, gentlemen,” Ellis began. “Most of you know each other so I won’t bother with introductions. We’re here to be briefed for Operation Zinc and I’ll hand you over to Lieutenant David Hughes for the details.”
There was a shuffling as each of the men in the room positioned pens and pencils over their notepads. Hughes was a spare, dark-jawed man of around thirty with dark curly hair and enormous jug ears. He was dressed in a rugby shirt, jeans and scruffy Reebok running shoes. He stood up, extracted an expanding metal pointer from his trouser pocket and moved closer to the map.
“As we speak, the Army and RUC are beginning Operation Scorpion, which is a sweep through the Republican areas of Belfast, Derry and Crossmaglen. This is in direct response to the seizing of the Channel Tunnel this morning by the IRA. The intention of Scorpion is to lift as many Republicans as we can find and to apply maximum pressure in the shortest amount of time to try and encourage the Boys to sue for peace. At the same time, a number of separate operations are under way to lift known IRA terrorists in the sticks.
“Operation Zinc is not part of either of these but is nonetheless related to the IRA’s activities in the Tunnel. The objective is to insert Colonel Dickens here.” His baton pointed to a small red box that had been drawn around an area between Warrenpoint and Rostrevor on the shore of Carlingford Lough, south-east of Newry.
“There is no real manual written for handling briefings and styles vary from officer to officer. Some will tell the men only the most limited information on a strict “need to know” criterion. The actual operators are told “what” the operation is, “who” is involved directly affecting them and “how” they will carry out the mission. They are rarely told “why” an operation is required. In this way, all the operators are protected by only being able to react to a situation as they see it on the ground. There is then less room for confusion, personal agendas and judgments based on out-of-date information.
“The colonel will be in the area for approximately forty minutes and he will be meeting with one individual and then returning alone. Our job is to make sure that the colonel is well protected both going in and coming out. At the same time, we want to make sure that we hear and record everything that is said at the meet.”
“Are we going in ahead to fix that?” one of the men in the orange seats asked.
“No. As you will have gathered this is a short notice op and there’s no time to do anything other than scout the area. Also, we are not sure of the precise location so sensors probably won’t do the job.
“We’ve fixed the colonel up with a mike and we will establish a scrape overlooking the beach with a laser mike. That way we have a back-up.
“We will drive to the area in three cars. The lead car will go thirty minutes early, followed by the colonel and the trail car five minutes behind. We’ll be in radio contact on the portables which should stop the Boys listening in, but keep the chatter to a minimum.
“The forecast is for rain and it could be bloody out there. I want you in as close as you can get so that if anything goes wrong we can pull the colonel out. There’ll be two helos a couple of minutes away if things go badly wrong. ETD will be thirty minutes from now.
“Any questions?”
Bryan had just arrived home at his house in Ballymullen Road in the village of Crawfordsburn south of Belfast when the telephone had rung.
“Colonel Dickens?” a voice with a strong Northern Ireland accent had asked.
“Speaking.”
“This is Gerry Adams. I would like a meeting.”
He had been astonished to hear the voice of a man whom he knew better than his own wife but whom he had never actually met. The fact that Adams had his phone number was not such a surprise — the IRA have had informants in British Telecom for years and regularly tap both the military and civilian lines. But that Adams should risk direct contact was extraordinary.
“Just why should I agree to that?”
There was a small chuckle at the other end. “Oh, I think you’ll agree just out of curiosity. But I want to meet because we have matters of mutual interest to discuss regarding the Tunnel. I suggest you come to me as I’m out of town at present.”
“Very well. But we’ll have to agree some ground rules,” said Dickens. “We both come alone. We must both meet in the open outside the city. There must be no record of the conversation.”
“Agreed. I am at my holiday home which I am sure you know about. I have a little boat down here and can row across the lough to meet you in the north.”
He had given the location of a pebble beach west of Rostrevor and agreed a rendezvous for that evening.
There was no question of Dickens going to the meeting without cover and without making sure that all the powers had signed off on such a politically sensitive confrontation. He had no qualms about lying to Adams. After all, the IRA leader was hardly going to be shot by the Brits, while there was every possibility that he, Dickens, could be gunned down in a trap set by Adams or by his comrades.
There had been an hour of frantic meetings at Lisburn, first with the Commander Land Forces’ Chief of Staff, then with CLF himself. Northern Ireland Office had been brought in and then there had been checks to London. To Bryan’s surprise, there was great enthusiasm for the meeting.
“We’ve flushed them out early in the game,” CLF had exclaimed. “Now’s the chance to go in for the kill.”
Six hours later, after the briefing in Gough Barracks, he was standing on the beach on the edge of Carlingford Lough. His feet were soaked. The rain was driving in a classic Northern Ireland downpour almost horizontally across the lake so that the Barbour jacket, which only came down just below his buttocks, gave no protection to his legs which were also soaked. Visibility was cut to fifty yards.
On his head Bryan had one of those waterproof hats that look like a fisherman’s sou’wester. They may look good, he thought miserably, but they never stop the drips from sliding down your neck. He shuddered as another dribble coursed down his spine.
He had been peering around nervously for fifteen minutes waiting for Adams to appear but there had been neither sight nor sound of him. Then, suddenly, Dickens saw a dark shape loom out of the rain and a moment later Adams was clearly recognizable, his beard and rain-spotted glasses quite distinctive.
Neither man offered to shake hands. There was too much blood under the bridge for years of enmity to be overcome in one meeting.
“So, Colonel, I’m sorry if I’m a little late but the weather’s bloody and rowing is no fun in the rain,” Adams began. “You’re here alone, I trust?
Dickens nodded.
“And no recordings, no fancy infra-red video recordings to embarrass me later?”
“None at all. I gave you my word.” Dickens thought the lie sounded both pompous and implausible and doubted whether Adams, whose distrust of the Brits was almost pathological, really believed him.
“Very well.” Adams seemed to take a deep breath, steeling himself. “I asked you here because of this bloody business in the Channel Tunnel — ”
“I know that, Gerry,” Dickens interrupted. “But you don’t n
ormally ask us to discuss your operations. What makes this one different?”
“The difference is that this one is nothing to do with us.”
“Oh come on, Gerry,” Dickens scoffed. “You guys claimed responsibility. The right code word, the right timing, everything. Just because it’s getting a little warm in the kitchen, you can’t expect me to buy that kind of line.”
“But it’s true,” Adams replied, his voice rising to make himself heard above the wind and rain. “It’s nothing to do with us. It’s not our people; not our idea; not our operation. We didn’t plan it. We didn’t do it. In fact, even if we had wanted to — and we may have looked at it once — I’m telling you we haven’t got enough people to pull something like that off.”
“Gerry, Gerry,” Dickens exclaimed, his head moving from side to side in dismissal of Adams’s words. “Why on earth should I believe you? We are in the middle of the biggest sweep against your people since Motorman in the seventies. Your lot are on the ropes and if what I hear is right, you’ve even got some troubles inside your own high command. I hear that the militants may be winning, Gerry. That you’re about to be sidelined.”
“Look, Colonel. I don’t know what’s going on here. All I know is that some bastards have done this in our name and we’re being given a hard time for something we didn’t do.”
“Well, Gerry, I hear what you say but what am I supposed to do about it?” Dickens asked, his tone still mocking.
Adams drew a deep breath to control his temper and began to take small paces back and forth along the beach in front of Bryan, his feet making small crunching noises. “You may be right that there is some concern inside the Movement that we have not been active enough. You and I both know that there are those who want more emphasis on the military struggle. That is not in your interests and it’s not in mine either.
“What you’re doing in the Six Counties tonight — the arrests, the searches, all of that — will strengthen the hand of those who want to use the bullet and not the ballot. The killing will escalate, more people will die both here and on the mainland…
The greatest challenge and the greatest satisfaction for any intelligence officer is that critical moment between seduction and consummation. It is the time when the slightest error can break the delicate thread that binds two people together and it requires experience and great skill to handle properly. Dickens could feel his pulse race and the dryness of his mouth contrasted with his dripping wet face. This was the moment.
“We certainly have no interest in seeing the violence get any worse,” Dickens admitted. “But on the other hand, whatever you or I may think, the politicians have to respond to public pressure and there is outrage over the Tunnel. That’s probably going to get worse if there isn’t a peaceful resolution, which I have to say doesn’t look very likely at the moment. If I’m to placate my political masters, I’ll have to give them something, some gesture of goodwill that will show them you mean what you say; that this whole Tunnel affair is not your fault.”
“What exactly do you have in mind?” Adams asked warily.
Dickens paused as if seeking inspiration. “One thing that might convince them would be details about some of your people in the field. I’m sure they wouldn’t need much,” he continued persuasively. “We are particularly anxious to find Sean Thomas who has been active in England recently. Perhaps if you could point us in his direction, or give us some idea of his next target…?”
Adams’s mouth opened for an immediate denial as he began calculating the options and weighing up the political considerations. He cast his mind back to the conversation in his caravan with Gerry Kelly. The choice for him was clear. Silence would mean his eclipse but the
Movement would probably survive. If he provided the information, it would mean that the single most important reason for Kelly’s current influence — the success of the campaign in England — would be removed. At the same time, his position at the top of the Movement would be secure once again.
“I’ll let you have a decision in two hours,” Adams replied.
Dickens had watched Adams think it through. He knew that for a politician like Adams there was really no choice at all. Once he had made it, Adams was a lost soul. The microphone hidden in the top button of his shirt was ensuring a record of the conversation for posterity. There would be no need to expose Adams’s duplicity. Instead, the IRA leader would work for him. It would take years, but in the end the organization would be destroyed from within.
There were no farewells as the two men turned and crunched their way off the beach.
CHAPTER XXI
Twenty minutes earlier Dai Choi had received the message on his radio receiver that an attack was imminent. There had been no details, just the few words that were enough to alert him and his men to the approaching threat.
He had laid his trap with care. His men were dispersed either side of the two carriages, lying flat against the tracks or hunched behind small piles of pebbles that had been carefully scraped off the Tunnel floor. They would offer scant protection against shrapnel or bullets but they gave an illusion of a defence and so were an important psychological asset for his men.
When the attack came, Dai Choi hoped that none of those approaching would get close enough to fire at anything, let alone hit his team. He had prepared his ground and he hoped this would not be a fight but an execution.
He heard the light crackle of shoes treading softly on the gravel and then the shadowy form of Kang Sheng loomed in front of him. He leaned down from the doorway of the carriage so that his head was on the same level as his lieutenant’s. The whisper was so soft as to be almost imagined and he could feel the man’s hot breath, sense his excitement. They’re coming. We’ve picked them up on the night sights. About twenty so far, maybe more.”
“Good,” Dai Choi replied. “Make sure there is no shooting.” He grinned wolfishly, his teeth making a brief flash of white in the darkness. “Let them come.” His head bobbed, a small gesture of appreciation to himself for his forethought and planning. “Let them come.”
Stewart Lawrence was terrified. This was not the simple fear of a darkened room or a high building. It was not even the fear of reprimand or retribution. This was the gut-wrenching, nerve-tightening panic that turns bowels to water. With every step he had to remember to clamp his buttocks together in case he soiled himself.
He could feel and smell the acrid, pungent aroma of sweat, his body working overtime to keep pace with his free-floating imagination which had already reached journey’s end in the black hole that stretched ahead of him.
To left and right he could see the others from the Special Patrol Unit. They appeared a ghostly green through his night-vision goggles, each a distinct and bulky shape who walked as if through treacle. Each foot rose and fell in slow motion in an attempt to keep the noise to a minimum. It would have been funny if it wasn’t so frightening.
He should have been reassured by the familiarity of the Kevlar helmet and the Armourshield GPV 25 body armour that can stop a.357 magnum at ten feet. His face was covered with an SF10 Respirator which had an inbuilt Davies CT100 communications system. By pressing a large button on his chest he could speak to others in the unit while his earpiece received a constant stream of messages from the team leader.
At his waist in a quick-snap release holster was a 9 mm Browning automatic pistol and across his chest a Steyr Aug 5.56 mm semi-automatic rifle hung from a harness. Lawrence had his right hand around the trigger and backsight while his left gripped the barrel. That way, if anything happened, he could swivel the gun into action.
Others in the group carried all the paraphernalia of a modern counter-terrorist unit: pump-action shotguns for close-quarter work, which could fire pellets, solid shot or gas; flash-bang grenades to stun and blind the terrorists. But this was a recce and so a few special items had been added. One of the guys carried an infra-red video camera that would record everything inside the Tunnel for later analysis; another car
ried a still camera with superfast film; yet another carried a long tube which was in fact a directional microphone that would relay all conversations picked up inside the Tunnel back to the teams waiting outside.
Much of this should have had the familiarity of routine but nothing had prepared Stewart for the present situation. Their training had been for a fast assault against a known target: grenades through windows followed by the blowing off of doors and the rescue of hostages. The good would triumph over the bad in a few seconds of exhilarating action. This was very different: a slow stalk through the darkness where every step was threatened by unseen eyes and every limb a potential target for the hidden sniper.
“Why me, why me,” he muttered over and over again as his toes delicately searched for the next noiseless step. He knew there was no answer to the question but his mind cried out the litany, hoping for a reprieve.
He had joined the SPU because his mate John had and it seemed like a pretty good idea at the time: lots of high-tech kit, a bit of travel, the challenge of something new and the opportunity to be part of an elite.
When the Tunnel was under construction, the Kent police had quietly begun the formation of a special team to deal with any crises that might arise. There were already hostage rescue units and groups trained to respond to armed attacks of one kind or another. But the Tunnel was seen as a particular problem requiring dedicated, specially trained people. John was his great mate on the force. He was the leader; Stewart tended to follow.
At his prodding, Stewart had signed up as well and the two men had gone through the six weeks of intensive training together.
There had been plenty of walk-throughs in the Tunnel and endless discussions about different scenarios, most of which had revolved around hostage-taking by an individual or a gang. Then they had gone off for a week to put some of the theory into practice with the SAS.
