Sniper Fire in Belfast

Captain Dubois smiled tightly. ‘Categorically not. Let’s say, instead, that there’s a contingency policy which covers a fairly broad range of options. I should remind you, however, that the IRA don’t always display our restraint. London’s policy of minimum fire-power, rejecting the use of ground- or air-launched missiles, mines, heavy machine-guns and armour, has contained the casualty figures to a level which no other government fighting a terrorist movement has been able to match. On the other hand, the Provisional IRA alone presently has at least 1200 active members and they’ve been well equipped by American sympathizers with a few hundred fully automatic 5.6mm Armalites and 7.62mm M60 machine-guns, as well as heavier weapons, such as the Russian-made RPG 7 short-range anti-tank weapon with rocket-propelled grenades. So let’s say we have reasonable cause to believe in reasonable force.’

‘Does reasonable force include the taking out of former IRA commanders?’ Sergeant ‘Dead-eye Dick’ Parker asked abruptly.

‘Pardon?’ Dubois asked, looking as shocked as Cranfield suddenly felt.

‘I’m referring to the fact that a few days ago a former IRA commander, Shaun O’Halloran, was taken out by an unknown assassin, or assassins, while sitting in his own home in the Irish Republic.’

Already knowing that his assassination of O’Halloran had rocked the intelligence community, as well as outraging the IRA, but not aware before now that it had travelled all the way back to Hereford, Cranfield glanced at Dubois, took note of his flushed cheeks, and decided to go on the attack.

‘Are you suggesting that the SAS or 14 Intelligence Company had something to do with that?’ he addressed Parker, feigning disbelief.

Parker, however, was not intimidated. ‘I’m not suggesting anything, boss,’ he replied in his soft-voiced manner. ‘I’m merely asking if such an act would be included under reasonable force?’

‘No,’ Captain Dubois intervened, trying to gather his wits together and take control of the situation. ‘I deny that categorically. And as you said, the assassin was unknown.’

‘The IRA are claiming it was the work of the SAS.’

‘The IRA blame us for a lot of things,’ Cranfield put in, aware that Parker was not a man to fool with.

‘Is it true,’ Ricketts asked, ‘that they also blame the SAS for certain actions taken by 14 Intelligence Company?’

When he saw Dubois glance uneasily at him, Cranfield deliberately covered his own temporary nervousness by smiling as casually as possible at Ricketts, who was, he knew, as formidable a soldier as Parker. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that’s true. It’s a natural mistake to make. They know we’re involved in surveillance, so that makes us suspect.’

‘Who do you think was responsible for the assassination of O’Halloran?’

The questioner was Sergeant Parker again, studying Dubois with his steady, emotionless gaze. Dubois reddened and became more visibly flustered until rescued by Cranfield, who said: ‘O’Halloran’s assassination wasn’t in keeping with the psychological tactics employed by the Regiment in Malaya and Oman. More likely, then, it was committed by one of the paramilitary groups – possibly even the product of internal conflict between warring IRA factions. It certainly wasn’t an example of what the SAS – or 14 Intelligence Company – means by “reasonable force”.’

‘But the IRA,’ Parker went on in his quietly relentless way, ‘have hinted that O’Halloran may have been involved with a British army undercover agent, Corporal Phillips, who recently committed suicide for unexplained reasons.’

‘Corporal Phillips is believed to have been under considerable stress,’ Captain Dubois put in quickly, ‘which is not unusual in this line of business. May we go on?’

Sergeant Parker stared hard at the officer, but said no more.

‘Good,’ Dubois went on, determined to kill the subject. ‘Perhaps I should point out, regarding this, that while occasionally we may have to resort to physical force, only one in seven of the 1800 people killed in the Province have died at the hands of the security forces, which total around 30,000 men and women at any given time. I think that justifies our use of the phrase “reasonable force”.’

Dubois glanced at Lieutenant Cranfield, who stepped forward again.

‘We have it on the best of authority that the British government is about to abandon the special category status that’s allowed convicted terrorists rights not enjoyed by prisoners anywhere else in the United Kingdom. Under the new rules, loyalist and republican terrorists in the newly built H-blocks at the Maze Prison will be treated as ordinary felons. The drill parades and other paramilitary trappings that have been permitted in internment camps will no longer be allowed. This is bound to become a major issue in the nationalist community and increase the activities of the IRA. For that reason, I would ask you to remember this. In the past two decades the IRA have killed about 1800 people, including over a hundred citizens of the British mainland, about eight hundred locals, nearly three hundred policemen and 635 soldiers. Make sure you don’t personally add to that number.’

He waited until his words had sunk in, then nodded at Captain Dubois.

‘Please make your way to the motor pool,’ Dubois told the men. ‘There you’ll find a list containing the name of your driver and the number of your Q car. Your first patrol will be tomorrow morning, just after first light. Be careful. Good luck.’

Still holding their manila folders in their hands, the men filed out of the briefing room, leaving Captain Dubois and Lieutenant Cranfield alone. When the last of the SAS troopers and Sergeant Lovelock had left, Dubois removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped sweat from his forehead.

‘That was close,’ he said. ‘Damn it, Cranfield, I knew we shouldn’t have done it.’

‘Small potatoes,’ Cranfield replied, though he didn’t feel as confident as he sounded. ‘The Irish eat lots of those.’

4

They left the camp at dawn, driving out through the high, corrugated-iron gates, between the two heavily reinforced sangars and, just beyond them, on both sides, the perimeter lights and coils of barbed wire. The gates whined electronically as they opened and shut. The car’s exit, Martin knew, was being observed and noted by the guard in the operations room via the closed-circuit TV camera. Even before the gates had closed behind the car, the driver was turning into the narrow country road that would take them on the picturesque, winding, five-mile journey through the morning mist to the M1.

Martin had been very impressed with the previous day’s briefing and now, sitting in the rear seat beside Gumboot, he was excited and slightly fearful, even though he had his 9mm Browning High Power handgun in the cross-draw position (in a Len Dixon holster over the rib cage, with four 13-round magazines) and had been shown where the other weapons were concealed.

Also concealed was a Pace Communications Landmaster III hand-held transceiver with a webbing harness, miniature microphone, earphone and encoder, located near the floor between the two front seats; and a 35mm Nikon F-801 camera with a matrix metering system, sophisticated autofocus, electronic rangefinder and long exposure. It was hidden under the Ordnance Survey map of Belfast that was spread for the purpose over Ricketts’s lap.

The Q car had been specially adapted to carry a variety of concealed non-standard-issue weapons, including the short, compact Ingram 9mm sub-machine-gun with detachable suppressor and pull-out shoulder-and-hip stock, ideal for anti-terrorist work.

All of the men in the car were wearing the same scruffy civilian clothing that they had worn on the night ferry.

As their driver, Sergeant Lovelock, took the Al, which led all the way to the heart of Republican Belfast, Martin unholstered the Browning and held it on his lap, as he had been instructed, hiding it under a folded newspaper. Nevertheless, he held it at the ready, with his thumb on the safety-catch and his trigger finger resting on the trigger guard.

It was an early morning in January, and there was a heavy layer of frost on the ground, with spikes of ice hanging dramatically from the wintry trees. The windscreen was filthy and frosted over again even as it was wiped clean by the automatic wipers. The motorway ran straight as an arrow between hills covered with grass and gorse, on which cows and sheep roamed, disturbed only by the AH-7 Lynx helicopters rising and falling over the Army OPs.

‘The early morning resups,’ Sergeant Lovelock explained. ‘Men and supplies. Don’t fancy static OPs myself, stuck up there for hours, either sweltering in the heat or freezing your nuts off under all that turf and netting. Not my idea of fun.’

‘You’re the man who gave us the manila folders at the meeting,’ Ricketts said.

‘You’re not blind,’ Lovelock replied.

‘You prefer being in a Q car?’ Ricketts asked him.

‘That’s for sure. I like being able to move around instead of just waiting for something to happen. When my time comes, you can bury me in an OP, but not before then. So what’s it like in the SAS?’

‘It’s great.’

‘You guys get to a lot of exciting places.’

Ricketts chuckled. ‘Right. Like Belfast. So what do you think about the SAS? Does it bother you to have to work with us?’

‘Not at all. In fact, I was thinking of applying when I get posted back to the mainland. I was in the Queen’s Royal Lancers before being transferred to the Intelligence Corps, posted here for special duties, which meant 14 Intelligence Company. It’s OK, but I need something with a little more variety. If your Lieutenant Cranfield’s anything to go by, you guys must be all you’re cracked up to be. Cranfield’s like fucking James Bond! A real tough guy.’

A couple of Saracen armoured trucks, bristling with weapons and troops, passed the Q car, heading the other way, back to Bessbrook.

‘A good officer,’ Ricketts said. ‘Being in Intelligence yourself, you probably appreciate the type.’

‘We’re not as free and easy in the Army as you are in the SAS. That’s the difference between Captain Dubois and your Lieutenant Cranfield, as you probably noticed. Dubois’s a good officer, but he tends to take his job pretty seriously. Cranfield, though good as well, is a lot more informal and headstrong. His SAS training, right?’

‘More to do with his personality, I’d think,’ Ricketts said, glancing at Gumboot and Martin in the mirror and receiving a wink from the first. ‘Though he is, undoubtedly, quite a character and well known to be headstrong.’

From Gumboot’s wink and Ricketts’s tone, Martin sensed that Ricketts was leading to something specific.

‘Absolutely,’ Lovelock replied. ‘Enough to have taken out that fucking IRA tout, no matter what he told you. Christ, Dubois’ face was a picture. He knows it wasn’t the IRA!’

‘Is that the word about the place – that Cranfield did it?’

‘Sure is. Him and Dubois and a couple of 14 Intelligence Company sergeants, they went out there and took him out. They did it for Phillips and the ten sources knocked off by the IRA. It was a pure revenge hit.’

‘That isn’t like the SAS,’ Ricketts said.

‘It’s like Cranfield,’ Lovelock insisted. ‘Believe me, he did it – which is why Dubois was shitting himself when your friend raised the subject.’

‘But Cranfield has never admitted he did it.’

‘Of course not. He’d be in deep shit if he did. The killing has incensed the IRA and brought a lot of flak down on 14 Intelligence Company in general and the SAS in particular. That’s why Dubois and Cranfield can’t admit that they did it.’

‘So what makes a lot of people think they did it?’

‘Because Cranfield and Dubois have often sneaked across the border to snatch members of the IRA and bring them back to be captured, as it were, by the RUC. It’s illegal, but they do it. Combine that knowledge with the fact that Cranfield was openly stating that he was going to avenge the suicide of Phillips, as well as the death of his ten sources and…Well, what would you think?’

‘I’d keep my thoughts to myself,’ Ricketts replied.

‘OK, Sarge, point taken.’

As they neared Belfast, a stretch of mountain loomed up out of the mist. Ricketts checked his OS map, looked back up at the mountain and said, ‘Divis, known locally as the Black Mountain.’ Lovelock nodded his agreement as he left the motorway and entered Westlink.

‘So this is the guided tour,’ he said. ‘We’re now heading for the Grosvenor Road roundabout. When we get there, we’ll drive along Grosvenor Road, past the Royal Victoria Hospital – where most of the kneecapped or otherwise wounded get treated – then head up the Springfield Road towards Turf Lodge, the heart of “Provo Land” – if it has a heart, that is.’

‘It’s that bad?’

‘Fucking right. This is the worst killing ground in Europe and don’t ever forget it.’

‘What are the rules regarding the killings?’

‘There aren’t any. Though oddly enough, the Provos are more controlled than the Prods. The IRA are pretty methodical about who they kill or torture, whereas the loyalists tend to work on impulse – usually when they’re angry. When they go for it, any victim will do – an innocent shopper, a teenager idling on a street corner, a pensioner in the bookie’s – anyone convenient enough to be snatched. As for IRA tortures, they can’t be any worse than what loyalists do with baseball bats, butcher’s knives, or blowtorches. We find the victims hanging from fucking rafters and they’re never a pretty sight. Freedom fighters? Don’t even mention that word to me. These bastards are terrorists and psychopaths and should all be put down.’

Lovelock stopped the car at the Grosvenor Road roundabout, which was already busy. Eventually, when he had a clear run, he slipped into the traffic and turned into Grosvenor Road itself. Almost immediately, they passed a police station and regular Army checkpoint, surrounded by high, sandbagged walls and manned by heavily armed soldiers, all wearing DPM (Disruptive Pattern Material) clothing, helmets with chin straps and standard-issue boots. Apart from the private manning the 7.62mm L4 Light Machine Gun, the soldiers were carrying M16 rifles and had stun and smoke grenades on their webbing. The Q car was allowed to pass without being stopped. Further on, a soldier with an SA-80 assault rifle was keeping a Sapper covered while the latter carefully checked the contents of a rubbish bin. ‘The Provos have Russian-manufactured RPG 7s,’ Lovelock explained, ‘which fire rocket-propelled grenades up to about 500 metres. The Provos use them mainly against police stations, army barracks and armoured “pigs” – they’re troop carriers – and Saracen armoured cars. They also command-detonate dustbins filled with explosives from across the waste ground, which is why that Sapper’s checking all the bins near the police station and the checkpoint. Usually, when explosives are placed in dustbins, it’s done during the night, so the Sappers check this area every morning.’

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