by Martha Twine
I went in through the back entrance. It was a hive of household activity. Women and young girls were cleaning floors, washing and ironing clothes. I stopped one of them.
‘Have you seen Tess?’ I asked. The girl did not look up to see who was speaking.
‘She’s upstairs, helping Mary,’ she said over her shoulder as she passed by.
I went upstairs, and soon found Tess. She was wearing an apron, folding linen in one room, while Mary was making beds in the next room. I took a breath. It was going to be difficult to explain what I wanted Tess to understand, and she might not be interested.
‘Tess,’ I said, ‘The rest of your kids group have been rescued and gone to Algeria. Do you want to come too?’
‘Go away and don’t bother me’, muttered Tess. Then she gave a quick look round and dashed into a kind of closet area.
‘Yes, but do it quickly,’ she said, clearly afraid what would be done to her if she was caught by one of her women captors.
Immediately I picked her up and transported her to Algeria, carefully setting her down in the administration common room. It was a lot for Tess to take in. I could see the last of the kids going through the swing doors at the other end of a long corridor,
‘The rest of them have just gone up there,’ I said.
Tess saw the last kids leaving. She recognised her little family.
‘Thanks,’ she said.
Then she ran and ran, till she caught up with the rest of them. The kids cheered when they saw her.
‘Tess is here, Tess is here!’ they cried, ‘Now we are all together.’
Pierre was leading them into a family room where a woman was preparing lunch. There was a large wooden table with chairs set informally around it, and the kids spilled in there and sat down.
‘Is that it?’ said Pierre, looking enquiringly at me.
‘Yes, that’s it,’ I said, ‘I am so very grateful’.
Pierre smiled, and that was the last that I saw of him or the kids.
I would like to say that they all lived happily ever after, but, inevitably, that was not going to be the case, given the traumatised state that the children were in, and the harmful activities for which they had been trained. I heard later, from IRA terrorists locally, that the French contingent in Algeria had severed connections with their IRA contacts in the UK in disgust, when they found out how the kids had been treated.
There was a good deal of re-education required to explain to the kids about the meaning of right and wrong. They had to learn that they could no longer gain ‘parental’ approval by hurting people. All credit goes to the French people in the Algerian research base who were willing to put in the effort to rescue those kids.
BRITISH MILITARY AND SECURITY INTERVENTIONS
Under the IRA-Al-Qaida contract, eight Afro-Asian Daesh illegal migrants from North Africa were imported to our terrorist unit every Wednesday and Saturday. They worked for free for a week, during their registration and acclimatisation period, before being delivered to designated units across the British Isles. This work counted as training, after which they received a certificate stating they were fit for purpose as terrorist operatives in the UK. Some of them were offered full time jobs in the terrorist unit as interpreters.
The Afro-Asian Daesh migrants spoke Creole to each other, which no one else in the unit could understand. This gave them a distinct advantage, if they wished to keep secrets from the unit. On 25 June 2015, I noticed a group of them on the top floor of the house next door, gathering in a conspiratorial fashion. They stopped talking if other operatives came in. They were very jumpy and nervous. Something was obviously up, and they didn’t want the IRA unit to know about it.
My suspicions increased next day, June 26th, when we heard the news about the massacre of British holiday makers on a beach in Tunisia, and Islamic State claimed responsibility. The attack was timed shortly before the Prime Minister was due to attend a celebration of British Armed Forces Day. The North African Daesh migrants could be seen hurrying up to the top floor, and whispering together. I began to wonder whether they had known in advance that some kind of terrorist attack was going to happen.
I reported my suspicions to MI5, mentioning that the Daesh migrants used Creole for their private communications. Up to that point, our special services maintained a discrete aerial watch over developments in our area. From then on, aerial monitoring became overt.
It was a clear, sunny day, with blue skies, and I was outside digging, when a beautiful Chinook appeared over the next-door garden. It stopped in mid-air, just opposite the roof of the house next door. There were trees around the house, but they did not seem to be affected by the double rotor action. The Chinook stayed motionless for a moment, before twisting to the left and right without moving forward, as if rehearsing left and right turns. Then, suddenly, it leapt into an extraordinary manoeuvre, circling the roof, and flying sideways over the part where the Daesh migrants had been meeting.
‘Wow! Wow!’ I cried, falling into the flowerbed in my excitement.
The helicopter moved away into the distance. Ten minutes later, I heard it coming back. But whereas ten minutes before there had been a clear blue sky, now visibility was zero. A thick white fog had fallen over the entire area. I could hear the Chinook over the next-door roof again, but I couldn’t see it. After five minutes, the fog began to clear, and I saw the Chinook taking off from the roof in reverse. It leapt into the air, and went East through the trees, barely disturbing a leaf.
One evening next week, I was coming back from a musical event. As I walked up our drive, I heard the noise of helicopters flying very low. Two flew over our house and into the garden of the house where the Daesh group lived. A bright light shone down from one of the choppers, and I saw something rolling and tumbling to the ground inside the brilliant directed beam. My guess is that it was some kind of monitoring device.
In the days after that, if I was attacked by IRA oscillators, manipulating my gravitational field, a helicopter would whizz over the secret research centre and disconnect their wi-fi satellite communications. This meant that the terrorists could no longer use their electronic equipment on line to attack me. At first, they just reconnected themselves. They then went through a learning curve as the British Military disconnected them several times a day. After a while, the underground research centre, which managed their equipment, began to charge the Faeces Group a £500 reconnection fee, whenever this happened, which concentrated minds somewhat. The Faeces Group soon ran out of cash, but word got back to their Al-Qaida representative in France, and money was found for them to continue.
The secret research centre began developing alternative locations for technical support, because of the British military’s increasing interest in their operations. One night I was outside in the drive, when I heard the sound of helicopters again, and two appeared, moving toward one of the new technical support locations. Then I saw what looked like shiny white spaghetti coming from one of the choppers. I recognised it as a directed laser beam. It hit its target. After that, the IRA’s new technical installations were closed.
The British military, security services and counter terrorism unit have their work cut out preventing terrorist attacks on the British mainland. I was greatly heartened that additionally, there were times when they saw bad things happening to children, and intervened. On one occasion, after lunch, I could hear the brothel kids in their garden screaming loudly. Nothing out of the ordinary, perhaps, but an aircraft of a type often used by the special services was patrolling our skies. Its motor suddenly changed tone, and it turned left over the garden. Then it dropped vertically, like a stone. Now I could hear adults screaming. Then the aircraft soared up vertically again. I gathered from the IRA’s Syntel chat-room that Daesh prison guards were sexually abusing children and women in their garden, using electronic weapons, and that the aircraft had put a stop to it.
‘But hang on,’ I hear you say. ‘That’s not very likely. Few aircraft can drop an
d rise vertically like that.’
All I can say is what I saw. It might not be an accurate description of what took place, but, by now, I have seen so much going on in the sky in our area that it seems there is nothing that our military aircraft cannot do.
There was a follow-up to this, a few days later. The child brothel was operating inside the third floor of the house which the aircraft had visited. A Euro-copter appeared outside the third-floor window, and stayed there for nearly five minutes, while what could be described as a full and frank exchange of views, in sign-language terms, took place between those inside the chopper, and those inside the house. Apparently, there were several North African clients in the brothel at the time, who dashed out of the room with their trousers down, when the chopper arrived, leaving the female brothel managers and their male guards to face our Military.
On one occasion, my father and I went on a coach tour to see a stately home and gardens in the next county. The IRA decided to make this an occasion for one of their training courses, with twelve students being led out to practice trailing the coach with different cars, tracking and sniping at me as their human ‘quarry’. They must have planned these attacks rather loudly, because the British military were waiting for them when they arrived. My Dad and I had a lovely day out, and we enjoyed watching various manned and unmanned aircraft passing overhead at frequent intervals.
At one point, we were having an ice cream on a park bench when a Puma, painted in pale green and brown camouflage colours, flew twenty feet above us to target a terrorist suspect, hiding some twenty-five feet away in a thicket. When it was time to get back on the coach, my Dad, myself, and several other elderly folk, watched with amazement as a helicopter hovered ten feet above the car park for about five minutes, before moving off.
Was all this just for my benefit? Of course not. The IRA, and their affiliates, are active on the British mainland. MI5 stated as much in 2012. Our military have their own way of dealing with them, and, on this occasion, twelve IRA trainees plus their teachers had turned up to cause harm covertly to British citizens, and were prevented from doing so.
During 2016, the IRA started importing groups of ethnic Chinese people from the Philippines. An ethnic Chinese woman who spoke French told me that Al-Qaida had a secret base in the Philippines, and that her people had been taken from there to a location on the border of Brazil and Uruguay, where they had learned how to detonate bombs. They were informed that they would be sent to Europe to assist the work of Islamic State warriors. Their first port of call was Paris, after which they went to different countries in Europe.
These ethnic Chinese were experts in IT and specialised in virtual reality effects. Sometimes, if a terrorist attacked me and I defended myself, ‘dragging and dropping’ him from five hundred feet above the ground, the technicians would superimpose an image of that person getting up and walking away, so that other terrorists viewing the event via their computer system would not realise that he had died.
After a while, the Chinese group began to bombard me with virtual reality attacks. When I lay down to sleep, coloured lights would flare up in front of my eyes, with a dizzying series of violent images. I began wearing industrial goggles at night to shield my eyes from the transmissions, but the transmissions shifted to target my eyes from the back of the head instead. The effect was similar to that of the brainwashing techniques demonstrated in the 1965 espionage film ‘The Ipcress File’. It was affecting my sleep.
I sent an email to MI5 describing these attacks. About three nights later, when I went to bed, there was total silence, no synthetic telepathy, no electronic sniping and no virtual reality attacks. I slept peacefully. Next morning, I woke at six a.m., to the sound of birds singing outside my window, something I had not heard for a long time. Then, as I lay dozing with my eyes shut, I saw a green bank and a tarmac path leading to an underground building. A fit young man in his early thirties, with a military-style haircut, came out of the building. He was casually dressed in jeans and T-shirt, his jacket slung over one shoulder. He gave a cheery smile to his colleagues in the building, as if sharing a private joke.
Then the force field was lifted – for that is what it was. The British military had created a force field which grounded the terrorists’ entire electromagnetic operations for the whole night, including the operations within the secret underground base. The terrorists lost a lot of money, owing to their inability to carry out planned activities, and they got the message. The virtual reality attacks never happened again.
Daesh terrorists made no secret of the fact that they were here to combat the ideology of Christendom. There was a naiveté about this. They had not been in the UK for more than a few weeks, but they seemed to think they could intervene in the lives of local people and ‘correct’ their ‘mistaken’ Christian beliefs.
One Algerian Daesh migrant slipped out of his safe house, evading his supervisors, and walked to a local housing estate. He knocked on a door at random. A woman came to the door, her dog barking loudly. The man began to tell her that Islam was superior to Christianity, and that she should change her belief system. Understandably, the woman shut and locked the door, and called the police.
Daesh migrants were urged on by the IRA to plot attacks against local church goers, in line with Al-Qaida objectives to mount ‘attacks on Christendom’. They targeted members of church choirs, using infrared scanners to locate them through church walls and direct laser beams at their throats, trying to disrupt their singing, making them cough uncontrollably. Some female IRA members, who attended their local Catholic church, distanced themselves from these activities. The IRA got round this, by allocating genetically modified humanoids to take the lead in guiding Daesh migrants in attacks on Christians.
I wrote to MI5 about these activities. The IRA were aware of this, but they let Daesh migrants continue their attacks, taking care to keep their own staff out of harm’s way. They positioned Daesh soldiers where they could see a local choir practicing for Sunday service. To get a better view, the soldiers climbed onto tree stumps. As they aimed their electronic devices at the choir, a British military helicopter zoomed in and zapped the Daesh migrants with a guided laser weapon, hitting their electronic devices, and knocking them off the tree stump. The skin on the soldiers’ hands was burned, requiring plastic surgery. The IRA gave up that strategy.
From then on, you could see small unmarked aircraft hovering discreetly, whenever the choir used the church for practices and services.
One day, I was walking to the bus stop after my music lesson, when in my mind’s eye, I inadvertently caught a glimpse of a British military installation, presumably, via their own electromagnetic system. I saw rows of men and women sitting along benches, wearing headphones, and using laptops. The rows faced each other, but were divided by a wooden screen. A young lady was just removing her headphones, at the end of her work session. I realised that I had seen something classified that I should not have done.
‘Awfully sorry,’ I muttered, mentally; ‘I didn’t mean to.’
I was overcome with confusion, but, of course, it was OK. It showed that our military were logged on to the terrorists’ electromagnetic communication systems, and were carrying out monitoring exercises.
Sometimes I caught sight of men and women in military uniform working at night in one-story concrete buildings, in the countryside. They had laptops, headphones and seemed to be interacting with aircraft. I wondered if they were driving drones.
One morning, I heard two low-level IRA operatives conversing via the Syntel system, using their code language. In this language, ‘upstairs’ meant the IRA officers’ residence at the top of the hill, and ‘downstairs’ meant the building at the bottom of the hill used by low-level operatives. They were talking about the British military.
‘The British military can’t see me, now I’m upstairs,’ boasted an IRA operative to his less fortunate friend, who was ‘downstairs’.
At that moment, a man’s voice came
over the intercom.
‘We can see you whether you’re upstairs or downstairs!’ he observed dryly.
Everyone gasped. It was the voice of one of our military, exasperated at the drivel he had to listen to from these terrorists.
The unsung heroes of this story are those dedicated members of the Counter-Terrorism Unit who were there for me, and for other British citizens, so many times, when we least expected it. They were the first law-enforcement people to make contact with me in 2012. It started when I cancelled my BT Broadband subscription, because the router was constantly being hacked by terrorists. I had to pay a severance fee to BT, and I was cheesed off about it. BT asked me why I no longer required their services. I explained the situation, but doubted whether anything would come of it.
I was on my way to the hairdresser, when two men stopped their car on the other side of the road and one of them crossed over. He asked me if I could tell him where the nearest B&Q store was. We didn’t have one in our village, and it would have been a twenty mile drive to the nearest outlet. The man was in his late fifties. He was casually dressed in a brown leather jacket and jeans, but I knew instinctively that he worked in law enforcement.
Once in the hairdresser, I was having my hair washed, when the other man in the car came into the salon. He looked even more like an ex-policeman, again in his late fifties, with dark grey hair, and grey clothes. He sat down on a sofa directly opposite me. Then he got out a camera, and there was a flash. A stylist immediately came up to him, and asked what he was doing.
‘I was looking at my holiday photos when the flash went off’, he said.
The stylist gave his hair a proper cut, while interrogating him in detail, asking about his recent holiday.
‘Well,’ I thought. ‘If he had waited till I’d had my hair done, it would have been a much better picture.’
The two men evidently agreed with me, as, when I came out of the hairdresser, they were still there on the other side of the road. If they wanted a photo, they now got it.