by Martha Twine
It took the technical people forty-eight hours to rebuild the electronic architecture, but rebuild it they did, with enthusiasm, because they got overtime. True, it was harder to replace the staff, because technical specialists who understood the electromagnetic system were not easy to find, but the IRA offered even better pay, and technicians came from units all over the UK and Ireland.
The IRA’s staff had, by now, downsized significantly. As their budget from Al-Qaida remained the same, they were able to offer significant inducements. However, individual families within the IRA went bankrupt, because they had mismanaged their funds previously. They borrowed money on the strength of collateral which they did not own, and got found out. This set off inter-tribal warfare between various IRA groups. But they all continued to attack me. I decided to try a different approach. Instead of killing the perpetrators, I hung them upside down by one foot from beams close to the ceiling of their police stations and work areas.
This sounds cruel, but the way it worked, the suspended ones were transported to a higher frequency than they were used to. They no longer felt pain, fear, hot or cold, hunger or thirst, and they were out of the reach of their employers. They no longer had to work. Their slave life was over. What was intended as a warning to others, became a desirable outcome. You could hear all the suspended men chatting and laughing together, obviously enjoying themselves. Their in-work colleagues looked up at them enviously, hoping that they might share the same fate. Those on the ground might now be living in hell, urged on with cattle prods by their managers, but up above their heads they had before them the prospect of Purgatory, with a good social life.
In the meantime, the IRA were issuing invitations to groups that specialised in technical attacks to come and try their hand at removing me, with huge financial incentives. These guys were bussed in, and there would be as many as twenty coaches in their car park, each coach capable of carrying forty people.
I just did not want to spend that much time removing them. After all, I was living a happy life, which took up most of my day, taking music lessons, singing in choirs, gardening, going for walks and visiting friends. For an old pensioner, that was quite enough!
Then one day a group of technicians attacked me with very heavy electromagnetic oscillators, using six to eight oscillators at a time. I was angry about it. I created a huge cooking pot, and, after killing the villains, I popped some of them into it, and microwaved them. They came out cooked, smelling appalling – really appalling. Then I suspended their bodies in all the IRA work places, in the rooms of chief executives, in staff eating areas, in technicians’ work areas, and in the private houses of the super-rich profiteers, whose businesses flourished on human misery.
At last, it worked. When the terrorists smelled the dead bodies, they vomited and left the buildings in droves. The bodies could not be removed by anyone except myself. Henchmen and technicians began applying for passes to work elsewhere. Buildings were closing everywhere. The death camp episode was over.
THE IRA TERRORIST CELL IN FRANCE
I decided to revisit Al-Qaida’s hideout in France. I tuned into the memory of my last visit, described in Chapter Eight. Immediately, I could see the fine panorama of green fields, surrounded by rolling hills, and the high promontory, on which the beautiful nineteenth-century country house and garden had been built. The Al-Qaida boss appeared. He was still wearing the chunky crew-neck jumper, and old jeans. Beside him stood a man wearing black robes and a black hood. His face could not be seen. The robed figure walked down through the walled garden to a wrought-iron gate. He went through and down a set of steps to another door leading to an underground facility. I followed him.
Inside the room, three men were sitting round a table listening to their leader.
‘Now your group will take this route,’ I heard him say. ‘I will take the others, using the other road’.
The man had an arrogant manner, and a Southern English accent. It turned out that they were IRA activists, plotting terrorist attacks on the British mainland. They had been prepared over a long period as sleepers, to blend in with the communities on which they intend to prey.
The robed Al-Qaida operative wished to interrupt the talk, and began speaking, but he was brusquely put down by the English guy in a less than respectful manner. In response, the Al-Qaida operative pulled a hand gun from within his robe, and shot him straight between the eyes. He died instantly. I would have expected a lot of blood, but there was just a red mark where the bullet went in. The dead man’s colleagues played it really cool, as if such executions were an everyday event. They turned their full attention to the robed figure and began interacting with him, in a courteous fashion. Then their boss emerged from an adjoining room, and ushered him in for a private interview.
At this point, I began to think that I ought to report what I had seen to the British Authorities. I went on the MI5 website, where you can email information, and described what I had seen. I did not have a location, and it could have been anywhere in France, but I tried to describe the countryside as best I could.
A few days later, I was being attacked by a group of Al-Qaida funded trainees sponsored by ‘Our Group’, attempting to void my bladder, upset my balance, and make me fall over. In the past, when this happened, I had ‘dragged and dropped’ the trainees into Al-Qaida’s French garden, from three hundred feet. The tactic was intended to make Al-Qaida stop funding training courses, using me as a training aid. But it had little impact on Al-Qaida’s funding arrangements.
This time, knowing Al-Qaida’s discomfort at having to interact with females, I decided to pick up two female training course participants, and to deposit them alive in the French garden.
As I transported the young women into the garden, I could hear a loud mechanical noise and a lot of invective going on, in a language that wasn’t English or French. An unmarked French plane, of a type similar to those sometimes used by the British military where I live, was swinging up and away into the sky. The Al-Qaida guy was clearly annoyed about this, as he was throwing stones at his robed accomplice and shouting at anyone who would listen. The robed accomplice was ducking the stones in a tolerant way.
When the two female terrorist trainees arrived, in their neat knee-length skirts and tops, the Al-Qaida guy took a look, and raised his eyes to heaven. Without further preliminaries, he hurried both of them into the underground facility at the bottom of the garden, where the IRA were working.
One of the women immediately asked to use the toilet, causing extreme embarrassment to all the men, as their toilet had no door. But the girl wasn’t bothered anyway. In a bizarre moment of modesty, I decided mentally to create a curtain for everyone’s convenience.
At that moment, we heard a military aircraft flying low outside. The IRA men suddenly started leaving the main room at speed in all directions. I guessed it must have been a targeted sonic device that caused the men to rush out like that. They were as desperate as flies buzzing against a window.
One man pushed through the curtain into the toilet, climbed over the girl’s knees as she sat there, and dived out of a window. As he emerged in daylight, the French plane shot him with some form of electronic laser beam, and he lay dead on the ground
Then we heard a banging and cracking sound, as the Al-Qaida guy and several of his team, opened the windows of the underground facility from the outside. The head guy helped the English group leave through a back window, while his team formed a human chain, passing what looked like sports bags full of equipment from hand to hand and out to a white van parked in the lane at the back.
‘Hurry now, you go first and get in the van!’ directed the boss to the first female.
She ran for it. Then we heard the plane coming back. Everyone outside pressed up against the back of the building. The plane strafed the wall with some kind of beam effect. There was a hissing sound as it just missed us.
‘Quick, up the garden and through the house. The van will pick you up there!’ the he
ad guy ordered.
Everyone ran. Then the plane came back, really low, and hit the leader of the English terrorists. He fell dead. Everyone else dropped to the ground except the Al-Qaida team.
‘Run! Run now!’ ordered the Al-Qaida guy.
The remaining English IRA terrorist and the other female trainee got up and ran. They made it. The van had whizzed round to the front of the building at high speed, and they piled into the back, closing the doors as it took off down the road.
What struck me about the incident was that the Al-Qaida boss and his team did not appear overly troubled by all this, like seasoned soldiers of many a battle campaign. I was also surprised that the plane did not attack any of the Al-Qaida team. It was as if the pilots were deliberately targeting the English IRA activists, and knew which they were.
I wondered about the note I had sent to MI5. Could they have identified the Al-Qaida location from the poor-quality description I had given, and communicated with their French counterparts? I will never know, but what is certain is that the South of England IRA terrorist cell was busted, and did not reform there again.
Where did the female terrorists go? I had heard the men talking about putting them on a train in Brussels, but they would need travel documents for that. Maybe that was something that could be organized for them. So perhaps the girls made it back to the UK after all.
THE SIEGE OF EXEBOROUGH
I often wondered where the numerous terrorist training groups came from, but apart from their accents, which enabled me to identify Northerners, Southerners, Londoners and Midlanders, I did not have much to go on. One day, I picked out a young man, and asked him straight out where he came from.
‘I am not allowed to tell you that,’ he replied conscientiously.
I tuned into his brain imaging, and saw a picture of the place that he was not allowed to name.
‘Oh, I see, it’s a building with a black façade and no windows,’ I volunteered.
The young man gave a gasp, and withdrew from me.
‘You mustn’t tell on me…don’t say you spoke to me,’ he begged in obvious confusion, realizing what I had done.
But it was too late, because I had the frequency of the building, and that was all I needed. I moved my mind through the walls of the building, much in the same way as an infra-red scan would do.
Inside, I noticed that the building had windows with one-way glass that looked black on the outside, and the room I was looking into was crammed with terrorist operatives engaged in remote electronic attacks on victims in their area, using Global Positioning Satellite and wi-fi, together with CDs of biodata previously compiled by the technical research team, to enable them to identify their targets.
There were four darkened rooms bristling with male operatives, all engaged in such work. It was night, but I could see that the building was on a main road, somewhat back from the pavement, with stairs leading up to the entrance. I felt enormous frustration that the terrorists should continue on like this without being apprehended, especially as I was fairly sure that their activities must be known to the Authorities.
‘Perhaps it’s because of lack of evidence of wrongdoing,’ I reasoned. ‘What if I could provide such evidence?’
‘I know!’ I thought. ‘If some Islamic State or Daesh soldiers in possession of their weapons were found on, or outside, the premises, that would give the police a reason to search the building, and then the terrorists would be found out.’
On an impulse, I located a safe house where Algerian Daesh illegal immigrants were being harboured prior to placement in terrorist strongholds across the British Isles. I isolated one of the Daesh soldiers and ‘dropped’ him in the road outside the building. Then I raided another safe house where Islamic State soldiers were hiding, and dropped them outside the front door of the building, on the pavement. The men I dropped were not badly hurt, and were able to answer questions.
As soon as I did that, some cars screeched to a halt, and helpful people got out of their cars to render assistance to the casualties. Ambulances and police cars arrived. The police had obviously seen these type of Daesh and Islamic Sate terrorists before, and they held back the ambulances till they had searched the men for weapons. The men were carrying hand guns, and they were asked to give them to the police, after which the emergency services went in. Having established that they were dealing with armed men, the police called the Counterterrorism Unit.
The police themselves were armed, indicating that they had intelligence about the nature of activities in the suspect building. What happened next, however, was a surprise. One of the police, covered by his colleagues, approached the front door of the building, and as he went in, he was hit with a barrage of bullets. The policeman fell to the ground, wounded, but not seriously injured. Another policeman rushed to his aid, and the IRA fired on him as well. Then a third policeman was hit. Things were not looking good.
At that moment, we heard a helicopter making a loud noise over the roof of the building. Three tall men in battle fatigues, armed with semi-automatic weapons, abseiled down on ropes. Two stood on the roof, while the third went down to the ground and covered the front hall entrance.
The two men on the roof lifted the skylight and entered the building. Shortly afterwards, a procession of men, meekly holding their weapons out in front of them, emerged from the building, under close surveillance from the third soldier. They deposited the weapons in a large polythene container held by another policeman, and were directed to line up against the wall and remove their shoes. The police then put shackles on their ankles, and slow-marched them to waiting dark blue-vans organised by the Counterterrorism Unit.
The Counterterrorism Unit blocked the road on both sides with vans and traffic cones, and started directing traffic away from the area. One of the Special Services men said, ‘There’s a room full of Algerians up there, and they haven’t come out yet.’
The Daesh Algerians finally emerged. They were all excessively overweight, and had trouble getting down the stairs, but they marched proudly out of the building into the waiting blue vans, and were taken away.
I was shocked that policemen had been injured. One of the men was in a lot of pain.
I prompted a thought towards one of the ambulance men. ‘Why don’t you give him an anaesthetic?’
The ambulance man then took out a syringe and administered a painkilling drug. Maybe he was going to do that anyway.
After the siege was over, the police and counter-terrorism team went into the building and brought out crates of electronic weapons, and semi-automatic rifles. Since then, the building has been closed, and I guess it will not be used by terrorists again.
DESERT ADVENTURES
After the siege of Exeborough, the local terrorists redoubled their attacks on me, importing groups of men from as many as five different units a day, lured in by the promise of large financial rewards, and special bonuses, should they manage to terminate my existence. One night, faced with a barrage of full-on electromagnetic oscillators, laser hits, masers (microwave laser beams) and internal organ attacks, I had to do something, as there were too many of them to cope with individually. I decided to use ‘drag and drop’ to deposit them en masse in the African desert. I was not exactly sure where, but I scanned for a place that looked far away from human habitation, and found one where the desert had rocky outcrops and was fringed with green. I then dropped the perpetrators from a height of about four hundred feet, to ensure that they were dead by the time they landed.
This worked well, but it did not deter the terrorists from attacking me. They seemed unaware of what was to come. Their supervisors did not pass the information on to their colleagues waiting in the wings, with the result that a large number of dead people were soon lying in the desert.
The next morning, I noticed a dark black area where I had dropped the bodies. It was a horde of vultures, doing their bit to recycle waste in a positive way. I noticed one large white bird that looked like a stork. It tried to
get into the melee, but the vultures would not give way. Then, somewhere in the background, I saw some animals.
The first animal I saw was beige, like the desert sand. I wondered what it could be, as it had long back legs but its face was so matted with sand that it was unrecognizable. It had a hang-dog look, and was terribly thin. I saw a beige-coloured fox following it, also terribly thin. Then a strange animal with a dark head, a bit like a donkey, or so I thought, appeared. It held its face to the ground, constantly sniffing the dry sand. It was covered in dirt.
As the sun rose higher in the sky, I realized that the first beige animal was a lioness, in the last stages of hunger. There were bodies all around, and she could tell that, but her eyesight seemed to be poor, and she was feeling her way cautiously. Then a third large animal showed up with the lioness. I guessed that it was a lion, as it had vestiges of a dark mane, but it was painfully thin.
Next day I checked in on the animals to see if they were still there. They were, but what a change. The lion’s mane was now clear of sand and showed that the lion was a full-grown male. He was lying stretched out on the ground, chewing on a thigh bone. Gruesome maybe, but for him, it looked as if he had just had his first meal in weeks.
The lioness was lying on her side, and, at first, I thought that she had died of hunger, till her ear twitched. She was sunning herself, and digesting the protein meal that might have saved her life. She was still very weak, but, if lions could smile, it looked as though there was one happy cat stretched out in the sun.