by Robert White
"I won't tell Dougie or Kristy...just let me out," I whispered. "It will be our secret. I'll even play with it for you."
I could tell Findley was scared, probably of what Dougie would do to him if he found out, but he was also a disgusting lecherous fool. I played my ace.
"Go on, Ewan, let me out and you won't be last for once."
That did it.
Findley stepped back. He looked left and right, then, cautiously, down each side of the car. Finally he motioned me to get out of the boot. My limbs were screaming at me to stretch them and the pain was considerable. I did my best to ignore it and as I climbed out, I even managed a smile in Findley's direction.
Once I was upright I took in as much of my surroundings as possible. The car was indeed parked in a courtyard of sorts. A large barn dominated one end, whereas on either side rows of whitewashed stables, some with the doors open, housed maybe a dozen horses. Some of the animals viewed their latest visitors with mild interest, whilst others simply munched on feed. The yard was cobbled and a dusting of fresh crisp snow made it slippery underfoot. I didn't risk a look over my shoulder, but I guessed from the way Findley had been checking in that direction, the main house was behind me. Whoever lived in this place had money...and a lot of it.
Findley seemed to have relaxed a little and grinned at me. The awful job on his cleft pallet made his whole face look lopsided. I took two steps toward him and the fat fool started to fumble with the belt on his jeans. He was so obese that he had to lift his own gut with one hand to grasp the buckle with the other. Despite the chill in the air and the falling snow, perspiration beaded on his forehead.
Now was my chance. I'd sparred hundreds of rounds with my personal trainer back in Manchester, but I wasn't about to box this guy; this was a one shot scenario.
Findley's jeans fell to the snow-covered cobbles and he stood slowly masturbating expectantly.
I took another step forward, drew back my right hand and delivered a sharp blow to his throat. All my weight was behind the punch and I felt the protective hyoid bone, the only bone in the throat, dislodge and fracture. This bone not only protects the fragile larynx and pharynx, but secures the back of the tongue playing a crucial role, should you ever wish to swallow again. Findley was never going to swallow anything again.
He dropped to his knees, clutching his neck, eyes bulging. He couldn't cry out, couldn't swallow, and couldn't breathe. I considered a second blow to knock him unconscious, to ease his suffering.
Instead I sprinted over the cobbles away from him, toward the barn and the fields behind leaving Findley to fight for air.
Over my shoulder was indeed a large dwelling. It didn't appear I'd disturbed the natives. Lights were burning in several rooms, but I saw no movement.
Findley would be dead within a minute or two.
Fuck him. I was free and running.
Rick Fuller's Story:
As I powered the BMW toward the security lodge at RAF Woodvale the barrier was raised without a single check. We were expected and we were not to be disturbed. The snow was getting heavier by the minute, and the Beamer slewed left and right as we approached the helipad and the awaiting Lynx. The chopper's rotors turned lazily whilst its landing lights blinked robotically, illuminating the otherwise darkened base. This was not a scheduled departure. Everything had been done in a hurry and with the utmost secrecy. The only person in attendance was our captain.
We jumped from our car and started to pack our kit into the aircraft. The pilot wore a plain black flight suit with no insignias, a black helmet and despite the night flight ahead, the new season's Ray-Ban Aviators. He didn't speak, just simply nodded to acknowledge our arrival and started his pre-flight checks. By the time we'd finished loading, the helicopter's rotors were deafening, just feet above our heads. I'd barely strapped myself in when the Lynx lurched upward and forward and we were airborne, flying blind in a blizzard.
The pilot fought with the controls as the chopper bucked in all directions. We were flying low to avoid any commercial traffic and this did not bode well for a comfortable journey. Navigating purely on instruments, the aircraft crossed the coast within minutes and headed out across the Irish Sea.
Fifteen minutes into the flight the pilot beckoned me forward and signalled to me to put on a second flight helmet so we could converse.
"Fuller?" he asked.
"Affirmative."
"James Price."
It was an American accent; deep South, Atlanta maybe.
"You're not RAF?"
"No, buddy, US Air Force, aircraft carriers mainly, I'm freelance these days."
"MI6?"
"Anyone with deep pockets, friend. Private security companies, Kurdistan, Afghanistan, any fuckin' Stan man. I fly anywhere in any weather and keep my mouth shut...you're ex Regiment yes?"
"Back in the day."
"And the guys back there?"
"The Jock was Scots Guards then 22 SAS. The Turk was in their Special Forces...evil little bastard he is, but a good guy."
The Lynx dropped a good hundred feet in one lurch and hit the bottom of the air pocket with a tremendous bang. Price was unfazed; he made some alterations to the controls and flicked some switches.
"You chose a good night for it, man."
"No choice at all, Price. The Irish have taken one of our own, and we want her back."
"I get it, no problem, buddy... I'm gonna drop you five clicks from your target premises. It's 0127hrs now, we should be on the ground just before 0300hrs. I've been instructed to be in situ same time tomorrow. You have an hour's grace my friend, after that, boy, I'm gone."
The helicopters engines screamed as Price pushed the machine into a climb.
"It's instruments until we get into Irish airspace, then it's switch everything off and night vision the rest of the way. That's when it gets tricky."
"Just get us there, mate," I said.
"Tally ho, old chap," he mimicked and we lurched left on course for South Armagh and our own private war.
Lauren North's Story:
When Maxi's boys had taken us, I'd been dressed for the RI on the club. All I had to do was pull on my coveralls, change from trainers to Gortex boots and Bob was your proverbial.
Now, as I did my best to stay upright and my Asics slipped and slid their way over the semi-frozen uneven paddock, I wished I'd had my boots.
The initial euphoria of being free had given me a boost of adrenalin but the heroin had not done me any favours and despite only covering half a mile, I was blowing hard where I would usually just be getting into my stride. I did my best to regulate my breathing and slowed my pace slightly.
The bottoms of my Levis were drenched and were beginning to cake in freezing snow around the hems. The snowfall had become heavy and a brisk north wind ensured it whipped into my face. As I put distance between me and the farm the ambient light faded to zero and within five minutes I was down to a slow jog in almost pitch black. As the minutes passed, the miniscule amount of light available was distorted by the swirling flakes and I was becoming more and more disorientated.
I did my best to focus on what appeared to be a crop of outbuildings about five hundred yards away, but with one massive gust, the swirling snow obliterated everything and by the time I had any vision at all, the buildings were gone, and I was lost.
Eventually, I stopped and immediately started to shiver. My T-shirt was soaked, and frozen snow covered the front of it. My hands were bitterly cold and for a second time in less than a day, I'd lost the feeling in my fingers. Nonetheless, I was confident that with all my training, I could get myself to safety. Rubbing my hands together I did my best to get some bearings and stay positive.
The wind made it almost impossible to hear anything, but somewhere behind me, I was sure dogs were barking. My stomach did a quick nervous flip. I turned a hundred and eighty degrees, cupped my hands behind my ears and listened. As the gust dropped, I heard them again. This time I was certain. I heard whimpering an
d a bark.
Within seconds my worst suspicions were founded and I saw the flash of a powerful beam of light less than two hundred yards from me. It swept from side to side as its owner lit their way toward my position.
Fear racked my body and I stood motionless, desperately trying to get my brain to function. I was as fit as I'd ever been and I was sure I could outrun most people, particularly Dougie and Kristy, but dogs?
No chance.
I turned away from the flickering light and ran headlong into freezing blackness. The snow was more than ankle deep and I figured that even without dogs, I would be pretty easy to track just on footprints alone.
Forcing myself to put the dogs and my pursuers out of my thoughts I concentrated on keeping my footing, and a steady pace.
Twenty minutes went by and I had made decent ground. The dogs and their owners didn't appear to have gained on me, instead I seemed to have put some distance back between us.
Some minutes earlier, I'd almost fallen into a farmer's gully. Fortunately I kept my feet and instead slid part way down it. The bottom was fairly flat so I decided to use it as cover, and as it had been cut into the land by a tractor, I figured it would lead me in a straight line.
I kept a steady tab for a further fifteen minutes. The snow had eased slightly, but the wind still howled over the fields and whipped around my ears. I was bitterly cold, soaked to the skin and finding decision making difficult. It was obvious I needed to be out of the freezing conditions very soon before hypothermia set in. I may have only been out in the weather for an hour, but cold is no respecter of fitness or age. It kills everyone and it kills quickly.
Clambering up the slippery gully, I took a recce, estimating I'd covered maybe two or three clicks but I had no idea how much distance I'd put between me and the farm as I'd long since lost my bearings. The dogs were either quiet or too far behind to be audible so I took a long slow one-eighty look. I allowed my eyes time to adjust to the near pitch black and did my best to stop shivering. Off to my right, maybe a kilometre away, was some kind of small barn or garage. If the dogs or whoever was with them could track me there, it was all over, but I had to take the chance. If I didn't get some cover I was dead anyway. I shook the cramp from my legs and set off for the barn.
Rick Fuller's Story:
Our American pilot was true to his word and once we hit land he dropped the Lynx to a hundred feet, extinguished all lights and pulled down his night vision goggles. I'd never been a nervous flyer, having jumped out of so many aircraft in my time, but even I found the sensation of being thrown about at a hundred and ninety miles an hour in total darkness disconcerting.
Despite being fully strapped in, Des held onto a grab handle to steady himself. "I hope this wee fucker knows what he's doing, pal," he shouted over the scream of the engine.
"He's doing fine," I replied and gave the Scot a thumbs up to emphasise I was happy enough.
I looked over to J.J.'s seat to see if he was okay and the Turk was actually fast asleep. I shook my head in disbelief. I used to be able to sleep anywhere, anytime, but fifteen minutes to the drop zone in shitty weather and flying blind? Could you sleep?
I pulled a small hand held GPS unit from my coveralls and fired it up. Within two minutes it had found its satellites and was showing that we were just forty miles to our RV.
Price was not going to land the Lynx, so it was up to us to abseil the last twenty feet or so. This was always a precarious operation, especially in the dark. Once the chopper was hovering below fifty feet the instruments pretty much read zero. It was down to the skill of the pilot to ensure that the boys sliding down ropes beneath him dropped gently to the floor as opposed to falling the last fifteen feet in full battle kit because the twat couldn't judge distance.
Being the first out was always the shitty end of the stick. That said, on this occasion we were all dropping in together, so if the Yank got it wrong, all three of us would be nursing broken ankles before the job even started.
Price wanted to be in and out in less than thirty seconds. He knew that we were in the country to make a mess. It wouldn't take a genius to know that the fallout was going to cause political uproar, possibly even civil disorder, so he didn't want anyone to know he'd entered Irish airspace. He worked for the Firm for a reason and would leave nothing to chance.
The American dipped the nose of the Lynx and the aircraft slowed. We were in the process of ensuring that our kit was secure. Just like divers about to enter the water, we'd buddy up and check and recheck every flap, zip and belt was fastened. J.J. had the added encumbrance of his sniper rifle alongside his MP7, but he seemed unfazed by the whole scenario. Des, a veteran of so many thankless and dangerous missions, went about his tasks in his usual methodical calm way.
I tapped my oldest friend on the shoulder, a sign that his kit was squared away and the Lynx came into the hover.
Price looked over his shoulder again.
"Okay, Fuller, doors released!" he bellowed.
I slid open my door and was almost blown off my feet by the turbulence. J.J. was to my left and clipped his rope in position next to me.
"Nice weather!" he shouted, and gave me a cheeky wink. I couldn't stop myself from smiling. He was a good guy and I was glad to have him and Des at my side.
Price turned once again, gave me the thumb and shouted, "Have a nice day, boys. See you same time, same place tomorrow!"
I pulled down my balaclava, secured my rope, checked the fastenings one last time, and then dropped from the aircraft into pitch black and a very uncertain future.
Des Cogan's Story:
Our pilot had done a good job on judging the height of the aircraft and when I hit the snow covered grass below, I had a couple of feet of rope coiled at my boots. I said a quick Hail Mary for that little piece of luck and checked that Rick and J.J. were in the same condition as me. The chopper's rotors whipped up the fallen snow as Price gunned the engines and disappeared into the night sky. Within a couple of minutes, the only sound was the howling wind as it blew snow into our faces. It was cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey, pal.
We had just less than five miles to tab to the farm. Under normal circumstances, a piece of piss, but in this weather and with very little in the way of ambient light, it was going to be a trek.
We all shrugged off our MP7's from our backs and re-connected the slings so the weapons sat across our chests. I slid the action forward on mine and checked the safety was on.
In addition to my weaponry, I was carrying all our medical kit and would act as first aider should any of the team be wounded. This consisted of some sterile dressings, pre-loaded morphine and adrenalin syringes and some basic instruments including a couple of clamps and scalpels. I was hoping we didn't need any of it, but better to be safe than sorry. That said, it added another few pounds to my Bergen. Rick was peering at the display on his GPS unit which lit up his face in an eerie green glow. He looked like we did on Halloween when we put a torch under our chins when we were kids.
I was very glad we had GPS as there were no stars or moon to guide us. The snow had eased but still swirled around and seemed to change direction every few seconds.
Ricked pushed the small unit back in his coveralls and stood motionless for a few moments to allow his eyes to adjust to the near pitch conditions.
"Let's move," he said, "I'll take point... J.J., watch out for the hawthorn hedges out here, they're fuckin' murderous."
He was right. Both Rick and I had patrolled Crossmaglen long before we had completed selection. We'd had the dubious honour of attempting to win the hearts and minds of the locals of 'Bandit Country'. This of course did not work. The British army are notoriously bad at such things. Some fuckin' Rupert sat in an office in Whitehall usually comes up with some plan or other; decides to send in 2 Para as peace keepers and wonders why things are fucked up.
I remember we unfurled a banner in the town one day. It was to stretch across the main road. We were ordered to s
et up ladders and such to fit the fuckin' thing. It took about forty guys to protect the poor sods who were up the ladders from being shot by the Paddy snipers. The whole thing was a complete cock up. The banner was supposed to say something like 'The Army are here to protect you. The Army are your friends' or some such bollocks.
When we unrolled the thing, it had been in storage since the fifties and been brought back from Aiden. It may well have said what it said...but it was in Arabic.
Go sort that one.
Tours in South Armagh were really tough. It seemed to us that every local was PIRA or certainly a sympathiser. The second a soldier set foot on tarmac, some fucker was on the phone to the local Armalite brigade.
We lost dozens of guys to snipers and roadside bombs, it was horrendous. Finally, the Ruperts decided that we would only patrol across country and would not use roads of any kind, not even farm tracks. Virtually every field is bordered by hawthorn in Crossmaglen. It's vicious stuff, worse than barbed wire, and we would come back from patrol knackered and cut to shreds by the stuff.
Rick had not forgotten and neither had I.
The weather was changing again. The snow had stopped and the skies began to clear. We could now see some fifty yards in front of us but it was still slow going and all of us lost our footing on occasions as the snow beneath our feet began to turn to ice in the rapidly falling temperature. The wind chill made it feel like the fuckin' Arctic.
I was used to the cold. In fact I preferred it to being sweltering in some desert somewhere. That said, it had taken thirty minutes to complete just over one kilometre and I could tell Rick was becoming frustrated by our lack of progress.