Читать книгу Charlie One - Seán Hartnett - Страница 16

5 NORN IRON

We turned a corner and were suddenly met by an IRA checkpoint: four armed and masked men manning a makeshift barricade. Everything we had been taught said that I should reverse at speed while my passenger laid down covering fire.

I was having none of that. Instead, I approached the roadblock very confidently and lowered my window.

‘How a’ you?’ I enquired in my strongest Cork accent.

‘Where the fuck are you going?’ came the reply.

‘Just heading for Derry. Working on the Limavady by-pass,’ I replied very casually. The poor fella had no idea how to react and simply looked over at the instructor for directions. The instructor made his way to the checkpoint.

‘What are you playing at, Seán?’ he yelled, ‘that’s not how we practised it. You’d be dead by now.’ My reply was calm and measured.

‘I don’t think so. I have the right accent and a plausible story; much better than trying to reverse out of here or get involved in a firefight. I can talk the talk about anything they can bring up and get away with it.’ He stared at me for a couple of seconds, growled ‘Your funeral’, and walked off.

*

I was due a new posting that November and on my return from Oman I decided I’d like to go to Northern Ireland. It wasn’t that I’d had enough of overseas deployments and wanted to go home for good. Far from it. But I had just bought my first home in Norfolk and the extra money and additional leave would be welcome for the next few years. I also felt it was time to play my part in the situation ‘at home’.

Two of my fellow techs had already been posted to a unit called JCU-NI. Although at that point I hadn’t heard of JCUNI, I was familiar with names like FRU (Force Research Unit), 14 Intelligence Company and even The Det, from the many books I had read about collusion, death squads and covert operations in Northern Ireland. These somewhat shadowy bodies even made the headlines from time to time in the Irish media, mixed with the stories of British army units butchering IRA active service units and vice versa that we all heard from relatives up North. JCU-NI sounded interesting, and at least there would be a few friendly faces there to show me the ropes. The only thing I had heard from my mates that were already there was that it involved no uniform or rank to speak of, and there was additional pay, which all sounded good to me.

I approached the foreman of signals (FoS) about the plan.

‘Are you joking, Hartnett? With your background? Whatever about one of the other Northern Ireland units, you haven’t a chance in hell of being posted to JCU-NI, so put the idea out of your head!’ The reaction and answer pissed me off. I was never one to be told I couldn’t do something, so I decided to go over his head to the squadron OC, a major from Northern Ireland who I had served with in Sierra Leone. I chose the high-stakes approach and gave him an ultimatum: JCU-NI or I leave.

He nearly let me leave, I sensed, but at the time the army was in desperate need of experienced technicians, so after some heated discussion, he caved. ‘All right, JCU-NI it is. They are going to have fucking kittens when you rock up, Hartnett.’

There was still no guarantee that I would get JCU-NI. That would be down to some clerk at manning and records in Glasgow. But sure enough, they came up trumps, and I was off.

I landed in Belfast City Airport on 16 November 2001, a fully trained, experienced and decorated British soldier since the last time I was there. I was headed for Thiepval Barracks, the HQ of JCU-NI in Lisburn, Co. Antrim. There I would hook up with two other Royal Signals technicians for initial training

I was met by Dave, my old mate from 14th Signal Regiment. He was leaning against his car and had a big cheesy grin on his face. I struggled a little to open the car door because of the weight of it and threw Dave a questioning glance. He didn’t seem to notice. As we drove off, he took a pistol from his waistband and placed it in the pocket of the driver’s door, as if for easier access.

‘So, what’s the story with this place, Dave? No one is telling me anything, other than it’s a great posting.’

He laughed: ‘You’ll find out soon enough, mate.’ The only thing I got from him was that once initial training was completed, we were each to be sent to a different section – Cameras, Radios or something called ‘North Det’. The decision on where we would end up was yet to be made, or so we were told.

As we made our way from the airport to the barracks, he pointed out various sites where JCU-NI had ‘assets’ located; places like New Lodge, the Divis Flats, the Royal Victoria Hospital, Castlereagh police station, and Dunmurry. I actually had no idea what ‘assets’ he was talking about but nodded away just the same. We arrived at Thiepval where he drove me round to a series of Portakabins located at the far side of the base, well away from all the other accommodation blocks. Finally, he pointed to one in particular: ‘This one’s yours, mate. But don’t get too comfortable. You might not be staying long!’

After I got cleaned up, we took a walk over to the tech workshops, located in a secure compound surrounded by razor-topped fences and high gates. The reinforced door had an electronic keypad and was monitored, like the rest of the compound, by CCTV cameras. Once inside, Dave showed me into an office where he introduced me to Bob, the FoS, and Andy from workshops. Bob FoS was first to speak: ‘Seán, good to meet you.’ I instantly recognised his particular Belfast accent and my first thought was, oh fuck, this could be a problem! However, despite Bob’s staunch Loyalist upbringing, he wasn’t the bigot in the room. Andy Workshops was all smiles and full of good-humoured banter, but there was something I didn’t trust about him and I soon learned that he had more faces than Big Ben.

It was a Friday afternoon and there was a leaving party up in the JCU-NI HQ building, so everyone headed there. It seemed like a good start to me. The nondescript, two-storey building that served as JCU-NI HQ had more to it than met the eye. The building, despite already being within a high-security British army base, was also discreetly guarded by heavily armed civilian officers. No vehicles were allowed to park anywhere near it. The windows were coated with an anti-surveillance film and were blast-proof. On entering the building through a normal-looking door, you were met with an inner steel door that was remotely opened by the duty signals operator once your identity had been confirmed and cleared. Non-JCU-NI personnel were never allowed inside the building under any circumstances.

Everyone who was armed unloaded their pistols and handed them in to the armoury before we made our way to the bar, which was already filling up. I was impressed with how lavish it was in comparison to other rooms. Beer in hand, I mingled a bit, bumping into a few mates I knew from other units who were now posted to JCU-NI. Before long, Andy Workshops grabbed me.

‘Time for you to meet the boss! The CO [Commanding Officer] and the RSM [regimental sergeant major] are the only ones you call “sir” here, by the way. With everyone else it’s first names only. Never ask for anyone’s surname.’

We made our way through the crowd until I was in front of someone clearly of a quite high rank, the tweed jacket and tie a dead giveaway.

‘Sir, let me introduce Seán Hartnett, just arrived from 14th Signal Regiment today.’ Andy was grinning and my instincts told me this wasn’t a good thing.

‘Pleased to meet you, sir. I’m looking forward to working here,’ I said as I stuck out my hand to shake the hand the CO was already offering in greeting. His hand recoiled before I could get a hold of it.

‘You must be fucking kidding me,’ he blurted out on hearing my thick Southern accent. I later learned that the CO was a deeply religious man and rarely swore. Clearly his surprise was so great on this occasion that a swear got out. He regained his composure and apologised.

‘Excuse me, Seán. I’m … I’m … I’m sure you’ve been properly vetted for this and are more than capable. I’m … well, just a little surprised to have a Southerner in this unit.’

‘No problem, sir,’ I replied in typical Irish fashion, ‘I’m just as surprised every time I see a British soldier in Northern Ireland.’ Both the CO and RSM laughed. Andy didn’t see the funny side.

The bitter truth of the matter, though, was that I should never have been posted to JCU-NI. Yes, I fitted the technical requirements, but not the security profile, not for a black ops unit anyhow. (A black ops unit doesn’t exist on paper and requires the highest level of security vetting.) Some clerk in the manning and records section in Glasgow must have simply seen the need for a radio technician at a unit called JCU-NI, and then seen my request to join the unit, and put the two together, oblivious to JCU-NI’s true purpose and my possible ulterior motives for wanting to join it. It was a serious flaw in the system, reflecting one of the problems of conducting ‘black operations’ through a dummy unit: how can you integrate it with the ‘normal’ operations of the army?

I spent the next hour or so chatting with the CO. He was genuinely interested in why I had joined up and in my background (though I left out the bits that might have made things more awkward for me). Over the years that followed, I actually built up a great relationship with the man, and on a number of occasions he asked if I’d be interested in taking the operator’s course. My answer was always the same: I knew my limits and was perfectly content being a technician.

Later that night Bob FoS sidled up to me.

‘Look at us, an Ulster Prod and Free State Fenian working together. Who would have thought?’ he laughed. ‘I know what you’re thinking, Seán, but I’m not the one to worry about. That fucker Andy Workshops thinks you shouldn’t be here and he’ll do what he can to get you out, so keep your nose clean!’ Irrespective of the copious amount of alcohol we had both consumed, I believed him. Great, I thought, day one and I already had to watch my back!

The rest of that weekend was spent socialising with the other JCU-NI members at Thiepval, in particular the technicians from Cameras and Radios. One thing that became obvious was that none of the JCU-NI technicians fancied the idea of a ‘North Det posting’. Every time it was mentioned, they’d laugh, pitying whichever of us three new boys ended up there.

The following Monday morning our training began, and my fellow technicians and I drew our weapons from the armoury, SIG sauer 9mm pistols and HK53 assault rifles, weapons normally reserved for British Special Forces units. I was starting to wonder why Royal Signals technicians were going to need such firepower. We headed to RAF Aldergrove, a stone’s throw from Belfast International Airport, where we were among about a dozen other JCUNI new arrivals under the tutelage of three special-duty veterans. We spent the morning on the firing ranges, learning handling drills and how to zero the scopes of our new weapons. We then drove the forty miles to the base at Ballykinler in Co. Down. JCU-NI had a special area reserved at one end of the camp where they had a complete replica of a typical small Irish town.

First off, they gave us a demonstration of the devastating effects of an improvised explosive device (IED). About 500m from the reinforced observation bunker where we stood was a car with approximately four pounds of Semtex explosives attached to the underside. Before the bomb disposal officer pushed the switch to detonate the device, he informed us, ‘This is one of the IRA’s favourite booby-trap devices, used to kill police and prison officers, soldiers and Loyalist paramilitaries. Here’s why you always check your vehicle for an IED.’ No sooner had the words left his mouth than the car erupted in a ball of flames and was lifted from the ground like it was a toy. As it crashed back down to earth, all the chatter and jokes ceased and the grim realisation of what we risked hit us.

Over the next three days we ran through various scenarios we might find ourselves in while moving around Northern Ireland: paramilitary roadblocks, car hijackings, armed robberies, paramilitary punishment beatings, ambushes and suchlike. We also learned how to manoeuvre our modified vehicles, with their Kevlar armour plates fitted to the doors and seats, which made them a lot trickier to handle. (I suddenly understood the weight of the door on the car that Dave had collected me in.)

While my approach to some of the scenarios we trained for, including using my thickest Cork accent, perplexed the training staff, it was how I planned to deal with things here on my own turf, so to speak, so I wasn’t for changing or apologising. I planned to use my Irish background to my advantage whenever possible. This strategy also came in handy for one of my operations officers.