Читать книгу Sniper Fire in Belfast - Shaun Clarke, Shaun Clarke - Страница 8

‘Settle down, men,’ Lieutenant Cranfield said when he had taken his place on the small platform in the briefing room, beside Captain Dubois and an Army sergeant seated at a desk piled high with manila folders. When his new arrivals had quietened down, Cranfield continued: ‘You men are here on attachment to 14 Intelligence Company, an intelligence unit that replaced the Military Reconnaissance Force, or MRF, of Brigadier Kitson, who was Commander of Land Forces, Northern Ireland, from 1970 to 1972. A little background information is therefore necessary.’

Some of the men groaned mockingly; others rolled their eyes. Grinning, Cranfield let them grumble for a moment, meanwhile letting his gaze settle briefly on familiar faces: Sergeants Lampton, Ricketts and Parker, as well as Corporal Jock McGregor and Troopers ‘Gumboot’ Gillis and Danny ‘Baby Face’ Porter, all of whom had fought bravely in Oman, before returning to act as Directing Staff at 22 SAS Training Wing, Hereford. There were also some recently badged new men whom he would check out later.

‘In March 1972,’ Cranfield at last began, ‘shortly after the Stormont Parliament was discontinued and direct rule from Westminster substituted, selected members of the SAS, mainly officers, were posted here as individuals to sensitive jobs in Military Intelligence, attached to units already serving in the province. Invariably, they found themselves in a world of petty, often lethal jealousies and division among conflicting agencies – a world of dirty tricks instigated by Military Intelligence officers and their superiors. The MRF was just one of those agencies, causing its own share of problems.’

Now Cranfield glanced at the newcomer, Martin Renshaw, who had endured Sergeant Lampton’s perfect impersonation of an Irish terrorist during the horrendous final hours of the RTI exercises during Continuation Training. What was more, he had done so without forgetting that it was only an exercise, unlike so many others, who were RTU’d as a result. According to his report, Renshaw was a serious young man with good technological training, pedantic tendencies, and heady ambitions.

‘As some of you have come straight from Oman,’ Cranfield continued, ‘it’s perhaps worth pointing out that certain members of the MRF were, like the firqats of Dhofar, former enemies who had been turned. Occasionally using these IRA renegades – known as “Freds” – as spotters, the MRF’s Q-car patrols identified many active IRA men and women, sometimes photographing them with cameras concealed in the boot of the car. Too often, however, MRF operations went over the top, achieving nothing but propaganda for the IRA.’

‘Just like the green slime,’ Gumboot said, copping some laughs from his mates and, as Cranfield noticed, a stony glance from his uneasy associate, the Army intelligence officer Captain Dubois.

‘Very funny, Trooper Gillis,’ Cranfield said. ‘Perhaps you’d like to step up here and take over.’

‘No, thanks, boss. Please continue.’

Cranfield nodded, secretly admiring Gumboot’s impertinence, which he viewed as a virtue not possessed by soldiers of the regular Army. ‘In 1972 a couple of embarrassing episodes led to the disbandment of Kitson’s organization. Number one was when a two-man team opened fire with a Thompson sub-machine-gun from a moving car on men standing at a Belfast bus stop. Though both soldiers were prosecuted, they claimed they’d been fired at first. The second was when the IRA assassinated the driver of an apparently innocuous laundry van in Belfast. This led to the revelation that the company that owned the van, the so-called Four Square Laundry, was actually an MRF front, collecting clothing in suspect districts for forensic examination.’

‘Proper dirty laundry,’ Jock McGregor said, winning a few more laughs.

‘Yes,’ Cranfield said, ‘it was that all right. Anyway, those two incidents caused a stir and brought an end to the MRF, which was disbanded early in 1973. But it soon became apparent that as the police, whether in or out of uniform, were soft targets for gunmen, a viable substitute for the MRF was required. This would require men who could penetrate the republican ghettos unnoticed, and who possessed keen powers of observation, quick wits, and even quicker trigger fingers.’

‘That’s us!’ the normally quiet Danny Porter, ‘Baby Face’, said with a shy grin.

‘Not at that time,’ Cranfield replied, ‘though certainly the training officer for the new team was then serving with 22 SAS. In fact, the new unit, formed at the end of 1973, was 14 Intelligence Company. While it was the job of that company to watch and gather information about the IRA, the SAS’s function was to act on the intelligence supplied by them and take action when necessary.’

‘Excuse me, boss,’ Taff Burgess asked, putting his hand in the air like an eager schoolboy. ‘Are you saying that 14 Intelligence Company never gets involved in overt action against the IRA? That they’ve never had, or caused, casualties?’

‘No. They have suffered, and have caused, casualties – but only when spotted and usually only when the terrorist has fired first. Their function is to gather intelligence – not to physically engage the enemy. That’s our job. To do it within the law, however, we have to know exactly who and what we’re involved with here in the province.’

Cranfield nodded at the Army sergeant standing beside the intelligence officer. The sergeant started distributing his manila folders to the SAS troopers sitting in the chairs. ‘The information I’m about to give you,’ Cranfield said, ‘is contained in more detail in those folders. I want you to read it later and memorize it. For now, I’ll just summarize the main points.’

He paused until his assistant, Sergeant Lovelock, had given out the last of the folders and returned to his desk.

‘At present there are fourteen British Army battalions in Northern Ireland, each with approximately 650 men, each unit deployed in its own Tactical Area of Responsibility, or TAOR, known as a “patch”. As the RUC’s B Special Reserve were highly suspect in the eyes of the Republicans, their responsibilities have been handed over to the Ulster Defence Regiment, a reserve unit composed in the main of local part-timers. Unfortunately the UDR is already deeply unpopular with the Catholics, who view its members as hard-line loyalists. Most Army commanders are no more impressed by the UDR, believing, like me, that it’s dangerous to let part-time Protestant reservists into hard Republican areas.’

‘Are they reliable otherwise?’ Ricketts asked.

‘Many of us feel that the Royal Ulster Constabulary is more reliable than the UDR, though we certainly don’t believe policemen are capable of taking complete charge of security. This is evidenced by the fact that RUC officers often refuse to accompany the Army on missions – either because they think it’s too risky or because they feel that their presence would antagonize the locals even more than the Army does.’

‘That sounds bloody helpful,’ Jock McGregor said sourly.

‘Quite. In fact, in strongly Republican areas the RUC have virtually ceded authority to us. They do, however, have two very important departments: the Criminal Investigations Department, or CID, in charge of interrogating suspects and gathering evidence after major incidents; and the Special Branch, or SB, which runs the informer networks vital to us all. They also have a Special Patrol Group, or SPG, with mobile anti-terrorist squads trained in the use of firearms and riot control. We can call upon them when necessary.’

‘What about the police stations?’ Lampton asked.

‘Sixteen divisions – rather like Army battalions – in total. Some are grouped into each of three specific regions – Belfast, South and North – each with an assistant chief constable in charge, with as much authority as the Army’s three brigadiers. Those three chief constables report in turn to the chief constable at RUC HQ at Knock, east Belfast.’

‘Who calls the shots?’ Jock McGregor asked.

‘The regular Army and UDR battalions are divided between three brigade HQs – 29 Brigade in the Belfast area, 8 Brigade in Londonderry and 3 Brigade in Portadown, the latter responsible for covering the border. The Brigade Commanders report to the Commander Land Forces, or CLF, at Lisburn, the top Army man in Ulster. He has to answer to the General Officer Commanding, or GOC, who, though an Army officer, is also in charge of the RAF and Royal Navy detachments in the province. He’s also responsible for co-ordination with the police and ministers. The HQNI, or Headquarters Northern Ireland, is located in barracks at Lisburn, a largely Protestant town just outside Belfast that includes the HQ of 39 brigade. Regarding the role of 14 Intelligence Company in all this, I’ll hand you over to Captain Dubois.’

Slightly nervous about talking to a bunch of men who would feel resentful about working with the regular Army, Captain Dubois coughed into his fist before commencing.

‘Good morning, gentlemen.’ When most of the Troop just stared steadily at him, deliberately trying to unnerve him, he continued quickly: ‘Like the SAS, 14 Intelligence Company is formed from soldiers who volunteer from other units and have to pass a stiff selection test. It recruits from the Royal Marines as well as the Army, though it looks for resourcefulness and the ability to bear the strain of long-term surveillance, rather than the physical stamina required for the Special Air Service.’

Applause, cheers and hoots of derision alike greeted Dubois’ words. Still not used to the informality of the SAS, he glanced uncertainly at Cranfield, who grinned at him, amused by his nervousness.

‘The unit has one detachment with each of the three brigades in Ulster,’ Dubois continued. ‘Each consists of twenty soldiers under the command of a captain. We operate under a variety of cover names, including the Northern Ireland Training Advisory Team, or NITAT, and the Intelligence and Security Group, or Int and Sy Group. Like the original MRF, most of our work involves setting up static OPs or the observation of suspected or known terrorists from unmarked Q cars. These have covert radios and concealed compartments for other weapons and photographic equipment. Most of the static OPs in Belfast are manned by our men and located in both Republican and Loyalist areas, such as Shankill, the Falls Road and West Belfast’s Turf Lodge and the Creggan. You men will be used mainly for OPs in rural areas and observation and other actions in Q cars here in Belfast. You will, in effect, be part of 14 Intelligence Company, doing that kind of work, initially under our supervision, then on your own.’

‘Armed?’ Danny Porter asked quietly.

‘Yes. With weapons small enough to be concealed. These include the 9mm Browning High Power handgun and, in certain circumstances, small sub-machine-guns.’

‘What’s our brief regarding their use?’

‘Your job is observation, not engagement, though the latter isn’t always avoidable. Bear in mind that you won’t be able to pass yourselves off as locals, eavesdropping in Republican bars or clubs. Try it and you’ll soon attract the curiosity of IRA sympathizers, some as young as fourteen, looking as innocent as new-born babies, but almost certainly in the IRA youth wing. If one of those innocents speaks to you, you can rest assured that he’ll soon be followed by a hard man of more mature years. Shortly after the hard man comes the coroner.’

Thankfully, the men laughed at Dubois’ sardonic remark, encouraging him to continue in a slightly more relaxed manner.

‘For that reason we recommend that you don’t leave your Q car unless absolutely necessary. We also recommend that you don’t try using an Irish accent. If you’re challenged, say no more than: “Fuck off!” And say it with conviction.’ When the men laughed again, Dubois said: ‘I know it sounds funny, but it’s actually the only phrase that might work. Otherwise, you cut out of there.’

‘At what point do we use our weapons?’ the new man, Martin Renshaw, boldly asked.

‘When you feel that your life is endangered and there’s no time to make your escape.’

‘Do we shoot to kill?’ ‘Baby Face’ asked.

‘Shooting to wound is a risky endeavour that rarely stops a potential assassin,’ Lieutenant Cranfield put in. ‘You shoot to stop the man coming at you, which means you can’t take any chances. Your aim is to down him.’

‘Which means the heart.’

‘Yes, Trooper.’

‘Is there actually a shoot-to-kill policy?’ Ricketts asked.

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.’