Sniper Fire in Belfast

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by 22 Books/Bloomsbury Publishing plc 1993

Copyright © Bloomsbury Publishing plc 1993

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016

Cover photographs © Alain le Garsmeur “The Troubles” Archive/Alamy (background); Shutterstock.com (soldier and textures)

Shaun Clarke asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008154943

Ebook Edition © November 2015 ISBN: 9780008154950

Version: 2015-10-15

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Prelude

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

OTHER TITLES IN THE SAS OPERATION SERIES

About the Publisher

Prelude

Martin was hiding in a shallow scrape when they found him. He plunged into despair when he heard their triumphant shouting, then he was grabbed by the shoulders and jerked roughly up on to his knees.

The rain was lashing down over the wind-blown green fields, and he caught only a glimpse of the shadowy men in olive-green fatigues, carrying a variety of weapons and moving in to surround him, before he was blindfolded, bound by hands and feet, and thrown into the back of their truck like so much dead meat.

‘Face down in the fucking mud,’ one of them said, ‘digging through to Australia.’ The others laughed. ‘Looks a bit on the damp side, doesn’t he? That should save him embarrassment. We won’t notice the stains when the bugger starts pissing his pants – and that won’t take long, I’ll bet.’

Lying on his side on the floor of the truck, feeling the occasional soft kick from the boots of the men sitting above him, Martin had to choke back his panic and keep control of himself.

After so long, he thought. After so much. Don’t lose it all now …

The door on the driver’s side of the truck slammed shut, then the engine coughed into life and the vehicle rattled across the hilly terrain, bumped over what Martin judged to be the rough edge of the field, then moved straight ahead along a proper road. Still in despair, though knowing he hadn’t lost all yet, he took deep, even breaths, forcing his racing heart to settle down.

When someone’s body rolled into his and he heard a nervous coughing, he realized with a shameful feeling of relief that he wasn’t the only one they had caught.

‘Shit!’ he whispered.

‘What was that, boyo?’ one of his captors asked in a mocking manner. ‘Did I hear filthy language from down there?’

‘Take off this bloody blindfold,’ Martin said. ‘You don’t really need that.’

‘Feeling a bit uncomfortable, are you? A bit disorientated? Well, you better get used to it, you stupid prat, because that blindfold stays on. Now shut your mouth and don’t speak until you’re spoken to.’

The other tethered man rolled away from Martin, coughing uncomfortably. ‘We don’t have to…’ he began.

‘Put a sock in it,’ the same captor said, leaning down to roll the man over and somehow silence him. Even as Martin was wondering what the man was doing, a cloth was wrapped tightly around his mouth and tied in a knot at the back of his head. ‘Now you’re dumb as well as blind,’ the man said. ‘That should teach you not to open your trap when it’s not called for.’

‘Have you pissed your pants yet?’ another voice asked. ‘It’s hard to tell, you’re both so wet all over. Hope you’re not feeling cold, lads.’

Some of the men laughed. ‘Fucking SAS,’ another man said contemptuously. ‘Supposed to be impossible to find and these pricks lie there waiting to be picked up. If this is the best they can manage, they must be fit for the Girl Guides.’

The last remark raised a few more laughs and made Martin feel even worse, adding humiliation to his despair and increasing his fear of what might be to come.

You haven’t lost it all yet, he told himself. Just try to stay calm, in control. Don’t let them get to you. Don’t let fear defeat you.

It was easier to contemplate than it was to put into practice. Indeed, as the truck growled and shook beneath him, its hard boards seeming to hammer him, he became increasingly aware of his blindfold and gag, which in turn made him feel claustrophobic and unbearably helpless. As the blindfold was also covering his ears, he was practically deaf, dumb and blind. That forced him deeper into himself and made him strain to break out. This feeling was not eased by the cruel mockery of his captors as the truck growled and rattled along the road.

‘A big, brave British soldier?’ one of his captors said, prodding him in the ribs with his boot. ‘Found hiding face down in the mud. Not so big and brave now, boys.’

‘Might be big in unseen places. Might be brave with what’s hidden.’

‘That’ll be the day. A pair of English nancy boys. A pair of uniformed British poofters tryin’ to keep real men down. Well, when we get where we’re goin’, we’ll find out what they’re made of. I’m lookin’ forward to that.’

It’s not real, Martin thought, trying to stop himself from shivering, his soaked clothing starting to freeze and his exhaustion now compounded by despair at being caught. Bear in mind that nothing is real, that nothing can break you. Just don’t make a mistake.

After what seemed like an eternity, the truck came to a halt, the back was dropped down, and Martin was roughly hauled to his feet and dragged down to the ground, where they deliberately rolled him in the mud a few times, then stood him up in the wind and rain. Someone punched him lightly on the back of his neck, urging him forward. But as his ankles were still tethered together, allowing only minimal movement, they lost patience and two of them dragged him by the armpits across what seemed to be an open space – the wind was howling across it, lashing the rain into his face – then up steps, onto a porch. He heard doors squeaking open, felt warmer air reach his face, then was dragged in to where there was no wind or rain and the warmth was a blessing. His boots scraped over what seemed like linoleum, then they dragged him around a corner, along another straight stretch, then through another door – again he heard it squeaking as it opened – and at last pushed him down into a chair.

Stay calm, he thought desperately. Don’t make any mistakes. It all depends on what you say or don’t say, so don’t let them trick you. Don’t panic. Don’t break.

‘What a filthy specimen,’ someone said contemptuously. ‘He looks like he’s been taking a swim in his own piss and shit.’

‘Just mud and rain, sir,’ another man said. ‘Not the gentleman’s fault, his appearance. The natural elements, is all.’

‘Where did you find him?’

‘Belly down in the mud. Trying to blend in with the earth in the hope that we’d miss him. Fat chance of that, sir.’

‘The dumb British shit. He must think we’re all halfwits. Do we talk to him now or let him dry out?’

‘He won’t smell so bad when he dries out.’

‘That’s true enough. Hood him.’

The cloth was removed from Martin’s mouth, letting him breathe more easily. No sooner had he begun to do so than a hood was slipped over his head and tightened around his neck with a cord, making him feel even more claustrophobic. A spasm of terror whipped through him, then passed away again.

Breathe deeply and evenly, he thought. You’re not going to choke. They’re just trying to panic you.

‘My name is Martin Renshaw,’ he said, just to hear the sound of his own voice. ‘My rank is…’

A hand pressed over his mouth and pushed his head back until the hard chair cut painfully into his neck.

‘When we want your name, rank, serial number and date of birth we’ll ask for it,’ the colder voice said. ‘Don’t speak again unless spoken to. We’ll now leave you to dry out. Understood?’

Martin nodded.

‘That’s a good start. Now be a good boy.’

Their footsteps marched away, the door opened and slammed shut, then there was only the silence and his own laboured breathing. Soon he thought he could hear his heart beating, ticking off every second, every terrible minute.

As the hours passed he dried out, and his clothing became sticky, though it could have been sweat. Not knowing if it was one or the other only made him feel worse. His exhaustion, already considerable before his capture, was now attacking his mind. His thoughts slipped like faulty gears, his fear alternated with defiance, and when he started drifting in and out of consciousness it was only the cramp in his tightly bound arms that kept him awake.

He was slipping gratefully into oblivion when someone kicked his chair over. The shock was appalling, jolting him awake, screaming, though he didn’t hit the floor. Instead, someone laughed and grabbed the back of the chair to tip him upright again. The blood had rushed to his head and the panic had almost made him snap, but he took a deep breath and controlled himself, remembering that the hood was still over his head and that his feeling of suffocation was caused by that, as well as by shock.

‘So sorry,’ a man said, sounding terribly polite and English. ‘A little mishap. Slip of the foot. I trust you weren’t hurt.’

‘No,’ Martin said, shocked by the breathless sound of his own voice. ‘Could you remove this hood? Its really…’

The chair went over again and stopped just before hitting the floor. This time they held him in that position for some time, letting the blood run to his head, then tipped him upright again and let his breathing settle.

‘We ask the questions,’ the polite gentleman said, ‘and you do the answering. Now could you please tell us who else was with you in that field.’

Martin gave his name, rank, service number and date of birth.

The chair was kicked back, caught and tipped upright, then someone else bawled in Martin’s face: ‘We don’t want to know that!’

After getting his breath back, Martin gave his name, rank, service number and date of birth, thinking, This isn’t real.

It became real enough after that, with a wide variety of questions either politely asked or bawled, the polite voice alternating with the bullying one, and the chair being thrown back and jerked up again, but getting lower to the floor every time. Eventually, when Martin, despite his surging panic, managed to keep repeating only his name, rank, serial number and date of birth, they gave up on the chair and dragged him across the room to slam him face first into what seemed like a bare wall. There, the ropes around his ankles were released and he was told to spread his legs as wide as possible, almost doing the splits.

‘Don’t move a muscle,’ he was told by the bully.

He stood like that for what seemed a long time, until his thighs began to ache intolerably and his whole body sagged.

‘Don’t move!’ the bully screamed, slamming Martin’s face into the wall again and forcing him to straighten his aching spine. ‘Stay as still as the turd you are!’

‘We’re sorry to be so insistent,’ the polite one added, ‘but you’re not helping at all. Now, regarding what you were doing out there in the fields, do please tell us…’

It went on and on, with Martin either repeating his basic details or saying: ‘I cannot answer that question.’ They shouted, cajoled and bullied. They made him stand in one position until he collapsed, then let him rest only long enough to enable them to pick another form of torture that did not involve beating.

Martin knew what they were doing, but this wasn’t too much help, since he didn’t know how long it would last, let alone how long he might endure it. Being hooded only made it worse, sometimes making him feel that he was going to suffocate, at other times making him think that he was hallucinating, but always depriving him of his sense of time. It also plunged him into panics based solely on the fact that he no longer knew left from right and felt mentally and physically unbalanced.

Finally, they left him, letting him sleep on the floor, joking that they were turning out the light, since he couldn’t see that anyway. He lay there for an eternity – but perhaps only minutes – now yearning just to sleep, too tired to sleep, and whispering his name, rank, serial number and date of birth over and over, determined not to make a mistake when repeating it or, worse, say more than that. The only words he kept in mind other than those were: ‘I cannot answer that question.’ He had dreams – they may have been hallucinations – and had no idea of how long he had been lying there where they returned to torment him.

They asked Martin if he smoked and, when he said no, blew a cloud of smoke in his face. While he was coughing, they asked him more questions. When he managed, even through his delirium, to stick to his routine answers, one of them threw him back on the freezing floor and said: ‘Let’s feed the bastard to the dogs.’

They stripped off his clothing, being none too gentle, then left him to lie there, shivering with cold, almost sobbing, but controlling himself by endlessly repeating his name, rank, serial number and date of birth.

He almost lost control again when he heard dogs barking, snarling viciously, and hammering their paws relentlessly on the closed door.

Was it real dogs or a recording? Surely, they wouldn’t…Who? By now he was too tired to think straight, forgetting why he was there, rapidly losing touch with reality, his mind expanding and contracting, his thoughts swirling in a pool of light and darkness in the hood’s stifling heat.

A recording, was the thought he clung to. Must not panic or break.

The door opened and snarling dogs rushed in, accompanied by the shouting of men.

The men appeared to be ordering the dogs back out. When the dogs were gone, the door closed again.

Silence.

Then somebody screamed: ‘Where are you based?’

It was like an electric bolt shooting through Martin’s body, making him twitch and groan. He started to tell them, wanted to tell them, and instead said: ‘I cannot answer that question.’

‘You’re a good boy,’ the civilized English voice said. ‘Too stubborn for your own good.’

This time, when they hoisted him back on to the chair, he was filled with a dread that made him forget everything except the need to keep his mouth shut and make no mistakes. No matter what they said, no matter what they did, he would not say a word.

‘What’s the name of your squadron commander?’ the bully bawled.

‘I cannot answer that question,’ Martin said, then methodically gave his name, rank, serial number and date of birth.

The silence that followed seemed to stretch out for ever, filling Martin with a dread that blotted out most of his past. Eventually the English-sounding voice said: ‘This is your last chance. Will you tell us more or not?’

Martin was halfway through reciting his routine when they whipped off the hood.

Light blinded him.

1

‘I still don’t think we should do it,’ Captain Dubois said, even as he hung his neatly folded OGs in his steel locker and started putting on civilian clothing. ‘It could land us in water so hot we’d come out like broiled chicken.’

‘We’re doing it,’ Lieutenant Cranfield replied, tightening the laces on his scuffed, black-leather shoes and oblivious to the fact that Captain Dubois was his superior officer, ‘I’m fed up being torn between Army Intelligence, MI6, the RUC and even the “green slime”,’ he said, this last being the Intelligence Corps. ‘If we come up with anything, as sure as hell one lot will approve, the other will disapprove, they’ll argue for months, and in the end not a damned thing will be done. Well, not this time. I’m going to take that bastard out by myself. As for MI5…’

Cranfield trailed off, too angry for words. After an uneasy silence, Captain Dubois said tentatively, ‘Just because Corporal Phillips committed suicide…’

‘Exactly. So to hell with MI5.’

Corporal Phillips had been one of the best of 14 Intelligence Company’s undercover agents, infiltrating the most dangerous republican ghettos of Belfast and collecting invaluable intelligence. A few weeks earlier he had handed over ten first-class sources of information to MI5 and within a week they had all been assassinated, one after the other, by the IRA.

Apart from the shocking loss of so many watchers, including Phillips, the assassinations had shown that MI5 had a leak in its system. That leak, as Cranfield easily discovered, was their own source, Shaun O’Halloran, who had always been viewed by 14 Intelligence Company as a hardline republican, therefore unreliable. Having ignored the advice of 14 Intelligence Company and used O’Halloran without its knowledge, MI5, instead of punishing him, had tried to save embarrassment by simply dropping him and trying to cover his tracks.

Cranfield, still shocked and outraged by the death of ten men, as well as the subsequent suicide of the conscience-stricken Phillips, was determined that their betrayer, O’Halloran, would not walk away scot-free.

‘A mistake is one thing,’ he said, placing his foot back on the floor and grabbing a grey civilian’s jacket from his locker, ‘but to believe that you can trust someone with O’Halloran’s track record is pure bloody stupidity.’

‘They weren’t to know that he was an active IRA member,’ Dubois said, studying himself in the mirror and seeing a drab civilian rather than the SAS officer he actually was. ‘They thought he was just another tout out to make a few bob.’

‘Right,’ Cranfield said contemptuously. ‘They thought. They should have bloody well checked.’

Though nervous about his famously short-fused SAS officer, Captain Dubois understood his frustration.

For the past year sharp divisions had been appearing between the two main non-military Intelligence agencies: MI6 (the secret intelligence service run by the Commonwealth and Foreign Office, never publicly acknowledged) and MI5, the Security Service openly charged with counter-espionage. The close-knit, almost tribal nature of the RUC, the Royal Ulster Constabulary, meant that its Special Branch was also running its own agents with little regard for Army needs or requirements. RUC Special Branch, meanwhile, was running its own, secret cross-border contacts with the Irish Republic’s Gardai Special Branch. Because of this complex web of mutually suspicious and secretive organizations, the few SAS men in the province, occupying key intelligence positions at the military HQ in Lisburn and elsewhere, were often exposed to internecine rivalries when trying to co-ordinate operations against the terrorists.

Even more frustrating was the pecking order. While SAS officers attempted to be the cement between mutually mistrustful allies, soldiers from other areas acted as Military Intelligence Officers (MIOs) or Field Intelligence NCOs (Fincos) in liaison with the RUC. Such men and women came from the Intelligence Corps, Royal Military Police, and many other sources. The link with each RUC police division was a Special Military Intelligence Unit containing MIOs, Fincos and Milos (Military Intelligence Liaison Officers). An MIO working as part of such a unit could find himself torn by conflicting responsibilities to the RUC, Army Intelligence and MI6.

That is what had happened to Phillips. Though formally a British Army ‘Finco’ answerable to Military Intelligence, he had been intimidated by members of the Security Service into routeing his information to his own superiors via MI5. In doing so he had innocently sealed his own fate, as well as the fate of his ten unfortunate informants.

No wonder Cranfield was livid.

Still, Dubois felt a little foolish. As an officer of the British Army serving with 14 Intelligence Company, he was Cranfield’s superior by both rank and position, yet Lieutenant Cranfield, one of a small number of SAS officers attached to the unit, ignored these fine distinctions and more or less did what he wanted. A flamboyant character, even by SAS standards, he had been in Northern Ireland only two months, yet already had garnered himself a reputation as a ‘big timer’, someone working out on the edge and possessed of extreme braggadocio, albeit with brilliant flair and matchless courage. While admiring him, for the latter qualities, Dubois was nervous about Cranfield’s cocksure attitude, which he felt would land him in trouble sooner or later.

‘We’ll be in and out in no time,’ Cranfield told him, clipping a holstered 9mm Browning High Power handgun to his belt, positioned halfway around his waist, well hidden by the jacket. ‘So stop worrying about it. Are you ready?’

‘Yes,’ Dubois said, checking that his own High Power was in the cross-draw position.

‘Right,’ Cranfield said, ‘let’s go.’

As they left the barracks, Dubois again felt a faint flush of humiliation, realizing just how much he liked and admired Cranfield and had let himself be won over by his flamboyance. Though a former Oxford boxing blue and Catholic Guards officer, Dubois was helplessly awed by the fact that his second-in-command, Lieutenant Randolph ‘Randy’ Cranfield, formerly of the King’s Own Scottish Borderers and the Parachute Regiment, had gone to Ampleforth where the founder of the SAS, David Stirling, had also been educated, and was widely admired for his daring – some would say reckless – exploits.

Dubois had his own brand of courage, which he had often displayed in the mean streets of Belfast or the ‘bandit country’ of Armagh, but he was basically conservative in outlook and helplessly admiring of those less inhibited. He had therefore gradually become Cranfield’s shadow, rather than his leader, and recognition of this fact made him uncomfortable.