Remote control, p.39
Remote Control, page 39
British industry stood to lose substantially from a ceasefire. Major defence manufacturers designed equipment specifically for the internal security role and made fortunes out of the operational conditions. Equipment that was battle-proven in Northern Ireland was eagerly sought after by foreign buyers. No wonder the conflict had made Britain one of the top three arms exporters in the world, with beneficial effects on the UK balance of payments.
I knew now why McCann, Farrell and Savage had had to die. Enniskillen. The backlash against PIRA. People signing books of condolence. Irish-Americans stopping their donations. There must have been a real danger of a time of dialogue and reconciliation. Simmonds and his mates couldn’t have that. They had to create martyrs to keep the pot boiling.
And me? I was probably just a very small glitch in a well-oiled machine. Come to that, Northern Ireland was probably only one item among many in their company accounts. For all I knew, these guys also provoked killings and riots in Hebron, stirred up Croats against Serbs, and even got Kennedy killed because he wanted to stop the Vietnam War. As Simmonds had said, it was business. There was nothing I could do to stop them. But I wasn’t worried about that. What was the point? The only thing I had achieved – perhaps – was revenge for Kev’s and Pat’s deaths. That would have to be enough.
I got off the motorway and onto the dual carriageway to Abergavenny. The rain had stopped, but it was a stretch of road notorious for repair works. Euan’s house was about ten miles the other side of the town, on the road towards Brecon.
I weaved in and out of the traffic, other drivers hooting and waving their fists. Then, in the distance, I saw the red of brake lights. The morning rush hour had started. I slowed with the volume of traffic heading into the town and eventually came to a complete standstill. The jam was caused by resurfacing work and it looked as though there was a mile-long tailback.
I drove onto the hard shoulder. As I sped past them on the inside, stationary motorists honked angrily. The noise alerted the workers laying the tarmac up ahead. They ran and shouted, trying to wave me down, gesticulating at the roadworks sign. I didn’t even acknowledge them. I only hoped I didn’t get caught by the police. I dropped a gear, made speed and changed back up.
I got to Abergavenny and stayed on the ring road. I got stopped at a long set of traffic lights and bumped up onto the kerb, edging my way to the front of the queue.
Once I was over the other side of the town I started to come into open countryside and the road narrowed to a single carriageway. I put my foot down and bombed along at seventy to eighty, using the whole road as if it was my own. Seeing a left-hand bend, I moved over to the far right-hand side. I could hear the hedgerow screech against the side of the car. From this position I could see more of the dead ground round the bend. Not bothering with brakes, I banged down through the gears to second just before turning. Once on the bend, I put my foot down and made use of rubber on tarmac. Out of the bend, I block-changed to fourth and kept it there.
After a mile, a slow-moving truck was taking up most of the road. Its large container of sheep on two floors had a sticker on it asking me if I thought the driving was OK – if not, to ring head office. I had plenty of time to read it, labouring behind the fucker at 20 m.p.h.
The road twisted and turned; he could see me in his mirrors, but there was no way he was going to pull in for me to overtake. The speedo dropped to 15 m.p.h. and I looked at my watch. It was 9.35 and I’d been on the road for just under three hours.
I kept pulling out, looking and tucking back in again. Even the sheep were looking at me now. The truck driver was enjoying himself; we had eye-to-eye in his wing mirror and I could see he was laughing. I knew this road, and I knew that unless he let me overtake I was doomed to several miles of driving at his pace. By now the road had a 2-foot mud bank on each side, then trees and hedges. It was wet and slippery, with small streams running along each side. I’d have to take a chance and just hope that nothing was coming. On this road, all corners were blind.
Preparing for the next bend, the truck driver shifted slowly down through the gears and I accelerated past him on the wrong side of the road. If there was anything coming round the bend we’d both be killed. He flashed his lights and honked, probably doing his best to distract me and force me off the road. For the first time today I was in luck. The road was clear and I’d soon left the truck far behind.
A quarter of an hour later I was at the turn-off for Euan’s valley. I threw a left and, within 100 metres, the road petered out into a single lane. If I came up behind a tractor or farm machinery there would be few passing places, but luck stayed with me and there was nothing ahead. Another 20 minutes and I got to the valley. And as I approached the brow of the hill I could already see the spiral of smoke.
41
THE WALLS WERE still intact, but most of the roof had collapsed and there was smoke and scorch marks around the window frames. Two fire engines were in attendance and the firemen were still damping down. They looked wet, tired and stressed. On the other side of the house was an ambulance.
A handful of people had gathered, locals in their Barbours and wellies, who’d driven from the other side of the valley to rubberneck.
I drove on and stopped by the gate. A couple of firemen turned round, but they didn’t say anything; they were too busy doing their work.
I got out of the car and ran across the road to the small copse about 50 metres away, hollering and shouting like a madman.
‘Kelly! Kelly!’
Nothing.
‘It’s me, it’s Nick! You can come out now!’
But she wasn’t there. Deep down, I’d probably known all along that she wouldn’t be. She’d been dead from the moment she’d picked up the phone.
I turned away and walked slowly up the track towards the throng of spectators. They gave me the once-over, obviously not liking the look of my damaged face, then turned back, more interested in the remains of the house.
‘Was there anyone in there?’ I asked nobody in particular.
A woman spoke. ‘His lights were on last night and the ambulance crew have been inside. Oh, it’s such a shame. He was such a nice young man.’
I walked beyond the group and a fireman came towards me, lifting a gloved hand. ‘Excuse me, sir, if you could stay well back. We haven’t made the area safe yet.’
‘Radio Wales,’ I said, trying to make myself sound official. ‘Can you tell me what happened?’
I looked over his shoulder. Other firefighters were dragging out charred contents of Euan’s house and placing them on a pile that was being damped down. I could now smell the burning.
I looked back at the fireman. He said, ‘It looks as if there was a fire and then the gas bottles blew up. If you could move back, sir.’
‘Was anyone killed or injured?’
As I asked, something one of them threw on the pile caught my eye. It was Jenny or Ricky, one or the other, I could never tell which was which. Not that it mattered now. Whichever one it was, it was burned black, with only half an arm left.
‘It will take some time before we know for sure, but no-one could have survived that blast.’
He was right. In any other circumstances, it would have been an explosion to be proud of.
Kelly was dead. Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad. It would be a fucker, but I’d get over it. What could I have offered her?
Kelly would have been in shit state when she realized what had happened to her and would have needed psychiatric treatment. Besides, she’d been starting to like the way we’d been living. Her death would tidy things up. I wouldn’t have to protect or worry about her any more.
I turned and started back towards the car, deep in my thoughts. What was done was done; I couldn’t change it, couldn’t turn the clock back. I’d find out more from the news.
Behind me, in the distance, I heard the squawk of a bird, maybe a crow. It almost sounded like my name.
I stopped and turned.
And there she was, running towards me from beyond the trees.
I started to run towards her, but checked myself. I wanted to make it look casual, even if my insides were shaking off the Richter scale.
She flew into my arms and buried her face in my neck. I pulled her back and held her at arm’s length. ‘Why weren’t you at the trees?’ I was half angry, half relieved, like a parent who thinks he’s lost a child in a crowd, and then finds her again and doesn’t know whether to give her a good old bollocking or just a hug and a kiss. I didn’t know what to do, but it felt good.
‘Why weren’t you by the trees where I said?’
She looked at me in disbelief. ‘As if! Because you always make sure you stand off and watch. You told me that!’
I got hold of her hand, grinned and said, ‘Yeah, fair one.’
Still smiling, we carried on along the track. She was soaked, her hair matted to her head.
We reached the car and got in without exchanging another word.
I looked at her in the rear-view mirror. We had eye-to-eye. She smiled and I snapped, ‘Put your seat belt on!’
I turned the key in the ignition and we drove off.
THE END
Glossary
ASU
active service unit
ATO
ammunitions technical officer
basha
improvised shelter
bergen
pack carried by British forces on active service
BG
bodyguard
blue-and-white
police car
CTR
close target reconnaissance
CT
counter-terrorism
DA
defence attaché
DEA
Drug Enforcement Administration
Det
abbreviation for detachment. Subunit of 14 Intelligence Group, which is a covert intelligence–gathering organization operating in Northern Ireland
the Firm
Secret Intelligence Service
gypsy’s warning
final warning
head shed
nickname for anyone in authority. From Malaya days, this is what any form of leadership in the Regiment has been called, after the term for the start of the river course.
K
operator on deniable ops
LCN
La Cosa Nostra
LOSO
liaison officer, special operations
MoD
Ministry of Defence
OPSEC
operational security
PIRA
Provisional Irish Republican Army
RHQ
regimental headquarters
RV
rendezvous
sat comm
satellite communications
scaleys
signallers
security blanket
an operator’s ‘insurance’, often documentary evidence of a government’s complicity in deniable ops
SF
Special Forces
SIS
Secret Intelligence Service
sit rep
situation report
slime
Intelligence Corps
SOP
standard operating procedure
SWAT
special weapons and tactics
VDM
visual distinguishing mark
About the Author
In 1984 he was ‘badged’ as a member of 22 SAS Regiment.
Over the course of the next nine years he was at the centre of covert operations on five continents.
During the first Gulf War he commanded Bravo Two Zero, a patrol that, in the words of his commanding officer, ‘will remain in regimental history for ever’.
Awarded both the Distinguished Conduct Medal (DCM) and Military Medal (MM) during his military career.
McNab was the British Army’s most highly decorated serving soldier when he finally left the SAS in February 1993.
He is a patron of the Help for Heroes campaign.
He is now the author of twelve bestselling thrillers, as well as two Quick Read novels, The Grey Man and Last Night Another Soldier. He has also edited Spoken from the Front, an oral history of the conflict in Afghanistan.
BRAVO TWO ZERO
In January 1991, eight members of the SAS regiment, under the command of Sergeant Andy McNab, embarked upon a top secret mission in Iraq to infiltrate them deep behind enemy lines. Their call sign: ‘Bravo Two Zero’.
IMMEDIATE ACTION
The no–holds–barred account of an extraordinary life, from the day McNab as a baby was found in a carrier bag on the steps of Guy’s Hospital to the day he went to fight in the Gulf War. As a delinquent youth he kicked against society. As a young soldier he waged war against the IRA in the streets and fields of South Armagh.
SEVEN TROOP
Andy McNab’s gripping story of the time he served in the company of a remarkable band of brothers. The things they saw and did during that time would take them all to breaking point – and some beyond – in the years that followed. He who dares doesn’t always win …
Nick Stone titles
Nick Stone, ex–SAS trooper, now gun–for–hire working on deniable ops for the British government, is the perfect man for the dirtiest of jobs, doing whatever it takes by whatever means necessary …
REMOTE CONTROL
Dateline: Washington DC, USA
Stone is drawn into the bloody killing of an ex–SAS officer and his family and soon finds himself on the run with the one survivor who can identify the killer – a seven-year-old girl.
‘Proceeds with a testosterone surge’ Daily Telegraph
CRISIS FOUR
Dateline: North Carolina, USA
In the backwoods of the American South, Stone has to keep alive the beautiful young woman who holds the key to unlock a chilling conspiracy that will threaten world peace.
‘When it comes to thrills, he’s Forsyth class’ Mail on Sunday
FIREWALL
Dateline: Finland
The kidnapping of a Russian Mafia warlord takes Stone into the heart of the global espionage world and into conflict with some of the most dangerous killers around.
‘Other thriller writers do their research, but McNab has actually been there’ Sunday Times
LAST LIGHT
Dateline: Panama
Stone finds himself at the centre of a lethal conspiracy involving ruthless Colombian mercenaries, the US government and Chinese big business. It’s an uncomfortable place to be …
‘A heart thumping read’ Mail on Sunday
LIBERATION DAY
Dateline: Cannes, France
Behind its glamorous exterior, the city’s seething underworld is the battleground for a very dirty drugs war and Stone must reach deep within himself to fight it on their terms.
‘McNab’s great asset is that the heart of his fiction is non–fiction’ Sunday Times
DARK WINTER
Dateline: Malaysia
A straightforward action on behalf of the War on Terror turns into a race to escape his past for Stone if he is to save himself and those closest to him.
‘Addictive … Packed with wild action and revealing tradecraft’ Daily Telegraph
DEEP BLACK
Dateline: Bosnia
All too late Stone realizes that he is being used as bait to lure into the open a man whom the darker forces of the West will stop at nothing to destroy.
‘One of the UK’s top thriller writers’ Daily Express
AGGRESSOR
Dateline: Georgia, former Soviet Union
A longstanding debt of friendship to an SAS comrade takes Stone on a journey where he will have to risk everything to repay what he owes, even his life …
‘A terrific novelist’ Mail on Sunday
RECOIL
Dateline: The Congo, Africa
What starts out as a personal quest for a missing woman quickly becomes a headlong rush from his own past for Stone.
‘Stunning … A first class action thriller’ The Sun
CROSSFIRE
Dateline: Kabul
Nick Stone enters the modern day wild west that is Afghanistan in search of a kidnapped reporter.
‘Authentic to the core … McNab at his electrifying best’ Daily Express
BRUTE FORCE
Dateline: Tripoli
An undercover operation is about to have deadly long term consequences …
‘Violent and gripping, this is classic McNab’ News of the World
EXIT WOUND
Dateline: Dubai
Nick Stone embarks on a quest to track down the killer of two ex-SAS comrades.
‘Could hardly be more topical … all the elements of a McNab novel are here’ Mail on Sunday
ZERO HOUR
Dateline: Amsterdam
A code that will jam every item of military hardware from Kabul to Washington. A terrorist group who nearly have it in their hands. And a soldier who wants to go down fighting …
‘Like his creator, the ex-SAS soldier turned uber-agent is unstoppable’ Daily Mirror
Andy McNab and Kym Jordan’s new series of novels traces the interwoven stories of one platoon’s experience of warfare in the twenty-first century. Packed with the searing danger and high-octane excitement of modern combat, it also explores the impact of its aftershocks upon the soldiers themselves, and upon those who love them. It will take you straight into the heat of battle and the hearts of those who are burned by it.
WAR TORN
Two tours of Iraq under his belt, Sergeant Dave Henley has seen something of how modern battles are fought. But nothing can prepare him for the posting to Forward Operating Base Senzhiri, Helmand Province, Afghanistan. This is a warzone like even he’s never seen before.
