Hetman: Hard Kil

HETMAN: HARD KILL

AN AIDAN SNOW SAS SHORT STORY

County Armagh, Northern Ireland. November 1994

As Aidan Snow and Paddy Fox entered ‘Bandit Country’, Snow felt reassuringly for his SIG-Sauer. He had no illusions, IRA ceasefire notwithstanding; if the local unit got their hands on him it wouldn’t be pleasant.

During the course of ‘the troubles’ the South Armagh Brigade had claimed responsibility for the deaths of more than one hundred and sixty members of the British security forces and seventy five civilians. Their reach had been so wide that the army brass mandated the safest way for the British military to travel across South Armagh was inside Chinook helos. Snow was travelling in a second hand Opel Vectra.

A further two SAS men, Dave Napp and Steve Gord were trailing them half a mile back in a battered looking Ford Sierra. Far from being aging run-a-bouts, the vehicles were in fact ‘Q cars’. They looked ‘stock’ on the outside but had been heavily modified beneath their mundane skins. This included Kevlar plating under the body panels, larger engines and uprated suspension to carry the extra weight. Both had hidden compartments containing a pair of assault rifles and grenades (fragmentation & flash-bang). The most impressive modification however was to the Vectra. It had a flash-bang dispenser secreted beneath the car which when triggered by a foot switch launched multiple grenades in multiple directions. This was a last resort counter measure to evade ambushes; Snow hoped they wouldn’t need it but was itching to stamp on the button.

Seconded to the secretive 14 Field Security and Intelligence Company, aka ‘the Det’, Snow had been in Northern Ireland for less than a fortnight as a replacement for an injured member of Mobility troop. Snow’s partner, Paddy Fox, was a ten year veteran of the SAS. A Glaswegian mother and a father from Armagh had resulted in Fox spending much of his youth in the local area. His thick Glaswegian accent could flip for an Armagh brogue at the drop of a hat. He was a perfect fit for the Det. Acting on Intel from an informer; their task tonight was to recce a suspected weapons cache believed to be located at a farmhouse in use by Jimmy McCracken and Marin Grew, two big players in the South Armagh Brigade. Outraged that Sinn Féin was in negotiations with Westminster, the duo had formed a breakaway group intent on ending the two month old ceasefire and stalling the peace process. Originally formed as a surveillance and intelligence gathering unit, the Det’s covert mandate had now expanded to include the occasional ‘operational tasking’. In short the Det’s duty was to stop McCracken’s faction.

“Are you married?” Fox asked.

“Too young.”

“I got married too young, and she wasn’t even up the spout. Silly bugger, I joined the army to impress her.”

“And did it?”

“My Sargent Major impressed her. Our marriage lasted six years.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why? It wasn’t you humping her.”

They drove on in silence for a couple more miles before Snow spoke. “You grew up around here, right?”

“In part, summer holidays as a kid. I could have gone either way, if I hadn’t got out. Y’know?” And you?”

“All over the place.”

Fox nodded. “Army kid?”

“Embassy brat, Moscow mainly.”

“Posh boy then, you should be a Rupert.”

“You can salute me if you like.”

“Piss off.”

They lapsed into silence again. In the fading light the Irish countryside was foreboding, the dark wintery trees towered above black hedgerows and clawed at them. As they crested a hill, several hundred yards ahead of them a saloon car appeared from the hedgerows on the right and stopped abruptly in the middle of the road. The driver got out and hurried into cover on the opposite side.

“Shit.” Fox slammed on the breaks and then thumbed his radio. “Possible IVCP. Over.”

“Have that. Will check. Out.” Napp replied from the Sierra as he slowed to hang back and check the road behind. If this was an Illegal Vehicle Checkpoint (IVCP) a second car would now be blocking their retreat, probably boasting several armed men with itchy trigger fingers.

“Moving.” Snow quickly got out of the front of the stationary Vectra and climbed back in behind Fox. He retrieved a short stock HK assault rifle from its hiding place.

The drill for a possible IVCP was something they had practised until it became second nature to them. They would approach the obstruction slowly, weapons ready. If an x-ray appeared Fox was to shoot through the open side window. Immediately Snow would burst out of the Vectra, grab the body and throw it into the back of the car before they raced off. If needed Fox could use the flash-bangs, but this was still no defence against a roadside bomb…Snow felt his heart beat faster, their armoured Q car could not take the direct blast of an IED.

Behind them Napp spoke over the net. “Nothing seen here.”

“Have that. Proceeding to possible contact.”

Fox put the Vectra into first, rolled forward then up into second. The Opel closed the distance to the stationary vehicle as both men readied themselves for immediate action. Unexpectedly the driver of the abandoned car reappeared; he casually looked up and waved before getting into his car and driving away.

“What’s the bugger up to?” Fox asked.

They came level with where the car had stopped. Snow looked left and then right as they passed. He saw cattle grids at the entrance to cow fields. “He was a farmer closing his gates.”

Fox let out a sigh of relief. “Then we have no beef with him.”

Snow smiled in the twilight. Fox stopped the car and Snow got back into the front. As they carried on for the next half hour and moved deeper into South Armagh, Snow became pensive. He cared little of the politics that caused the conflict. What was far more important to him than religion or nationality was the protection of the Northern Irish people on both sides, like the farmer, who just wanted the chance to get on with their lives in peace. The fact that they were being targeted by armed extremists gnawed at him.

As the adrenalin ebbed away Snow’s focus alternated between the road ahead and the dense hedgerows that hemmed them in on each side. It had been a cold November evening and now that night was upon them the temperature had dropped to below freezing. They were dressed in cheap dark jeans and scruffy parkas - just a couple of lads returning from enjoying ‘the craic’. However both men had black balaclavas and gloves stowed in their pockets.

Snow and Fox were familiar with the layout of the target having studied surveillance photographs taken by the two man Det team monitoring the farmhouse. The Observation Post (OP) was in the treeline, on a hill half a mile from the target. The farmhouse sat on the edge of a village and faced east onto a lane. It was set on a concrete yard with a driveway. Fields surrounded it on three sides, the southern side leading to the hill. A barn stood behind the farmhouse at the end of the yard and the start of the fields. The weapons cache was believed to be covered by a tarpaulin at the back of the barn. The farm had originally produced milk but had been forced to close years before. The current resident, McCracken, South Armagh’s hardest ‘hard man’ had no interest in dairy farming. Although they had seen others come and go, the OP had placed four IRA men inside the house at the present time.

“You ready, kid?” Fox asked sarcastically.

“I was born ready.” Snow answered flatly, ignoring the jibe.

Fox grinned. “No. You were born yesterday; I’m asking if you are ready.”

Snow shook his head slowly and said nothing. Fox pressed a button to disable the brake lights before he slowed the Vectra and pulled into a layby. A line of trees obscured them from the road. Once behind these the dark green family saloon was all but invisible. A minute later the Sierra drove past as a steady rate. It would take up its own position on the other side of the village to watch for any ‘dickers’ – local lookouts or signs of compromise.

With the engine off and the windows wound down, they waited for several minutes in silence to acclimatise to the stillness of the night. On the same hill as the OP, but the other side of the wood, it was an easy downhill ‘stroll’ to the target. Before moving off Snow attached a suppressor to his SIG Sauer - the Det could not be seen or more importantly heard breaking the ceasefire. He then checked the contents of his pockets; a small Maglite with black tape secured over the lens to make the beam narrower and a point and forget camera loaded with IR film.

Snow nodded at Fox before silently slipping out of the car. He placed the Balaclava on his head - rolled up like a woolly hat and gently walked away.

Snow waited until the car was out of sight before pressing the switch on his throat mic. “Radio check.”

“Check.” Fox’s voice was loud in Snow’s ear. Snow then heard the voices of the others do the same.

Fox remained static with the car. He would react quickly if either Snow, the team in the Sierra or the OP gave him the signal.

The cold bit into Snow’s exposed face as he rounded a bend. The hedgerows had given way to low stone walls, which if all went to crap and the shooting started, would at least stop a round. Snow saw the farmhouse. The lights were off and not a sound carried in the still night air. The normal tactical approach to target through the fields had been discounted. Fox had reasoned that the best course of action was for Snow to act like a local. Hands thrust into pockets, head down and heading towards the farmhouse, Snow didn’t like the idea but acknowledged Fox’s greater experience. If Snow was challenged before he reached the target then the operation was over. He felt the weight of the supressed SIG as he walked. If fired upon the official rules of engagement authorised him to return fire, but the politicians on both sides would go ballistic...

Snow was exposed; this was when a single well placed round could end it all before any of his watchers could warn him. Just a few more steps and he would be hidden. He could feel his heart start to pound and his palms become wet inside his gloves. Snow was opposite the farmhouse now, in the dead-ground caused by the shadows. A hunter’s moon glowed overhead. In the absence of street-lights it was the only source of illumination. Not a sound came from the target and there were no lights visible. Snow fought to control his breathing; the sound amplified in the quietness of the Irish night. In the shadows he crossed the lane and vaulted over the stone-wall. Moments later he pressed his back against the side of the house and held his breath. He was unsighted by the team in the OP but they had an eyeball on the farmyard.

“Clear.” A voice from the OP in his ear.

Snow pulled his balaclava down over his face and waited for a further minute. Silence. No lights, no dogs, no shouts, no shots. Gingerly he edged along the wall until he could see around the corner. He placed his hand on the pistol-grip of the SIG and retrieved it from his pocket. Snow took several large breaths, filled his lungs with oxygen and silently walked across the yard. He reached the barn and stood next to the door and pushed. The door opened a fraction and he stepped inside. The OP would have informed him anyone was within the barn, but Snow was taking no chances. With a two handed grip, he swung his SIG left to right as his eyes became more accustomed to the inky darkness. He could make out shapes, a couple of old bails laying hap-hazard in the middle of the floor, the small hay loft above and the far back of the barn.

Then it all went noisy. There was a warning in his ear as two pairs of feet clattered on the concrete. Snow had a matter of seconds to react. He darted behind a stack of bails and flattened himself into the floor. His SIG was in his right hand and his left was pressed against the ground to enable him to push sideways.

“Kelly! Kelly! Would ya just come back?”

The barn doors opened and a figure stood on the threshold. A second figure appeared next to him and spoke first, his words slurred with whiskey.

“It was only fair y’know Kelly. I mean if word spread what we was harbouring, Our reputation would all go to shite!”

“We should just lure those ‘Sass’ bastards into a trap.” Kelly’s breath was loud and irregular. “I want to check em again.”

“Would ya just stop whining over the plan? The longs are safe, they’re not going anywhere. Come back into the house, finish your drink.”

The doors closed again and both men stumbled away. Snow remained motionless and waited. There was a hiss in his ear over the net. “Clear.”

Snow pulled himself onto all fours and then up to a crouch. He waited again and listened awhile before he moved towards the back of the barn. He holstered his SIG and removed his Maglite. Angling it forwards he started to gently sweep the darkness. The tape over the lens made the beam much narrower and stopped it flooding the room. In the shaft of light he saw the reflection of the shiny tarpaulin. With sweat now running into his eyes, he carefully searched the area for any sign of a tripwire, trigger or other booby-trap. Satisfied that there were none he lifted the tarpaulin and saw three packages, two long and one brick sized each wrapped in heavy cloth. The distinctive smell of gun-oil filled the air. Slowly he un-wrapped the parcel until he was certain that what he was looking at was an AK47 assault rifle. Snow photographed the rifle before re-wrapping it and repeating the same procedure with the second package. It was the same as the first. He then moved to the third and as he carefully opened it, the tell-tale marzipan like scent of semtex attacked his nostrils.