Compromised

Derek Keyte
Copyright 2011 Derek Keyte
Kindle Edition
This novel is dedicated to the memory of Derek Wood and David Howes.
Lest we forget.
'Once more unto the breech, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our English dead!
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage.'
Henry V, Act III, Scene 1

Prologue
April 1989
It was an unusually warm and pleasant spring day in Northern Ireland for a time of year
when rain was an almost obligatory part of daily life throughout the Province. The brilliant
sunshine had brought the Saturday shoppers out in their droves and business in Belfast was
thriving.

Amongst the heavy traffic coming away from the city a non-descript cream Ford Sierra
was slowly making its way along a busy road, the driver paying little attention to the bustling
shoppers going about their afternoon business.
The driver had himself just visited Belfast city centre and purchased a pair of gold
earrings and a birthday card for his fiance ready for his visit to her home in England later in
the month. As the car inched along his thoughts wandered towards the place he called home
and the people he missed on the mainland. If any of the passing shoppers had glanced into
the car they would have seen the driver smiling with contentment as he switched on the car
stereo, before relaxing back in his seat and letting the warm air wash over his relaxed face
through the open side window.
Whilst this area of the city is predominantly populated by Catholics, it is outside of the
notorious Republican strongholds of West Belfast. There is little Republican graffiti in this
fairly prosperous neighbourhood, but like most areas of the city, it bears the physical scars
from The Troubles and violence, which is never far away.
A piercing female scream ripped through the air and the driver, catapulted back to his
senses became fully alert, looking around for the screaming woman, scanning the area for
danger and the source of her distress. Through the open car window he heard a male voice
with a harsh Belfast accent shout from somewhere up ahead of him, Up the UVF!
The previously crawling traffic had ground to a halt and the driver stepped out of his car,
his hand touching the butt of the Browning nine-millimetre pistol secreted under the
waistband at the back of his jeans.
Barely five seconds had passed since the woman had started screaming but there was a
moment of silence before the crack of gunfire ripped through the air. Spurned into action by
the two gunshots registering in his racing mind, the driver drew his weapon and crouched
against his car, instinctively locating the source of gunfire some forty yards in front of him.
Any indecision that he may have felt evaporated as he watched a masked man fire a third
shot towards the crowd of helpless and panicking shoppers, before jumping into a red
Vauxhall Astra. Quickly bringing up his cocked pistol to bear the safety catch was already
off the driver stepped away from his car, adopted a classic isosceles stance and attempted
to take aim against the occupants of the red vehicle. Almost immediately his view was
blocked by terrified shoppers spilling off the pavement, each of them seeking cover from the
madness unfolding before them. The man swore under his breath as he watched the Astra
accelerate along the road away from him.
Jumping back into his Sierra the driver casually tossed his Browning onto the front
passenger seat and having found first gear hit the accelerator, crashing and shunting into the
car in front of him. He immediately pushed the gear stick into reverse and backed viciously
into the car behind, creating enough space to manoeuvre out of the traffic blocking his way.
Reaching over to pull his door shut, he simultaneously gunned the engine, tyres squealing
and smoking.
The driver glanced to his left as he accelerated along the wrong side of the road and
could see that there were two people lying motionless on the pavement with red pools of
blood forming around their bodies. His mind had already reached the conclusion that he had
witnessed a random sectarian attack, but it was the vision of the two bodies that brought the
reality screaming home to his enraged mind.

Turning his attention back to the road the driver could make out the Astra still some
distance ahead, he floored the accelerator and began to close the distance between himself
and the red car in front, which he now regarded as his target.
Pete Tudor, an elite Special Forces Operator who had been off duty and out shopping like
many other ordinary people in Belfast that Saturday afternoon, found himself unexpectedly
rising to meet the terrorist threat of Northern Ireland.
The distance between the two vehicles had closed to thirty yards when the occupants of
the Astra appeared to realise that they were being followed. Tudor watched as the torso and
masked head of a man appeared from out of the passenger side window clutching a pistol,
which he was desperately trying to bring down to bear against the Sierra.
In one smooth movement Tudor ducked down to his left, keeping his right hand steady
on the steering wheel as his left reached for and grasped the Heckler and Koch MP5K
submachine-gun hidden underneath a rubber mat on the foot-well of the passenger side of the
vehicle. Tudor winced as he heard bullets rip through his windscreen, spraying shards of
glass over his head and body.
Bracing himself for more bullets Tudor yanked himself upright and looked through the
cracked windscreen at the vehicle that was now less than twenty yards ahead of him. Tudor
could see that the terrorist was still leaning out of the car, desperately fumbling with a new
magazine for his pistol.
Deftly changing hands Tudor held the MP5K up with his right like the Browning pistol
the submachine-gun was already cocked and he thumbed the safety off and onto full
automatic as he took aim at the figure ahead. The noise in the car was deafening as Tudor
discharged an entire magazine of twenty-eight rounds in less than three seconds through the
windscreen of his Sierra towards the flailing terrorist. The breech on the MP5K clicked open
and through the thin haze of cordite Tudor could see that the terrorist was now hanging
limply from the vehicle, the shirt on his chest turning quickly to a rich scarlet as blood
flowed from the dying body.
Throwing his empty weapon onto the passenger seat Tudor reached for and engaged his
seatbelt across his shoulder and body before accelerating even faster towards the Astra. As
the remaining yards between the two vehicles closed Tudor could see that the terrorist he had
shot was hanging motionless from the Astra, very obviously dead, and that the only
additional occupant of the vehicle was its driver.
Tudor closed the gap to less than five yards before flooring the accelerator again and
savagely ramming the back of the Astra. The driver immediately lost control and clipped the
steep curb but instead of mounting the pavement the vehicle flipped over onto its roof. Tudor
found himself braking and swerving to avoid a further collision as the Astra righted itself
before crashing though a Stop road sign and coming to an abrupt halt, metal screeching,
glass and plastic flying in all directions.
Finally bringing his Sierra to a controlled stop Tudor grabbed his Browning pistol from
the front passenger seat and jumped out of his car. Tudor brought the pistol up and aimed
directly at the drivers side of the destroyed Astra as he carefully closed the ten yards
separating him from the wrecked car.

The door fell open and Tudor could see that the driver had taken off his balaclava and
was bleeding profusely from a wound to his forehead. Tudor continued to close the distance,
his eyes and pistol locked onto his target, as the terrorist explored the source of his bleeding
with shaking hands. Tudor stood within two yards of the driver and could see that he was not
carrying a weapon, the body of the first terrorist had parted company with the vehicle during
the violent collision and Tudor noticed that there was a second pistol lying on the now vacant
seat.
The driver, who had started to think about getting out of the battered Astra, met Tudors
eyes for the first time and looked at the pistol next to him before turning back towards Tudor
with a hunted look. Tudor looked at the man, he could not have been more than twenty years
old, before slightly lowering his Browning, Why dont you see if you can pick that thing up
then?
The driver stared back at Tudor. No, no way. I surrender.
Your dead friend said you were Ulster Volunteer Force, I thought you lot liked to shout
No Surrender?
The driver continued to stare at Tudor.
Fucking brave arent you, shooting people out doing their shopping?
Losing control the man began to sob and plead, tears mixing with the blood still flowing
freely down his face.
Tudor brought his pistol back up to bear. Well you picked the wrong time to murder
innocent people. Its time to pay for what you and your buddy did. An eye for an eye.
Please, no, dont... screamed the driver, reaching towards Tudor with his hands
outstretched and pleading.
Tudor paused for a couple of seconds before shooting the driver twice in the chest. The
impact drove the terrorist back into the drivers seat of the Astra.
Tudor stepped forward and noted with satisfaction that the now dead mans hand was
lying open, inches away from the unused pistol. Tudor reached over the corpse and pushed
the pistol with the muzzle of his Browning into the dead mans hand, before wrapping the
still warm fingers around the pistol grip.
The wail of sirens could now be clearly heard, Tudor stepped back from the car and saw
that two grey-coloured armoured Land Rovers of the Royal Ulster Constabulary were
heading towards him at speed. Tudor stepped further away from the Astra and placed his
Browning on the floor.
Tudor raised both arms fully outstretched above his head and began shouting Army!
Army! Army! at the armed Policemen who had jumped out of their vehicles and were
running towards him with their pistols aimed in his direction.
Easy boys, easy! shouted the leading RUC Sergeant at his men as the Police Officers
formed a loose circle around Tudor and the wrecked Astra. The RUC Sergeant glanced at the
body inside the car before turning his attention back to Tudor, who was now kneeling with
his hands laced behind his head. Looks like youre having quite a day lad.
Tudor looked the RUC Sergeant in the eye, cocked his head slightly and smiled. Its
been a lovely day so far Sergeant, a lovely day.

Part One
December 1989

Chapter One - Taken

Steve Maxwell sat alone in his room at a small table, fiddling with a pen and staring at an
empty sheet of paper before him, searching for inspiration as he tried to compose a letter to
his sister in England. He knew that his elder sister worried about him and remembered how
she had cried when he told her several months previously that he was going to serve with the
British Army in Northern Ireland.
Maxwell knew that his sister felt a degree of responsibility for his welfare since their
parents had died two years ago in a car accident a head on collision with a lorry. He
recalled how his sister Grace had asked him question after question over his posting: Where
will you be basedwho will you be with will it be safe? At the time he had tried to
reassure Grace with carefree banter but the simple truth was that he too had been
apprehensive over what the future held for him.
The apprehension had quickly faded after Maxwell had arrived in the Province and the
twenty-year old Intelligence Corps Corporal now felt pretty damn good about his new
posting and where he was with his life. He doodled with his pen instead of writing to his
sister as recalled how only a few months earlier during his tour in West Germany he had
learnt that he was scheduled to be posted to Northern Ireland.
Maxwell had previously expressed a preference to serve in the Province, but it was the
mystery surrounding his new unit that had really piqued his curious nature. He had been
advised that he was being posted to the Joint Communications Unit (Northern Ireland) and
no matter who he asked, no one within the Army G2 headquarters building where he worked
in Rheindahlen knew exactly what JCUNI was. It was only after Maxwells arrival in
Northern Ireland and introductory briefings that he became fully aware that he was about to
serve with a fully operational Special Forces unit in fact the Special Forces unit in the
whole of the Britain, a unit previously known as 14 Intelligence Company.
Since his arrival, Maxwell had approached his new role with feelings of fascination,
pride and an indefinable quality that goes with the knowing that you are doing something
very special that will ultimately make a difference. He had learnt that JCUNI was split into
five separate units or Detachments and his was known as Nine Det, essentially it was a selfcontained operations base for a team of Surveillance Operators who were capable of
deploying anywhere across the Province. Whilst Maxwell considered himself to be working
for something special, he had quickly come to appreciate that the Operators were special.
These men had endured one of the British Armys most physically and mentally enduring
training programmes ever devised to earn their place in JCUNI. Their sole purpose was to
covertly monitor the activities of terrorists in support of Royal Ulster Constabulary and to

achieve this mission the Operators risked their lives day after day, monitoring targets in
fiercely Republican and Loyalist areas. Maxwell knew that within his unit three of the
Operators were SAS and one was SBS, the remainder consisted of several members of the
Parachute Regiment, a couple of Marines, with the rest hailing from various other Army
Regiments.
The very nature of the Operators work, Maxwell knew, necessitated close contact with
terrorists. Although the unit was tasked with covert surveillance there had been occasions in
the past when such a mission had escalated into a hard stop meaning that terrorists had
been engaged and died at the hands of the British Army. Not long after his arrival in the
Province Maxwell had learnt whilst drinking with Philip Harrison, the second Intelligence
Corps Corporal stationed at the unit, of the terrorists who had been killed by the Operators
from his Detachment.
Hard stops were usually carried out by one of JCUNIs other Detachments, which was
located in its own complex next to Maxwells unit and known simply as Troop. This
Detachment contained an entire SAS Troop who had the unique mission of intercepting
armed terrorists. If, during an operation conducted by one of the surveillance Detachments, it
became clear that the terrorists being watched were about to launch an attack, then Troop
were deployed to intercept the terrorists and neutralise the threat.
However when working against terrorists, events do not always play out as expected and
it was on three such occasions in recent months where Operators from Maxwells
Detachment had found themselves unexpectedly faced with armed terrorists. These terrorists
had all paid the highest price for their intent to murder or maim, it was these incidents which
had established and fuelled Maxwells Detachments reputation as a unit not to be trifled
with, to put it bluntly the word was that no one fucked with Nine Det.
Maxwells own role was to provide intelligence support to the Operators. Unlike the
other Support Staff which included communications personnel, radio technicians, a couple of
chefs, mechanics and stores personnel Maxwells job was to work closely with the Operators
when they prepared for a mission, and to provide real-time intelligence support when they
deployed against terrorist targets.
It had been drummed into Maxwell that the lives of his colleagues could quite easily be
put in jeopardy if he failed to provide them with accurate intelligence whilst they were on the
ground: he wanted to do his best for these men that he had come to admire.
Maxwell brought his mind back to the present and decided to write his letter to his sister
later, before leaving his room and wandering the short distance to the Detachments
cookhouse, which was in fact a large converted portacabin, to make a sandwich to take back
to his room.
It was a letter that he would never finish.
******
John Joseph OReilly was an unhappy man and he sat alone in his car, an ageing Ford
Sierra, parked outside the Greenfield public house in Crossmaglen, South Armagh, where he
was waiting to meet three of his subordinate Battalion Commanders of the South Armagh
Brigade of the Irish Republican Army.

Glancing at his watch OReilly noted that his men were almost ten minutes late, but it
was not their lack of punctuality that had caused his filthy mood, rather the low rate of
operational successes that his brigade had achieved in recent months.
OReilly prided himself on commanding what he considered to be the best trained and
most professional brigade within the IRA. OReilly knew that the rugged countryside and
proximity of the border with the Irish Republic were all factors in his favour, in the past his
volunteers had actually operated just inside the Irish Republic and engaged the British Army
as they came into view just over the border. However OReillys volunteers had yet to
achieve any really significant successes against the British in recent months.
As OReilly was scanning the road, looking for his men, he saw a dirty blue truck
approaching through the early evening drizzle. OReilly recognised the truck as belonging to
Sean Hagan, who commanded the Brigades Crossmaglen Battalion.
The truck pulled into the pub car park and Hagan jumped out, after briefly checking that
there was no one observing his movements he quickly pulled open the Sierras front
passenger door and sat down next to OReilly, who as well as being the Commander South
Armagh Brigade also held the rank of Chief of Staff within the IRA.
Late, spat OReilly.
As soon as Hagan had seen OReillys narrowing eyes he knew that the man was in one
of his almost obligatory foul moods. Jesus Christ JJ, youre getting to be an old fucking
woman! Whats the fucking problem?
My fucking problem Sean is that last week the fucking Derry Brigade hit two peelers
right outside the fucking Court House. My fucking problem is that the fucking Belfast boys
mortared the fucking barracks in Lisburn and fucked a whole bunch of Brits up the arse. My
fucking problem is that we have done fuck all!
Hagan gathered his thoughts as his Commander ranted on. The two men went back a
long way, having joined the movement together in the early seventies but despite this Hagan
did not really consider OReilly to be a friend. The two men met regularly, had got drunk
together more times than Hagan could remember, and had killed together. Such
circumstances should have bonded the two men in a manner that went beyond friendship but
Hagan knew that OReilly did not want or seem to need his camaraderie.
Hagan fought the British because he hated them, it was as simple as that. There was no
morale crusade, no dream of a united Ireland, there was just a deep hatred at the core of
Hagans being towards everything British and Protestant, especially their soldiers and
Policemen. In contrast Hagan knew that OReilly was motivated by a genuine desire to see
the thirty-two counties of Ireland unite: this and Irish Socialism were his Commanders
favourite topics of conversation after a few drinks.
As OReilly continued his tirade, Hagan considered the man sat next to him. It was
rumoured that OReillys personal fortune, which stemmed from owning vast tracts of
farmland throughout South Armagh, was over a million in sterling. Hagan believed that
OReilly perceived himself as the leader of an elite resistance movement, fighting the
oppressors of his people. Hagan both understood and resented why his Commander felt this
way, it was because of his fucking money, he thought bitterly to himself.
OReilly was dressed in a very similar manner to Hagan, both men wore the clothes of
farmers and labourers: grimy pairs of jeans, stout boots, unfashionable thick shirts and mud

splattered coats. Hagan considered OReillys appearance to be a faade and he knew that the
rich, no matter where they came from, always saw themselves as better people, noble people,
fighting whatever cause from a moral high ground.
But whilst Hagan resented his Commander because of his wealth, as long as they were
killing British soldiers he had found that he could live with this.
Calm yourself JJ, weve had a patch of bad luck, thats all man.
Bad luck, thought OReilly as he absorbed Hagans lame excuse. All of the brigades
three most recent operations had failed. Only four days previously, Hagans men had
attempted and failed to shoot an RUC Policeman in Newry.
Is that what you call Newry is it Sean, bad luck? Because Im starting to think that
theres someone bringing me all this bad luck Sean.
Hagans mind raced his Commander was talking about informers, grasses, touts the
tout is the most feared and hated cancer within the ranks of the IRA. Hagan knew that whilst
South Armaghs close-knit community made the RUC Special Branchs job of recruiting
agents very difficult there had been touts in South Armagh before. Hagan remembered when
he had led a security team when they had kidnapped a suspected tout two years ago and he
had taken an active part and actually enjoyed torturing a confession from the man. When
Hagan had obtained a taped confession and tired with the torture he had told his men to place
a hood over the touts head. Then Hagan himself had casually shot the tout in the back of the
head before arranging for the body to be dumped at the side of a country road, tied up in a
bin bag.
Hagan knew that his Newry operation had failed because the Browning nine-millimetre
pistol used by one of his volunteers had jammed. Once the RUC Policeman had realised
what was about to happen to him all hell had broken loose, with the Policeman firing shots
blindly into the night towards the volunteers. It was, Hagan believed, good luck that had
allowed his men to escape unharmed and undetected that night.
Now then JJ, Newry was a fuck up, the gun jammed thats all. It happens, it was just
plain bad luck boy. A red pick-up truck was approaching the car park, Hagan knew this was
the two other Battalion Commanders travelling together and he did not want OReilly talking
about touts in his Battalion when the two men joined them. There are no fucking touts in
Crossmaglen JJ, Ive smelt touts before and my men smell good.
OReilly grunted, in reality he shared Hagans assessment but it had felt good to take his
mood out on his subordinate. The rear doors of the Sierra opened as OReilly and Hagan
were joined by the two remaining Battalion Commanders and the men settled down to their
real business of the evening, discussing the feasibility of operations currently in preparation
against the British Army and RUC within their respective commands.
******
The intercom in Maxwells room emitted a high-pitched buzzing noise. As he reached
towards it Maxwell recalled how he had been amazed to discover that every location within
his Detachment had a wall-mounted intercom. The Detachment was housed inside a large
windowless complex that resembled an aircraft hangar it contained all the accommodation
for the soldiers, an area for twenty vehicles to park, a garage, store rooms, an armoury,

technician work rooms, an operations and communications complex, cookhouse and even a
bar complete with jukebox and a pool table.
Everywhere had intercoms, even the toilets, which meant that anyone could find anyone
else whatever the time of day or night.
Maxwell pressed the intercoms answer button and the speaker crackled into life. Steve,
its Pete, are you there?
Pete Tudor was the Detachments Operations Officer, a Royal Marine he had been with
JCUNI for three years as an Operator and had extended his tour when he had been offered
the post of Operations Officer. Tudor relished his job and he was responsible for planning the
deployment of the Operators and controlling their mission whilst on the ground. Tudor would
usually work from the Detachments Operations Centre, co-ordinating his Operators as they
tracked their targets, but he enjoyed the thrill of being on the ground and often designated
one of his more seasoned Operators to act as the controller, so that he could do what he
enjoyed most, tracking terrorists at the sharp end.
Maxwell liked Tudor and thought him to be something special, he knew that Tudor was
one of the Operators that had actually shot dead two terrorists earlier that year and this made
him, in Maxwells eyes, a man to respect and obey. Hi Pete, whats happening?
Steve, do you fancy a trip out? Me and a couple of the lads are out on the piss and we
need a driver.
Maxwell knew that it was standard procedure in the unit for a driver to transport his
colleagues for a night out and collect them later at an agreed time and place. This had the
advantage of avoiding any possibility of drink driving whilst ensuring that there was at least
one armed and sober soldier available in the event of trouble. Unlike the rest of the British
Army in the Province JCUNI personnel and more often, the Operators, ignored Out Of
Bounds regulations and socialised where they wanted.
Come on up to operations Steve, were leaving in ten minutes, instructed Tudor before
terminating the intercom connection.
Maxwell could feel a buzz in the pit of his stomach since joining the Detachment he
had been out and about, mainly running errands driving between his unit and the JCUNI
headquarters in Lisburn, but never alone. It thrilled him that the Operators and especially
Tudor trusted him enough to drive them out, return to the unit alone, and pick them up late at
night it never occurred to Maxwell that as a rule the Operators did not care who drove them
or picked them up, just as long as someone did.
Stuffing the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth Maxwell pulled on his boots and
jacket before hurrying out of his room and heading across the complex towards the
Operations Centre. The Operations Centre consisted of a number of small offices and three
large rooms, one of which housed the Detachments communications network where twentyfour hours a day there was a Royal Signals technician manning the telephone and secure
communications links. Next to this was the Operations Room, which was manned to control
and co-ordinate operations only when the Detachment had Operators on the ground
conducting surveillance.
The final room was known as Spook City, this was where all the intelligence files,
photographs and specialist computer terminals were stored. Maxwell and Harrison, the two
Spooks, shared this spacious office with Tudor where they prepared intelligence briefings for

the Operators prior to a mission and collated intelligence and information gained from the
subsequent surveillance operations.
Maxwell punched in the correct four-digit sequence on the Operations Centres outer
door combination lock and entered the communications area, he saw that along with Tudor
there were two other Operators, Anthony Gorman and Brian Goodwin.
Since his arrival in the unit Maxwell had yet to firmly establish himself socially with the
majority of the Operators and he was secretly very pleased when Gorman and Goodwin, the
latter he knew was SAS, greeted him with some cheerful banter.
The three Operators were dressed in a similar fashion to Maxwell, jeans, shirt and a
jacket. Maxwell suppressed a smile when he realised that despite their casual appearance his
three colleagues were, for a change, wearing clean clothes instead of the more standard
grimy civilian clothing that formed their day-to-day wardrobe allowing them to blend in with
some anonymity when working in Republican or Loyalist strongholds.
Right then, well use the Astra, said Tudor. In front of him was a large perspex board
with a list of various vehicles. Each Operator had their own personal vehicle and these were
listed on the board, along with details of several miscellaneous covert and standard vehicles.
Tudor knew that the Astra, which according to the board was not currently in use, was
equipped with a secure communications facility and the vehicle was generally used for
routine journeys to headquarters in Lisburn and social excursions.
Let me just get my gear, said Maxwell, before approaching the Detachments personal
weapons armoury. Unlike standard British Army units where the issuing of weapons and
ammunition is strictly controlled, with only a small number of senior personnel permitted to
access munitions, the Detachment had a far more casual approach. Each member of the unit
had an individual perspex box, about the size of a shoebox, which contained a personal
weapon and ammunition. Maxwell easily located his labelled box amongst the twenty or so
on display, and quickly pulled it out.
The Detachment had recently been issued with a consignment of new personal weapons:
gone was the nine-millimetre Browning, which had been replaced by the Swiss made Sig
Sauer. Almost the entire Detachment had travelled to Warrenpoint several weeks previously
to receive training and acquaint themselves with the new weapon. Everyone had agreed that
the Sig Sauer was, in every way, far superior to the Browning: instead of a safety catch the
Sig Sauer had a lever that de-cocked the firing hammer this meant that when the weapon
was drawn and the trigger squeezed its first shot was discharged in a manner similar to that
of a six chambered pistol, after which it handled like any other semi-automatic. This unique
safety system meant that the weapon could be carried in confidence fully loaded with a round
in the breech.
Maxwell retrieved his Sig Sauer from his box along with two magazines that were
already loaded with nine-millimetre ammunition. Like most of his colleagues he had
collected some other clutter in his box including his personal communications ear-piece,
which he also grabbed and pushed into his left ear. The ear-piece was a very clever piece of
engineering: skin coloured and the size of a squashed pea, it fitted snugly just inside the ear
canal with a tiny pin-like aerial that received a signal boosted from either a personal or
vehicle-based transmitter. The device was almost invisible to the casual observer and allowed

the user to hear, with perfect clarity and in total privacy, transmissions from colleagues or the
Operations Centre itself.
Cajoled by the Operators to fucking hurry up Maxwell pointed his weapon away from
his colleagues, loaded a magazine, before chambering a round and activating the de-cocking
lever. Everything was different here, he thought, it was nothing like a standard unit and
Maxwell knew that if he had ever loaded a weapon in this manner anywhere else in the
British Army, he would have found himself being charged and punished with a hefty fine.
But the Detachment was different in this and many other practices, both Operators and
the Support Staff wore scruffy civilian clothes whilst long hair and beards were encouraged
to such a degree that at least two of the Operators could have passed for hippies. There was
no formality between Officers and Other Ranks, everyone was on first name terms. What did
matter was the respect that existed between the unit personnel: Operators were respected for
the dangerous work they engaged in and the Support Staff, to a lesser degree, were
appreciated for their individual skills that kept the unit running smoothly.
With a small smile to himself Maxwell pushed his jacket to one side and slid the barrel of
his automatic down the back of his jeans. This done he grabbed the keys for the Astra from
its hook on the perspex board.
Come on lad, growled Goodwin. If Im not supping a Guinness with a pretty lass
sitting on my lap in twenty minutes time Ill not be a happy man!
Goodwin winked at Tudor, who responded by laughing out loud.
The two men were good friends and both had partners waiting for them back on the
mainland. Both had spent many quiet evenings drinking together and sharing their feelings
for the women that they missed, Goodwin though enjoyed playing to his wider crowd of
colleagues the role of the rowdy and horny Scotsman.
Gorman chipped in, Youve no chance you tight Jock wanker, to get some pussy in the
place were going youve got to buy the girls a few drinkies and the last time you bought a
round Britain had a fucking Empire!
Goodwin, adopting his very questionable impersonation of Robert de Nero, asked
Gorman, You talking to me?
Fuck you!
Are you talking to me? Goodwin asked again.
Fuck you! said Gorman.
Come on dick-heads, interjected Tudor. Its drinky time.
Laughing, the Operators headed out of the communications area towards the car park
with Maxwell trailing behind them, an admiring smile on his face.
******
Patrick OMalley sat in his black taxi parked outside the Europa Hotel in Belfast city
centre waiting for some business, hoping to pick up a lucrative fare from the hotel which,
despite holding the unfortunate record of being the most bombed hotel in the Province, still
attracted wealthy clients to its plush interior.
So far it had been a relatively quiet evening for OMalley and, he thought with a grunt, it
looked like it was going to stay that way.

Although OMalley was, unlike the majority of his friends and neighbours in Republican
West Belfast, in regular employment, he still found time to fulfil his role as Intelligence
Officer to the 2nd Battalion, Belfast Brigade IRA.
OMalley came from the Andersonstown area of the city and had grown up in a fiercely
Republican family. What his parents had lacked in money, they had compensated with a
generous hatred towards Protestants and all things British, which had permutated down to
their seven children.
With his background and upbringing OMalley had grown up in the heart of the natural
recruiting ground which the IRA relies upon for recruiting its volunteers. Whilst OMalley
held strong Republican convictions, he had never really embraced violence: at his core he
was squeamish and disliked confrontation.
Soon after joining the movement, over ten years ago now, OMalleys superiors had
quickly realised that this quiet young man had excellent observational skills and an
extremely retentive memory. With these skills in mind he had been encouraged to watch the
enemy at all times: to look for troop patrol patterns, observe and memorise number plates of
private vehicles belonging to RUC Policemen and to drink in bars in safe areas of Belfast,
locating, observing and listening to soldiers enjoying nights out on the town.
Whilst OMalley had never killed a man he knew that his keen observations and
targeting information had led to the successful execution of a number of operations against
both the British Army and the RUC. OMalley considered his contribution to the struggle
against the British occupation to have been significant, and probably more importantly,
something that he could live with.
After many years of routinely watching the enemy OMalley had found himself, two
years earlier, promoted to the post of Battalion Intelligence Officer. This role had presented
him with even tougher challenges: he had to assess the usefulness and reliability of other
volunteers intelligence gathering efforts. From the information that he received OMalley
passed on his recommendations to the Battalion Operations Officer, who decided whether or
not the information could lead to a successful attack against their enemy.
Despite his elevated position in the Battalion OMalley found that driving a taxi and
listening to his passengers had occasionally allowed him to acquire real nuggets of
information, which had in turn led to two recent successful operations, both had been close
quarter assassinations.
OMalley was confident that his activities had escaped the notice of the British Army
Intelligence and the RUC Special Branch. Apart from the routine questioning that formed
part of everyday life in West Belfast, he had no criminal, let alone terrorist convictions.
OMalley had never engaged in actual operations and being very much an introvert, rarely
socialised with the more virulent Republicans and volunteers known to him.
OMalley was quietly secure in the knowledge that he had never been suspected of
involvement with terrorist operations and he very much intended to keep it that way.
Checking his watch OMalley decided that if he had not got a fare within the next quarter
of an hour he would give up for the evening, go home and relax in front of the television.
After all, he reasoned to himself, he had arranged to meet one of his subordinate
volunteers at nine oclock the following morning and was keen to hear what the man had to

say about a suspected RUC Policeman who had, rather foolishly, started dating the barmaid
of a pub close to the Republican Twinbrook estate.
OMalley found that he was able to assess information far more clearly after a good
nights sleep and did not relish a late night driving his taxi.
Fifteen more minutes, OMalley muttered to himself as he lit a cigarette.
******
The Astra sped along the M2 towards Newtownabbey at close to eighty-five miles per
hour: Maxwell knew that it was the done and expected thing for Detachment personnel to
ignore speed restrictions and aim to get to any destination in the shortest possible time.
Maxwell was also safe in the knowledge that if he was pulled over by the RUC then a quiet
word from the Detachments RUC Liaison Officer with his Special Branch contacts would
ensure that any speeding caution was quietly dropped.
Tudor sat in the front passenger seat, considering Maxwell. The Spook seemed like a
nice enough kid, Tudor thought, but it was clear that Maxwell was a little too excited as the
car burned along the M2 towards Belfast, You alright there Steve?
No worries, we come off the motorway and head for the Westlink, but after that youll
have to direct me, replied Maxwell.
Tudor laughed. What I meant was, are you okay? You seem a little, uhh, edgy.
Maxwell shifted in his seat, the Sig Sauer hidden under his left thigh was digging into his
flesh. Im fine, he lied and paused before adding, Ive just never seen Belfast at night
time.
Goodwin joined in from the back, Youve driven around here alone though laddie, you
know the route?
Well Ive been down this way a couple times, but I was with Phil. Maxwell quickly
added, but Im sure I know the route, it just seems a bit different in the dark.
Tudor glanced towards Goodwin who was frowning before instructing Maxwell to advise
the Detachments Operations Centre that they were about to enter Belfast.
The Detachments secure communications network was not overly complex, but it was
very effective with each covert vehicle fitted with an encrypted transmitter/receiver, which in
turn allowed the driver to communicate securely with the Operations Centre. The
communications network allowed each user to monitor what other users or the Operations
Centre itself were transmitting, in essence everyone plugged into the network could
communicate with each other with ease.
The vehicle Maxwell was driving was equipped with a miniature microphone hidden in
the sun visor that could pick up normal speech inside the vehicle and he was able to transmit
through to the Operations Centre by pressing a small button built into the gear stick.
Each Operator was allocated a unique call-sign, whilst floating call-signs were adopted
for those engaged in routine activity. Maxwell identified himself as Zulu to the duty Royal
Signals technician in the Operations Centre, Richard Gibbons, who in turn responded with
the standard Operations Centre Nine call-sign.
Maxwell continued, Nine, were heading into the city centre now, Ill drop off the
passengers and come back to you.

Roger that Zulu, out, replied a bored sounding Gibbons. Maxwell relayed what he had
just heard in his ear-piece to his passengers.
Righty ho, said Tudor. Keep going down the Westlink and turn left at the first
roundabout, towards Belfast City Hall. Tudor again shot a glance towards Goodwin who still
looked concerned, but seemed to be keeping his peace.
The vehicle slewed onto Grosvenor Road and Tudor eventually instructed Maxwell to
pull over. This done Goodwin and Gorman quickly exited the vehicle, Tudor leaned towards
Maxwell, Cheers buddy, youve got room to swing round here, drive back the same way.
Come and pick us up right here at midnight on the dot.
Here, same place? Maxwell asked.
You got it buddy, drive careful now. With that, Tudor was out of the car door hurrying
to join his two friends.
Goodwin watched as the Astra pulled away and headed back towards the roundabout
before turning to Tudor in a low voice. He shouldnt be driving alone, you shouldve got
someone else, hes so fucking nervous hell probably wrap himself around a fucking lamp
post.
Hes alright, besides there was no other fucker around to drive us in. Now you want that
Guinness or we going to stand here pissing about all night? asked Tudor.
The subject closed, the three men headed towards the Riverside club for their first drink
of the evening.
******
OMalley grinned to himself as he steered his taxi towards the Grosvenor Road he had
just decided to leave the Europa Hotel when an attractive young girl had tapped on his
window. The girl and her friend, who OMalley now knew was called Siobhan, had jumped
into the back of his taxi and judging by their loud voices and giggling the girls had enjoyed
more than a few drinks so far that evening.
Edging past Belfast City Hall he eyed up the women in his rear-view mirror, both were
blonde, in their early twenties and OMalley thought, very very sexy. The girls were not
dressed for the cold December weather in their micro-skirts and low cut tops; OMalley
offered up a silent prayer of thanks as he got another occasional glimpse of Siobhans
panties. Whilst he was trying to decide whether or not he could just make out the colour of
her underwear Siobhan squealed, Here it is! before trying to open her door.
OMalley quickly pulled over. Sorry girls, youve got to pay me first before I let you
out, he advised with a smile, pointing to the small sign at the back of his taxi which asked
his passengers not to smoke, drink, eat, distract the driver and that the taxi doors were to
remain locked whilst the vehicle was in transit.
Siobhan passed a ten-pound note over to OMalley who pocketed it in a flash before
laboriously searching through a dirty looking money bag for some change. Siobhan took the
money that OMalley eventually offered and both girls jumped out of the taxi and strutted off
giggling towards the Riverside club.
OMalley grunted over the fact that the girls had not given him a tip, still, he thought, the
glimpse of the Siobhans tight little snatch was more than compensation for that. As he
looked for a gap in the traffic he noticed an Astra executing an illegal one-eighty degree turn

just ahead of him. OMalley himself then pulled out and followed the Astra towards the
roundabout which connected Grosvenor Road with the Westlink.
It was at that point that OMalleys radio emitted an unusual buzzing noise, causing him
to frown, Siobhan and her underwear were forgotten.
******
After driving away from Belfast City Hall Maxwell shifted uncomfortably in his seat
before deciding to move the Sig Sauer onto the now empty front passenger seat. After all, he
reasoned, it was dark and he had no intention of leaving his vehicle until he arrived back at
the Detachment.
Following the initial excitement he felt in driving the three Operators to Belfast he now
felt alone in the vehicle, this feeling of isolation prompted him to recall the standard
communications procedures and he pressed the transmit button, Nine this is Zulu. Over.
Zulu, Nine, came the reply from Gibbons in his ear-piece.
Maxwell continued, Nine, Ive dropped off the passengers and Im mobile back towards
you.
Roger that Zulu, out.
Christ, thought Maxwell, he knew that Gibbons was never going to be the life and soul of
the party but the guy could at least have a bit of a chat with him, couldnt he?
******
OMalley was still trying to work out why his radio was buzzing when it stopped as
suddenly as it had started. Still bemused he glanced up when he noticed that the Astra he had
been following had reached the Westlink roundabout and had started to pull out in front of
another black taxi approaching from the right.