Nothing came. There wasn’t even the vaguest hint of anything sinister. But was the observation merely a reflection of my own inexperience of this urban battlefield, rather than an accurate conclusion? The thoughts ran amok through my pulsating mind. Show me a shooter, you bastard! Show me a shooter! I screamed the words so loudly inside my head I was surprised no one heard me. The youth’s hand remained stubbornly jammed inside his bomber jacket. There was only one possible thing to do. If I could catch a look at his mate, I might be able to read some sign in his facial expression, or his posture might give some tell-tale indication of focused aggression. But it was risky, very risky. If he eyeballed me he would realize at once what I was up to. He would recognize the soldier’s training and the soldier’s reaction. Our cover as civvies would be completely blown.
There was no choice. We were otherwise caught in a split-second, deadly stalemate. Quick as the snap of an alligator’s jaw, I turned my head a fraction to the left, pumped my eyeballs as far into the corner of their sockets as they would go, shuttered the youth and returned my gaze to the front. Shit! Nothing! Not a single clue as to his intentions or his state of mind. Back to square one, back to the biggest choice of my life so far: to shoot or not to shoot. Time had run out. The pressure, the urgency swelling inside my head, was about to explode through my head like a bursting tyre. No more reflection. No more option assessment. No more hesitation. I had to make a choice! Now!
‘You can fuck off, you wanker.’
At that precise split second I was catapulted free of my agonizing deliberation. Taff, his lean face set hard, had made the choice for me. He gripped the Viva’s door handle, and, with a violent whiplash movement, yanked it momentarily towards himself, then instantaneously outwards with all the force and speed he could muster. He hit the hijacker square in the guts with the edge of the door, cracking his knee and jolting his gun arm. The man reeled back, floundering and stumbling with surprise, his mouth twisted in a grimace of pure hate. His right arm, flailing as he steadied himself, exposed an empty hand. There was no telling whether it had been clutching a gun inside the jacket or not. That’s something I’ll never know.
I had experienced fear before, in Dhofar: the nervous gut feeling at the beginning of a contact before the surge of tingling warmth, the adrenaline-induced relief, gradually took hold. But this was a different kind of fear. Never before had I experienced this sudden shock effect on my mind like the jolt of ice on a raw tooth-nerve, this drawn-out agonizing hesitation, this frustration of not finding relief in the smooth, efficient operation of the trigger. ‘Go, go, go!’ I heard myself shouting. ‘Get the fuck out of here!’
Taff rammed the Viva into first gear and jabbed his foot down hard on the accelerator. The rear wheels spun viciously, spurting gravel, steam and burning rubber. ‘Come on… Come on… Come on!’ screamed Taff, frantically urging on the old car. The Viva suddenly lurched forward. Taff wrenched at the steering wheel and swung the car into the oncoming lanes, the still-open door flapping wildly like a peggedout sheet on washing day. The 1300cc engine screamed to destruction pitch as we shot through the red lights at the junction, playing a lifeand-death game of chicken with the screeching, swerving traffic hurtling crosswise towards us. We took a right turn up Grosvenor Road and straightened out towards the city centre. Taff leaned out, grabbed the flapping door – miraculously still on its hinges – and banged it shut. As I stabbed the speak button on the radio, I felt a tightness in my throat, I felt the waves of fear and indignation suddenly harden into savage realization. My mind was now in gear. Professionalism had taken over.
‘Zero. Alpha. Over.’ The transmission was clipped, hurried.
‘Alpha from Zero. Send.’
‘Alpha. Attempted hijack corner of Springfield and Falls.’
‘Zero. Roger. Lift-off. Will send other call sign to investigate.’
‘Alpha. Roger. Out.’
As the Viva roared up the Grosvenor Road, driving towards the west link and the M1, I sank back in my seat. I looked down at the hand holding the 9-milly. It was shaking slightly. I eased the safety-catch to ‘safe’ and replaced the copy of the News of the World. I could have been the lead story in next Sunday’s edition, I reflected, if I’d pulled the trigger. The fame would have been as instant as the hijacker’s death.
The uniformed policeman guarding the detention block at Castlereagh directed us into the shadows of the covered car park at the rear of the building. Taff eased the Viva to a halt and switched off the engine. It was evening. We both sat silent, expressionless, our heads turned, straining to see through the rear window. It was to be a covert identification parade. After the hijack incident, the local commander from Springfield Road Barracks had initiated a sweep of the area. Foot patrols and mobiles had trawled the Falls and Springfield areas, personnel-checking and lifting any suspicious youths. The haul was then transported to Castlereagh for further questioning. We now sat patiently, blacked out in the darkness of the car’s interior, waiting for the ID parade to begin.
An arc light high up on the far wall flared into life, bathing the floor of the block to our rear in brilliant white light. A uniformed officer appeared and prodded four recalcitrant youths into our line of sight. The brightness of the light cascading down made them stare at the floor in front of them. Further prodding with a baton, accompanied by gruff, guttural threats, persuaded the youths to raise their eyes and look straight ahead to facilitate identification. The scene was stark and eerie. The sharp light trepanning into the dark of the night had eliminated all superfluous colour. All that remained was harsh black and pure white.
I studied the pale, hate-filled faces, my hand hovering over the car horn. The arrangement was that if I got a positive ID I would sound the horn once. I scanned the defiant faces again. ‘Do you recognize anyone?’ I asked Taff.
‘Nope!’ came the clipped, emotionless reply.
‘Then we might as well lift off,’ I said, barely able to keep the frustration from my voice. I jabbed the horn three times in quick succession, terminating the parade. The light went out and we were once more cloaked in darkness.
The Belfast winter slipped by, dark, desultory and depressing. More observation, more photographs; every day the camera shutters clicked with monotonous regularity. Hardened IRA men immortalized in grainy black and white. The green slime would be having a field day piecing together the big picture. And still the killing went on. An armoured pig was hit by an RPG-7. The married corporal inside was very seriously injured, losing his testicles. A part-time member of the Ulster Defence Regiment was shot dead while operating his JCB tractor. A foot patrol in the Turf Lodge came under sniper fire and one member of the patrol was killed. Month after month, on and on it went, and all the while we were seemingly powerless, unable to take part in the action, our cameras our only weapons.
Then everything suddenly changed.
Remington pump-action shotgun, oiled and ready to go; a box of cartridges, ideal for blowing Yale locks out of flimsy doors; Bristol body armour guaranteed to stop anything up to .357 Magnum; high-velocity inserts to give protection against 7.62mm; assault waistcoat with elasticated pockets to take a selection of stun grenades; and finally the Len Dixon belt kit, genuine leather, with the thumb-break, quick-draw holster.