He turned on the shaving-mirror light over the basin and spun the cold-water tap. A drawn face reflected back at him, the humorous brown eyes bloodshot with fatigue and the result of two beers too many in the bar earlier. That had been a mistake, breaking his own rules. But then it wasn’t every day you heard that the best man at your wedding had been blown to smithereens on the streets of London. Les Appleyard had phoned to break the news, his voice choked with emotion. Although Les and Jock were older, they’d been close friends for almost fifteen years — in Germany and then in Northern Ireland. All in all, it had been a bad end to a bastard week.
As he cupped his hands and sluiced his face, it occurred to him that he’d aged visibly during this tour-of-duty. Only thirty-six, but the responsibility of one of the toughest jobs in the army was taking its toll. Lines etched a little deeper in his skin, wisps of grey starting to show at his temples and his tan fading. There had been little opportunity for hilhyalking or playing rugby in recent months; too many hours spent in the office. He had even allowed his regular regime of running and weight-training to slip, although it didn’t yet show — the slim body in the mirror was still taut and well-muscled.
He turned away, pulled on a casual shirt and corduroy slacks, then grabbed his tweed sports jacket before making his way down to where his driver and the civilian Rover waited on the forecourt.
There were said to be seventeen routes out of Lisburn, but Harrison’s army driver, a local lad called Corporal Craggs, appeared to know even more than that. Each time they left the safety of the heavily fortified camp, a different way would be chosen. In Northern Ireland, any routine, any developing pattern would be noted. There was always someone watching, waiting for a slip-up. The word would be passed down the line, and then a culvert bomb or a horizontally fired Mark 12 anti-vehicle mortar would be lying in wait. Or even something as unelaborate as an ambush and a car full of PIRA gunmen. Over the years it had all happened at different times.
Harrison carried a Heckler and Koch sub-machine-gun beneath his seat, his driver a 9mm Browning automatic. While Craggs settled on his route, his boss followed it with a finger on the map. If anything unexpected happened, he would know immediately where they were and what options they could take. All the time the radio frequencies were adjusted to maintain contact with local friendly forces.
After a while they were on the Ml motorway for the thirteen minute drive to Belfast centre. Following the bomb warning, the RUC and Royal Irish Regiment patrols were out in force, the vehicle checkpoints sealing off all routes in and out of the city, hoping against hope to catch the terrorists responsible.
Now Harrison flipped down the flashing blue strobe lights attached to the sun visor and the vehicle was transformed instantly into a police car to be waved past the traffic queues by soldiers with faces screwed against the dark Belfast rain.
The Incident Control Point had been set up in Amelia Street by the Quality Plaza Hotel to which the Europa’s residents had been evacuated. The modern leafy piazza for pedestrians provided ample space for emergency-service vehicles and was out of lineofsight from the bomb in the next street. Harrison parked and strolled the short distance to the junction with Great Victoria Street. There, two recently introduced Tactica trucks of the bomb-disposal team were parked nose to nose in V-formation just back from the corner, using the Crown pub as a shield from any blast. The ornate turn-of-the-century building with its green tiles and magnificently engraved glass had suffered much over the years due to the close proximity of its towering modern neighbour across the street. Rumour had it that the Crown’s owners kept a secret store of replacement glass and filigree woodwork in anticipation of the next Europa explosion, whenever it might come.
Helmeted drivers, infantry escorts and other specialists were standing around at the ICP. There were a few nods and ‘sirs’ of acknowledgement. All low key.
In the back of the first vehicle, Corporal Clarke, the ATO’s overweight Number Two, who wore thick pebble spectacles, was studying a couple of colour-television monitors. In his hand he held the remote-control unit of the tracked Wheelbarrow robot.
To one side stood the twenty-four-year-old operator, Captain Peter Heathcote, with his arms outstretched as another soldier loaded the chest and crotch plates into the bulky brown bombsuit. Harrison had come to know the man and his corporal well. Both had been in Bravo Troop of 821 EOD Squadron, which he had commanded before his promotion and appointment as SATO. Formally P Company, the unit specialised in working with the SAS and SBS.
‘Any problems, Peter?’ Harrison asked.
Heathcote looked round. ‘Hallo, boss.’ He wiped a hand across his forehead, already starting to sweat under the weight. ‘No problem. The fire-alarm evacuation went smoothly except for the usual bonking couple who thought it was a practice drill. I sent I in the Unit Search Team and they’ve found an abandoned suitcase in the lobby.’
‘That’s all?’ the SATO asked.
Heathcote nodded. ‘We’re just about to Hotrod it.’
As if in confirmation he heard the stoical whir of the Mk8 Wheelbarrow as Corporal Clarke steered it by remote radio control across the street towards the newly built foyer and atrium of the hotel.
Harrison nodded. ‘Carry on, Peter. Mind if I stick around?’
The captain grinned. ‘No poaching, sir?’
‘No poaching,’ Harrison assured.
‘Then it’s my pleasure.’
Harrison was pleased to see how quickly Heathcote had got on top of the task, but he was hardly surprised. Those ATOs with the fastest reaction times were often posted to Belfast or Londonderry, whilst those operators who were deployed in rural areas, particularly border ‘bandit country’, would need different qualities — especially the experience to tackle more cunning and deadly devices in remote regions where the bomber could plot and plan undisturbed. But at least in the countryside time was also on the ATO’s side. By contrast, the city fathers of Belfast did not appreciate their streets being grid-locked for hours on end just because of some Provo bomb, real or hoax. If the ATOs didn’t clear them fast and efficiently, Harrison would soon receive a phone call from on high demanding to know the reason why.
Heathcote had indeed moved quickly, getting in with the Wheelbarrow before the standard cut-off point after a warning had been issued. Then it would be left for a statutory ‘soak time’ following the expiry of the deadline before the operator would risk an approach. That was to allow for any discrepancy in the timing mechanism, deliberate or accidental. The latter most usually occurred when the bomber used a watch-face timer, relying on an hour hand alone, which could prove notoriously inaccurate. In fact, more recently PIRA warnings had shortened to half-an-hour to allow less opportunity for the ATOs to get a result. For some reason best known to the bombers, AIDAN devices had so far come with a full sixty minutes’ grace.
Moving across to the primary vehicle, Harrison joined the captain to watch the television picture transmitted from the camera on the Morfax Wheelbarrow as Corporal Clarke trundled it towards the suitcase beside the foyer wall.
The item began to fill the screen before Heathcote said solemnly: ‘That’ll do.’
Clarke duly released the drive buttons, switched to the downward-facing camera and began extending the Wheelbarrow’s mechanical boom with the deftness of a school kid with a radio controlled tank. Perspiration was beginning to bead the corpulent soldier’s chubby cheeks. His tongue appeared between his lips as his concentration deepened while he extended the boom over the suitcase, then hovered.