Once again I felt that he was casting some sort of spell over me. To break it I stood up and said, 'There's one thing certain. Once this is over, if I ever come across you again, make no mistake, you'll be going down.'
'The same yourself,'. Farrell spat back. 'If you ever set eyes on me again you'll need to start saying your prayers.'
I took a deep breath and moved away. 'Let's spruce up the barrel,' I said. 'We need a target, too.'
The PIRA had included a cleaning kit within the tube: a springy steel rod with a jag on the end, and a roll of white flannel four inches wide, marked off by red lines every two inches. For smaller calibres, like 7.62mm or 9mm, a single piece of four-by-two is enough to make a tight fit in the bael; but for this cannon I cut a double piece, a four-by-four, and wrapped it round the jag. Even that lump went through the barrel without too much friction, and when it came out at the other end it was perfectly clean. With the bolt out, I held the rifle up and looked straight through the barrel towards a lamp. The swirl of the rifling gleamed in the light, and I could see that the PIRA had taken good care of their prized weapon. I also had a close look at the telescopic sight, a high-quality optic with magnification variable up to the power of nine.
While I worked, watched by Farrell, Doughnut and Tony sorted out a target. The best option was a shallow cardboard box, eighteen inches wide and three feet long, in which some groceries had come up from the cottage. The bottom of the box was unmarked, and in the middle of it they stuck a piece of white paper six inches square, using paste made out of flour and water as glue. The result was a good aiming-mark in the middle of a target about the width of a man's torso. For zeroing purposes we could have done with a broader background. Although above and below the bull there was at least a foot to spare, if the first shot went more than nine or ten inches wide of centre we'd probably never see its point of impact.
Once again we were in for a short night. It was close to one in the morning before we stopped fiddling about, and I'd already set reveille for 0500.
'What about you?' I said to Farrell as Tony was about to chain him to his bed. 'You coming with us in the morning?'
'Sure I am. I need to know the rifle's in order. I wouldn't want to rely on what you fellers might tell me.'
'OK, then. Five o'clock it is.'
I'd known the answer to those questions before I asked them. Tony's prediction about Farrell wanting to witness the practice shoot was spot-on. Even though we seemed to have conned the bastard properly about our intentions, he wanted proof that we'd be able to hit the target.
'He's fired this thing himself,' I said quietly to Tony when we were alone again. 'This actual rifle. I'm sure he has.'
FOURTEEN
In the morning we used our covert radios openly for the first time. I told Farrell we'd been out and bought them specially, as they'd be the only means of coordinating our operations efficiently during the Chequers shoot.
'Bloody ruinous they were, too,' I added.
'How much?' he asked.
'I wouldn't like to say.' lather than take the Granada, which somebody might have spotted the night before, we drove the dark- blue Opel lekord in which the lads had come upcountry.
As far as our prisoner knew it belonged to Stew, but in fact it had come from the pool at Llangwern. We'd given Farrell a DPM smock to wear over his sweatshirt, and because the grass would be soaked with dew we all wore rubber boots. The Haskins was in the boot, cradled in bubble-wrap alongside our makeshift target, and I'd brought one belt of twelve rounds.
We pulled out of the stinking farmyard soon after five-thirty, and by six, after a twisting up-and-down drive across the hills, we were on the ridge above the- range. It was another dull, murky morning and the light was late in coming, but my intention was that we'd get our rounds off the moment we could see properly, and clear out before any locals came looking to find out what was causing the disturbance.
I planned to walk in down the muddy track which had defeated the Granada the afternoon before, and on the map we'd pinpointed the spot at which the path came up to join the road. As we arrived I did a drive- past, to make sure nobody was hanging about.
Half a mile down the road we found a single, enormous old beech tree standing out from the upper edge of the forest, and the moment I saw it I said, 'OK, if anything happens, that's our EtkV.' With that established, I went back and parked the car out of sight of the road, in the neck of the muddy lane.
The Haskins was an awkward bastard to carry. The easiest way seemed to be to grasp it near the muzzle and hold it with the barrel slung back over my shoulder and the rest of the weapon hanging behind me. So we set off down the steep hill, Tony cuffed to Farrell and holding the target in his spare hand.
Down among the trees in the valley the light was even worse than I'd expected, but it improved marginally as we came out on to the 700-yard firing point. As I looked up the long corridor of grass with my binoculars, I saw some small brown animal standing out in the open.
'What's that?' I asked, handing Tony the glasses.
He watched for a moment and said, 'Some kind of deer. Now there are two of them.'
'Can't be deer, surely.' I took the binos back.
'They're too small. Wait a minute, though. You're right. They're muntjac. Barking deer.'
Tony began asking what in hell a barking deer was when suddenly Farrell exclaimed, 'Shoot one of the fuckers!'
'Why?'
'It's a perfect target! Four hundred yards. If you can hit that it'll show the rifle's bang on. Get down, man!
Shoot!'
I almost agreed. Then my mind skipped back to an episode on an exercise in Africa, when one of our lads had shot some small animal and the local Bushmen had gone ballistic, saying he'd angered the spirits of the mountain. Next day an SAS guy fell off the rocks while climbing and was killed, and the whole troop got so badly spooked that we couldn't get our arses out of that place fast enough.
No, I thought. I'm not going to run a risk by killing something needlessly. In any case, if we shot one of the deer we'd have a body to dispose of. Luckily, before I could argue, both animals moved offinto cover and the chance was gone.
Farrell didn't hide his disappointment. 'You'd a great chance there,' he griped. 'You were too slow by far.'
Ignoring him, I asked Tony to take the target down range. 'In fact,' I added, peering at the butt in the far distance, 'in this light, our spotter scope's not going to be a lot of use. See if you can tuck yourselves into a niche that's safe, somewhere close to the target. Then call the shots back to me on the radio.'
'Sure,' Tony agreed, then turned to Farrell. 'Come on, Danny Boy.'
As the two figures moved away side by side, I followed in their wake as far as the next firing-point. At the edge of the sloped bank a little white-painted marker post had '600' cut into it.
I made myself comfortable. As I'd expected, the grass was wet, but I paid no attention as I settled the angular stock of the Haskins into my shoulder and looked through the sight. The heavy rifle sat rock-steady on its bipod, and the light-gathering capacity of the scope was excellent. Through the lens the prospect looked far brighter, and with the magnification set on six the men came up a good size in the scope. Wait though, I told myself, they're still only half-way to the target area. I moved the sight off Farrell's back and tried the trigger with a dry pull. Click! went the action, and once again it felt good.