The Fellowship Read online

  “I’ve done three,” said Des, finding his pipe. “And they were fucking hairy, I’ll tell ye.”

  “Well, I’ve done two,” offered Si. “And Des is fuckin’ spot on. My oxygen failed on my first. I nearly shit myself.”

  “Don’t be so fuckin’ soft,” said Butch.

  Everyone ignored him.

  The anacronym, HALO stands for High Altitude Low Opening. Each trooper jumps from 30,000 feet or higher, beyond the visual range of anyone on the ground. Then, you freefall most of the way down. Chutes are only deployed at the last minute to prevent the trooper being spotted. You have to wear special kit including oxygen to deploy HALO, and the big danger was, that if that kit didn’t work for whatever reason, within thirty seconds, you were pretty much incapable of reasoning, let alone working out when you’d reached 2000 feet and it was time to pull the cord. Si was lucky to be alive to tell his tale.

  It took us just shy of two hours to sort our weapons and jump kit, and as we approached the RSM’s office, we looked more like fighter pilots than ground troops.

  The RSM is considered to be ‘primus inter pares’ or ‘first amongst equals,’ and is primarily responsible for maintaining standards and discipline. He also acts as a parental figure to his subordinates, including junior officers, even though they technically outrank him. I always considered the RSM to be the most important rank in the squadron.

  Ours went by the name of Bert Singleton and was about as tough a man as I’d ever met. He’d seen it all and bought the t-shirt, had a quick temper and took no bollocks from anyone.

  I couldn’t work out why we were reporting to Bert that evening, but one thing was for certain, I wasn’t going to question him.

  He was sat at his desk with a brew, and as usual, a fag burning in the corner of his mouth. As we lumbered into his office, he stood, stubbed out his cigarette and walked around to greet us.

  “Just personal weapons and belt kit on this one boys, eh? No extras, no ID, Dog Tags, family holiday shots, you know the drill.”

  We all nodded. It was strictly forbidden to carry any family photographs on a mission behind enemy lines. Although we weren’t at war with Ireland, should things go tits up and the Provo’s get hold of any of our team, finding a family picture in your pocket only gave them an edge when it came to interrogation. That said, I’d never been asked to remove my Dog Tags before. As it happened, I didn’t wear mine as they irritated me, but Des, Butch and Si did as they were asked and dutifully dropped theirs on Bert’s desk.

  “Right then,” smiled the RSM. “You lads are off on a right jolly. Throw your kit in the back of the bus outside and I’ll be with you in two shakes.”

  Moments later we were all crammed into a Transit eight seater, bouncing down the road in darkness.

  We knew it was pointless asking the RSM where we were going, but the fact that it was he that was driving us, told me this was a very important journey.

  Just a touch over two hours later, all became clear.

  Our bus drove straight into Heathrow airport. We bypassed the main buildings and headed for the cargo zone. Even back in 1986, Heathrow moved millions of tons of cargo every month.

  The place looked no different than any other large distribution centre. A cavernous structure with dozens of roller shuttered doors sat directly in front of us. Queues of HGV’s waited impatiently for their turn to reverse onto their allotted dock and drop their cargo. As our bus rolled up to the first security checkpoint, we were met by a grey man in a grey suit.

  He slapped a square sticker on our windscreen and dropped himself into the passenger seat.

  Bert gave the guy a cursory nod and we were off again, speeding across the apron.

  “I could do with one of them stickers, next time I go to Benidorm,” chirped Si.

  The grey suit didn’t even turn around, he just pointed to a British Airways 737 in the far distance.

  “That’s yours,” he said.

  For years, there had been speculation that a top secret agreement between British Airways and the Regiment’s Hierarchy was in place. In times of war, or great threat to the people of the UK, this arrangement would allow the Special Air Service the use of specially re-fitted BA planes, to deliver men and equipment into enemy territory. That speculation had just become a reality and, there was little doubt that if we were heading for Ireland in such secrecy, the job was of the utmost importance.

  We collected our kit from the back of the Transit and stood at the bottom of the stairs leading to the body of the aircraft. The RSM stepped over to me and leaned in. It was as if he’d read my thoughts.

  “Good luck, Fuller,” he said, and took my hand. “If these fuckers aren’t stopped on this one, there’ll be a civil war in the North, mark my words.”

  I had nothing to say to that, just nodded and climbed the steps.

  Once inside the aircraft, it quickly became apparent that our 737 was very special indeed. Every last bit of unnecessary kit had been stripped from the inside, and much to our consternation, that included every seat.

  Even the Hercs had benches.

  As we dropped our chutes and belt kits at our feet, we were joined by two very young looking pilots.

  Both were fair haired and of similar height and build. The guy wearing the captain’s epaulettes stepped forward. “Which of you chaps is Fuller?” he asked with a smile.

  “That will be me,” I said.

  He offered a hand. “Splendid, splendid. Beard,” he announced. “Captain Adam Beard, and this…” he nodded to his first officer. “Is my brother, Ryan.”

  We shook.

  Ryan was holding a thick looking book and a chart of what was undoubtedly southern Ireland. He tapped the map with a finger.

  “Our official flightpath is direct to Belfast, but shortly after leaving the Welsh coast, we’ll declare a technical emergency and request an alternative landing. The Irish ATC will have to direct us away from Cork as it’s blowing a hooly down there, so we’ll head for Shannon. Just before we start our descent, we’ll spin around and drop you chaps somewhere around the Limerick/Kerry border. The Paddies will kick up a fuss, but we’ll tell them we got a bit lost and that my dear brother has decided to turn back for home.” He gave me a cheeky wink. “All in a day’s work.”

  Faking an urgent situation that takes a civilian aircraft into restricted airspace was nothing new. However, I wasn’t sure if it had ever been attempted by the UK government before.

  I knew many BA crew were ex-military, and Adam and Ryan did indeed wear the BA uniform, but from the look of the two brothers, I considered they were still serving. They had that edge about them.

  “Ryan will sort the door opening and timing,” said Adam. “You will have noticed that we don’t have any cargo. That is because this is no ordinary flight, and this is no ordinary British Airways 737. As you are probably aware, the exit doors on the standard aircraft open outwards making a parachute drop impossible unless you blast your way out. Ours do not, enabling the seal to be broken after decompression by a single operator and at any height we require. We never carry cargo on these little jobs, as it allows me to slow the aircraft down to 120 knots before she stalls. Now, any questions?”

  Adam’s little speech instantly confirmed that he and Ryan Beard were not about to take me on my next package holiday to Spain.

  “All very James Bond,” said Des looking about the empty fuselage.

  “Exactly,” smiled the Captain. “Well, we’re expecting a few lumps and bumps on the way, so you lads wedge yourselves in where you can. We’re just going to run the rule over the aircraft and we’ll be off in about ten minutes.”

  At that, Adam turned and busied himself on the flight deck.

  Des was shaking his head. “My old man told me about this shite,” he said, laying down his weapons. “Not with planes, like. He worked in the shipyards from being a wee bairn. He told me that during the Second World War, the men would camouflage warships to look like civilian vessels, to confuse the German U Boats, y’know, to stop ‘em torpedoing them like eh?”

  Butch Stanley didn’t usually say too much, but he gave me a knowing look and gestured to the stripped out plane.

  “They don’t do this for nothin’ though, do they? I mean, they don’t go to all this trouble to disguise a drop, if this wasn’t a big deal.”

  I looked at my patrol and considered I had some of the best fighting men in the world at my side.

  “The big deal, Butch, is stopping these murderous bastards from killing dozens of RUC lads on New Year’s Eve.”

  Des felt in his pocket for his pipe and gestured towards the flight deck. “Don’t suppose them boys will mind if I have a burn.”

  “I will,” I said.

  * * *

  A typical HALO jump requires a pre-breathing period of about half an hour prior to the drop. This is where the jumper breathes 100% oxygen in order to flush nitrogen from their bloodstream and prevent decompression sickness, the same problem a diver suffers from with rapid ascents.

  As I got my breather together, I felt the usual fluttering in my gut. I’d done eleven HALO drops and you never forget a single one. My concern was for the inexperienced lads in the patrol. I would have liked at least one dry run with belt kit and weapons.

  Each member of the team had sorted their own webbing, and other than spare ammunition and a knife, it’s pretty much up to the individual what he carries in there. How much weight, how much bulk. That said, dropping from such altitude, carrying anything other than your chute, is an issue. It destabilises the jumper and spinning or tumbling at thirty thousand feet is a recipe for disaster. Just fifteen seconds in, you reach terminal velocity.

  That is 120mph, belly down arms out.

  As Adam and Ryan started the engines and completed their pre-flight checks, I kept my concerns to myself and did what I often do in the circumstances.

  I fell asleep.

  The hand of Ryan Beard shocked me awake. His BA officer’s uniform had been replaced with a full flight suit. After all, the second he opened the 737’s door, he would be hit with air temperatures of between minus 25 and 35 degrees Celsius. Despite his oxygen mask, his voice was clear and calm.

  “Okay, Fuller? Rise and shine old chap.”

  I stretched myself and checked my watch. We had been in the air less than thirty minutes. The 737 took a sharp left turn, straightened itself and I heard the engines step up a gear.

  “We’ve decompressed,” said the First Officer. “That was us changing tack for Shannon… we’ve caused quite a commotion I’ll tell you. Adam will slow us to just above the stall and put the aircraft in a holding pattern above the drop zone. Get your shit together boys… ETA seventeen minutes… oh, and it’s a tad breezy out there, blowing north-south, forty knots.”

  We all stood in a small circle and checked over each other’s kit. Individually we each carried a folding stock Mp5k and a Browning Hi Power SLP. Si had the biggest payload as he had been given the task of bringing along some explosives. Everything had to be secured and as well balanced as possible.

  This was going to be no ordinary jump. When the rear door was opened by the First Officer, we would be travelling just above the speed at which our particular 737 would stall. That means the minimum speed the Captain can fly at and still maintain altitude. There are lots of variables he has to think about, including his payload and the weather conditions, but either way, we would be jumping out of an aircraft travelling at around one hundred and forty miles per hour in a howling gale.

  Piece of piss, eh?

  With no warning buzzers, no red and green lights, the timing of the jump was completely in the hands of Ryan Beard. He strode from the flight deck, his confidence belying his tender years, clipped himself to a support and began to open the rear door of the aircraft.

  What is it like standing at that opening, travelling at 120 knots? Well, imagine trying to stand up in a force nine, then triple it.

  The freezing air rushed into the aircraft, almost knocking us off our feet. It rattled the plastic pull down screens over the windows, tearing one from its mountings.

  With the cacophony of sound and Ryan’s oxygen mask, any attempt at verbal communication was pointless.

  We were flying a full twenty thousand feet above the cloud cover. The moon lit the swirling mass of white and grey below us. From above, it was a stunning sight, however, I knew that once we hit that cover, we would be blind until we made the other side. Then, of course, those same clouds would work against us, cutting off any moonlight and we would be forced to navigate the final ten thousand feet, piss wet through and in near total darkness.

  I could tell that Ryan was taking instructions from his brother on the flight deck via in-ear comms.

  He looked at me and gave me the nod.

  We lined up, one behind the other, Me first, Des, Butch, then Si. Once we were in position, Ryan held up three fingers, then two, then one.

  I looked out into the tempest that would greet me, and as Ryan’s final finger disappeared, I dropped into the night.

  Am I an adrenalin junkie?

  The answer to that one is difficult. I have spent the vast majority of my life in dangerous and often life threatening situations, so you could call me that. What I will say to you is that being scared is normal, but being in a situation where you have absolutely no control over the outcome, is a whole new ball game.

  Exiting the aircraft was like being hit by a battering ram, it knocked the breath from me. For several seconds I had difficulty in working out which way was up and in which direction I was falling. It was only when I saw the shapes of the other three men in my patrol being tossed about in the wake of the aircraft, that I realised where the ground was and that I was upside down.

  I had to fight to get into the standard free fall position. It was shockingly cold, and I was terribly disorientated.

  I was deaf from the roar of the wind as I ploughed through the thin atmosphere at one hundred and eighty feet per second. Trying to twist my head to see if any of my patrol were still visible, not only caused me to lose balance, but the movement played havoc with my mask, and I gave up rather than see my oxygen source fly off into the night.

  What seemed like seconds later, I was in the clouds and blind. For me, this had always been the scariest part of a HALO descent. The feeling of falling at such great speed, the noise, the freezing temperatures all heightened at the moment all vision was lost.

  From my exit at thirty thousand feet, to my opening height of two thousand, would take a tad under three minutes. How thick the cloud cover was, and how low it lay to the ground, was a guessing game.

  I had been falling for just over two minutes and I was still in dense cover. The moon had long since lost its fight with the mass of moisture in the air and now everything was black, both below and above me.

  I felt an almighty gust of wind push me left. it almost flipped me over but as I fought to keep my position I saw the first sparse twinkle of lights below. The aerial photographs, the maps, the plan didn’t mean anything at that moment, but I felt a whole lot better. All I could make out was what looked like farm buildings scattered between narrow lanes.

  Four seconds later, I pulled the ripcord on my chute and the satisfying tug on my harness snapped me upright as it opened.

  Everything slowed, and I pulled away my mask. Feeling instantly back in control of my destiny, my mind began to work as it should. The wind made navigation difficult, but I steered away from the lights of the farms and towards the darkness of the fields. As I got more and more of my shit together, I realised that in the distance off to my right, was the N69 coast road that served the Shannon estuary.

  I had been blown about a mile or so off course from our drop zone, but not too far away to be an issue.

  The Regiment always used square, RAM parachutes for free fall operations, as they were more manoeuvrable and made for a softer landing providing you got it right.

  As my boots touched terra firma, I scanned the sky above to look for Des, Butch and Si, but it was black as pitch, no moon, no stars.

  After releasing my harness, I sorted myself out and got all my jump kit together. Easier said than done in a thirty five knot northerly, I’ll tell you.

  It took me three attempts to deflate the canopy, fold it up and stuff it into a bag that was attached to the parachute harness. Weighing in at 15kgs plus the reserve and breather, there was no way I was lumbering about the Irish countryside looking for an ideal spot to conceal the stuff. So, as my eyes grew accustomed to the lack of ambient light and I spied a large metal trough in the near distance, it was a no brainer. In it went.

  Once free of my burden, I made ready my Mp5k and BAP, zipped up my jacket and fired up my UHF comms.

  Within ten minutes, all the patrol had called in. We were spread out, but everyone had made it down unscathed and I had to be happy with that.

  Just after midnight, we all four stood in near total darkness in the middle of a field.

  “Everyone okay?” I asked. “No injuries?”

  “Piece of piss,” said Butch.

  Si shot him a look.

  Des lit his pipe. “Let’s fuck off,” he said.

  Des Cogan’s Story:

  Our LUP had been pre chosen for us. Rick gave me the point, so I checked my map and compass, and set off tabbing the fifteen k towards Banna beach and our lovely holiday caravan.

  The spooks rented all kinds of safe houses in the South. During the eighties there were dozens of undercover operatives working there who needed someplace to stay.