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  The hedgerow above me was dense, and I felt reasonably confident that it would provide enough insulation to absorb my heat-signature. If I could manage to lay still, then I felt that there was a good chance that I would go unnoticed. The helicopter passed directly overhead my overnight accommodation without any change of direction, giving me no indication that I had been spotted. As the sound of the aircraft waned into the distance, I decided that I had to make some headway towards my goal, thirty miles or so, to the south-west. The sky was again obscured by heavy clouds scudding towards the north-east, and threatening to turn to rain.

  There were plenty of guidelines around me to help me with my orientation, so I had no doubt that I was heading in the right direction. The propensity of moss to grow on the north-facing sides of trees, the wind direction and the lines of the shadows, despite the sky being overcast, all helped me to maintain a, generally, south-westward bearing.

  I stumbled, rather than ran, across the rough and boggy terrain towards the corner of a small copse of conifer trees, about two miles in the distance.

  With less than three hundred metres to go to the sanctuary of the wood, I heard, once again, the sickening drone of the Hunter Force’s eye-in-the-sky.

  I immediately dived to the ground and curled up in a ball, pulling my greatcoat over my head in an attempt to disguise the shape of my body. As the predators flew away to the south and disappeared I felt a slight feeling of elation – they had been outsmarted. Once again, I thought, my knowledge of flying and observation from the air had won me the day, and I felt confident that my tactics had been enough to stop me from being seen. My arrogance was ill-founded. The eagle-eyed bastards had spotted me.

  Just as I crossed the tree-line into the wood the rain started to fall.

  Despite the small boost my spirits had been given by my recently successful performance in the art of illusion, I was in rag-order. The cold, now exacerbated by the heavy rain, was penetrating through to my core. My first-aid training made me well aware of the symptoms of hypothermia and exhaustion. I was tired, cold and hungry – very hungry, but I had not reached the verge of collapse, and I was shivering, so that was a good sign. Hunger was, without a doubt, my biggest problem. Whoever said that we humans can survive, quite comfortably, for three weeks without food was definitely talking through his arse. I was only on my third day without eating anything and I was already beginning to get desperate. Most of my thoughts were of food and I was constantly on the lookout for anything that could be eaten. I kept my eyes fixed to the ground in case I should stumble across a nest full of tasty eggs, and I even thought about eating leaves or grass, which I managed to convince myself must surely be full of nutrition if they were able to sustain sheep and horses.

  The hunger pangs and the feelings of weakness throughout my body ground away at my general wellbeing, and I was tempted to simply lie down, try to get warm, and attempt to overcome my malaise by sleeping.

  I had no doubt that trying to progress across open countryside during daylight hours was a futile exercise. Wooded areas were just too few and far between. By the time I could pick up the sound of the helicopter, I simply wouldn’t have enough time to react and find adequate top-cover to hide under. I felt that I was left with only one option. I would have to lie-up during the day under the cover of any woods that I could find, and then try to make my run for freedom during the night.

  I gathered together any fallen branches that I could find and, once again, scrapped up leaves and anything else that might provide some insulation. With my back wedged against a tree trunk I crawled under my accumulation. This time I waited, not for the sun to rise, but for it to fall, and allow darkness to provide me with the protection I needed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Dogs! I could hear dogs barking in the distance. They sounded excited as if they had picked up the scent of a wounded prey and they were getting closer. Suddenly, the sound of their barking was drowned out by the overwhelming noise of a helicopter circling directly overhead.

  My heart was thumping in my chest. What to do? If I broke cover and left the woods, then I would be spotted instantly by the pilot and crew. If I broke cover and remained under the canopy then I would be left with nowhere to go, and the Hunter Force, with their dogs, would be on to me within minutes. I decided that, by remaining as still as I could, under my makeshift hideaway then, with the rain possibly washing away my scent, I might have a chance of not being found.

  With a dog growling and barking aggressively only inches from my ear, I realised that I was about to be taken prisoner. I felt my pathetic shelter being kicked into the undergrowth.

  “Hands behind your back,” screamed the guard, as he positioned his boot down onto the side of my face and pressed down – hard, forcing me to exhale a muffled groan of pain.

  After another bone-jarring journey in the back of a truck, with a hood tightly secured over my head, I was lead through what sounded like a courtyard and into a building.

  As my handcuffs were removed, there was not a sound.

  Guards on either side of me, each holding one of my upper arms and wrists, lead me gently forwards.

  “Stop,” one of them whispered.

  A door in front of me was opened and I was lead inside. Underfoot I heard and felt harsh gravel, and the room resonated with overpowering ‘white noise’.

  “Stand,” whispered the same guard into my ear.

  My hands were placed onto a cold brick wall in front of me, and my legs were pulled slightly apart and away from the wall so that I was leaning forward and supported by my arms.

  “Stand,” was the last word that I would hear from the guard, or anyone, for quite a while.

  How long I was made to remain in that ‘stress-position’ for I have no idea. The ‘white noise’ was confusing me, and I was finding it difficult to have any awareness of time – or anything else for that matter. When I tried to ease the strain on my body by lowering one of my arms, it would be held by the guard, and carefully, in total silence, placed back against the wall.

  I felt the gentle treatment of the guards more distasteful than the rough treatment of the Hunter Force, and I was convinced that my brain was slowly becoming addled.

  Desperately, I tried to work out what day of the week it was, but I couldn’t. What time of day it might be – not a chance there. I attempted to recite poems or songs from my past, but I lost the words. Even the most elementary nursery rhymes and poetry seemed to have slipped from my memory.

  Suddenly, as if descending from another dimension, hands were laid upon me and guided me to sit on the gravel cross-legged. The hood was removed, and hands on either side of my head steered my eyes towards the ground. On my knees were two slices of dry bread, and to the side sat a tin mug, half-filled with water.

  I greedily ate the bread and guzzled back the water. With no hands to direct me, I sat staring at the floor. For some strange reason, I was afraid to look behind me.

  A short while later I was returned to the ‘stress-position’, and was struggling to hold on to my sanity.

  The ‘white noise’ was remorseless. Now and again, from somewhere in the distance, I could make out voices, but no matter how hard I concentrated, it was impossible for me to understand what they were saying. Sometimes they seemed to be speaking in a language that I couldn’t understand. At other times, I could grasp the odd word of English but, even then, nothing they said made any sense at all to me. I had heard of people in captivity being brainwashed by being exposed to some form of sensory deprivation. Perhaps, I thought, that was what was happening to me.

  In an attempt to break away from the tedium of the stress-position I said, in a loud voice. “Toilet. Toilet,” but nothing happened. Could it be that the guards had gone and left me unattended? I slowly lowered one of my arms, just as a test. Immediately the robotic hands descended upon me, holding my elbow and wrist, and gently placing my hand back against the wall.

  I mumbled to myself, “Dig deep. Concent
rate. This can’t go on forever. If I can just hold on to who I am, and what I am doing here, then I will get through this without cracking up. And I can hold on for a long time without a piss anyway.”

  There were a couple more sumptuous meal breaks, when I could tuck into my favourite feast of two slices of bread, and relish the half-mug-full of water, which I tried to convince myself was actually a rather exquisite soupçon of burgundy wine. But it didn’t work.

  After a while my whole body began to shake, not so much from the cold, but more from the fact that my muscles were reacting to the constant strain and lack of movement.

  Four hands attached themselves to me and turned me away from the wall. I was lead through a door which was then closed behind me, and the ‘white noise’ was gone. The silence and the warmth of the environment felt strangely confusing and unwelcome. There was a strong aroma of, freshly brewed, hot drinking chocolate.

  The drawstring on my hood was loosened and light flooded into my eyes as it was removed.

  Bewildered and blinking into the dazzling light, I slowly became aware of my surroundings.

  I was in an office, standing in front of a desk. Sat behind the desk was a man dressed in a uniform, sporting three silver stars on each of his shoulder epaulettes. Bright lights standing either side of the man were glaring straight into my eyes.

  “What is your name?” the man said, with no trace of an accent.

  “Warrant Officer Riley,” I answered quietly.

  The interrogator’s voice rose. “Are you stupid? I asked you, what is your name. It is important that you answer correctly.”

  “Patrick James Riley,” I said as precisely as I could.

  “And what is your rank?”

  ‘Warrant officer,” I replied.

  Taking down notes, and with a calmer voice, he continued. “There now Mister Riley, that wasn’t difficult, was it?”

  “I cannot answer that question sir,” I replied, knowing that, according to the Geneva Convention, the only details I was required to supply were my number, rank, name and date of birth.

  All members of the armed forces, who were defined as ‘prone to capture’ such as aircrew or members of Special Forces, were instructed never to provide any other information.

  “Are you being given enough to eat?” he asked as he lit a cigarette.

  “I cannot answer that question sir,” I again repeated.

  “You really are stupid, aren’t you?”

  “I cannot answer that question sir.”

  The interrogator was beginning to look perplexed, almost angry. He picked up his mug and took a sip of the warm delicious-smelling chocolate.

  “Would you like a drink of this?” he asked, placing the mug back onto the desk.

  I glanced to my right as if something had caught my eye.

  Momentarily he looked to his left, and in that instant, I grabbed the mug and took a hasty gulp.

  Without hesitation a guard descended on me and snatched the drink from my grasp as I said with a smile, and with chocolate dripping from my chin.

  “I cannot answer that question sir.”

  The captain or three-star general, whatever he was, was definitely not happy.

  “Take him away. Give him a shower and remember he has already been fed,” he bellowed.

  I felt elated with my victory. A victory which may have appeared small, but to me it was massive, and I felt that I would now be able to cope with another session of the ‘white noise’ and the gravel without any problems.

  Were my ears deceiving me? Did the cross-examining officer really say “Give him a shower”?

  If he did, then I was about to get one with my hood on.

  “Perhaps the showers were in another building,” I thought to myself, as I was lead outside, bollock naked, apart from my shower cap.

  I wasn’t taken to a shower block. I was forced to lie face-down across two thick metal girders, one running across my chest and shoulders, and the other across my shin bones. I was tied spread-eagled to the girders, or perhaps they were rails of some kind, which were icy cold and cut painfully into my flesh.

  As the guards walked away I strained to listen to their conversation.

  “We can’t leave the poor bugger there. There might be a train coming,” one said in a whisper.

  “Course we can. He won’t come to any harm. Next train’s not due till tomorrow morning,” the other replied.

  A door slammed, and there was silence. I was left naked and tied, face down to, what I then realised, was a railway line. A fucking railway line!

  Any attempts to loosen my bonds were hopeless, they just made the plastic restraints cut further into my skin. It felt as if the wide metal beams were melding into me. I was desperately uncomfortable, bitterly cold, and scared.

  Suddenly my discomfort dissolved. My priorities changed. I felt a slight vibration being transmitted through the railway lines. No – I had to be wrong, surely it couldn’t be a train – I had to be imagining it – but I wasn’t. As the vibration increased, I screamed. “Help. Help. For fuck’s sake help me. There’s a train coming!”

  I heard a door slam and the guards running towards me. They immediately started to cut me free.

  “Quick, I can see the headlights,” one said as I was hauled to my feet and dragged towards the building.

  For the next few seconds, I stood gasping for breath as I listened to the noise of the train increase and rattle past.

  “Don’t you dare tell anyone about this,” hissed a guard as I was lead, less gently than normal, along what sounded like a corridor.

  The warmth, the smell and the light, once again invading my eyes as my hood was removed, assured me that I was back in the interrogation room.

  This time there was a young woman sat by the officer. She looked me up and down as she smiled. Her smile turning into a mocking laugh as she cast her eyes onto my, shrivelled and withdrawn, wedding-tackle.

  Instinctively I tried to cover myself with my hands.

  “Don’t be shy, Mister Riley,” said the interrogator. “You certainly don’t have anything that my assistant hasn’t seen before. Would you like to get dressed before we start?”

  “I cannot answer that question sir,” I said somewhat pitifully.

  “Are the guards treating you with proper respect, sergeant major?” he asked as if concerned.

  “I cannot answer that question sir,” I repeated.

  The assistant chirped up. “Take him away,” she said.

  My hood stayed off and I was lead into the office next door.

  There was the familiar face of the officer commanding training wing, Major Paddy Baxter. “Well done Red,” he said as he pointed to a bundle of clothes on the chair next to him. “Get dressed and go and get yourself something to eat.”

  The Combat Survival and Resistance to Interrogation phase of SAS selection was over, and I certainly wasn’t sorry to have put it behind me!

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Having passed selection, I was now a newly ‘badged’ SAS trooper and had managed to come full circle in my career. After reaching the rank of warrant officer I was once again a private soldier, as I had been almost eighteen years earlier. But I was happy – very happy, and I was happier still as I left the commanding officer’s office after my welcoming interview.

  The C.O. had outlined the details of my new appointment as a badged member and I was hugely relieved to learn that I would not be required to sneak through jungles with an enormous Bergen on my back. Nor would I be expected to abseil down the side of a building and leap through a window, in an attempt to rescue some helpless hostages. At my stage of life, it seemed highly likely that any hostages would just have sympathy with me, and feel it be more appropriate for them to lead me out of the besieged building, to save me from tripping over and doing myself an injury. I don’t think I was ever the type of person who was cut out to deal with a real, close-quarter terrorist threat. The mere thought of confronting someone armed to the teet
h, and intent on killing me filled me with dread. I just instinctively knew that there would come a time, in any confrontation, when I would simply throw down my weapon, turn on my heels and run away screaming for help. (Not the sort of image the public at that time expected of a heroic, swashbuckling SAS trooper.) I was a married man with three children and a mortgage for goodness sake! The last thing I wanted to do was to get involved with slapping anyone around – let alone pumping bullets into someone.

  It, therefore, came as a great relief, when I was told that I would not be joining one of the regiment’s four Sabre Squadrons but, was instead to be posted to the Operational Research Department – better known to everyone as Ops Research. My new role would be to look at improving methods of dealing with the ever-present threat of aircraft hijacks.

  The remit I was given was to liaise with the officer commanding Counter Revolutionary Warfare (CRW) wing and the operations officer, and produce proposals to improve the regiment’s capabilities to deal with any hijack situation, on any type of aircraft, anywhere in the world. The hijacking of passenger jets was popular at that time. It was generally considered to be only a matter of time before the UK antiterrorist team would be called upon to deal with a life-threatening hostage situation.

  The SP team trained regularly to improve the techniques required to storm an aircraft, with the use of a mock-up version of a standard modern-day passenger jet. Which was on the grounds of the Pontrilas Army Training Area just outside Hereford. The Ops Officer and I decided that it would, more than likely, be beneficial if the team were given access to real aircraft to practice with, and we would, therefore, need the cooperation of British Airways which was then a nationalised company. In due course a request was put forward through Group Headquarters and the Ministry of Defence, for a meeting with BA, a short while later a meeting was arranged to be held at their Headquarters in Queens Building, by Terminal 2, at London’s Heathrow Airport.