‘Romeo Victor One to Romeo Victor Two receiving?’

‘RV 2 receiving. Go ahead.’

‘Be advised we’re ten miles behind the target vehicle. Hotel Charlie One will further advise when we are within two miles at which time we will go to silent approach. Received?’

‘That’s a Roger RV 1, message received.’

Jos Lewis was the skipper of RV 2 and had worked with Lee on the ARV’s for four years. They had been through quite a few scrapes together during their time with the unit. The eight officers who made up the two ARV’s had the utmost respect for each other and had developed deep friendships and respect in a way that only officers who have placed their lives in each others hands could understand.

Psychologists had likened it to battle zone situations where combat troops would risk their own lives to save a comrade. Whilst it was often thought of as fighting for Queen and Country, patriotism or whatever, it was just as likely to be fighting for your mate to save his life in exactly the same way as if the boot was on the other foot. You knew without question that when the bullets were flying, your ‘oppo’ would put his life in danger to save you. Quite extraordinary bonds developed between them as they had to trust each other implicitly and without hesitation. Hesitation meant that someone could be hurt or killed. Hesitation was simply not acceptable.

The training for the unit was incredibly stressful and the failure rate for prospective candidates was inevitably high. Whilst individual acts of bravery and heroism were often needed, the most important aspect was that of the team. If you weren’t a team player, you wouldn’t make the grade, plain and simple.

Extremely fit, mentally very strong, ready to deploy at a minutes notice, sometimes in the middle of the night, unable to discuss situations with your nearest and dearest. Being able to adapt and alter the plan as it developed. Most importantly, being able to pull that trigger either as a consequence of what you see yourself through your telescopic sight or, perhaps even more difficult, being told by someone that you may not even have met before, an Assistant Chief Constable or Commander, when that message arrives in your covert earpiece, ‘green for go, repeat, green for go.’

There are not many men or women who are able to tick all those boxes.

All the officers had to go through psychological evaluation on a regular basis and particularly so after an Operation to assess their mental fortitude. If an ordinary officer made a mistake, it could normally be rectified without too much of a problem. Bit different for the firearms lads. If they made a mistake, the wrong person or the innocent civilian may end up on the mortuary slab and the personal implications for that officer would be devastating. The implications for his family would be just as devastating.

‘What did you do today dad?’

‘Well sunshine, it’s like this. I meant to shoot the bad guy who was holding the gun to the hostage’s head, but he leaned down at the last moment and I shot the lady that he was holding instead. How was your day at school love?’

How does the officer involved come to terms with the fact that he has killed an innocent person, does his family know, can he ever tell them. How do they react if they do know, could he ever pick up a firearm again, would he ever be allowed to? The questions, the doubts, the waking up in the middle of the night with the images of a head exploding. Could anyone ever truly come to terms with something like this? A thousand questions and ‘what if’s’. How many answers?

On the film set, you could re-shoot the scene time and again to get it right.

‘Quiet please, Action.  No that hasn’t worked people, let’s try that one more time, turn your head a little more to the right, and, Action.’

Real life, on the other hand, isn’t like that. No rehearsals, no second chances.

‘Hey mate, he doesn’t look too good.’ Dave Watkins was pointing towards Joe the lorry driver.

‘What are you on about?’ said shotgun.

Joe was sweating profusely and his face was flushed. Dave knew that Joe’s sickly appearance was about more than the situation he had become embroiled in, he was quite ill.

‘I need to stop for a minute. I need my pills.’

‘What pills?’ said the gunman.

‘They’re by my bunk behind you. Got a bit of a heart problem. I’ll be OK, but I need to get them. I can control things when I take one a few times a day, but if I get stressed, I need to take extra ones. It won’t take a minute, but I need to pop one under my tongue. I can’t do it while I’m driving. I need to stop just for a few minutes.’

Like most modern lorries, there was a sleeping compartment behind the drivers seat for when they were doing out of town or long distance runs.

‘Where are they?’

‘In the little locker; behind the officer.’

‘Right bollocks, reach behind you and get his pills.’ said Johnson to Dave. ‘If you fuck about, you’ll have two arseholes where you once had only one. Understand?’

Both control rooms were listening to the unfolding conversation and tensions were increasing all round.

‘Be advised Romeo Victor One and Two, target vehicle is weaving between the nearside and centre lanes and is slowing.’

The helicopter was hovering about one mile back and zooming in using the broadcast quality TV camera housed in the mission pod underneath the aircraft. The crew also had an array of other cameras which, depending on the situation they were dealing with, could be utilised. A good quality digital camera for taking still photographs was also part of the kit. Steve didn’t think they’d be using the still camera today. The TV quality camera was also a thermal imaging unit and really came into its own during the hours of darkness when picking up heat sources. It was so powerful; it could even pick up a heat source from within a household refuse bin.

On occasions, ground patrol officers had been directed to a ‘wheely’ bin in the driveway of a house (a favourite spot for hiding by escaping thieves etc) only for the officers to discover that the heat source was in fact a load of composting grass and garden clippings.

The quiet conversation in the chopper was interrupted by the spotter, ‘Target vehicle moving to nearside lane. Stop, stop, stop, vehicle has stopped on hard shoulder, repeat, vehicle is stationary, all persons remain in the vehicle at this time.’ The helicopter hovered at a safe distance waiting for the vehicle to move once more.

Joe managed to bring the wagon to a stop before crashing. The pain was crippling, he could feel the tell tale band of his heart condition tightening quickly around his chest and he thought he was about to collapse. He had stamped hard on the brakes and caused the wheels to lock and skid to a halt. Dave was suddenly off balance as he was reaching behind into the bunk area. He was violently thrown forward with the momentum of the quickly slowing vehicle and his shoulder hit the windscreen with considerable force.

His police radio dislodged from the harness under his tunic and Dave saw it tumble, almost in slow motion. Dave was screaming in silence; this isn’t happening, this is not fucking happening. The radio struck the dashboard hard, bounced up onto the windscreen, then down onto his knee, and fell to the floor of the cab under Dave’s feet. Both the gunman and Dave looked at each other, the floor of the cab, and then back to each other.

He screamed at Dave. ‘You fucking twat.’ He turned the stock of the sawn off round and hit Dave hard between the eyes. The skin on his forehead split instantly and he was severely stunned as his head snapped back and smashed into the metal pillar of the passenger door causing another wound to open on the back of his head. Johnson’s eyes bulged and all the veins stood out on his neck as he screamed at Dave.