 |
 |
30th March 2014
Two Range Rover Discoverys and a Freelander headed towards the beach down the unlit dirt track that led from the A1068. The small town of Alnmouth lay one kilometre away.
In total darkness, with the flick of a switch disconnecting the brake lights, the drivers relied on their night vision goggles. There was no moon or stars. From the main road, there was absolutely nothing to see. The countryside behind them was pancake flat. In front of them, the dunes rose from the seashore.
They were met by a woman in her forties who showed them the path they needed to follow to the sea. Her partner was already on the shore telling her, via a mobile, it was safe to proceed. They all knew they had to move fast to beat the incoming spring tide.
The vehicles were positioned for a quick getaway. The crews, dressed in dark clothing and balaclavas, stood in the shadows of the dunes sheltering from the south-westerly wind, peering out to sea. Tommy Cole held a military right-angled torch aloft, sending out five brief flashes of red light then waited, scanning and re-scanning the sea with his thermal imaging binoculars.
Two inflatable zodiac boats suddenly hit the sandy beach and everyone, apart from Tommy, began rapidly unloading their cargo into the rear compartments of the vehicles. Satisfied, he handed the crew of the zodiacs two large briefcases each. They were gone as quickly and quietly as they arrived.
Mounting up, engines purred into life. In single file, they trundled between the dunes to join the ‘beach watchers’ in their Fiesta; heading carefully back to the main road. In the gloom of the shore, a camouflaged figure rose from his hiding place. Concealed on the land side, another CROPS man watched the convoy’s progress and whispered into the ether.
At the main road, the lights came on. The Freelander and one Discovery turned left, the others right. Within a hundred metres the Freelander turned onto a narrow tarmac road towards the village of Shilbottle and the A1 which would lead them, via the A69, to the M6 and Liverpool. The Discovery carried straight on to Newcastle. The others headed for Alnwick where they would part ways.
When the vehicles had disappeared the CROPS men, who knelt silently in the marram grass, shouldered their packs and walked back along the coastal path to their vehicle parked in the caravan park at Birling Carrs Rocks. Meanwhile, at three separate locations approximately two and a half kilometres from the ‘beach road’ armed Police and NCA Agents had moved into position. High in the sky, a police helicopter monitored everything from a stand-off position downwind, several kilometres away.
Inside the Freelander, Tommy Cole was feeling very pleased with himself. So far all had gone to plan and he saw no reason why it shouldn’t continue. He checked with the others on his mobile. Apart from having difficulty hearing them clearly against the loud music they were playing, everything was just fine. He took a cigar from the top pocket of his Barbour jacket, sniffing it before shoving it in his mouth, and patted himself down in search of his lighter.
As they rounded the bend on the approach to the junction with the Shilbottle and Low Buston Road, he saw a large box truck parked on the track in the field to his right; exhaust fumes spewed into the cold night air. He didn’t have time to fully digest its significance.
“What the fuck?” His driver braked hard. In front of them, an HGV was slewed across the junction. At that same moment, behind them, the box truck raced from the field blocking their rear. Unseen, a figure dressed from head to foot in black stood up in the ditch to their right, the large pack on his back weighing him down as he discharged a stubby black weapon at the engine compartment of the Freelander which shuddered to a halt.
“What the fuck are you doin’?” Tommy shouted at his driver, danger flooding his head.
“It won’t start, it won’t fuckin start!” the driver yelled back as he desperately tried to restart the engine.
“We’re fuckin’ blocked behind!” they wailed from the back seat.
He had no time to think about assessing that particular problem: multiple flash bangs exploded beneath the vehicle, windows disintegrated, glass everywhere, jarring muzzle strikes to his arms and head, pain amid the strident cries of “Armed Police! Armed Police! Show your hands! Show your fucking hands!”
Almost simultaneously to the south, just before Warkworth, and north, just beyond Lesbury on the road to Alnwick, similar actions took place. Pre-planned, well-timed road closures by local uniformed Officers at selected locations prevented members of the public ‘wandering’ into the strike zones.
The Discovery heading for Newcastle passed through Birling towards the crossing on the River Coquet. Behind it, another large box truck and two marked armoured Land Rover Defenders surged out from the works access, no lights, and sprinted after it. Round the bend, at Station Road, an articulated lorry pulled out across the carriageway. Bounded by the high stone walls and embankments either side, there was nowhere to go but back. The Discovery braked hard to a standstill, the lead Police Defender struck its front offside tyre, the second rammed it squarely from behind, the box van sealed them in. Armed Police swarmed the vehicle; flash bangs, shattered glass, raucous shouts and cries of pain.
At the railway bridge just beyond Lesbury another HGV and the screech of brakes. Vehicles appeared from nowhere blocking the rear. An NCA agent; heavy backpack, stubby black weapon. The concentrated electromagnetic pulse brought immediate engine failure. More flashes, more bangs, more glass, more shouts, more cries of pain.
Seventy metres back down the road the Ford Fiesta casually executed a three-point turn and drove back towards Lesbury. No one pursued it. There was no need. The armed Officers at the road closure north of the roundabout would deal with it.