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Tony MacMahon’s internet research of the area, when planning the operation, had told him RAF Boulmer, near Alnwick, was the home of some sort of air monitoring system, an Aerospace Battle Management school and an RAF Search and Rescue helicopter. The official RAF site was just gobbledygook to him so he sent some people up to the Alnwick area to make discreet enquiries. This they did, several times with several locals at several pubs over several pints. They were able to confirm there was nothing else at the base he needed to be concerned about. As he wasn’t flying anything into the area and had no intentions of needing to be rescued from the sea, he reasoned it could affect nothing. It was written into the plan as a point of interest to be noted.
The skipper of the 324 gross tonnage stern trawler Melissa had noted the point and was tuned to the SAR frequencies, so he was not alarmed when he monitored the dispatch of SAR’s ‘A’ Flight to the aid of a seriously ill seaman on a container ship behind him in the North Sea shipping lanes. Cross-checking his radar against the information he was receiving, he quickly identified the vessel in question.
Had he known it was simply a ruse to cover the launch of the Merlin HC3a Special Forces helicopter and that HMS Tyne, lying in the shadow of the container ship, was co-ordinating his and his crew’s arrest, he would have been far more concerned.
Watching the SAR aircraft’s progress from Boulmer out across the sea, he tracked its navigation lights until he could barely see them, not knowing that just beyond it, in total darkness, the Merlin had peeled off and taken up its standby position downwind of his ship. The SAR transmissions dispelled any lingering doubts he may have held.
Things were going well. The two Zodiacs had been loaded and deployed from the stern, and now the last Zodiac was being hauled up the ramp, the cash already safely stowed. It was time to get under way and the Skipper felt a small celebration would be in order. He sent the second mate to break open a few beers.
At that moment, the Merlin tore across the waves in a final dash, banked sharply and hovered above the Melissa’s rear deck, bathing the bridge and superstructure in light. Ropes were thrown down, clear of the rear gantry, followed quickly by the black-clad members of the SBS fast-roping onto the deck.
Simultaneously, the ship was dappled in light from the powerful handheld searchlights being used by one of the two Halmatic Pacific 22 rigid inflatable boats, with their complement of Royal Marine Commandos. They bounced across the waves and began circling the stricken trawler. Deployed from beyond the headland, they’d used the outline of Coquet Island to mask their approach from the Melissa’s radar and lookouts. Having broken its cover, HMS Tyne moved swiftly towards the scene.
Resistance was futile and most of the crew of the Melissa knew it. Those that didn’t quickly found out why.
As the bulk of the crew were being secured, one of the SBS members tapped a forlorn figure on the shoulder and said: “Stevie? Stevie Middleton?”
The man looked back at him with sad eyes, a resigned look on his face. “What? Oh, hi Davy,” he said quietly.
The SBS man kept his hand on his shoulder and said: “What the fuck are you doin’ here, man?”
Stevie raised a pale wisp of a smile, shook his head slowly, sadly and replied: “Hard times, Davy. Hard times.”