HIS THREE SUBORDINATES sitting before the colonel in his office at Special Air Services' headquarters in Bradbury Lines, Hereford, England, waited for his temper to ease. Three hours had elapsed since the attack on the Abbey but no one thought about going to bed although it was past three in the morning.
“Again, I repeat, gentlemen - how the hell did it happen?” the colonel asked as he waved the provisional report - a thick bundle comprising telexes, facsimile transmissions, and transcripts of telephone conversations before them. “We had a trained team of eight men in place and they were all 'taken out” - a euphemism he always used when referring to casualties. “One man, just one man stopped this from being a fucking disaster!”
The men listened in silence because, they reasoned, he had every right to be upset. Eight of their best men had been eliminated in a single night by an opposing force of a similar number - it was unheard of.
The colonel laid the bundle of telexes back on the table, leaned back in his chair, and surveyed his fellow officers. Colonel James R. Coburn, DSO was forty-eight years old. He had fought in many engagements overseas including the Falklands campaign in 1982. A fighting soldier, his men had sometimes considered him too brave for his own good as well as theirs. Being tall, some six feet in height, his youthful looks belied his age. A head of thick dark brown hair atop a fresh, high cheek-boned face, regular features, and lightly tanned skin promoted that image.
The Colonel knew that the men sitting before him were highly competent individuals. He also knew that these men were just as capable as he was of appreciating the situation but he had to give a show - they expected it.
Giving emphasis to his last remark, the Colonel exclaimed, “Captain Lewis does not even belong to the SAS!”
The three men before him were Major John Carter, and Captains Robert Cullen and Anthony Wright.
“He was trained by us though!” Anthony Wright said. “Surely, that's something!”
Tony Wright was of medium height, slight of build, sandy-haired, and had a bland face devoid of any distinctive or stimulating characteristics; a blessing where undercover work was required. A man with a big nose, large ears, or something distinguishable was easy to identify. Mister 'average man', as Tony was, made it far more difficult to peg him.
“Yes, three years ago, Tony! We trained him three years ago but we didn't teach him to use a fucking sword!”
The men before him laughed nervously. The Colonel was friendly enough as a rule and always used their first names when addressing them in private for he was not big on 'bullshit' and neither were most officers in the regiment. However, today their commander was not in a friendly mood.
The Colonel waited for a response but got none so he went on, “The reputation of the Regiment has been severely damaged as a result of this fiasco. We must now find a way to repair it!”
The Special Air Services or SAS as they are known is an elite force, probably the best in the world at what they do, and they know it. They do not operate by anyone else's rules, they make their own. Now, eight of their number had been bested and their pride was hurt.
“How is Lechaim Lewis, Jim?” the major, John Carter, asked. No one but John ever addressed the Colonel as Jim but the major was an exception. Five years younger than his colonel, the major was six foot two inches tall, lean in build, and, like his colonel, had been involved in numerous operations around the world. The two men were close friends, evidenced by the fact that the Colonel had been John's best man when he married three years before. As the two men looked at each other, they both remembered the tall, blond, powerful soldier that have served with them for two years.
“I had a long telephone conversation with Colonel Ryan in Belfast just twenty minutes ago. He tells me that Lechaim is unhurt. A bloody miracle, he said. Apparently, the room that Lechaim fought in was riddled to pieces by bullets.”
“How both men survived is a miracle!” Captain Robert Cullen interjected. “One man with a sword protecting a priest against nine fully armed well-trained terrorists. The newspapers are going to have a field day.”
Robert Cullen was ever the taciturn one. Therefore, when he did speak, it was always with good reason. A short man of stocky build with balding ginger hair, which made him look older than his twenty-eight years, he was not a man to be underestimated with a service record that few could match. Even he though was impressed by Lechaim's actions at the abbey earlier.
“Christ that's all we need!” the Colonel replied. “You're right though, Bob, the newspapers are certainly going to run with this! The question is how are we going to play it?”
Whilst the men were considering this among themselves, the telephone rang on the Colonel's desk. Seizing it he snapped at the person on the other end, “I thought I told you I wasn't to be disturbed!” Then he calmed as the caller explained.
“Oh, right! Put him on!” The waiting Colonel lifted his eyes to his colleagues, “Prime minister!” he muttered and they looked at each other knowingly. A blowtorch was pointing their way and they were about to get burned.
“Ah, yes, Prime Minister. Colonel Coburn here...”
The Colonel spent about ten minutes on the telephone and when he eventually replaced the receiver he looked relieved. Smiling, he said, “As you can guess, gentlemen, the prime minister is not a happy man. However, the PM thinks that the situation can be salvaged if we are prepared to follow his suggestion.”
They stared back at him quizzically. “What suggestion would that be, Jim?” Major John Carter asked.
“The PM has suggested that no mention be made of our involvement in this operation. In fact, the SAS were never there as far as the attack on the abbey is concerned. Then, the people responsible, be they IRA or whoever will not be able to make capital out of it.”
“We don't normally advertise our presence anyway!” Tony Wright offered. “Personally, I think it's a good idea!” The others nodded. “And Lechaim Lewis! His presence can hardly be covered up!” Bob Cullen said.
“Quite so, Bob!” the Colonel replied. “The prime minister doesn't want to do that anyway. In fact, he wants Lechaim's actions to be pushed for all they're worth. You know - English army captain defends a priest of the church against a dastardly, unprovoked, act of naked aggression by the IRA - something like that.”
They all smiled together at the prime minister's deviousness. “The PM is going to ask the Army to award the highest decoration possible!” the Colonel added.
“You mean the Victoria Cross?” Bob Cullen asked. “But surely that can only be awarded to a member of the British armed forces for bravery in the face of the enemy in wartime?”
“The prime minister is aware of the restrictions governing the VC but will push for it to be conferred anyway! Apparently, there have been precedents in this regard! Anyway, gentlemen, the point is that we may be off the hook!”
“And the men that died, our boys?” Major John Carter asked bitterly. “What do we tell their next of kin?”
“What we usually tell them, John! That they died on active service!” the Colonel answered his friend. “We all know the score when we join the regiment - they took their chances and lost!” The Colonel often wondered why John Carter had joined the SAS in view of his strong principles and compassionate heart. In this line of work, it paid to forget sentiment and concentrate only on the task at hand. It wasn't so much, 'Who dares wins!' but rather 'Win at any cost!' Still, his friend was a great soldier and had never let the regiment down yet. The Colonel was certain his friend never would.
“Anyway, gentlemen - let's get back to the matter at hand. What went wrong? Does anyone have any ideas?” the Colonel inquired.
“It appears from what you've told us already, colonel, that the operation was compromised,” Tony Wright suggested. “Have we any indications yet as to how the terrorists knew our procedures and methods of operations!” and then he threw in, “... and do we know who the terrorists were and what was their purpose?”
“We have no idea at this time about anything!” Colonel Coburn replied. “Brigade in Belfast are dragging their feet as usual. I think we must assume for the present that it is the work of the IRA. However, there are so many splinter groups operating in Northern Ireland that anything is possible!”
Captain Tony Wright spoke again. “And you believe that this monsignor,” he searched his memory for a second, “this monsignor Michael Cronin was the focus of the attack.”
The Colonel paused to consider. “It seems very unlikely. After all why mount such an elaborate operation to kill a priest. No, my gut feeling tells me that the terrorists, whoever they were, knew that a SAS operation was going down and wanted to make a point. To embarrass the SAS if you like.”
“They certainly succeeded in doing that!” Bob Cullen chipped in laconically.
“How many casualties in all?” Major Carter asked.
“Too many!” the Colonel replied. “Apart from the eight we lost, four priests were also killed- that's twelve in all.”
“Twenty-one if you count the terrorists” the precise Tony Wright proffered.
“Twenty-one men including the terrorists!” the Colonel confirmed. “A fucking blood bath”
Bob Cullen said thoughtfully, “The attack was extremely well coordinated, and their intelligence regarding our method of deployment in this operation first rate. It just doesn't seem like an IRA operation to me.”
“What are you saying, Bob?” the Colonel queried.
“I'm not sure, Sir, but there's something very peculiar about the way the attack was carried out!” The colonel raised his eyebrows as Bob continued. “Why, for instance, carry out such an attack with the minimum of noise. Remember our men were taken out with silencers. Then make such a commotion towards the end. They left the housekeeper alive. Why? Not something professionals would do unless they wanted us to think that amateurs were involved.”
“The IRA, you mean!” Major John Carter joked and the other men laughed.
“You have a point, Bob!” the colonel said as he responded to the issues Bob Cullen had raised. “ It does seem odd now that you mention it!”
They were still pondering the conundrum when Tony Wright suddenly exclaimed, “And Lechaim Lewis killed all the terrorists with a sword!” The captain was already aware that such was so but he was still incredulous.
“With a sword,! With a sword!” the colonel confirmed and he looked at all three of them with a smile, “And if I don't get some answers very soon, I'm going to be killing some of you with mine.”
The men responded with a laugh, the tension in the room dispelled now that the colonel had relaxed. The phone call from the PM had accounted for the change in their commander's demeanour, they concluded. The colonel was off the hook, so to speak, and basically, so were they. There were still some questions to be answered but it was only a matter of time - it always was.