Red Sun in Iraq

By Peter Mallon

A brutal assassination, an IRA weapons cache and a violent attack forced him into the dangerous world of private security.

No stranger to violence, terrorist attacks, death, and the constant threat of becoming just another statistic. It took ten minutes of him listening to the offer; five seconds to calculate the risk-reward and one second to accept.

Protecting an Allied Forces reconstruction team inside Iraq was what he expected. What he didn’t, was being tasked to assist a fully armed military patrol to execute missions that, in Doyle’s book, were breaking every international law he was aware of.

After being convinced the missions were for the greater good. He travels deeper into Northern Iraq, where he’s faced with the biggest moral dilemma of his career that leaves him with only two choices; suck it up and enjoy the lucrative payday. Or take his chances trying to adjust back into society.

Packed with suspense, action, intrigue and the brutal realities of conflict. Mallon's thought-provoking debut novel takes you on a journey filled with emotions and visualisations that will force you to question the narrative.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter Mallon
• Release date: Mar 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215837672

Book preview

Prologue

The moment the bonnet of the first Cruiser crossed the shadow line from the tall building, everything ahead went into slow motion and then reverted to real-time speed, in the split second it took me to suck in a lungful of air-con and grip my M4.

‘Ready gentlemen?’ I shouted.

Liam kept it short; trying his best to control the anxious anticipation in his voice.

‘We’re ready, all right. Let’s get our asses to Kuwait.’

‘Amen to that,’ I replied and spoke into the radio handset.

‘Whenever you’re ready, boys.’

There was no reply, I didn’t need one. The front vehicle surged forward. Scouse followed it’s lead and beasted the engine until judging our distance to be twenty metres away from the wagon in front. The roar of all five engines bouncing off the buildings penetrated the armoured glass into the cab, amplifying it into an ear-popping thunderous explosion of noise, the start of a formula one race would be envious of. Loud, aggressive, and relentless.

Snapping my head left and right. I scanned every nook and cranny, willing them to show themselves. None did, but I knew they were there! Hundreds of vengeful, angry, perhaps nervous, bulging, bloodshot eyes locked onto each vehicle, as we drove deeper inside their town.

Thought of the VIP vehicle entered my head for a brief moment. If the locals were smart enough to figure out that the Suburban was different from the other vehicles, or simply a bigger target to shoot at with something larger than bullets, we’d have a problem.

Confident the B6 would do its job; it didn’t stop my heart palpating against the kevlar plates in my body armour in anticipation of any one the scenarios playing out in my head becoming a reality now that there was no turning back.

‘Fuckers! Motherfuckers!’ I screeched.

The fact that I was expecting it didn’t stop my body from jolting and my neck jerking upwards; slamming my head into the padded roof of the cab at the sound of the first bullet impacting the armoured glass a few feet away from my face.

Grabbing hold of the vehicle handset, I let the lads know who’d been hit then glanced behind to make sure Liam and Roger had crouched down into the footwell.

‘Vehicle two. Contact!’

‘Contact! right side.’

Before I had time to finish the message. It started. First, an echoing thunder crack and thump as an avalanche of bullets thudded against both sides of the bodywork and side windows, inches away from my face.

‘Fuck!’ I shouted out loud. Not sure if I was angry at them for firing; at myself for allowing my body to be surprised each time one landed or both.

As the onslaught continued, I wondered just how many were out there and for a split second; I tried to remember if the Gunney had mentioned it.

The soldier in me wanted to open my door and return fire, but this wasn’t military tactics. The rules and reality were different. The game wasn’t to go looking for a fight, it was to avoid it; protect the clients at all costs and get out as quickly as we could.

‘Movement on the right!’ I shouted into the mic.

At first, only a few appeared, followed by larger groups pouring out of the alleyways and doorways onto the pavement. Some were firing Somali style; aimlessly from the hip, while the others who looked more capable, held their AK in the shoulder before firing clean shots.

The first group to appear looked like the average Iraqi Joe, wearing dark trousers, white vests, and unbuttoned short-sleeved shirts. Standing immediately behind them were the ones giving the Gunney and his Marines a hard time, the insurgents. Easy to spot, they wore red and white shemaghs around their heads; loose fitted black tops with the legs of their pants tucked into black shin-high jump boots. Calmly and deliberately, each held their AK 47s in the shoulder, stood with feet shoulder width apart and fired aimed shots. Alongside them, jumping up and down with their arms in the air were groups of teenage boys. The younger-looking, smaller ones; unable to handle a weapon yet, reverted to pulling rocks out of buckets and pitching them as far as they could in our direction.

A heavy volley of bullets landed on Scouse’s side of the vehicle, causing his body to tense and his foot to apply an extra ounce of pressure onto the accelerator pedal, surging us dangerously close to the back of the front wagon. Not wanting to break his focus, I did my best not to shout.

‘Scouse! Cool it, cool it; keep the distance.’ I said firmly.

The front vehicle began zigzagging left and right to avoid more hits. Scouse slotted in behind him knowing that the others would follow; just as we’d trained back in Kuwait. The hill wasn’t far now; once we made it into the trees, we’d be out of the kill zone and almost clear, unless they’d prepared a little leaving present for us.

Suddenly, one of the guys screamed out our worst nightmare over the radio. ‘RPG!’

Snapping his head around toward me; Scouse’s face filled with dread as we listened to the whizz of the rocket get louder and braced for impact. In anticipation, he dropped a gear and powered the wagon forward until he was only a few metres away from the rear bumper of the front vehicle. A heartbeat later, one of the small two-storey buildings, twenty metres away, exploded; sending the force of the blast against the side of Scouse’s door.

‘Bloody hell!’ he screamed as the vehicle wobbled, then steadied back onto four wheels. Realising that we’d fallen too far behind the front vehicle, he accelerated hard to make up the lost distance; aware that if he didn’t; the vehicles behind us would have to slow; making them an easier target.

Once we regained position, he gripped the wheel and blurted out a happy-to-be-alive, nervous, self-congratulation.

‘Yes! The Scouse Para does it again. C’mon, the Scouse,’ he shouted, glancing sideways to give me a cheeky wink and then focus back on the final stretch.

Nearly clear. The front Cruiser put the pedal to the metal. Scouse approved.

‘Yes! That’s what I’m talking about!’ he shouted and followed on.

Grinning at him in his element as we made short work of the hill. We both breathed a sigh of relief as Richie reported that all five vehicles were clear.

A few hopeful shots rang out behind us but now that we were in the trees, they had no chance of doing any damage. As soon as we broke out into the light, I turned around to check on our well-behaved passengers.

‘Gentlemen,’ I asked loudly; my voice still buzzing with excitement.

‘How are we?’

Unsurprisingly, their adrenaline was still going full pelt.

Roger replied instantly; unleashing a stream of one-liners until Liam purposely interrupted to save him too much embarrassment.

‘All good here, Calli. Good job, Sir.’

‘Well done,’ I replied, then looked across to Scouse.

‘Well done, La. Seems you can drive after all,’ I joked.

Refusing to bite or take his eyes off the road ahead. A crafty grin was all he’d give me before slapping his sun visor down and sharing the good news, just as the front Cruiser’s transmitted a message.

‘Calli, Marines ahead.’

‘Reduce your speed a notch, fellas,’ I replied immediately.

‘Flags up and approach slowly.’

The route clearance. They were precisely where the Gunney said they’d be.

1

South Armagh, Northern Ireland

All that was visible inside the blacked-out compartment behind the driver’s cab, were twelve bulky silhouetted shapes sitting shoulder to shoulder. Six on one side and six on the other; each shining a thin beam of red torchlight onto their 1:25,000 scale waterproofed maps.

‘Here we go, fellas,’ the vehicle commander said.

The momentary sensation of release as the driver switched from handbrake to foot brake confirmed the CCTV operator had given the green light to move. Inside the CCTV control room, the operator managed powerful zoom lens cameras mounted on a pole high above the building, allowing three hundred and sixty degree coverage of the nearby housing estates. His job was to identify potential threats or suspicious activity, prior to a patrol exiting the front or side gates.

At the side exit, the only sign we had that the gate was being opened was the familiar and barely audible sound it makes when sliding along the heavily greased ground rails before resting up against thick rubber end-stops, allowing patrols to leave in silence and avoid alerting the locals.

We rolled quietly through the gap; turned left and freewheeled down the narrow-cobbled path until reaching the junction to the main road fifty metres away. As soon as the nose of the van crossed the threshold, allowing the driver and commander to look left and right. The vehicle commander went into character and confirmed our location using a well-rehearsed and practiced Irish brogue, then waited for the CCTV operator to give him the all-clear.

Recognising the familiar hum of the engine and exhaust purr, I imagined the driver’s boots resting on the accelerator and clutch pedals, applying equal pressure on each to maintain the sweet spot and stop us from rolling backwards. As soon as the commander instructed the driver to continue; the sensation of roll-back caused me to grip the wooden framework covering the interior, in anticipation of the tyres bumping off of the cobbles onto the smoother tarmac.

‘Moving now,’ the commander reported back to the Ops room.

Once the rear wheels left the last of the cobbles, the driver turned left, moved up the gears and accelerated away from the large building known to everyone that lived here as Bessbrook Mill.

Our first route marker was the junction a thousand metres away. Now that we were on the road; if anyone felt the need to talk; it had to be whispered. If it wasn’t operational info; only worthwhile jokes and dark sarcastic wit were accepted and if any of the two didn’t get at least a couple of sniggers. It would cost them a round of drinks in the NAAFI bar.

The idea of the CPV teams to fit a wooden framework around the interior was welcomed. Now we were able to rest our backs against and relax; not like before, when we had to keep our bodies tense; sit up straight or lean forward for the whole journey. Forcing the body to hold that stress-like position for too long, more often than not, resulted in numb arse cheeks and legs with needles.

While following the route on the map and listening to the commander and driver. I often chuckled to myself and wondered how things would turn out if we had to debus at a moment’s notice after being cramped up for an hour or more.

The thought of twelve warriors attempting to bomb burst out the side door, ready to fight; only to realise their legs weren’t working, causing all twelve to fall over each other before a round had been fired, was worth a giggle. At least now we could relax; focus on following the route and enjoy the drive.

The locals were smart and always acutely aware of their surroundings. During the years of conflict, they’d developed a fierce sixth sense that was always ready to take a second look at something their mind’s eye hadn’t seen before, or their ears recorded. The distinct sound of metal against metal or unusual noises coming from inside the back of a potato delivery van would, without doubt, alert all those senses and compel them to take note of the vehicle and phone it in.

Before making the turn, the sound of rebel music from the cab echoed into the back, but at a volume where we could still hear the chat. One of them tapped twice on the wooden partition.

‘Here we go fellas,’ the commander said again, this time in a convincing Irish accent; and the commentary began.

Everything inside the front cab had to look the same as every other works or delivery van that people were used to seeing day-in-day-out. A six-pack of Guinness and a half bottle of Bushmills in the open glove compartment for all to see was not only a given; it was expected. As was the smell of alcohol on both their breaths. Before departing the Mill, both of them swilled a bottle cap of Bushmills in their mouths before deciding to swallow it or spit it out. As long as they didn’t swig too much, we knew it would make all the difference if stopped by a gang of balaclava-wearing volunteers. They, along with just about everyone else in the province knew that driving whilst under the influence wasn’t something to be surprised about. It was a given, especially with delivery drivers.

The name of the game was for the boys in the front to keep their nerve; remain in character and play the parts they’d rehearsed with the RUC. If stopped at an IVCP, the volunteers would accept the cans of Guinness; engage in a little friendly banter and send us on our way; uncompromised. Then, once we were clear of their cut-off groups; the commander could warn the QRF and report it.

If they didn’t have a cargo on board, they were on their own. Communications were critical but like all operational kit in the front cab; it was hidden or disguised. A military radio was surgically positioned into the slot where the standard radio would usually be. Below the CD player. The front face was removed and replaced with the original. Speakers and microphones were placed so that they could speak freely without having to move position—the speakers, in the panel above the door at the side of their heads—the microphones; hidden close to the windscreen frame at head height.

If they were comprised and had to fight their way out. It’d be up close and personal. The preferred tools for the job were the 9 mm Browning pistol and an MP5K; each one powerful enough that one round from any weapon would put even the biggest of guys on his back. Usually, they’d conceal the MP5K on a short sling around the shoulder so that it rested against the rib cage, with easy access for them to bring it to bear and fire all in one movement. The 9 mm had to be out of sight and not where anyone would expect it to be if a stop progressed to a search. A smooth leather holster inside the back of their waist belt was the preferred part of the body to conceal it.

More important than any sexy operational gear was being able to blend in. Dressing and presenting themselves as a local would wasn’t only an SOP. It forced them to stay in character, even when in barracks. Regardless of their hair type; straight and long, bushy or curly; it had to give the impression of being uncared for and most of all, lack any sign of discipline. The wilder the better; same for the beards. Tired, bloodshot, and weary eyes from being on the road were part of it but that came naturally due to the busy schedule. The clothes would always match what lorry drivers or van drivers wore—thick lumberjack shirts, wool jumpers, and donkey jackets that helped to hide the weapon bulges.

Both took it in turns to speak, giving the impression to anyone looking, they were just delivery guys chatting away. When one paused; the other continued what was being described; all the while, painting a picture of the route that matched what we were looking at on our maps. Anything else they thought would be helpful for us to know if we had to debus. They would emphasise by saying. ‘Point to note!’ Describe what and where it was. Then continue.

What were the streetlights like? Were they high or low? How far apart were they? Were the lights bright or dull, or were there none at all? How tall and long were the fences and tightly knit roadside hedges that followed the roadside ditches? Were there any gaps that we could use? Did the trenches on either side of the road look deep and wide? Could we use them as somewhere to take cover or were they too shallow and full of rainwater runoff from the hills? Road works? Were there any and were there any workers? If so, how many? Junctions and street corners. Were any groups gathered there or close by? Maybe a few lone wolves were loitering on each corner of a junction; watching the traffic while speaking into their phone.

We were travelling through bandit country; well aware the IRA came out to play at night just like us. And just like us, they’d carry out VCPs, hoping to get lucky and catch a couple of undercover squaddies or an off-duty police officer.

Even though we had enough firepower to invade a small country and a heavily armed six-man backup a couple of kilometres behind us. The last piece of commentary any of us wanted to hear was ‘White light. Standby! Standby!’

Getting drawn into an IVCP kill zone with no idea where the gunmen were was never going to end well unless the driver and commander could bluff their way out of it.

Eager to be out of this tight vulnerable space, I rolled back the wool cuff to check the green hand on my G10 Army-issue watch. We were close; not long now, I thought, then wondered how the other two teams were doing. If everything was going to plan. Ten minutes more, and they’d arrive at their drop-off points. Once the Heli’s dropped them off, each chopper would deploy to a nearby police station and remain on standby until called in. One patrol would move onto the second OP, opposite the hill where we would be soon, while the other would find a good spot to lay up for the night, then at first light; move to secure the site for the RUC VCP team, arriving at 07:30 hrs.

The RUC commander tasked his covert units to find a spot in the fields; no more than fifty metres away from where the uniformed RUC patrol was going to spring the VCP.

If there were no hiccups, it would be an easy pick-up, and we’d be back in time for tea and biscuits but knowing South Armagh as I did. I knew it was safer to always expect the unexpected and plan for the worst. Everyone that operated here understood that—even the terrorists.

They were patient; very patient. If any of their local Intel networks stumbled upon some interesting pub gossip or credible information that something was in the wind, the watchers and trigger-men would be alerted and then deployed. Once they were in position; all they needed to do was wait for a soldier or policeman to walk within the blast range of a device. Then, at the precise moment when they knew the force of the blast would cause maximum injury; they’d press the send button on the mobile phone to activate the bomb or simply connect two pieces of wire onto a remotely positioned car battery.

The odds were against us every time we sprinted out of the gates onto the streets; drove out the side gate or jumped out of a chopper onto a boggy field. If we wanted to survive; we had no choice but to be suspicious of everything and everyone; calculate every foot placement, assess, and scrutinise every fence, gate and recently repaired or disturbed piece of ground before crossing or walking past. Whether it be, RUC, military, or a Unionist foe, it was irrelevant. If the order was given, they’d wait for as long as they had to.

To get one of us would be a victory, but to get a mix of all three would be a home run and the preferred outcome of the commanders who understood the power of the message. The more shocking the carnage, the more media coverage it would get; resulting in increased global support and funding for the cause.

Supporting a week-long RUC operation in the cuds wasn’t unusual. On this occasion, it was five days. The spooks had received Intel from one of their touts that one of their most wanted was about to make an appearance. An IRA commander who’d gone rogue some time ago. If the Intel was reliable; he’d be crossing into the North using the small but well-used B113 border checkpoint, commonly known to everyone who lived here as ‘The Dublin Road’.

Still frequently used and popular with the locals, it stretches from Newry in the North and runs almost straight, all the way to Dublin in the south. Nowadays, the majority of the daily commuters and local business travellers use the recently constructed motorway. Three lanes wide, it gets them from A to B a lot quicker with less chance of being delayed by a police check-point. Still, most of the country folk and locals who didn’t live or work in the big towns or didn’t need to travel that far every day continued to look upon the B113 as their preferred route.

Details of the target were limited. All we were given was a brief history and an old, poor-quality photograph, showing an average-sized man with an average appearance, and details of what transport he’d be using to cross.

Born in the mainly catholic town of Forkhill. RUC and Military patrols were commonplace as were, early morning house raids, murders, mutilations, and brutal religious shaming. This, coupled with the separation of his parents lead to an early indoctrination into the cause, resulting in him becoming an IRA volunteer by his early teens.

The small town of Forkhill is where he threw his first brick at security forces. After that, promotion to watcher; then finally, after taking part in numerous beatings, where the victim’s head was shaved before being tarred and feathered; he became a full-time member of the local ASU.

Word of his no-nonsense, hard-man reputation spread quickly amongst the republicans in the border communities. They respected how he handled things, and so it didn’t take long for the middle-of-the-road republican followers to turn into staunch loyal supporters, who almost overnight helped him rise quickly through the ranks.

The older and more experienced members viewed his crude methods as unacceptable, with some even describing how he treated prisoners as barbaric. Ignoring the warnings from both North and South, the torture, killing and intimidation, increased; each one more murderous, brutal, and noisier than the last. His disobedience and flagrant disregard for the fundamentals of their cause didn’t go down well with the old school.

Eventually, senior commanders agreed that if he couldn’t be tamed; he’d be brought to heel or silenced once and for all. He was bringing too much heat onto their operations, causing unnecessary loss of life, and impacting the flow of overseas donations. They’d already tried to put him down once, but it backfired, resulting in four IRA commanders being assassinated in their homes: in front of their families.

After that occurred and word went out that he’d been proclaimed excommunicado, he put together a splinter group of like-minded rebels who answered only to him and after appointing a quartermaster, ASU commanders, bomb makers and a financier, he named them, the New Irish Republican Army.

We knew it as NIRA.

According to the spook’s informants, he planned to attack the next peace agreement conference. Kill anyone attached to it then advance his NIRA movement to rekindle the troubles that had plagued the island for decades. As bold and crazy as it sounded; we knew that neither the British, the IRA, UDA, nor any other paramilitary-political group, were going to allow that to happen.

The informants confirmed that he planned to use a young newlywed couple as cover; using their car to cross through the Dublin Road checkpoint on the morning of the peace conference in Armagh city. Once in the North, he’d be met by an eight-man NIRA team. Using two vehicles filled with explosives; they’d drive to Armagh and deploy the cars close to the government house. After the car bombs exploded and the focus of the security forces was elsewhere; he planned to attack the government building and kill as many religious and political leaders as possible.

The high-level meeting that should have been a secret; wasn’t! The media got wind of it ten days ago and plastered it on every front page. Now it was too late and too important to cancel.

The security measures around the town and government building were already over the top; if they were seen to bolster it further, his watchers would realise and inform him that he’d been rumbled. After that; he’d be in the wind. Realising this was the best chance they’d had in years to capture