Parallel Lives chapter 69

Jim sat forlorn in the holding cell at the Main Guardroom at RAF Sealand, running his hands through his short, ginger hair.

He knew it had been stupid to pull the gun on that old man but he had been authorised to carry it, he was seconded to a Secret Service covert operation and it was clear that pulling the gun was the only way he could get them through the barrier in time.

When the civvy police cars had surrounded them on the dual carriageway Jim had shit himself, literally. He had considered throwing the firearm out of the window, but apart from guessing that the pursuit would be on video he would then have to explain to the airforce what he had done with it.

The rough methods of stopping the car had surprised him, he had thought those were the province of the movies. By the time the car had been pulled over it had been rammed down the driver's side, rippling the metal and throwing Jim sidewards, arrested only by the seat belt.

Jim stroked the tender region by his right clavicle absently as he recalled the aftermath, the noise, shouting, the armed police surrounding the car half crouched, pistols aimed at all three. Sam had sat clutching the steering wheel, his knuckles white and his body shaking. Martin had leapt out, both hands clearly above his head, his ID wallet hanging limply from his right hand.

'Secret Service,' he called to the lead officer, 'we're pursuing enemies of the State. This is a covert operation covered by the Prevention of Terrorism Act.' The lead officer approached carefully, looking at Martin from top to toe, waving the officers shuffling behind him to reposition to maintain a clear shot. Grabbing the ID he scuttled back, keeping his firearm well out of grab reach.

'Don't let him move and get those two wankers out of the car. At least one of them has a weapon, we know that much. I'll check this out,' he shouted to his colleagues, waving the wallet. Jim decided he ought to expedite the process, so he wound the window down.

'Airforce, I'm attached to the operation. I have the only weapon, a Service issue 9mm Browning. I'll unload out of the window, drop it on the ground and get out,' he shouted, finding a plethora of weapons pointed at him. No one answered, they just looked expectantly so Jim reached out of the window pointing the pistol barrel skywards. Pressing the magazine release button, he let the magazine slip out of the handle grip and heard the thin metal crunch onto the rough tarmac below his eye-line. A secondary ping emanated as one or more of the rounds scattered out of the magazine, ejected by the force of the fall. Lowering the handgun carefully, Jim leaned out of the window as far as he could, his armpit resting on the lower sill. then he let the gun drop. One of the armed police moved forward, his pistol pointing directly at Jim, his other hand outstretched, palm facing forward. Jim sat still as the officer approached and kicked the pistol clear away from the car and then retraced his steps.

Within the next few minutes all three men were positioned with their hands clasped behind their heads, knelt on the road alongside the battered car. The lead officer spent much of this time on the radio to his HQ, reading various pieces of information from Martin's ID.

Within ten minutes the police were reluctantly satisfied with Martin's bona-fide, his department having convinced the appropriate authorities that the operation had been authorised. This had clearly surprised Martin, which in turn worried Jim as he had assumed it would all be a formality but clearly Martin hadn't. The lead officer instructed a few officers to remain until the military arrived to relieve them of the handgun and to ensure that Jim was transferred with them, then left, muttering disgruntled good-byes.

Eventually the RAF had arrived and Jim was further surprised to find himself being treated like a prisoner while the other two men were allowed to drive off in a hire car that had been delivered.

*

And now he was sat in a holding cell, being treated like a pariah, wondering what would happen to his career.

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Copyright Ray Sullivan 2011

The characters, places and events described in this novel are fictitious and any resemblance to persons, places or events, past or present, is coincidence.  All rights reserved

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