PC Jim Collier, the officer who had conducted the initial recce, had gone back for a final check just before the team deployed, and he had reported back that, as before, the cottage was in complete darkness apart from the living room.
Ideally, armed dig outs like this were carried out at about four o’clock in the morning, when the human body was at its lowest ebb and everyone inside the premises was likely to be fast asleep and, therefore, at their most vulnerable to being caught off-guard. Of course, there were always exceptions to the rule, when speed was of the essence, and everyone agreed that this was one such occasion.
The SFO team leader was a former paratrooper called Tim Newman. In his mid-thirties, Newman stood five foot ten inches tall, had cropped blonde hair, hard grey eyes, and the wiry build of a marathon runner. His every movement was controlled, economical, and he had a well-deserved reputation for being a strong leader who remained focused under pressure and calm under fire.
Like all SFOs, Newman and the men and women under his command were volunteers who had been approved for specialist training following a rigorous assessment procedure. They had then undergone an extremely intensive training programme that lasted nineteen gruelling weeks.
Newman had led many operations like the one he was about to embark on, and to him, this was just another day at the office.
There were no street lights, and as Newman led his team in single file along the country lane that led to the property, he moved slowly, constantly assessing and reassessing the terrain in front of him.
Each member of the team was equipped with a standard-issue Glock 17 SLP as a sidearm. In addition, most carried a Heckler and Koch G36C carbine.
They were all dressed in black, fire-retardant Nomex overalls, boots, and gloves, and wore MICH/ACH (a tongue-twisting acronym that stands for Modular Integrated Communications Helmet / Advanced Ballistic Combat Helmet) Kevlar helmets over Nomex balaclavas. Their ear defenders were linked to the secure radio system they were using, and the bulging black goggles that gave them such a sinister appearance provided all-important eye protection. To give them the best possible protection against incoming fire, they all wore ballistic resistant Kevlar body armour.
In addition to carrying a heavy metal battering ram called an ‘Enforcer,’ one of Newman’s team was also in possession of a Hatton Gun, a short-stock shotgun that fired ‘solid rounds’ and was used to blow out tyres on vehicles or blast locks off doors.
During the preceding briefing, they had been reminded of their responsibilities in regard to the use of force and the justification required. The ACPO manual of guidance on the police use of firearms was the SFO’s Bible, and it gave step-by-step instructions on how to ‘identify, locate, contain and neutralise’ any threat posed. It stipulated that firearms officers must identify themselves and warn their target that they intended to shoot, and then give the suspect sufficient time for the warnings to be observed.
Dillon had read from the firearms briefing prompt card when he’d addressed them over the use of force prior to their deployment. “According to ACPO,” he’d told them solemnly, “the ultimate responsibility for firing a weapon rests with the individual officer, who is answerable to the law in the courts.” They had taken the ominous warning in their stride, having heard it a thousand times before.
When Newman reached the side of the cottage, he paused and listened. When he was satisfied that it was safe to do so, he ducked down and crabbed past the living room window, keeping his head below the level of the sill. One by one, all the others in the team followed suit. As he reached the front door, he held up a clenched fist, indicating for those behind to stop. Newman waved the officer with the Enforcer and the two officers carrying the heavy ballistic shields forward. A small section of the team had peeled off and made their way around to the rear of the premises, quietly slipping over the garden fence and taking up a covering position in case anyone tried to flee out of the back. When he received word from them that they were in place, he indicated for the frontal assault team to take their positions.
When Newman was satisfied that everyone was good to go, he held up his right hand and then raised three fingers, one after the other, giving the team a three-second countdown to entry.
As soon as he reached three, he pointed at the door, giving the signal for the breach to occur.
The Enforcer-wielding officer stepped forward and drove the battering ram into the wooden door with tremendous force. It was old and offered little resistance. As the door flew inwards, he stepped aside to make way for the two officers with ballistic shields who raised and interlocked them. Using them as cover, the team advanced into the hallway. There were shouts of “ARMED POLICE, ARMED POLICE, SHOW ME YOUR HANDS.”
The hall was completely empty, and apart from the noise coming from the television in the living room, the premises were silent. The hallway was narrow. There was a steep flight of stairs against the right-hand wall leading up into the darkness. The living room door, to their immediate left, was ajar. Beyond this, there was another door, presumably leading into the kitchen.
The mantra of “ARMED POLICE, ARMED POLICE. SHOW ME YOUR HANDS,” was being repeated non-stop from behind the raised shields.
On Newman’s instruction, the first officer carrying a ballistic shield moved forward and took up station in the doorway of the living room, accompanied by another officer who was aiming his carbine over the top, ready to engage any armed suspects who appeared. The second shield-carrying officer quickly moved past them, going all the way to the end of the hallway and stopping by the kitchen door, he was also supported by an officer pointing a GS36 carbine over his shoulder.
