Blackwood Saga 05 - Knife Edge by Douglas Reeman

Author:Douglas Reeman [Reeman, Douglas]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, General, War & Military
ISBN: 9781407010304
Google: d4lkS-8pL9QC
Publisher: Random House
Published: 2008-09-03T14:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TEN

The khaki-painted Land Rover, with its familiar wire mesh protection and strips of armour, braked yet again to surmount the crude ‘sleeping policemen’, barriers which had been built to slow traffic. Ross Blackwood eased forward on the seat and ducked his head to peer at the nearest buildings. Shops, some old apartments, and a pub. It had been raining and the pavement was still wet, although above the serried rooftops he could see another patch of blue coming. He tried to memorize every detail. There was a checkpoint at the crossroads ahead. Sometimes it was manned, others not. The Land Rover rolled over another line of bricks and jerked down on to the road once more.

The outskirts of Londonderry. Ross heard the man beside him swear softly and say, “Don’t make a meal of it! Take each one slowly.”

The driver, another Royal Marine, almost shrugged. “Sir?” And his eyes moved briefly to the mirror, the owner of the voice and then Ross, the passenger. And that was what he felt like, most, if not all, of the time.

Over two weeks now. Not the ‘two or three days’ Clive Tobin had foreseen after that meeting. He winced as the rear wheels bounced across another obstacle.

He looked over at the pub, where a few people were standing with glasses in their hands, one teasing a ragged dog with a rolled newspaper. A couple of them might have glanced at the khaki vehicle and its four occupants, the green berets, and the Globe and Laurel insignia on either side, or perhaps at the sub-machine-gun lying across the knees of one of them.

No obvious resentment. If anything, there was only indifference.

That was probably only too true, he thought. Years since he had served in the province, but watching the passing scene it might have been yesterday. There were a few stark reminders: a boarded-up shop or gutted building, or some scarred and blackened patches on a roadway from burned-out car or petrol bomb.

He could feel his escort’s eyes on him. Major Nick Fisher was a commando like himself, with only a few months’ difference in age and service between them.

He was doing what he was told, and no more. Showing him the main centres of defence and, when necessary, attack. Where the commando patrols met or overlapped those of the army and the police. Road blocks. They were passing one now and it was manned, two grinning faces changing to stiff backs and salutes when officers were sighted.

Since his brief service here, he had noticed a lot of changes. Improvements, if they could be called that: anti-riot shields and CS gas grenades, flak jackets and night vision equipment to seek out the hit-and-run attacker who might otherwise slip past the most vigilant sentry or outpost.

No wonder they tried to keep each man’s tour of duty to a minimum.

And the hostility was there, even when it was covert and often hard to recognize. The ordinary marine from the mainland had to get used to it, or go under.

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