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which was part of Poseidon ’sequipment, to transfer it load by load across a 20-yard expanse of raging ocean. But it began filling up with water as waves crashed over it and the maneouvre was deemed too dangerous to continue, for both men and cargo. Crewman were needed on board the rib to guide it to the pitching trawler and back. Lives could be lost. Cannabis could be lost.
    A hurried decision was made to abandon the seaborne transfer after a couple of largely abortive runs and to move on to plan B, the even riskier option of moving the two vessels side by side and physically hauling the cannabis bales from the Poseidon ’sdeck over the side on to the trawler’s deck. Despite the stomach-churning crunches as the two boats smashed together under the pressure of the waves they managed to offload 2.7 tons of hash. The vessels repeatedly banged together, with the bigger Poseidon in serious danger of sinking the smaller fishing boat with,potentially, a dreadful loss of life, including two undercover coppers and two Customs men. Their very presence was bravery of the highest order and the drama still sends as much of a chill down my spine today as it did when those guys first told me about it at the debriefing in 1993. Under the circumstances, there was no alternative but to abandon phase 2 as well. Less than half the cargo had been shifted. The weather was worsening and it was time to head home. The trawler set a course for quiet Littlehampton in Sussex – the port designated by Bobby Mills – and battled against boiling seas for three or four days before it reached safety. It was shadowed throughout by a Customs cutter sitting discreetly out of sight on its tail.
    The Poseidon, meanwhile, with the remaining 3.8 tons of cannabis still on board, was being watched by two Royal Naval vessels, equally invisible out there in the vast Atlantic. It was, I believe, the first time the Navy had sanctiond the use of such powerful ships against drug smugglers in international waters. Their job was to keep tabs on the Poseidon until after our reception committee in Littlehampton had surprised the drug-runners with a quayside ambush. Then they would move in for the kill.
    We’d prepared quite a homecoming. We’d identified the yard on the River Arun where the cannabis would be unloaded. We’d also identified several UK drug dealers who were planning to be there to pick up their share of the dope. I’d been delegated by DI Chris Jameson to lead a team of four blokes to spearhead the ambush. It was a fantastic operation.
    We did a recce a few days before and saw a stretch of wasteland we could cross unnoticed under cover of darkness and get up close to the dockside with only afew feet between us and the point where the smuggled drugs would be brought ashore. On the big night, we got geared up in black from top to bottom, balaclavas with eyeholes, torches, guns at the ready. We’d planned a pincer movement with other teams once the drugs were ashore. Customs had a team in position, Scotland Yard’s SO11 intelligence boys were dotted round the plot.
    The UK drug-dealers waiting for the booty had a fleet of refrigerated vans waiting all dolled up in the fake livery of some wholesale fishmonger’s company. They hoped to move out the cannabis under the guise of cod and herrings and deliver it to various destinations across the country.
    We decided that the hit must be done on the quayside. We couldn’t risk one of the vans getting out with drugs on board. We weren’t in the business of bringing cannabis in free of charge for drug-traffickers. With the meeters and greeters assembled in front of us at the quay, it was just a question of waiting for our sturdy little boat to come chugging up the river.
    Me and my fellow men in black were so close to the suspects we could hear every word they were saying as the boat finally docked and they started piling the bales on the quay. We were right under their noses but they couldn’t see a thing