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Atlantic at maximum knots trying to prevent the SBS chopper squad from boarding. But there was no way a drug-dealing freighter was going to outrun Her Majesty’s Navy. The Navy stormtroopers boarded her in appalling conditions and detained the entire crew, which included the skipper’s wife. They were winched off to a fleet auxiliary vessel to be transported back to Britain to face arrest.
    The SBS lads had saved a little surprise for the swashbuckling Astesan. He was the last to be winched from the Poseidon ’sdeck. And his adventure of a lifetime was about to begin. He was fitted with a rescue harness, winched to 100ft then taken on a gut-churning, vomit-inducing whirlwind spin over the roaring Atlantic waves in pitch darkness to teach him a lesson. Don’t mess with the Navy. It must have petrified the poor sod. It’s a funny thing, but after Astesan was brought back to England with his cronies, he had acquired the utmost respect for the Navy and the SBS.
    It was one of the most incredible operations I had ever been associated with. I can only say I was as proud as punch to have been involved, and awash with pride at the heroism of those undercover guys, police and Customs, who went out into the Atlantic to bust this gang. I think about those heaving decks and 20ft waves and wonder if I would have acquitted myself with suchhonour. I hope so, for the sake of SO10.
    One memory of the operation still seared on my memory is that of our man Paul frantically trying to offload the bales of cannabis in nightmare conditions and trying, at the same time, to get recorded evidence for the prosecution case. He was fitted with a tiny hidden tape recorder for blow by blow commentaries. At one point, he talked breathlessly about the desperate attempts to offload the cannabis from Poseidon on to the slippery decks of our trawler. Then he can clearly be heard throwing up over the side. ‘Urrrghh,’ breakfast overboard. Poor sod.
    Bobby Mills’ case was dealt with by me and seasoned detective Freddy Bateman, former Flying Squad, former Regional Crime Squad, and as sound as a pound. Mills was an absolute gent to deal with, one of the old school of villains. He realised just how much in the shit he was. He was nearing the end of one ten-year sentence and was now nicked for another big ’un, having been identified as the British agent for the top drug-smuggling cartel around. He was walking back into another ten-year stretch and knew it. He’d almost cracked it, almost completed his porridge; why on earth had he risked it all again? Well, he would have come out to thousands of pounds if all had gone well, I suppose that’s reason enough.
    He didn’t try for deals. He told me and Freddy, ‘I’m not going to talk to you, I’m not going to tell you a fucking thing about it. But I’ll save you work and plead guilty in court.’ Being a man of his word, he duly did so. But no way in the world was he going to grass anyone up to get a lesser sentence. He could have told us a lot. He was in his mid-fifties, his criminal career was over and he was looking at prison walls for many years tocome. But he retained that old underworld code you rarely see now and we had a grudging respect for his values. You could say his life had totally gone to pot.
    The rest of the gang were brought back to the UK on a British destroyer, held captive in specially equipped secure cabins for the three-day journey and minded by a Customs team who’d sailed with the Navy. We were all standing on the quay at Portsmouth Naval base when they arrived. The SBS guys came off first, all cloak and dagger. No cameras, no fuss, no celebration drink. I think they probably went for a bit of private R and R of their own as they slipped away with kitbags over their shoulders. We all went aboard then with the Customs officers and arrested the Poseidon mob, a real united nations bagful, an international crime corporation. They were read their rights, told what they were being