The Ballymurphy Beatdown & The Valkyries Return | SAS Intel, SERE Legends & Family Life | The Parallel Four

Chapter Twenty-Eight of The Parallel Four hits hard — and laughs harder. The lads may have survived selection, but now it’s the girls’ turn to steal the show. Follow Sergeants Vinka Heale and Marlin Heald as they join the SAS Intelligence detachment in Northern Ireland, outsmarting gunmen in the infamous Ballymurphy Beatdown and earning Mentions in Despatches for sheer audacity and skill.

Back home, Stephen and Johan juggle fatherhood, fieldcraft, and banter in equal measure — until their wives return, medals gleaming and smiles sharper than ever. From Belfast safe houses to SERE interrogation rooms, Pontrilas bail-out drills, and desert convoys in Oman, this episode blends real British Army life with heart, humour, and hard-won pride.

Told with Tim Heale’s trademark wit and authenticity, it’s about teamwork, trust, and the unbreakable bond that makes these four unstoppable — on or off duty.

The Parallel Four Book Two Chapter Twenty Eight

Writing The Parallel Four has been a journey in itself—a walk through memories, dreams, and all the little moments that shape who we become. Some parts of this story are true. Some are truer than I’d care to admit. And some—well, let’s just say they’re inspired by what might’ve happened if life had taken a different turn.

The characters you’ll meet in these pages—Stephen, Johan, Vinka, Marlin, Tim, and Petra—are fictional, but they live and breathe with the spirit of real people I’ve known, loved, and lost. Their world is stitched together from scraps of real places, actual events, and a few wild yarns that got better with each retelling down the pub.

Poplar, Hitchin, and the snowy reaches of Sweden aren’t just backdrops—they’re characters in their own right. They’ve shaped this story as much as the people in it. And if you happen to recognise a place, a turn of phrase, or a certain kind of mischief from your own youth… well, consider that my nod to you.

This first book takes us from scraped knees to stolen kisses, from playground politics to life’s first real goodbyes. It’s about growing up, making mistakes, and finding the people who’ll stand by you no matter what—even if they sometimes drive you round the bend.

To those who remember the ‘50s and ‘60s—this one’s a memory jogger. To the younger lot—it’s a peek into a time when life moved slower, but feelings still ran just as fast.

And finally, to Stephen, Johan, Vinka, Marlin, Tim, and Petra—six hearts bound by the wonder of first love. Not the fleeting kind that fades with time, but the rare and lasting kind that deepens, steadies, and endures—a love that grows with them, becoming part of who they are, and who they will always be. And though this is only the beginning, the road ahead will test them in ways they cannot yet imagine—through training, through battle, and through the choices that will shape the rest of their lives.

Transcript

Chapter Twenty Eight.

The boys came through the back door still wearing half the field—boots clumped with mud, cam cream streaked across their necks like war paint applied by toddlers, and that classic post-exercise aura of sweat, pride, and mild confusion.

Marlin handed Johan a tea towel with the air of someone performing a noble public service.

“Don’t even think about touching the fridge,” she said.

“Your face looks like a collapsed compost heap.”

Stephen slumped onto the bench beside me and gave me a look like he expected sympathy.

I gave him a kiss on the cheek and said sweetly,

“You snored on the radio net again, love.”

He blinked.

“I did not!”

“Tactical snoring,” I smiled. “Came through loud and clear—right between ‘Objective Charlie’ and ‘Standby, over.’”

Johan groaned from the sink.

“That’s what that noise was? I thought we had wild boar moving through the trees.”

“We did,” I said. “It was your husband.”

They muttered about betrayal and exhaustion while we poured tea and sliced up the last of the banana bread.

Stephen, bless him, tried to salvage some pride.

“We did manage to sneak past both OP's undetected.”

Marlin raised an eyebrow.

“You mean when I waved at you through the NVG's?”

He looked wounded.

“You what?”

“Full wave,” she said, smug. “Thought you were going to salute back.”

They grumbled, but the smiles betrayed them.

They loved it.

We all did.

Then came the big one.

The girls—both newly made Sergeants—were picked for a four-month deployment with the regular SAS in Northern Ireland. Shortage of intel staff with the right clearance, languages, and brains? Easy fix: send in two Swedish Valkyries with clipboards, concealed carry, and Aikido black belts.

They’d kept the training up for years—teaching, sparring, sharpening. Which meant if push came to shove, shove usually ended with Vinka folding some poor sod into a filing cabinet.

So off they went—calm, lethal, unstoppable—leaving Johan and me holding the fort. Full-time dads, part-time soldiers. Packed lunches, school runs, toddler ambushes—and the gnawing fear our wives were outwitting the IRA before breakfast.

We finally understood the dread of the knock at the door. Thankfully, it never came.

Their work was shadow stuff: profiles, surveillance, feeding into arrests. No headlines—just results. And the girls? They earned serious gongs. GOC’s Commendation. NI Medal. Mention in Despatches.

Here’s how that MID came about.

The Ballymurphy, West Belfast. January ’86. Operation LAMBSHANK.

I didn’t see it live—only later on the Hereford training reel, plus the girls filling me in. Beige Bedford van, more rust than paint. Inside: Vinka watching the IR feed from a circling Lynx, Marlin sipping tea like she was on break.

Door rips open. Two masked men pile in with Armalites.

The tape showed lightning. Vinka twisted one rifle, cracked a wrist, slammed the door with her hip. Marlin flattened the second with a thermos to the nose. A third came round back, rifle raised—Vinka swept it aside and dropped him with a boot to the groin.

Thirty-nine seconds. Three men down, rifles safe, all caught in thermal black-and-white.

By the time the Regiment team arrived—ten seconds late—it was over. One unconscious, one groaning, one crying for his mam, and Marlin’s tea still warm.

The citation dressed it up in polished words. In the mess, everyone called it The Ballymurphy Beatdown.

The call came the night before: “Landing 1500. Usual gate. Don’t forget the kids.”

The kitchen became banner HQ. The twins went mad with felt tips—WELCOME HOME MUMMY! on one, scribbles and smiley faces on the other.

Mum took one look and said, “Right, I’ll take the kids. You two clean yourselves up. No one wants a pair of scruffy squaddies at Arrivals.”

So we had baths. With bubbles. Then off in the Volvo, banners in the back, both of us grinning like fools.

Crowded terminal, then finally—there they were. Vinka and Marlin, stepping off like they’d just been shopping, not running ops in Belfast.

Our twins saw them first, sprinting across the concourse. “MUMMY!”

Vinka dropped to her knees, arms out, tears and laughter in one knot. Johan and I hung back, watching. That moment—that’s the one you remember. Not medals. Not missions. Family.

She looked up at me, mouthed: We’re home.

I nodded. Couldn’t speak.Later that year, Johan and I were on a Black Role refresher. Dark room, reel-to-reel humming. Up comes the tape—two shadows dismantling three armed men like choreography.

“Instructors’ note: covert operators, female, Det-trained. This is what you’re up against.”

I leaned over. “Mate… that’s Vinka. That’s our girls.”

Johan just stared. “We married ninjas.”

We sat back, grins giving us away. Top secret or not, pride was written all over us.

Later, the house was still. No toys underfoot, no giggles in the hall—just the tick of the clock and Stephen fussing with tea.

I curled up in his old hoodie, breathing him in. He handed me a mug, sat down, and sighed. No words needed.

No uniforms tonight. No comms checks. Just us. A little battered, still here.

I touched his cheek. “You don’t know how proud I am of you.”

His eyes welled, a half-laugh slipping out. I pressed my forehead to his. “I followed everything—training, selection, the jumps. I knew you’d pass. You and Johan have what most only pretend to.”

He tried to shrug it off, so I kissed him—soft, steady. Reminding him I saw the man beneath the soldier.

We sat there, tangled fingers, silence wrapped around us.

It was just us.

Stephen and me.

And in that moment, I knew—

We could do anything.

Because we’d already done the impossible.

Together.

We were still curled up on the sofa, the tea gone cold and the blanket drawn around us like a fort against the outside world, when Stephen finally spoke.

Softly.

“What was it like… out there? With the Det?”

He didn’t say it with fear or doubt—just curiosity.

Not the soldier’s curiosity.

The husband’s.

I hesitated.

Not because I didn’t want to tell him, but because I didn’t want to give him more to carry.

But this was us.

No masks. No secrets.

So I took a breath and said,

“Quiet. Hard. Intense. And bloody brilliant.”

He smiled faintly at that.

I could tell he’d expected something heavier. And maybe he deserved more detail, so I gave it to him. Gently.

“We worked from a safe house in the city. Just a few of us—tight team. Mostly target profiling. Surveillance logs. Voice prints. Vehicle traces. Watching people who didn’t want to be seen.”

I paused, resting my head against his shoulder.

“Some nights we sat in the back of a bakery van parked across the street from a suspect’s house, pretending to argue about buns, while the lads were down the alley setting up a parabolic mic.”

Stephen let out a soft chuckle.

“Bet you played the grumpy wife well.”

I grinned...

“You have no idea.”

Then I sobered a little.

“But it wasn’t a game. We tracked men who made bombs. Who’d already killed. Our intel helped stop an op in Armagh. Caught two men on their way to plant a device. That one…” I trailed off.

“That one stayed with me.”

Stephen looked at me then—really looked. Not with fear. With respect. The same look I’d seen him give to fallen comrades and hard-won victories.

“You did good, love,” he said softly. “You both did.”

I nodded and whispered,

“We had to. For them—for the people who didn’t know we were out there.”

He pulled me closer, wrapped both arms around me and kissed my forehead.

And just like that, the weight of those long months didn’t feel quite so heavy.

Not now.

Not here.

Not in his arms.

We didn’t set out to become the Regiment’s secret weapons—but somehow, there we were.

Sergeant Vinka Heale and Sergeant Marlin Heald—Combat Intelligence, Long ‘I’ qualified, and now fully embedded in the SAS’s Combat Survival and Evasion courses.

Interrogators, instructors… and apparently, nightmares in boots.

After Northern Ireland, our files were stamped with a little extra respect—and a lot of curiosity. People who had only heard the Ballymurphy story whispered in messes suddenly wanted to see us in action. So, when they asked if we’d assist on the Sere course, it felt less like a request and more like the inevitable next step.

We weren’t the shouting type. No need. A raised eyebrow from either of us could cause a cold sweat in even the most seasoned trooper.

The setup was simple: the candidates had already spent days living like hunted animals in the Brecon Beacons. Cold, wet, hungry, always moving. Then they were caught, bagged, dragged into the cages. That’s when we stepped in.

Interrogation? Oh, we had our methods.

Marlin was the ice queen—circling like a shark in lipstick, clipboard tucked against her chest, pen tapping like a clock running down. She’d let silence build until it roared, then lean in and murmur, “Is that really the answer you want to give me?” It was an offer, on the surface—but really it was a warning. Men twice her size would crumble under that stare.

Me? I preferred charm. A smile, a soft word, a glass of water. “How’s your wife? Still in Leeds?” Watching the colour drain when they realised we knew things they hadn’t said aloud. It wasn’t sorcery—it was research, cross-checking scraps of intel with family details—but it felt like magic when it landed.

On the hill phase we had just as much fun. Checkpoints scattered across the moors, our job to sift out the clever from the careless. We worked them like two Valkyries with clipboards, all smiles outside while our eyes searched for the tiniest crack in their disguise.

One poor chap turned up dressed as a tree. Truly. Bits of hedge glued to his helmet, a branch shoved down his smock. I gave him a paper cup of water, patted his bark, and whispered, “Off you go, love. You’re rooted in the wrong spot.” He slunk away without a word, dignity trailing behind him like dropped leaves.

Others tried foxhole tricks, false papers, even accents that collapsed after two questions. Marlin’s favourite was the lad who swore he was a farmer from Dorset—until she handed him a spade and he held it upside down. She didn’t need to say a thing; one eyebrow was enough. He folded faster than a map in the rain.

But beneath the banter, we took it deadly seriously. We’d been through these courses ourselves. We knew the sting of stress positions, the burn of hooding and white noise, the bite of fear in the throat. And we knew why it mattered. Better to break in Brecon than in a basement in Beirut.

So we held the line. Tested, guided, pushed. And if a few lads went back to their squadrons whispering that a soft Swedish accent could freeze your blood? Well… that was just a bonus.

Word travels fast in the Regiment, but some tales travel faster than others. By the time Johan and I got back to Hereford for a short attachment, the stories about the new sere instructors had already taken on a life of their own.

We were in the mess, nursing pints, when a couple of lads from B Squadron slid into the next booth. They didn’t notice us—too busy laughing nervously over their “educational experience.”

“Mate, I swear, that blonde one knew my bank details before I opened my mouth,” one said, rubbing his temple.

His mate groaned. “Blonde? The brunette nearly had me crying. Didn’t even raise her voice—just stared at me over that clipboard like she was writing my obituary.”

They fell quiet, both staring into their beers. Then the first lad muttered, “I’d rather face the Provos than go through that again.”

The other lifted his pint. “To the Valkyries. May they never be in my chain of command.”

Johan caught my eye over the rim of his glass, grin tugging at his mouth. “Sound familiar?”

I chuckled. “Yeah. They’re talking about our girls.”

We didn’t interrupt, didn’t correct, didn’t even introduce ourselves. Just sat back, pride warming us more than the beer. Let them trade ghost stories. Let them talk about the icy stare and the friendly voice that cut deeper than any shouted threat.

Because we knew the truth. Those weren’t just instructors. They were our wives. And the Regiment’s dirty little secret was that the scariest part of sere wasn’t the cages, or the cold, or the DS screaming in your face.

It was two Intelligence sergeants with clipboards—and the terrifying knowledge that they already knew the answers to questions you hadn’t even been asked.

Bail-out Drill, Pontrilas

One drill had us practising “high-speed vehicle-to-foot transitions under contact.” The idea: bail from a moving Land Rover, hit the dirt, and get into a firing position before the DS could shout at you.

Most of us looked like laundry being chucked out of a van—rolling, swearing, fumbling for our blue pistols, muzzles pointed at anything but the notional enemy. Johan face-planted so hard his helmet bounced.

Then Vinka came out of the passenger side like a gymnast at the Olympics. One roll, up into prone, weapon aligned, and before the dust even settled she shouted to the directing staff—in Arabic. Just for the drama. Every head snapped round.

Half a second later, Marlin glided out the other side, calm as you like, weapon tucked in tight, securing the rear while the rest of us were still flapping about like startled pigeons.

The DS just shook his head, muttering loud enough for us to hear: “You lot better hope they’re on your side.”

The Land Rover was still bouncing when I saw the signal. “Contact left.” My hand was already on the door handle, heart thudding with that electric edge between fear and excitement.

The trick is not to think—thinking gets you hurt. So I rolled. Gravel bit into my elbow, mud sprayed up my sleeve, but I came up in a smooth arc like we’d practised a hundred times on mats back in camp. Only this time it wasn’t mats—it was wet Welsh earth, cold and unforgiving.

I snapped into prone, weapon lined, breath steady. And then—just for myself, just for the sheer cheek of it—I called out in Arabic. Sharp, clipped, authoritative.

The DS froze. So did half the lads. For a heartbeat, they thought some local had popped up out of the Brecon mud. I could see it in their eyes.

Behind me, Marlin landed in the rear arc like a cat, weapon tucked in perfect. I knew without looking she had my back—she always did.

And for a moment, lying there in the mud, rain dripping down my neck, I felt a surge of something dangerous and sweet: the knowledge that we’d just raised the bar.

This wasn’t about showing off. It was about proving—to them, to ourselves—that we belonged here. Not as “the girls.” Not as attachments. But as equals. Better, even.

When I heard the DS mutter, “Hope they’re on your side,” I allowed myself the smallest smile.

Because so did I.

Mid-course debrief, Oman

Midway through the Oman phase, they herded us under a sagging tarpaulin for a hot-washup. The desert shimmered outside, heat so fierce you could feel your eyeballs drying out. Inside the tent, the air was thick with sweat, sand, and the smell of scorched diesel.

We were halfway through our lukewarm brews when one of the DS looked up from his clipboard.

“You four speak Arabic, yeah?” he asked, like it was just dawning on him.

I raised a hand. “Well, they do. I just about manage to order a kebab and a slap.”

That got a laugh, but Vinka wasn’t about to let it slide. She grinned, nudged me with her boot, and said, “Stephen’s being modest. He can now say ‘where is the fuel dump’ and ‘is that goat for sale’ without confusing the two.”

“Which is progress,” Johan added deadpan, sipping his tea.

Marlin didn’t even look up from her notes. “And vital,” she said, “in case the goat is the fuel dump.”

The whole tent cracked up—even the DS. For a few minutes, it didn’t feel like a punishing selection course. It felt like a bunch of lunatics laughing at how ridiculous soldiering could get.

The tarpaulin sagged so low above us I could see every stitch of canvas, sweat dripping down in dark spots. The heat pressed in from all sides, a heavy, suffocating blanket. Everyone sat with collars open, faces shiny, tea mugs clutched like lifelines.

I caught Stephen’s expression when the DS asked if we spoke Arabic. That lopsided grin of his, the one that means “I’m about to make an idiot of myself but it’ll be funny.”

Sure enough, he raised his hand. “Well, they do. I just about manage to order a kebab and a slap.”

I couldn’t resist. I leaned across, voice light and teasing. “Stephen’s being modest. He can now say ‘where is the fuel dump’ and ‘is that goat for sale’ without mixing the two.”

The lads howled, and Stephen gave me that mock-wounded look I loved—half pride, half exasperation.

Johan’s dry one-liner landed perfectly, and Marlin, without glancing up, delivered the killer blow about the goat being the fuel dump. I nearly spat my tea across the sand.

For a moment, under that stifling tarpaulin, the course didn’t feel like hardship. It felt like family. Like the four of us against the world—sweaty, exhausted, but still finding the breath to laugh.

And I thought: if we can joke in this furnace, in this madness, we can survive anything.

Night Exercise near the Saudi Border

Blackout convoy, three Unimogs crawling through a dry wadi. Dust hanging like smoke, moonlight glinting off metal, and every one of us sweating buckets under body armour. Then the lead vehicle hit a “mine”—bang, smoke pots flaring, the whole canyon filling with chaos.

Before the rest of us even blinked, Vinka was out of the second cab barking crisp Arabic into the radio, rerouting the convoy like she’d been born in the desert. Then she leapt into the dust, chem-lights in hand, dropping them in a perfect pattern around the “casualty” while directing traffic and shouting instructions at the OPFOR lads so fluently they thought she was one of theirs.

Meanwhile, Johan and I scrambled like half-cooked kebabs trying to keep up, choking on grit, sweat stinging our eyes. Marlin? Sitting calm as ever in the third vehicle, logging comms traffic in Arabic, Swedish, and English, just to show off.

When the dust settled and we were dragged under a tarpaulin for the hot-washup, the DS shook his head. “You four are either the most terrifying multi-lingual driving team I’ve ever met… or a very elaborate prank.”...

I raised a hand. “Bit of both, sarge.”

He didn’t disagree.

The explosion went up and everything narrowed. Dust, heat, men shouting—it blurred into background noise. My world was the convoy. My responsibility.

I snapped into the radio in Arabic before I even thought about it. “Convoy halt. Maintain spacing. Second vehicle assume command.” The words flowed sharp and fast, like muscle memory.

The Unimog groaned as I jumped from the cab, boots hitting sand hot as a stove top. Chem-lights cracked and hissed in my hands, leaving neon trails as I dropped them in a triangle around the “casualty.”

I heard Stephen and Johan coughing somewhere behind me, but I didn’t look. I trusted them to be there. I had to.

“Vehicle three, rear security! Reroute left wadi!” My voice cut the night. The OPFOR lads hesitated, rifles half-raised. For a second, I saw it in their faces—they thought I was local. I let them believe it.

Sweat poured down my back, dust stuck to my teeth, but inside I was calm. More than calm—I felt alive. This wasn’t training anymore. It was real, at least for me. I was leading under fire, keeping the convoy moving, and every decision mattered.

When the whistle finally blew and the DS called endex, my hands were shaking, but not from fear. From the rush. From the fierce knowledge that I hadn’t just passed a test—I’d owned it.

Later, under the tarpaulin, when the DS shook his head and called us terrifying, I hid a smile. Because in that wadi, with the dust and the heat and the chem-lights glowing like fireflies, I had felt exactly what I was meant to be.

Hitchin – Late August 1989

Friday Evening – Mess Bar

Slight smell of Brasso, damp wool, and smug satisfaction.

The desert was a memory now—distant dunes, Unimogs, and the taste of sand still lingering in the creases of our kitbags. Six weeks of driving like lunatics, thinking in Arabic, and surviving on dust, dates, and military banter. And now… we were back.

The Hitchin TA Centre wasn’t flashy. Red brick, leaky radiators, and that one ceiling tile in the corridor that had always been wonky. But it was ours. Home turf. And tonight, it was full of nods, handshakes, and pints being raised to another course survived.

Johan and I were parked up at our usual table under the big noticeboard that no one ever actually read. We were still in boots and faded desert trousers, not because we had to be—but because changing into civvies felt like admitting the holiday was over.

I clinked my pint against his. “Cheers, mate. Six weeks, four Unimogs, two language refreshers, and only one time you got us lost.”

Johan grinned. “Better odds than last time.”

Just then, the door creaked open, and in strolled trouble.

Vinka and Marlin—tanned, relaxed, effortlessly cool. Even in jeans and windbreakers, they looked like they’d just come back from filming a Cold War spy film on location. Marlin dropped a holdall by the wall and flopped onto a chair like she’d earned it, she had. Vinka leaned over and kissed my cheek.

“You boys behaving?”

“Terribly,” I said. “But with charm.”

Marlin smirked. “Good. That way we still get to look like the professionals.”

Johan raised his glass. “They’re calling it The Valkyrie Slide, you know. That manoeuvre you pulled in the dark, second convoy run—driver evac, turret mount, double rollover… textbook.”

Vinka shrugged, modest as ever. “Unimog just wanted to dance. I obliged.”

I looked at her sideways. “You grinned all the way through it.”

“Of course I did. It reminded me of driving in Swedish snow—with better lighting and fewer moose.”

We all laughed, glasses raised again.

Outside, the rain tapped at the windows, but inside, we were warm, together, and quietly buzzing. The kids were at home, fed and no doubt plotting their next great backyard mission. Mum had sent round a casserole and four of her famous rock-hard fruit scones, which now sat on the bar like a munitions display.

We weren’t just soldiers anymore. We were families. Teams. Veterans of more than one kind of battlefield.

That TA mess bar in Hitchin, with the sand still in our boots and a hundred unspoken memories behind our smiles, it was clear:

Us Four were still very much in business.