When his escort divulged that the church had originally been built in 1385 A.D.” Sean shook his head in wonder, for this was just like seeing a living piece from the history books.
A narrow alleyway took them to their flat, which was located on the third floor of a building constructed a mere two hundred years ago. The apartment had only a single room, half of which was filled by a stove, refrigerator, and a round wooden table with two rickety chairs. Several dirty plates and a variety of soiled silverware sat on this table, alongside an assortment of empty food tins and beer bottles. The rest of the flat contained nothing but a disheveled mattress that lay on the scuffed wooden floor beside a soot filled fireplace.
While Sean removed his backpack and shook the rain from his jacket, Patrick hurried over to get the fire going.
Quite happy to finally be out of the raw elements, Sean carefully scanned the room’s interior. An astounded look crossed his face as he noted a large poster tacked to one of the walls. It showed a lush green, sheep-filled meadow. A meandering brook cut through this peaceful, pastoral setting, while an arched estate home could be seen on the summit of a nearby hillside.
“Where in the world did you get this incredible poster of Cootehill House?” asked Sean.
Patrick held back his answer until the pile of kindling and dried sod that he had been working on was fully ablaze.
“Marie gave it to me when I left. She found it in a Dublin tourist shop.”
Patrick stood, walked over to his friend’s side, and added.
“Whenever I get homesick, I sit down in front of this poster and imagine that I’m back in County Caven once again.”
“Two months is a long time to be away from home, isn’t it, Patrick?”
“That it is, my friend. But as long as my memories are still with me, I can manage. Besides, I still strongly believe in the job that I’ve been sent here to accomplish.”
“And it’s a good thing for the cause that you do,” said Sean, who turned his glance away from the poster to directly meet the gaze of his associate.
“Bernard, the Doctor, and the rest of the members of the Brotherhood wanted me to convey their greetings. Marie sends along her love and apologizes for not sending along some of her infamous oatmeal cookies with me. I’m afraid the only bad news that I have to deliver is that Eamonn O’Neill was picked up by the Brits two days ago. He was crossing the border on his way to Armagh when they nabbed him. The last we heard, he was being held in solitary confinement at Long Kesh.”
Patrick Callaghan heavily sighed.
“That’s too bad, Sean. Of all the lads, Eamonn was always one of my favorites.”
“Mine too,” added Sean.
“But he knew the risks. It’s not his first visit to the Maze Prison, and it most probably won’t be his last. Rumor has it that it was the SAS who picked him up. They’ve been staking out the border ever since our successful raid on the armory at Newry. If the damned Brits only knew that Eamonn was the one who originally conceived that strike, they’d probably strip the skin right off his body.”
“I understand that we made quite a haul in Newry, Sean.”
“You don’t know the half of it, my friend. We came home with over one-hundred M-16 rifles, a half dozen Browning M-60 machine guns, and a 90mm M-67 recoilless rifle. We also pulled out several dozen.45caliber pistols and plenty of ammo.”
“No wonder they called back the SAS,” reflected Patrick.
“With a haul like that, when’s the blooming war going to start?”
Sean grinned.
“We’re close, my friend, so very close.
The Brits just announced a new round of price increases in the North, and both Catholic and Protestants alike are hopping mad. Unemployment continues to soar, especially in the Catholic slums of Belfast and Deny. It’s especially prevalent among the young, who aren’t being given any job training to speak of, and have nothing to look forward to but a life of depravation and poverty on the dole.
“To vent their frustrations, they’ve been showing an increased interest in the Republican movement. IRA recruitment is at an all-time high. Yet the IRA is still as ineffective as ever. They’ve been continually unable to produce a dynamic leader, and their goals remain unclear, their policy uncoordinated. Increasingly, the Brotherhood has been stepping in to fill this void. Our ranks have also never been as full of able volunteers as they are right now. The lads who join us don’t have to worry about petty political squabbles amongst their leaders and unclear policy goals. For our philosophy has remained basically the same since the IRB’s founding.”
“You know Sean, since I’ve been living here in the U.K. I’m as sure as ever before that the Brotherhood’s philosophy is the only one that will ever be able to produce a unified Ireland. The English system thrives on class discrimination. They depend on their military and their pathetic monarchy to keep the people content and in line. The only thing that they really fear is a force stronger than their own. That’s why we’re really going to have to hurt them to gain both their attention and their respect.”
Thoughtfully nodding head to this, Sean slowly walked over to the flat’s sole window. From this vantage point he could just view the upper ramparts of Edinburgh castle through the rain and soot-stained glass.
“And we happen to know just where to hit them to cause the most pain, don’t we, Patrick?”
As his countryman joined him at the window, Sean continued.
“The Brotherhood has given me the final go-ahead for our operation. Has anything occurred since your last report that would necessitate a change of plan?”
Patrick shook his head.
“As of yesterday, I see no reason why we shouldn’t proceed as planned. Your work permit has cleared, and my supervisor is expecting you on the site tomorrow morning.”
Sean rubbed his hands together expectantly.
“Did you have any luck with our armaments?”
“Though our contact here never came through with the H&K assault weapon that he had promised us, he did manage to appropriate a fairly new M-1 carbine and three clips of ammo. It’s currently hidden at the site inside an air compressor alongside the blasting caps.”
“Excellent, Patrick. Were you able to find us a decent hiding place?”
“The best that I could do is inside the cistern that we’re presently excavating. It’s a bit smelly, but that should insure that the guards will stay far away from us when they make their evening rounds. And speaking of guards, a new detail arrived only yesterday. They’re the 75th Highlanders. They go way back to Waterloo and beyond, and have a tradition of valor on the battlefield to live up to. Their recent arrival at the castle is to our advantage, since for all effective purposes, they’ll still be settling in when we strike.”
“And the jewels?” continued Sean.
“As of yesterday, they were nestled inside the crown room as they have been for the last century,” replied Patrick.
“During the day, the depository is left open for the benefit of sightseers. The regalia proper consists of a crown, a scepter, and a sword of state. All are crafted of pure gold and are adorned with hundreds of diamonds, rubies, and pearls. This collection has been valued for insurance purposes as exceeding three million pounds. But as we very well know, their real value can’t be counted in money. For tradition says that whoever possesses the regalia has the right to claim the throne of Scotland.”
“The throne of Scotland, you say? Well I don’t know if we’ll go that far, Patrick Callaghan. But I will tell you this, that once the Brotherhood gets hold of this regalia, it’s going to take a queen to get them back.
What an interesting trade it’s going to make, the crown of Scotland for six impoverished counties in Northern Ireland. Why, it’s history itself that we’ll be making here starting tomorrow, my friend!”
Patrick anxiously looked to his watch.
“We’re due, at the site at 6:00. sharp. Since you’ve had a full day already, I thought it be
st if we ate an early supper and turned in soon afterward. If you’d like, there’s a pub right down the street that serves a decent shepherd’s pie.”
“What’s the beer like?” quizzed his countryman.
Patrick grinned.
“It’s certainly not a Guinness, but I don’t think it will poison you.”
“That would be a hell of a way to go,” returned Sean Lafferty as he put one hand on his comrade’s shoulder, and beckoned with the other for Patrick to lead the way.
* * *
Though thick, gray storm clouds completely veiled the western horizon, the kilted piper emerged onto the ramparts precisely at the moment of sunset. Oblivious to the cold blowing rain, the Highlander put the reed of his ancient instrument to his lips and began playing a mournful march, whose origin was almost as old as the cobblestone that his shiny, silver-buckled shoes were treading upon. Down in the castle’s enclosed compound, the notes of this dirge merged with those of the constantly howling wind, and the resulting sound was almost ghostly.
Major Colin Stewart was one of those who heard this ethereal symphony. The rugged six-foot, two-inch career officer from Stirling sprinted across the rain-soaked courtyard and gratefully ducked into the main headquarters building. Taking a second to wipe his feet on the doormat and shake the water from his red beret, he proceeded up the stone stairway in bounding strides.
The forty-three-year-old commando was hardly winded as he climbed up two whole flights and turned to begin his way down a well-lit corridor. It was before a door marked Communications-Authorized Entry Only that he halted. He needed to insert a heavy plastic key card into a metal slot for this door to open with a loud click.
An attractive young woman dressed in the olive green drabs of an Army corporal greeted him from a desk like console.
“Sorry to call you away from dinner, Major, but this dispatch just arrived for you from Northwood.
It seems to be from the First Sea Lord.”
“The First Sea Lord?” he asked as he grabbed the sealed envelope and tore it open. An indecipherable code met his eyes, and he excused himself for his office, which was located on the floor below.
With the assistance of a code book, he translated the “for your eyes only” message that told of the crash of an American B-52 aircraft off the eastern coast of Ireland. This plane’s cargo included four thermonuclear bombs whose recovery was presently the Admiralty’s number one priority.
“What a bloody mess,” mumbled Colin Stewart to himself.
Only yesterday, his regiment had arrived from a six week deployment on the Isle of Man, which was smack in the middle of the Irish Sea, and in the same general vicinity that the B-52 had apparently gone down in. He could just imagine the frenzied activity currently taking place on the island as the recovery effort was coordinated.
This was one project that Colin would have loved to have gotten involved with, and he cursed his rotten luck.
For the next six weeks his crack regiment would be confined within the thick walls of Edinburgh Castle.
There were many who looked forward to such easy duty, that was primarily ceremonial. But Major Colin Stewart was not one of them. The former SAS commando craved action and adventure. He was happiest during operations such as the Falkland’s War, when he was able to load live rounds into his weapons and lead his men into battle.
His one regret was that he hadn’t been born thirty years earlier. Then he could have participated in the greatest world conflict of all times. As a child, he had read everything that he could get his hands on regarding World War II. He had an uncle who had served with Montgomery in Africa, who thrilled him with tale after wondrous tale about the hunt for Rommel, the elusive Nazi Desert Fox. His own father had served in the South Pacific, and though he was taken prisoner by the Japanese in the conflict’s opening days, could tell some spine-tingling war stories of his own when in the mood.
Today the army had little to do but participate in one boring exercise after another. The majority of these were so ill-conceived that they didn’t have the least bit to do with real combat scenarios. They were carried out just for the benefit of the generals, and to give the taxpayer the illusion that he was getting his money’s worth.
Colin was of the strong opinion that soldiers need actual combat if they were going to keep their edge sharp.
Otherwise, they were little more than unarmed policemen waiting for a crime that could very well never even happen.
Their current duty was a prime example of just such a waste. For the next month and a half they would be stationed at the castle, where their primary responsibility would be to act as a security detail. Yet surely this could just as easily be done by a group of “rent-acops.”
Other than a few overvalued jewels and several dusty war museums, there wasn’t much inside the castle to warrant a regiment of Scotland’s best. But unfortunately every unit in the country was required to make the obligatory yearly stop in Edinburgh, where tourists would gawk at them and ask their ridiculous questions.
Knowing full well that there was nothing he could do to change the situation, Colin dropped the coded dispatch into his shredder. Then, with crisp strides, he returned to the mess hall to finish his dinner.
Sean Lafferty slept soundly beside the fireplace, wrapped inside the folds of the sleeping bag that he had brought along from Dublin. It proved to be his roommate who awakened him. The flat was dark, cold, and unfamiliar, yet Patrick made him feel right at home with a cup of hot tea. By the time Sean finished his toilet, the sky was just brightening with the first colors of dawn.
They went off to work on foot. The miserable weather of the previous day had passed. The sky was a clear blue, the air crisp and cool, as they proceeded down High Street and began the long climb up to the castle.
Patrick had originally gotten the construction job three weeks after arriving in Edinburgh. It fit his needs perfectly, for the company had just signed a contract to initiate a series of renovations on the castle grounds.
He started as a simple laborer and soon enough demonstrated his ability to operate a variety of heavy machinery.
He was able to get Sean a job with this same outfit when he learned that they were looking for a man experienced with explosives. Though they would have preferred a local, Sean’s resume was the only one to fit their needs.
Ever thankful for his time spent as an explosives handler during the construction of a new Guinness brewery, Sean anxiously anticipated the days work to come. The castle loomed larger than it had appeared from below as they entered it by way of the main guardhouse. Two uniformed, rifle toting soldiers alertly challenged them here. Patrick calmly pulled out his work permit and Sean did likewise. A quick call to the construction foreman verified their identities, and the soldiers politely stepped aside and allowed them to enter.
They began their way up a sloping brick roadway and crossed beneath an arched structure that Patrick identified as being the Portcullis Gate, built in 1577. They briefly halted to catch their breaths beside the Argyle Battery, which was added on in 1750 and contained a display of muzzle-loading cannon of this same period.
“Well, what do you think Sean?” quizzed Patrick as he scanned one portion of the awakening city of Edin burgh visible four hundred feet below.
His associate was busy studying the layout of the ramparts behind the battery as he responded.
“I’ll tell you what I think, my friend. Unless those sentries have some bullets in their pockets, this job is going to be easier than I ever dreamed. Those H&K assault rifles that they were carrying didn’t even have any clips in them.”
Still engrossed in the spectacular view of the city, Patrick shook his head.
“Aw Sean, you always were the practical one.”
“Thank goodness someone around here is,” added Sean as he walked over to join his associate. He followed Patrick’s line of sight and patted his coworker on the back.
“It truly is a magnificent sight, Patrick.
This city just reeks of history. Now, what do you say to us going and making some of our own?”
Patrick answered his friend’s wink with a nod, and turned to lead them further up into the castle’s interior.
They passed by a gift shop and an infirmary that had a fairly modern artillery piece set up beside it.
“That cannon still looks operational,” observed Sean.
“You’ll hear for yourself at one p.m. when it’s fired.
They say folks all over the city set their watches by it.”
“No one ever said that the Scots weren’t practical people,” offered Sean.
Their route now curved upward, and they passed through a compound dominated by a fairly modern barracks. A group of enlisted men stiffly stood at attention outside this structure, in the process of being inspected by a tall, muscular officer in a red beret.
Yet another ramp took them past a small chapel that Patrick mentioned was one of the oldest surviving parts of the fortress, built in the eleventh century. It was beside this simple building that a series of construction barriers were set up. A corrugated steel trailer was placed beside the wall here, with various heavy equipment parked nearby.
“This is the place,” said Patrick who led the way inside.
The interior of the trailer smelled of cigar smoke and fresh coffee. It was filled with several vacant drafting tables and a single cluttered desk. Seated here was a portly individual sporting a full red beard, with thick eyebrows to match. He didn’t bother to stand as he spoke out with a deep, booming bass voice.
“Good morning, Patrick. And this must be your cousin, Mr. Lafferty. Welcome to Edinburgh, lad. I’m the foreman here, Angus Ross.”
Sean accepted a viselike handshake and watched as his new boss lit up a half-smoked cigar.
“I understand from both your resume and your cousin that you’re pretty handy with explosives, Mr.
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