“Now, Private Campbell seems to think that we’re not alone out here. I’ve certainly seen no signs that would indicate this, but that only means that we’ve got to proceed only that much more cautiously. So re274 member your training, and if we should get into a scuffle, use whatever force is needed to protect yourselves.
With that said, I can only wish you good hunting. Go get ‘em, lads!”
With a coil of rope wrapped around his shoulder, Stewart led the way through the forest to the hill’s summit. At this point, the squad split up. While three of his men began a wide, circular route around the back of the estate, Stewart and Private Campbell darted across the meadow in front of the manor.
They were nearly halfway across this wide expanse when the first gunshots sounded. Both commandos immediately dived to the turf-covered ground as they heard the sickening whine of bullets whizzing overhead.
Semi-protected by a shallow gully, Stewart spotted the muzzle flash of a rifle from one of the upper windows. After pointing this out to his young associate, the veteran deactivated the safety of his rifle and shouted out.
“I’ll keep you covered, Private, while you scramble up to the south wall. If the firing from the second floor continues, see if you can lob a grenade up there.”
“Will do, Major,” returned the enlisted man.
As Stewart angled the barrel of his assault rifle up toward his target, he hit the trigger and cried out, “Go for it, lad!”
A deafening barrage of semi-automatic gunfire followed.
As the second-story window shattered, the private stood and went sprinting over the remaining meadow, dodging and weaving like a professional football player. He didn’t stop until he reached his goal and waved that he was all right.
Colin Stewart emptied his clip and cursed angrily when the sound of gunfire once more exploded from the window. While he reached for another clip, a bullet smashed into the turf only a few inches from his right shoulder. Instinctively he pressed his body deeper into the ground in order to make the smallest possible target.
He had just put a fresh round of his own in the chamber and was preparing to answer the sniper with another volley when there was a single deep crackling blast. He cautiously peeked over the lip of the depression and saw a thick column of black smoke streaming from the same window where the sniper had been.
Knowing full well that this smoke was the byproduct of one of Private Campbell’s grenades, Stewart stiffly stood and scrambled to the manor’s south wall.
“Nice going, Private,” remarked the out-of-breath veteran as he climbed over a low stone fence and crossed over a vegetable garden to get to the wall itself.
“It looks like we can get the grapnel into that wood siding that lines the window ledge, sir.”
“How are you at climbing?” asked Stewart.
“I’m like a squirrel, Sir,” boasted the enlisted man.
“Well, we’re soon enough going to see if that’s the case.” Stewart slid the coil of rope off his shoulder.
Just as he prepared to loft the hooked grapnel upward, an assortment of exploding gunshots sounded in the distance.
“Looks like the rest of the lads are getting a taste of some action themselves,” said Stewart, who needed two tosses to get the grapnel set properly.
Private Campbell took the nylon rope in hand and wasted no time beginning his climb. It was a bit awkward as he reached the ledge where the grapnel was set, and he had to lift his leg up to pull his body over the sill. As he tumbled into the open window, Colin Stewart grasped the rope and began pulling his own way upward. Though it took just a bit longer for him to complete his climb, he succeeded in reaching the sill, where his associate waited to help him the rest of the way.
Inside, they found themselves in a bedroom dominated by a large canopied bed. A poster of Che Guevara was tacked to the wall behind it. Though his hands still stung from the climb, Stewart readied his rifle at his side and whispered, “We’ll search this floor first. And don’t take any chances. I’ve got a feeling that this place is just crawling with surprises.”
Noting that the sound of gunshots continued outside, Stewart led the way out into the hall. One by one they proceeded to check each upstairs room. They found only one of them occupied, by a longhaired, fatigue-wearing young man who had apparently taken Private Campbell’s grenade blast full in the chest.
“It’s never a pretty sight,” reflected the veteran as he kicked the body aside and spotted the Armalite rifle that the terrorist had been using to keep them pinned down with.
“I doubt if he’s carrying any ID. We won’t know if he was our man until we can run a fingerprint check on him. Meanwhile, it looks like we’ve got a whole nest of rats to root out here. Shall we try downstairs?”
offered Stewart.
The veteran commando led the way down a spiral staircase. As he prepared to step out onto the landing, a sudden movement on his left side caught his practiced eye, and he raised up the barrel of his rifle, swiveled, and fired. A single return shot ricocheted overhead, causing Stewart to hunch down and look on as another fatigue wearing terrorist stumbled into view in an adjoining corridor. There was a pained look in his face as his Armalite clattered to the floor and his blood-soaked torso followed soon afterwards.
Without stopping to check his condition, Stewart signaled Private Campbell to follow him into the nearby parlor. Two doorways bisected this comfortably furnished room, and beckoning Campbell to check out the one on the left, Stewart turned to the right.
A short, dark corridor brought him to a closed wooden door. He pressed his back up against the wall and gingerly reached out to try the iron doorknob.
The door was locked, and Stewart slung his rifle over his shoulder and pulled out his pistol. He clipped a 9-mm round into its short barrel and took a deep breath. Then, with a swift, lightning-like movement, he stood back and barreled into the door with the side of his body. As the latch tore out of its flimsy frame, the door swung open with a blistering crack and Stewart’s forward momentum sent him tumbling inside.
The deafening sound of exploding bullets greeted him as he smacked into the carpeted floor hard on his right shoulder. A thick leather sofa provided his only cover, and he listened as a dozen rounds smacked into it with a heart-stopping thud.
Slowly the numbing pain that had temporarily paralyzed his entire right side lessened and he was able to firmly grasp his pistol. It was then that the strained voice of a woman cried out to him.
“You’re just a bit too late, comrade. This skirmish signals the beginning of a revolution that will soon have the entire planet in its grasp!”
“Just hand over the individual known as Scan Lafferty, and this senseless bloodletting can be done with,” countered Colin Stewart.
“Comrade, this bloodletting, as you call it, hasn’t even begun yet!” cried the female terrorist, who expressed her vehemence with a volley of automatic rifle fire.
Several of these bullets whined overhead, and the commando decided that he had had enough. He pulled out a smooth-skinned stun grenade, pulled its pin, and lofted it with a high arc toward the voice’s source. Seconds later, the room reverberated with a thunderous concussion that prompted Stewart to regrasp his pistol and cautiously stand upright. A cloud of swirling gray smoke veiled his view. Yet as it began to dissipate, he gasped in horror upon spotting a redheaded young woman standing behind a desk, her Armalite assault rifle pointed right at him.
“I just wanted to see the face of the imperialistic order that will soon be obsolete,” spat the green-eyed terrorist.
“Your time has come, comrade. And ours has just began!”
Unwilling to let her prophetic words come true, Colin Stewart desperately leaped sideways, all the while lifting up the barrel of his pistol and firing blindly. The Armalite responded, its explosive report deep and resounding.
Stewart rolled off the side of the sofa, and before he could lift himself upright and finish emptying his clip, noted that the A
rmalite had suddenly gone silent.
The scent of gunpowder was thick in the air as he brought himself to his knees and discreetly looked in the direction of the gunfire.
Veiled in a thin whitish haze, the redheaded terrorist’s body could be seen seated in a high-backed red leather chair behind a large desk. Her green eyes vacantly stared out to the room beyond, and Stewart spotted a single gunshot wound located in the exact center of her forehead.
A solemn silence prevailed as he stood and made his way over to the desk. Displayed here was the front page of the latest Irish newspaper. Stewart had skimmed this very same edition earlier in Dundalk, and knew that its lead story described the grisly murders of Mrs. John Maguire and her two daughters.
What he had previously missed, though, was an article on the lower part of the page, in this instance one circled in red ink. Queen to Christen Trident was the headline.
In all the excitement Colin had almost forgotten about the Royal Family’s visit to Gare Loch tomorrow afternoon. When he had first learned that the Queen would be traveling to the Falsane Naval Installation to launch the new submarine, he had genuinely hoped that he could be there to witness this historic event.
Yet the attempted robbery at Edinburgh Castle had abruptly changed all this.
As he finished reading the article, his eye spotted a flier on the desk beside the newspaper. It appeared to have been ripped from a bulletin board, and upon closer study, he saw it had apparently been written by the United States Navy. This immediately aroused his curiosity, and he read the flier thoroughly.
At the mere mention of aerial phenomena he knew the paper was referring to the crash of the American B-52. It appeared that the Yanks were subtly asking for the assistance of the local fishermen in a somewhat desperate effort to help them locate the missing atomic bomb. Having been previously notified of this tragic event, Stewart found his attention diverted by the sudden arrival of Private Campbell.
“I’ve completed my sweep of the house, sir. Though the other side of the floor was empty, I got a chance to speak with Corporal Duncan in the kitchen. We’ve lost Peter MacLeod, Major. He was killed during the firefight that ensued as they broke into the barn. Before he went down, they say he took out two of the bloody terrorists all on his own. Two others were shot dead as they attempted to flee, and a third is still on the loose in the bog. Angus is out there right now with Private Mckay, trying to hunt ‘em down.”
Just then noticing the corpse seated in the chair beside his CO, Campbell added, “Who in the hell was that redheaded bird?”
“From the way she was preaching to me before she died, probably the ideological leader of this bunch of Red scum,” retorted the major bitterly.
“Did Corporal Duncan mention what it was that the terrorists were trying to defend inside the barn?”
“Why, I almost forgot the good news, Major. It appears that we stumbled upon a major arms cache.
“Angus says there’s a virtual arsenal in there, with everything but an atomic bomb stashed away in crates marked with the official RUC seal.”
Colin Stewart listened intently to this report, his glance still on the flier that he had just been studying.
The private’s coincidental mention of the A-bomb suddenly triggered something in Stewart, and his thoughts went back in time to Dundalk, when they had first learned where Sean Lafferty was supposedly hiding.
Seconds before the suspect’s father told them about Cootehill House, he had been babbling on about some sort of satellite he had fished from the sea. He had even mentioned that this event had occurred on the night the sky caught fire. Though at the time Colin ignored this confused disclosure, it suddenly dawned on him what the old fisherman may have recovered.
“Jesus Christ!” the shocked veteran whispered to himself.
Unaware that this invective was overheard by his puzzled subordinate, Stewart managed to focus his thoughts, and a bevy of concerns rose in his consciousness.
Had it been an atomic bomb that Liam Lafferty had pulled from the sea on the night the sky had caught fire? And if it was, was this device currently in the hands of the terrorist organization his son belonged to? Even more frightening, did they intend to use it, and if so, where?
Colin Stewart’s glance strayed to the newspaper article circled in red ink, and in a terrifying flash of awareness, the commando knew the answers to his questions. So deep was his level of concentration that he didn’t even notice it when two more members of his squad entered the study.
“Major, you’ll never believe what we found in the bog while we were chasing after that escaped terrorist,” said Corporal Angus Duncan breathlessly.
Stewart looked up and accepted a mud-stained laminated plastic ID. The picture of a middleaged bespectacled man was displayed here, along with the following information-Property of Dr. John Maguire, Director, Shamrock Nuclear Facility.
“It’s him, Major!” added the corporal.
“We found the body of the missing nuclear scientist that everyone’s talking about — minus the back of his skull, which was blown apart by a bullet.”
Barely aware of the significance of this gruesome discovery, Colin Stewart had an entirely different concern as he responded.
“Lads, it’s extremely important that we get back to Dundalk as soon as possible.”
“Won’t we be taking some fingerprints first to see if one of the men we killed was our suspect?” asked Robert Campbell.
“And what about that arms cache we found?”
added Angus Duncan.
“We can’t just leave it here for those rascals to do with as they please.”
Stewart replied to these questions while heading for the study’s sole doorway.
“We’ll call the Republic authorities along the way and let them take care of it.
Right now, only one thing really matters. And that’s getting me to Liam Lafferty’s house in Dundalk, on the double!”
Liam arrived at the docks just as the dawn was breaking over the eastern horizon. His first priority was to give his trawler a good cleaning. He did so with a bucket of soap suds and an old scrub brush that he mounted on a broom handle. It was well into morning when he finished this tiring chore. The pier was bustling with activity by this time, and he tossed the bucketful of soapy water that he was finished with into the harbor and sat down on the transom to have a smoke.
He had just finished his second bowl of tobacco and was in the process of debating whether or not to load another when a familiar-looking lorry backed onto the docks and pulled over to the slips by the commercial tugs. Doing his best to ignore the arthritic pains that throbbed in his joints, the grizzled fisherman climbed off his boat and proceeded over to the parked lorry.
Much to his utter surprise and delight, he spotted Sean sitting in the truck’s passenger seat. Before he could call out to his son. Dr. Blackwater greeted Liam. Pulling him off to one side, the physician explained what they were doing down here.
Ever mindful of the interest of the United States Navy, Dr. Blackwater was preparing to convey Liam’s treasure over to Port Glasgow. Needless to say, Liam was thrilled with this news, for soon he’d have his anticipated reward.
Just as exciting was the fact that Sean was already on his feet. Though his shoulder was still bandaged, the lad didn’t seem any worse for wear as he super283 vised the unloading of the pallet the piece of the satellite was chained to. Tightly covered by a full-length black tarp, the pallet was lifted onto the deck of an oceangoing tug. Throughout this entire process. Dr.
Blackwater, Sean, and a funny-looking stranger with an eyepatch and a ponytail were extremely attentive.
Once, when the winch they were using slipped, Dr.
Blackwater ran out to steady the rocking pallet, which was eventually loaded into the tug without further incident.
Liam watched this operation intently. Sean was so busy that he only had time to give his father a curt hello before returning to work. Hopeful that they’d get
to spend some time together once the satellite was returned to its proper owners, Liam looked on as Sean, Dr. Blackwater, and the one-eyed stranger climbed onto the tug. This stranger must have been the vessel’s pilot, for he proceeded to climb up into the wheelhouse and start its diesel engine.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to go along?”
Liam shouted from the pier.
“I’m certain you can keep plenty busy thinking up ways to spend your reward money, Liam,” replied the physician.
“See you soon!”
With this, the lines holding the tug to the pier were released, and the boat steamed out into the harbor with a resonant blast of its air horn.
Liam was torn between returning home to inform Annie of how splendidly Sean was getting along, and going to the Rose-and-Thistle to celebrate. After the briefest of deliberations, he chose the latter.
Eamon McGilligan, the bearded owner of the pub, was outside, taping the afternoon’s lunch selection to the window, when Liam came sauntering down the sidewalk.
“Eamon, old friend… how are you doing on this splendid spring morning?” asked the fisherman.
The potbellied bartender had to do a double-take to properly identify the speaker of these upbeat words.
“My heavens, Liam, you’ve been hitting the Guinness already at my competitor’s, and it’s not even noon yet.”
“Whatever makes you say such a thing, Eamon?
Why, I’m as sober as a judge. Though I intend to change that as soon as humanly possible.”
“I haven’t seen you this cheerful so early in the day since your long shot came in first in the Derby. And that was three years ago. Don’t tell me that you’ve gone and won the lottery!”
“In a matter of speaking, Eamon. Now, is there anyone inside to serve me a pint, or am I going to have to perish from thirst?”
“I’ll be in shortly, Liam. Meanwhile, Billy Kelly arid Henry Morrison are inside, and I’m sure they’ll be able to keep you occupied until I get my menus taped up. Kitty’s gone and cooked up a fresh pot of corned beef and cabbage. And I can personally attest to its excellence.”
Sea Devil Page 26
