Their Own Game

by Duncan James

  ***

  The Cat sat in the ditch.

  For two days and two nights. But this would be the last. Then a hot shower and a cold beer. Seamus O’Hara and his two assistant Quartermasters were on their way, the US nuclear submarine ‘September Eleven’, with her armoury of cruise missiles, was in position, and The Cat had a clear view of the target, within laser range. Whether it was safe to be that close, only time would tell. There wasn’t a lot of shelter to be had under a hedge, and there were a hundred tons or so of Semtex due to be blown up at any time at all, as well as all the rest of the stuff in the arms dump. A flak jacket would have to do. It’s all there was.

  The talks at Camp David had, so it was reported, been long and difficult, but eventually successful. The Taoiseach was on side, persuaded eventually by the progress that had already been made in dealing with the terrorists in the North, and by the promise of future economic development and stability which being linked to the American economy, as well as to Europe, were bound to bring to a unified Ireland.

  Or something like that. From The Cats’ point of view, the important thing was that the Irish Government had agreed to this little operation, and arranged for their version of Special Branch, dressed up as workmen, to close the only public road within miles. But they didn’t know about The Cat, or how the dump was going to be hit. At least this time, recovery would be easy, too. No long, hard slog across the desert. The rendezvous was only about four miles away, and then a Navy Lynx helicopter ride back to base. The Cat had even been told the name of the pilot – Chief Petty Officer Sid Rudkin.

  It was late afternoon when the three men eventually appeared. The guard on the gate let them in after a bit of a chat, and they parked their Range Rover a short distance further on, near the entrance. As soon as they were inside, The Cat broke radio silence.

  “The targets have merged” was the agreed signal. There was no acknowledgement.

  “Missile launched”, came the message moments later from the submerged submarine.

  The Cat illuminated the target with the laser guidance system, and passed the message “target lit”.

  The cruise missile was the very latest GBU-28 ‘bunker buster’, fitted with the BLU-113 warhead, and a GPS guidance system that was quite capable of hitting the dump on its own. The laser was added insurance. There would only be one chance, and this was it.

  The Cat heard the message, direct from the US submarine, “Time to target, one minute forty seconds.” The Cat crouched as flat as humanly possible while keeping the target illuminated and rock steady within the laser sights.

  “Sixty seconds.”

  “Thirty seconds.”

  There were two simultaneous explosions, The Cat recalled afterwards. One, as the missile blew a hole on impact through the six feet of steel reinforced concrete, and another, a mille-second later, as the warhead burst through the breach and exploded deep within the dump, ripping it apart. What followed defied description, with missiles, shells and bullets ricocheting across the countryside, and debris showering down on the motionless figure of The Cat as the munitions in the dump continued to detonate for several minutes after impact.

  The IRA concluded, as it had been hoped they would, that Seamus or one of his colleagues must have had a fag going.

  Stupid bastard. Couldn’t have been anything else but an own goal, could it?