Soldier U: Bandit Country

by Peter Corrigan

  Moony cheered and slapped hands with Finn. Margaret watched the news impassively.

  ‘Army sources refuse to comment on press speculation that the attack was the work of the so-called “Border Fox”, who for eighteen months has been carrying out attacks on both the police and the army using a high-calibre weapon. They also declined to confirm rumours that the Puma helicopter was carrying SAS soldiers when it was shot down.

  ‘Minutes after the first, a second attack was then carried out on army vehicles which went to the aid of the downed helicopter. It is believed a bomb was planted by a command wire when the lead army Landrover passed over it. All four occupants of the vehicle were killed, three of them dying at the scene, the fourth on the way to hospital. The army have yet to release their names but it is thought they were members of the 1st Battalion the Royal Greenjackets, who are stationed in the area.’

  Finn and Mooney clinked glasses, beaming.

  ‘Will you not join us, Maggie?’ they chorused. ‘Seven of the bastards in one day. It’s another Warrenpoint, so it is.’

  Maggie poured herself a brandy and sipped it calmly.

  ‘Brendan, you go upstairs and have a lie-down – you don’t look so well, so you don’t. I’ll look after the bar.’

  Her brother left without protest. Maggie went to the front door of the bar and closed it firmly, locking it top and bottom. Then she rejoined the others.

  ‘You’ve too big a mouth on you, Patrick,’ she said coldly. ‘And Eugene, you should know better than to be down here in the public bar at this time of day. Wait until after hours, that’s the rule. And Patrick, you’re not being much of a lookout, are you? The bloody SAS could be at the back door for all you know.’

  ‘They’re not at the back door,’ Mooney said gleefully. ‘They’re either back in England or splattered all over the hills of Armagh.’

  He and Finn began laughing. They seemed a little drunk, intoxicated by the success of the joint operations.

  ‘All right, we’ve had a success; but now there’ll be hell to pay for it. It’s time you were moving on, Eugene. Maybe you should go to Brian McMullan’s house. It’s too dangerous to stay in one place for so long.’

  ‘McMullan’s place was raided by the Brits yesterday,’ Finn told her. ‘Fuck knows why. But it’s out.’

  ‘Maybe you should head across the border,’ Mooney suggested. ‘Cavan, or Wicklow.’

  ‘I’m not ready to leave yet,’ Finn said. The humour had left him.

  ‘For God’s sake, Eugene,’ Maggie exploded. ‘You’re the most wanted man in the North. You can’t keep playing the lone hero for ever. It’s time things were left to cool down a wee bit.’

  ‘Oh, but I’m not the most wanted man,’ Finn said quietly. ‘Our friend the Fox is, far and away. It was him that brought that chopper down today, wasn’t it? Maybe he should think about heading south too.’

  ‘He can take care of himself,’ Maggie said acidly. ‘The Brits haven’t even figured out who he is yet.’

  ‘They will, Maggie, they will. They figure everything out in the end, the bastards.’

  Seeing her look, Finn laughed.

  ‘All right, Mammy, I’ll do as you say. I’ll head south in the morning. Patrick here can drive me up as far as Derry, and we’ll cross the border there, head for Donegal. Maybe I’ll do a spot of fishing.’

  ‘And tonight?’

  Finn raised his glass. ‘Tonight I’m going to sit and have a few drinks to the success of our missions and the overthrow of British arms. Slainte.’ And he drained his pint.

  ‘And Maggie, open that door, love, will you? People will begin to think there’s something wrong if Lavery’s isn’t open for the evening crowd.’

  They checked the weapons again in the disused sewage works. The windows had been boarded up but Early had prised free one board with a crowbar, replacing it after they were inside. Now they were crouched in the musty darkness of the empty building, loading magazines by torchlight. The smell in the place, that damp, unused smell, was akin to the smell in the house where he had been tortured, Early realized. It was altogether fitting that Finn would receive the same treatment here.

  But it all depended on speed. They had to snatch the player with a minimum of fuss, get him back there, work on him until he divulged the identity of the Fox, and then set out again to nail the other terrorist. And all this in one night. It could be done, Early was sure of it; but if they bungled the snatch, or if Finn was unexpectedly stubborn, then they could find themselves in a world of shit.

  One good thing had come out of the two terrorist attacks that day: Cordwain was totally on board now. Early had felt that the SAS major had not been wholly committed to his plans before, but the news of the downing of the Puma and the subsequent ambush had changed all that.

  They had been in contact with Bessbrook. Three had died in the chopper: the pilot, Chandler, and Boyd. Cordwain felt responsible. More importantly, he wanted revenge, and that was good.

  ‘What’s the time?’ Cordwain asked.

  ‘Eleven-thirty. Things should be calming down in the bar round about now. It’s not a Saturday night or anything. At 0200 hours we move in.’

  ‘I know,’ Cordwain said testily. ‘But what if there’s still a customer or two in there, even at that time?’

  ‘We truss them up and lock them in the cellar,’ Early replied promptly. ‘And remember – Ulster accents all the time. We’re trying to suggest this is all part of a feud.’

  Cardwain loaded his Heckler & Koch and hung it from his shoulder-sling. He and Early were both dressed in black boiler suits – the preferred dress of players out on a hit. They wore black caps which when pulled down over the face became Balaclavas, and surgical gloves. Their pockets bulged with parcel tape and a metal cosh dangled from a lanyard attached to Early’s shoulder.

  ‘How will we make Finn talk?’ Cordwain asked. ‘He’s a hard bastard. We could kill him before he’s said a word.’

  Early reached in his day-sack and produced a gleaming metal object.

  ‘What the …?’

  ‘It’s a blowtorch. We’ll fry his balls for him and see how he likes it.’

  Cordwain was about to protest, but remembering the men who had died that day, he said nothing. Finn deserved whatever was coming to him.

  ‘Grab some kip if you can,’ Early advised him. ‘I’ll keep an eye open.’

  Cordwain lay down on the hard floor, eyes open. Early flicked off the torch and they were in total darkness. And silence – they were well away from the road here, in a slight dip screened by trees. The car had been camouflaged and stashed in a small copse off the Monog road, some two hundred metres away, but Early didn’t intend to use it. They were going in on foot, to avoid army foot patrols and VCPs as much as anything else, and if Finn caused too much trouble they’d carry him out bodily. They only had half a kilometre or less to travel.

  It was a cowboy operation in the worst sense of the word, Cordwain knew that; but with time so short there was little else they could do. Seven men had died that day. If Early and he neutralized both Finn and the Fox, they could be sure that the Regiment, and the Northern Ireland Office, would pull out all the stops to see them out of trouble. That was the idea, anyway.

  Cordwain looked at his watch. Midnight. Another two hours to lie there and think. He hated the slack time before the beginning of an op. It was the worst time – once the thing had begun he would feel better. He closed his eyes and tried to doze.

  Early was wide awake, peering through a slit below the boards that covered the windows. He could see the odd car passing on the Dundalk road; a white, speeding light through the screening trees. For hours now he had been racking his brains, trying to remember anything he had learned in his time under cover, any seemingly worthless piece of information that might aid them tonight.

  Noise was the thing. Everything would have to be carried out in near-silence, to buy time for Finn’s interrogation. He and Cordwain would have to move swi
ftly. Now where in the pub would Finn be hiding? He might have to get that information out of Brendan or Maggie, and did not relish the prospect. Despite all he knew about her, he had to admit there was still a feeling there for Maggie, absurd though it might be. If things had been different …

  ‘Fuck,’ he growled, but not loud enough for Cordwain to hear him. He had to get that girl out of his mind.

  The two hours crawled by. Early knew that Cordwain was awake, but neither spoke to the other. Both knew that tonight was their last chance to even the score, to wipe out their earlier mistakes, and neither intended to muff it.

  Finally, Early checked his watch for the fiftieth time, and then crawled over to Cordwain and tapped him lightly on the shoulder.

  ‘It’s showtime.’

  Chapter 22

  The sky was clouded, so there was no moon. Early and Cordwain made good time, travelling north-west along the triangle of open country between the Dundalk and the Monog roads. There was a farm ahead of them, which they bypassed, causing a restless dog to bark for a few moments. Soon they were in the outskirts of Crossmaglen, in the back of Carlingford Street. Their pace slowed. They pulled the Balaclavas down over their faces and unholstered their MP5Ks, cocking them simultaneously. Then they moved on, Early in the lead, Cordwain following five yards behind, turning every so often to check his rear.

  They entered Carlingford Street. It seemed very bright after the darkness of the fields they had come across. The street-lights were glowing amber; the place was deserted. Early checked the time: 0215.

  They moved forward more slowly now, taking advantage of every shadow and every possible fire-position. There was no telling what state of alert the locals would be in – and Mooney, Finn’s minder – it was likely he was detailed to keep an eye out through part of the night at least.

  They halted in the yard at the rear of Lavery’s bar. Early knew the place like the back of his hand. He ran to the back door while Cordwain covered the entrance to the yard. It was locked. There was no sound, no light from within, but that meant nothing. He would hear little from the public bar here, at the back, and the windows of the place were covered with heavy curtains.

  He produced his lock-pick and knelt down by the back door. Then he began fiddling with the tumblers inside the lock, trying to gauge the pressure and the angle that would make each one click back.

  Sweat trickled in his armpits, and the Balaclava seemed to stifle his breathing, but he forced himself to work patiently. There was no sign of Cordwain: the SAS major had chosen himself a concealed position to watch over the yard.

  A click, and the tumblers had fallen. Early sighed with relief. He turned the door handle, keeping the SMG trained forward.

  The door swung open.

  He moved inside. It was darker than in the yard, and he paused a moment to let his eyes adjust.

  Cordwain was at the door with him, facing out into the yard. Early tapped him on the shoulder and then pointed wordlessly down the corridor that led from the kitchen. Cordwain nodded.

  Early padded down the corridor or hallway that led to the back of the public bar. At the door to its rear he stopped and listened. He could hear it clearly now – several voices talking, someone laughing, glasses clinking.

  Fuck! That made things vastly more complicated.

  He gave Cordwain the thumbs-down sign for enemy, then held up five fingers – his guess at the number of people in the bar. Cordwain’s eyes rolled behind the mask. He joined him at the door.

  ‘After three,’ Early whispered.

  The door was kicked open with a crash and the two men burst into the room with guns levelled.

  ‘Nobody move!’ a harsh Belfast accent said. ‘Anybody moves and they fucking die!’

  Someone dropped a glass and it smashed on the floor. The rest stood or sat open-mouthed.

  Finn was there. Early felt a surge of hatred and exultation that made him grin like a maniac behind his mask. They had him.

  Brendan Lavery was sitting with his head in his hands; he looked tired rather than terrified, and obviously the worse for wear. Young Patrick Mooney looked absolutely blank; he’d have to be searched. There were two others, both locals; sympathizers but not active players Early recalled. No sign of Maggie though.

  ‘On the floor, spread-eagled,’ Cordwain was telling them. ‘Come on – we haven’t got all fucking night.’

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ Finn asked angrily.

  Cordwain slammed the short butt of his weapon into Finn’s face. The terrorist fell to the floor.

  ‘You fuckers!’ Mooney yelled. His hand reached under his jacket.

  Early saw the glint of the pistol barrel and brought up his own weapon. He fired a three-round burst that tore out the man’s chest and sent him careering across the room, ribbons of blood sprinkling the walls and floor as he hit the ground. An old Webley pistol was still clutched in his hand.

  ‘Shit!’ Early hissed. The gunfire had seemed shockingly loud in the confined space; it was too much to hope that the locals had not heard it – or the army for that matter.

  ‘You bastards!’ one of the men was saying. ‘You murderers.’

  ‘They’re Brits,’ Finn said thickly, blood marking his jaw. ‘Fucking SAS out for revenge after their wee chopper had a bump. Isn’t that right, boys?’

  Early felt an urge to shoot him there and then but instead concentrated on trussing them up one by one in yards of parcel tape while Cordwain covered him. Mooney lay with his eyes open, staring sightlessly at the ceiling. The blood had stopped oozing out of his butchered chest with his heart no longer pumping.

  ‘Where’s Maggie?’ Early demanded of Finn. He was the only one whose mouth he had not taped up.

  ‘Fuck away off,’ the IRA man said scornfully.

  Early searched him roughly, feeling down his limbs. In the small of the terrorist’s back he touched a hard shape, and pulled it out, smiling. A little Walther 9mm handgun, the one he had left behind. He tucked it in a thigh pocket.

  ‘Time to go,’ Cordwain said. He was looking out at the square from behind the curtains.

  ‘There’s people coming down the street. It won’t be long before they’re hammering at the door.’

  ‘You pair are fucked,’ Finn gloated.

  Early lowered his face close to Finn’s.

  ‘So are you,’ he said quietly.

  They dragged Finn through the pub to the back, having taped up his mouth at the last. When he dragged his feet he was beaten with Early’s cosh. Finally they were at the back door. They paused before stepping into the yard.

  ‘Listen,’ Cordwain said.

  They could hear the distinctive warbling sound of Landrover tyres from the square at the top of the street. The army were arriving.

  ‘Time to go,’ Cordwain went on.

  ‘No, wait,’ Early said. Something was wrong – they had missed something, he was sure of it.

  ‘Come on!’ Cordwain urged him.

  ‘You go. Get Finn out of here. There’s something I want to check.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake.’

  ‘Go. I’ll catch up with you.’ Early turned and re-entered the pub.

  He went back to the public bar and, kneeling over Brendan Lavery, ripped off the tape covering his mouth. Lavery yelled in pain.

  ‘Brendan, where’s your sister?’

  ‘Leave me alone. Leave us all alone.’ He was drunk and slurred his words.

  Someone began hammering at the front door.

  ‘Brendan! Are you all right in there? We heard shots.’

  ‘Fuck.’ Early began to sweat. ‘Brendan, where’s Maggie?’

  ‘Toilet,’ the man mumbled. He seemed almost comatose with a mixture of shock and alcohol.

  The banging on the door began again. There were voices talking outside. One of the men on the floor began to struggle against the tape that bound his arms and legs. Early kicked him savagely until he was quiet.

  He rose, and went down to the door at th
e end of the bar marked ‘Ladies’ and pushed it open.

  A single stall, a hand-basin – nothing else.

  He prodded open the door of the stall with the SMG. The toilet-seat was down, and the window above the cistern was open, letting in a draught of night air.

  He cursed silently.

  That hammering on the door of the bar again. Soon someone with sense would try the back door. It was time to go.

  Early sped through the pub, turning out the lights as he left the public bar. He ran down the corridor and then out the back door.

  Two men came pelting down the road after him, running out of the square at the top of the street.

  ‘Hey, you!’ they yelled.

  Early spun, still running, and put a shot over their heads. They threw themselves to the ground and he ran on, into the darkness of the fields beyond the street-lights. He could hear sirens breaking the night quiet of Cross behind him. He kept running.

  Finn’s face was shining with blood from the blows Cordwain had dealt him in an effort to make him speed up. The IRA man was holding back, trying to delay them both. He knew, Cordwain thought, that he was being led to his death, and at this stage even capture by the British Army was preferable.

  Farm buildings looked darkly ahead. If he looked back he could see downhill to where Cross was a tangle of lights. He could hear sirens.

  The land ahead was rising gently, a river valley with trees scattered along its bottom. The Monog road was on the height to his left, the Dundalk road on the rise to his right.

  He tugged Finn along brutally, wondering what had got into Early. The Lavery woman – was that it? She hadn’t been there. In any case, the whole operation was fucked up now. They’d never get anywhere near Cross again tonight – it would be swarming with the Security Forces. They had failed to nail the Fox after all.

  But they still had Finn. And Cordwain for one would be glad to put a bullet in the back of his head.

  He tugged the IRA man along savagely. Finn was having trouble breathing because of the tape that covered his mouth. His nose was bleeding, and his eyes bulged like grapes, but Cordwain would not allow him to stop.