“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 best 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.