Now and in the Hour of Our Death (19 page)

Sergeant Buchan grimaced as he tied the neck of a plastic bag and pushed the thing into a clump of ferns. He hoisted his camouflage pants, frowning at the rustling noise his movements made. He'd been huddled in this ditch since he and the rest of his “brick,” the four-man tactical unit of the SAS, had been inserted by helicopter in the early hours of the morning.

The chopper had been one of a flight of three. The natives were inured to the constant coming and going of helicopters, and, with the clattering of so many rotors, nobody would have noticed that one of the machines had briefly touched down.

He and the other men had crawled for half a mile along the duckweed-scummed ditch so no trace of their entry would be visible near the target area. Once in place, he'd burrowed into a clump of briars and lain there, muddy, cramped, and damp for the remains of last night, today, and on into tonight.

That had been the second time on this mission that he'd had to shit into a plastic bag. Standard operating procedure for SAS men out on an “observation post/reactive,” the regiment's euphemism for “ambush.” Once in place, there was no nipping out to attend to the calls of nature. These waiting jobs could last for days, and without the bags, the “lurk” would become fouled, and the smell might give away its position.

This one shouldn't take much longer. His captain had briefed the sergeant yesterday.

“I want you to take your lot out tonight. We've just had word from Tasking and Coordination in Londonderry that the bad lads have an arms pickup tomorrow night. Some bloke in the Special Branch sent the word up from one of his touts. The brass in Londonderry seem to think the gen's reliable, so take your boys and put them in here.” The captain indicated the position on a 1:250,000 scale map.

“Sir.”

“We'd like prisoners.”

“Sir.”

“You'll have a Quick Reaction Force as backup in here. In that outbuilding.”

“Any idea how many men will make the pickup?”

“Sorry. Probably not many. It's a small shipment.”

“Right, sir.”

“Do try to get at least one alive. We want to pump him. The brass need to know who's in the local Active Service Unit. They've a pretty good idea, but it has to be confirmed. Sometimes,” the captain smiled wearily, “sometimes we can even turn a man. Have him work for us. HUMINT's bloody important.”

Human intelligence? Sergeant Buchan thought, as he wiggled his toes in his boots. His socks were soggy, and his feet felt like blocks of ice. How intelligent was anyone who thought that shooting British squaddies was some kind of sport? Well, there'd be one or two less of the thick bastards after tonight was over, and they'd be short of whatever was under the lid of an aboveground sarcophagus that lay not ten yards from his position. With a bit of luck.

Luck was always important on jobs like this, but it was no substitute for good preparations. Sergeant Buchan had placed his men carefully. A trooper crouched in the ditch ten yards away. A corporal and another trooper were inside the church. The fields of fire from three ArmaLite AR-4 rifles and his own Heckler and Koch HK 53, 5.56 mm automatic would overlap in the “killing area” around the only raised grave between the ditch and the Celtic cross. It was the raised grave that the captain had stressed. He'd said that it was how the Special Branch man's tout had identified it.

Sergeant Buchan knew he should have posted “cutoffs” to intercept any of the terrorists who tried to make a run for it, but he didn't have the manpower. He hefted a small radio transmitter. At least he could summon the QRF, but hoped that he wouldn't have to.

A shriek cut through the night, sudden then dropping to a whimper before fading into the night's stillness. The sergeant shivered as though a goose had walked over his grave, then realized that he had heard a rabbit dying in the talons of an owl.

*   *   *

“For God's sake, Fiach, would you sit still? You've been going round all day like a bee on a hot brick.” Erin O'Byrne shifted her chair at the kitchen table and grinned at the shape of her younger brother, outlined by the moonlight that spilled into the room. She had turned off the lights so his night vision wouldn't be harmed. She knew how excited the sixteen-year-old would be. She was excited for him.

Fiach plumped himself down in an armchair, muttering something about being pumped up, like just before the whistle blew at the start of a hurling match, that it was his first time, for God's sake.

“Aye, well,” she said, “just you bide.”

Cal, the idle skitter, had gone up to bed hours ago. Now, she told herself, she was being unfair. Cal and Fiach had been working like Trojans since she had come back from visiting Eamon on Thursday. Eamon had told her to get the old tumulus ready.

The men had spent all day yesterday running in underground electrical cables from the byre. The cables would power a couple of lightbulbs, a small convection heater, and an electric cooker. The neolithic grave was always musty and damp. Eamon had asked her to put in four camp beds and a small chemical toilet. The old tumulus would be a regular home away from home for Eamon and his friends. And the Security Forces could search the O'Byrne farm 'til hell froze over. They'd never find the hiding place. Nor would they find the guns and Semtex that Fiach would stash there as soon as he got back.

Fiach was asking her something.

“What?”

“I said, do you not remember your first time?”

“I do indeed.”

“Go on then.” Fiach badgered her. “Tell us about it.”

Telling him would help pass the time. “All right,” she told him, “I went out with Eamon.”

Over the border into Donegal, halfway between Clady and Strabane, Eamon lay at her left shoulder behind a drystone wall close to the narrow B85, a road that a British patrol used regularly—stupid buggers. They hadn't recognized back then that consistency of troop movements was an open invitation to snipers or to the Provos to set remote-controlled bombs in culverts under a well-used road.

“Cal had had word that a platoon of Green Howards…”

“Green whats?”

“Howards. They're a British regiment.”

“Green, by God. Are you sure they weren't Irish?” Fiach chuckled.

“Jesus, Fiach. Do you want to hear this or don't you?”

“I'm sorry. Go on.”

“We went out as snipers. Just over the border.”

“So the Brits couldn't shoot back?”

“That's right. They're not allowed to fire into the Republic.”

“Seems daft to me. If someone was shooting at me, I'd bloody well shoot back.”

“They couldn't. They still can't and that suits us fine. Anyway, there we were, me and Eamon hidden behind a wall. Just like clockwork, along comes the patrol. In the dusk.”

She could still feel the weight of the rifle, the cold of the butt against her cheek, see the chevrons on the British corporal's sleeve as the crosshairs of the Bausch & Lomb telescopic sight moved across his arm to the centre of his chest.

“Twelve of the bastards, all spaced out, holding their rifles. Eamon had told me to take the wireless operator…”

“And did you?”

“No. I asked him home for a cup of tea.”

“Away off. You never did.”

“No, I didn't, but if you don't stop interrupting, I'll never get this story told.”

She'd remember to her dying day the thump of the rifle's recoil into her shoulder, the man in khaki going down in a heap, and his mates scattering like scared rabbits.

“I got my man, and Eamon killed a second one who was trying to hide behind a whin bush.”

Fiach whistled. “Good for you. I'd like to have a go at that.”

“Well, you can't. They've stopped patrolling on foot now. It's too dangerous for them. They go everywhere by helicopter.”

“I know,” Fiach said. “Did you hear the racket last night? I wonder what they were up to?”

“Just patrolling. I'd not worry about it.”

Fiach stood, walked up and down, and then asked, “How did you feel after? Were you not scared?”

Erin thought about the question and decided she'd not tell Fiach
all
the truth. He was too young to understand. “I was a bit,” she said. “A couple of the soldiers ignored their rules and fired at where they thought we were. Ricochets going over your head make a hell of a row.”

“Phweeeee.” Fiach imitated the noises they'd both heard in the sound tracks of Western movies. “Like that?”

“More or less.” Dear God. Sixteen and he was still only a wee boy at heart.

“I'll bet you kept your heads down.”

“We had to stay behind the wall until it was dark enough to make a run for it.” And that was all she was going to tell Fiach. He didn't need to know how, adrenaline running, all her senses honed to razor's edge, she and Eamon had slipped away after nightfall. They had found a dry hollow, and she'd gone at him, ripping the fly of his pants open, taking him in her mouth, hearing his cry as she had bitten too hard on the stiffness of him, the turf and bracken springy under her as he entered her, hot, determined, thrusting, the weight of him on her. And somewhere in the sky, clear and liquid, the song of a nightingale borne as Erin was borne, higher and higher on the rays of the rising moon.

She rose and looked through the window.

“Lord,” she said, “is that moon never going to set tonight?”

The moon that she could see hanging above the barn roof would be fuller in two nights' time, when Eamon got here. Once he and his mates were safely ensconced in the old grave, she knew she'd still have to wait until the hue and cry had died down, but then she was going to hear the nightingale sing again.

Right, girl, she told herself, that's going to be then, but there's business to attend to now, and while a moon may be wonderful for lovers, it was a pain in the arse for anyone who wanted to move undetected at night.

Fiach stood beside her. “Is it not time yet?”

She thought he sounded like a six-year-old on Christmas morning. “Has Father Christmas come yet? Has he? Has he?”

“Just bide, Fiach. Look”—she pointed through the window—“see that big cloud bank?”

“Aye.”

“We'll need to wait until the moon's behind it. That'll give you better cover.”

“But I could get started now. The moon'll make it easier for me to see going across the fields.”

“And what would you tell a Brit patrol if they stopped you? The O'Byrnes always spread slurry by moonlight?”

Fiach grinned. “There won't be any Brits out tonight. With all the sniping you and Eamon did, they'd be too scared.”

Erin shook her head. “I'd not be too sure. Some of those bastards are hard to scare, I'll grant them that. But”—she crossed her fingers—“you're probably right. Now,” she said, “be a good lad and sit down. I'll tell you when.”

“All right.”

She looked at him. His head seemed to be bigger because of the rolled-up balaclava perched on top of his head. “Jesus Christ, Fiach, you've a face on you like a Lurgan spade. Cheer up. It'll not be long now.”

She wondered if she and Cal had been wrong to turn down Sammy's offer to go with Fiach. Cal thought the boy should go alone, said it would be his blooding, like the daubing of the face of a youngster out on his first hunt after the hounds had torn the fox to pieces. Decent of Sammy to volunteer, but she had seen the look of relief on the little man's face when his offer had been refused. Was Sammy losing his nerve? He'd have known that an arms pickup in the early hours of the morning would be simple, wouldn't it? Unless the Brits had got wind of something. And how could they?

The room darkened as the moon disappeared.

“Now?” Fiach leapt to his feet and rolled the woolen helmet over his face so that only his eyes and mouth showed. He headed for the door.

“Come here.”

“What?”

“Give me a hug.”

He turned and grabbed her. She felt the young strength of him as he squeezed.

“Jesus, I said a hug, not a crush.” She kissed his woolly cheek. “Take care of yourself, boy.”

“Don't you worry your head about me … Mammy.”

“I'm not your mammy.”

“You might as well have been.”

And she knew the truth of it. She'd reared him when he'd been wee, dried his tears, wiped his snotty nose, put Elastoplast on his skinned knees, loved him.

“I'm off.” He bolted for the door, opening both halves at once with a shove from his shoulder. “I'll be back in about an hour.”

Erin heard the lower half of the door scratch along the tiles of the floor. The boy had been in such a hurry he'd not even bothered to close the upper half. She walked to the door and heard the clattering of the tractor's engine, watched the black outline of the tractor and the cart it was towing bounce down the farm lane, Fiach's silhouette dark against the skyline. He disappeared into the dip in the road.

She looked up at the stars, bright against the sky above the edge of the cloudbank. There was the handle of the Plough and its two far stars pointing to Polaris above the Sperrin Mountains.

She heard a questioning whimper from just outside the door, looked down, and saw Tessie.

Damnation. She'd told him to take the dog to scout for him. She should have made sure that he had. He'd been so damn impatient. It was too late now. The noise of the tractor's engine was nearly inaudible. Fiach was well on his way to the Ballydornan churchyard.

“Go to bed, Tessie,” she said, and hugged herself. The night air was cold. Her breath hung misty and silvered. She crossed herself and whispered, “Holy Mary, Mother of God, watch out for my Fiach.”

*   *   *

Another bloody wild-goose chase. Sergeant Buchan eased his cramped muscles and looked at the luminous dial of his watch. Three in the morning. “The brass think the gen's reliable.” That's what the captain had said. How could anyone rely on information from a man who would inform? How did the tout's handler know that the Provos hadn't suspected, beaten the bejesus out of the snitch, and turned him into a double agent who'd feed nothing but a pack of lies to his E4A man? The Provos had done that before, and had themselves set up an ambush for their would-be ambushers. He'd lost a good mate like that south of here in Armagh.