Sea Devil

Chapter Eleven

Major Colin Stewart and his four-man squad arrived in Armagh by helicopter dressed in green combat fatigues.

They left the British army post soon after the Sea King touched down, yet this time they traveled by automobile, and one would have had to look closely to see that they were soldiers. A quick change into civilian garb at the barracks made this transformation possible.

The addition of various fishing gear supported their cover of being a group of Scottish Highlanders on leave, who were spending their vacation time seeking out the elusive Irish salmon.

It was outside of Newry, as they approached the border with the Republic, that they were forced to halt at a roadblock. A column of black smoke could be seen clearly spiraling up into the heavens beyond the next rise, where a Lynx helicopter was hovering protectively.

Colin Stewart could sense trouble as a burly, sour-faced sergeant major wearing the insignia of the First Battalion of the Parachute Regiment on his tunic came over to the driver’s side of their car and greeted them gruffly.

“You’ll be getting no further until I see those ID cards.”

Colin Stewart held up the plastic laminated card that showed his picture and rank. The sergeant major instantly stiffened to attention. us.”

“I’m sorry. Major. I didn’t realize you were one of “What’s going on here, Sergeant Major?” asked Stewart.

“It’s bandits, sir … they ambushed one of our recon squads about an hour ago. When our lads ducked behind a nearby bunker to return fire, a mine went off, killing three of them instantly. Why, those Mick bastards had it set up all the time!”

Colin Stewart sighed heavily.

“Were you able to arrest any of the ones responsible?”

The sergeant major shook his head.

“They disappeared back into the fields before our reinforcements arrived. We’ll get the heathens eventually, because this has all the markings of an IRA hit.”

“What makes you believe that?” asked the Highlander.

“From what I understand, the IRB has been increasingly active in this area.”

“It’s not the Brotherhood this time, Major. This is my sixth tour here, and it never fails that every May fifth, the IRA carries out one of these ambushes to remind us that today is the anniversary of the day Bobby Sands died from his hunger strike. If you ask me, that’s a pretty morbid way to be remembered.”

“That it is, Sergeant Major. Is it safe for me and my lads to continue on to the border?”

The burly Para looked inside the car and replied, “They just completed sweeping the road for mines, so I guess it is, sir, but if I were you, I’d seriously consider doing your fishing somewhere else. Bandit country is no place to be spending a leave.”

“We’ll remember that, Sergeant Major,” answered Colin Stewart, who returned the Para’s salute and beckoned their driver to continue.

They carefully passed over the rise and spotted an assortment of military personnel scouring the country223 side looking for evidence. The Lynx was in the process of evacuating the last of the wounded, and Colin Stewart noted the bloodied earth that stained the still smoking bunker.

“Kind of makes you want to get out there and kick some ass!” bitterly observed one of the young Highlanders from the backseat.

“Just hang in there a little bit longer, lads” advised the grizzled veteran.

“I’ve got a feeling that we’re going to get a chance to get even soon enough.”

A drive of another three and a half kilometers brought them to the Garda outpost that signaled the border. The vertical green, white, and orange flag of the Irish Republic flew from the flagpole here, and Stewart prepared to greet the uniformed customs officer who ambled over to intercept them.

“Good day to you, gents. Do you have some kind of identification?”

Stewart gathered together the squad’s ID cards and handed them over. The customs officer glanced at them with interest and handed them back.

“So you’re all Scot Highlanders. I understand you’ve got some magnificent countryside up there. May I ask what you’ll be doing inside the Republic?”

“Not at all,” replied Colin Stewart with an amiable smile.

“Me and the lads have heard that the Irish salmon are even bigger and tastier than our own variety, and we mean to find out ourselves if this is the God’s truth or not.”

“So you’re fishermen,” reflected the Garda official, who proceeded to scour the car’s interior.

“I see you’re going to be fly casting. As a fellow angler myself, I feel it makes the sport more challenging. Now would you mind opening up the boot and letting me have a little look around?”

Ever thankful that they had their armaments stashed away in a specially designed compartment set beneath the undercarriage, Colin Stewart got out of the car and opened the trunk himself. After a brief search, the customs officer looked up to meet the Highlander’s firm stare.

“I suppose that you heard all about the ambush that just took place up the road a piece. It’s a senseless waste of life, it is, and I’ll leave you to your fishing with one word of advice: keep a low profile, and don’t go probing into affairs that aren’t your concern. That’s the surest way of any for you lads to get yourselves in trouble.”

“I’ll remember that,” said Stewart as he closed the trunk and returned to the car.

Only when they were moving south once again did he turn to address his men.

“Welcome to the Republic of Ireland, lads. As of this moment, we’re all on our own here. Technically, since we’re out of uniform and carrying concealed weapons, we could be shot as spies if the Republic so desired. But if we play our cards right, we shouldn’t have to worry about such a thing.”

A sign passed on their left that indicated that Dundalk was ten kilometers away. Seeing this, the major added, “The first airfield we’ll be checking out is less than four kilometers from here. There’s only one other field in the general vicinity. And since the Nimrod monitored the suspect aircraft landing in this quadrant, it’s got to be in either of them.”

With the help of a detailed map, they turned off the main road and began their way down a narrow country lane. This route wound its way past a collection of picturesque stone cottages and emerald green pastures filled with sheep and ripening hay. Coming to an unmarked crossroads that wasn’t on their map, Stewart instructed the driver to bear to the left. This gamble soon paid off as they spotted a weather-beaten sign marked, Drumbilla Airdrome—1 kilometer.

Another sign led them down an even narrower roadway whose asphalt was cracked and in many places choked with weeds and brush. It was obvious that this poorly maintained thoroughfare hadn’t seen traffic for some time now, and they learned this for certain upon viewing a weed-choked Quonset hut in the distance. A cracked concrete runway lay before this dilapidated structure, which had long ago sheltered it’s last aircraft.

They drove up to the Quonset hut anyway and parked before the hangar entrance. Colin Stewart volunteered to peek inside and found the corrugated steel shell empty except for dust, garbage, and cobwebs.

Someone had spray painted Brotherhood Forever on the rusted side of the building, yet the Highlander doubted that this airstrip could have accepted an aircraft under any circumstances.

“Let’s hope we have better luck at the other field, lads,” said Stewart as he climbed back in and signaled the driver to continue to their alternative destination.

They found this second airport located right off the main road. Also built around a Quonset-type service hangar, this field was in much better shape and had a variety of light aircraft parked along the tarmac. They halted alongside a sign advertising Patrick Rayburn’s Flying School. There was a single ancient lorry parked here, and Colin Stewart explained his plan.

“I’ll take Private Campbell with me and see if we can find whoever belongs to that lorry. Meanwhile, you lads can stretch your legs, if you’d like. But don’t wander too far.”

Colin and his sandy-haired associate began their way over to the hangar. The sound of pounding sheet metal greeted them as they rounded the structure’s curved corner and approached its open entranceway. Here a single grease-stained mechanic was visible, beating away with a hammer on the engine cowling of a rust-eaten Piper Cherokee. Their crisp footsteps echoed off the hangar’s metallic floor as they entered, and Colin Stewart loudly cleared his throat.

“Excuse me!” shouted the Highlander.

The startled mechanic turned around suddenly, and in the process his hammer went clattering to the floor.

“Good heavens, where on earth did you two come from?” he anxiously questioned.

“Actually, from Edinburgh,” answered Colin in his best Scottish brogue.

“We’ve been in your beautiful country fishing, and were wondering if it’s possible to find someone to fly us back home.”

Eyeing them suspiciously, the mechanic replied.

“You’ll be wanting the charter airport at Dundalk, then… it’s about seven kilometers south of here.”

“We were hoping we wouldn’t have to go that far,” returned Stewart with a forced smile.

“Are you certain we can’t hire a plane here? We’d be willing to pay top dollar.”

This last statement seemed to get the mechanic’s attention as he thoughtfully scratched his grease-stained forehead.

“So you’d be wanting to fly all the way over to Edinburgh. That’s quite a long flight, especially for the likes of the small planes kept here. Why, the only aircraft with that range would be Patrick Rayburn’s twin-engine Cessna.”

Colin Stewart briefly eyed his sandy-haired associate before answering.

“Is that Patrick Rayburn the flight instructor?”

“The same,” shot back the mechanic.

“If you’d like, why don’t you give him a call at home. And don’t forget to tell him that Paddy Murphy sent you.”

While the mechanic unsuccessfully searched his stained coveralls for something to write with, Private

Robert Campbell alertly stepped forward with a pen and pad.

“Why thank you, lad,” said the mechanic as he scribbled down the pilot’s telephone number.

“Can we see his plane?” asked Colin Stewart.

“I don’t see why not. It’s parked on the other side of the flight line, beside the gasoline pumps. She’s a first class piece of equipment, with radar, a multi frequency radio, and auxiliary fuel tanks.”

“Thank you, Mr. Murphy,” said Stewart as he pocketed the pilot’s phone number.

“Not at all, sir,” replied the mechanic as he bent down to pick up his hammer.

“And don’t forget to tell him that Paddy sent you!”

Quick to exit the hanger, Colin headed straight back to the car.

“Corporal Duncan, bring along the tool kit,” whispered Stewart.

“And the rest of you, follow me to the other side of the flight line.”

By way of the hangar’s rear, they quickly proceeded to the line of planes parked on the other side. All of these were small, single-engine models except for the last, which sported dual engines and an elongated white-and green steel fuselage.

After stationing lookouts, Stewart climbed up to the cockpit. Peering through the plexiglass windows, he found it littered with empty cups, cigarette butts, and other assorted trash. To examine the interior closely, he signaled Corporal Angus Duncan to join him. The brawny native of Inverness deftly climbed up beside his commanding officer and utilized a pick to force open the Cessna’s door lock.

The scent of sour milk was overpowering as Stewart climbed inside the messy cockpit. Holding his breath to keep from choking on this nauseating smell, he rummaged through the assortment of items stored here.

He found several charts on the copilot’s seat, beneath a partially eaten cheese sandwich. Hurriedly he flipped through this stack, halting on that which lay on the bottom. A substance that looked much like dried blood stained the edges of this chart, and Colin Stewards pulse quickened as he unfolded it and found a course drawn in red pencil, extending from Dumbarton, Scotland, to their current location north of Dundalk, Ireland.

“We’ve got it, lads!” revealed the rugged Highlander as he gratefully scrambled out of the smelly cockpit with the chart in hand.

As his men excitedly gathered around him, he added, “Not only is the exact course drawn out for us, but it appears our suspect’s blood stains the map as well.”

“What do we do next?” asked one of the enlisted men.

Stewart grinned.

“That’s easy enough, lads. Now it’s time to pay pilot Patrick Rayburn a little visit. Shall we?”

A quick telephone call found the pilot at home.

Having nearly to scream to be heard over the assortment of children bawling in the background, Rayburn somewhat reluctantly gave Colin Stewart directions to his house. This stone cottage turned out to be less than ten minutes from the airfield. It was situated on an isolated rural lane, with a thick stand of evergreens set behind it.

“I believe I can handle this alone, lads,” offered Stewart.

“Why don’t you deploy in the forest, in case I need you.”

The bricks of the walk were cracked and out of place as Colin proceeded to the front door. A television set could be heard blasting away inside, along with the incessant cries of a wailing infant. The Highlander had to knock loudly on the wooden door several times to produce a response.

“Who’s there?” screamed a man.

“Mr. Rayburn, it’s the chap who called earlier from the airfield. Paddy Murphy gave me your number.”

The door opened with a squeal, revealing a slightly built, beard-stub bled man in his mid-twenties. He wore a dirty t-shirt and shorts, and talked without taking the cigarette out of his mouth.

“So you’re the fellow who wants to fly to Scotland.

I don’t know why Paddy even gave you my number in the first place. I’m merely a flight instructor. For commercial flights you should go down to Dundalk or Dublin.”

“But I don’t want to fly from either of those locations, Mr. Rayburn,” replied Stewart coolly.

Taking a moment to size up the solidly built Scotsman, Patrick Rayburn shrugged his skinny shoulders.

“Well, then, it’s going to cost you, my friend.”

A young boy dressed in a cowboy hat suddenly came running into the living room, chased by two screaming girls dressed as Indians. Their high-pitched cries of mock warfare were almost deafening, and the pilot disgustedly turned and shouted at them.

“Please, kids, Daddy’s talking business here!”

Completely ignoring this, the children continued their battle, while in the background the infant’s wails intensified.

“I’m sorry,” offered the shaggy-haired pilot.

“The wife just started a new job down at the linen mill, and I’m a little new at babysitting.”

The Highlander smiled.

“There’s no need to explain, Mr. Rayburn. I’ve got some youngsters back home myself.

Why don’t we talk out in the backyard, if that’s okay with you.”

“That would be fine,” said Patrick Rayburn, who stepped outside and squinted at the bright sun shining forth from the heavens.

“Looks like the good weather’s still holding,” he matter-of-factly observed as he led the way around the cottage.

The tree line extended to the very edge of the backyard, which was filled with broken furniture, partially burnt trash, and a rusted-out Ford. Well aware that his men were hidden close by, Colin Stewart inhaled a deep breath and turned to face the pilot directly, his forced smile suddenly absent.

“Mr. Rayburn, I’d like to know the identity of the passenger whom you flew back from Dumbarton, Scotland, several nights ago.”

“Whatever are you talking about?” asked the puzzled pilot.

The Highlander’s glance turned deadly serious.

“Oh, come off it, Rayburn! I’m in no mood for games!”

The redfaced pilot gathered himself and exploded in rage.

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, mister. But I do know that I want you off my property this instant!”

“It’s not going to be that easy to get rid of me,” said Stewart as he reached into his jacket and pulled out the bloodstained map.

“Where did you get that?” snapped the flight instructor.

“You know damn where, Rayburn… from your smelly cockpit. So quit the b.s. and tell me whose blood it is that stains this chart.”

“I don’t have to say one word to you,” retorted the Irishman.

“In fact, I think I’m going to call the police.”

As Rayburn turned for the house, Colin Stewart spoke up firmly.

“Do you really think that’s wise, Mr.

Rayburn? After all, abetting a known IRB operation is a felony in this country that will earn you a minimum three-year stay at the Long Kesh Prison.”

Halted by this revelation, the pilot pivoted abruptly.

“I’m not associated in any way with the IRB, mister,” he said, his voice quivering.

“That may be so,” Stewart replied.

“But the individual you flew back from Scotland most definitely is. So unless you start talking right now, I don’t have any choice but to go to the Republic authorities.”

With any anger on his part long vented, Patrick Rayburn emotionally collapsed, on the verge of tears.

“I’m nothing but a hardworking family man, mister.

Do you have any idea what organizations like the Brotherhood do to squealers?”

“Just tell me the name of this fellow you flew back from Scotland,” urged Stewart.

“And the IRB never has to be any the wiser.”

Knowing full well that he had been caught red handed the pilot began whimpering.

“I never thought I was doing anything wrong, I swear to you. So I didn’t file an official flight plan. Big deal. With all that cash he was waving in my face, I really didn’t think it would matter.”

“Who was waving that cash, Mr. Rayburn?” continued Colin Stewart resolutely.

“He told me that he got shot in a hunting accident,” reflected the pilot.

“I should have known that the bastard’s cash was tainted.”

“For God’s sake, man, what was. his name?”

“It’s Sean Lafferty,” offered the emotionally drained pilot.

“Though I had never laid eyes on him before, he said that he grew up nearby and could produce some local references, if needed.”

With the great tension of the moment finally dissipated, Stewart felt his tone soften.

“Did you get any of these references?”

“Are you kidding?” returned the pilot.

“The only references he needed was that wad of punts he was soon shoving into my hand.”

With the name of the suspected terrorist now firmly embedded in his mind, Colin Stewart nodded appreciatively.

“Thank you, Mr. Rayburn. You’ve been most helpful. And I realize it’s not much, but you can rest assured that neither Sean Lafferty nor any other member of the IRB will ever learn what you shared with me this afternoon.”

There was an expression of defeat in the pilot’s dark eyes as he looked up and sighed.

“Mister, it really doesn’t matter. I was a marked man the moment I put that cash in my pocket.”

The last Colin Stewart saw of the dejected pilot was as he somberly made his way back into the cottage. It took only a single snap of the Highlander’s fingers to cause his men to suddenly materialize out of the surrounding forest. Flashing them a thumbsup, he beckoned them to join him beside their automobile.

“We’ve got the bastard, all right,” revealed the relieved senior officer.

“His name’s Sean Lafferty, and since he supposedly grew up in this area, he shouldn’t be too hard to track down. Angus, how about driving us into Dundalk, and seeing if the local postal exchange office has a listing for Mr. Lafferty in their directory?”

“You’ve got it Major,” replied the brawny corporal, who slid into the driver’s seat while his coworkers climbed in behind him.

The Rose-and-Thistle Pub, on the shores of Dundalk, was on the southern outskirts of the city. Because it was so close to the docks, it was frequented mainly by fishermen and longshoremen, though an occasional tour bus stopped by from time to time to give its passengers an authentic taste of the real Ireland.

Liam Lafferty had originally stopped by the pub to get a quick pint before dinner. He was halfway through his third Guinness of the evening when Billy Kelly and Henry Morrison entered the bar and sat down beside him. Like Liam, both individuals were weather-faced fishermen who had been plying their ancient trades for too many decades to count.

They were in the midst of a spirited argument regarding the wisdom of purchasing one of the new LORAN directional finders when a late-breaking television news story caused the grizzled bartender to signal them to be quiet. All three fishermen looked up to the set in time to see the photograph of an attractive middleaged women and two young girls flash up on the screen. It was accompanied by the voice of the newscaster.

“The Maguire’s bullet-ridden bodies were found on the banks of the Royal Canal near Ashtown. Dr. John Maguire, the noted nuclear physicist and director of Dublin’s Shamrock nuclear power station, is still missing.

Yet there is no reason to believe he was in any way responsible for the tragic deaths of his family, though the gardia have still not ruled out that such a link exists.

“In other news, three English soldiers lay dead in Armagh this evening, the victims of an exploding mine.

The incident took place on the anniversary of…”

As the bartender turned down the volume, Liam Lafferty somberly shook his head.

“Can you imagine such a horrible thing? Why, those two little girls never even had a chance to make it out of preschool.”

“It certainly is a tragic waste,” observed Billy Kelly.

“Who could be so twisted as to do such a thing?”

“I say it was the father,” offered Henry Morrison, as he sipped off the creamy head of his stout.

“Now what leads you to say such a ridiculous thing,

Henry Morrison?” countered Liam.

The bald-headed fisherman retorted, “It’s the radiation that did it. Dr. Maguire was so overloaded with the stuff from working at that power plant that he went crazy and did away with his family just for spite’s sake. They’ll be finding his body next, all glowing and green with decay, floating in a bog. You’ll see.”

Liam grimaced.

“Henry Morrison, I always thought you were a wee bit daft, but now I’m certain.”

“It’s all that sun that did it to him,” explained Billy Kelly.

“I say it’s from drinking too much poteen,” suggested the grinning bartender.

Henry Morrison would have no part of this kidding as he continued.

“You guys, might laugh at me, but I’m serious. That radiation’s bad stuff. They don’t know half of its side effects, and who knows how much of the world’s current insanity is caused by it?

“You’d better listen closely, gents, because this world’s too full of toxic chemicals and radioactive pollutants.

Who knows what that flier that they tacked up by the pier side this afternoon was referring to. If you ask me, the Yanks most probably lost some kind of dangerous chemical that for all we know could have fallen right over our heads.”

Puzzled by this statement, Liam interrupted him.

“What flier are you talking about, Henry?”

Billy Kelly provided an answer.

“That’s right, Liam, you had already left when those two soldiers tacked it up. Seems the Americans want to know if any of us saw anything suspicious in the night skies last week.

They’re even willing to offer a cash reward for any information that they deem relevant.”

Shocked by this revelation, Liam fought to hold his tongue.

“A reward, you say? That’s incredible!”

“Lord only knows what they lost out there,” reflected Henry Morrison.

“Probably next, we’ll be pulling in fish with two heads on them. Though speaking of the devil, did I ever tell you gents about the time I came across a cod that had no dorsal fin on it? Why, it was unbelievable. I had just anchored off Carlingford Lough when I…”

Barely paying this story any notice, Liam pondered the content of the flier that his coworkers had just mentioned. Per his promise to Dr.

Blackwater, he had yet to tell anyone about the mysterious object that he had fished from the seas and the fantastic light in the heavens that had accompanied it.

Surely this same incident was what the flier was referring to. To see it with his own eyes, he hurriedly finished off his stout and excused himself.

By the muted light of dusk, Liam hurried down to the main pier. Sure enough, tacked to the bulletin board there was an official-looking flier. With the sea gulls crying in the distance, he read the poster and was somewhat surprised to find it signed by the United States Navy. So they were the owners of the elongated capsule that had floated down from the heavens, thought Liam, whose next step was quite obvious..

he would have to inform Dr. Blackwater of this at once!

He needed to get change from a stranger in order to use one of the dockside telephones. Yet much to his frustration, all that he got when he dialed the physician’s number was one of those infernal answering machines.

Supposing that he was still up at his clinic in Cootehill with Sean, Liam decided to return home, where Dr. Blackwater had left his County Caven telephone number on the back of one of his business cards.

Liam splurged on a taxi. This got him back to his cottage in a little under fifteen minutes. It was almost pitch dark outside as he paid off the driver and began the long hike up his walk. A brisk wind howled in from the northwest. The stars had long since been blotted out by a low mantle of fast-moving clouds, and Liam was expecting the rain to begin falling any minute. He was grateful as he climbed up the last step and breathlessly made his way onto the porch. It was at that moment that he first heard the male voices inside and realized that his wife wasn’t alone.

He entered anxiously and found Annie seated on the couch, with five burly young men surrounding her.

Though they were all dressed in civilian garb, there was no doubt in the fisherman’s mind that they were military, as a sandy-haired, square-jawed individual stood and flashed Liam an official looking ID card.

“Mr. Lafferty, we’re with the authorities, and we wish to know …”

Before the stranger could continue, Liam interrupted him.

“I know what you’re here for, young man. And I’m sorry to say that it’s no longer in my possession.”

Confused by this response, Major Colin Stewart looked vainly to Mrs. Lafferty, and was prepared to question anew, when Liam spoke again.

“I feel truly horrible about it. I really do. I should have reported fishing it from the sea the minute I got back. I still don’t know why I ever listened to the doc like I did.”

Though the Highlander still didn’t know what Liam was going on about, he couldn’t help but express his curiosity.

“Just what exactly are you referring to, sir?”

“Why, the piece of satellite, of course,” retorted Liam.

“What else would I have fished from the sea on that fated night when the heavens caught fire?”

Fearful that her husband had either had too much to drink or had gone completely insane, Annie Lafferty interceded.

“Liam, these men are here inquiring about Sean. They say that his life could be in danger, and they want to speak to him at once.”

The confused fisherman scratched his stub bled chin.

“Then you’re not with the United States Navy?”

Colin Stewart shook his head.

“Most definitely not, Mr. Lafferty. We’re here solely concerning your son. So if you value his life at all, you’ll tell us where we can find him.”

“Of course I value his life. And though I don’t know what all this fuss is about, you can find him at Dr. Blackwater’s clinic at Cootehill House,” returned Liam matter-of-factly. Suddenly realizing how close he had come to breaking his promise to the physician, Liam added, “In fact, I was just about to call up there and talk to the doc. Shall I tell him that you’re going up there?”

“Most definitely not,” returned Colin Stewart emphatically.

“Come on, lads, we’ve got some traveling to do.”

The five strangers stood up and hurriedly exited.

This left the confused fisherman alone in the living room with his wife. His thoughts dulled by the alcohol he had consumed earlier and by his mind-boggling discovery down at the docks, Liam scratched his chin.

“Well, don’t just sit there with that worried look on your face, Annie. Sean will be just fine. He’s in Doc’s care now, and these lads who just paid us a visit will soon see that for themselves. So since that’s settled, what’s for supper?”

“How can you even think about food at a time like this, Liam Lafferty? I think those men were holding something back. I bet it concerns how Sean got that gunshot wound. Who knows, maybe they’re the ones who did it to him.”

With the realization that he wasn’t going to be getting any peace of mind this evening until he got to the bottom of this mystery, he decided to get on with his call to Cootehill. Then he’d tell Dr. Blackwater about the flier he had seen down at the pier, and the visit of the five brawny strangers, with or without their blessings.

One thing that he could be sure of was that the doc would know what to make of these intruders.