Sea Devil

Chapter Thirteen

Marie Barrett waited until the lorry carrying Bernard, Dr. Blackwater, Sean, and the bomb was well on its way to Dundalk before heading off for the garden to properly stake up her tomatoes. As it turned out, only one plant of the twelve in the ground was a total loss. Yanking it up by its withered roots, she proceeded to pound a series of thin waist high wooden stakes into the soil behind each of the remaining plants. Once this time-consuming job was completed, she delicately tied the stalks onto the poles with strips of cloth torn from a worn-out sheet.

She was halfway done with this task when two fatigue-wearing young men passed by the plot. Both sported rather longish brown hair and had Armalite rifles slung over their shoulders.

“Good day to you, Marie,” greeted the taller of the two.

“It looks like you’re going to have quite a crop there.”

Briefly looking up to brush a loose strand of red hair out of her eyes, Marie answered politely, “I sure hope so, Tommy Carlin. I started these plants from seeds sent to me from America, and I’d sure hate to lose them.”

“Make certain to pinch off those suckers growing between the vines,” advised the other soldier.

“That way the buds will get plenty of nourishment.”

“Since when did you take up farming, Micky Corrigan?” asked Marie.

“You’d be surprised what me and my mum grew in the tiny plot of open land we had in between our Belfast tenement. Though tomatoes did poorly there because of the lack of direct sunlight.”

“You city kids never fail to amaze me,” remarked the redhead as she turned her attention back to her gardening.

“See you later, Marie,” said the Belfast native, who had to hurry his stride to catch up with his country bred partner.

Sending the squad of soldiers up to Cootehill House had been Bernard’s idea. The IRB’s co founder decided to take this rather drastic action when he received a call from Dundalk warning him that some strangers were in town asking about Scan Lafferty’s whereabouts. Because there was a chance that they could be headed up to County Caven, Bernard sent for the troops, who were currently deployed throughout the estate grounds.

It was very reassuring for Marie to know that she wouldn’t be left here all alone while the others were headed for the pier at Dundalk. The manor house was immense, and sometimes at night when she was staying there by herself, she could have sworn that she heard footsteps and people talking. The only one to take her reports seriously was Dr. Blackwater, who one night beside the fireplace admitted that he too had heard the ghostly noises. Strangely enough, he attributed them to his parents, whom he believed still walked the grounds of the estate searching for the peace of mind that had escaped them in their rather short, tragic lives.

Marie had a genuine liking for the silver-haired physician. He was a kind, sensitive individual who sincerely cared about people. Through the years he had been an avid supporter of their movement. His medical expertise was invaluable. More than once his skills as a doctor saved the life of a wounded IRB patriot. Just recently he had displayed this proficiency on the shoulder of Sean Lafferty. And only a few short days after being on the brink of death, Sean was up and about, his gunshot wound all but forgotten.

Of course, one of the greatest gifts the physician had given them was the use of his beloved Cootehill House. The estate was more than just a place to hide from the authorities or heal from a wound; it was a home away from home where an individual could put down roots and learn from the land.

During her stay at the manor, Marie rediscovered the glories of life all over again. The mere act of working with the soil taught her an invaluable lesson about mankind’s fragile hold on the planet. She now realized that cities had corrupted the human soul, and that their only salvation would be when people realized this and went back to the land.

Capitalism served to veil this primal fact from the masses. Driven by the insatiable greed for material objects, the majority of the world’s population didn’t know what effort went into the food they so hurriedly threw into their baskets at the supermarket. Better they should grow their own vegetables and raise their own cattle than lust after that bigger diamond or fancier automobile.

After a hard day’s work in the fields, Marie felt more complete, both physically and spiritually. And she contributed this coming together of mind and body directly to the positive influence of Cootehill House. This was Dr. TYronne Blackwater’s greatest gift to the Brotherhood, and as far as Marie was concerned, she would always be indebted to him for it.

Satisfied that her tomatoes now had a better chance to grow to maturity, the redhead tied up the last plant and stood to examine the rest of her garden briefly. Beside the row of tomatoes that already had several yellow buds on it were a line of sprouting carrots, radishes, and cabbage. Yet another part of the garden was reserved for canteloupe melons. By far the largest patch held that Irish staple the potato. If all went well, she’d be in the midst of her first harvest shortly, when her hard labor would really bear fruit.

Already looking forward to this day, Marie stepped over the low stone wall that kept the rabbits and squirrels away, and began her way toward the manor house to wash up. After leaving her mud-stained boots in the anteroom, she crossed through the kitchen. The pot of mutton stew that she had started earlier in the day was cooking away on the stove. It filled the room with a tangy aroma, and she knew the lads would eat their fair share come supper-time.

She used the large restroom on the ground floor to wash up in. It took a bit of scrubbing to get the caked dirt out from under her chipped nails, which hadn’t seen a proper manicure in years.

Before returning to the kitchen to check on dinner, she decided to stop by the doctor’s study and read the newspaper one of the lads had just brought up from Dundalk. This room was on the other side of the parlor, and it was one of Marie’s favorites. It had been Dr. Blackwater’s parents’ bedroom long ago, and it had a cathedral ceiling, a fireplace, and a splendid view of the meadow. The doctor had his desk set up in front of the window, to take advantage of the direct light.

As she sat down in his favorite red leather chair, Marie picked up the newspaper that lay before her on the desk. She couldn’t miss the bold type headline that graced the front page, nor the photo of the attractive middleaged woman and two young girls. By now all of Ireland was talking about the deaths of Mrs. John Maguire and her daughters. As Marie skimmed the article, she noted that a good part of it centered around the fact that Dr. Maguire was still missing, and that the police hadn’t ruled out any implication on his part in the homicides.

Marie couldn’t help but snicker at this groundless innuendo. She knew that it was just like the decadent capitalistic press to make such a sensational insinuation for the purpose of selling more newspapers.

“If the fools only knew the truth,” mumbled the redhead to herself.

It was at that moment that she noted an article at the bottom of the page circled with red ink. The headline read, Queen to Christen Trident. It went on to give the sketchy details of the English monarch’s visit to Scotland’s Gare Loch the next afternoon to dedicate the U.K.“s first Trident-missile-carrying submarine.

Chills ran up her spine. For she could just picture the headlines two days from now, when news of a tragedy of epic proportions hit the stands for all to see.

Sitting back in the chair, she gloried in the fact that solely because of the IRB’s efforts, an empire that had ruled for centuries would soon crumble as its supreme leader was incinerated in a nuclear firestorm.

Surely this was all that was needed to arouse the oppressed from their slumbers. With the realization that their age-old tyrant was gone for all time, the Celts would unite in a single socialist movement that would replace imperialism with the voice of the worker and strip all senseless borders from their maps.

Though many innocents would die to make this dream come true, that was the price they had to pay for decades of blind servitude. By its very definition revolution meant a radical, sudden change involving the overthrow of one government and the substitution of another by the governed. One had only to look at the chaos that had taken place in America in 1776, in France in 1789, and of course the greatest popular uprising of all, the Russian Revolution of 1917, to know that the blood had to stain the streets red in order for the people to speak.

In a way, the overthrow that the Brotherhood was about to trigger would be antiseptic compared to the past struggles that had divided nations for decades on end. With the detonation of a single blast, a corrupt, decadent way of life would pass, to be replaced by a movement whose bywords would be freedom and equality for all. No bloody battles would accompany this drastic change of social orders, and brother wouldn’t be forced to take up arms against brother to make it come true. All this would be ensured when the fireball rose above Gare Loch and the Royal Family was removed from the face of the earth in one blindingly bright blast.

Conscious that the weapon that would alter the course of history was on its way to Scotland, Marie anxiously sat forward and noticed there was a flier of some sort placed on the desk beside the newspaper.

This poster looked as if it had been ripped off a bulletin board. Ignoring its torn edges, she read the fine print and a wide grin soon painted her freckled face.

For here was an official notice from the United States Navy practically begging the local fishermen for information regarding any unusual aerial phenomena they might have experienced at sea recently. Surely this was a bomb that they were referring to, the very same weapon that would be transported over the sea to change the course of destiny!

Marie broke out in an ironic fit of laughter at this and was forced to gain control of herself when the desk-mounted intercom began ringing. Breathlessly she picked up the handset.

“Hello, this is Marie.”

“Marie, it’s Seamus at the gatehouse. Spread the word, comrade. They’re here!”

Major Colin Stewart ordered the car in which they traveled up from Dundalk to a halt about an eighth of a kilometer away from a gray stone gatehouse. At this point the squad exited the vehicle and opened its trunk. From a concealed locker, they removed their equipment.

With hardly a word spoken, they hurriedly changed into matching green and brown camouflage fatigues.

To hide the exposed skin of their faces and hands, a specially formulated burnt cork compound was utilized.

Only when their lightweight Kevlar bulletproof vests were in place did Stewart hand out the weapons.

All five commandos carried Hechler and Koch 7.62mm assault rifles with twenty-five bullet clips. They also were outfitted with Beretta 9-mm pistols, razor sharp combat knives, and an assortment of gas, stun, and shrapnel grenades. Two of the soldiers carried ropes with grappling hooks.

“We’ll follow the road that leads beyond the gatehouse by way of that copse of pines,” instructed Stewart in a whisper.

“Stay alert, and keep an eye out for mines and booby traps. There’s no telling what we may be walking into here.”

As his men signaled that they understood, the ma273 for ordered Private Robert Campbell to take the point, and off they went into the thick woods. The ground was soggy and littered with broken tree limbs, yet the commandos pushed onward, oblivious to the obstacles.

Colin Stewart was grateful when the pothole-ridden road began a wide turn leading uphill. As they began their ascent, the footing improved and their forward pace quickened.

They halted at a small circular clearing, and their point man beckoned for the major to join him beside a fallen evergreen trunk. Colin Stewart did so, and set his eyes on a good-sized arched manor house sitting at the crest of the hill. There was a large barn behind it.

“That’s it,” whispered Stewart.

“Yet it doesn’t look like there’s anyone home.”

“They’re there, all right, Major. I can smell ‘em,” returned the sandy-haired private.

As the squad gathered together, their CO presented his plan of attack.

“If Sean Lafferty’s up there, chances are he’s inside the manor. Since he’s our primary objective and there’s no telling what kind of security is present up there, we’ll initiate a two-pronged attack. Private Campbell and I will approach the house by way of the south wall. We’ll use one of the ropes to enter the structure by way of its second-floor window. Meanwhile, Corporal Duncan will lead the rest of you around the manor by way of the barn. If no opposition is encountered, you’ll then take up positions beside the south wall while we finish our sweep of the manor’s interior.

“Now, Private Campbell seems to think that we’re not alone out here. I’ve certainly seen no signs that would indicate this, but that only means that we’ve got to proceed only that much more cautiously. So re274 member your training, and if we should get into a scuffle, use whatever force is needed to protect yourselves.

With that said, I can only wish you good hunting. Go get ‘em, lads!”

With a coil of rope wrapped around his shoulder, Stewart led the way through the forest to the hill’s summit. At this point, the squad split up. While three of his men began a wide, circular route around the back of the estate, Stewart and Private Campbell darted across the meadow in front of the manor.

They were nearly halfway across this wide expanse when the first gunshots sounded. Both commandos immediately dived to the turf-covered ground as they heard the sickening whine of bullets whizzing overhead.

Semi-protected by a shallow gully, Stewart spotted the muzzle flash of a rifle from one of the upper windows. After pointing this out to his young associate, the veteran deactivated the safety of his rifle and shouted out.

“I’ll keep you covered, Private, while you scramble up to the south wall. If the firing from the second floor continues, see if you can lob a grenade up there.”

“Will do, Major,” returned the enlisted man.

As Stewart angled the barrel of his assault rifle up toward his target, he hit the trigger and cried out, “Go for it, lad!”

A deafening barrage of semi-automatic gunfire followed.

As the second-story window shattered, the private stood and went sprinting over the remaining meadow, dodging and weaving like a professional football player. He didn’t stop until he reached his goal and waved that he was all right.

Colin Stewart emptied his clip and cursed angrily when the sound of gunfire once more exploded from the window. While he reached for another clip, a bullet smashed into the turf only a few inches from his right shoulder. Instinctively he pressed his body deeper into the ground in order to make the smallest possible target.

He had just put a fresh round of his own in the chamber and was preparing to answer the sniper with another volley when there was a single deep crackling blast. He cautiously peeked over the lip of the depression and saw a thick column of black smoke streaming from the same window where the sniper had been.

Knowing full well that this smoke was the byproduct of one of Private Campbell’s grenades, Stewart stiffly stood and scrambled to the manor’s south wall.

“Nice going, Private,” remarked the out-of-breath veteran as he climbed over a low stone fence and crossed over a vegetable garden to get to the wall itself.

“It looks like we can get the grapnel into that wood siding that lines the window ledge, sir.”

“How are you at climbing?” asked Stewart.

“I’m like a squirrel, Sir,” boasted the enlisted man.

“Well, we’re soon enough going to see if that’s the case.” Stewart slid the coil of rope off his shoulder.

Just as he prepared to loft the hooked grapnel upward, an assortment of exploding gunshots sounded in the distance.

“Looks like the rest of the lads are getting a taste of some action themselves,” said Stewart, who needed two tosses to get the grapnel set properly.

Private Campbell took the nylon rope in hand and wasted no time beginning his climb. It was a bit awkward as he reached the ledge where the grapnel was set, and he had to lift his leg up to pull his body over the sill. As he tumbled into the open window, Colin Stewart grasped the rope and began pulling his own way upward. Though it took just a bit longer for him to complete his climb, he succeeded in reaching the sill, where his associate waited to help him the rest of the way.

Inside, they found themselves in a bedroom dominated by a large canopied bed. A poster of Che Guevara was tacked to the wall behind it. Though his hands still stung from the climb, Stewart readied his rifle at his side and whispered, “We’ll search this floor first. And don’t take any chances. I’ve got a feeling that this place is just crawling with surprises.”

Noting that the sound of gunshots continued outside, Stewart led the way out into the hall. One by one they proceeded to check each upstairs room. They found only one of them occupied, by a longhaired, fatigue-wearing young man who had apparently taken Private Campbell’s grenade blast full in the chest.

“It’s never a pretty sight,” reflected the veteran as he kicked the body aside and spotted the Armalite rifle that the terrorist had been using to keep them pinned down with.

“I doubt if he’s carrying any ID. We won’t know if he was our man until we can run a fingerprint check on him. Meanwhile, it looks like we’ve got a whole nest of rats to root out here. Shall we try downstairs?”

offered Stewart.

The veteran commando led the way down a spiral staircase. As he prepared to step out onto the landing, a sudden movement on his left side caught his practiced eye, and he raised up the barrel of his rifle, swiveled, and fired. A single return shot ricocheted overhead, causing Stewart to hunch down and look on as another fatigue wearing terrorist stumbled into view in an adjoining corridor. There was a pained look in his face as his Armalite clattered to the floor and his blood-soaked torso followed soon afterwards.

Without stopping to check his condition, Stewart signaled Private Campbell to follow him into the nearby parlor. Two doorways bisected this comfortably furnished room, and beckoning Campbell to check out the one on the left, Stewart turned to the right.

A short, dark corridor brought him to a closed wooden door. He pressed his back up against the wall and gingerly reached out to try the iron doorknob.

The door was locked, and Stewart slung his rifle over his shoulder and pulled out his pistol. He clipped a 9-mm round into its short barrel and took a deep breath. Then, with a swift, lightning-like movement, he stood back and barreled into the door with the side of his body. As the latch tore out of its flimsy frame, the door swung open with a blistering crack and Stewart’s forward momentum sent him tumbling inside.

The deafening sound of exploding bullets greeted him as he smacked into the carpeted floor hard on his right shoulder. A thick leather sofa provided his only cover, and he listened as a dozen rounds smacked into it with a heart-stopping thud.

Slowly the numbing pain that had temporarily paralyzed his entire right side lessened and he was able to firmly grasp his pistol. It was then that the strained voice of a woman cried out to him.

“You’re just a bit too late, comrade. This skirmish signals the beginning of a revolution that will soon have the entire planet in its grasp!”

“Just hand over the individual known as Scan Lafferty, and this senseless bloodletting can be done with,” countered Colin Stewart.

“Comrade, this bloodletting, as you call it, hasn’t even begun yet!” cried the female terrorist, who expressed her vehemence with a volley of automatic rifle fire.

Several of these bullets whined overhead, and the commando decided that he had had enough. He pulled out a smooth-skinned stun grenade, pulled its pin, and lofted it with a high arc toward the voice’s source. Seconds later, the room reverberated with a thunderous concussion that prompted Stewart to regrasp his pistol and cautiously stand upright. A cloud of swirling gray smoke veiled his view. Yet as it began to dissipate, he gasped in horror upon spotting a redheaded young woman standing behind a desk, her Armalite assault rifle pointed right at him.

“I just wanted to see the face of the imperialistic order that will soon be obsolete,” spat the green-eyed terrorist.

“Your time has come, comrade. And ours has just began!”

Unwilling to let her prophetic words come true, Colin Stewart desperately leaped sideways, all the while lifting up the barrel of his pistol and firing blindly. The Armalite responded, its explosive report deep and resounding.

Stewart rolled off the side of the sofa, and before he could lift himself upright and finish emptying his clip, noted that the Armalite had suddenly gone silent.

The scent of gunpowder was thick in the air as he brought himself to his knees and discreetly looked in the direction of the gunfire.

Veiled in a thin whitish haze, the redheaded terrorist’s body could be seen seated in a high-backed red leather chair behind a large desk. Her green eyes vacantly stared out to the room beyond, and Stewart spotted a single gunshot wound located in the exact center of her forehead.

A solemn silence prevailed as he stood and made his way over to the desk. Displayed here was the front page of the latest Irish newspaper. Stewart had skimmed this very same edition earlier in Dundalk, and knew that its lead story described the grisly murders of Mrs. John Maguire and her two daughters.

What he had previously missed, though, was an article on the lower part of the page, in this instance one circled in red ink. Queen to Christen Trident was the headline.

In all the excitement Colin had almost forgotten about the Royal Family’s visit to Gare Loch tomorrow afternoon. When he had first learned that the Queen would be traveling to the Falsane Naval Installation to launch the new submarine, he had genuinely hoped that he could be there to witness this historic event.

Yet the attempted robbery at Edinburgh Castle had abruptly changed all this.

As he finished reading the article, his eye spotted a flier on the desk beside the newspaper. It appeared to have been ripped from a bulletin board, and upon closer study, he saw it had apparently been written by the United States Navy. This immediately aroused his curiosity, and he read the flier thoroughly.

At the mere mention of aerial phenomena he knew the paper was referring to the crash of the American B-52. It appeared that the Yanks were subtly asking for the assistance of the local fishermen in a somewhat desperate effort to help them locate the missing atomic bomb. Having been previously notified of this tragic event, Stewart found his attention diverted by the sudden arrival of Private Campbell.

“I’ve completed my sweep of the house, sir. Though the other side of the floor was empty, I got a chance to speak with Corporal Duncan in the kitchen. We’ve lost Peter MacLeod, Major. He was killed during the firefight that ensued as they broke into the barn. Before he went down, they say he took out two of the bloody terrorists all on his own. Two others were shot dead as they attempted to flee, and a third is still on the loose in the bog. Angus is out there right now with Private Mckay, trying to hunt ‘em down.”

Just then noticing the corpse seated in the chair beside his CO, Campbell added, “Who in the hell was that redheaded bird?”

“From the way she was preaching to me before she died, probably the ideological leader of this bunch of Red scum,” retorted the major bitterly.

“Did Corporal Duncan mention what it was that the terrorists were trying to defend inside the barn?”

“Why, I almost forgot the good news, Major. It appears that we stumbled upon a major arms cache.

“Angus says there’s a virtual arsenal in there, with everything but an atomic bomb stashed away in crates marked with the official RUC seal.”

Colin Stewart listened intently to this report, his glance still on the flier that he had just been studying.

The private’s coincidental mention of the A-bomb suddenly triggered something in Stewart, and his thoughts went back in time to Dundalk, when they had first learned where Sean Lafferty was supposedly hiding.

Seconds before the suspect’s father told them about Cootehill House, he had been babbling on about some sort of satellite he had fished from the sea. He had even mentioned that this event had occurred on the night the sky caught fire. Though at the time Colin ignored this confused disclosure, it suddenly dawned on him what the old fisherman may have recovered.

“Jesus Christ!” the shocked veteran whispered to himself.

Unaware that this invective was overheard by his puzzled subordinate, Stewart managed to focus his thoughts, and a bevy of concerns rose in his consciousness.

Had it been an atomic bomb that Liam Lafferty had pulled from the sea on the night the sky had caught fire? And if it was, was this device currently in the hands of the terrorist organization his son belonged to? Even more frightening, did they intend to use it, and if so, where?

Colin Stewart’s glance strayed to the newspaper article circled in red ink, and in a terrifying flash of awareness, the commando knew the answers to his questions. So deep was his level of concentration that he didn’t even notice it when two more members of his squad entered the study.

“Major, you’ll never believe what we found in the bog while we were chasing after that escaped terrorist,” said Corporal Angus Duncan breathlessly.

Stewart looked up and accepted a mud-stained laminated plastic ID. The picture of a middleaged bespectacled man was displayed here, along with the following information-Property of Dr. John Maguire, Director, Shamrock Nuclear Facility.

“It’s him, Major!” added the corporal.

“We found the body of the missing nuclear scientist that everyone’s talking about — minus the back of his skull, which was blown apart by a bullet.”

Barely aware of the significance of this gruesome discovery, Colin Stewart had an entirely different concern as he responded.

“Lads, it’s extremely important that we get back to Dundalk as soon as possible.”

“Won’t we be taking some fingerprints first to see if one of the men we killed was our suspect?” asked Robert Campbell.

“And what about that arms cache we found?”

added Angus Duncan.

“We can’t just leave it here for those rascals to do with as they please.”

Stewart replied to these questions while heading for the study’s sole doorway.

“We’ll call the Republic authorities along the way and let them take care of it.

Right now, only one thing really matters. And that’s getting me to Liam Lafferty’s house in Dundalk, on the double!”

Liam arrived at the docks just as the dawn was breaking over the eastern horizon. His first priority was to give his trawler a good cleaning. He did so with a bucket of soap suds and an old scrub brush that he mounted on a broom handle. It was well into morning when he finished this tiring chore. The pier was bustling with activity by this time, and he tossed the bucketful of soapy water that he was finished with into the harbor and sat down on the transom to have a smoke.

He had just finished his second bowl of tobacco and was in the process of debating whether or not to load another when a familiar-looking lorry backed onto the docks and pulled over to the slips by the commercial tugs. Doing his best to ignore the arthritic pains that throbbed in his joints, the grizzled fisherman climbed off his boat and proceeded over to the parked lorry.

Much to his utter surprise and delight, he spotted Sean sitting in the truck’s passenger seat. Before he could call out to his son. Dr. Blackwater greeted Liam. Pulling him off to one side, the physician explained what they were doing down here.

Ever mindful of the interest of the United States Navy, Dr. Blackwater was preparing to convey Liam’s treasure over to Port Glasgow. Needless to say, Liam was thrilled with this news, for soon he’d have his anticipated reward.

Just as exciting was the fact that Sean was already on his feet. Though his shoulder was still bandaged, the lad didn’t seem any worse for wear as he super283 vised the unloading of the pallet the piece of the satellite was chained to. Tightly covered by a full-length black tarp, the pallet was lifted onto the deck of an oceangoing tug. Throughout this entire process. Dr.

Blackwater, Sean, and a funny-looking stranger with an eyepatch and a ponytail were extremely attentive.

Once, when the winch they were using slipped, Dr.

Blackwater ran out to steady the rocking pallet, which was eventually loaded into the tug without further incident.

Liam watched this operation intently. Sean was so busy that he only had time to give his father a curt hello before returning to work. Hopeful that they’d get to spend some time together once the satellite was returned to its proper owners, Liam looked on as Sean, Dr. Blackwater, and the one-eyed stranger climbed onto the tug. This stranger must have been the vessel’s pilot, for he proceeded to climb up into the wheelhouse and start its diesel engine.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to go along?”

Liam shouted from the pier.

“I’m certain you can keep plenty busy thinking up ways to spend your reward money, Liam,” replied the physician.

“See you soon!”

With this, the lines holding the tug to the pier were released, and the boat steamed out into the harbor with a resonant blast of its air horn.

Liam was torn between returning home to inform Annie of how splendidly Sean was getting along, and going to the Rose-and-Thistle to celebrate. After the briefest of deliberations, he chose the latter.

Eamon McGilligan, the bearded owner of the pub, was outside, taping the afternoon’s lunch selection to the window, when Liam came sauntering down the sidewalk.

“Eamon, old friend… how are you doing on this splendid spring morning?” asked the fisherman.

The potbellied bartender had to do a double-take to properly identify the speaker of these upbeat words.

“My heavens, Liam, you’ve been hitting the Guinness already at my competitor’s, and it’s not even noon yet.”

“Whatever makes you say such a thing, Eamon?

Why, I’m as sober as a judge. Though I intend to change that as soon as humanly possible.”

“I haven’t seen you this cheerful so early in the day since your long shot came in first in the Derby. And that was three years ago. Don’t tell me that you’ve gone and won the lottery!”

“In a matter of speaking, Eamon. Now, is there anyone inside to serve me a pint, or am I going to have to perish from thirst?”

“I’ll be in shortly, Liam. Meanwhile, Billy Kelly arid Henry Morrison are inside, and I’m sure they’ll be able to keep you occupied until I get my menus taped up. Kitty’s gone and cooked up a fresh pot of corned beef and cabbage. And I can personally attest to its excellence.”

“Perhaps in a wee bit, Eamon,” replied the jolly fisherman as he strode through the pub’s double doors.

It was dark inside, and the room smelled of cabbage and cigarettes. Perched at their usual places at the bar were his two weathered associates. Liam climbed onto a stool beside them as Henry Morrison was in the midst of one of his infamous stories.

“… Why, I heard it from the lips of Roddy O’Neill himself. He saw it come out of the water with his very own eyes. And then he looked on in amazement as a group of seaman climbed out of a hatch and scurried over to the propeller shaft to cut them free. Before Roddy could go and call the Coast

Guard, they succeeded in their efforts, and the thing sank back down into the black depths from which it had come. And there was old Roddy, awestruck at his helm, and out his best net to boot.

“I tell you, it’s an insult to the Republic to have such a thing happen in our own territorial waters.

And it’s not only the Brits who are responsible, but the Yanks and the commies as well. What do you think about those damned submarines that have been fouling our nets recently, Liam?”

Liam waited until he was finished packing his pipe with tobacco before voicing himself.

“Personally, Henry, I think it’s all balderdash. What in the world would a submarine be doing in Ireland’s waters? We don’t have any sensitive military installations to speak of, and there’s plenty of places more important for them to go poking their noses in. If you ask me, old Roddy just made up the story to explain to his wife how he went and lost his new net. We all know the real reason was because he drank too much of that poteen that he’s so famous for.”

“I beg to differ with you, Liam Lafferty,” countered the storyteller with a shake of his bald head.

“I say it’s submarines, and if we don’t do something about them soon, none of us will be able to make a decent living anymore. Why, even as we speak, there’s those supposed American naval exercises going on off our coast. And now they say we’ll be arrested just for fishing there.”

“First it’s chemicals falling out of the heavens, and now it’s submarines coming up out of the depths, and naval exercises. If it’s getting so dangerous out there, why do you even bother going out to sea anymore, Henry?” queried Liam as he put a match to his pipe.

The bald fisherman finished off his pint before answering.

“Liam Lafferty, I’m ashamed at you for even asking such a question. You know that danger doesn’t mean a thing to me. I love the sea, just like you and Billy do, and I’ll keep working her till my dying day.”

Billy Kelly could sense an argument brewing, and he did his best to change the subject.

“Whatever are you doing gracing us with your presence this early in the afternoon, Liam? I thought you were going to properly overhaul that carburetor of yours today.”

Tempted to tell his friends the real reason behind his decision to stop at the pub, Liam decided to wait until the Doc was back with the reward.

“My bones were hurting something fierce, Billy, and I thought that a little Guinness would be just the tonic to take away the pain. But now I’m beginning to wonder if they even serve the stuff in here anymore.”

Just then Eamon McGilligan slipped behind the bar and got to work preparing three pints.

“And make sure to make ‘em good ones, Eamon,” warned Liam, who supervised the bartender’s efforts as carefully as if Eamon was a bank teller counting out his change.

It took several minutes for the creamy head of the stout to settle so that the bartender was able to fill the pint glasses as full as possible. Satisfied that Eamon did his job properly, Liam held up his glass before him.

“Here’s to old friends and full pints,” he toasted.

He appreciatively sipped the rich Guinness and added, “You know I was just wondering, gents, if you fellows were really to hit it big, like a lottery jackpot or something of the sort, how would you go about spending the money?”

Billy Kelly was the first to respond.

“That’s a very interesting question, Liam. If such a godsend were to come my way, I’d buy me a big estate down south in County Cork, and raise thoroughbreds for suckers like you fellows to bet on. And then I’d travel to Kentucky each and every spring to replenish my stock, and stop off at Broadway and Hollywood along the way.”

“How about you. Henry?” continued Liam.

The bald-headed fisherman took a sip of stout arid answered.

“That’s easy, mate. Since I’d spend my time in one even if I had a fortune, I’d buy me a nice quiet little pub.”

“I’d be willing to sell mine real cheap,” returned Eamon McGilligan.

“Because if I had the dough, I’d get a sleek yacht and sail off for Tahiti to marry one of those topless native girls. Now that would be living like a real king!”

“Since you asked the question, what would you spend it on, Liam?” queried Billy Kelly.

Liam thoughtfully tamped down the tobacco in his pipe. Yet before he could express himself, the double doors to the pub swung open, and in walked a tall, sandy-haired stranger. Finding something about this man disturbingly familiar, Liam racked his brain in an effort to place him. And then it came to him: this was the fellow who had been over at his house the other night asking questions about Sean’s whereabouts.

Immediately sensing trouble, Liam slouched down on his stool and tried to look as inconspicuous as possible. Even then the stranger carefully scanned the room and headed his way. In a last-ditch effort at anonymity, Liam purposely dropped his pipe tool on the floor and went to his knees to search for it. This only served to inflame his arthritic joints as he located the tool beside a pair of mud-stained combat boots.

“Liam Lafferty?” quizzed an icy voice from above.

Sheepishly Liam looked up and as defiantly as possible answered, “Who wants to know?”

“We met the other night when I stopped by your cottage to ask about your son,” returned the stranger.

“I just talked to your wife, and she said that I’d find you either here or on your boat. Is it possible that I could have a few more minutes of your time, in private?”

Not willing to make a scene in front of his friends, Liam stood stiffly and forced a cordial reply.

“Why, of course, my friend. If you’d like, we can take one of the booths in the back.”

Conscious of the curious stares of his drinking companions, Liam followed the stranger over to the booth. Only when they were well out of hearing distance did Liam speak out angrily.

“What is it this time? As it turns out, my son is just fine. And here you went and scared me and my wife to death for absolutely nothing!”

Colin Stewart studied the heavily lined face of the old fisherman.

“Right now I’m not interested in Sean.

What I want to know is more about that object you mentioned fishing out of the sea on the night you saw the mysterious fire light up the sky.”

Shocked that the stranger remembered his misguided revelation, Liam tried to play ignorant.

“I don’t know what in the world you’re talking about, sir.”

“Oh yes you do,” rejoined the Highlander forcefully.

“When we first met, you apparently thought we were there on another matter, and babbled away about a piece of satellite that you pulled from the sea. You even thought that we were sent by the United States Navy to retrieve it. Now I realize you don’t understand the real significance of this matter.

But all I can tell you is that your son will be in big trouble if that object you found doesn’t get back to its rightful owner.”

“But it will!” sputtered Liam excitedly.

“In fact, its on its way right now!”

“What do you mean by that?” shot back Colin Stewart.

Well aware that his interrogator wasn’t the type of man he could easily fool, Liam decided to be truthful.

“The satellite’s on its way to Port Glasgow even as we speak. I saw Dr. Blackwater and Sean load it onto a tug with my very own eyes this morning. So if you have any idea of trying to take the reward for yourself, you can forget all about it.”

“Believe me, it’s not the reward that I’m concerned with. Could you describe this so-called satellite that you recovered, Mr. Lafferty?”

His mind set at ease by the way in which the Scotsman’s tone of voice had suddenly lightened, Liam did his best to describe his treasure in words. As he did so, the stranger’s probing eyes never left his face, and the fisherman could tell just how important this description was to his interrogator.

While Liam went on to explain each detail of the recovery effort, Colin Stewart intently listened, appalled by what he was hearing. His first instinct was to immediately notify the commander of the Royal Navy headquarters unit at Northwood. With his assistance, the tug could perhaps be apprehended. And if that couldn’t be achieved, at the very least the Royal Family could be kept as far away from Gare Loch as possible.

Though this would have been the prudent course of action, the Highlander knew that his case was still pitifully weak. Command would want solid evidence to begin a search of this scope. And this was particularly the case if the Queen’s plans were to be altered.

Right now, all he had was the word of a drunken old fisherman, and a few bits of circumstantial evidence that made great sense to him, but would appear inconsequential as far as Command was concerned.

It was with this circumspect realization that Stewart decided to take a vastly different tack. The fisherman was in the process of explaining the engine problems that he’d had on the night of the find when the Scotsman interrupted.

“Excuse me, Mr. Lafferty, but would it be possible for you to take me out to the spot where you found the object in your boat right now? I’d be willing to pay you for a full day’s charter.”

“I don’t think that I’d have any trouble finding it,” replied Liam.

“But you do realize that there’s some sort of naval exercise going on out there, and that we’ll most likely get stopped by the authorities along the way.”

Praying that just such a thing would happen, Colin Stewart anxiously stood and instructed the fisherman to lead the way down to the docks.