Donard, that great bloody mountain that's at our backs. About half a mile up.'
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
I stood outside the house, watching the clouds break up and stars begin to show in the east. The rain had passed. By the time the Focke-Wulf made landfall, the half-moon would give enough light to find the drop zone, probably with the aid of a signal fire courtesy of Red Jack.
'You should be able to make out Slieve Donard soon,' Slaine said, pointing south. 'It's the closest peak to Newcastle, and the highest of the Mournes. It blots out the stars.'
'Have you been up it?'
'Yes, it's a pleasant climb in daylight and good weather. Steep but not difficult. There's a bit of a plateau just before the last stretch up to the summit. That's where I'd look for parachutists. Tricky but if the pilot gets close enough, he should be able to put them spot-on.'
'Red Jack could be up there right now, preparing a signal fire,' I said.
'More likely a torch-what you Yanks call a flashlight. It's above the tree line and he'd have to drag an awful lot of wood up there for a sustained fire. But the plateau is protected by mountain walls, Slieve Donard on one side and Slieve Commedagh on the other. The Glen River runs between them, and that's the route we'll follow. Beyond the river the terrain flattens out before the final ascent.'
'We?'
'Of course. You're coming, aren't you?' She opened the trunk of the car and pulled out boots, clothing, and a Sten gun. 'Finch called the RUC from the pub. They're sending a constable from the next village, and Carrick is on his way, probably with your uncle. You drive while I change in the backseat. And keep your eyes on the road.'
I backed out of the drive, listening to the sound of fabric being pulled off and on, resisting the temptation to risk a backward glance. She had a submachine gun.
'I'm going to make a call for reinforcement,' I said, stopping at the pub. 'Where should they meet us?'
'We don't need a company of gum-chewing, heavy-footed GIs getting in our way,' she said. 'No offense.'
'Not a problem,' I said. 'But I know some guys who have been training up and down those mountains. A reconnaissance platoon.'
She came in with me, now wearing sturdy boots, camouflage jacket and trousers, with a web belt and revolver. I was glad she'd left the Sten gun in the car.
'What's going on?' Tom asked, staring at Slaine in her combat duds as she adjusted her beret. 'That sergeant burst in here and demanded to use the telephone, said it was an emergency.'
'It was. Still is, so I need the phone too.'
'What emergency, Billy Boyle?' Grady O'Brick asked from the end of the bar. 'What trouble have you got yourself in now?'
'Not me, Grady. Adrian Simms is dead.'
'Jesus,' Grady and Tom said at the same moment. I went behind the bar and called the division HQ, speaking to the new executive officer, Thornton's replacement. He was eager to please.
'He said there's a stone bridge across Glen River. They'll meet us there,' I said to Slaine.
'How did he die then?' Grady asked me, ignoring Slaine.
'Bullet to the heart,' I said.
'IRA? Red Hand? Smugglers?' Tom asked.
'His wife.'
'Jesus,' they said again.
'We have to go,' Slaine said, cutting the conversation short. 'There will be a lot of RUC men by shortly; they may need directions to Constable Simms's house.'
'And where are you going, lass?' Grady said, his first acknowledgment of her presence. He raised his glass to his lips, watching her as he drank. I saw her eyes on his fingers, and wondered if she knew his story. If not his story, then if she knew what it meant.
'Away from here, old man.'
I glanced at Grady as I followed her out. He was laughing, a wheezy, ancient laugh, and I wondered what could possibly have struck him as funny, having just heard of the death of Adrian Simms by his wife's hand, and then been insulted by an Irish girl in a British uniform.
We drove through Newcastle, into Donard Wood, past HQ, and along a dirt track until we came to the stone bridge. Three jeeps were parked off the track. I didn't see anyone until armed men appeared from nowhere, surrounding the car, blackened faces staring through the windows, weapons pointed at us.
'Lieutenant Boyle? I'm Sergeant Farrell, follow me please,' one of them said, lowering his weapon.
'Here's your gum-chewing Yanks, Subaltern,' I said as we got out of the jeep.
'My mistake, Billy. They appear fairly competent.'
'Is that you, Billy?' Bob Masters said, shining a flashlight with a red night-vision lens in my face. 'Who's that with you?'
'Yep, that's me. Thanks for joining the party. Lieutenant Bob Masters, this is Subaltern Slaine O'Brien. British Army.'
'Slaine?' he said, pronouncing it carefully, to be sure he understood. 'That's a girl's name, I thought.' He shined the flashlight beam on her, and one of his men whistled.
'Shaddup,' Masters said in a low growl. 'Beg your pardon, Subaltern. I didn't expect a female, that's all. I assume this is not a drill?'
'Not a problem, Lieutenant. And this is for real.' Slaine briefed Masters and his men, giving them Taggart's description, telling them about the FW-200 and the German agents.
'There may be other IRA men, or Taggart may be alone. We've no way of knowing,' she said.
'This is the guy who stole the BARs?' Masters asked.
'Yes. He may be armed with one,' Slaine said.
'Not if he's as smart as you say. I wouldn't hump one of those things up a mountain, an M1 is heavy enough. There are extra canteens, wool caps, and gloves in the jeep if you need them. Billy, you want some extra armament?' Bob asked as he watched Slaine check her clip.
'No, I have my. 45. I think we have enough firepower as it is.'
I took a canteen and gloves, and we headed up a rocky path that followed the river, which was swollen and overflowing from the recent rains. Water splashed down the hillside. The path was narrow, and at times it was easier to go rock to rock in the water, catching a bit of moonlight outside of the canopy of trees. The only sounds were boots on hard earth and smooth stone, gurgling water, and the labored gasps of my own breathing. In no time I was soaked in sweat, my thighs aching from climbing the steady incline and my lungs heaving to draw in enough breath for the next step. I looked at my watch. We'd only been at it for fifteen minutes. I stopped to take a drink and splash cold water on my face.
'You OK, Lieutenant?' It was Callahan, the Irish kid in Masters's platoon. I remembered his voice from the mess hall but I wouldn't have recognized him in broad daylight. His face was blackened and a GI wool cap was pulled down tight.
'Yeah,' I said, trying to sound normal. 'Little out of shape maybe.'
'Hell, we've run up this thing a few times. A walk in the park.'
Then he was gone. I moved as quickly as I could, not wanting to be overtaken by the Tail End Charlie or to be outpaced by Slaine, both of which were distinctly possible. Pride won out over exhaustion, and I caught up to her about thirty minutes later. Masters had called a halt and was signaling two men to move ahead as I came upon them.
'Tree line ends ahead,' he said in a whisper. 'They're on point. Not a lot of room to spread out up there, steep walls on either side of the valley. We move out as soon as they check out the icehouse.'
'Icehouse?'
'Yeah, you'll see it. Like a big stone igloo, built a hundred years ago, they say, over an underground chamber
