of the road leaving a narrow gap for him to squeeze through. As he closed on the gap, the woman running down the pavement suddenly tripped and fell and the pram wheeled from her grasp and on to the road. It rolled straight into the gap between the parked cars. Hank took his foot off the accelerator as his mind considered his choices: swerve and go down the right pavement and hit a bus stop, take the left pavement and try to squeeze past several lampposts, which looked unlikely, or slam on the brakes and hit one of the parked cars. The problem with all of those options was that they meant coming to a stop, and that meant having to deal with the rioters.
There was of course another option, an unthinkable one at any other time and place. But somehow this was all so different. He was supposed to be an undercover agent. His life was in danger, and the life of his partner. Ahead was a pram with supposedly a baby in it. Self-preservation meant something else. It was not just about one’s life. It was war.
Hank ran out of decision-making time and slammed his foot down hard on the accelerator. The car bore down on the gap. Clemens instinctively reached for the dashboard and sunk in his seat. Hank hit the pushchair square on and it left the ground like a football in a penalty kick. Something flew out of it and arced back towards the windshield. It was flesh-coloured.A baby. It slammed into the windshield, cracking it, then rolled over the roof. Hank kept his eyes on the road ahead. Clemens looked back to see the doll bounce on the road and its head fly off. A few seconds later they emerged from the grey, desolate structures back into the countryside and on to a dirt track once more as if it had all been a bad dream.
Clemens exhaled deeply and relaxed in his seat as the worst of the tension left him. ‘Nice one,’ he said. ‘Notch one dead baby up to Hank.’
Hank was in a kind of mental limbo. For a split second back there, just after the collision, he thought he had done the right thing, and now it seemed all so completely wrong. He wondered what he could have been thinking choosing the pram. This wasn’t a war they were in, not really. Stratton said they were effectively police officers. Cops don’t plough through babies to get away from rioters. ‘Shit,’ he mumbled to himself.
‘I reckon that just about sums up our day,’ Clemens said, sounding relieved that he was not the only one who had cocked up.
Hank stood under a pair of old oaks watching the horizon, behind which the sun had long since dropped, leaving only a faint glow. It had turned colder with the coming of darkness but he could not be bothered to go to the room and put on a sweater. The day’s events continued to eat at him. He looked back at the building that served as the galley. The lights were on and the moving silhouettes behind the opaque windows told him supper was being dished up. He didn’t feel particularly hungry and he was in two minds whether or not to eat anything at all. He remained confused. There had been no debriefing from Stratton at the end of the exercise. They had returned to the huts after the serial without so much as a hint of what the point of it all had been. If he was wrong he wanted the chance to explain why he had done it, or at least hear what he was supposed to have done.
Hank began to doubt if these guys were all they were cracked up to be. Then again, maybe he was taking it more seriously than he was supposed to. Maybe they would find out later. He decided to eat and trudged back across the track towards the galley.
Just about everyone was inside having supper. Stratton sat at a table with Doles, both eating in silence. Hank had a sudden urge to go up to him and ask what he thought about the day’s activities. But he decided against it. He would play it the Brit way, whatever that was exactly. He picked up a plate, scooped up a steak, some mashed potato and cabbage, took a knife and fork out of the cutlery box and headed for the back of the room where there was an empty table.
Clemens was sat with several others and as Hank passed he heard his name mentioned.
‘. . . and Hank not only went for the bloody thing, he accelerated right into it.’ Clemens laughed in his croaking manner, his mouth wide open, and his huge tongue sticking out. He showed no guilt on seeing Hank. ‘Ain’t that right, Hanky boy? You railroaded that pram and that kid right into fucking space.’
Some of the men were amused but others were not.
Hank paid no heed and sat at the empty table and placed his food down. He was finding it easier to ignore Clemens. The guy had a big mouth.
Hank sawed at the steak with the blunt knife without much effect and then gave up and dug into his pocket for his penknife. The blade cut through the meat with ease but his teeth faired little better than the cutlery and his bruised jaw soon ached with the effort of chewing it. He tried a mouthful of mashed potato, which was obviously powder and water, and decided he would have to be a lot hungrier than he was to get through this particular meal and pushed it away.
Across the room Stratton got up, placed his dishes in the tub and headed out of the room. Hank grabbed the opportunity, picked up his plate and cutlery, and headed between the tables towards the entrance. He scraped the food into the trashcan and dumped the plate and tools in the tub.
Hank stepped outside in time to see Stratton walk around the corner. He hurried up and closed on Stratton’s back. ‘Sergeant Stratton,’ Hank said.
Stratton stopped and turned to face him. ‘We don’t call anyone by their rank when in civvies,’ he said.
‘Right,’ Hank said, suddenly wondering if this was a good idea. Stratton seemed to be in a serious mood. Hank was then suddenly unsure how to begin.
‘I, er . . . We haven’t officially met . . . Hank Munro . . . chief,’ then with finality, ‘Hank.’ He held out his hand. Stratton shook it.
‘Sorry I never said hello earlier. It’s been a bit crazed.’
‘Hey, that’s okay,’ Hank said, shrugging. ‘I know how it is . . . I just wanted to say that I appreciate being invited along.’
‘Always a pleasure to play with our cousins from over the pond,’ Stratton said.
Hank smiled appreciatively then got to what was bugging him. ‘Look, I just wanted to ask you about today —’
Stratton cut him off. ‘You can come to prayers,’ he said. Hank was thrown by the odd comment. ‘Prayers?’ he asked, as if he had not heard correctly.
‘Orders.You weren’t in the galley when it was announced. The operational briefing. Building one.’
Stratton headed away.The briefing, or prayers as Stratton called it, was a complete surprise to Hank. The op was happening and he had been invited to the O group. If nothing else it was an indication he was still okay on somebody’s list.
Several of the guys passed Hank and after they had all entered building one he followed.
It was the same as all the other buildings: one long cold brick room with a concrete floor and a small toilet in a cubicle near the entrance.The only furnishings were a dozen metal chairs spread in a double semi-circle halfway into the room, facing a table and lectern. Behind these were several boards propped on chairs and draped in black cloths to cover what was on them. All the windows were cloaked in the same heavy black cloth. Two men were waiting at the far end behind the table and lectern: Lieutenant Jardene and a man Hank had never seen before.They were dressed in civilian clothes, a little smarter and more tasteful than the men, and their hair was short and neat.
‘Sit down, please, gentlemen,’ Jardene said. Hank waited until everyone was seated and took the last chair, pulling it further back from the others, feeling like an intruder perhaps and subconsciously trying to remain as invisible as possible. Stratton and Doles entered, closing the door.
‘Everyone here, Stratton?’ Jardene asked.
‘Yes, sir,’ Stratton replied, standing behind Hank. Hank half looked over his shoulder to see Doles leaning against a wall, holding a pen and notebook. Hank then noticed everyone else had a notebook. He cursed himself for not being in the galley when the warning order for the briefing had been given. It was little things such as this, not having a pen and paper when he needed one, that irritated him about himself.
‘We received the green light for operation Phoenix only a few hours ago,’ Jardene continued.‘This is Captain Sumners from military intelligence. He’s going to kick off with a brief background to the operation. Needless to say, everything you hear in this room will not be discussed outside of it.’ Jardene’s eyes rested on Hank’s for a second, as if impressing upon him that he was aware he was in the room, that it was no mistake, and that the rules applied to him as much as anyone else. Hank felt a rush of importance.
‘Gentlemen,’ Captain Sumners said in greeting. ‘Two months ago one of our intelligence operatives was captured by members of the Real IRA in County Tyrone. It was a well-planned operation that almost succeeded.’
