Page 124 of Hang on St. Christopher

“The radio?”

“Shot to pieces.”

“No hope for Preston?”

“None. Died immediately. Shrapnel caught him under the arm, tore right through him.”

Just then the mortars started up again.

Closer now.

Better targeted. Two shells fell on the road just ten meters in front of us, and another landed directly on the Land Rover behind us. It blew up with a massive explosion.

We covered our heads as bits of tire and glass and metal rained down like falling stars from the black, unforgiving sky.

“Oh, shit! We’re fucked, aren’t we?” Michael O’Leary said, his eyes wild behind his cracked glasses. “We’re dead, aren’t we, sir?” he said, tugging my sleeve. Now that Clare was gone and Preston was dead, I was senior officer and thus in command of the seven of us who were still alive. I took a moment to assess the situation with professional detachment. We were maybe one or two kilometers inside the Irish Republic, heavily outnumbered, completely surrounded. The radio was busted, no one knew we were here, and help wouldn’t be permitted to cross the border even if it was apprised of the bloody situation. “Yeah, son, I’m sorry,” I wanted to say, but I knew better than that.

“We’ll be all right. I think Superintendent Clare has gone to get help,” I replied instead.

And if he hasn’t, I’ll fucking see that bastard court-martialed and fucking shot,I thought to myself.

CHAPTER20

THE MORTARS

Five solid minutes of mortar fire, then silence. Pitch black apart from the starlight and the sickle moon and a dim glow to the north, which might be the town of Warrenpoint.

Rain back to the default border drizzle now.

They hadn’t shot at us for ninety seconds. I knew what everyone was thinking. Hoping.Now they’ve gonebecause they don’t know our radios are damaged beyond repair. They’re getting the hell out of here before the Irish army shows up.

I looked at John McCrabban. He looked back at me: dour, Presbyterian, sensible. He shook his head. They weren’t gone yet.

“They’re repositioning yet again,” I said. And every time, they got closer.

He nodded, and suddenly there was a sound likewhoommmand then, in the sky above us, a firework arcing toward the trench.

“Everybody down!”

This mortar round landed on the embankment behind us, embedding itself deep in the grass and exploding with a dull thud.

The next one, a minute later, landed on the tarmac right in front of us, sending shrapnel all over the road.

The next one, a minute later, landed on the wreck of the Land Rover with an almighty metallic bang.

They seemed to have only two mortar tubes, but they were pretty good at aiming the things. (They must have practiced in Libya.) If they got one right in the middle of our trench, we were fucking toast.

“They’re getting closer!” Mitchell said.

And he was right. It was dark and the angle had to be very steep, but they were getting really close.

“Maybe we should surrender,” McGuinness said.

“Surrender? Come on, it’s the Provisional IRA,” Lawson yelled.

The IRA never released police prisoners. Cops, they tortured and shot in the head. Soldiers, they tortured and shot in the head. Occasionally, they would release prisoner officers and terrorists from other factions, but never cops or soldiers.

Lawson had taken out a black rectangle from his pocket and lifted it above his head.

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