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.