Back in her room, Shakira drew back the curtains on the tall windows for the first time, and she was utterly amazed at the sight that awaited her: high on a hill, directly above her room, were the stark ruins of the ancient Irish cathedral high on the Rock of Cashel, for seven centuries the seat of the Irish kings, St. Patrick’s Rock. Great limestone walls, built in the twelfth century, were still standing. There were windows and a historic round tower. A Celtic high cross jutted into the evening sky, and all around the land fell away.
“The view must be breathtaking,” she thought, flicking the pages of her local guidebook. “Tomorrow I will go and stand up there.”
Shakira dined alone in her room, and later, restless for someone to talk to, she made her way down the wide staircase and asked the front desk if there was a coffee shop in the hotel. “No, we’ve no such thing,” replied the desk clerk. “But if you go down those stone steps over there, you’ll find the nicest bar you ever saw. Tell Dennis I said he’s to make you an Irish coffee.”
Shakira did exactly as she was told, and Dennis the barman delivered her an Irish coffee, its tall head of double cream obscuring a mighty measure of Jameson’s finest whiskey. The bar was quite busy, and the former Carla Martin chose a corner seat with a small table and an empty chair next to hers.
She had no idea that she was sipping such a strong alcoholic drink, but it tasted so good, she never gave it a thought. After twenty minutes, she noticed a heavyset, rustic-looking local, aged around fifty, come down the stairs and order a pint of Guinness. Slightly to her surprise, he came and sat beside her, and she did not notice the look of concern on the barman’s face.
The newcomer turned to her and said, “Good evenin’ to yer, ma’am. I’m Pat Slater.”
And almost before Shakira had nodded a greeting, Dennis came over and said quietly, “Now Patrick, this lady is staying in the hotel. And don’t you be boring her to death with yer tales of bygone days.”
Mr. Slater smiled and said he had no intention of boring anyone, and besides, he’d only come in for the one. He had a mare due to foal that night, and he wouldn’t be far away from the barn now, would he?
Dennis retreated, and over the next ten minutes Pat Slater just asked politely what Shakira was doing in Ireland and how long was she staying. But, unknowingly being bombarded with a pack of lies, he was good to his word and got up to leave. Just before he climbed the old familiar stairs, he leaned over and muttered to Shakira, “I wasn’t always just a stockman. I used to have a very important career.”
And with that he was gone. It was almost 9:30 P.M. now, and the bar was emptying out as residents left and went into the dining room. The place would get a “second wind” at around eleven o’clock, but in the meantime Shakira was almost alone.
She finished her Irish coffee and walked up to the bar to speak to Dennis. “That man told me he used to have an important career,” she said, as always unable to resist getting right to the bottom of any unclear information.
And Dennis raised his eyebrows and said, “Miss Carson, that man is, secretly, a former freedom fighter with the Irish Republican Army, the fellers who shot and bombed the English into submission over Northern Ireland.
“Trouble is, he never got over it. Spends his entire life yearning for the good old days when he and a few others were out there causing mayhem. Most of ’em found it very hard to fall back into peaceful civilian life after those years when they were on the run, plotting and planning and killing. That kind of life was like a drug to some of ’em, and Pat Slater is one.”
Shakira looked bemused. “Were these Irish Republican men terrorists, or did they fight like a national armed force?”
“No, they were never like that. They attacked the British along the borders, blew up train stations, and sometimes streets. They wore the badge of terrorists proudly, and said they were fighting a war to drive the British out of Ireland forever.”
“And did they succeed?”
“As far as anyone could ever succeed in Northern Ireland, I suppose. But up there, the majority of the population wants to keep their British ties.”
“But did the bombing and killing get results?” Shakira persisted.
“Oh, yes. No doubt about that. In the end, the Brits were really fed up with it, but so were the people of Northern Ireland. Everyone just grew tired of an endless conflict.”
“Was it like the Muslim Jihad?”
“In some ways it was, but not on so large a scale. The IRA was a much smaller force, even though they had a few pretty ambitious targets. There was nothing like the Twin Towers in New York.”
“Do you think their attacks proved that a great and worthwhile cause can be achieved by a sustained campaign of terror?”
“In a way, they did. The British government would never have given in so quickly if they hadn’t been afraid of more bombs in London.”
“Then it was good news for all terrorists,” laughed Shakira.
“It wasn’t that good,” said Dennis. “Did you ever see a man so gloomy as Pat Slater? He’s like all the rest. The glory for them was in the chase, not the objective… how about another Irish coffee? I’ll have one with you before the late rush hour starts.”
Shakira nodded cheerfully, and said, “I used to work behind a bar once, back in the USA.”
CHAPTER 8
Captain Abad’s sonar room had finally located the U.S. submarine Cheyenne, currently steaming slowly on a southerly course, eight miles to the northwest. The total absence of any kind of aggressive move from the Americans, or even an increase in speed, gave him confidence that the Iranian Kilo was in no immediate danger.
Thus he made a decision to press on regardless, keeping up his speed and holding his course to the Strait of Gibraltar.
Cheyenne ’s sonar room kept watching. “She’s headed straight to Gibraltar,” said the CO.
“No doubt,” responded the chief. “We never had one shred of intel that said anything about her destination. But this is obvious. She’ll pass about seven thousand yards to starboard at her current speed, one hour from now.”
“Keep tracking her.”
“Aye, sir.”
Back in the Kilo, Mohammed Abad kept the air intake raised and ordered the submarine to all-ahead, maximum speed. And the Kilo once more accelerated forward, the two masts leaving a slashing white wake above a turmoil of water being churned up by that big Russian five-bladed propeller only forty-five feet below the surface.
The wide ultrasensitive sweep of Cheyenne ’s radar picked up the accelerating masts in a heartbeat. The Kilo was plainly making a run for it.
Commander Redford had little choice but to follow, since his orders were very definitely to stay in contact but also to stay in the Med. So the Cheyenne set off, making a southerly course at around twenty knots.
The Kilo out in front, moving fast, was still at periscope depth and making a major racket just below the surface of the water. The Americans could not fail to track her with consummate ease.
At 0900, high above, the American satellite photographed her wake, ensuring that U.S. military surveillance knew precisely where the Iranian submarine was located.
By 1115 that morning, the Kilo was a hundred miles southwest of Alicante, off Spain ’s Costa Blanca. To the south was the long hot coastline of Morocco. Progress was still fast, and no one had opened fire on her. By dark, the Kilo had progressed over a hundred miles, her speed was steady, and General Rashood, who was no stranger to submarines, estimated that he was more or less on time. He needed to be through the Gibraltar Strait tomorrow, Tuesday, and that could definitely happen at this speed.