Power Play (32 page)

“I can think of a few Americans who might not be overjoyed.”

“Yes? Who?”

“Ireland’s full of American corporations that went there mainly because of the very low corporate tax rates.” Mark Bradfield was thoughtful. “If Dublin was suddenly part of the United States, they’d all have to pay the full whack.”

“Do you know how long it would take a Senate committee to think of a way around that?” said Andre. “I’ll tell you. About four and a half seconds.”

“Okay, sir,” replied the admiral. “What’s our next step?”

“Plainly, to get someone over there, just to take a look around Donegal, study the roads and the land along the shore, hire a boat and take a jog around, see if there are any serious problems we need to get around.”

“Okay, who do you have in mind, or will you leave it to me?”

“I thing Mack Bedford’s the obvious candidate. He’s spent God knows how long studying the maps and charts. He’d give us the best insights of anyone. Plus, we will need a SEAL base, and Mack’s a frogman. He’ll want to check out those inland waters at the head of Donegal Bay. Eliminate any surprises.”

“Good call, Andre. Let’s send Mack to Ireland.”

 

Captain Mack Bedford saw it coming from way out, the giant, new Hercules C-130 turboprop freighter, flying in from California, bearing the members of SEAL Team 2, which was deploying once more to the Middle East.

He’d made that journey many times himself, and the refueling stop at Andrews was always poignant because it may be the last time any of them ever saw American soil. SEALs never go anywhere that is not highly dangerous. They are always going to fight an enemy of the United States; otherwise, there’s no point sending them.

Andrews Air Force Base, now jointly in the hands of the USAF and Navy, was a place of the deepest military folklore. It was here that the body of the slain thirty-fifth president, John F. Kennedy, was returned from Dallas on November 22, 1963. Andrews is still the home of the enormous Boeing VC 25A Air Force One.

Operational since May 1943, the base has been the first and last stop in the United States for almost every foreign king, queen, president, prime minister, pope, and military leader. Mack stared out at the seven square miles of the airfields and could see his own aircraft much closer now. He watched its shimmering descent to the eastern runway, which was more than two miles long, and he watched it come howling into focus, four big engines in reverse thrust, dragging it down to manageable speed on the ground.

It came to a stop as close to the naval terminal as possible, and Mack saw the fuel trucks moving quickly toward it. He picked up his bag and walked out to the stairway that was already being wheeled into place. He saw the door open and the navy lieutenant standing ready to greet him.

The aircraft was packed with guys he knew, many of whom had trained under his explicit instructions. The hold of the aircraft was packed down with their essential gear: heavy weaps (machine gins), M4 rifles, SIG Sauer 9mm pistols, pigstickers (combat knives), ammunition belts, grenades, and medical and communications equipment.

Mack climbed the stairway and shook the hand of the young SEAL lieutenant. And as he entered, there was a well-rehearsed roar of
“HOO-YA, INSTRUCTOR MACK!”

He threw them a good-natured salute, slung his bag into one of the enormous freighter’s high netting, and settled down into a large seat made of the same material. Most roving ambassadors or representatives of the US government on a highly classified mission would have had a heart attack at the pure discomfort of traveling like this across the Atlantic.

Mack could not have cared less. He had nearly always made the journey like this, and if it was good enough for his boys, sprawled out all over the aircraft in various hammocks and sleeping bags, then it sure as hell was good enough for him. These guys were about to put their lives on the line. How could he possibly deserve more than they?

With the refuel complete, the Hercules immediately rumbled back down the runway and then thundered skyward into a gusting southwester. The pilot banked left over the Potomac and then climbed high above Chesapeake Bay, crossing Maryland’s eastern shore and flying out over the Atlantic Ocean.

The aircraft was scheduled to make a fairly civilized landfall at Landstuhl at around seven thirty (local time), but Mack’s requirements meant a stop in Ireland at some ungodly hour like five. However, nothing could be done about that, and the SEALs continued to josh around, eating sandwiches and drinking coffee and telling unlikely stories long into the evening.

Mack slept until the copilot came back and told him they were into their descent to Shannon Airport, running up the north shore of the estuary, the delta to Ireland’s longest river. The Hercules flew straight up the middle, through the dark dawn, and slid down through the early mist to the runway. It landed with an almighty bang, the sure sign of a pilot who had spent much of his life putting down fighter-bombers on the flight decks of US aircraft carriers.

They taxied the Hercules right up to a gate, dropped him off, and left immediately. Mack said good-bye to the SEALs and walked into the arrivals hall, which was almost deserted, except for two military attachés from the US Embassy and an Irish customs official who put a sticker on Mack’s bag, never bothered for a split second with his passport, and said,
“Welcome to Ireland, sir.” All three of them accompanied him outside the main terminal, where there was a large black Mercedes-Benz awaiting him, complete with an Irish driver from the US Embassy in Dublin.

“Good morning, sir,” said the chauffeur. “I’m instructed to drive you anywhere you want, for as long as you want, anytime you want,” he said.

“Well, that’s downright Christian of you,” replied Mack. “Any idea where we’re going?”

“Yessir. I’ve booked you into the St. Ernan’s House hotel, a coupla miles down the road from Donegal Town.”

“How far from here?” asked Mack.

“Close to 150 miles, I’d say. Straight up the coast past Galway. It’ll take us around three hours. Be there for your breakfast, sir.”

Mack glanced at his watch. It was 0515. He spoke briefly to the attachés from the embassy, noted phone numbers and contacts if he needed them, and accepted an envelope that contained a US government American Express card for his personal use, all charges to be picked up by Uncle Sam. Then he climbed aboard the Mercedes, asked the driver’s name, which was Michael, and instructed him to wake him when they reached Donegal.

The Mercedes pulled out of the airport and turned up the main N18 north to Galway. Mack settled into the backseat and became almost instantly unconscious, while Michael sped through the darkness, wishing to hell the sun would come up and wondering who was his obviously important passenger.

They rode in complete silence for a couple of hours, and then Mack awakened and inquired, “Who’s this guy St. Ernan? Was he a local saint?”

“Yessir. He was a Galway saint, an abbot, I believe. Had his own monastery. From what I hear, he was a person of great note.”

“What’s his hotel like?”

“Oh, it’s a grand place,” replied Michael. “The ambassador sometimes goes there for weekends. It’s on a private island, surrounded on three sides by water. I think you’ll like it.”

“Michael,” chuckled Mack, “by definition, an island is
completely
surrounded by water.”

“Well, this one couldn’t be, sir. It has a causeway where you drive across to it.”

“Then it’s a peninsula, not an island.”

“Nossir. It’s an island alright. It’s an island with a causeway, stops you getting wet before you check in.”

Mack knew he was going to love this place, with all these crazy people. “You think they’ll give me something to eat? I’ve been on a plane all night, with just coffee and a few cookies.”

“I’ll fix that right away,” he replied and reached for the car cell phone.

“Is that Ernan’s House? . . . This is Michael O’Malley, the US Embassy driver. I’m about thirty minutes away, and I’m bringing in an American naval officer who’s spent the night in a bomber over the Atlantic. Can you make sure you have a fine breakfast for him . . . Irish bacon and sausages . . . Hold on a minute . . . ”

“Sir, how do you like your eggs?”

“Sunny-side,” replied Mack.

“Sunny-side . . . and I’ll call when I’m five minutes away . . . I will . . . Good luck now.”

“Thanks, Michael,” said Mack. “By the way, where are you staying? I’ll be here a few days.”

“I’ll be just along the road in Donegal,” he replied. “Staying with Uncle Seamus. My own family comes from south of here—Castlebar, County Mayo. Sure, I’ve uncles and aunts all along this coast. I’ll be about five minutes from Ernan’s House.”

Mack looked out to his left and could see they were driving around a wide bay with several islands and inlets. It really was a soul-stirring seascape, with the sun rising from out of Donegal’s mountainous heart and casting a glinting light on the calm, lapping waters.

“Is this all part of Donegal Bay?” asked Mack.

“It’s the absolute back end of it,” said Michael. “The bay’s about twenty-five miles long, and it ends right here.”

“Were you brought up on this coast?”

“I was, sir. Not on the water. Castlebar’s inland. But everyone in Mayo has a connection to the water, and we’ve a few historic seaports—Mulrany, Newport, and Westport. Half the population of Mayo tried to get out through those harbors when the crop failed . . . but a lot of them starved. Thousands of families just died in the fields after the English evicted them from their farms . . . ”

Mack was silent and slightly shaken by the way this Irishman could talk of the Great Famine of the 1840s, almost 180 years ago, as if it were last Thursday.

“A couple of my relations, boys about seventeen, made it out, stowed away on a four-master going to Boston,” Michael went on. “But they got caught, and four sailors tried to heave them overboard. But Patrick and Tommy O’Malley fought to the death, killed two, and then took the sailors’ knives—and defied anyone else to attack them . . . ”

Michael paused as he made a right turn. “By God,” he said, “the lads were very brave that day . . . ”

It was still last week,
thought Mack.
And it always will be.

“I’ve cousins in Boston, even now,” said Michael. “They’re still O’Malleys. Patrick became a professional boxer. But a couple of the new generation went to university.”

“Have you been to see them?” asked Mack.

“Oh, no. They’re educated people now. Wouldn’t want anything to do with the likes of me, I doubt. But they’re still relatives. And they always send a Christmas card. They’ve done that for 180 years. Never missed.”

“I think they’d treasure you and the family here a lot more than you think,” said Mack thoughtfully. “Everyone needs roots. Even Americans . . . especially Americans.”

Michael made the call, and a few minutes later they crossed the causeway into the picturesque grounds of the St. Ernan’s House hotel. Mack grabbed his own bag and asked his driver to meet him in a couple of hours,
Right here, ten o’clock.

He checked in and was taken immediately into the dining room, where he was served a breakfast fit for a SEAL commander—bacon, sausages, fresh eggs, baked beans, and toasted Irish soda bread. They brought him a copy of the
Irish Times
and a guide to the area, which included the information that this country house had been built in 1826, by a nephew of the Duke of Wellington, victor of Waterloo.

“Can’t beat that,” muttered Mack as he walked up to his room and unpacked his gear, including a frog suit and flippers, which he expected to be utilizing before the week was much older. But not today. This was strictly recce.

Michael arrived with the car right on time, and Mack instructed him to drive around the head of the bay and then take the road down to
Mountcharles and Dunkineely. They stopped in each village, and Mack walked around the shore and down to the water and stared out into the bay. He noted the very small number of houses and the good access road. He also noted the small village stores that seemed well stocked with every kind of food and supplies.

He told Michael to drive on down to the end of the peninsula, all the way to the St. John’s Point lighthouse. And they stopped frequently to allow the American to walk around, as if testing the wind, which indeed he was.

“The eastern side of the headland gets a lot of shelter,” he said. “The weather mostly comes in from the ocean, I guess.”

“It’s nearly always westerly,” replied Michael, “straight off the Atlantic. Can be a bit gusty, but you’re right, the landward side of this headland is well sheltered.”

“And the water’s deep out there?”

“Oh, Christ, yes,” said Michael. “There’s very narrow shallows close to shore, and then it shelves straight down. That’s not the case farther along this north shore of the bay where there are good beaches. But right here, it’s a steep falloff.”

They drove back from the lighthouse and continued west down the main coastal road, and Mack spent most of the afternoon in Ireland’s busiest fishing port, Killybegs, which so far as Mack could see was a virtual blueprint for all that he and his team wanted to achieve.

Killybegs had always been a busy fishing port, but the harbor authorities had put in a new fifteen-hundred-foot deepwater dock that enabled huge freighters and fishing factory ships to moor alongside. It made Killybegs probably the most important seaport outside of Dublin, with ferries, tour ships, and every other kind of merchant ship finding an easy and efficient home on the wild shores of Donegal.

The part that interested Mack the most was the cost of the new pier, $65 million. He quickly assessed that the new US base in Inver Bay would require probably two of them, plus a couple of covered dry docks. The basic construction would come in at around $400 million for the jetties and buildings, at which point there would be a live, working US Navy base.