Dublin Odyssey

by Michael P. Cooney

  “Ready today, Friday, Mick.”

  “Exactly! Looks like we’re down to our last dime, Kev. If we get this one wrong—well, we can’t let that happen. What do ya say about fueling up that helicopter of yours and taking a little trip? Think you can justify a trip up to Howth?”

  “Finally gonna take me up on my offer for a little fly-time. I’ll call over and have the Ecureuil ready within thirty minutes. Only problem we may have is getting clearance up around Howth. That area is the final approach glide path for Dublin Airport. Sometimes it takes…”

  “Wait! You’re a genius, Kev.”

  “That’s the second time you used that title on me, Mick. Keep it up and I’m gonna start believing you.”

  “It’s the approach to Dublin Airport. They’re gonna do something when Air Force One is landing. It’s gotta be. That’s when it’s most vulnerable. When the landing gear goes down, some of the plane’s defenses, like the ECM, Electronic Counter Measures system, go dark. Interference from the ECM causes the aircraft’s ailerons to respond sluggishly which could be problematic just before set down.”

  “Why not wait till he’s taking off?”

  “The system doesn’t have the problem on liftoff. Besides, from the looks of things, two boats are ready to go—they’re going to make their exit today, Friday. They’re not waiting for any Merrion Square speech. By Saturday, they’ll be long gone.”

  “That’s the one piece of intel that not even our commissioner will have—when the president’s plane will land. My understanding is not even the pilots know the exact time. And they have top secret clearances.”

  “That’s true. The exact time comes from the Air Mobility Command’s 89th Airlift Wing at Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland. But the C-141 Starlifters, carrying the president’s bulletproof limo and those black SUVs loaded to the brim with state-of-the-art weaponry, will be landing first. So once they’re on the ground, Air Force One won’t be far behind.”

  “So let me get this straight. You now believe that somebody is gonna try and take out Air Force One just before it lands.”

  “With a surface-to-air missile from a sailboat anchored off Howth marina. I think we should at least consider the possibility.”

  “Any other possibilities we should consider?”

  “Yes! A second opportunity.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “What if you miss? I would think AF1 will avert the landing and head back out to sea. If I remember the map of Dublin’s coastline, that would have AF1 banking right over Dalkey.”

  “Shit! That’s exactly where that fishing boat Deforrest rented is waiting.”

  “Second opportunity at the same target. Don’t get that very often. Landing gear still down. Defenses still minimized.”

  “My problem with either of these theories is who we can share them with? And who’s gonna believe us anyway?”

  “At this point, nobody. Definitely not the Secret Service.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that.”

  “How about it, Kev? Ready for that helicopter ride to Howth?”

  “Let’s do it. Matt can drive us to the terminal. What are we looking for anyway?”

  “Boat number 31. Remember, Deforrest told the Harbormaster to have 31 ready by noon. Wonder what the deal is with number 31. The Greek doesn’t do anything without thinking it out to the max.”

  Out of habit, Mickey looks down to where his watch, his Da’s watch, used to be. “Oops! What time ya got, Kev?”

  “Eleven-fifteen hours. Number 31 should be ready and waiting for—for whom?”

  “Let’s go find out. You sure you’re up to this, partner?”

  “I’m fine. We should get up to Howth, if that’s where you want to go, by twelve hundred hours.”

  Kevin tells Matt to give the pilot a heads-up and start his preflight procedure. Mickey thanks Sergeant McNesby and the two young Garda who took down Deforrest, saving Mickey from a longer foot pursuit than he wanted.

  On the way to the terminal Mickey and Kevin start rehashing the significance of the number 31 for the Greek. Young Matt was listening and asks the superintendent if he could weigh in.

  “Sir, may I suggest a possible reason why your Greek may have used 31?”

  Kevin looks at Mickey and smiles. “Young Matt Kelly has a theory.”

  “Sure, Matt. Let’s hear it.”

  “I keep hearing that your Greek has been using the name Michael Collins while here in Ireland.”

  “Go on, Matt.”

  “Our Michael Collins was 31 years old when he was assassinated. So I’m thinking…”

  Mickey answers first. “I like it. That’s exactly the kind of thing Odysseus would do. Nice job, Matt.”

  Kevin, not wanting to act too impressed with Matt, follows with, “I guess we’ll never know for sure. Will we, Mick?”

  “If I ever get a chance, I’ll be sure to ask.”

  Matt with a big smile pulls up to the still-under-construction Garda Helicopter Headquarters at eleven thirty-five. The Air Corps pilot meets them on the helicopter pad. Kevin waves and points to Garda Air Support Unit 1 warming up on the pad.

  “We can fly under Dublin radar and land close by if need be. Agree?”

  “You’re the man. It’s perfect.”

  Mickey, Kevin, pilot, and copilot clear the terminal on their way to Howth. All they know for sure is they’re out of options. The guessing game is over. It’s Friday the 24th of May. And it’s game day.

  CHAPTER 37

  “The seeking for one thing will find another.”

  Irish Proverb

  Hovering at two hundred feet, below Dublin Airport radar, it’s easy to spot the names and numbers on the front bow of the sailboats and powerboats anchored in the Howth marina.

  Mickey taps Kevin on the arm and pulls the black headset away from his right ear. Kevin does the same with the left side of his headset. Shouting slightly, Mickey reminds everyone that they’re looking for any boat with the number 31.

  “Don’t see it yet, Mick. Ya think it went out early?”

  “Only one way to be sure. Can you put this bird down in the field by the Yacht Club? I’ll jump out and check with the harbormaster.”

  Kevin taps the pilot on the shoulder and points to a grassy area about one hundred meters from the small harbormaster’s boat hut.

  “Put it down over there. The captain wants to talk to the harbormaster.”

  The pilot gives a thumbs-up and moves to a position over the grass landing area. Once on the ground, Mickey hops out the rear door and jogs to the white shingled boat hut. Kevin can see Mickey talking to a man through the half-door. He shakes hands with the man and jogs back to the copter. Mickey signals for Kevin to get out and follow him a short distance from the deafening rotating blades. He lets Kevin know what the harbormaster told him.

  “Number 31 is owned by a Mister H. Ramzi who arranged for John Deforrest and two friends to rent his boat.”

  “Well, we know the real John Deforrest won’t be sailing today.”

  “That’s for sure. We also know the H. Ramzi is a student at Trinity. He was in Collins’ class. We now also know Footballer 31 was taken out at eleven forty-two. So we just missed whoever was onboard. But, according to the harbormaster, the thirty-foot vessel has paid up for twelve hours.”

  “Twelve hours is a long time to sit up here on a hunch—wouldn’t you say, Mick?”

  “Maybe we don’t need to wait that long. I saw a rather official-looking correspondence from none other than your commissioner, partially concealed, sitting on O’Malley’s desk. O’Malley was the name embroidered on the guy’s shirt.”

  “Commissioner Byrne sent O’Malley a letter? Who is this O’Malley? Why does he rate a letter from Byrne?”

  “From what I could gather, the letter got to O’Malley for no other reason than he’s the guy minding the store, the Howth Marina, on the 24th of May.”

  Kevin and Mickey simultaneously utter, “The day Air Fo
rce One will be flying over Howth on its way to Dublin Airport.”

  “Don’t suppose my commissioner’s letter gave up the time of AF1’s flyover? Did he, Mick?”

  “Not in so many words. But he did mandate O’Malley to instruct all Howth boaters to be back in port and anchored no later than twenty-one hundred hours, nine o’clock. The reason given was something called MDTE.”

  “MDTE is an acronym for Mandatory Disaster Training Exercise. The Air Corps and the Garda have joint training exercises all the time. They’re mini war games. They’re never publicized beforehand and usually last four hours.”

  “I think your commissioner inadvertently gave us a window for when the president’s entourage will be touching down.”

  “He did?”

  “Sometime between 9 PM and 1 AM. That’s our four-hour window.”

  “Holy shit, Mick. So much for national security. And if you’re correct about the 9 AM part, a half hour prior all in-bound and out-bound flights into Dublin will completely stop.”

  “You’re right, Kev. Forgot that’s SOP for Air Force One.

  “Did O’Malley give any idea what course the Footballer was gonna take?”

  Mickey doesn’t answer immediately. He seems to be mulling over his answer. “Ya know, until I heard you say Footballer, the boat’s name didn’t mean much. But now—football is the code word for the briefcase the president always has nearby. It’s the so called ‘red button’ that begins the process for a nuclear attack while the president is away from fixed command centers. Like the White House Situation Room. It’s just kinda curious that someone would name their sailboat after a forty-five-pound strategic defense system. A ‘Nuclear Football.’”

  “I think you may be reading too much into it, Mick. A footballer for us is a soccer player. It’s a common expression.”

  “You’re probably right, Kev. Anyway, that’s a negative on what course 31 is taking. But O’Malley did say he heard one of the trio say something about the Dalkey coast. Sailing doesn’t sound like flying. Pilots call in flight plans. Sailboat captains just go sailing.”

  “That they do, Mick. That’s why it’s so much fun. Set sail and your off. Checking out the sights.”

  “What do ya say we do a little sightseeing ourselves? We got enough fuel to check out the coastline and make it back to Dublin in one piece.”

  Kev calls up to the pilot. “We good to check the coast?”

  The pilot yells back. “As long as the weather holds, we’re good for an hour or so. It’s your call, Superintendent.”

  Kevin twirls his index finger, gestures up with his thumb and says, “Let’s do it. Okay, Mick. Let’s see if we can locate our number 31 for ya.”

  Kevin tells the pilot to head out over “Ireland’s Eye” at about sixty meters, then south toward Dalkey at the same altitude. The pilot gives the traditional thumbs-up and flies over Howth’s harbor and north to “Ireland’s Eye,” a fifty-three-acre island a short powerboat ride from the marina. The Vikings called it Eria’s Ey. The ruins of a Martello tower and an eighth-century church are the only signs of previous habitation. Other than a hodgepodge of birds and the occasional boatload of tourists, Ireland’s Eye is uninhabited.

  As the pilot does a flyover of the “Eye,” Mickey asks about access to the tower. Kevin explains that the tower’s only window is about five meters or sixteen feet above the ground and that access is by a rope that hangs down from the fieldstone window frame.

  As the copter flies by the northernmost end of the “Eye,” Kevin points to the thick knotted rope dangling from the window.

  “There’s the rope, Mick.”

  “I see it. Sounds like something kids would do, Kev.”

  “Actually, I was told that one of the tour-boat captains—there are two but neither has fessed up to it—hung the rope. But it’s mostly kids that climb up to the tower window to take pictures of the harbor.”

  “Reminds me of one of those German gun turrets I’ve seen in old war footage. Ya say the only way up is by that rope?”

  “Unless ya want to tote a sixteen-foot ladder out there. Then yes. That’s it.”

  The pilot finishes the fly-by of Ireland’s Eye and heads south to the coastal town of Dalkey and its own similar offshore island. There must be in excess of a hundred sailboats meandering up and down the Irish coastline between Howth and Dalkey, none displaying 31 on its bow. The pilot circles Dalkey’s two boat rental marinas a couple of times, looking for the Footballer or 31, with negative results.

  “Looks like we hit a dead end, Mick. Guess it’s back home.”

  “I guess.”

  Mickey asks the pilot how much more time they can stay airborne and still make it back to Dublin safely.

  “With the four of us onboard, I’d say we should start back in the next ten minutes.”

  “What time you got, Kev?”

  “Thirteen fifteen.”

  “I’m gonna lighten your load. Can you drop me off back at that grassy area we landed earlier?”

  The pilot looks at Kevin for a decision. Kevin shrugs, then reluctantly gives his okay.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing, Mick.”

  “Me too. I’m down to my last play, Kev. I’m hoping for a Hail Mary pass for the win.”

  Kevin shrugs. “Whatever that means, Mick. But ya know I gotta stay with the crew, right?”

  “Of course! And you need to get yourself home and get some rest. I don’t want you to end up back in the hospital.”

  Kevin nods yes and tells the pilot to go back to Howth and drop off Mickey. As the helicopter takes off for Dublin, Mickey waves to Kevin who returns the wave and adds two thumbs-up. Then mouths, “Be safe, Mick.”

  Mickey returns the double thumbs-up. He watches as Air Support Unit 1 banks right, then heads due south. Okay, Devlin. Now what?

  CHAPTER 38

  “Watching is part of good play.”

  Irish Proverb

  Mickey walks to the private yacht club a hundred and fifty yards away, flashes his badge at the nautically dressed security guard standing outside the side door. He had been watching Mickey approach after he jumped out of the Garda helicopter. The fifty-something man, with a distinct American accent, looks at Mickey’s badge and says, “A little out of your jurisdiction, aren’t you, Captain?”

  Mickey put his badge away and starts to explain how he’s working with the Dublin Garda when the man cuts him short.

  “No need to explain, Cap. I saw you get out of the helicopter. Figured you for a copper just by the way you walk. Cops from America all seem to have the same swagger. I’m Eric McFadden, retired NYPD and full-time security flunky and lovin’ it. Whatever you need, Boss.”

  Mickey shakes hands with McFadden. “Thought that accent of yours sounded close to home. Nice to meet ya, Eric.”

  “Yours too. And right back at ya. So how can I make your life easier, Cap?”

  “First, ya can call me Mickey. Next, I have some time to kill and I’d like to make a couple of phone calls.”

  “All doable. Follow me, Mickey. I got the perfect spot for you to kill some time. And your phone calls—not a problem. In fact, let me get you one of our ‘throwaway’ cell phones. We give them to guests who forget their phone, or don’t have one, and are spending the day with us. We issue them just in case they run into problems on the sea. I’ll set you up with one. They’re only good for twenty-four hours though. Then the cell provider shuts them down. But you can use them to call anywhere.”

  “That sounds great, Eric.”

  “No problem. We do ask our guests to return them when they’re finished though.”

  “Absolutely! You sure you’re not gonna get jackpotted over it, Eric.”

  “Not a chance. ‘Sides, what kinda guy would I be if I didn’t help out a fellow copper? We gotta stick together, right?”

  “Right!”

  Mickey continues following Eric, who he finds out along the way worked Homicide Division as detective second grade th
e last five years on the job. He worked for a commander Mickey met at a seminar given at the Atlantic City Convention Center. Eric leads Mick to the club’s rooftop glass observation room, overlooking the Howth harbor, and a panoramic view of the Irish Sea.

  “This is my own little piece of this place. It’s one of the bennies for being head flunky. The place is yours for however long you need it. There are sodas and snacks in the fridge. And for your viewing pleasure, there are binoculars in my desk. It’ll take me a few minutes to set you up with that ‘throwaway’ phone.”

  “Perfecto! How lucky am I running into a fellow cop from back in the world with the drag to set me up like a king? I appreciate what you’re doing for me, Eric. I really do.”

  “Like I said, not a problem. I’ll be right back with your phone.”

  Eric leaves the observation room and Mickey proceeds to scan the harbor and the coast for the Footballer.

  A few minutes later Eric returns and gives Mick the seven-digit code to activate his cell phone. Mickey punches it in and immediately sees “Activated” on the screen.

  “Outstanding!”

  “Isn’t technology wonderful, Mickey?”

  “I’m starting to think so.”

  Mickey didn’t go into his problem with cell phones causing brain cancer. Didn’t want to smack a gift horse in the mouth. Maybe later.

  “Had lunch, Mickey?”

  “Been too busy.”

  “I’ll send one of my guys up. Like seafood?”

  “Love it.”

  “Good. It’s what Howth is famous for. And the Yacht Club has some of the best.”

  Eric leaves and Mickey makes four quick calls. He calls his wife, Kevin O’Clooney, Katherine McBride, and Michelle Cunay. None of them pick up. He leaves his new temporary cell number and a message. Then it’s back to the task at hand: scanning the area. He’s interrupted fifteen minutes later when a young redheaded lad brings him a smorgasbord of seafood and a pitcher of iced tea on an antique-brass serving tray. Not having eaten since earlier that morning, Mickey made short work of his welcomed and timely feast. A couple of hours pass and still no sign of the Footballer. Mickey checks the time on the cell. Almost five o’clock already? A couple more hours and it’s everyone out of the pool.