Well - Dermot was fairly certain a policeman would be biting the dust, providing all went according to plan - the plan they’d finally settled on, that is. The one they decided to go for if the semtex turned out to be unavailable. The one where Aidan was supposed to watch the back door of the house, and Ciaran and himself closed in on the peeler, one Tommy Magee, from the left and right - if he arrived home from the North end of the street. It would be slightly different if he came down from the Southern end; a bit like the original plan - the one they’d pretty much rejected, but were still using bits of, though not of course the bit where...
Dermot shifted uncomfortably in the car seat and leaned forward, trying to see where Ciaran had disappeared to. Just then, Magee’s car turned onto the street from the Southern end, coasted along, and turned into the driveway of his house, which was about thirty yards ahead of where Dermot had parked.
This is it! thought Dermot, and trying to control a rush of adrenalin that might make him move too quickly and give himself away, he got out of the car, shut the door, and walked steadily along to the peeler’s driveway at just the right pace to get him there before the target had gone into the house.
Magee had only just opened his garage door when Dermot reached the garden gate; the target turned, and seeing Dermot approach, froze as he realised what was happening. His personal weapon was holstered, but Dermot’s handgun was already pointing at him.
Their gazes locked, and Dermot paused deliberately. He wanted to be able to remember this moment later and pore over it; he had wondered endlessly what he would feel as he pulled the trigger and ended someone’s life. Would there be a sense of triumph, or a surge of hatred? Would there be self-loathing? Would the thing feel oddly impersonal, with only a muted sense of regret for the consequences of a distasteful job which simply had to be done?
Well; however it felt, he was bound to remember it, he thought, for the rest of his life. As it turned out, he was completely wrong about this. Something distracted him, and he never considered the matter again in his life - which is to say, he was distracted from the question for at least another thirty seconds.
Dermot squeezed the trigger, and nothing happened. His eyes widened and his jaw dropped in horror; he gawped at the gun as if its barrel had suddenly sprouted a black flag with the word “Bang!” on it. Had it jammed? No. After all the disasters he had tried to plan against, it had to be the one he had never imagined himself stupid enough to cause. Aidan and Ciaran, yes, but not him. He had forgotten to release the safety catch.
Magee was frozen an instant longer, as if he couldn’t believe his luck; then he dashed forward, throwing himself at Dermot, not in the least intimidated by Dermot’s back-up team for the very good reason that (who knows why?) they were nowhere to be seen.
Dermot was still fumbling with the catch when the world turned white. His last thought before he was swatted aside like an insect by a wall of air harder than stone was exasperation with Aidan and Ciaran for not telling him they had changed the plan yet again; they were blowing the peeler up after all.
Dermot Reilly’s bit of Ulster sizzled nicely.
*****
As the bus pulled over to the Oxford Street stop, Morris Whitcomb roused himself from semi-somnolence to get up and move to the door before the crowd of debarking commuters trapped him in his seat. He was quick enough to be only a few places away from the head of the queue when the bus stopped; and stepping off, he walked briskly so as to be one of the first to the kerbside at the pedestrian crossing. He hated being in the middle of that silent, monomaniacal mob which marched on staring grim-facedly at the ground when it wasn’t watching the traffic; he always imagined that if he tripped over something and fell down they would walk right over him, and not being able to see the kerbstone made him feel insecure.
He stopped abruptly, so that the people behind him, not fully alert at that time of the morning, almost walked into him. No-one had quite enough energy for active impatience, but they frowned at him as they went by. He didn’t care. He was suddenly fed up with the whole routine. Why was he rushing? The pedestrian crossing lights would be red. They were always red. He would have to stand and wait while they all came and crowded around him anyway, thoughtlessly shoving their way forward and making him feel that the only thing preventing him from being tipped off the pavement and into the path of the rush hour traffic was the extra purchase he gained on the kerb by curling up his toes. Then there would be another race up to the lights beyond the courthouse, which would also be red. What was the point?
On a whim, he turned right and went towards the subway that led to Ann Street. Only two or three other people were going this direction, and it felt oddly relaxing, as he went down the subway stairs, to hear the noise of the traffic fading to a dull rumble overhead and being replaced by quick, light footsteps echoing along the tunnel.
He was about halfway along when he was dazzled by something as bright as if a camera flashgun had gone off right in his face. He gasped and staggered backwards, screwing his eyes shut tightly; the intensity of the light did not seem to diminish. Somewhere nearby, he could hear a woman giving a little squeal of distress, and someone else uttering oaths of pain and surprise. He felt a tingling, prickling sensation in his skin, even where it was not exposed. A ferocious blast of hot air began rushing past him.
Then the world seemed to be filled with a roar that arrived with a thump and went on and on and on, a hundred times louder than the traffic had been, obliterating all other noises so completely that even as he was being deafened, Morris felt as if his ears were stuffed with cotton wool.
In the same instant, the floor of the subway was whipped from under his feet as if it was a carpet being given a sharp tug. He fell to a floor that shuddered and tilted and crumbled even as he lay on it, and his nose and lungs filled with dust. Small, hard things hit him, and a heavier, dead weight that he thought must be earth seemed to pile up over his legs. He yelled as something razor sharp - flying glass, he supposed - whipped across his back.
Then, suddenly, it was all over.
He raised himself gingerly onto his hands and knees, kicking off the soil and stones and trying to blink away the purple spots that filled all but the very edges of his vision. He hurt just about everywhere, though above the general haze of pain the back of his neck and his hands especially were stinging as if they had been scalded.
“Oh, God,” he heard someone say; but a high-pitched whine of tinnitus filling his head seemed almost to drown the voice out. Morris turned in the direction of whoever spoke, but could see nothing. “Oh, God, help me,” said the man again. “I can’t feel my legs.”
“Where are you?” said Morris. “I can’t see properly yet. The light - it was so bright-”
“Over here,” said the man. “Over here.”
Morris crawled towards the place the voice was coming from. “Can anyone else see? What’s going on?"
From somewhere else, there was the sound of a groan and someone stirring under rubble. “It was the IRA,” said a woman. “It must have been the IRA.”
Morris was as yet too traumatised to think straight, but felt blurrily that this did not ring true. “I don’t understand,” he said. “What about the flash? Did anyone else see that?"
“I saw it,” said the crippled man. “I thought it must be something electrical -” he paused as an idea struck him. “A gas explosion! That’s what it was - and something electrical set it off -”
He was interrupted by a tearful howl from the woman. “Who cares what it was?” she cried. “Help me, somebody! I’m blind! Help me -”
“You’re not blind!” Morris bawled back, desperately trying to resist the temptation to scream mindlessly for help along with her. He had never realised the idea of giving oneself up to panic could seem so seductive. “It’s just temporary, and it’s dark down here anyway. Keep on blinking and you’ll find your vision gradually returning.” He tried it himself, hoping he was not talking optimistic nonsense. “P
anic’s not going to help. We have to keep calm until help arrives, and in the meantime, help ourselves.”
“Okay,” said the crippled man unsteadily, “what can we do?"
There was an expectant pause; the others were obviously waiting for Morris to say something. He had no clear idea of what to do next, however, and was a little surprised to find himself being looked to as a leader. “Right,” he said, trying to think of something, “right. Okay. Is there anyone here who can see yet?” There were a few negative murmurs. “Hold on a minute. How many of us are there down here anyway? Call out your names.”
Several people spoke at once.
“One at a time!” said Morris. “Start again.”
“Jimmy,” said the crippled man.
“Jean,” said the woman.
“Mairead,” said someone else, a young woman’s voice.
“Patricia,” said another. “Listen, there was a man near me when - when it happened. I don’t know where he is now. He might be unconscious, or buried under something.”
“Okay,” said Morris, “it’s only a matter of time before help comes. If we just wait a little longer we’ll be able to see enough to assess the situation -”
“How will anyone know we’re here?” said Jean.
“Maybe we should keep quiet for a few moments and see if we can hear anyone digging for us,” suggested Jimmy.
“Yeah,” said Morris, gratefully seizing on the idea, “let’s do that.” They all sat and listened.
He could hear nothing in particular; though he was not surprised by that. It had nothing to do with the battered condition of his eardrums; the first thing to happen after any explosion would be that the traffic was stopped. Emergency services couldn’t move in immediately without a reasonable degree of certainty that they were not going to be the victims of a further explosion. He wondered for a moment why he could not hear any sirens, then decided it was probably because there was no need for them - the Police were already very close, in one direction at the Courthouse, opposite the bus station; and in the other (if his memory did not deceive him) hanging about what seemed to be a favourite spot of theirs for watching traffic, the Queen’s Bridge.
Panic touched him again as another thought came to him. What if the checkpoint on the bridge or the Courthouse had been the target? If a really big bomb had been centred elsewhere, no-one might realise that the subway had collapsed. It was quite long; it might appear perfectly undamaged to someone passing the top of the steps. And with the area cordoned off as it probably would be soon, how long would it be before someone tried to use the subway again?
Beginning to feel very warm, Morris moved his hands to loosen his tie, and as they brushed against his throat he felt moistness. He supposed his knuckles were bleeding. But the moisture made him think about something else. The subway ran alongside the river Lagan. Was there a danger they would drown before they could get out? Was the tunnel below the water level or not? He began listening for running water.
Someone suddenly exclaimed wordlessly.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” said Jean.
“Everything,” said Mairead in a despairing voice. “Everything.” She stood up, and Morris found he could see her faintly by the illumination that a tiny crack in the rubble offered. She moved towards the crack and began clearing the earth and stones away in careless handfuls. “Please, God, let me be wrong. Let me be wrong.”
“Here!” said Morris. “What are you doing? You’ll bring it all down on us!” He leapt up beside Mairead and tried to restrain her. “We’re going to get out, woman! Don’t panic! We just have to be patient and wait for help!"
Mairead shook Morris’s hands off. “There’s not going to be any help!"
“Of course there is!” said Morris. “Now calm down -”
“The tingling we felt when the flash hit us! Don’t you know what that means? You can still feel it now, can’t you?"
Morris realised it was true. “Well, so what? What does it mean?"
“It means we’re as good as dead already,” said Mairead flatly. She turned to the rubble again. “Help me with this.”
“Wait!” cried Jimmy suddenly. “I can’t move! Don’t leave me here!"
“Nobody’s going to leave you,” said Morris in the most soothing voice he could manage. He hovered by the girl indecisively; it was plain enough there was no stopping her without a major struggle.
“Don’t leave me!” yelled Jimmy again, and Jean began sobbing an accompaniment:
“We’re going to be buried alive, buried alive, buried -”
“Shut up!” snapped Morris. “I mean, calm down! We’re just going to make a way out of here for all of us as safely as we can. No-one’s going to be left behind or buried.” He turned to Mairead, and grabbing her arm, hissed angrily at her: “Look, I’ll help you, but let’s do this properly, okay? There’s no sense bringing the roof down on ourselves when a bit of caution can get us all out safely.”
Breaking out didn’t seem to take half as long as Morris had anticipated. As light began to come through, Morris could see his companion’s face more clearly: under the dirt, it was an angry red, as if she had spent far too long under a sun lamp. He assumed he looked the same.
They broke through into an undamaged part of the subway with the steps only a few metres ahead of them. They were dusty and rubble-strewn; and, apparently, quite hot. The soles of Morris’s shoes seemed to melt slightly and stick to each step. The couple, apprehensive as to what scene might meet their eyes when they reached road level, ascended the steps as if in solemn procession. Behind them, Jean and Patricia crept out of the hole in the rubble.
Plumes of mist wafting from the direction of the river, as fine as mist from the spout of a boiling kettle, obscured their view that way, though they could plainly see that the Queen’s Bridge was no more. They turned around slowly.
To their right, the Waterfront Concert Hall - and beyond it, the Hilton - had been levelled.
On the road, rubble from collapsed buildings was scattered unevenly for as far as they could see; the exposed patches of asphalt were melted and a few still bubbled. The few vehicles left on the road looked like beetles crushed under the foot of a careless giant; rent open at the back when the flash had made the fuel tank explode, they were flame-blackened yet spotted with leprous patches of cement dust, with runnels of fused glass where windscreens used to be. For a few moments Morris watched a Volvo slowly tilting as it sank a couple of inches into the road surface, almost hypnotised by the smoke rising languidly from lumps of its tyres which had not completely melted off. Then a piece of masonry slid off its roof with a sound like fingernails screeching on a slate, tearing away the creeping sense of numbness which had begun to cushion the impact of all this.
He turned a few more degrees and saw the remains of the Courthouse; then the heap that had been Fire Brigade Headquarters; then, opposite the river, the few courses of bricks which were all that was left of Oxford Street’s other buildings; and beyond them, the smashed brick and warped steel of street after street right up to the base of the smoky pillar standing at the heart of it all.
Mairead moaned incoherently and fell to her knees, careless that the heat of the concrete was scorching them. Morris, unable to take any of this in, craned his head back to look at the mushroom-shaped cloud towering over them which the wind was already beginning to dissipate.
*****
It was, of course, at roughly this point that Gerry Marshall’s TV set stopped giving a decent picture.
In the Land Of Nod, some rather nice images he was watching were also spoiled; he began hearing a deep, threatening rumble as thunderheads built up on the dream-horizon.
*****
The SWAT teams were far too close to Ground Zero to feel disappointment at being too late. In the time it would have taken a human brain to register the event, the materials which composed their bodies were blown away like wisps of vapour and scattered over several miles.
*****
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Jun Min, who at the last moment had decided that staying unflappably at his post in his Stormont Castle office was in fact more unintelligent than unflappable, was over the Irish Sea in an Army helicopter only two miles out of Belfast when the blast wave hit him.
One moment he was sweating and biting his nails, worrying about a million things at once - what was to be done if the worst came to the worst, how he could wriggle out of responsibility, how the Province was to get even halfway back on its feet with its principal hospitals gone - then he was throwing his hands up against an unpleasant glare that seemed to come from every direction at once. Already half-deafened by the roar of the helicopter engines, he was unaware of the blast until the vehicle shuddered and pitched forward. The rotor blades, the tail, and one of the skids were ripped off - he could see the rotors warping and spinning off into the distance - and the cabin tumbled end over end for quite a long way with loose objects inside rattling about like peanuts in a shell too big before it began to lose momentum and dropped towards the sea. Jun Min did not live long enough to feel the impact; even if a flying pair of scissors from the first aid box had not gouged a four inch wound in his chest, penetrating his heart, the small box of rifle ammunition that cracked smartly against the side of his head would have been quite enough to finish him off.
PART 3: Post-nuke
Immediately upon awakening, Rosie tried to sit up. That was a mistake; her head began pounding right away. She supposed she must have had a whale of a time last night to wake up with a hangover like this one. She could remember nothing about getting drunk, but in view of how she felt, that was no surprise.
Fanatics: Zero Tolerance Page 4