The Jake Fonko Series: Books 1 - 3

by B. Hesse Pflingger

  “I sympathize with your aims,” I said, hoping I sounded like I meant it, “but look, I’m an American. I’m ten years out of active military and rusty to say the least. I’m employed at the DeLorean factory for just a few weeks, and I’ll be leaving shortly when my work is completed. My temporary visa permits work only: it doesn’t extend to paramilitary activities.”

  “No harm in askin’,” said Brennan. “Should you have second thoughts, you might speak up at the next football game. Or mention it to Riley, and he’ll be puttin’ you in touch with me. One thing, though. Don’t be sayin’ anything to anyone about our little talk here. The RUC nor the militia takes a dim view of what we’re doin’. In point of fact, we’re as outside the law as the Provos. Though the authorities do give us a wink and a nod now and then,” he added. His teammates gave a chuckle at that remark.

  “Mum’s the word,” I assured him. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be joinin’ my teammates and ladies. Pleased to meet you, Brennan, lads.”

  Brother. I’ll stay well away from this, thank you very much.

  That was my intention, anyhow.

  My more immediate concern was the PING plot to assassinate Margaret Thatcher, looming up just a week away. I’d have to derail it, but if I ratted them out to the RUC the word could get around to radical Republicans that I was a snitch, and my job at the DeLorean factory made me a sitting duck. It wasn’t the kind of thing to remain a secret for long. I’d snitch if all else failed, but as long as the PING thought I was Jack McCool, maybe I could finesse it.

  They’d given me a general idea of the Semtex pick up point, so I spent the week scouting the area. It was mostly farmland and fields, bordered by stone fences or hedgerows or stands of trees, dotted with little villages, private homesteads and businesses here and there. I criss-crossed it in the Mini noting roads, fields, routes and, especially, pubs. Terrain looks different in the dark, so I ran a couple night patrols. The area was flat to rolling, and the road plan wasn’t too chaotic. I had landmarks committed to memory. By the time Friday rolled around I’d compiled a good mental map.

  Friday afternoon I stopped at a grog shop for a couple bottles of Tullamore Dew, then put on my rough clothes and walked from the Conway Hotel to the PING hideout in Twinbrook. Making sure I’d not been followed, I stepped into the alcove and knocked on the cellar door. Voices invited me in. I lifted the door and started down the stairs, and found myself confronted by Seamus and Clancy holding drawn pistols. Saoirse was not there, just the men, who all wore rolled black balaclavas pulled down on their foreheads.

  “Here now, what’s all this?” I asked, my hands raised.

  “Nothin’, Jack. This is customary when someone comes callin’,” Seamus said. “Never know who it might be, takin’ no chances.” They lowered their pistols, and I lowered my hands.

  “I’d advise against your headgear,” I said. “We’ll be transportin’ contraband, and should somebody see us drivin’ around, you with those on, what’s the first thing they’d think? Off with ‘em, you don’t need ‘em.” They reluctantly removed them and tossed them on the bed. “We’re ready to go, then?” I said. “What have you done about transport?”

  “We got a sturdy van. It won’t be missed until mornin’, prior to which time we’ll be returnin’ it. What’s that you have in the bags?”

  “A drop to calm our nerves and lend us courage.” I pulled the bag off one of the bottles of Dew. They looked on with interest. “Let’s have a sip right now, get us off to a proper start.” I twisted the top off the bottle, raised it to my lips, took a small swig. Then let some bubbles up the neck of the bottle and faked a big swallow. “Hits the spot,” I sighed as I wiped my mouth on my sleeve, and it was a true statement, but not for me tonight. I passed the bottle to Casey. “Drink hearty, men.”

  The first time around the group reduced the bottle by close to half. I faked a couple big swigs and started it around again. The third round finished it off. Breaking out the second bottle right away might seem suspicious, so I stood it on the table and said, “Let’s be about our business. Plenty to do tonight, no time to tarry. This will be here awaitin’, a little celebration when we’ve finished our work.” They went to the cabinet where they stowed their weapons. “I’d advise against carryin’ arms on this job,” I said. “We’ll be transportin’ high explosive. Firefightin’ we’ll want no part of.”

  They looked disappointed. First no balaclavas, and now no guns? “What about if we’re pursued on foot?” Kelly asked.

  “We’ll just evade ‘em in the dark. Come on, then.” They’d TWOCed (Took Without Owner’s Consent) a school’s mini-van: the drivers sometimes took them home. It would be easy for an RUC patrol to spot as stolen if anyone reported it missing. This outfit could learn a few things from our American gangbangers. At least it was roomy enough for the task; they got that part right. Casey was the designated driver. So far the whiskey was showing no effects. I’d have to work on that.

  The night was overcast, away from settlements inky. We proceeded toward the farmhouse. At a crossroads a bicyclist passed across our bow. “Just a minute, there, Casey,” I cautioned. “Slow down a bit…ease off…stop.” I opened the door, climbed down to the road, said, “Just a sec, there,” and crept off into the darkness. I waited a minute, then returned. “It’s all right. He’s not what I thought. Proceed, but just to be safe, take the next turn to the left.” It was a routine I’d perfected on my overseas bodyguard gigs: faking out the nonexistent pursuer. I directed Casey through several more turns and brought him back on course

  Eventually we reached the farm. The yard was overgrown, the plaster on the main house needed of spiffing up, but the building, unoccupied, was not yet ramshackle. We stopped at the barn door—a small shed, by American standards—and went in. The explosive was supposed to be hidden in the haymow, and a little exploring located some boxes under a tarp in the straw. We carried them out to the van and inspected the contents by the interior domelight. One hundred kilos of Semtex, it certainly looked like. One box, weighing much less, contained primers, wires, batteries, a timer, a detonator—your standard Prime Minister Exploding Kit.

  The van loaded, we started back. Casey was driving too well. If the plan I had in mind was going to work I had to put a stop to that. “Now comes the hazardous phase, men,” I told them. “Before we reached the farm house, we could claim we were out for a pleasure drive. (in a stolen school van—right) Were the RUC to interfere now, we’d have 100 kg of Semtex to be explainin’, and should pursuit appeal to ‘em, we surely don’t want bullets penetratin’ those packages. It’ll be necessary to take a more circuitous route, for the sake of evasion.” I steered Casey through a drunkard’s path of back roads, until we reached a pub I’d located in my recon. I directed Casey to park the van in front of it. “We’re ahead of schedule now, plenty of time, men. Let’s stop in here and wet our beaks. It’ll look normal, like.” I herded them up to the bar. “I see the good Mr. Jameson resides on your shelf,” I said to the bartender when he came for our order. “A round of that for my mates, landlord, and pour one for yourself.” He set up the glasses and filled them generously. I raised my glass and proclaimed, “And here’s to the glorious times ahead in the Free Irish Republic.”

  “Hear! Hear!” my crew cried. The crowd joined our toast and we all drank up. However, as I raised my glass I also tilted it and, as the others drained theirs, I dribbled most of mine down the sleeve of my jacket. They didn’t notice. “Our success tonight has me feelin’ generous. Landlord, another round.” The PING crew drank their second Jamesons. “How about some ale to wash it down with?” I asked when they finished, and none said no. We stood at the bar, enjoying our brewskis. It was a lively place, filled with regulars. Some old codgers at a nearby table were getting into it.

  “I’m tellin’ you, for all at this table to hear, Stephen—you’re a winefizzling, ginsizzling, booseguzzling existence, and t
hat’s not the end of it, either.”

  “You go to blazes, Boylan,” Stephen rejoined heatedly. “You doggone, bullnecked, beetle-browed, hogjowled, peanutbrained, weaseleyed fourflusher.”

  “False alarms and excess baggage, you triple extract of infamy,” injected another.

  “Leopold, you’re a bloomin’ idjit,” Boylan growled.

  These Irish and their poetic way with words. We’d better resume our odyssey before someone fractured a tongue and we found ourselves embroiled in a donnybrook. “Drain it down and let’s be off, lads,” I told my crew. “There’s important work yet to be consummated.” I plunked the tariff on the counter, and, leaving most of my ale sitting in the glass, I herded my troops out into the night. They swayed a little unsteadily—about time.

  Casey got behind the wheel, started up and pulled away from the pub, narrowly missing a dustbin. “Go about a mile and then our route takes a left turn, I’ll show you where,” I instructed him. He turned on a road through some fallow fields turned to bog by recent rains. The lights of another little village shown about a half mile ahead. We came to a crossroads. “To the right, here, Casey.” About two hundred yards along, we passed a pile of trash lying on the verge. “Oh oh!” I breathed. “Stop right here and douse your lights.”

  “What’s up?” asked Seamus.

  “That contraption we just passed. It’s an indication. Trouble may be in prospect. Sit tight and keep the lights off. I’m going to investigate.” I pulled my SIG out of my jacket, making sure they all saw it. “Bear with me, nary a sound now.” I crept out the door and quietly eased it closed, then stealthily stalked down the road in front of the van, pistol in firing position. When I got far enough away into the darkness that they couldn’t see me I fired off two rounds and dashed back to the car.

  “It’s as I suspected. There may be more of ‘em lurkin’ up ahead. Casey, you take us back to the road we turned from. Quick, now.”

  Casey’s driving was reaching erratic, but he managed to find the intersection. “Now turn here and resume where we’d been headed previously, toward them lights,” I told him. “We need to lie low for a bit, until the danger passes.” The village, I knew from previous recon, contained a hospitable pub. “There’s our bolthole,” I said as it came into view. “We’ll take refuge in there. They’ll never suspect.” No one in the group questioned which “they” I had in mind. Their imaginations harbored plenty of “theys.”

  We trooped inside. “A round of John Powers for me and my friends,” I ordered. We hoisted them in toast of the imminent demise of the British witch, except that I left most of mine in the glass. The small crowd looked at us curiously. I had the landlord pour some ale for chasers. My God, these guys could swill down alcohol—they’d give Todd Sonarr and his CIA buddies a go. At least a pint of Irish and two ales apiece already, and they were still on their feet. But, I was gratified to note, getting shaky.

  “Is any of these lads thinkin’ of operating a motor vehicle?” the landlord asked as we weaved toward the exit door.

  “Be informed that none other than my good friend Casey O’Clancy is our driver tonight. And any man who doubts his proficiency or his ability or his expertise at such matters as operatin’ a motorized conveyance will have to present his argument to me two fierce fists!” I announced.

  “And who’d be fool enough to challenge Jack McCool?” added Kelly with whiskey-fueled belligerence. Oops, wish you hadn’t said that, Kelly. The landlord backed away. The PINGs lurched out the door, reeled over to the van with boisterous abandon and crawled back in. “How are you doin’, Casey my lad?” I asked.

  “Sure and I’ve never been better. Where to?”

  “I think the danger’s past, but we lost a little time. I know a shortcut we can use. Just follow my directions.” I guided him onto a road between two unplowed fields. Across one of them some lights gleamed in the distance. “Stop the car. There,” I said. “Do you see those lights?”

  Casey shook his head, leaned forward over the wheel and tried to focus his vision. “I see quite a confusion of ‘em. What of it?”

  “This is the short cut, and them lights is our beacon,” I said. “We go through this break in the wall, straight across this field to them lights, get on the fast road to the bakery, and Bob’s your uncle.” Casey looked at me doubtfully. “Be of stout heart, Casey. I scouted it out. I know what’s what.” Which was true. Casey turned off the road and started across what seemed to be a field of short grass and bare spots. However, about halfway out we came to a wet place. And then mud. And then the wheels started spinning. “Give it more gas,” I advised him. “A touch more power and we’ll be through here like greased lightnin’.”

  When I was sure he’d mired the rear wheels down to the axles, I said. “Now you’ve done it, Casey. I thought we’d make it, but we’re stuck. But don’t despair, lads. I can make the situation right as rain, but I’ll need to get my equipment. Best we start walkin’, you don’t want to be caught out here should anybody stop to investigate. I’ll lead the way.” Mostly I wanted to get this pack of drunken Micks away from a van loaded with Semtex so they didn’t detonate themselves. The field I’d picked was a couple klicks from Twinbrook—not really that far, though with all the turns I took them through, it seemed like leagues away in the dark. I got them pointed in right direction, then announced, “Lads, the equipment I mentioned is stowed a little distance beyond your safe house. It’ll save us valuable time if I take off and leave you to find your way. I’ll free the van and then I’ll come collect you, and we’ll bring it to the bakery. While you’re waitin’ there’s that other bottle of Tullamore Dew to banish the night chills.” Which should put an end to this evening’s adventure good and proper, I estimated. I jogged out ahead and, when I was sure I was out of their sight, picked up my pace. It took me about twenty minutes to cover the distance to the Conway Hotel.

  I donned my darkest clothes and put my stick of night black in my pocket. I asked the clerk at the desk if they had a torch (flashlight, that is) I could borrow for a while—dropped something out in the parking lot, I said. I got in the Mini, applied some night black to my face and drove out to the van. It was pitch black out there, so I had to estimate where we’d turned off. I left the Mini parked on the verge at the break in the wall. With the torch I followed the tire tracks out to the van.

  I flicked on the domelight, located the detonators, the batteries and so forth. The bomb was designed to be set off by a timer, and it took a few minutes to figure out how to set this system up. It was now past midnight, with no one out and about. I figured the safest option was to blow it immediately. I’d made sure to mire the van away from anything important. Might scare a few sheep, but people in these parts had heard explosions before and probably wouldn’t think much of it. I inserted the primers in the charge, very carefully wired everything together. Reached for another tape to finish bundling the assembly. Crap! Used the last one. There was extra wire in the box, so I completed the job with that. I set the timer for seven minutes, enough time to cover the distance back to the car and an extra minute or two before it went off. What was I waiting for, Godot? I started back to where I’d left the Mini but the batteries in the torch were failing, and I had trouble following my incoming footprints, wound up slogging through some muddy patches. It took longer than I’d figured on, but I reached the Mini in time enough, opened the door and stood there. This out of the way, I could focus on dealing with my impending meeting in LA. Five…four…three…

  Holy shit! I’d underestimated what that load of Semtex would do. It was 100 kgs, not 100 lbs. Scratch one school van. The shock wave rocked the Mini and left me staggering against it, ears ringing. The last thing I remembered seeing, in the flash of the blast, was black-clad figures fast converging on me from all sides.

  4 | The Sinker

  I awoke on a hard bed in a concrete-walled cell with a single barred window, swathed in p
rison duds. I had a bad headache and a painful lump on the back of my skull. I made some noise and roused a gaoler. Needless to say, room service there left a lot to be desired, but he did at least bring me something to eat.

  For the next several days they kept me in that cell, except for the hours when very insistent representatives of the Royal Ulster Constabulary and MI5, the British internal security service, grilled me. What I learned was this: My recon for the detonation caper had fallen short in one crucial detail. My terrain assessment had been adequate, but I’d bollixed assessing the hearts and minds of the indigenous personnel. As it happened, the second pub I’d steered us into was Protestant in spirit and personnel. The landlord had correctly typed me and the lads as suspicious characters and had placed a call to the RUC, specifically calling their attention to the possible presence of notorious fugitive Jack McCool. They arrived after we abandoned the van in the bog but, using spotlights from the road, had found it and investigated it. Then they withdrew their vehicles and sent a squad on foot to stake it out. They were waiting in the field when I returned. With night vision binoculars they watched me rig the explosives, then quietly surrounded me and tracked me as I hiked out to the road staying outside the range of my torchlight. When I reached the Mini they closed in. My night vision weakened from using torchlight, I hadn’t seen them, and the rustling wind prevented my hearing them.

  Wouldn’t have missed them in the old days. Am I losing it? Mental note: sharpen up.

  No one was near enough to the van when it went off to be seriously injured, though the blast knocked a couple of them over. It shattered windows and shook some ale out of glasses in the pub on the road across the field, the lights I’d told Casey to head for. I couldn’t tell them much except my version of the truth, which they did not believe for a minute. For some reason, having been caught at the scene detonating a bogged-down, stolen van full of Russian explosives, wearing night-black and dark clothing, with a recently-fired SIG on my person and no personal ID, I didn’t impress them as a man they could implicitly trust. It didn’t help that several old gafoozlers claiming passing acquaintance with Jack McCool back in the day fingered me in police line-ups comprising usual suspects I was guaranteed to stand out from like a magician-forced card from a deck.