Cody's Army: Belfast Blitz

by Jim Case

Genres: Action & Adventure; Literary Fiction; War & Military

Synopsis

John Cody, ex-Marine and CIA operative, with his hand-picked team of fighting professionals takes on Terrance Leslie, second in comand in the IRA's Northern Council. Leslie plans to trigger an Irish revolt, but he hasn't planned on Cody's Army standing in his way.

Release date: September 26, 2009

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 219

Sample

For a moment there was not a sound to violate the cool silence of the late evening. Then a nighthawk shrilled as it pounced
on an unsuspecting mouse and wheeled away with a meal for its young.


Terrance Leslie crouched lower against the block wall. The good Catholic people of Beechrock were fast asleep in this community
south and west of central Belfast and just off Falls Road.


He wore black pants and a black long-sleeved T-shirt, skintight black leather gloves, and a black hood that revealed just
his eyes. No one would even see him. He would be a black spirit in the night.


The crisp, spring night air of Northern Ireland was invigorating. The winding road and the cottages of red brick and native
stone gave Leslie a strong sense of home, of country.


He tightened his grip on the Armalite rifle as he saw the Pig’s lights slanting along the curving road. Soon the ironically
named British Army rig would turn, prowl a few streets at random, and then swing its mounted patrol back north.


There the men inside the Pig would die.

Leslie pushed the rifle selector lever to fully automatic fire and checked the thirty-round magazine. There was a 5.56-mm
bullet waiting in the chamber. Time and time again he had told the IRA Council members, the bastards, that the only way to
fight a war was to fight a war.


And this was war.


If the bloody IRA was ever to move toward its goal, the members had to realize it was a war and stop acting like weak, puking
nannies.


The British Army Humber FV1611 came into view down the road and slowed for the sharp corner. It began maneuvering through
the turn slowly, and Terrance saw with satisfaction that the left-hand driver’s armored port had been let down. It gaped wide
open. His information had been right.


Through the sights of the Armalite assault rifle, Leslie saw the flash of the driver’s face. He squeezed off a six-round burst.

The 5.56-mm whizzers thundered from the Armalite barrel at 3280 feet per second, and all six sprayed through the driver’s
port. Three shattered the head of the nineteen-year-old draftee from London who had been driving. He jolted to the left in
time for two of the rounds to kill his mate sitting on the passenger’s side.


The vehicle slewed around the corner, and when the driver’s dead hands fell from the wheel, the tires straightened out and
the Pig crashed into the two-century-old stone wall around the Sean O’Conaill cottage.


In a practiced move Leslie lay down the Armalite, grabbed a rocket launcher from beside him, and sighted in. Quickly he fired
at the stalled Pig. The rocket-propelled armor-piercing grenade hit the side of the Humber, detonated with a screeching roar,
and blasted half the steel panel inward in the form of deadly shrapnel.


Terrance Leslie grabbed the Armalite, jumped to bis feet, and ran to the shattered rig. It had not caught fire. Gingerly he
approached the wreck and peered around the far side.


A British soldier of the Royal Regiment of Fusiliers lay half in and half out of the truck. He held his L1A1 self-loading
rifle, SLR, and when he saw movement at the rear, he sprayed bullets in that direction.


Leslie pulled back in time to avoid the rounds, men pushed the muzzle of his Armalite around the corner of the ‘rig. He leaned
out suddenly, angled the rifle downward, and triggered a six-round burst into the Brit.


The English Fusilier died instantly.

Leslie hesitated. Were there any more? He ,had to check inside. With great care he edged down the side of the smoking vehicle
to the open rear door. Before he could move, a figure flew at him from the smoky interior. He ducked and jolted to one side,
but a flashing knife sliced through his dark jacket, barely missing flesh.


He brought up the Armalite, but the quarters were too close. A pistol fired, and the slug barely missed Leslie. He pulled
the knife from his boot, its four-inch blade shaving sharp. The British soldier had slammed past him and fallen onto the macadam
at the side of the road.


Furiously Leslie spun around, still near the Pig, trying to get clear for a clean shot or to use his knife.

“Stinking IRA murderer!” the Fusilier screamed. He lifted his pistol, but blood poured from a tear in his right arm and it
trembled, then sagged. He tried to lift his arm again but the weapon was too heavy, the strength in his wounded arm fading.


Leslie dived on the man, his knife thrusting again and again at the enemy’s chest, only to see it hit and slant away. The
damn flak jacket! He lifted the blade and slashed higher at the British soldier’s unprotected throat.


Hot blood gushed from a carotid artery, spewing, spraying over Leslie’s hand, jacket, and face. He felt a wild thrill as he
slashed twice more and sensed the British soldier’s body go limp under him as his life flowed out on the Irish road. Terrance
stroked once more with his knife, then paused a moment to make sure the man was dead.


He rushed back to the Pig, checked the front, and saw two more bodies. A bloody four; the Brits always patrolled these rigs
with four men.


He dashed back to the end of the wall, where he picked up the empty rocket launcher and slung it over his shoulder. Lights
had come on in three of the nearest houses. The good Catholic residents would have heard the RPG and the rifle’ fire. None
of them would report it, nor would they come out until they were sure it was well over with.


He pulled out the partly used magazine from the Armalite, rammed in a new one with thirty rounds, and jogged past the O’Grady
house to the empty field behind it.


Terrance Leslie was thirty-two years old, a thin man at an even thirteen stone and not quite six-one. His sandy brown hair
was longer than he liked, falling now and then into intense green eyes that were wide set. He would have to get a haircut
soon. He hated getting his hair trimmed.


He had a small nose and jug ears that gave his face a slightly comic slant. However, there was nothing humorous about him
now.


The IRA soldier moved quickly to a small stream a quarter of a mile across the field that was crossed by hawthorn hedges and
again by low stone walls.


He found the path he wanted, followed it for four kilometers to the north, and went around several small stone farmhouses.
Leslie passed one ancient whitewashed and thatched cottage that stood sheltered in a cluster of syca-more trees. He had once
lived for a while in such a house.


After a long walk he came to an access road that led to the motorway exchange. In a patch of conifers the government had planted
just off the access road, he found his two-year-old Ford Anglia where he had left it.


A quick inspection proved that no one had tampered with it, or set a bomb on it. Quickly he took a heavy plastic case from
the rear seat and put the rifle and launcher in it, then slung them under the Anglia on prepositioned hooks and wired the
package in place.


He was well away from the death scene. With any luck the shots would not be reported until morning, for now there should be
no roadblocks at all, and certainly not any this far north. Leslie started the car and drove onto the access road, then to
the motorway. In half an hour he would be back at his small flat in the heaviest populated Catholic area of Belfast.


He was not smiling as he drove. He had not lusted for the deaths of those British youngsters. They were victims. He was their
executioner. It was his job. He had a certain talent for warfare; in fact, he was excellent at all phases of combat and removal
of an enemy. The best in the whole IRA, some said.


That was how he had reached the top levels of the organization.

Someday he would be the chief of staff with the whole IRA Council and members to serve his demands. He would have over three
hundred dedicated, trained, loyal freedom fighters. Then they would make progress. His way. Terrance Leslie’s way. It was
a war and would be fought like a war!


He parked the Anglia a half block down the street in a different location than he had used the previous day. Patterns set
by habit in any of his activities could lead to sudden death. He went up to his flat and quickly washed the British blood
off his hands and face where it had sprayed.


He put on a neat three-piece suit, went back down to the street, and walked two blocks over, keeping to the shadows. There
he climbed the stairs to the third-floor loft where the council would be meeting. The men up there thought he had been calling
on one of his lads who was hurt and resting on the far side of Belfast. James would cover for him. He was a good soldier.


He combed his hair, adjusted his tie, and checked his suit. It would never do to be sloppy in front of the council after he
had built a reputation for being a classy dresser. He turned the knob and went into the hall.


An Armalite trained on him for a moment, then he lifted his hat and the weapon swung away.

“And a good evening to you, Terrance,” the guard said. “I think they been awaiting fer you.”

Leslie grinned. “Thank you, Mr. Craig. I’ll be putting a mark in my book for you.” He nodded and walked toward the next door,
which was now held open. Underneath he was cringing. Not more petty arguments! He was sick to death of fishmonger wrangling!
He was close to tossing it all in and forming his own squad. Just one squad of ten men! Think how he could set all of Belfast
on its ear!


Paddy Behan, their chief of staff, looked up from his table and smiled. “Terrance, my lad, we’ve a bit of a problem here,
and you’re just the man to work out a compromise. Would you be having a few minutes?”


He sat down and listened to the two men before him explain the situation. Some damn procedural management affair that he couldn’t
care less about. He quickly struck a solution mat seemed obvious to him and sent the two men back to their work satisfied.


It was a working and reporting session, with the council members handling areas and items of their assigned concern. Then
the whole council met for ten minutes and the session was over. They did not like to prolong get-togethers, since it increased
the risk when they were in the same room for long. Anything could happen. There were spies everywhere. Terrance Leslie trusted
no one but himself.


He and Paddy went down the steps a short time later to a pub and lifted an ale.

“Have you heard anything about Cornerstone?” Leslie asked.

Paddy shook his head. He was in his fifties, had been in the movement since the 1956 border campaigns. He had been on the
wet side of things more than a dozen times. Notches on his gun, the American gangsters would call it.


Even so, Paddy Behan had a kind, soft face. His eyes were light blue, and large, red splotches showed on his cheeks. His hair
had thinned almost to the point of baldness on top. Usually he wore reading glasses.


He was not more than five-nine, and now his physician told him he was at least three stone overweight. He called it a beer
belly.


He shook his head. “No progress on Cornerstone. We’ve had four good men talking with them for two months. Nobody but you and
I know about the negotiations, laddy, and we keep it that way. If it works, it works. We’ve got our best talkers there—a lawyer,
even.”


“Sometimes, Paddy, I don’t care if it works or not. I’m fed up with all this talk.”

Paddy lifted his glass. “That, lad, is why we didn’t send you. Besides, we need you more here. We’ll keep things quiet while
they talk. It just might work. I’d say anything right now to get the damned British out of Northern Ireland. Then we can do
what we please with the Royal Ulster Constabulary, the bloody bastards.”


“The RUC never have been a big worry to us, Paddy,” Leslie said. “Unification with the Republic of Ireland is what’s important—first,
last, and forever!”


“Aye, and you know I believe that, too, Terrance. Sometimes the best way to an end result isn’t the bloody straight line.
Especially in politics, and this damn well is politics at its best or worst, I’m not sure which.”


They drank in silence for a moment, each man rethinking some important aspect of his IRA career.

At last Paddy lifted his glass. “To all of those good men we have lost, Terrance. May their eternal souls rest in peace.”

“I’ll drink to that, Paddy. Rest in peace!” But he was thinking of the four Fusiliers he had gunned down less than three hours
ago. It would be on the radio shortly, he imagined, maybe the telly tomorrow. He didn’t crave the publicity. However, he did
want the British to know that they were still in a war.


Sometimes they forgot.

Hell, sometimes a few of the IRA men forgot.

The two friends worked on their drinks. Paddy lifted one foot, slipped off his shoe, and massaged his foot.

“Never been quite the same since my set-to over in Londonderry on Bloody Sunday back in 1972. Quite a time, that.” He massaged
the foot again, then put his shoe back on. Terrance frowned slightly as the older man winced as he lowered his foot to the
floor.


They talked a moment more, then set a meeting for the next day in the lawyer’s office to find out if any progress had been
made on Cornerstone. Five minutes later they went their separate ways.


Leslie walked to his flat, realizing for the first time mat Paddy was slowing down. He was getting too old for this young
man’s war. Tonight Paddy never would have finished the job. It was a shame, but Paddy would have to be replaced sooner than
he thought. He would have a frank talk with Paddy soon.


In his second-floor flat he undressed and fell on the bed. He snapped on the telly and watched the late news. No mention of
die loss of the four men in Beechrock. The British would wait until tomorrow. Try to trap someone into a statement. They should
know better by now.


He lived alone. He never had had time for a wife. There was a woman now and then, for a night or two— usually someone he knew
from the movement who could be totally trusted. But time was the factor. He was thirty-two already. He had maybe ten to fifteen more active years. He had to put them to the very best
use he could.


Nobody else was going to do it; he would have to. He must spark Northern Ireland and the six hundred thousand Catholics living
there into a real war of independence against the Stormont holdovers and the British, if necessary. No, first get the Brits
out, then deal with the rest.


But how?

Kill the queen? They’d had their chance when she visited Belfast back in 1977. He had been twenty-two at the time but he’d
done nothing. She was right there on their streets! But mings had seemed different then.


Now he would jump at the opportunity. They needed a master stroke, a shocking raid to focus attention again on Ireland for
the Irish, not the bloody British or the unionists. Let them all move to London!


The real IRA needed a headline-maker again. They had been without one for so long. They needed daring, they needed attacks
and bombings and assassinations that would put them in the forefront of the news and in the hearts of Irishmen everywhere.


But what would it be? How could he do it unless he had control, unless he was the chief of staff?

He tried to sleep. For the first time in months he could not. He had no remorse for the four Brits he had slaughtered in Beechrock
that evening. They were pawns, simple dolts pushed around the board by the bishops and knights, while the important ones,
the rooks and the king and queen, lurked deep in the background where it was safe.


Pawn against pawn, that’s how wars were always fought, with the pawns suffering the losses.

He turned over and thought through the encounter again. Next time he would drop a grenade through an open port, if he had
the chance, when he made the final body count. He would not risk someone rushing him that way. Yes, a good soldier learns
from every encounter.


It seemed like he had always been fighting someone.

He had been born in 1955, after World War n, when Belfast had been hit hard by German bombers during the London blitz. His
father had fought in the war, been wounded twice, won medals twice, and came home to continue his work with the IRA in Belfast
for a United Ireland.


His father had fought in the Irish War in the border campaign of 1956 and had been one of those to at last declare it to be
a failure in 1962. Little Terry had not known why his father went away so often or stayed so long. Several times he came home
wounded, and they had to hide him in the attic and then in a cellar until he was strong enough to make it on his own.


Terrance grew up on IRA stories, of derring-do, and anger and hatred of all Protestants and Britons. His special impetus from
the IRA came in 1968, when he was thirteen years old. They told him his father had been killed as he planted a bomb in a shopping
district in London.


It was several years before he learned the truth. Duff Leslie had been killed along with another IRA man when a bomb they
were making went off prematurely in a garage on the outskirts of Londonderry.


Gelignite was impossible to obtain by then, and they had turned to using common materials to create their own explosives.
The trouble was that they were highly unstable and unreliable. His father had learned how unstable they could be.


Terrance’s mother had moved with him and his younger sister to Dublin for a while, but she found the situation there with
some shirttailed relatives impossible. Soon she was back hi Belfast, living in New Lodge, Old Park, and then Ardoyne, all
intensely Catholic areas of Belfast and all peppered with IRA members and sy. . .