palace barracks, county down,
northern ireland,
april 2018
In a way, the six NIRA men in the three-quarter-ton British Army Land Rover had been preparing for this mission their whole lives. In reality, they had been training for this particular attack for the last month. They had studied the layout of their objective using photographs, as well as a scale model, and had spent numerous hours honing their skills on the A2 variant of the SA80 assault rifle. They had even practiced refining their English accents to the point that any of them would easily pass for someone who had been raised in the southeast of England.
It was eight fifteen as they pulled up to the main gate of one of the most heavily guarded British Army installations in the United Kingdom. None of them spoke. Although the sun was starting to show itself through the gray clouds overhead, the ground and imposing buildings were still wet from the previous night’s downpour. This was Ireland, after all; it wasn’t lack of rain that made it so green. Palace Barracks, as it was known, was the home of the Royal Scots Borders, first battalion of the Royal Regiment of Scotland. The battalion was considered specialized infantry and was tasked in a counter-terrorism role. This specialization and the fact that it was a Scottish battalion in Northern Ireland made it a ripe target. The barracks were not exactly an homage to any form of architecture, unless there was a “dull and dreary” movement.
The leader of the six-man NIRA cell, Raymond Boyle of the Special Investigation Branch, was dressed in a slightly worn suit, as was the driver. The other four men in the back of the vehicle wore Military Police uniforms. Nobody messed with the Military Police. One of the guards approached the passenger-side window while another approached the driver’s side. There were other soldiers visible, and the NIRA men knew that there would be even more manning weapons, creating a crossfire that would rip them to pieces. The first guard tapped on the passenger-side glass.
Boyle lowered the window.
“Identification,” ordered the guard.
“‘Sir,’” responded Boyle in a perfect posh southern accent.
“Excuse me?” responded the guard.
“Identification, sir.”
The man immediately came to attention and saluted. “Sorry, sir, of course, sir. If you wouldn’t mind, could I please see your identification, sir?”
“Yes, of course, Private . . . ?”
“Hunter, sir.”
“Of course, Private Hunter. Don’t worry yourself too much about the ‘sir’ thing. After all, you weren’t to know.” Boyle handed over the perfect fake ID.
“Thank you, Captain Boyle. Much appreciated. Could I also see the identification cards for each of your men, sir?”
“With pleasure, Hunter.” The other men passed their ID cards to Boyle for inspection.
Another man appeared from a small building next to the main gate wheeling a small mirror on the end of a long handle. He proceeded to wheel the mirror under the Land Rover, checking for bombs. He found nothing and gave Private Hunter a thumbs up. Hunter nodded back in acknowledgment.
“Can I ask where you are going, sir?”
“I need to see the lieutenant colonel on an urgent matter. Can you give me directions to the battalion office?”
“Absolutely, sir.” The private handed back the IDs and proceeded to give them directions, which of course they didn’t need. As they drove off, he snapped a smart salute. Boyle nodded in recognition and smiled thinly.
As Boyle raised the window, one of the men in the back laughed slightly. “Bejesus, Raymond. You almost gave me a heart attack when you made him call you ‘sir,’” he said in a broad Londonderry accent. The other men started laughing, their nerves getting the better of them.
“Shut the fuck up,” hissed Boyle. “You want this over before we even get started?” All the men instantly fell silent. “Make sure you keep to the speed limit, Shaun.”
“Yes, sir,” he replied. Two of the men in the back snickered.
On their way up to the mess hall for the lower ranks, Boyle pondered how the men with him had ended up where they were. All of them, besides himself, had been in infant school when the Good Friday Agreement had been signed, yet to a man, they hated it and considered it traitorous. They had all lost one or more family members in the Troubles, either at the hands of the UVF, the British Army, or the Royal Ulster Constabulary, and they’d been constantly reminded of this fact throughout their youth. That they were even part of this suicide mission, which is precisely what it was, was a testament to their dedication. It also didn’t hurt in their recruitment that their prospects in life were nonexistent. Boyle had watched his father, mother, and sister blown to pieces in the street by a bomb wired to the ignition of the family car. The only reason he hadn’t died was that he had been running a fever, so they had left him in the care of a neighbor while they went to visit his grandmother in Crossmaglen. This was his chance for payback.
As the Land Rover pulled up outside of the lower ranks’ mess hall, three of the men opened the back door of the vehicle, stepped out, and slung their SA80s over their shoulders. Then they each reached into the back and picked up gym bags containing grenades and more full magazines. As they closed the door, there were no words of encouragement or good luck. They were beyond that. The only thing uttered was Boyle’s reminder to wait for the explosion before moving in on their target. Forty seconds later, the Land Rover was pulling up outside the Sergeants’ Mess.
Boyle got out, along with the other man in the back dressed as an MP, slung his weapon over his shoulder, and grabbed his own gym bag. Before closing the passenger door, he reached in and shook the driver’s hand. “Are you good with this, Shaun?”
“Be away with you, Raymond, I’m fine,” came the reply.
He smiled at the man and was about to say something but changed his mind. He slammed the door shut and stood watching as the Land Rover drove away toward the Officers’ Mess with its deadly cargo of sixty pounds of C-4.
He turned to the other man. “Come on, Seamus, let’s get this over with.”
Both men walked calmly into the corridor outside the Sergeants’ Mess and found the bathroom exactly where it should be according to the floorplans they had studied. Each man chose a stall and proceeded to don the British Army–style webbing that was in their bags. They then loaded the magazine pouches and clipped each of the dozen grenades they both carried to the webbing. As they walked out of the bathroom, the windows were shattered by the enormous explosion of the Land Rover being driven directly through the main doors of the Officers’ Mess.
As they pushed open the double doors into the main dining room area of the Sergeants’ Mess, they were confronted with total mayhem. Men were running toward the windows to see what had happened, and confusion was rife. Both men started lobbing grenades into the mass of senior NCOs before stepping back outside the doors. The explosions began ripping flesh apart. As the last grenade exploded, they stepped back into the room and started spraying the survivors with bullets. The men didn’t stand a chance. The living were cut down like chickens in a slaughterhouse. It didn’t help that all were unarmed except for one man.
A Provost Sergeant who had just come off guard was sitting at the back of the dining hall enjoying a large mug of tea after his breakfast when the men burst into the room. He watched, as if in slow motion, as the two men started throwing grenades at his fellow soldiers. What saved his life was the large wooden table he’d been sitting at when the explosion at the Officers’ Mess happened. At the sight of the two gunmen, he kicked it over, ducked down behind it, and waited for the grenades to explode. He knew they would come back into the room to finish off the survivors, and he had already drawn the SIG Sauer P226 9mm as the two men opened fire. Keeping his head down, he knelt at the end of the table and returned fire, killing one of the men instantly with three rounds in the chest. He turned his attention to the other gunman, but he was gone. He was tempted to make his way after him but looking around at the number of wounded and dying, thought it best to watch over them just in case there were others out there.
Boyle had watched Seamus take the rounds in the chest and he knew he was gone. He decided that instead of continuing the attack on the mess, he would kill as many of the soldiers as he saw outside running toward the site of the explosion. He emptied the rest of the magazine into the room and ducked out of the door. He was reloading as he ran outside into the bright morning sunlight when he came face-to-face with Private Hunter. Boyle smiled at the shock of recognition on Hunter’s face and swung his weapon round. Hunter beat him to the trigger and fired five rounds at him, two of which found their mark.
As Boyle lay on the ground bleeding out, he smiled again at the thought of all the songs they would sing about him and his men and the great victory they had won. He knew this was only the start of the latest round of the Troubles, but God willing and the blood of patriots, they would win a united Ireland.