“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 Force 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?