Belfast Morning

"They hurt us with the Four-C attack. They hurt us badly. I want to know how they got away with it so easily! I want to know what is being done to be sure that we don't have any more bloody disasters like this one again! And I want the bastards that did it! Am I making myself perfectly clear, lieutenant?" "Absolutely, Sir!" Lieutenant Geoffrey Cook was twenty-six years old. The second son of an upper middle-class Bedford family, he had obtained a degree in liberal arts from Cambridge, graduating with honors. Immediately afterward he had fulfilled a family tradition by seeking a commission in the Royal Army. He had done well at Officer's Training School and had distinguished himself as an efficient, reliable young officer during his first assignment at a vehicle depot in England. After having requested more exciting duty, he had been sent through an army security course and transferred to Northern Ireland. For eight months he had acquired experience under the guidance of veteran officers at a base near Londonderry. Once again he was well thought of by his superiors and in his first performance appraisal, had been certified in the "qualified to lead" category. His transfer to Belfast to command the fifty-six man security unit that had been responsible for Four-C along with several other buildings had come just eight days before the attack. As he stood at attention in the face of blistering accusations from his battalion commander, he was bitterly aware of the injustice of being held fully responsible for the incident. He had been in command for such a short time that he had only begun to be familiar with the scope of his unit's activities when the attack had occurred. But, as is often the case in militaries all over the world, pressure to find someone responsible had grown at each rung down the chain of command as the system responded to high-level inquiries from England. The officer that Cook had replaced had been sloppy and lax. But by the time answers were being sought at the unit level, the matter was getting very close to home. The battalion commander was in a near panic to avoid embarrassment and Cook was available. "I want a full written report from you by five P.M. tomorrow. All the details. Be sure to include the rotation schedule for the building. I'll feed that back to the lions and hopefully buy some time while you organize your investigation." "Sir, if I may. My specialty is base security; not investigation. Mightn't the Belfast police be better equipped..." "Your unit is responsible for this mess," the commander fairly shouted, "and by God, you are the one who is going to clean it up. I want some answers! And some heads. You don't have to be an expert. You just have to manage the people who are. The Belfast police are already in on this. The presence of the girl makes it more than just a military matter. The man in charge downtown is inspector Mott. Call him. London is sending a team of explosives experts to look at the site. They'll be here tomorrow morning. Check with the adjutant for their arrival time. Meet them, get them set up in Quarters, and make them comfortable. Then take them out there at the first opportunity. Get help from whatever sources you need, but get cracking. Oh, and I'm sure that there will be a formal board of inquiry convened although I haven't heard anything official yet. You'd better start thinking about what you are going to say to them." "Yes sir." "And one more thing. Get your people to shape up right now! I understand that private James was found in bed, of all things. This is a bloody war zone! If you can't get that across to your men then I suggest you'd better start thinking of a different career. An English soldier asleep during guard duty! Can you imagine what the press would have made of that if they had found out?" "Yes sir." There was more, but by now Cook was almost too angry to listen. Angry at the Commander, angry at the officer that Cook had replaced, angry at the army and, most of all, angry at the damn Irish who had put him in this position.