Cuchulainn's Hounds, Part 2

[Alfred Thayer Mahan]

Cuchulainn’s Hounds, Part 2: Garryowen

September 14th, 1941, Leinster House, Dublin, Eire

Normally, government business was not done on Sundays in Eire, but these were no longer normal times. The first act of the newly hostile nation was to see to it that Diplo-Cohortarch Trevers and his staff were escorted from Irish soil as quickly as possible, as well as their fellows in Cork. That meant getting the Snakes out of their compounds under armed escort and to a nominally friendly nation, or at least one that wouldn’t simply kill them out of hand. Eamon de Valera, Taoiseach of the newly-formed Eire Aontaithe government, pinched the bridge of his nose wearily as he considered the Drakan problem. If he handed them over to the Americans, who weren’t yet at war with the Domination, they’d be safe enough, but he doubted that would last; for one thing, the descendants of former slaveowners and the descendants of their conquerors would get along like Kilkenny cats, so to speak, and for another, America had always been a good friend to Ireland, almost a second home when the Bad Times had come. Hadn’t he been born in the United States? He smiled slightly at that; it had saved his life, after all. The Irish Army was equipped with American weapons and equipment; even if it was bought after the war against the Central Powers, it was still in good condition, and the Americans had been generous, as was their nature. No, America was out as a destination.

His face, still creased in a frown, suddenly brightened. Of course. The answer lay right before him, and would be ample payback for his time spent in Kilmainham. After all, the Snakes had once been a colony of Britain as well; why not reunite them? They weren’t at war yet, and he was certain Mr. Churchill would be more than happy to receive Mr. Ambassador Trevers and send him along to Archona in style. His smile grew more sarcastic at the thought of that meeting. Now, to summon the Army commanders and hustle the Drakan Ambassador-former Ambassador-across the Irish Sea at the point of a bayonet, since they seemed to understand that language better than anything else. A shame, really. He’d thought he’d found a Draka who’d actually understood how his country thought, but Trevers had turned out to be just like all the rest-hard, brutal and arrogant. Amazing how similar to the British they-no, it was best to stop thinking in those terms. Not even Britain could have foreseen what her ex-colonists would become, and blaming them for the Snakes, while convenient, wasn’t going to solve any issues his new Government faced. De Valera sighed; he’d better call his ministers for a meeting, since the Army would want action, and Dillon was just the fellow to give it to them. Also, there were the ambassadors to deal with, and that was going to try his patience in at least two examples. Still, he could endure the diplomatic niceties over the Waterloo Massacre, especially when there was going to be such a nice payoff for his country.

Drakan Embassy, Dublin

Trevers looked down at the finely machined automatic pistol in his desk drawer. It had all gone wrong here, in this shithole of a country governed by ignorant ferals who could barely walk without either drinking or thanking their nonexistent God. Thank the Race Swenson had not only packed their personal baggage, but had the foresight to destroy all the classified papers in the safes as well; moreover, she’d set a delayed-fuse incendiary device in all of them, and he smiled mirthlessly as he imagined the fikked-up jokes the ferals called “fire brigades” trying to deal with the devices of the Security Directorate. He doubted very much they’d ever dealt with Composition-Zeta; unfortunately, since it was such a long trip from here to the nearest airstrip, he doubted they’d ever have to more than once. Still, the ferals here would remember the Race, that was for fikkin’ certain. Now, he mulled the thoughts of expiating his sin against the Domination, then shut the drawer…after retrieving the pistol, of course. No use leaving it here for some bliddy feral to pick up-like as not it’d be swapped for a drink within an hour. He holstered the weapon and headed for the door, looking around for the final time. Vicki had thoughtfully left the glass tumbler on his desk, and, without breaking stride, the now ex-Ambassador to Eire from the Dominate of the Draka swept the heavy glass onto the floor ahead of him, crushing through the shards as he strode to the door and flung it open.

Swenson was waiting in the hall with the embassy guard; it was hard to say which looked more lethal, but Trevers decided in favor of his assistant. Drakian regulars were supposed to look lethal, all the better to project the image of the Race, but Swenson was clad in black leathers, her strawberry-blonde hair in a practical style and her green eyes as cold as river-washed gems. He wondered idly what her Irish Army officer escorts would think of her now, or whether or not they would even want to approach within fifty miles of her. Well, the ferals had kicked the dragon, and they were going to find out that all Citizens had both claws and fangs, even the pretty ones. The guard commander was a young Tetrarch (Jansson, he remembered), and his tetrarchy of Citizens (younkers, though) was doing an admirable job of concealing its rage at being unceremoniously removed from this bliddy jerkwater posting. He noticed Swenson saluting, and returned it with a slightly bitter smile.

“Well, it’s a fikkin’ wun’ful day t’ be run outta town, raht, Security-Centurion Swenson? It even appeahs th’ sun has decided t’ come out t’ see us off t’ whereveah these ferals can think of…assumin’ they think a-tall. I do b’lieve I’ll write in m’ final report that they’s no guv’ment heah t’ speak of, jes’ a buncha ferals who cain’t org’nize free bitches n’ bucks in a whorehouse.” He looked around; all the typical Drakan elements had been removed and packed away, and the hall was now just a large, empty hall occupied by thirty-five of the deadliest fighters on the island, by his view. He turned back to Swenson, who was looking coldly angry (but not at me, he thought gratefully).

“I’m guessin’ you wuz able t’ secure th’ requisite numbah of auto-steamers t’ haul away all th’ papers an’ equipment?”

“Yes, suh. Fo’ whuteveah reason, these heah ferals were plenty willin’ t’ let me hire whut few steamers they had. Fact is, they seemed t’ be ovuhjoyed we wuz goin’, but they still kep’ our money.” Her face turned sour at that, but he couldn’t afford to lose her, and they’d all seen what could happen when these particular ferals got angry. He smiled in what he hoped was a calming manner.

“Pax, Swenson. The Race gonna be comin’ back heah one day, an’ I doan’ think th’ ferals’ll like it very much when we do. Maybe you kin break one ‘r two of those ferals who tried t’ take you out t’ dinner?” She didn’t smile, exactly, but he could see his words had helped improve her mood. Good, because what he had to say next was not going to be pleasant.

“Citizens, we all done our duty t’ th’ Race in this backwards shithole, an’ I’m proud to have serv’d wit’ y’all. We got one final duty, an’ that is, we’re goin’ home t’ th’ Dominate. No fik-ups jes’ ‘cause sum ferals think they bottom rail on top fo’ now. We all know bettah, ‘cause we’re th’ Race. Th’ trouble is that we all gotta play by their rules…fo’ now, an’ that means that all of us gotta unload our weapons. All our weapons. ‘Course, if you gots a dagger on yo’ person, then there’s no reason t’ mention that t’ th’ ferals, but it’s mah job t’ see we all get back safe so that we c’n be in on th’ first wave of claimin’ this heah island fo’ the Race.” (An’ puttin’ that bliddy slippery FIK de Valera’s head on mah wall, Trevers added silently) Tetrarch Jansson looked angry for a moment, as did most of his tetrarchy, but obedience was ingrained into the Draka, and they began working the actions on their T-7A rifles, catching the small cartridges and putting the cartridge block back into place on their bandoliers. The machine-gunner looked even angrier, but he wasn’t loaded to begin with, and carrying a loaded machine-gun in the streets right now wasn’t going to get them to the docks. The military escort the ferals were providing would do that.

Speaking of which…

There was a knock at the doors, still closed and barred, and Jansson automatically started towards the noise. Trevers moved towards the door instead, holding up his right hand as he motioned to Swenson with his left. If any ferals were going to try to kill him, they’d be dead before they hit the ground; Security-Centurion Swenson may have unloaded her sidearm, but she was very, very good with her boot-knife. The embassy guard fell in behind him, as he unbarred the doors and swung them open. A feral tetrarch (lieutenant, his mind whispered) stood at the doorway, a piece of parchment in hand. The feral saluted, touching the brim of his odd-colored cap, but Trevers just kept looking at him like the feral he was.

“Ambassador Trevers?” Trevers merely nodded slightly; he’d be fikked if he’d make the ferals’ job any easier.

After an uncomfortable silence, the young feral began to read from the sheet in a clear voice.

“Given that a state of war now exists between the Republic of Eire and the Dominate of the Draka, and given that Diplo-Cohortarch Robert Trevers, Ambassador Plenipotentiary from said Dominate, and his staff, enjoying the benefits of diplomatic immunity do now reside in the Republic of Eire, the Dail Eireann has determined that said representatives be escorted to the Dublin quays, wherein they will be given safe passage, along with their belongings, to a neutral nation. We regret that-“ Trevers cut him off with an impatient wave.

“Neveah min’ all th’ buffaloshit, boy. Yo’ heah to take us down t’ th’ docks, an’ we s’posed t’ follow, jes’ like serfs. I s’pose yo’ orders are t’ search fo’ weapons?” The young lieutenant nodded nervously; it was one thing to read about the horrors the Snakes were perpetrating on the world, but here was one within arms’ reach, looking at him like he wasn’t even there.

“Isn’t gonna happen. We’ll work th’ actions so you c’n see they unloaded, but that’s all we goan do fo’ you. No-one outside th’ Race puts a fing’r on a Citizen. Unnerstan’ me?” Swenson was smiling now, and the guards stood even straighter, if that was possible. The lieutenant (fikkin’ stupid name fo’ a rank, he thought) saluted again, and Trevers noted with satisfaction the sheen of sweat under the cap. As the feral officer marched towards the street, Trevers turned back to Jansson.

“Tetrarch, I wan’ yo’ decurions to put a lochos on each truck, jes’ in case th’ ferals try any mo’ of they tricks. Swenson, you ride wit’ me, an’ we’ll git this bushmen’s carnie aboard ship, wherevah we bound.”

The no-longer-Ambassadorial staff saluted, and moved smoothly to their posts, even as the company of Irish Army soldiers looked on and fingered their weapons nervously. Regardless of the fact that these Snakes were supposedly disarmed, they were still Snakes, and no soldier wanted to see what would happen if the Snake was prodded, even the beautiful young woman in tight leathers at the older Snake’s side. No, best just to get them down to the docks. There was a surprise waiting for them there, with the blessings of the Irish Government.

Leinster House, Dublin

“Taoiseach, the ambassadors are here. Shall I show them in?”

“Yes, Brigid, by all means, but individually, if they don’t mind. No doubt they wish to offer their condolences, but one can never tell if other offers might be forthcoming.” With that, Eamonn de Valera stood up and smiled slightly, looking out on the outstretched streets of Dublin. Oh, Waterford had been a tragedy, certainly, but his nation was used to tragedy. What would interest him far more would be what the three men waiting outside had to say about his nation’s actions as a result of what was already known as the “Waterford Massacre”.

The door opened, and he turned around as a stout, slightly chubby man with a full salt-and-pepper beard was ushered into the office by his secretary. She smiled at him as he wiped his forehead, and he returned it; his figure was that of a kindly grandfather, and de Valera mentally grimaced at the idea. Dmitri Gorenko was hardly that, and he knew it. The Soviet Union had not been in good odor with Eire for several years now; even the Free State government had disliked them for their overt atheism and self-destructive teachings, but their support for the Spanish Republicans had been the proverbial straw. Those anarchists had overthrown their legitimate government and started looting the Church, and the sympathy in Ireland had been heavily Nationalist in tone. There hadn’t been any overt intervention, of course, not with Britain taking its pious stand, but still, the feelings had run high, and when the Nationalists had triumphed, a strong feeling of satisfaction had run through the country. Some of the old Republicans here had tried linking the two causes, but he had pointed out that there was no room for the kind of desecration of the Church that the Spanish Republicans were promoting. Still, the Soviet Union had one precious weight in its favor right now.

It knew how to fight the Snakes. Because of this, de Valera was prepared to forgive them their trespasses against the Church, and Ambassador Gorenko had played his cards well. The Soviet Diplomatic Ministry was good at finding men to cover their own crimes in a cloak of “unity against the Drakian menace”, and Gorenko relished his role, even if talking to the man in a social setting was slightly frowned upon. However, it had been yesterday’s events that had really brought out his abilities to seize upon any situation to turn it to his government’s advantage, and he was here to officially admit it.

“Mr. Prime Minister, I am instructed by my government to express the deepest sorrows of the Soviet peoples for the atrocity committed yesterday against the Irish people and the Republic of Ireland by the so-called Dominate of the Draka. This was a deeply felt crime against a neutral nation, and I was immediately instructed to offer whatever resources my mission had available to help in the rescue efforts. Also, I would like to offer my personal condolences to those families who have lost loved ones as a result of this cowardly and brutal attack, and I assure you and your nation that the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics is ready to give any assistance within our power to a country that now stands shoulder-to-shoulder with the rest of humanity against this evil.”

De Valera looked at Gorenko, then smiled and nodded his head, extending his arm as he did so. Gorenko looked momentarily taken aback (got you, a thought ran through de Valera’s mind), then reached over with a smile of his own and enthusiastically shook the Taoiseach’s hand.

“Mister Ambassador, I speak for all of the Irish people when I say that this offer shows the spirit and generosity for which the Russian people,” and he kept his face bland as he oh-so-slightly stressed the qualifier, “are so well-known. Especially at a time when the sacrifices your nation has had to make against the Domination are so great, to step forward and make this offer will, I think, go far in strengthening the ties between our two nations, regardless of any past differences. I am asked by the city council of Waterford to thank your government especially for the offer of the embassy cars and medical staff; although they were unneeded, such a humane and generous gesture,” and again de Valera kept his face bland, “will not go unremembered. Now,” and de Valera switched gears, “you are no doubt aware that, as a result of this massacre, Eire has been forced into war. You may tell your government that, while we cannot emulate the example set by the Russian people, we will do our best to uphold the traditions of our ancestors, and all Ireland looks forward to the day when the Domination is destroyed, and this cursed blight wiped from the earth. After all, all men love freedom, and the Domination…well, we know their views on the subject. We stand united in this cause, Mister Ambassador. Yes, you may tell your government that.”

Gorenko kept the smile on his face through this interminable sermon; of course he’d known that this little nation was going to declare war after the attack. He had friends in their parliament, after all, among other sources. The last thing his government wanted right now, though, was a diplomatic breach with one more of these bourgeois states that happened to be engaging in warfare against the Snakes, and this had been like a…well, Gorenko knew he shouldn’t think this way, being the New Soviet Man, but it had been Fate that had brought this tiny nation into the war; true, they were here because of the death of their Catholic leader, but any excuse to bring in more men who would die so that Soviet Russia could live was welcome.

A small part of him hated that thought.

“I will be pleased to convey your message to my government, Mr. Prime Minister. I only regret that, owing to our own struggles for defense against this evil, we cannot supply you with more in the way of supports.” De Valera waved this off.

“Your nation’s ships are welcome at any time, Ambassador. We will do what we can for you. Now, I hate to cut this interview short, but…” Gorenko chuckled unexpectedly.

“Ah, yes, my colleagues from across the sea. I will bid you a good day, then, and convey your message to my government.” With that, Gorenko bowed (a strangely formal gesture, de Valera though), and walked out of the room. De Valera looked after him for a moment, then pushed the intercom button.

“Brigid? Send in…send in Sir John. He and I have much to talk about, I think.”

The door opened again, and a tall, spare man walked in. This was Sir John Maffey, and he and de Valera had a long and strained relationship. After all, he was the High Commisioner for Ireland, and even if that blackguard Churchill hadn’t sent him himself, de Valera knew that the current spineless British Prime Minister had more than likely acceded to Churchill’s wishes on this matter. After all, Mr. Churchill was the acknowledged “expert” on Irish affairs, even if his expertise consisted mainly in sending in soldiers to shoot them down. Just like the English had done for hundreds of years. Maffey began to speak, and his upper-class accent grated on de Valera’s ears.

“Mister Prime Minister, as the…Representative of His Majesty’s Government to your nation, I have been instructed to offer His Majesty’s and the Government’s condolences to you and the Irish people on this unhappy occasion. Moreover, despite our past differences of opinion, I would like to offer my own, personal condolences as well. I realize that the relationship between our two governments could be described as less than amicable,” and it took all of de Valera’s self-control to keep his face still or a snort from escaping “but, regardless of whatever has passed between our countries, I do feel badly for the victims of this tragedy.”

De Valera considered Sir John for a moment. No doubt the man himself was being sincere, and that was all to the good; even the most wicked sinner could be redeemed. Still, he did represent the government that had been, until 1922, Ireland’s overlord and colonial master, and was one of the few remaining nations that was neutral towards the Domination. Not entirely surprising; the Domination was, after all, a former British colony, and both were imperial in their own right. The only major difference, as far as de Valera could see, was that Britain had been forced, over the centuries, to give up her imperial dreams by two of her biggest former colonies, and that she was not quite as repressive in her rule as the Domination was. He knew, though, that many, many Irish still longed for the whole of Ireland to be united, including the North, and that Britain was still regarded as the primary enemy preventing Irish unification. Admittedly, this sentiment had its place; the Snakes had been driven out of Waterford by concealed rifle fire from parties unknown once the Army and the Gardai showed up. Still, now was not the place to bring that subject up.

That didn’t mean he couldn’t twist the lion’s tail, though.

“Thank you, Sir John. My country and myself appreciate your nation’s thoughts at this tragic time in our history. No doubt such brutality is an affront to all rational countries, and I can only hope that our contribution to the war against the Domination will help in their eventual eradication.” There. A nice, pointed reference to the fact of British neutrality couched in a diplomatic turn of phrase. He continued, “I am all too aware of our history of mutual dislike, and I hope that this will be ended in the coming years.” Though it may take centuries, went unspoken in the room. “In any event, as elected Taoiseach of the new Eireann Aontaithe government, I have an official request from my government to yours.”

Maffey tensed up almost at once, though his smile remained fixed on his face, and he cocked his head slightly. The man facing him had, after all, escaped the justice of the Crown, and had risen through Irish politics to their supreme position; whatever Mr. De Valera was or was not, he was no-one to be taken lightly, especially in the matter of “Official Requests” to the Crown. The very fact that this man would be making one would no doubt stick in the throats of many back at Whitehall, yet he had to keep up the game and hear it out.

“By all means, Mr. Prime minister. I’ll be happy to transmit this to London as soon as we’re finished with this interview.” De Valera smiled, (something thin in that, Maffey thought, and prepared to stand his metaphorical ground) and nodded.

“Excellent. The request is as follows: given the…ah, nature of your Government’s relations with the Domination, and the fact that Eire is now officially in a state of war with that government, we have found ourselves in a bit of trouble regarding the repatriation of Drakian diplomatic personnel to their homeland. We have no wish for our own citizens to attempt this duty, only to have their persons seized, so the Irish Government wishes to request that the Chamberlain Government take official custody of the Drakian diplomatic staff, for repatriation through the channels you possess. This will, I think, go a long way in showing the good faith of the British Government towards Eire, especially in these times.”

Maffey could hardly believe his ears. The Irish wanted His Majesty’s Government to willingly take on a load of Draka? This was a major diplomatic request, to be certain. Oh, his government still had relations with the Dominate, but the two countries were hardly on friendly terms. He supposed that de Valera had a point, but this “request” was going to infuriate London. On the other hand, if he put it in the right terms, he could point out that by doing this, the Anglo-Irish relationship could at least begin to be repaired, and it would have happened when he was High Commissioner. That thought appealed to him more and more, and he finally nodded, albeit not very firmly.

“Very well, Mr. Prime Minister, I will certainly transmit this request to my government today, and I hope to have a response for you by tomorrow at the latest. Again, I would like to say that His Majesty’s Government deplores this action by the so-called Domination, and that your country’s reaction to it is entirely understandable. Personally, I wish you every success.”

“Thank you, Sir John. I would ask that you make some haste in this request, if I may, as we are already in the process of escorting the former embassy personnel to the Dublin docks, and will be putting them aboard a ferry for transport. Naturally, we wish to complete this process as quickly as possible, both for their sake and for ours.”

Maffey fought to keep from choking; the Irish had to be insane to be already marching the Drakan Embassy through the streets of Dublin. There wouldn’t be any remains left to put aboard the ferry, not after the Rape of Rome and the Massacre. De Valera seemed to gauge his reaction, and smiled that thin smile again.

“They’ll arrive safely, Sir John. I can’t imagine they’ll be in good humor, though, when they make the journey. I believe the Draka have very poor sea legs.”

Sir John Maffey nodded, clamping his lips together. This was going to take some more thought; London did not like surprises, and here was one of its worst hobgoblins springing a fait accompli. Still, he’d salvage the situation. It was his duty, after all.

“Well, Prime Minister, if there is nothing else to discuss, I will take my leave. I will make an appointment tomorrow if London has responded.” De Valera nodded, and the British Representative did the same, then turned and walked out, rather stiffly.

I wonder if that was a mistake? Probably not. De Valera, whatever else made up his character, had never forgotten his imprisonment, and he took a quiet satisfaction in dealing with the British Crown in any fashion that could annoy them. Hopefully, his last major appointment would be more convivial.

“Brigid, please send in Mr. Gray.”

With that, the last of the ambassadors came in, from the United States of America. He was clutching a telegram in his hand, and he came to a stop before the Taoiseach. He extended his hand in the brash and forward Yankee manner, and de Valera took it without a hint of reluctance. The United States was where Ireland would turn for help, after all, and, had the circumstances been different, he would have been more than happy to sit down with this man. However, Ireland needed help now, and he was going to have to ask for it. Still, the diplomatic niceties must be observed.

“Mr. Prime Minister, the United States stands shocked at this latest confirmation of the nature of the Drakian people, and offers its deepest sympathies to the Irish nation and people at this terrible time.” Typical Yankee over-the-top wording, but the sentiments were certainly there. “As a nation that is so intimately linked by blood with your own, owing so much to the labors of the Irish men and women who came to help build our nation, while we cannot say that we know the sufferings of your people as a result of this atrocity, we can offer our financial help. Various neighborhoods in my nation have begun collecting relief funds for the families of Waterford so affected by this attack, and I will be happy to present those funds to you as they are sent to me.”

Although he didn’t show it, de Valera was touched by this; Ambassador Gray was correct in noting the ties between the two countries, and this outpouring of support from the emigrant communities was not unwelcome in the slightest. Whatever the Americans were or were not, no-one could accuse them of being ungenerous. The question was, what price would they ask for their generosity? Right now, the entire situation with regard to the United States and the Domination was tense; the President of the United States had wept when he heard the news of Rome’s destruction, and the government was known to have protested vigorously, especially concerning information about American citizens who happened to be in Rome when it fell. De Valera doubted privately whether protests would do anything but confirm what the Snakes thought about the Yanks, but the Americans were not yet technically at war. He had a feeling, though, that the Snakes had no clue what was coming if that slumbering colossus woke up and decided it wanted to go to war. It was well not to be underfoot when it came; better still to be pointing out the giant’s foes. He’d best pull out all the stops when it came to this fellow.

“Mister Ambassador, that offer is a perfect example of the well-known American spirit for doing all it can to help its brother nations when they are afflicted by tragedy, and I express the deepest and warmest feelings for myself and my nation when I say we are honored to accept this generosity at this time. The warm regards the Irish people have always had for their fellows across the sea can only be heightened by this, and I know, personally,” and here de Valera leaned forward, “that many a grateful prayer has been offered for Mr. Roosevelt’s soul in today’s Masses, as well as prayers for the people of your nation.” That they would declare war themselves, mostly, but he omitted that part. He continued, “We had hoped that our steadfast friend would not abandon us in this time of crisis, and I am glad to hear that your government has kept faith with us, as we will with you.” Part of de Valera’s soul rebelled at this sort of extravagant praise, but this was the representative of the most powerful friend Ireland had, and he supposed the man’s ego, which was known to be larger than normal, liked the flattery. Indeed, he could see the smile that lingered in Gray’s eyes, though he kept his face and body diplomatically neutral.

“Indeed, Mr. Prime Minister, and to show that bond, I hope you will allow me a small privilege?” De Valera’s eyebrows rose fractionally at that, and he thought for a moment. What could this be about?

“As long as it does not infringe on the sovereignty of Ireland, I will be pleased to grant it.”

“Thank you, sir. This telegram,” and he waved the flimsy “is from the President of the United States, acting as Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces. He has authorized me to offer Eire full participation in the Lend-Lease program. Further, he has authorized me to offer military advisors from the various United States armed services to offer any assistance with the new equipment that you will be receiving should you choose to participate in the program.” De Valera’s eyebrows rose further at that.

“New equipment, Mr. Ambassador? You will forgive my ignorance, but I was under the impression…” He was cut off by a slight shake of the head from Ambassador Gray.

“My apologies, Mr. Prime Minister. I meant new to your military, of course. The equipment we can offer is, of course, older by our standards, and would be discarded otherwise.” The fiction had to be maintained, after all.

“Ah. Thank you for that clarification.” De Valera rubbed his chin thoughtfully for a moment, then smiled slightly.

“Mr. Ambassador, I would like to bring this proposal before my Cabinet, but I believe I can offer at least the thanks of the nation for the offer. I believe, also, that I know what my government will say, but I cannot accept just yet. However, if you are able to wait for our response, it will come swiftly, I promise you. Any help our nation, which is poor in all resources but spirit, is offered is welcome, though of course that is not official,” and the two men shared a look. The Irish government would fall all over themselves accepting this offer, and the United States had Atlantic bases for use against the Domination. Oh, nothing had been said, but there would have to be a quid pro quo, of course, and the Irish government could fairly easily be persuaded to allow the United States Navy use of the British “treaty ports”, as well as using Shannon airport as a refueling stop at the least. However, it would be worth it for new equipment and up-to-date training for the Irish Army. Still, this was something more properly handled by the government.

“In any event, sir, thank your government and Mister Roosevelt personally from me, and I will send our decision to you as soon as it has been reached.” The two men shook hands, and the ambassador left. As soon as he had gone, de Valera punched his intercom.

“Brigid? Could you please contact the members of the government and ask them to attend an emergency meeting? There is a vital matter to discuss.” He barely heard the acknowledgement, as he steepled his fingers. With American aid and training…yes, the Irish could make their presence felt. They owed that much to the martyr who had fallen in Rome.

Two Hours Later, Government House

“Are we all agreed, then, gentlemen? That the Eire Aontaithe government shall accept this offer from the United States of America in the name of the Irish people, to better prepare our forces to fight the Draka?” Surprisingly, it was not de Valera who was speaking, but James Dillon, who was not only Taniste, but also had a healthy interest in the military and was, as always, fiery in his hatred of the Draka. This would help to channel his energies, de Valera thought, and between his deputy and the Army Minister, he knew that the American aid would be welcomed and integrated as quickly as possible. He looked around the table, and all heads were nodding. Time for the formality.

“So says the government?”

A chorus of “Ayes” answered him. Well, so be it.

“Brigid,” to his ever-present secretary, “will you please take down an official telegram to Mr. David Gray, Ambassador to the Government of Eire from the United States of America, stating the following: ‘We, the Government of Eire, accept the proposal outlined for full participation in your government’s Lend-Lease program, and look forward to working closely with your nation in this venture.’ Ah, James, will you be willing to serve as coordinator for the American material aid and liaison with the Army? I think that will show that we truly are a unity government.” Dillon’s wide smile of agreement showed that he would be happy to accept this role.

“Well, then, gentlemen, unless there is other business, I think we have done very well today.” The others nodded and smiled, but de Valera did not. He had just sentenced many young men to death, but it was the will of God. He took some comfort in that thought.

Dublin docks, simultaneously

Trevers didn’t even look at his captors, who were riding in their trucks with their weapons (obs’lete junk, all of it, he thought with a mental grimace) pointed towards the Drakan convoy, covering the former mission members and their guard, who were bitterly enraged that matters had come to this point. Obviously Jansson had wanted nothing better than to gun the ferals down, but Swenson had talked him out of it; they represented an intelligence mine, and intelligence on a new enemy was often more precious than any rare metal. Even one as backwards as this bunch of ferals. From what he had gathered from Vicki, their army was a shell, with its organization dating back to when they had been a bunch of bushmen taking shots at the Brits. That fik-up of an organization wouldn’t suffice to slow any of the Race’s troops, much less provide any help to the nations currently trying to oppose the inevitable Draka victory. No, best to get back to the Domination and tell them that this was just a pissant backwater that was higher on itself than a Janissary before combat on amphetamines, more of a danger to itself than any other country. Unfortunately, right now, the ferals had the guns. Trevers knew that the usual rule for Citizens was to go down fighting in a bloodbath, but there wasn’t any point. Besides, why here? Better to do it on the Soviet Front or in Italy, facing real enemies.

His thoughts were interrupted as the Irish truck ahead came to a halt, followed by the two on either flank. They had arrived at the docks, and Trevers dismounted to look for the Transportation Syndicate ship he assumed would take his party back to Archona. Instead, he noted with dismay that there was no apparent Domination ship in the harbor at all, and that there was what appeared to be a ferry of some kind, although it had obviously seen better days. With fury blazing in his eyes, he rounded on the young lieutenant.

“Whut th’ FIK is this shit? Where’s our ship home? Doan tell me y’doan know, neither! Jes’ whut the fik is goin’ on, you shit-fer-brain’d li’l rodent?” Trevers’ voice rose to a shout as the rest of the former Drakan embassy dismounted, and the Irish officer, though obviously intimidated, refused to give ground. Instead, he motioned to his men, and the rifles came up to cover the former ambassador.

“Mr. Trevers, I regret that your transportation is not to your satisfaction, but I assure you this was the best possible option available on such short notice. Its only purpose is to bring you across the Irish Sea to Liverpool, where you will be met by members of your own nation who will arrange further transport from Britain to the Domination. I am sorry that the government of Great Britain has not seen fit to supply transport more suited to your status, but I assure you the Irish government had nothing to do with these arrangements.” The young man was speaking levelly, even as this pack of human wolves closed in around him, but he kept his hand near his holster; no telling what these savages would do in their anger.

Trevers managed to keep from snarling and breaking the feral’s windpipe, but it took almost all of his effort. Turning away, he composed his face and looked at the ferry again.

“You ‘spect us t’ get all our possessions ‘board that, hmmm, boy? I reck’n it c’n be done, but not by you ‘r yours. Nope, th’ Draka do they own work, an’ this is no exception. Pl’toon, fall OUT!” His voice rang across Dublin’s cobbles, and passerby stopped to watch; it wasn’t every day that the Army was in town, and they’d never seen foreigners being escorted aboard a boat before. The trucks from the former embassy rumbled up to where the ferry’s gangway was landed on the quay, and the sticks that had been aboard began to unload the bundles and crates from the back. Trevers watched dispassionately with Swenson at his side as the feral officer saw an example of well-drilled Citizen activity. Even as the first packages were being brought aboard, he spoke, apparently to no-one in particular, and enunciated his words very carefully and quietly.

“One day, we’ll be back. Jes’ you remember that, officer. Th’ Race doesn’t like bein’ kicked out, an’ it knows whut t’ do t’ those countries who resist. You think your time under th’ Brits was bad? Let me tell you, you’ve seen nothin’ yet, feral. Your whole island is going t’ be put down if you even fikkin’ breathe about revolt, an’ that’s a fact. You tell your leaders I said that. Tell ‘em they haven’t heard th’ last o’ us.”

The Irish lieutenant was amazed at the sheer hate he could detect in the other man’s voice, and the body language of the attractive young woman at his side told him she shared his sentiments. Even as the loading went on, he felt a surge of national pride welling up from deep inside him. These butchers had the effrontery and tell him that they’d return to put his whole nation to the sword, did they? Well, he had his own thoughts on that matter. He turned to the Snake and saluted, then spoke up.

“Before I take my leave and supervise your activities from a distance, I would remind you of a fact. Your type of lordship has been tried before, and we have survived. My nation has starved, and we have survived. You will find that Ireland will die under your boot, but she will stab you as she dies, and my people will never allow themselves to be enslaved again.” He walked towards his troops, who were standing warily some distance away, then turned back to the two.

“Especially by Snakes.” He continued on, and the Irish soldiery moved back, forming a perimeter. At the quayside, Trevers continued to watch his embassy being loaded aboard, and a thin, grim smile crossed his face.

Shannon Airport, September 22nd, 1941

The arrivals were almost routine by now, as American Air Force C-46s roared in and disgorged their cargoes of men, who were greeted by their counterparts in the Irish Army and whisked away to Army Headquarters in Dublin, where a buildup of the Army from its present strength was being mapped out. The Americans were very, very good at organizing mass callups of citizens for war, having proven that in their own history of conflicts, and this was the largest such Ireland had ever seen. Still, every plane was greeted with a formal salute from the men of the 11th Battalion’s platoons, and the Americans were surprised to see that Ireland was, indeed, a green and pleasant land, just like their fathers and grandfathers had said.

For once, the United States Army had done the right thing; they had combed the appropriate units for men of Irish extraction to send as advisors on all levels, and these men began to fit in well with their counterparts from the beginning. Added to that the fact that many Irishmen from the North and even Britain were coming back, and there would be a good number to draw from for this expansion. In fact, it seemed that Britain couldn’t send them home quickly enough, as their presence technically violated her status as a neutral. “The Return”, as it was already being called, would help build the Irish military into a respectable force, and already the young men of that isle were taking to the news like their forefathers had of old. Better to restrain a horse than prod an ox, the Americans thought with concealed smiles; after all, they shared a temperament with these people. Still, the old World War I “French 75s” had to go, even though they were decent guns in their day; new 105mm howitzers were ordered, as well as standard mortars and even more BARs for the squads to replace their old Lewis guns, soon to be relegated to a training role. More rifles were needed, as were trucks, Jeeps, and all the thousand and one items to make a modern army.

Still, in at least one case, there was a unit almost ready to go; the First Brigade, 1st Division, which the Americans had been told was nicknamed “Thunderbolt”. They liked the name, and when they inspected the brigade, they liked what they saw. All that had to be done to bring the brigade up to fighting strength was replace the artillery and motorize the troops, and the last was done by the simple trick of reassigning all available military trucks to the brigade; there’d be plenty of replacements coming later. Three battalions and their supports, and they could be on their way to the Italian front as quickly as possible. The Irish liked the way their American advisors nee cousins thought, and there was little friction. After all, there were Snakes to kill. Still, the Americans kept coming, every day, and there were jokes about Ireland becoming a state after the war at this rate.

Even now, another C-46 was touching down, and the platoon on guard sighed wearily. However, today was going to be different. Everything was going to change in the next few minutes. As the plane was taxiing towards its assigned spot on the tarmac, a car came racing towards the honor guard with a long wireless antenna whipping and the insignia of their own Signals Company painted on the side. It screeched to a halt, then the doors popped open and a radioman and corporal shouted from the inside.

“C’mon, lads, hurry over! The broadcast has just been interrupted for one from the Vatican!” That elicited a reaction, and the honor guard forgot their duties and clustered around the car even as the plane came to a halt. As the American advisors began to deplane, they saw their supposed escorts clustered around a car; clearly, something was happening. They hurried over as well to find all the Irish waiting quietly.

“The following broadcast will be presented in its entirety. Translation will be offered by Signior William Keely of the Trinity College, Dublin. From Aachen, Germany, we bring you His Holiness, Julius III.” The men looked at one another.

“Jaysus, they didn’t waste any time, did they?” one muttered, but he was stilled by reproachful looks from his mates.

“Iulius, episcopus, servus servi Domine, ad omnis facilitatis defendis fides Christian, salve et benedictionis apostolicis…” The voice was surprisingly young-sounding, even over the wireless, and the rich Latin syllables rolled onwards.

“O favorabilis eteligis Dei, ad tuum scripti noster adversus. Ad Ierusalem et Roma, generis barbarus et ab Dei invidia residium.” The Irish listened with rapt attention, and even the notoriously mouthy Americans cocked their heads forward. Everyone knew that the former Pope had been murdered by the Draka; that was why they were here. Now it seemed the College of Cardinals had chosen a replacement, and he sounded angered, as well he might. The Latin speech continued, reaching an intensity of anger that none of the Catholics there could have imagined emanating from the Holy Father; they had caught words that sounded like “outrage”, “rape”, “pillage”, and “barbarian”. Could this be what it sounded like? The men started to look at one another as the speech approached its finale.

“O discipuli Christi, audite verbi! In Nomine Christi, in nomine basilicis Catholicis sacris, serpens delenda est! DEUS VULT!”

There was a pause from the wireless, as if the Holy Father could not believe what he had just proclaimed. One had not been proclaimed in hundreds of years, yet he had done it. This would unify the Catholic world like nothing else, and there would be a reckoning with the Draka that now had the force of faith behind it.

Julius III had proclaimed what would officially be called the Ninth Crusade. His small audience looked at each other for a moment. One of the Americans spoke first.

“Jesus take pity on those Snakes now. We’re going to the wars with the blessing of God.” The others nodded and started to smile as the translator began reading his text.

Their bodies might fall, but their souls were saved.

[darthdavid]

The Irish are gonna kick Drakian ass!!!

[Alfred Thayer Mahan]

The Irish are gonna kick Drakian ass!!!

Yes, yes they are. The question is, how will they behave on Crusade against a pagan foe...