Futuristic Infantry 5

After several days patrolling the back roads, Meena and I have tea, compare notes.
"Ah Zohra, you feel it in the air this time, don't you?"
"Yep."
"Your take, how it will happen."
"Forget the IRA men. They are politely giving directions and even flirting. But you see the womens' looks."
"Yep. Says get yo asses back where you belong, leave our guys alone. As of the point, the womens' wing finds the key to the arms cache, it's gonna happen. Thunderstorm atmosphere."
"I been thinking Meena. No more squad size patrols, could get dicey. Nothing smaller than platoon. Every platoon to have one heavy machine gun and one light mortar at all times."
"I agree. And may God preserve us," she says grimly, "pros are easy to deal with, predictable. Amateurs, anything and everything could happen."
By a combo of osmosis and acute observation, mosta our forces soon pick up on these vibes. Patrols are crisp, professional, no lollygag, no daydreaming. There is your best defence. When you are alert, they rarely attack. Off-guard, they love to.

The attack comes dark of the moon. Rockets, I can tell they are from extreme range, meaning inaccurate. A dozen are fired, only one gets close enough for our phaser defence to shoot.
Within seconds of the first one launching, I've got a chopper in the air. Between InfraRed and night-vision goggles, they aren't difficult to capture.
Three women, as per orders, we turn them over to Intel for questioning. Never try it yourself, could give away valuable clues.
Meena and I and an ordnance expert examine the launch site carefully.
The Lt frowns, "obvious amateurs. Look at the layout."
"Lt," I reply, "it has been my experience amateurs will give you more trouble than pros. More unpredictable."
She glances at Meena, who nods.

An hour later, my phone rings, male Irish accent. There are 3 words to watch out for. If they show in conversation, you know it's a genuine call from the Ra, not a crank call.
Ultra-polite tone, gives all 3, "just so you know Col, last night was unauthorized. Certain individuals do not understand our code of honor." He hangs up.
Cowards? Not on your life. Very professional, very deadly against the Royal Ulster Constabulary or any male mil units. They simply live by a code and that is it.
I get a call from the front gate, "Col, delegation here to see you."
"Who?"
"Local mayor and editor of the weekly paper."
"Be right there."
The mayor, Mr O'Hanlon, and the editor, Mr Ryley, shake hands with me.
The mayor leads, "I'd like to send a clear message out to all the citizens. I do not support any of what happened last night. We're glad you are here - law and order. Do you suppose, well, you and I could do tea? Pictures for the paper."
"Come right in. Always happy to cooperate with the civilian authorities." He does not fool me for even one minute. Beyond doubt, same voice as on the phone. I know exactly what he's up to: speaking as the Ra commander, not the mayor. Still, why spoil his fun? He is, in a way, supporting what we're all about, peacekeeping.
Naturally I address him only as mayor. Two days later, a package with several newspapers arrives.
The article turns the tide. Resta the tour, no attacks. We're better accepted, almost zero resentment on faces.

As it turns out, we hand over to a male British army unit, 1 Para.
We're still in the giant transports over the Atlantic, when the web news has it big and bold. Huge attack at XMG, some 60 paras dead.
Message received boyo, the Ra is alive and well.
Meena seems in a pensive mood. I don't talk, just let her digest it.
Eventually she starts, "you know, truth is, I like them. Beat Hades outa guys back home. When I retire, maybe I'll live in Ireland."
"Yes, they are decent men. You know darn well though, they coulda taken us without raising a sweat. I mean come on, 1 Para is light years ahead of us. We'd have been easy targets."
"Funny Zohra, we took the Ra in Belfast and Londonderry. These could have easily taken us. Means the XMG Ra is besta the lot."
I laugh, "well they do get practice. Paras, SAS, everyone else male the Brits send."
She smiles, "any guesses as to why the Brits keep sending guys."
"That one is easy. Their warriors need practice or they get rusty."
We both laugh.
She has the last word, "you make it sound like 2 football teams."

The mayor's sister runs a Bed and Breakfast. She sends an email and e brochures.
Any Torngat members get a special discount. Weekly rates are reasonable, it's clean and well-maintained.
Safe too. What better protection than a brother who is the local commander?

My deflation to previous status is instant. All my various borrowed forces head home. Lotta them get into rumbles on the way. Oy! Charged to my crime stats. Legally they are in my possession until they sign back in to home unit.
150 of mine get into a mega brawl, 14 days D&D.
And now, my crime stats for the year are 8 times what they should be.
But surprise, Col Pearson has returned. The legal ruling is, since I was demoted to Maj when the plane touched down, the crime stats are hers.
Job One is cleaning the mildew outa gear. Ireland does have that effect.