Chapter 413 — The First Crossing I

Chapter 413: Chapter 413 — The First Crossing I

`00:00:00`

Nothing happened.

The clock sat at zero in the corner of the screen. The presenter sat under it with her hands folded on the desk and said, carefully, that the British ultimatum had now formally expired, and that as of this moment Dublin had received no further communication from the Crown.

Then she said nothing at all for three seconds, which on live television was a very long time.

Finn was the first to speak.

"Did anyone actually think he’d ring ahead?"

"I wouldn’t mind a few more minutes of nothing," said Cillian. "Honestly. Nothing’s grand. I’d take nothing."

"Shut up," said Maeve. "Both of you."

The presenter had a hand pressed to her earpiece.

---

"We’re getting—" She stopped and listened. "We’re getting reports from County Louth."

The picture changed to a map of Ireland, with the border drawn across the top of it in red. The camera pushed in on one stretch where the motorway came down out of Newry toward Dundalk, the N1 on one side of the line and the A1 on the other, the way every lorry and bus and car crossing between the two had always gone.

"Irish military authorities have confirmed what they’re describing as hostile military movements across the border from Northern Ireland," the presenter said. "Details are still—we’re being told we should treat early reports with caution, they’re coming in very quickly—"

A line of text came up beneath her.

*DEFENCE FORCES: BRITISH TROOPS HAVE ENTERED IRISH TERRITORY. IRISH PERSONNEL RESPONDING.*

James went to the screen.

"We have reports," said the presenter, "of British armoured vehicles and military transport moving south on the main road corridor. Other incidents along the border are being investigated. I want to stress that we don’t have a full picture—"

The picture cut to video.

It had been filmed from inside a car. The camera was shaking and pointed through a windscreen at a line of brake lights, all stopped. Beyond the brake lights, further up the road, headlights were coming the other way. They were big and high-set, far too many of them, moving in a column with shapes behind them that were not lorries.

Somebody outside the car was shouting. *Turn round. Turn round, turn round, get off the road.*

"Are they ours?" A woman’s voice, close to the phone, from the passenger seat. "Are they Irish? Are those ours? Pat. *Pat.* Are they ours?"

Nobody answered her.

The camera swung. In the next lane a man was getting out of his car and leaving the door open, and running back up the hard shoulder. A woman went after him with a child on her hip. Further up, someone else had done the same.

The video ended.

The next one was from a village, somewhere north of Dundalk. People stood in the street outside their houses in dressing gowns and coats over pyjamas, while a fire engine and an ambulance went past with their lights on and no sirens. A man in a GAA jacket had a phone to his ear and was saying, "He was coming down. He left Newry an hour ago. He was coming *down*," into it, over and over. Behind him two neighbours were arguing about whether the back road to Carrickmacross was still open. One said it was. The other said he’d heard it wasn’t.

Nobody in it knew anything.

The picture cut back to the studio.

"We now have confirmation," said the presenter, "that there have been exchanges of fire between British and Irish military personnel."

Finn got to his feet.

James looked round at the three of them.

None of them said anything. None of them needed to.

It had started.

---

Finn had his phone out before he had finished standing up.

He rang his father. James watched him listen to it ring out. Finn tried a second time and listened to it ring out again. Then he put the phone in his pocket, not hard, but not gently either.

"He’ll have been on the phone to the army all night," Finn said. "He’ll be in some room. He’s not going to stop to tell me he’s grand." His jaw tightened. "Which he is. Because he’s Marcus."

Maeve was already on the guild line to security.

"I want to know who’s in the building," she said. "Now. Names. And I want to know who isn’t, and where they are. Anyone with family in the North, anyone who lives in Louth or Monaghan or Cavan, anyone on the road tonight." She listened. "Yes. Everyone. Before I tell anybody to do anything, I want everyone accounted for."

Cillian had not taken his eyes off the screen. There was another clip now, a shot from somewhere high up looking down on a road with fires burning beside it.

"Do they actually think they can do it?" he said. "Walk in? Hold it? With every major guild in this country sitting here?"

"They’re not walking in with Challengers," said Finn.

He was watching the same clip.

"Look at it. They’re not relying on their guilds. That’s an army. They’ve got tanks, aircraft, ships, all of it, and God knows how long they’ve been planning this." He shook his head. "I don’t know how big it is. Nobody does yet. But look at the size of that column. He said he’d do it and he’s doing it."

James had been listening.

"We still don’t know what they want from us," he said.

Finn turned.

"I mean it. We agreed to read the terms. We haven’t seen them. Nobody’s signed anything. I’m not taking any of you out of this building because there’s a column on the telly. Not until somebody who actually runs this tells us what they need."

Finn looked at him for a moment, and then nodded.

---

The news kept coming, a little at a time, and every piece of it worse.

The Defence Forces had engaged British forces in the north. The government had activated its emergency arrangements. Every department was on a war footing, and the national coordination centre was running on all channels. British units were trying to push south into the Republic. Irish units were trying to stop them.

Nobody on the screen knew more than that, and the ones who pretended to were the worst.

---

????

---

The British forward command post was a set of linked vehicles in a field outside Newry, under camouflage netting. There were a dozen screens inside and a great deal of quiet.

The officers worked through the reports as they came.

The lead elements were across. The road corridor was open as far as the first objective. The orders had been issued two days ago, after the ultimatum, and had been confirmed tonight when it expired. Nobody in the post had been surprised when they came.

"Resistance heavier than projected at the southern junction," a major reported. "Irish infantry has dug in at the bridge. They’re not falling back."

"How long?"

"Hard to say, sir. They’re holding."

"Civilian traffic on the main route is slowing the follow-on movement," said another. "Abandoned vehicles across both lanes. Engineers are clearing it."

The commanding officer stood in front of the main map with his hands behind his back. He had been briefed for weeks on what the Irish Defence Forces had, how many there were and what they could do. He had been told, as everyone in that post had been told, that they would not hold for long against sustained pressure.

He looked at the bridge on the map, where the Irish were not falling back.

"We proceed," he said. "Per the campaign plan. Clear the route, reduce the junction and secure the first objective. Then we set the conditions for the next phase." He turned. "I want the bridge by first light."

"Sir."

Nobody in the post mentioned the Tower or any guild, or any particular Challenger. It was not that kind of war, not yet, and the officers in that field had a road to take.

James’s phone rang. It was O’Shea.

He answered it standing up.

"They’re across," O’Shea said. He did not bother with hello. "You’ll have seen. British forces are inside the Republic and our people are engaged with them. The government’s treating it as an invasion. Not a demonstration, and not another threat. It’s an invasion."

"How bad is it?"

"I don’t know."

James waited.

"I mean that," said O’Shea. "I’m not the army, Ganner. I get what the military choose to send the Bureau, and right now they’re sending it in pieces. We’ve got reports from five or six places and half of them contradict the other half. A report comes in that a road’s been cut, and twenty minutes later another report says it’s open. I’m not going to give you a battlefield assessment I haven’t got."

"The volunteer programme," said James. "From the summit. Is that happening?"

"It’s happening now." O’Shea’s voice changed slightly. "The Defence Forces have asked for the immediate availability of qualified Challengers willing to serve. Marcus Hale and some of the other senior guild people are already working with the military on it. They’re getting ready to take in volunteers."

"Tonight?"

"As fast as they can process them." A pause. "But listen to me. It’s urgent, and it’s still not a free-for-all. Anyone going in accepts the service conditions, properly, in writing. Your people can’t just turn up somewhere with a shield and start fighting on their own account. If they do, they’re not volunteers. They’re a problem."

"Where do we report?"

"The instructions come through the military liaison. Not me." James heard someone speak to O’Shea in the background, and O’Shea cover the phone, and come back. "What I need from you is names. Which of your people are willing. I’ll forward them for assessment and assignment."

"I’ll get back to you."

"Quickly," said O’Shea. "It’s moving fast. They may have to put whoever they can wherever they can, faster than any of us would like."

"Understood."

"Ganner." O’Shea’s voice dropped. "Thank you."

Then, the line went out.