"What’s with the damn phone?" Specialist-4 Alison Hart-Burnett groused as she stared at the red numbers on her alarm clock. They read 0430 hours. "All of a sudden, everyone decides to call at the crack of dawn on my day off…"

After a few moments of realizing that the party on the other end of the line wasn’t giving up so easily, she rolled over in her standard-issue rack and shoved aside the lightweight cotton bed sheets to reach for the telephone on her nightstand.

"Hello?" she responded groggily.

"Alison?" The voice on the line was scratchy. "It’s your mother, sweetheart!"

"Where are you, Mom?" Alison replied. "You sound like you’re a million miles away."

"We’re on a Concorde, sweetheart, on the way to visit one of your father’s plants that’s having some trouble in Dublin. Sorry about the terrible connection."

"That explains it," Alison said, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. "Do you know what time it is over here?"

"I’m sorry, honey," Margaret Hart-Burnett said over the crackling air phone. "I was never good at figuring the time change out."

"Never mind, Mom. What’s with the call out of the blue?"

"We got your letter, the one about the change of station. It’s great news that you’re coming back to the East Coast."

"I was looking forward to the leave time the Army gave me before I have to report to the Chaplain’s Assistants School in New York," Alison said. "Are you going to be in Europe long?"

"We’ll be a couple weeks, tops," Margaret surmised, "Oh, wait a minute. Your dad is nudging me."

Alison listened quietly to the phone’s hypnotic buzzing before Margaret’s voice was replaced by that of her father, Alexander Burnett.

"Hi, Alison," Alexander said.

"Hi, Daddy."

"Are you planning to come by the house on the Vineyard to spend some of that leave time before your new orders kick in?"

"I was hoping to," Alison replied. "But you’re in Europe."

"I have a better idea," Alexander said in a voice that his daughter easily recognized. "Why don’t you call my executive assistant in the Boston office and have her arrange you tickets to fly out to Dublin as soon as you’re released from your unit? It’ll give us all a chance to catch up, and maybe you might want to look up some old friends over at Trinity while you’re here."

"I’d love that idea," Alison said with a chuckle. "For a second, I thought you were going to hound me about getting into the family business again."

"Honey, I’ve come to the realization that you needed the Army for a lot more than an excuse to rebel against your mother and me. You’re out there proving to yourself that you can handle your own life without money and influence behind it. And I’m proud of you. But, a daddy can still be a provider for his family in this day and age, can’t he?"

"Of course, Daddy. I should be able to see you in Dublin in six or seven days."

"Splendid, Alison. Margaret and I miss you so much. We can’t wait to see you again."

"I love you, Daddy," Alison whispered. "See you real soon."

The signal from the air phone popped and crackled before dropping off. "Well," Alison said to herself, "Now’s as good a time as any to get back to it."

Alison slid off her bed and walked across the bedroom of her quarters to the half-emptied dresser. Jostling open an olive green duffel bag that sat next to the piece of furniture, she continued her packing with a big smile on her face.

***

Alison stepped off the four-engine, wide-body Airbus with a yawn, towing an olive drab U.S. Army "roll-aboard" suitcase behind her. The French airliner, operated by Aer Lingus, was a rather comfortable ride, especially since Alexander Burnett’s assistant had booked Alison in the business class section from Boston’s Logan International Airport.

As the cool, air conditioned breeze from the terminal blew through the humid jetway at near gale speeds, Alison felt the cool sensation on her cheeks and felt refreshed. The fully reclining business class seat that she slept in hadn’t hurt either. It was certainly a switch from the jam-packed troop seats aboard an aging C-141A that had carried her from March AFB in California to Hanscom AFB, just outside of Boston.

A sea of faces, young and old, greeted her in the airport, but none of them were recognizable to Alison. She navigated her way past hugging relatives, laughing children, and foreign tourists before she located her mother smiling and waving from near two burly men in black suits.

Apparently, despite the usual levels of airport security for international travelers, she had been permitted to meet her daughter’s flight at the gate. It was quite unlike the security measures in place and under evaluation back in the United States.

"Mom!" Alison called out, hurrying to reach Margaret Hart-Burnett, where they immediately exchanged a tight embrace.

"How was your flight, sweetheart?" Margaret asked, motioning for one of her suited attendants to take the rolling bag from her daughter.

"It was comfortable, Mom. Louise booked me on business class after my military flight landed at Hanscom Air Force Base. I appreciate you having George meet me at the base and take most of my stuff to the house."

"Where is everything you had in California? Didn’t you keep an apartment there?"

"Mom," Alison replied with a chuckle. "You and Dad saw my place there. Everything was issued to me by the base, including the furniture. I didn’t buy too many personal items – there just wasn’t any space in the enlisted quarters. A couple of boxes are on their way to my new duty station, but George handled all two of my duffel bags."

"Have I said yet that it’s great to see you again?" Margaret gushed, gripping her daughter’s shoulders. Her lips turned down at the casual clothing Alison wore on the flight – an olive drab U.S. Army tee shirt and comfortable khaki slacks.

"I can’t say that I agree with the style of clothes, but you sure look all grown up. The Army’s done great things for you."

"Thanks, Mom," Alison replied with redness filling her cheeks. "I qualified in a new specialty while I was living at Fort Ord. I don’t have to be a glorified cashier anymore."

"Oh? Sweetheart, that’s great! What job did you train for?"

"I got into Military Intelligence. My job is mainly cryptography and data collection. But it’s great because not too many Army women are allowed in the field yet and the M.I. corps is one of the first exceptions. The Intel people do get sent into combat occasionally."

Margaret gasped at the thought of her Alison being shot at. "Combat? Should I be worried?"

Alison smiled reassuringly at her mother’s look of concern. "No, Mom. I’m not going into combat. My re-posting to New York is to serve with a small support office attached to the Chaplain’s Assistants School. It’s at Fort Wadsworth, on Staten Island."

"That’s a heck of a place for an Intelligence specialist, Alison. I thought Chaplains were priests," Margaret suggested, admittedly at a loss as to what the real ins and outs of the Army were.

"Chaplain’s assistants are not priests," Alison stated. "They’re more like altar boys trained to fire weapons and drive the priests around. The school is one of the major units that live on the base. The school also has a motor pool unit, and a whole bunch of small detachments from different corps of the Army attached. They help keep the base ready for an emergency and train Reservists."

"Well, Staten Island is better than being sent to a combat unit staring across the lines at the Russians."

"That it is. I don’t think the New Jersey folks will pose much of a threat, Mom."

Margaret and Alison chuckled demurely, walking together through the terminal and flanked by the suited men. Margaret seemed at ease with the foreboding, toughly built escorts following her around, even though Alison had given them a suspicious once-over upon catching sight of them.

Since Alison’s father was an industrialist and often worked in other countries besides the U.S. when acquiring factories or managing his firm’s business affairs, bodyguards were not uncommon overseas. But he was also a tough man on his own, a veteran of a short-lived career in the Marines, who built his business operations in some of the rowdier parts of the world.

The two escorts took care of retrieving Alison’s checked bag and clearing her through the Irish government’s Customs and Border Control staff. Within less than an hour, they were speeding toward the heart of Dublin in a plain, black Maybach saloon car. It was quite likely that Alison’s father had hired the car fully loaded with armor plate and bulletproof glass. He was a stickler for the details and never left things to chance.

Alison looked out the window wistfully at the passing Irish countryside, the green hills and down-to-earth people passing by the paved motorway on their daily tasks. She remembered fondly her time at the Women’s School of Trinity College, and all of the activities outside of academia that she had enjoyed during her time in Dublin.

"I recall you enjoyed doing a lot of riding and hiking around here," Margaret said, breaking the silence in the well-appointed German car. She power-reclined her seat and smiled when Alison turned to face her, the younger Burnett’s features softly backlit by the rays of late morning sunlight shining into the tinted windows. "Do you know what you’ll want to do while in town?"

"I’m not sure yet," Alison said with a relaxed sigh. "Catch up with you and Daddy. Do some shopping. Visit some of the old haunts, perhaps. Look up some old friends…"

Margaret detected something in Alison’s intonations that she knew in herself, from days long past when she had met Alexander. At the time, he was attending to his education at The Wharton School of Business, an adjunct campus of the state-run University of Pennsylvania near Philadelphia. She was a humanities student in the Main Line campus of U Penn.

Although Alexander had family money behind him and the Burnett Corporation as a guaranteed job upon graduation, Margaret recalled that Alexander never put on airs, and also chose to join the Marines for the experience of becoming his own man. She often reminded Alexander of that fact when frustrations arose over Alison’s choice to enlist in the Army.

"Some sort of ‘old friend’ in particular?" Margaret inquired with a gleam in her eye.

"If he’s still around," Alison admitted without realizing.

"I understand. I met your father in college too. I won’t press the issue. That’s your business. But, I hope you can find this mystery man."

"So do I," Alison replied with a smile.

***

The Maybach carrying Alison and Margaret rolled into the unloading zone at the regal Royal Dublin Hotel, on O’Connell Street. A doorman strode out to meet the saloon car, waiting to open the passenger door and help the occupants out. The sunlight glinted off the shiny accoutrements of the hotel’s frontage and the glass panels that allowed an unfettered view of the spacious marble-tiled lobby.

Alison gazed upward at the hotel, awestruck by the grandeur of the building, while fond memories returned to her consciousness like a wave of warm Pacific water rushing over her body. "We’re staying here?" she asked Margaret, catching a smile and wave from her mother in the corner of her eye.

"Your father has the Presidential Suite," Margaret replied. "Matter of fact, here he is now."

Alexander walked confidently through the lobby, attired in a stylish pinstriped blue suit and designer silk necktie. He moved with a flow of a natural executive, like he owned the environment he was in at all times. A broad smile spread across his lips when he saw Margaret and Alison waiting by the car.

Alison felt like a little girl again, greeting her father on his way home from a long day at work. Giddy with anticipation, she surged forward and threw her arms around Alexander, and father and daughter shared a warm embrace.

"You look great, Alison!" Alexander said. "It is wonderful to see you after spending all that time in California!"

"I missed you too, Daddy," Alison whispered, clutching Alexander. "You look like you’ve been busy."

"Quite, my dear," Alexander said after trading kisses with Margaret. "Business at the manufacturing plant outside of town. Nothing to worry yourself over. You’re here to relax before the Army takes you away from us again."

"I intend to get some rest," Alison said, withdrawing her outstretched arms. "But a little chow would hit the spot right about now."

"Sounds like a cue to see if the restaurant here is all that the travel brochures said it is," Margaret interjected. "Shall we?"

As the Burnetts returned to the lobby of the Royal Dublin, a cluster of middle aged men were in an upper floor room of an abandoned office building across O’Connell Street. They huddled over a small desk lamp and a set of large municipal blueprints, in an empty room with the tattered remains of window shades drawn. One of them pulled a shade aside to glance at the sparse activity in the street.

"Aye, boyos," the watcher said. "There’s some bonny young lass walkin’ round the Royal Dublin this morning."

"Why don’t you invite her to the pub for a draught?" one of the men studying the blueprints asked. "Just you pay attention for the constables, lad. We’ve only a few days to make our bloody statement, an’ the Armaments International Corporation factory is gonna be the place."

The window watcher took a second look across the street and caught a glimpse of Alison’s face. "For the life of me, she looks familiar."

"Everyone looks familiar to ye!" another of the men scoffed.

"She looks like someone from Trinity… when I was just a college lad."

"And now you’re part of Ireland for Irish. Get your head back in the game, boy. We’re going to drive all the foreigners out. First, we rid the Republic of the industrialists that are throwing their dirty foreign money around and then the bloody Brits who are keepin’ our northern brothers down will go. Get over here and listen to your part of this thing."

The lookout took a final glance at Alison before replacing the torn curtain in its place and joining the men at the blueprints.

***

Alison sauntered into Greystone’s around two in the afternoon, after spending several hours walking around the campus of Trinity College and looking up some of her old professors from the Finance, Literature, and Arts and Languages faculties. The bar was relatively empty, although a handful of Trinity students passed through looking for friends.

The day had gone quietly, as Alison had wanted. She toured Trinity College with her mother and a volunteer student, recalling how the place had looked when she was a student there. It had changed very little, aside from a handful of new buildings and expansion of the dormitories to handle the larger body of collegiates in attendance.

An old friend from Alison’s class still lived in Dublin, and they met for lunch at the hotel restaurant, where the two women regaled one another with their exploits and adventures. The friend had rather little to say, but took quite an interest in the fact that Alison chose to take her finance degree and language fluency to the U.S. Army. The friend had rightly guessed that the Army had so few opportunities for women, that there wasn’t much difference from her own experience in a metropolitan legal office. When Alison confided that she was changing jobs into Military Intelligence, it was quite a shock to her friend.

The man behind the bar, Angus Taggart - nicknamed "Old Angus" - had been running the establishment since long before Alison was enrolled at Trinity, and she recognized him instantly. Angus, however, saw so many people come and go that he could only manage a friendly, welcoming smile, albeit the same one he’d used for the past twenty years as Greystone’s barkeep.

"Top of the afternoon to ya," Old Angus said in greeting. "What can I get ya?"

"Pint of ale, please," Alison replied. "It’s good to see you again, Old Angus."

"Ah," Angus said, turning to gaze into Alison’s green eyes. He remembered the American girl with the natural Gaelic lilt to her voice, that visited the pub every weekend with her Trinity friends. "Good to see you too, lass. I thought you were long gone back to the Americas."

"I was," Alison replied, accepting the tall pint glass of warm beer and taking a slug off the foamy top. "Just back to visit the old haunts."

"I remember back when you were one of the few foreigners livin’ round Dublin, lass," Old Angus said, his back to Alison while he drew a pint for another patron. "Nowadays there’s a whole bunch of them, throwin’ their money about. Some Englishmen opened a whole chain of new pubs around even, cheap liquor and some of that London hip shit that they tout down in the south. I don’t get much business from Trinity anymore because of them."

"I never knew you to be bitter, Old Angus," Alison remarked. "Some of the foreign businessmen are trying to make good jobs for honest men over here."

"Not all of ‘em," Angus said. "And the bad seeds are ruining it for the good ones. There’s even a group of local boyos that get together over pints and bitch about doing something big to scare off the foreign investors. It’s probably all bullshit, but who knows what’ll go on, what with airliner being hijacked and all? God only knows what the Irish boys up in Belfast are doing to piss off the Brits."

"Angus, you’re depressing me," Alison said with a grin, as she dragged off a long drink of her ale. "If I wanted dark and gloomy, I’d be drinking with my friends at Fort Ord."

"I knew you carried yourself differently, lass," Angus said. "I figured you to be military when you walked in. So, you joined the American Army with all that fancy education you had at Trinity. Sounds like a waste to me."

"Not at all," Alison replied. "I had something to prove to myself. And that’s all I’ll say."

Alison turned to look at the entrance to Greystone’s when the door opened. A young, but tired face poked around the heavy wooden door, attached to a lithe framed body.

After so many years, Alison’s heart didn’t fail to flutter just a moment. She knew the young man, a year younger than she was. Although he looked a little different than when he was in college, there was no doubt in Alison’s mind that Patrick McElroy, her college beau, stood in the pub doorway.

"How are ya, boyo?" Old Angus called out. McElroy slumped onto a stool at the end of the bar and grunted.

"The usual, Old Angus, if ye please."

"Had a long night, did ye, boyo?"

"Aye, Angus. All this time spent getting a degree at Old Trinity, and the best job I could manage was a security guard when that big American firm took over the old Dublin Government Munitions Factory. Some days, it’s downright shit."

"Well, watch your tongue, boyo," Angus said, jerking his thumb toward Alison. "We’ve got a Yank visitor in the pub, eh?"

Patrick and Alison glanced in one another’s direction almost instantaneously, and their eyes locked. Both pairs of eyes flashed with immediate recognition.

"Patrick?" Alison asked.

"Allie?" Patrick replied.

The two walked to one another and embraced, somewhat coldly, before taking stools together at the bar.

"How have you been, Allie?" Patrick managed to mumble. "You running your daddy’s business already?"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Alison asked. "Whatever happened to ‘Nice to see you, lover’?"

"You’re the one who left for the States when we wanted to plan something together," Patrick whispered.

"I’m sorry," Alison said. "I had commitments."

"Thank God it’s over then," Patrick growled, taking his pint and leaving. "Enjoy your visit. I’m off to work."

Patrick left suddenly, after draining his pint and flipping a bill to Old Angus to pay an installment on his tab.

"Don’t pay him any mind, lass," Old Angus said to Alison. "He’s bitter about the foreigners too."

"I guess when we were young and stupid, he didn’t pay any attention to that," Alison commented. "And now, he’s a shell of how I remember him."

"Sadly, lass, a lot of Dublin is a shell of what it was, and no one knows just who is the real cause…"

***

Alison snoozed lightly in the second bedroom of the hotel suite her parents had let for their visit to Dublin. Although it was hardly as luxurious as the master bedroom where her parents slept, the room’s appointments and comfortable bed certainly rivaled the best five-star hotels in the world.

The accidental rendezvous with Patrick McElroy was a shock to Alison, one that made her weak in the knees long after the two had parted ways so strangely. She had to wonder what had made him change so drastically from the fun-loving, talkative boy she dated while enrolled at Trinity. The whole tone of her visit to Greystone’s Pub made her think about the underbelly of Dublin, compared to the way she remembered things. A lot was different, and not so much for the better.

The soft notes of the bedroom’s radio filled Alison’s head with modern Irish rock, mixed in with popular tunes from other American and European artists. The environment was just right for sleep.

Alison's eyes snapped open when she realized that the imagined peals of thunder across the Irish night sky were actually explosions. Eventually, the individual rumbles died out, but were replaced by wailing sirens as the Dublin fire department, police constables, and members of the Irish Gardai paramilitary force started responding to the source of the sounds.

The explosions had to be someplace well outside the city, but close enough for the concussion to rattle the glass windowpanes at the Royal Dublin, Alison thought as she considered whether it was prudent to get out of bed.

She decided in a quick moment to slide out of bed, and found her slippers in the dark with the tips of her toes. When she slipped her feet into them and padded toward the window, the view outside was a total shock.

An orange glow backlit some low hills on the outskirts of Dublin's industrial area, and a pall of black smoke was already forming over the cluster of factories and plants neighboring the affected site.

Alison walked out into the suite's sitting room, just as the tingle of the suite's telephone called out to the occupants. She was first to answer, not having seen or heard anything from her parents' room across the way.

"Hello? Alison asked sleepily.

"Who is this?" a frightened male voice inquired curtly.

"Alison Hart-Burnett. May I help you?"

The male seemed to calm himself slightly, but the stress in his voice was thick and easy to discern. "I am looking for Mister Alexander Burnett. My name is Ryan Thetford, the executive manager at his Dublin plant."

"I'll get him for you," Alison said, not wanting to press the reason for the nocturnal call out of Thetford. She knocked on her parents' bedroom door. "Daddy? There's a Ryan Thetford on the phone for you."

"Thank you, Alison," Alexander said through the door, snatching up the telephone next to the bed. "Ryan, it's Alex. What's wrong?"

Alison hung onto the telephone, not breathing or making a sound even with her hand covering the mouthpiece. She gasped and almost dropped the extension phone when she heard Thetford's answer.

"Someone bombed the factory, sir. They must've had help on the inside because it was like whoever did it came and left like ghosts."

"What's been hit?" Alexander asked, his voice instantly worried for the safety of his employees that were on the night production shift.

"Secure chemicals storage warehouse and the utility plant. That started a chain reaction, which heavily damaged the main plant building and the laboratories’ annex. I've ordered the whole place evacuated and will meet with the emergency people at the main gate."

"Find out as much as you can, Ryan," Alexander ordered. The tone of his voice was perceptibly changing. "I want to know that everyone is safely out of there. I'm coming down myself."

"No, sir!" Thetford protested. "It's very dangerous here! There's a risk of numerous secondary explosions from the R&D Projects lab."

"Ryan, just keep your head and see to our people. I'll worry about my well being."

Alexander hung up quickly and reached for a leather shoulder rig that he had hanging in his bedroom closet. When Margaret saw what he was slipping on over the T-shirt that he was sleeping in, she gasped. As if the rig wasn’t bad enough, Alexander also hung a Mini-UZI from one side and tucked a well-used Colt Combat Commander .45-caliber automatic into the rig’s armpit holster, along with several magazines of ready ammunition.

He slipped a trench coat over his clothing, after putting on a pair of casual khaki trousers. Before walking out into the sitting room of the suite, he dialed another room in the hotel, summoning the hired bodyguards up to the suite.

"Daddy, let me help!" Alison said in a slightly begging tone, her eyes concerned for her father’s safety. "I’m handy with a sidearm. Don’t go out there, if someone is targeting your plant. They may take a shot at you!"

"Stay with your mother, Alison," Alexander said brusquely, heading right for the suite’s hallway door. "You take care of her for me. The security men will be up here to keep watch over the two of you. None of this is your business."

Before Alison could protest further, the suite door slammed shut. She ran to one of the windows overlooking the lobby entrance and saw two bellhops scrambling to bring a black sedan around from its space in the VIP parking area. With the tails of his trench coat flowing behind, Alexander leaped into the car’s driver seat, shut the door, and peeled off into the Dublin night.

***

Alexander felt the smooth vibrations of the high-horsepower engine under the hood of the Maybach as it pulled through the gears of the German engineered transmission. Deftly avoiding the few cars still moving around the Dublin streets, he made his way out to the Cabra Road, which led to the industrial properties northwest of the city.

His heart tugged at him when Alexander saw the pillars of smoke rising over his plant, and he wondered how many people were hurt in the senseless bombing. As he rounded a corner and turned off the main roadway onto the plant access road, he spotted two black Land Rovers sporting his company logo on the hood panels coming the other way.

Thinking quickly, Alexander flashed his headlamps several times to warn the Rovers before steering across the roadway. The Land Rovers squealed to a stop a few yards from where he halted the Maybach.

"Oy! What’s with you?" the driver of the lead Land Rover shouted from the utility truck.

"I’m Alexander Burnett," Alexander shouted from the Maybach. "I own the plant. Where are you going?"

The driver of the Rover stepped out. He was thin and young, and held a Mag-Lite flashlight on the Maybach. "The name’s McElroy, sir. I work security for the plant. We’re taking some of the worst injured to hospital in Dublin."

Alexander unlocked the driver’s door and stepped out of the Kevlar-armored Maybach and stepped out to meet McElroy halfway. Neither of the men noticed two dark shadows slip out of the back of the trail Land Rover.

"What’s going on at the plant?" Alexander asked. "What happened?"

"Can’t say, sir," McElroy replied. "The boss just ordered me to drive the injured workers." His face was sweaty and nervous, as if in a hurry but not to go to the Dublin hospitals. "Sir, we must get on."

Alexander picked up on McElroy’s nervousness. He considered unbuttoning his trench coat to go for a weapon, but felt an object prodding him at the small of his back. For all of his precautions, Alexander Burnett had been much too trusting of his employee.

"Don’t make a move, Mister Burnett," a gruff voice said closely in his right ear. Alexander felt meaty hands patting him down over the trench coat before it was hauled off his shoulders, pinning his arms at the elbows.

The industrialist felt the same meaty hands withdrawing his .45 from the shoulder holster and unclipping the tactical strap that held his Mini-UZI in place. "Nice hardware," one of his captors said with an obvious sneer on his face. "Not only do we get to make our statement to the foreign dogs and elude capture, but we get one of them dropped straightaway into our laps. Quite a lucky night, eh boyos?"

"You haven’t got away clean yet," Alexander said softly, as the Irishman who searched him began to peel off a roll of duct tape, securing him around the trench coat and binding him at the ankles. "When I don’t show up at the plant, or return to my hotel, my people will become suspicious and start a search."

"We’ll be long away by then, perhaps in a hideout in Northern Ireland, where the constabulary can’t come lookin’ for ye." The braggart jerked his thumb in the direction of the Maybach. "Put him in the back for now an’ knock him cold. We’ll find a way to brazen it past any roadblocks. Let’s get outta here, before the cops do decide to start checking about."

With the slamming of car doors, all three vehicles turned off the Cabra Road onto an unmarked dirt trace. They quickly disappeared into a darkened wood moments before several Dublin Constabulary radio cars roared past with sirens blowing.