[center][u][b]The Republic of Ulster[/b][/u][/center]

[b]St. Angelo Airport, Enniskillen, County Fermanagh[/b]

The radio crackled to life and a cheer echoed throughout the air hangar.

"Good man, Gerry!" laughed Ian McCallum, clapping Gerry the engineer on the back. "See if you can find Foyle Radio there, lad". There was only radio static as the engineer bent over the tiny radio and fiddled with some wires. The tension in the room was reaching breaking point just as the radio roared into life. There was wild cheers and jumping as the group of scavengers began to sing to the old Ulster classic, "Alternative Ulster" by the ancient Belfast folk band, Stiff Little Fingers. 

[youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qLo7z50Tt2g[/youtube]

Rain pattered on the cast-roof just as the song faded away into static. "Ah jesus, lads, lets start this before the rain gets shite" grumbled Ian, slinging his gun onto his back and pulling his hood over his head. "Right, Gerry, what should we pull in first?" Gerry the engineer jumped to his feet and jogged across to the open hangar doors. The hangar was completely bare, apart from the small tents and campfire the scavengers had set up the night before. There were six of them in all - Gerry, Ian, Wee John, Big John, Gary and Ians son, Aaron. 

Scavenging was a specialised profession in the Republic of Ulster - seeing as prior to the war, Ulster was largely poverty-ridden and rural, it seemed there wasn't much to scavenge. But Ian and his crew always found a way. Tiny airports, paramilitary weaponry caches and British bases dotted the land and there was a gold mine of machinery parts, food and weapons to be sold in Derry. Ian used a team of horses to drag the parts back to a safehouse he'd hidden deep in the hills of Donegal and then drag the whole lot to Derry for sale. It was hard work, stripping down vehicles or risking their necks in old army bases but it paid well.

"Aye, ye see that auld propeller plane down there? Hitch the horses up to that and drag it down it here. We can strip it down, sure, they love that engine shite in Derry" said Gerry, twisting his face into a horrible smile. Gerry was a toothless old bastard but he could strip anything down in a matter of hours. 

"Right, that's grand. Aaron and Gary, get the horses. We'll get the fucking ropes and make sure that big cunt of a plane doesn't blow up on us" nodded Ian, directing Wee John and Big John to follow him out to the runway. 

Ian jammed his hands into the pockets of his hoody as a sharp breeze cut across the runaway. "Fuckin' cauld..." murmured Wee John as he lumbered behind Ian. Wee John, despite his namesake, was the biggest man Ian had ever seen. He could lift five barrels of beer over his shoulder without losing a breath and was so powerfully built his clothes often ripped from his muscles. His best friend, Big John, stood at a modest five feet and was a small rat of a man. He was always hearing rumours of this and that and researched pre-war Ulster history extensively. He was quiet but a useful asset to Ian's work. 

The airplane was ancient, even by pre-war standards. It's white paint was cracked and peeling. Both tires were flat and the one of the wings looked ready to fall off. The cockpit was a simple affair and Wee John lifted Ian into it to get a better look. The glass was cracked but still intact.  "I dunno, lads, this looks a bit shite" said Ian, investigating the sides of the cockpit. "Ah well, Gerry will get something out of it". 

Wee John lifted Ian back down to the ground. The three men began throwing ropes across the plane, careful not to damage any of it. They finished quickly and took shelter under a wing as they waited for Aaron and Gary to return with the horses.

"Where are those fuckin' bastards now..." murmured Ian, jamming his gloved hands into his pockets once again.  


[b]Lough Neagh, West Shore[/b]

"What d'you think, lads?" asked Captain Burns.

"Aye, she's looking well" smiled Private Adams. The boat bobbed in the water. It had been recently waxed and clean. It was ready for another season of fishing, by the looks of it. But there was no fishing to be done on the [i]LÉ Béal Inse[/i] today. "Right, get on board, boys" barked Seargeant Paisley. "Aye, sir!" replied the men, saluting. The soldiers jumped onto the boat carefully. It bobbed violently as Private McGuinness jumped on, cackling. "Fuck you, McGuinness" snarled Private Adams, leaning on the side of the boat. He was terrified of boats. When the ten soldiers were on board, jumped on board last.

"Captain Burns, if you'll please..." nodded Paisley. The Captain scratched his white beard and nodded. "Right, boys. Lough Neagh's about 15 km across. When you land on the opposite shore, you've to go to the auld car garage a mile inland and see if you can secure it. Remember, lads, this is near Ground Zero. The fuckers dropped a bomb on Belfast and fucked up half the population there. Do not engage anyone seen on the Lough Neagh without prior orders and for fuck sakes, don't fall in".

The was a smattering of laughter as the soldiers nodded. Captain Burns retreated to the cockpit and the boat roared into life. It was powered by electricty but with energy being in such short supply these days, it had to move slowly. "We'll get there in about 5 hours" growled Paisley, glaring at Private McGuinness before he could open his mouth.

"Don't say a fucking word, Private McGuinness or I will fucking throw you in".