Frank Dawson was a 23 year old Catholic, Irish nationalist whose father had been shot by a British soldier and his mother died of the pox next year. No family, no ties. He was a cold man. He wore a leather jacket and collared shirt, blue work pants, and sometimes a cheap black tie. He never combed his long, blonde red hair. He had a young face.

Another thing he always had was a body holster, hidden in his Jacket, with a Colt. 1911 .22 constantly with him, need he be in trouble.  He was trained in advanced melee combat tactics, and he was a dead shot with any gun he used. He also happened to be part of the Irish Republican Army.

He had three peculiar qualities. He never drank or smoked, something highly uncommon for an Irishman. He never engaged in debauchery, ad he never, ever missed Mass. Not once.

As Frank walked to the hidden building in what would become known as the Bogside of Derry, or as the Brits called it Londonderry, the tension in the air was palpable. British Soldiers would be arriving to the support local RIC police. Sometimes change is inevitable, but people still fought it anyway. The Irish certainly did.

He knocked twice on the door of the house, crushed between a pub and a bookstore. The door opened to reveal a man, about Frank’s age and height. He greeted Frank with a smile.

Connor O'Donnell was a 20 year old man, who dropped out of Cork College to fight in the 1916 Easter Rising. Good with a gun, and even quicker with any type of explosives, he was a combat prodigy. A devout Catholic and Nationalist, he also happened to be the proud secretary Donegal wing of Sínn Féin, The Irish Republican party.

He had deep brown hair, neatly combed everyday. Like Frank he also carried a body holster hidden by the gray blazer. His gun of choice was a “Peacekeeper” revolver. Ironic name for the weapon.

“Welcome back, Frank” Connor said with a beaming smile, “Come on in.” Connor gestured for him to hurry in. the door closed behind him. Neither man dared to take off their jackets. The RIC was watching every window in the house, they knew.

Connor and Frank hurried towards the breakfast room, which had large windows facing the waterside of Derry. The day was grey, overcast and sullen. It matched the public mood. No one dared walk the streets of the infamous bogside. It was patrolled by RIC and British soldiers. They waited on every corner.

Frank sat down, and glanced out the window. He thought he saw something, so he turned to stare. A glare, from the miniscule amount of sun, on top of a rooftop. In a flash it disappeared, but not before Frank saw the glare’s source. A sniper. Not only a sniper, a black and tans sniper.

Frank tried to be subtle, but his hands were shaking. He mimed dropping a napkin, and bent under the table to pick it up. He looked up, the glare was back. The sniper was searching for him. He could risk getting up, but he’d also risk getting his brains blown out from a hundred meters.

Frank saw Connor walk in, and gestured for him to stop. Connor did so, confused. He gave frank a questioning look.

“Sniper. Black n’ Tans” Frank said, gesturing to the window. Connor nodded. Frank crawled as fast as he could to the other side of the room, out of view of any window.

“We need to leave, Connor. And fast.” Frank said. He was less shaky now that he knew the situation.

“How did they know?!” Connor said, angrily in the back of the car. “They have no links to us and the Belfast job, absolutely none.” Connor finished, as they drove south, through the countryside of Westmeath. A pretty place, at least the weather was nice here.

“Check the bloody Thompsons, will you?” Frank snapped. Connor had been ranting for the past hour. “And yes, they have no evidence, but since when do the Brits need evidence?”

“True.” Grumbled Connor, he looked back. Two Thompson submachine guns lay, twenty round clips loaded. “They’re fine, hidden well enough.” Connor told Frank. Frank simply grunted in reply. The road was lonely, and he was surprised there weren’t any troops or RIC trucks parked along the road stopping travelers.

Frank heard something, it sounded almost like an engine. His head snapped back to look out the back window of the car. He saw two Royal Army Corps trucks and, of course, a saracen armoured car.

“Grab the guns, load em up!” Frank yelled, as he roughly jerked the wheel to the side and the car turned onto the road. Connor flicked the safety of the thompson, a 50 round drum loaded, and leaned out the window. One of the trucks drifted slightly, turning to chase them. This exposed the soldiers sitting in the back. Connor squeezed the trigger. He watched the spray of red mist as they fell and slumped.

The other truck broke off after seeing the fate of its comrade. Only the saracen remained to chase the buggy.

They bounced along the side road, nearly crashing into the dilapidated stone fences on the narrow winding path. Frank, who was driving, spotted the tree at the crossroads first. He sped up, the saracen matching his speed. The tree and crossroads was closing fast. Just a few metres…

Frank jerked the wheel of the buggy, far more nimble than the armoured car, and whipped around the tree about as close as it got. The saracen wasn’t so lucky. It smashed into the tree, and flipped upward, exploded mid-air before the bodies and wreckage fell to the ground.

Connor had his sights on the flaming remains of the Saracen and was ready to squeeze the trigger to end the life of his target. No bodies attempted to stand, the flaming wreckage was still except for the flicking, fiery tongue of the flames.

Frank and Connor’s Buggy motored through the foggy Dublin streets at nightfall. Almost no cars were out, except for the occasional RIC truck. No one stopped them. As they meandered closer to the dock area, Connor attempted to get a feel for their target.

The HMS Newfoundland was a new Crown-Colony class cruiser in the Royal Navy. It just so happened to be docked in Dublin. The ship was utterly massive, 555 feet long with an armament of three 6 inch gun turrets, anti aircraft, and torpedo bays. It also happened to have one of the Royal Navy’s largest explosive munitions holds.

They entered the side of the dock where the most Catholics worked, and they were greeted warmly when the dockhands saw the rosaries around their necks. They let them pass, unseen, and directed them to the military port. With their car full of gelignite and dynamite and fuses for the appropriate explosives, they were ready.

Ready to blow up the Newfoundland.

Their car came to a halt, hidden behind the stern and rudder of the ship. They were practically invisible to guards, for no one shouted or shot at them as they ran up the gangplank and into the hull. They got right to work. Drawing pistols, they went opposite directions.

Frank went to the empty and silent engine room, and stuffed gelignite in the propulsion engines and dynamite in the walls. Connor was doing the same in the munitions bunker. For the next hour, as the starry Dublin night faded into a foggy twilight, they sprinted out and tied the wires into one. As the sun came up, Connor flicked the switch. He had 120 seconds to get into the car. He ran to the car, he and Frank started the engine, and began to speed down the docks.

“3, 2, 1…” Connor screamed, but his last words were drowned by the sound of a massive explosion. He and Frank were jerked forward by the sheer force of it, and nearly went through the window.

As they looked back, the Newfoundland was shrouded in black smoke. It was time for a getaway.