Operation Demetrius (1)
August 9th, the day set for the IRA's massive uprising, was a date steeped in historical significance for the citizens of Northern Ireland. It marked the anniversary of a deep-seated grievance dating back to 1971, when the British government launched Operation Demetrius.
During that operation, under the pretext of capturing "subversive terrorists"—namely, IRA members—the British government deployed special forces to arrest over two thousand citizens. In the process, they shot and killed twenty unarmed civilians, committing an original sin. Out of all those arrested, only two were actual IRA members. With such history, it was impossible for the people of Northern Ireland not to harbor a deep resentment toward the British Crown. The cycle of hatred was never driven by the mistakes of just one side. A grudge initiated by one party piles up layer upon layer, until eventually, looking back, they have rolled so far down the hill from where it first began that it is impossible to even determine who was originally at fault.
Thus, this grand operation was also named Operation Demetrius. It carried the weight of a grudge stretching back a quarter of a century.
For me, it was something to be incredibly grateful for. After all, it was thanks to this wheel driven by the engine of hatred that I had been able to come this far. After today, the political landscape surrounding Belfast, Northern Ireland, and the British Empire would have no choice but to undergo a rapid, irreversible shift. A sudden upheaval in a direction that neither the IRA, one of the combatants, nor the Royal Ulster Constabulary, backed by the Ministry of Magic, could ever foresee.
"Executive Director Choi, and Miss O'Rooney? This is Nikolai Rybakov, our senior shooting instructor for the IRA."
It was McDermott bringing Rybakov over to introduce him that snapped me out of my thoughts. Looking up toward the voices, I saw McDermott reversing the introductions.
"Mr. Rybakov, this is Executive Director Choi of Szczecin-Oder Logistics, and his secretary, Miss Erin O'Rooney. You can think of them as military observers for this offensive."
I had previously instructed McDermott to call me by my alias, Erin O'Rooney, in front of others. Upon hearing the name, he had shown a certain sense of satisfaction. No doubt because the name deliberately contained a word meaning Ireland. He belonged to the same breed as Declan Mackin, the man who had been swallowed by the shadows a while back. Really, though I thought about it time and again, what on earth was a nation anyway?
The relationship between McDermott and Rybakov was close to mutual respect. Although McDermott technically held a higher rank within the IRA's military-style hierarchy, Rybakov was a senior instructor brought in from abroad specifically to oversee the marksmanship training of the IRA operatives. While a direct one-to-one comparison was impossible, his position was roughly equivalent to that of a command sergeant major.
That was that, but upon hearing Rybakov's name, I tilted my head slightly and spoke.
"Здравствуйте...?"
"Oh, wait. Вы русский?"
It was a question filled with the delight of meeting a fellow Russian comrade in a land thousands of miles away. Since the name Nikolai Rybakov was obviously Russian, there was nothing strange about me addressing him in Russian first. Rybakov also played his part as pre-arranged, asking back, "Wait, are you Russian too?"
The reason for this amusing encounter was that, prior to the offensive, McDermott had to provide the two observers with information regarding today's operation. They needed to know who was commanding the troops, who was running small-unit tactics, and who was in charge of managing the various artillery shells and firearms. Furthermore, since McDermott was in a position where he had to curry favor with Pavel and me as much as possible, he had no choice but to grant our requests as a way to write off some of his outstanding debt.
To anyone who knew the behind-the-scenes reality, this scene was utterly hilarious. Did this idiot have any idea that three of the four people in this room, excluding himself, were completely in league with one another?
Of course, our cover story dictated that Rybakov was a Soviet Russian while Pavel and I were from Poland, so our nationalities weren't exactly the same. Still, the mere fact that we were all from the Eastern Bloc was more than enough to deceive McDermott and the rest of the IRA leadership, creating a warm and friendly atmosphere.
As noon, the scheduled start of the operation, drew near, the interior of the Combat Information Center grew increasingly hectic. The CIC had been set up in a commercial building overlooking the streets of Belfast. Inside, looking like a combination of a communications room and a command post, a map of the city was spread out. On the map, markers representing combatants were being deployed onto the rooftops of major strongholds.
Glancing to my side, I could see Pavel was itching for action. He probably wanted to grab a rifle and head out to the battlefield right this second, but since the spotlight of today's battle had to belong solely to the IRA, his desire was denied. Instead, I calmed him down by gesturing with my eyes toward a cluster of markers on the map.
The mercenaries of the Equinox mage guild. These mages, all of whom were my subordinates, had been organized as a reserve force, ready to be deployed as firefighters anywhere on the battlefield at a moment's notice. With a faint, barely perceptible smile, I recalled renewing the defensive magic I had cast on them yesterday to its maximum intensity.
They all had to return in one piece. Every single one of them was a precious, irreplaceable asset of mine.
Quietly observing the unfolding situation, I asked McDermott, "What about the water supply for the combatants? It's summer, and it's the middle of the day."
"No need to worry. Not only that, but we have also prepared measures against non-combat casualties from heatstroke during the engagement, unlikely as it may be."
It is often said that the higher someone rises in rank, the less they understand the hardships of the personnel on the ground, but the IRA seemed far from such incompetence. There was no reincarnation of those imperial Japanese generals who claimed that "supplies are to be taken from the enemy."
And so, I thought: if only the person plotting against them wasn't me, this offensive would undoubtedly have ended in a much greater success.
Noon. The bells of St. Anne's Cathedral in the heart of the city rang out softly, and as if on cue, mortar shells soared from the rooftops of various buildings toward City Hall.
The call sign "Bravo Bravo" referred to the Barrack Buster, the IRA's improvised mortar. Even though it was called a mortar, one shouldn't expect a military-grade weapon. It was a single-use contraption made by stuffing high explosives or shaped charges into an LPG gas cylinder and firing it. With a range barely exceeding 300 meters, it was literally a flying tin can.
The IRA's method of compensating for the lack of quality was simple: they just made a lot of them. From five different launch sites, three shells each poured down simultaneously. One might be tempted to ask how that qualified as "a lot," but for a terrorist organization, a total of fifteen rounds was indeed quite a substantial amount. One must not overlook the fact that this era was before the rise of the Middle Eastern extremists who would later become synonymous with terrorism.
While the fifteen projectiles flew through the air, the mortar crews on the rooftops hastily scrambled down and fled the buildings.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
A third of them slammed into the stone exterior of City Hall, another third missed entirely and landed on the nearby lawns, and the rest were duds. Without any fire control systems, let alone an observation team to adjust the fire, this was actually a decent showing. The windows of City Hall near the impact points were shattered to pieces, and the shells that managed to breach the windows and explode inside the building were sure to have caused numerous casualties.
At the very least, they had succeeded in delivering a heavy blow at the start of the offensive. Well begun was half done, so only half remained.
Since I had previously leaked the offensive to the Ministry of Magic and the British government through Delis, the response from the British military and police was instantaneous. Although they had to take the initial mortar bombardment on the chin, they had well-established anti-IRA protocols to fall back on.
From a nearby police station visible through binoculars, mounted police units surged out, and from military bases further away, helicopters were undoubtedly scrambling. Even an air raid siren began to wail, its high-pitched shriek incessantly battering our ears.
"Hmm."
With a soft hum, I continued to watch the tactical chess match between the combatants. Without hesitation, the cavalry rode straight toward the buildings identified as the launch sites, having back-calculated the trajectories of the mortar shells. Even though the IRA lacked the advanced techniques to prevent their launch sites from being back-tracked, this level of speed was difficult to explain by that alone.
This must be thanks to Delis too...
I had provided Delis with the coordinates of the expected launch sites, albeit with a slight margin of error. Processing this information and delivering it to the frontline forces at the perfect moment was entirely the work of the rising star of the Ministry of Magic. After today, the reputation of the Director of Intelligence would reach a new peak. The fact that she was a novice mage who had only recently stepped onto the magical path would quickly pale in comparison to the sheer competence she displayed in every field.
But that was a matter for the post-operation review. What was about to happen right now would be rather harsh for the British forces.
Kaboom!
With a massive explosion, a unit heading north toward the Castlecourt Shopping Centre—one of the launch sites—was swept away by a sudden blast wave. Several riders, thrown from their horses startled by the deafening roar, were sent flying through the air by the horses' hind kicks. Blood and brain matter spilled from broken spines and crushed skulls.
The cause of the explosion was the bomb McDermott had received back from me. By using the simple and brutal method of detonating a bomb planted in a parked car, they had claimed over ten casualties in an instant. Civilian casualties would easily double that number, but in their words, it was an "inevitable sacrifice that had to be endured."
The sudden mortar shells and car bombs detonating in the middle of the city in broad daylight plunged the citizens of Belfast into immediate chaos. The mortar crews targeted by the mounted police would easily be able to escape, blending into the orchestrated panic of the shopping center.
But you win some, you lose some. Not all mortar crews were so lucky.
The cavalry unit that charged south succeeded in surrounding the IRA operatives who were hastily descending from the rooftops to flee. Those who resisted and fired their pistols were instantly turned into Swiss cheese by return fire, while only those who quickly threw down their guns managed to secure the status of prisoners. Northern Ireland was a bizarre place where even the frontline police carried rifles.
"Only two teams were caught," I murmured quietly, watching McDermott remove two markers from the map.
However, even for the other three mortar crews who had successfully escaped, it would inevitably take a long time before they could function as a fighting force again. In other words, it was time for the reserves to step in and fill the gap.
"Get the mages ready!" shouted a high-ranking IRA officer—someone who knew Yerina Bronska, though he was unaware of Erin O'Rooney or Irene Lonska.
Among the markers classified as mages, the one I paid the most attention to was, without a doubt, Equinox.
Just like the other details of the offensive, the deployment of my subordinates from Equinox had been communicated well in advance. I had intervened in the response strategies of the Ulster Constabulary and the Ministry of Magic to ensure the troops moved in a way that minimized casualties among my subordinates.
But in the heat of a fierce battle, one couldn't expect every instruction to be conveyed perfectly in real-time. Since it was impossible for me to personally intervene on the battlefield right now, if my subordinates ran into an unforeseen threat, they would have to rely on their own capabilities to survive, in addition to the defensive magic I had cast on them beforehand.
Fierce skirmishes broke out in sequence across various parts of the city. There were easily six or seven locations within my direct line of sight and hearing, meaning that if we included more distant areas, sporadic clashes were occurring in dozens of places. The flashes of magic clashing against magic flickered in my eyes.
Boom!
In the next moment, a massive explosion erupted in the distance.
Leaving behind the shouts using that cursed unit system echoing faintly in my ears, I focused my attention on the reactions of the leadership.
"That's where our boys are! What are you doing? Contact them immediately!"
"Bloody... hell...!"
It had started as a simple magic battle, but it seemed a spark had ignited the fuel vapors leaking from the nearby gas station, causing the explosion. If one's own magical output was lacking, it was a perfectly natural technique to supplement it with the surrounding environment. The IRA's direct mages seemed to be slightly lacking in this regard.
"What about the other primary targets?"
"Tsk... Execute all the captured prisoners. We don't have time to baby prisoners."
It wasn't just bad news that came in. The mercenary mages of Equinox, who had signed a short-term contract, had performed brilliantly. Although it was a pity they hadn't captured the head of the Ministry of Justice overseeing Northern Ireland, the fact that they had faced enemy forces, including mages, and emerged without a single scratch was a remarkable achievement.
For the first time in a while, a look of relief washed over the CIC.
"Excellent! Don't push your luck, get out of there immediately!"
The IRA was, after all, the weaker party. The fighting style of the weak inevitably took the form of guerrilla warfare. Thus, it was not at all strange for the IRA leadership, led by McDermott, to order their forces, including Equinox, to hit and run quickly. It was also thanks to a contractual clause stating that if any casualties occurred within the mage guild, the IRA would have to cover the medical or funeral costs.
12:30 PM. This was the scheduled time for retreat according to the operational plan.
Although four mortar crew members had died and two had been captured, and seven other combatants, including two mages, had been killed or wounded, this was well within the expected range. Since they had killed more than three times that number of British military and police, anyone would view this as a resounding success. The performance of the mercenaries, especially Equinox, had been spectacular.
If not for me, this offensive would have been a turning point for the IRA to once again demonstrate their resilience to the entire British Empire. The Ulster Constabulary and the Ministry of Magic would have been overflowing with people getting reprimanded, wondering how such devastating damage was possible despite knowing about the offensive beforehand.
But.
An IRA operative in the CIC's communications room suddenly shrieked.
"What's happening! What do you mean it's coming here?"
McDermott hastily demanded, startled by the sudden turn of events. However, it was not the operative who answered his question.
The thrumming, approaching sound of helicopter rotors.
The volume grew unmistakably louder with every passing second. By now, there wasn't a single soul in the CIC who didn't know what this meant.
"How!? We kept security absolutely tight!"
Right here. The biggest security vulnerability is right here.
I had already handed the coordinates of the CIC to Delis, so it seemed she had dispatched the forces at the perfect moment. Amidst the leadership spewing foolish nonsense about tight security, McDermott approached the window and peeked through the curtains.
And then.
"H-Hieeeek...!"
He instantly fell backward onto his rear.
The curtain he was clutching ripped away with a loud tear, fully exposing the view outside the window.
The Union Jack emblazoned on the helicopter's tail fin was clear as day. It was close enough to see the pilot's face. It was, quite literally, danger close.
Without a single exception, the rest of the IRA members—excluding me, Pavel, and Rybakov—broke out in a cold sweat.
"Mr. Logistics Chief, it seems it's time to welcome our guests. I don't particularly care for guests who drop in so rudely without an invitation, though."
I casually murmured, sipping my black tea. McDermott looked utterly dumbfounded, as if wondering what kind of crazy nonsense I was spouting.
The idiot was him, of course. Leaving McDermott behind, I smiled brightly and gave a small wave to the British pilot.
In the next instant, the heavy machine gun mounted on the helicopter tore through the glass window, showering the room with lead.
Our friend had a rather rough way of saying hello.