He grimaced. “About two hundred gallons.”

  Her eyes widened. “That will cost a fortune!”

  He shook his head, pointing to the gun above them. “That’s as good as a credit card.”

  She tried to frown at him. “Mr. O’Meara, you are no better than the villains you complain of!”

  He indicated once-white tapes on his sleeve. “Sergeant,” he told her. “They can’t bust me ’til they catch me. It takes a sergeant for genuine villainy. Now, come up to the turret, and I’ll show you how to work it.”

  She frowned at him. “Why do I need to know that?”

  He sighed. “Because I can’t do two jobs at once.”

  A few miles from Castlebar, they found a service station open. Sergeant O’Meara pulled into the forecourt, and halted his tank by the pumps. A door in the office opened. A man appeared carrying a shotgun.

  “Get that thing off my property!”

  The sergeant put his head out of the driver’s hatch. “I need gas, chief.”

  The man jerked his shotgun. “I’ve none to spare for strangers. Get moving!”

  Sergeant O’Meara smiled winningly. “Only two hundred gallons, chief. Diesel will do—I’ve got a multi-fuel engine. Don’t be hard on a bona fide traveller.”

  The man’s face contorted. “You heard me, soldier. Get that thing off my forecourt before I blow your head off!”

  Sergeant O’Meara raised his voice. “Larkin!”

  “Sir?” responded the turret.

  “Train the gun on the office!”

  Motors whined. The turret revolved. The long barrel swung until it pointed at the office behind the man.

  “Load HESH, Larkin!”

  “Sir!”

  Sergeant O’Meara addressed the station owner. “Now, chief, before I give my next order, would you care to reconsider any decisions?”

  The man spluttered. His shotgun wavered. He turned to gaze at the office. “My wife is in there.”

  Patrick O’Meara shrugged. “Then she has two minutes to get clear. I’m not a patient man.”

  The station operator struggled for his dignity. He wiped a sleeve under one eye. Then he propped his gun against a pump, and unhooked a hose.

  “Show me where to stick this damn thing.”

  Later, as they rumbled towards Castlebar, Celia Larkin lifted the floor hatch, and shouted to the recumbent driver. “What’s HESH?”

  He rolled his eyes up at her. “High explosive, squash head. It’s used for blowing holes in concrete bunkers. We haven’t any HESH.”

  “Thank God for that,” she shouted. “For a moment, I thought you meant it when you threatened that man.”

  “I did mean it,” he shouted back. “But you couldn’t do anything about it for me.”

  “And you paid with a chit on the British Army’s Paymaster General!’’

  “He pays all my bills.”

  Celia gave up. Patrick O’Meara had peculiar principles.

  They drove sedately down the centre of Castlebar’s narrow main street. There was no traffic, few parked cars. Most of the shops were closed. Many had shuttered windows. A jeweller’s front was glassless and stockless.

  The sergeant had shown her how to work the intercom. She rode standing in the cupola, head in the breeze, squashy doughnuts over her ears.

  His voice came through the phones. “Things don’t look much better here, Larkin.”

  She said, “Keep going, Sergeant. We’re being watched from bedroom windows. Can they harm us?”

  She couldn’t see him roll his eyes in tolerant surprise. He said patiently, “Only if they use an antitank gun, Larkin. I doubt if they’ll have one of those handy. But you might watch out for Molotov cocktails–”

  “What do I do if I see one?”

  Perhaps there was some mettle in her, after all. He said, “Duck, and close the hatch. The machine gun beside you is loaded if you feel like having a go.”

  Her voice reflected a classroom ring. “Don’t be ridiculous, Sergeant. Why should I wish to shoot anyone?”

  She couldn’t see his smile, either. “Just a thought, Larkin.”

  At a steady fifteen miles per hour they rolled along the eastern shores of Mask and Corrib. At Comb’s southern tip, Patrick O’Meara turned west for Galway City.

  Celia, by now accustomed to vibration, and insulated from noise by her headphones, reported, “Smoke ahead, Sergeant.”

  A black cloud rose above the treetops.

  “Arson, I suspect,” he responded. “Drop the hatch, Larkin!”

  Buildings burned unchecked in Galway town centre. They went through, battened down, crunching over rubble and wreckage. She found the gun sight gave her a better, magnified, picture of their surroundings than the nine periscopes studding the turret. She swung her eyrie from side to side, watching diligently for Molotov cocktails.

  Patrick O’Meara lying in the driver’s seat noted the long barrel swinging menacingly back and forth over his head, and grinned with pleasure. No rioter would tackle his tank while that gun threatened.

  On the Oughterard road, clear of Galway, he stopped for tea.

  “Well done, Larkin,” he told her. “You forced them to keep their heads down.”

  She gaped in astonishment. “Did I help?”

  He opened a secret locker, and poured a large tot in both cups. The schoolteacher deserved it. “I couldn’t have got through so easy without you.”

  She flushed. He was being gracious. “Nor I without you, Sergeant.”

  Patrick O’Meara handed her a cup. “Maybe we’ve got ourselves a team. Would you like to learn how to handle that gun?”

  Celia Larkin was already viewing matters in a fresh light. She recalled the burning buildings of Galway, the looted shopfronts in Castlebar, the shotgun-wielding hooligans on the road, and the possibility of Molotov cocktails. She bit her lip. “Do you think it might help?”

  His eyes were steady. “I wouldn’t suggest it if I didn’t think so.”

  She inhaled a trembly breath. “Very well, Sergeant. Show me what to do.”

  He grinned. “Nothing to be scared of, Larkin. We shoot separate-loading ammo—that’s a divided projectile and charge. So you don’t have such heavy shells to lift. And there are no empty cases to dump. The bag holding the charge burns up.” He pointed. “We keep the charges in water-jacketed compartments under there.”

  She eyed him hesitantly. “You make it sound so simple, Sergeant.”

  “What’s complicated? Aiming is done for you by laser and computer, once you pick the target.”

  She blinked. “And what do we shoot, if we’ve no HESH?”

  He drained his cup. She was quick on the uptake, this schoolteacher. He said, “Good question, Larkin. We have some smoke shells, and a few rounds of APFSDS.”

  She drained her cup, too. The tea had an unusual fiery taste, which left a glow in her gut. It might be possible to master all this technical twaddle he was expounding!

  “APFSDS?” she queried, nonchalantly.

  “Armour-piercing, fin-stablised, discarding sabot,” he explained. “Very potent stuff.”

  She reached for the teapot. Maybe there was a cupful of the sergeant’s fiery brew left in it. “It is,” she agreed. “It is!”

  Later, he hauled a suitcase from a compartment in the bustle. He unpacked a uniform blouse and beret. “Put the blouse on over your clothes. Tuck your hair inside the beret. If we’re painting a picture, details are important.”

  She fingered the ribbons stitched above the breast pocket. “What are these for?”

  He made a business of closing the case, and stowing it away in silence.

  “Isn’t this the Falklands ribbon?” she persisted.

  He faced her. “The British army likes its soldiers to have a bit of colour on their gear. Shoulder flashes and the like. To brighten things up.”

  “And this one?” she persevered.

  He swallowed. “That’s the M.M.” You couldn’t make fun of the Military Medal.

  “Isn’t that for bravery in action?”

  Sergeant O’Meara found a sudden necessity to check the suspension of the six road wheels along each side of his tank. When he returned, she had donned the top half of his parade uniform.

  He appraised the result. “A big improvement, Larkin. No need to stick your chest out like that! Into the turret, now. Anyone looking quick will think I’ve got a soldier up there. And I’ll show you how to work that 7.62mm machine gun, in case you want to really kid them.”

  Oughterard, when they passed through, was as silent and watchful as all the other small towns had been. Over the intercom, he said, “It must be the tank that scares them.”

  She said, “I’m sure it’s not my face.”

  West of Oughterard, the road threaded between misty mountains. Nameless minor lakes puddled the land flanking the road. Turf stacks lined the verge.

  She heard a sigh over the phones. “Nearly home, Larkin.”

  She surveyed the peaceful distances, and knew she couldn’t expect it to last.

  “Are we going to Kilcollum first, Sergeant?”

  He said, “Why not? You in a hurry to get to Clifden?”

  She examined her conscience. “Not particularly, Sergeant.”

  “Just as well. I want you to meet my folks.”

  Their road angled around the toe of a mountain marked as Kirkogue on her map. She spied a village dominated by a church spire and tower-capped hill.

  She said, “I know this place. I’ve an aunt lives here.”

  The intercom said, “Take off your phones, and listen!”

  She complied.

  From the village ahead came the sound of gunfire.

  “Someone shooting,” she reported.

  “Battle stations!” ordered the intercom. “That means into the turret and close the hatch, Larkin.”

  She lowered herself into the turret, and closed the cupola. Through the main gun sight she saw, magnified, the end of the village street ahead. A van blocked the roadway, rear doors open. Shotgun-carrying men stood around the vehicle. Other men appeared carrying boxes which they dumped inside the van.

  “Highway robbery,” commented the intercom. “Do we intervene?”

  Her pulse jumped at the idea. Could she and the sergeant stop them?

  “What would we do?”

  The intercom grew brisk. “Line up the gun sight on that van. Don’t worry—I won’t ask you to shoot anyone.”

  She did as she was bid.

  “Switch on the IFCS.”

  “IFCS, Sergeant?”

  “Improved fire control system—the computer and the laser sight! Move it, soldier!”

  She moved it. Below the optical target ring in her telescope, a green oval sprang into existence. It shifted to encircle the van.

  “Target acquired,” she reported, getting into the swing of things.

  “There’s a ranging machine gun mounted beside the big fellow,” instructed the intercom. “It’s fixed to fire on the same trajectory. When there’s no one in the way to get hurt, give that van a burst!”

  Heart thumping, eyes blind with eagerness, she squeezed the machine gun trigger. In the gun sight, a flight of bright tracer bullets arched towards the van. The vehicle sank down on one side as a tyre burst.

  “Nice shooting, Larkin,” approved the intercom. “That’ll do for now.”

  The bandits were now concealing themselves behind their lopsided transport. She saw gun flashes.

  “Don’t worry,” advised the intercom. “Those popguns can’t harm our Chobham armour. Load smoke!”

  “Smoke?” she queried.

  “Wake up, Larkin! A smoke shell—like I showed you!”

  She hoisted a smoke shell from its rack, and pushed it into the breech of the big gun.

  “Don’t forget the charge, Larkin!”

  She pulled a canvas bag from the special storage, and pushed it after the projectile.

  “Close the breech, Larkin!”

  She closed, and locked the gun breech, in the way he had shown her.

  “Gun ready, Sergeant,” she panted.

  “Fire at will!” ordered the intercom.

  The smoke shell went through the van’s open rear, and exploded in the driver’s seat, collapsing the suspension. A cloud of black smoke enveloped the vehicle.

  “Cease firing!” ordered the intercom. “They’re retreating.”

  As they clanked up to the smoke-filled wreck, the road swarmed with villagers breathing through scarves or handkerchiefs, and transferring boxes back to a nearby shop.

  A smallish man, his sleeves rolled up and blood on his hands, approached the tank. “Thanks for the timely help, Sergeant. Those rogues would have stolen all the Phelan’s stock. Believe me, you’re very welcome in Barley Cross today!”

  Sergeant O’Meara lowered his eyes modestly. “We try to please. Are you hurt?”

  The man glanced at his hands. “I’m the doctor. This is Willie Neary’s blood. They shot him up pretty badly.”

  The sergeant jerked a thumb at the turret behind him. “I’ve a medical kit in there, if it’s any use to you?”

  The doctor shrugged. “I’ll be out of shirts soon, if Mrs. Mallon doesn’t stop tearing them up for bandages…”

  Later, over their first hot meal in days, the doctor told them, “We are trying to live a normal life here. But it’s damn difficult. Those rogues you chased away have raided us several times already.” He looked up hopefully from his plate. “I don’t suppose I could persuade you to stay on? We could use a couple of professional soldiers with a tank.”

  Celia Larkin made deprecating noises. “Don’t call me a soldier, Doctor. I wear the sergeant’s gear to impress spectators.”

  Dr. Mallon gestured with his fork. “You certainly impressed us with your shooting.”

  She blushed. “It’s all done by computer. I’m a schoolmistress, really. I’d sooner teach children.”

  The doctor nodded sadly. “That’s something we lack. There’s been no work for a midwife in Barley Cross for over a dozen years.’’ He gazed from one to the other. “If you could persuade the sergeant to stay on, we could find you some kind of adult class to teach. There must be lots of subjects you could lecture us about.”

  Oh sure! Celia Larkin almost choked on a forkful of meat. Like sleeping rough, panhandling, or shoplifting—or even the rival merits of HESH and APFSDS!

  Sergeant O’Meara stirred his tea. “I have to visit my folks in Kilcollum, near here, Doctor. Then I’m taking Miss Larkin to her sister in Clifden. If my fuel spins out, or I find an open gas station, I might be back.”

  The doctor looked suddenly hopeful. “Then you two are not married—or anything?”

  Patrick O’Meara stared at his silent gunner. He said, “No, Doctor. Not married—nor anything.” The sergeant’s expression grew thoughtful.

  Later that day, a lone Chieftain tank rolled westward over rain-wet roads. In the mists to starboard, the Corcogemore Mountains loomed like indistinct stormclouds.

  Via the intercom, Sergeant O’Meara addressed his gunner. “Why didn’t you tell the doctor that you have relatives in his village?’’

  He couldn’t see her blushes.

  “I didn’t know if you wanted him to know. He might have put pressure–”

  The intercom said, “Should I worry about pressure from the doctor?”

  The silence lasted some minutes. Both were occupied, thinking.

  She heard his voice again. “What did you make of the doctor’s remark, Larkin? When he asked were we married… or anything?”

  She bit her lip, stifling a gasp. She could scarcely speak. Perhaps there was a chance it might last! She whispered, “It would depend on the attitude of the parties involved, wouldn’t it?”

  The intercom went silent. Sergeant O’Meara wasn’t the fellow to rush into a trap, no matter how tempting the bait. “Let’s assume one of the parties might be a bit interested, Larkin,” he ventured.

  She thumbed the speak button in turn. Voice scarcely audible, she murmured, “In that case, we might assume both parties were a bit interested.”

  She heard him whistling an old Irish air about a low-backed car. He said, “Could we leave it there for the time being, Larkin?”

  Voice tremulous, she said, “I’m not rushing anyone, Sergeant.”

  “The Low-backed Car” reached a triumphal conclusion. “Message understood, Larkin,” said the intercom. “And filed for reference.”

  The signpost, like so many in Ireland, pointed in the wrong direction, and was barely legible. Unhesitatingly, Sergeant O’Meara rotated his tank off the main road, onto a stretch of tarmac less than a dozen feet wide.

  “Four miles to go, Larkin,” the intercom announced cheerfully.

  There had been no more than a score of houses in Kilcollum. Each was a gutted shell, roofs caved, bones charcoaled.

  Sergeant O’Meara halted the tank. Over the intercom, he said, “Cover me, Larkin.”

  He climbed out of the hatch, a large revolver in his hand. She swung the turret to bring the coaxial machine gun to bear on the road ahead of him.

  She watched him peer through the glassless windows of the nearest dwelling. Grass was already growing over the debris within. He moved swiftly from house to house. At the corner of the street he crumpled.

  She was out of the turret and running. She found him kneeling before the low wall of an overgrown garden. Sprouting from the weeds were two white crosses. They bore the names of Padraic and Ellen O’Meara. She waited in silence.

  He looked up, dry-eyed. He gestured at the crosses. “Meet my folks, Larkin.”

  She touched his shoulder. “Come back to the tank, Sergeant. It’s not safe here.”

  He gazed about the ravaged village. “There’s no danger now, Larkin. The murderers are long gone.”

  She tugged at him. “Come away, Sergeant.”

  He got to his feet. “I can come back later, and tidy this place up.”

  She said, “We’ll both come back. I promise.”

  He allowed her to lead him back to the Chieftain. “Why would they do that to a whole village, Larkin? Why burn every house?”

  She shook her head. “We’re living in a sick world, Sergeant.”

  The drive to Clifden was silent. He neither spoke nor sang. She ached to hear “The Low-backed Car” again, but the intercom stayed dead.