the great heelsby

Standing at the riverside near the stretch of water outside Kilcullen known as Berney's Inch.
Night rolls in on ravens' wings.
Behind me the black fields of the Republic stretch away.
I become aware of someone standing on the bank nearby in the gathering gloom.
I peer closely.
It is Brigadier Fitzgerald, the fourth highest army officer in the Irish State.
"Nice night James," he says staring across the water.
"Get the troops out of South Lebanon," I tell him. "The next one will be nuclear. They'll all die for nothing. Get them home. Don't waste their lives running pass defence for Al Qaeda. The Muslims will never thank you for it. They consider us chattels to be used and thrown away. Get the troops home. They'll need to be here for the civil war that's coming."
I looked up.
He was gone.
I stood there alone in the unquiet dark.
Across from the river a green light flashed once.
It was the green light at the end of Khalded Sheikh Mohammed's dock.
Even here.
In the heart land.
They're already here.