Free First Strike by Jeremy Rumfitt

entire site would be contaminated for years, probably decades. The explosion would disperse the nuclear waste for miles around. The place would be uninhabitable. The real estate market would collapse. So if we’re talking about the centre of a major city the clean-up cost would be enormous. Meantime a whole city would be paralysed. If it happened on Wall Street or the City of London worldwide financial markets would implode. There’d be total chaos.”
    “Jesus,” said Melanie. “Has one ever been set off?”
    “Not yet. But it has been tried. The Chechens came very close. Planted a bomb in a Moscow park a couple of years ago. But it failed to detonate, thank God.”
    “You think the IRA would do that?”
    Melanie had gone white, the colour drained from her face.
    “What would happen to the peace process?”
    “I’m a copper, Not a politician.” Bowman turned to face her. “But if Merlyn Stanbridge still wants that meeting, tell her I’d be happy to accept.”
    Next morning Bowman rose early, made himself coffee, and walked three miles in freezing rain to the village, leaving Melanie asleep in the spare room. When he got there Petworth was just beginning its day. Bowman bought the Times and the Echo at the station and found a café that was serving breakfast. He ordered the full English and scanned the Times. Emblazoned above the smiling face of the Secretary of Defence the banner headline proclaimed “Weapons of Mass Destruction – Search Goes On”. There were further revelations of terrorist plots in America but nothing about a Dirty Bomb. With each new threat the President’s popularity soared. The Echo’s front page was again devoted to reports America was preparing a first strike against Saddam Hussein. Hawks in the Pentagon, led by the Secretary of Defence, asserted war with Iraq was inevitable and now was as good a time as any to launch a pre-emptive attack. The longer they waited the stronger the Iraqi dictator became. Bowman eventually spotted Melanie’s brief piece tucked away on page four between a cabinet minister’s infidelities and an archbishop’s endorsement of extra-marital sex. Bowman read the article while he waited for his coffee.
    “Three members of the Irish Republican Army were arrested yesterday by agents of DAS, the Colombian Secret Service, at El Dorado International airport in Bogotá. The three were travelling on false British passports and are known to have come from the FARC safe-haven in the south of the country. Traces of explosive were detected on their clothing and luggage. Among the Irish nationals was the IRA’s leading explosives engineer and mortar expert. The three claimed they were in Colombia to monitor peace efforts between the government and rebel groups but were later indicted and charged with training FARC terrorists in urban warfare techniques. But if the three Irish nationals were legitimately concerned with the peace process in Colombia, why would they need false passports? And why would the IRA have sent explosives experts? Furthermore in light of strict IRA discipline against freelancing by its members, what did the IRA’s political leadership know about these activities? Meanwhile in Dublin IRA/Sinn Fein denied all knowledge of the detainees.”
    When Bowman returned to the cottage he found Melanie sitting in the kitchen drinking tea. He placed the article in front of her on the table.
    “There you are,” Bowman grinned contentedly. “It didn’t even make the headlines. And no mention of a Dirty Bomb.”
    He dumped the papers on the table and went upstairs to shower and change into dry clothes.
    Bowman re-joined Melanie in the kitchen and made fresh coffee.
    She said,
    “That’s not the article I wrote. It’s been edited to death.”
    She was angry.
    “OK, so Iraq is more important, it deserves the front page, I accept that. But this was supposed to be a major exclusive. I was expecting a banner headline, not a few column inches lost on an