The Provisional American Faction

Overview

The 1960s was a period of great civil unrest in Northern Ireland. The IRA and Protestant militants were in constant battle. The British entered the scene in 1969 only to be caught in the middle. No one could see a resolution. Rory McCaan, a young man raised in Londonderry, and transplanted in the U.S. after becoming an orphan, leads an obscure band that only a few in his homeland know exists. He acquires vast resources, and with his companions, he attempts to redress crimes that both sides commit. As the story ...
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Overview

The 1960s was a period of great civil unrest in Northern Ireland. The IRA and Protestant militants were in constant battle. The British entered the scene in 1969 only to be caught in the middle. No one could see a resolution. Rory McCaan, a young man raised in Londonderry, and transplanted in the U.S. after becoming an orphan, leads an obscure band that only a few in his homeland know exists. He acquires vast resources, and with his companions, he attempts to redress crimes that both sides commit. As the story unfolds, one sees that Rory is not simply a vigilante. He has a larger purpose, one that he seeks to fulfill through the fortuitous association with Nealen McGowen, a young congressional staffer with equal fervor. While Rory returns to Ireland to inflict his various forms of retribution, Nealen ascends to fill his boss's seat. As Nealen's obsession haunts him, he conspires with Rory to bring the troubles to America. His goal. to stir the passion of Irish-Americans and to get the U.S. involved.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781411672994
  • Publisher: Lulu.com
  • Publication date: 2/7/2006
  • Pages: 296
  • Product dimensions: 6.00 (w) x 9.00 (h) x 0.67 (d)

Read an Excerpt

The First American AffairA Damp Evening, March 1971 The little girl ran down the lofty corridor, her four year old brother not far behind. Their hard-soled shoes chattered on the mosaic floor, and the noise echoed off the walls and into the chamber ahead. The tiles were beautiful in design and color, and the young mother marveled at how they had been so intricately set in their complicated patterns. Minton tiles, her husband called them. He said they were made in England. The murals on the walls and ceiling were similarly ornate, and so richly embellished in detail. Every time she came here she was taken by its magnificence. How many people over how many years did it take to erect this incredible building? she wondered.The children entered a large circular chamber, giggling and making little noises loud enough to create echoes. They were running in circles around the cavernous hall as if it were a track. The woman followed them in.She put her forefinger to her lips, motioning them to be quiet. How they could be so full of energy so far beyond their bedtime was beyond her comprehension.They proceeded into the corridor on the other side. It was short, and they soon entered another smaller chamber. The woman found the staircase she was searching for, and they walked down to the next floor. For a moment she stood at the bottom, hesitating about where to go. Then, recognizing the hallway, she called to the children, who had started off in the wrong direction. Five minutes later they were at the other end of the building. The woman noticed how still it was. There were no tourists and only a very few late-working staff were around. It had always fascinated her, this huge edifice of sandstone and marble. Although the building was hardly a peaceful place, she felt a comforting solitude in wandering the numerous chambers where her husband spent the better part of most days. At this time of night, the building was largely deserted. The majesty of it all gave an aura of both serenity and power, as if the building itself had control of the energy and temperament of its occupants.Tonight he was late. His 8:30 summons-a worn sounding voice and an apology, his car wouldn't start-brought her and the children on a late evening outing to retrieve him. They arrived a few minutes early, parking in the lot on the east side of the building that had been crammed with cars only three hours earlier. He always arrived earlier in the morning than most so that he could avoid the metered parking four blocks away. The mention of his name gained them access to the building. He had left word with the guards that they would be coming. They were supposed to meet at the bottom of the long set of steps at the building's northeast entrance.Almost at the end of the corridor, she stopped and tried to picture the location of the large revolving doors. She wondered if she had gone too far. She had visited the building many times, but she always found its maze-like passageways confusing. She tried to remember. The kids, halfway down an adjacent corridor about thirty feet away from her, were hopping on the tiled floor as if picking their way on rocks across a small brook. She smiled as she watched them.About to call out to them again, she froze, the words never leaving her lips. Without warning, a thunderous clap shuttered through the corridor.The clap turned into a rumble that echoed continuously. The walls shook and the lights in the small chandelier ahead flickered. The children fell to the floor and screamed. The woman's pulse soared, and she stood immobilized for a second as her eyes fixed on them. A few seconds later, tiles shattered like broken glass as they hit the floor, and chunks of plaster came loose from the ceiling.She gasped and ran to the trembling bodies huddled together.On the floor above, large sections of a vacant corridor had been blown apart. A cloud of dust filled the air. Tiles and other debris were strewn in every direction. A thirteen-foot hole in an alcove-making its interior supporting joists and rafters visible-indicated the approximate center of the blast. On the opposite wall a valuable painting had been torn from its frame, and five others were pitted by flying fragments of wood, plaster, and tile. A nearby door had been ripped off its hinges, and pieces of glass had been stripped from a chandelier twenty feet away. Further down the corridor, a grandfather clock that had stood in the same place since 1859 was damaged, and its hands were frozen in place. An interior room adjacent to the corridor suffered similar wreckage. Its sculptured glass windows were totally shattered, leaving a large opening exposing the interior to a wide view from the hall. In all, seven rooms in this august building had been heavily damaged.It was the second time in six decades that the Capitol of the United States had been bombed.
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