Chapter 1366: Chapter 659: The Fate of the Realm, Long Divided Must Unite

Patrick O’Connell’s funeral became a spark that ignited the Northern Irish.

There was no priest, no prayers, only a silent crowd and the magma in their chests about to erupt.

In the photograph, a slightly shy-smiling youth was printed on coarse cardboard, held high like a battle flag.

As the funeral ended, the crowd did not disperse; instead, like iron filings drawn to a magnet, they became a heavy and angry torrent, rushing towards the British Army’s temporary checkpoint that took Patrick’s life.

“Murderer!”

“Get out of Ireland!”

“Avenge Patrick!”

Rocks rained down on the checkpoint’s riot shields and armored vehicles like a storm.

The first Molotov cocktail streaked across the gloomy sky, whistling as it accurately hit the side of a “Saxon” armored personnel carrier.

“Boom!” Flames soared, thick smoke billowed, and the metal screeched under the high temperatures.

The soldiers hurriedly retreated, someone got splattered by the incendiary agent, screaming in pain.

“Open fire! Disperse them! Rubber bullets! Tear gas!” a lieutenant roared, his voice almost drowned out by the clamor.

“Bang! Bang! Bang!” The dull sound of rubber bullets being fired rang out, and instantly some in the crowd fell, clutching their legs or abdomen, rolling and wailing, while white tear gas canisters were launched into the crowd, bursting and quickly filling the air with a pungent smoke.

Coughing, vomiting, and cursing mixed together.

Instead of dispersing, this only poured cold water into the oil pot, completely detonating the anger!

The riot spread like a plague, with Fitz District as the epicenter, wildly expanding throughout Belfast.

Citizens and hidden resistance members used abandoned cars, burning tires, and even cement pipes dragged from construction sites to rapidly block all entrances to the main roads and bridges in Belfast.

Roads leading to the barracks and port were completely cut off.

A British Army supply truck attempting to force its way through a barricade was hit by more than a dozen Molotov cocktails, instantly turning into a huge torch, with its burning remains becoming the most effective roadblock.

The transport hub was completely paralyzed, the city’s pulse severed.

In residential areas turned fortresses, high-rise windows were smashed open, bricks, flower pots, and even refrigerators were pushed out, crashing down on British Army patrols attempting to clear the narrow streets.

Above Belfast, the rotor blades of a “Sea King” helicopter sliced through the smoke-laden air, the aircraft subtly trembling with the airflow, while BBC reporter Mark Stanton aimed the camera lens at the chaotic city below, with the control room’s urgent prompts crackling in his headphones.

“We are currently flying over Fitz District, and viewers can see…” his voice traveled through the microphone to the ground broadcast room, the screen showing burning barricades and silhouettes darting about, “the riot has spread to the city center, the standoff between British Army checkpoints and civilians continues…”

In the hum of the camera, a sudden glaring orange-red flash shot up.

“What is that?” Camerawoman Anna quickly adjusted the lens as Stanton’s pupils contracted sharply.

The flash, trailing a gray-white streak, rapidly ascended towards the helicopter at a breathtaking speed, its screech piercing through the rotor noise.

“RPG!” the co-pilot’s shout exploded inside the cabin.

The pilot yanked the control stick, and the helicopter violently lurched upward as if gripped by a giant hand, Stanton was slammed into the cabin wall, the camera lens momentarily a blur of light streaks. He stared intently out the porthole amidst the turbulence, watching the rocket narrowly miss the undercarriage, its tail flame nearly licking the landing gear.

“Boom——!”

The explosion erupted diagonally behind them, the shockwave sending the helicopter into a sideways spin. Stanton saw the tail rotor blades burst apart like shattered glass, and the airframe immediately plunged into an uncontrollable spiral descent.

“Abandon ship! Quickly abandon ship!” the pilot’s shout was swallowed by the screeching of twisting metal.

In the weightlessness, Stanton groped for the emergency pack, Anna had already unbuckled herself, with the camera still firmly on her shoulder.

As the helicopter smashed into Saint Anne’s Square, the last image he saw was of a group of young men holding Molotov cocktails, looking up, their faces distorted in the firelight like ignited oil paintings.

The violent impact blacked out Stanton’s vision, amidst the ringing in his ears, his yet-to-be-finished report’s words seemed to still echo…

Damn it, it’s over.

In the cabinet meeting room at 10 Downing Street, the fluorescent lamps overhead emitted a low hum, all eyes were fixed intently on the large screen mounted on the wall. When the live BBC broadcast suddenly shook violently, the already tense atmosphere instantly solidified.

The Chancellor of the Exchequer’s pen “clattered” onto his notebook, the Minister of Internal Affairs subconsciously clenched the hem of his suit, even the secretary in the corner who was in charge of refilling coffee stood frozen.

When that orange-red flash appeared, Stanton’s exclamation abruptly ceased, the image of the helicopter’s rotor blades breaking like a heavy hammer striking the meeting room, the screen turned completely black after a fuzz of static, leaving only the frantic shouts from the control room echoing.

The Prime Minister slowly rose from the sofa, his expression was ominously calm, he tugged on his tie, appearing somewhat anxious: “Notify the Department of Defense, the Third Parachute Brigade is to be immediately deployed to Belfast, the armored regiment to be transferred from Liverpool Port overnight, the city must be under martial law by six a.m. tomorrow.”

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the cabinet members, “Authorize the stationed troops to use live ammunition, I don’t care if they are resistance or rioters, if they dare to fire at a United Kingdom helicopter, they will pay the price.”