27
Ranger Headquarters, Dublin — 1945 hours
The director general of the Irish Tourist Board was an urbane-looking silver-haired political appointee in his early fifties. His main operational tools — whatever the issue — were his smile, his connections, and his ability to say virtually nothing endlessly until the opposition was worn down.
In this case the issue was the proposed detention of a group of Middle Eastern travel agents by the Rangers. His aides had assured him that arresting visiting travel agents was unlikely to advance the cause of Irish tourism — and it would look and sound really lousy on television.
"Lousy on television" — the director general reacted to such stimuli like a dog to Pavlov's bell. He salivated, nearly panicked, and demanded an immediate crisis meeting with the commander of the Rangers.
It took Kilmara ninety minutes to get rid of the idiot and his supporting cast. Only then did he return to his desk to find that the informal two-hourly radio check he had agreed upon with Fitzduane during their last call had not been made and that the telephone line seemed to be out of order. A call to the security detail at DrakerCollege proved to be equally abortive, which was not surprising since all the phones on the island ran off the same cable. He put a call in to the police station at Ballyvonane, the nearest village on the mainland. He knew the station itself would be closed at this time of the evening, but the normal routine was for calls to be transferred to the duty policeman at his home.
The phone was answered on the tenth ring by a noticeably out-of-breath voice. Kilmara was informed by O'Sullivan, the local policeman, that he had just cycled back form the bridge access to Fitzduane's Island after trying to get hold of Sergeant Tommy Keane, who was in turn wanted by the superintendent to answer a small matter to do with an assault on a water bailiff. Kilmara had the feeling that O'Sullivan might expire before the conversation finished. He waited until the policeman's breathing sounded less terminal. "I gather you didn't find the sergeant?" Kilmara finally asked.
"No, Colonel," said O'Sullivan.
"What's this about the bridge access? Why didn't you cross onto the island?"
"Didn't I tell you?" answered the policeman. "The bridge seems to have collapsed. There is nothing there except wreckage. The island is cut off completely."
Kilmara hung up in frustration. It was now nearly 2000 hours. What the hell was happening on that island? The evidence was stacking up that all was not well, but it was still not conclusive. Geranium Day in Bern and severed communications didn't necessarily add up to a combat jump onto Fitzduane's Island. Or did it if you threw in Fitzduane's vibes about the Hangman's track record?
He looked at the paperwork on the Middle Eastern group, which was due to arrive on the last flight from London. The flight had originated in Libya, but there was no direct connection to Ireland. Was it credible that such a group wouldn't at least overnight in London to recharge on Western decadence?
He had a sudden insight that he was approaching the problem the wrong way. The question wasn't whether the travel agents were genuine or otherwise. The question was how to deal with two problems at once, and the answer, from that perspective, was obvious. In a way he had that cretin from the tourist board to thank for pointing it out. It took him twenty-five minutes on the phone to make the arrangements.
He found Günther in the operations room. The German looked up as he entered. He had been trying the direct radio link to Fitzduane, but now he shook his head. "Nothing," he said. "Completely dead."
He followed Kilmara back to his office. Kilmara gestured for him to close the door. "The British owe us a few favors," he said.
Günther raised his eyebrows. "So?"
"I've called one in," said Kilmara. "The Brits aren't too happy, but they'll do it."
"Fuck me," said Günther. "You're getting the British to handle the problem at the stopover in London."
Kilmara nodded. "We can't stand down the embassy security until it's done and we've sorted out our Japanese friends. But it does clear the decks a little and allow us to take a trip with a clear conscience."
"So we drop in on Fitzduane."
"We do," said Kilmara. "Let's move."
* * * * *
Baldonnel Military Air Base outside Dublin — 2045 hours
Voices crackled in his headphones. They were being cleared for takeoff. In an ideal world, Kilmara began to think — but then he brushed the thought from his mind. He had spent most of his career working within financial constraints when it came to equipment, and lusting after night-flying helicopters in a cash-strapped economy like Ireland's wasn't going to achieve much right now.
Truth to tell, apart from the helicopter deficiency — the most expensive items on his shopping list by far both to buy and to maintain — the Rangers were well equipped and were as highly trained as he could ever hope. They'd find out soon enough whether it would all come together as planned. This was going to be like no other operation the Rangers had carried out — and it would be their first combat jump as a unit.
Of course, it could all be a false alarm, yet somehow Kilmara knew it wasn't. Something told him that on the other side of Ireland blood had started to flow. Spontaneously his right hand felt for the steel and plastic of the SA-80 clipped into place beside his seat.
He looked through the transparent Perspex dome of the Optica cockpit at the runway ahead, then glanced behind him to where the two Islander twin-engine light transports waited with their cargoes of Rangers and lethal equipment. The pilot's voice sounded in his earphones. The Optica had been specially silenced so that normal conversation was possible without using the intercom, but external communications made the intercom mandatory.
"We're cleared," the pilot said.
"Final check," ordered Kilmara.
Günther's voice crackled in immediately, followed by that of the commander of the second plane.
Kilmara looked at the pilot. "Let's get airborne."
They took off and headed west into the setting sun.
* * * * *
Draker College — 2045 hours
As reversal followed reversal, while outwardly showing scant reaction, Kadar had experienced the full spectrum of emotions from paralyzing fear to a rage so intense that he felt as if his gaze alone would destroy. The news that Fitzduane was, in fact, still alive did nothing to help his mood. Executing the pilot of the Islander had provided the cathartic outlet he needed. A smear of algae on the floor and a head-high blood and brain matter stain on the wall were all that remained of that incompetent.
His mind had adjusted to face the change in developments head-on. He could now see the advantages of the situation. He was confronted with the most satisfying challenge of his professional life and an adversary worthy of his talents. Operation Geranium would succeed, but only after effort and total commitment. It would be a fitting finale to this stage of his career, and to look on the bright side, fatalities on the scale he had suffered meant a much-enhanced bottom line. A reduction of overhead, you might say.
Kadar studied the map and the aerial photographs. He now knew who and what he was up against — and where they were. The island was isolated. Fitzduane's castle was surrounded, and Kadar had the men and the weapons to do the job. That damned Irishman was about to learn some military facts of life.
Lesson one: His medieval castle would prove no match for late-twentieth-century firepower.
* * * * *
Fitzduane's Castle — 2118 hours
Fitzduane had let the rest for ten minutes after they made it back to the castle and then put them all to work in an organized frenzy of effort. The terrorists had appeared not long after the portcullis had slammed into place but at first had made no attempt to approach closer than about a thousand meters. Then, as the evening shadows deepened, movement could be detected in brief flashes. The noose was tightening.
When the nearest terrorist was about six hundred meters away, Fitzduane ordered Murrough and Andreas to open fire on single shot. Sporadic sniping then broke out, with no automatic fire being used on either side. The firing died down after about fifteen minutes, with the terrorists in position for an assault in a semicircle around the castle and with their watchers monitoring the sea side. Murrough and Andreas swore they had achieved some hits but couldn't be too precise about the numbers.
Sergeant Tommy Keane was the castle garrison's first fatality. A random sniper round hit him in the center of his forehead while he was peering through an arrow slit in the keep. He died instantly.
Kadar's forces were now dug in around them, just outside normal combat-rifle range, and daylight was fading. The castle defenders had completed most of their preparations, but Fitzduane noticed that his people were getting tired and potentially careless. He called a food break and called a council of war wit those not on watch. The mood was somber but determined. Tommy Keane's death had countered any euphoria left after their escape from Draker. The brutal realities of combat were becoming clear: it was kill or be killed, winner take all.
"At the college we had surprise on our side," said Fitzduane. "Now they know where we are and roughly who we are, and the ball is more in their court. We'll have to keep sharp if we're to come out of this in one piece."
"How long do you think we'll have to hold?" asked Henssen.
Fitzduane shrugged. "We had a regular radio check with the Rangers set up. We've missed several in a row now, so that should bring some help in a couple of hours. On the other hand, we're cut off from the mainland, and who knows how much help will arrive? My guess is that it might take some time before the scale of the problem becomes known and adequate reinforcements are thrown in. We may have to hold until morning or even later."
"Not a long time for a siege," said Henssen.
"Long enough when modern weaponry is involved," said Fitzduane. "But let's save conjecture till later. First of all, I want to review our preparations." He turned to the Bear. The Swiss detective's formal training and his personal interest in weaponry made him the natural choice as armorer.
"We've improved our small-arms position," said the Bear, "thanks to the weapons taken from the frogmen and from DrakerCollege. In fact, unless we arm some of the students, we have more weapons than people to use them. Starting with automatic weapons, as of now, we have the four SA-80 rifles, one M-16, one AK-47, five Ingrams, and three Uzis — that's fourteen in all. In conventional rifles, we have Murrough's .303 Lee-Enfield and two .303 deer rifles I found in the armory.
"Moving on to shotguns, we have one Remington pump action — that's the shotgun Hugo brought back from Switzerland — one Browning automatic shotgun, and six double-barrel shotguns." He turned to Fitzduane. "Including a pair of Purdeys, I see," he added, referring to the famous English sporting guns, each individually tailored and costing about as much as a suburban house.
"It's a long story," said Fitzduane, "which will keep."
"That makes a total of eight shotguns," continued the Bear, "although only the Remington and the Browning are of much military use. The next category is handguns. We have seven — four nine-millimeter Brownings, one nine millimeter Mauser broom handle, a U.S. Army .45 Colt service automatic, and a rather old .45 Webley. Ammunition: moderately healthy if everyone maintains fire discipline and uses either single shot or short bursts; not so good if we all operate on full automatic. In numbers, we have about three thousand rounds of 5.56-millimeter ammunition left, about fifteen hundred of nine-millimeter, over a thousand rounds of assorted shotgun ammunition, and less than two full clips for the AK-47. In terms of other firepower, we have a regular arsenal of antique weapons, including half a dozen muskets, two crossbows in full working order, and Christian's longbow."
"My longbow is not an antique," objected de Guevain.
"Whatever," said the Bear. "The point is that we have a large collection of weapons of limited military value in modern terms, but some of which could prove useful. I've distributed them around the castle to be grabbed in emergencies. The muskets, incidentally, are loaded, so be careful."
"I assume you'll be using a crossbow, Heini," said de Guevain.
"The Swiss national weapon wasn't the crossbow, as it happens, but the pike or halberd."
"Let's get back to other firepower," said Fitzduane.
"Well," continued the Bear, "here we have the Hawk forty-millimeter grenade launcher and about thirty grenades of different types. We have a box of conventional hand grenades. We have some C-4 explosives and Claymores we took off the frogmen's raft, and we have some home brew made with weed killer and sugar and diesel oil and other trimmings. Unfortunately we don't have a lot of gasoline, since the castle vehicles run on diesel, but we've siphoned a few gallons from the Volvo to make Molotov cocktails." He looked at Fitzduane. "I used the poteen to make up for the gas shortage. I'm afraid I made quite a dent in your reserve stock."
"My whiskey." Fitzduane paled. "You've taken my whiskey and mixed it with gasoline?"
"Hard to tell the difference sometimes," muttered Henssen.
"What about the cannon?" asked de Guevain. "Are we going to give them a try?" He was referring to the two small eighteenth-century cannon that normally stood in the bawn.
"We'll see," said the Bear. "There is only a small stock of black powder, which I'm keeping for the muskets. That means using our weed killer explosive for the cannon — with trial and error being the only way of working out the right load. I can't say I'd like to be the gunner during those tests."
"They'd be ideal for covering the gate," said de Guevain. "We can load them with nails and broken glass and the like to get a shrapnel effect."
"Let's do it," urged Fitzduane. "We'll try a few test shots at one of the outhouses to get the loading right — and use a long fuse."
"And watch out for the recoil," said Henssen, "or your toes will be flattened — or worse."
"This fellow obviously knows what he's talking about," said the Bear. "And I thought you only knew about computers. Consider yourself volunteered."
Henssen raised his eyes to the ceiling. "Why did I open my big mouth?"
"Good question, said de Guevain.
The review continued, covering the placing of the Claymores, distribution of the hand-held radios, food, medical backup, blackening of faces, duty rosters, and the host of matters, major and minor, essential to consider if the castle was to be defended properly.
"Is there any way we haven’t thought of so far that we can send for help?" said Harry Noble. The ambassador's face was pale and strained, the shock of his son's death etched on his features. For the moment the heavy work load was keeping him sane. Fitzduane didn't like to think about the private torments the man would face in the future. To have killed your own son; it was a nightmare. The Hangman had much to answer for.
"Fair point," said Fitzduane. "The question is how. We're completely surrounded and now their ship—"
"The Sabine," said the Bear.
"The Sabine," continued Fitzduane, "is blocking the seaward route." The ship, now that the focus of the Hangman's attention had switched to Fitzduane's castle, had left the point and was less than half a mile offshore from the castle.
There was silence for a few moments. The fact was that sooner or later the Rangers should realize that something was wrong and send help. In contrast, no one present had any illusions about the dangers of trying to break through the Hangman's cordon, let alone getting off the island.
"Something else to think about," said Fitzduane. "We don't want to let the Hangman get hold of a hostage."
Harry Noble nodded. "That's something I hadn't considered. Perhaps we should wait it out."
Fitzduane looked around. From everyone's eyes he could tell there was general agreement to wait, so they moved on to discuss the students. Some were still in shock at what had happened, but a number, refreshed after eating and intrigued by the preparations they had witnessed while filling sandbags and doing other manual work, wanted to join the active defenders. They were now bunked down behind locked doors in a storeroom off the tunnel. They hadn't gone willingly. The protests had been vigorous and had died down only when Fitzduane explained the problem: After the business of the Sacrificers, who could be trusted?
"I don't know about keeping them all locked up," said Andreas. "I appreciate the problem, but I think we're going to have to arm a few of them. We need the manpower. The perimeter is too big to hold for long with what we've got."
There was some agreement with this view. The defenders were stretched thin, and things would get worse after dusk.
"They're not kids," said Judith. "Many of them are about my age."
The Bear smiled.
"Look," continued the Israeli girl, "they know the security problem. Why not let them pick some volunteers? They ought to be able to pick some people who can be trusted — unless you think they've all been suborned."
Fitzduane shook his head. "No, we probably don't' have a security problem with the students anymore, but even so I'm reluctant to pout them on the firing line. Let's compromise. Let's put them to work picking some volunteers, but let's not use them unless we really have to."
"Makes sense," said the Bear.
Fitzduane looked at Andreas and Judith.
"Fair enough," Andreas agreed.
"Judgment of Solomon," said Judith.
"Let's get on to considering what we're up against," continued Fitzduane, "and the options open to the Hangman."
He looked at Noble, who had been given the job of coordinating everything they knew, including the string of reports from those on watch. The ambassador, de Guevain, and Henssen had then put themselves in the Hangman's shoes to evaluate his options. Both Noble and de Guevain had previous combat experience — de Guevain had been a paratrooper in his earlier years — and Hensssen had the greatest knowledge of the Hangman's methods of operation gleaned from his endless hours working with the Nose in Wiesbaden.
"Best estimate," said Noble, "is that we're up against a force of between seventy and eighty hard-core terrorists, to which may be added a small crew from the Sabine. I would guess the one motivation they have in common is mercenary, but considering the Hangman's MO, there will be subgroups with their own specific reasons for wanting to strike back at what they see as the establishment.
"The terrorists will have been highly trained in a rather rigid, unquestioning way. They will have been oriented toward a violent assault against ill-prepared opposition with an emphasis on inflicting maximum damage in the shortest possible time; they probably won't have had the kind of systematic, specialist infantry training needed for an assignment like taking this castle. But whatever the weaknesses in the fine points of their training, they will all be highly proficient in basic weapons handling and are undoubtedly fit, committed, and determined.
"Their weapons seem to be typical Eastern bloc stuff apart from the Ingrams carried by the frogmen and the explosives, which are American. They have AK-47 assault rifles, Makarov automatics, plastic explosives, undoubtedly hand grenades, and probably a few RPG-7 anti-tank grenade launchers. We've seen no sign of anything heavier so far, but with the Sabine freeing them of normal transport constraints, they may have something more lethal in reserve. If they do, I'm afraid we'll find out the hard way. The likely candidates would be heavy machine guns, mortars, rockets of various kinds, or even artillery. Somehow I can't see most of that stuff being available because, on the basis of what the Hangman originally intended to do, what would be the need? But you never know with this fellow. He likes gadgetry, and he likes surprises.
"We can hold out fairly well against small-arms fire and the other light stuff, but the RPG-7s, if they have them, could be a problem. They won't blow a hole through walls this thick, but if they get one through a window, the room inside won't' be a lot of fun."
The Bear broke in. "We've used up every sheet and blanket and fertilizer bag and sack in the place, so we've got sandbagged blast shelters in every room and sandbags hanging inside every window and weapons slit. You can pull aside the bags with a rope if need be. We've also sandbagged the floors against blast and built extensive overhead cover."
"What's the range of the RPG-7?" asked Etan.
"Up to five hundred meters, theoretically," said Fitzduane, "but they are normally used at less than half that. To hit something as small as an arrow slit, particularly at night and shooting upward, you'd want to be closer in still. I don't think the RPG-7s are going to be our main problem. We want to worry more about explosive charges placed up close by sapper squads. A few pounds of C-4 in the right place, and the scenery starts changing. Make sure nobody gets in close, and make doubly sure if they are carrying anything like a satchel charge. Another thing: make sure when you drop somebody, he stays dead. For all the hype about hydrostatic shock and exit wounds the size of soup plates, 5.56-millimeter doesn’t always have the knockdown power of 7.62-millimeter.
"Or .303," said Murrough.
"So aim for multiple hits if possible," continued Fitzduane. "Three rounds rapid works just fine." He looked at Noble. "I'm sorry, Harry. We're getting off the point."
Noble nodded. "Okay," he said. "We've covered who we are up against and how many, and we've had a quick look at their firepower. Now the question is, what are they going to do with all this?
"The Hangman, as far as we know — and thanks to our friend's computers" — he pointed to Henssen — "we know a great deal — has never been faced with this sort of problem. Up to now he has always fought on his terms, mostly quick in-and-out actions with much smaller groups of men. His tactics then have been based on deception, surprise, speed, and firepower; they have been characterized by a disregard for human life and, from time to time, a warped sense of humor and a fondness for the bizarre.
"In this case the Hangman has to get hold of at least some hostages, or he has no chips to play with. Unusually for him, because an escape route is one consistent feature of his operations, he seems to have committed himself totally. That mightn't have been his intention — the plane may have been his way out — but it's the situation now, with all that it implies. He and his men have nothing to lose. They are going to be driven by desperation."
"What's to stop him from getting back on the Sabine and sailing off into the sunset?" said Andreas.
"Because high seas or not, he knows full well he'll never be allowed to get away. Every antiterrorist force in Europe wants his hide, and I wouldn't put it past the Israelis to swim over; they tend to travel when the incentive is right. No, the Hangman has to get what he came for here, or he hasn't much of a future."
"So what do you think he'll do?" asked Andreas.
"There are various scenarios we've looked at." Fitzduane broke in. "First, it looks like he's going to wait until dark; that's the most likely explanation as to why he hasn’t attacked up till now. Second, he's likely to use massive firepower to keep our heads down. Third, he's going to mount at least two attacks simultaneously, and one or more of them will be a diversion.
"The high ground in this battle is the keep. If he gets that, he commands everything else. On the other hand, a direct assault on the keep could be mounted only by scaling the walls on the seaward side, and that would be suicidal. The other approaches are protected by the curtain walls. He's most likely to try for the gatehouse first, because from there he can mount a protected fire base against the keep and under its cover take us out with explosives or fire. That suggests an attack combining firepower to keep our heads down, a diversionary attack on the curtain walls, and a sapper attack with explosives on the gatehouse. The portcullis would then be blown with explosives, and in they'd pour."
Fitzduane paused. His message was getting home. The analysis was making everybody think more of the totality of the problem and not just about his or her own immediate tasks. Their shortage of manpower to deal with the diverse areas they had to cover became more and more apparent.
"Another possibility is that they'll concentrate on the great hall and use boats to assault from the seaward side. The great hall backs directly onto the sea, and although it has firing slits in the windows, it has no battlements. Also, it's lower to scale, and the slate roof could be penetrated.
"Yet another possibility is that they'll use a favorite Middle Eastern weapon — the car bomb. I imagine they can get some of the vehicles at Draker going again. One of those driven at speed against the portcullis and loaded with a few hundred pounds of explosives might make whoever is manning the gatehouse very unhappy."
He smiled. "Right, so much for the crystal ball stuff. Here's the deployment. Harry and Andreas will take the gatehouse with their personal weapons and the Hawk. Heini and Murrough will man the keep's fighting platform and watch the curtain wall facing the lake. Etan and Henssen will watch the curtain wall facing inland and the great hall. Judith, Christian, and I will make up the mobile reserve. Katia and Oona will look after food, first aid, the students, and whatever else is necessary. We'll keep in touch by radio.
"By the way, one thing we don't know is whether they have any night-vision equipment. I would doubt it, given the operation they thought they were mounting, but let's play it safe. Anyway, they have had enough daylight to map the apertures and our defense positions, so we'd better expect to receive accurate incoming fire.
"The good news, of course, is that we do have some night-vision sights for the SA-80s. They'll work up to about six hundred meters. I suggest you fit them immediately and zero them in in the tunnel on a rotating basis. Night vision is something they probably won't expect from us — let's not reveal the fact that we have it too early. I'll tell you when.
"We do have floodlights set up for the bawn, the battlements, and the outside perimeter of the castle. We've wired them up on separate circuits, so one shot won't put out the lot, but I don't think they'll last too long in a firefight. The hope is that they'll give us an edge when it matters.
"Remember to use the cover we've got and not to fire from the same position for more than a few seconds. Our muzzle flashes will show up in the darkness." He paused for a moment, then clapped his hands. "Let's go to it."
Outside, full darkness was fast descending, and a strong breeze had picked up, sending the clouds scudding across the half-moon. No movement could be detected amid the force that faced them, but each defender knew that the respite would be short-lived.
Those issued the SA-80s switched sights under the Bear's direction from the four-power day and low-light SUSAT sights to the similarly magnified night-vision Kite system and then zeroed in one by one in the tunnel. The compact Kites were a vast improvement over the bulky image intensifiers Fitzduane had first encountered in Vietnam. They carried third-generation tubes resistant to ‘whiteout’ and weighed only a kilogram each.
The magnified picture they presented dispelled any illusions the defenders might have had that the terrorists had somehow vanished. The noose had tightened further.
Working swiftly, the Bear and Christian de Guevain set up the initial experimental charges in the two cannon. The weapons looked sound, but what ravages time had worked to their castings would be determined only by experiment. Using a ramrod made from a mop handle, de Guevain loaded the first charge of weed killer mix and a wad. As an afterthought he inserted one of the ornamental cannonballs. He then retreated smartly behind a pile of sandbags while the Bear lit a paraffin-soaked rag stuck on the end of a fishing rod and, remaining under cover himself, swung the burning rag to the touchhole that he'd primed with black powder. There was a modest explosion, and the cannonball plopped to the ground about ten meters away.
"It'll scare ‘em shitless," said de Guevain.
The Bear handed de Guevain the mop. "Sponge out," he said.
Sponging was an essential part of the procedure if the next gunpowder charge was not to be prematurely ignited by either the hot barrel or any remaining particles from the previous firing. "This time I'm doubling the load — and you can do the honors."
The fourth shot sent the cannonball right through the stone wall of the storehouse. It came to the Bear that Fitzduane's castle was due for considerable structural alteration before the night was out.
They increased the charge slightly for the fifth test and used the shrapnel mix. The results were awe-inspiring. The Bear and de Guevain settled on that formula and went to work making extra pre-packed charges of both propellant and shrapnel out of rolled-up newspapers and panty hose. By the time they had finished, darkness had fallen.
Finally, it was truly night.
* * * * *
Airborne approaching the west of Ireland — 2223 hours
Kilmara was in continuous radio contact with Ranger headquarters in Dublin, but there was still no word from Fitzduane, and the Ranger colonel was becoming increasingly worried. He could understand one or two checks being missed, given the social rather than military environment in Fitzduane's castle, but the total silence over such a long period was disturbing. Add in the inability to communicate with the guards at Draker — or, indeed, anyone else on the island — and the bridge's being down, and it looked like this was going to be no drill.
Flying in the silenced Optica in darkness was an experience. The transparent Perspex bubble in which they were encased became invisible, and one had the sense of being part of the night, of actually flying without the physical aid of an airplane. It was disorienting. There was no apparent structure form which to get one's bearings, no window ledge or solid door. It was both exhilarating and terrifying, but it did make for an outstanding observation platform, and unlike a helicopter, which spends most of its time trying to shake itself to pieces, the Optica had no problem with vibration.
He switched on the lightweight Barr and Stroud IR-18 thermal imager and scanned the countryside below with the zoom lens set at wide angle. The unit worked on the principle that everything above absolute zero emits some radiation in the electromagnetic spectrum and that some of this is infrared, with contrast resulting from both the relative temperatures and the strength of emission. The resulting television picture was a cross between conventional video black and white and a photographic negative. The system could ‘see’ through mist and fog and normal camouflage. Fortunately, he thought, the human body is also an excellent heat source and shows up clearly against most terrain. The unit just might help make some sense out of what was going on on the island.
As the Optica flew on, he practiced mostly by spotting cows. On the outskirts of one village he ran across a hot spot he could not identify at first: the shape was horizontal and smaller than a cow, though it was emitting nicely. A check with the zoom revealed a couple hard at it on a blanket, a penumbra of hot air around the central image bearing witness to their dedication.
Kilmara knew that it was theoretically possible to land any of the three aircraft in the flight on the island — all had short takeoff and landing characteristics — but the margin for error was slight even during the day. It was not a viable option at night.
The Rangers were going to have to jump once he had some idea of the local tactical situation. The big question was where. Jumping on top of a hostile force in an age when everyone carried automatic weapons wasn't the best way to boost morale. He had already had the dubious thrill of jumping into enemy fire, and although the tracers looked pretty as they sailed up toward you, it wasn't an experience he longed to repeat.
From their past discussions Kilmara knew that Fitzduane's preferred tactical option would be to hole up in his castle until help came, but he also know that what one wants and what happens in a combat situation can be very different things. Since the two sides, by definition have totally opposing objectives, much of combat in reality tends to be a chaotic mess. In this situation the views of the college faculty could have complicated the equation. The action could be concentrated around DrakerCollege.
Kilmara knew that his best chance of finding out what was going on before he committed his small force lay in making radio contact. The long-range transceiver might be out for some reason, but when he came close to the island, he should be able to make contact with Fitzduane's personal radio — if anyone was listening.
A message from Ranger headquarters sounded in his ears. An emergency meeting of the Security Committee of the Cabinet had convened. Right now the primary task of the Rangers, it had been clearly laid down, was to ensure the safety and integrity of the U.S. Embassy in Dublin. No convincing case had been made for any change to those instructions. Colonel Kilmara and the airborne Ranger group were to return to Baldonnel immediately. Kilmara's request for backup army support on standby had been denied.
The Taoiseach's hostility was becoming a problem. Well, fuck him anyway. The pilot looked at Kilmara. He had not acknowledged the radio message, though the routine words had come instinctively to his lips. He had served under the colonel for a considerable period of time. Kilmara pointed at the long-distance radio and drew a finger across his throat. The pilot switched off the unit and grinned. "Doing a Nelson?" he asked.
Kilmara made a face. "I've no ambitions to be a dead hero or to be kissed as I lie there dying," he said into the intercom.
"But Nelson won the battle," said the pilot.
Kilmara raised his eyebrows and went back to looking at cows. On previous operations they had always had the reassuring backup of the regular army. This time it looked as if they'd be on their own.
The black silhouettes of the hills of Connemara showed up on the horizon, and there was the glint of moonlight off a lake below. "ETA twenty-two minutes, Colonel."
The colonel had his eyes closed. "Too many cows," he said.
The pilot checked the firing circuits of the Optica's electronically controlled machine guns and rocket pods. The aircraft had been designed for observation and endurance, but with lightweight armaments it had proved possible to give it some punch.
The firing circuit check light glowed green. All was in order. The Rangers flew on.
* * * * *
Fitzduane's Island — 2220 hours
All preparations had been completed more than twenty minutes earlier, but a glow had lingered longer than expected in the sky, and Kadar wanted the maximum benefit from the cover of darkness. The night still wasn't jet black, but given the near-perfect day and the half-moon, it was as dark now as it was going to get within his time frame, and the increase in cloud cover should provide the needed protection.
Fitzduane's castle had been well enough sited to cope with medieval warfare and even conventional musketry, but it had disadvantages when longer-range weapons were brought into play. Kadar had found several random jumbles of boulders in a semicircle about a thousand meters from the castle, and there he had constructed three sangars, rock-fortified emplacements, to hold his heavy machine guns and the SAM-7 missile. He was out of normal rifle range but well within the distance appropriate for a heavy sustained-fire weapon. The Russian 12.7 mm DShK 38/46 was effective up to two thousand meters.
Kadar regretted he hadn't brought any specialist night-vision equipment, but he doubted it would prove essential. Firing parameters had been constructed while there was still adequate light, and the basic structure of the castle was clearly outlined against the night sky. His covering fire might not be as accurate as he would have liked, but the volume would make up for it.
Another dull explosion sounded from within the castle courtyard — what the plans he had found in the DrakerCollege library called a bawn — and he again failed to identify its source. It was too loud and resonant for a rifle or shotgun but lacked the acoustic power of a heavier weapon. Perhaps it wasn't an explosion at all but some kind of pile-driving or hammering or attempt to signal. A signal — that was probably it. He smiled to himself. It was a brave attempt, but there was nobody to hear.
He had brought two Powerchutes on the Sabine for the primary purpose of providing an escape vehicle in an extreme emergency. A Powerchute would get him off the island to a place where a vehicle, money, and other emergency supplies were concealed. The second unit was a backup.
He knew that in committing the Powerchutes to the battle ahead, he was cutting off his own last retreat, but that didn't matter anymore. This was a fight he was going to win. He didn't want the second-class option. He wanted the exhilaration that makes men the world over attempt the impossible, the thrill that comes from taking the maximum risk: of committing everything or dying.
He gave the signal. The Powerchutes started their engines and moved forward. Each powered parachute consisted of a tricycle framework with a propeller mounted at the rear. Forward momentum and the slipstream from the propeller inflated the parachute canopy. Within a few yards the Powerchutes were airborne and climbing rapidly. The Powerchute was a parachute that could go up as well as down; it could be maneuvered much like a powered hang glider, reach a height of ten thousand feet, fly at fifty kilometers per hour — or descend slightly with the engine cut off. Each Powerchute had a maximum payload of 350 pounds, and in this case it was being used to the absolute limit. Each was fully laden with pilot, weapons, grenades, satchel charge, and homemade incendiaries.
Kadar turned to his final surprise. The welders of Malabar Unit had done an excellent job. The big German tractor and the trailer they had found at DrakerCollege had been armored with steel plate — front, back, and sides — thick enough to stop high-velocity rifle bullets. Firing ports had been cut at regular intervals for the crew's automatic rifles, and an explosive charge protruded from a girder at the front.
Kadar had made himself a tank. He spoke into one of the Russian field radios and the tank's-tractor's engines burst into life.
"Geranium force," he ordered. "Attack! Attack! Attack!"
The darkness around the castle was rent with streams of fire.