8

Country and western music filled the air and a demonstration team of line dancers in yellow shirts, red kerchiefs, and white Stetsons sashayed and pivoted with drill-team precision.

Several hundred exhibitors were gathered around the poolside and the open bar was having its predictable effect. Tables covered in checked tablecloths had been set up and the barbecue team were in full action.

After a long hard day, people drank and ate and networked and relaxed. There were many more women present that were actually attending the exhibition. Wives and girlfriends who had steered clear while their menfolk played with weaponry had surfaced.

It was a festive atmosphere, and the evening had all the makings of a really good party. The parachute demonstration would be the last event that was special operations oriented, and then the focus would be on nothing more than having fun.

As agreed, Dana was keeping an eye on Kathleen. Texas was doing much the same for her team. She had considered attending the party, but that would have turned the whole thing into a social event, and she was supposed to be working.

So she stood behind the parapet on the flat roof of the right-hand accommodation block and watched the festivities below. From that location, five stories up, she had the high ground and could actually keep quite a close eye on her charges through binoculars. At full power she was visually near enough to lip-read.

Another reason she had not gone to the party was Don Shanley. It had been a perfect night, and that was the way she wanted to remember it. If they met again face-to-face it could get complicated, and she knew she would get hurt. Shanley was attracted to her, she knew, but he was a certain kind of man. He might stray if she worked hard, but his loyalties lay elsewhere and he would not change them. That she knew, and it hurt because there was something about him that had connected. Too bad. The good ones were so often married.

She checked out her surroundings afresh. The courtyard below was pool and party. To her left was the main hotel block. Directly across from her was the other accommodation wing, similar to where she was standing but two blocks lower. The fourth side of the rectangle was open. There was an access road and a car park. The free-fall parachutists, she had been told, would float in the open end and land around the pool. It should be quite spectacular.

She considered the exhibition security. At the end of the day, all weapons on display were locked up by the individual exhibitors and then kept either on the exhibition hall floor or in the exhibitors' own rooms. The corollary of that was that the organizers' security was relaxed somewhat. If the weapons were locked up there was no need for so many guards, so went the argument. And having full strength at night was expensive.

The Bastogne Inn was one location where they really should be safe. But Texas was a professional. She stayed and she watched, because you never really knew. In the final analysis, it was all a giant craps game.

Then she saw Shanley and her heart leaped.

You tried to stay in control and then your body betrayed you.


*****

"Hugo," said Kilmara patiently. "Relax and enjoy yourself. If Kathleen has gone to the coast to spend the day sight-seeing, which is my understanding, there is no way she will be back before late this evening. She may even stay there overnight. There is a lot of driving involved. So take it easy. She is a grown woman, Dana is keeping an eye on her, and Kathleen is pregnant, which does things to your hormones and moods. She wants some space. It's normal."

Fitzduane looked at his friend. He wanted to believe him with every fiber of his being. Yet his instincts told him something was wrong, and, unfortunately, his instincts rarely let him down.

He struggled for the middle ground. The music was infectious and people were having fun. He did not want to cast around doom and gloom.

"I'd be happier if she had telephoned," he said quietly. "She almost always phones."

Kilmara looked at him sharply. Privately, he was as concerned as Fitzduane, but he could not see what they could do right now that would be of any practical advantage.

"Hugo," he said firmly. "You had a row. Kathleen wants to keep her distance for a few hours. Accept it and stop behaving like an old woman."

Fitzduane smiled. Shane was right. He was overreacting. It was time to change the subject.

He gestured at the line dancers. "You know, I've never danced or made love wearing a hat and cowboy boots."

"You don't know what you're missing," said Shanley. "Where's Maury?"

Kilmara laughed. "Maury can make it one to one with difficulty. He can't handle large gatherings. He's in his trailer working."

"And Texas is on the roof," said Fitzduane conversationally. "The beautiful blonde with the binoculars on the skyline. She's our guardian angel."

Shanley looked up and straight into Texas's eyes. "I know," he said quietly.


*****

Sheriff Jacklin went through the FBI report once again.

Hugo Fitzduane was indeed known to the bureau, only no criminal record was involved. The Irishman was on the side of the good guys and he was connected. There were a series of reference numbers that could be called. Most were inside the Beltway. One was Langley. The Hill was well represented. And the man was a colonel in some counterterrorist outfit. This thing had all kinds of nasty ramifications.

"Holy shit!" he said to himself. "I was mindful to arrest you for murder."

Mike Erdman, a sheriff's department investigator, poked his head through the door. "Sheriff," he said. "We've got the warrant to search Fitzduane's room."

The sheriff looked up. "Wait awhile. I've a hunch this thing is a mite more complicated," he said.

He thought. There was a conjunction of elements here that had ramifications way outside his normal daily concerns. This was not about drunken airborne troopers smashing up a bar or some cuckolded husband back from a foreign tour blowing the brains out of his wife or lover.

This smacked of another battlefield. Murder, a kidnapping, a helicopter, counterterrorism. The mysterious Hugo Fitzduane. A special-operations exhibition.

Connections in Washington. Too many connections in Washington. The feds – all kinds of feds. This could become downright horrible. Feds were like a social disease – intrusive and hard to shake.

He looked up at Mike Erdman. "Mike," he said. "Phone the MPs at Bragg and tell them."

"What?" said Erdman.

"Something is going down," said the sheriff.

"What?" said Erdman. "You know, Sheriff, underneath their fatigues they are cops up there. They ask questions like that. Who? What? Why? Motive? Means? Opportunity?"

Sheriff Jacklin took a flier, which was something he never did. But something screamed inside him.

"Tell them we have reason to believe there are terrorists in the area and that something big is going down."

Erdman gaped at him.

"Mike," said the sheriff. "You're a fine detective. But sometimes you're an asshole." He smiled. "Nothing personal. Now, MOVE!"

Erdman went back to his desk.

He was lifting the phone when they heard the explosion and felt the tremor.

"Bragg?" he said out loud.

Sheriff Jacklin stood in the doorway. "No," he said. "Much closer."

They did not have long to wait. The first call came in within thirty seconds.

"Sheriff?"

Jacklin raised his head. He felt unbelievably tired.

"Sheriff, they've bombed the Oak ParkShopping Center. Dozens dead. Hundreds injured. Lots of military families hit, by the looks of it."

The thought that Jacklin had considered yet suppressed in the past came through. You don't have to hit Bragg to hit Bragg. All you have to do is kill lots of soldiers and their families is to strike at the nearby shopping centers. No MPs and minimal security. Child's play for a dedicated terrorist. Child's play for any psycho.

He had thought about it and even raised it at a local-state-federal security meeting. He had been brushed aside. He had done nothing. It was hard to go up against the system. You questioned it at your peril.

There was not a serious terrorist threat in the United States of America. That was the conventional wisdom.

It was accurate in a bizarre way. It was not a threat anymore. It was happening.


*****

Fitzduane put his hand inside his light cotton jacket and adjusted his holster. It was idiotic having to cart around a lump of metal at a social occasion, but he had been caught short on the Hill and did not feel like making the same mistake twice.

He could hear the buzz of a light aircraft. So could others. A ripple ran through the crowd. The aircraft drew nearer and then began to circle. A wind indicator was dropped and fluttered to the surface. There was little wind that evening. It would not be a factor in the drop.

The aircraft climbed until it was about 3,000 feet. All eyes were fixed on it, waiting for the first free-fall parachutist to emerge. They could see a small black dot and then a stream of pink smoke. The jumper had a smoke canister clipped to his boot.

Accelerating at 32 feet per second, the jumper fell through the air until he reached a terminal velocity of 120 miles an hour. At that point, wind resistance offset the tendency to accelerate. Seemingly liquid air fostered the illusion that it was providing a cushion and that you were really flying as surely as a swimmer was supported by the sea.

It was an illusion that had killed on more than a few occasions when a sky diver left pulling the D ring until too late.

The jumper hurtled toward the upturned faces below.

Suddenly there was a flash of color as the rectangular ram air parachute was pulled open by the miniature drag line ‘chute. At the same time, a second smoke canister on the jumper's other boot ignited.

He now presented quite a spectacle. His parachute, helmet, and jumpsuit were scarlet and he streamed pink and yellow smoke. As he came nearer, Fitzduane could see that the jumpsuit had been modified to look like a pantomime devil. The helmet had little horns and there was even a tail at the back.

Ram air parachutes were highly maneuverable, Fitzduane knew. Toggles on the left and right of the jumper allowed air to be spilled and the direction of the glide to be controlled. In some ways, ram-air parachutes were more like flying wings than the traditional umbrella-shaped model.

In this case the jumper was not doing anything too exotic. Now that his ‘chute was open he was merely spiraling around in large circles, trailing smoke. The plan, Fitzduane could now see, was to make the final approach over the parking lot at the back of the hotel and glide in between the two accommodation wings to land by the pool. Maybe even in the pool, if he really wanted to please the crowd, who, after over an hour's steady drinking, were in a boisterous mood.

Four more figures had emerged from the aircraft, but the focus was on the first sky diver as he commenced the last spiral ready to make his approach.

Kilmara was watching through military field glasses that gave him 10x magnification. Fitzduane was using a motor drive-equipped Nikon with a zoom lens. Boots would have loved this, he reflected. Still, since the Rangers trained on his island, his son was no stranger to spectacles such as this.

Up on the roof, Texas was doing what her security training had taught her. She was keeping her eyes moving. She glanced occasionally at the sky divers, but her main concern was the bigger picture.

The line dancers had stopped for the moment and were gazing skyward like everyone else, but the sound of music had not diminished. It had increased. The pool loudspeakers, turned up full volume, were now blasting out "The Ride of the Valkyries." It fit the mood of the exhibitors, many of whom were Vietnam veterans, since they associated it with the helicopter assault in Apocalypse Now, but it was so loud it was hard to hear yourself think.

It was too damn noisy for good security.

The first sky diver, still spewing smoke, was circling for the final approach. Everyone was looking toward the direction he was coming from.

Texas panned around to look in the opposite direction. More surprises! A helicopter flying low was heading straight for the center block of the hotel. Black masked figures wearing SWAT assault gear were standing on the skids to the left and right, ready to jump down.

It was a dramatic sight, and the audience below was going to love it. Just when they were looking in one direction, this mock helicopter assault would take them in the rear. She could see it now. Simulated explosions. Black-clad figures running into assault positions. The chatter of blanks from automatic weapons. Thrills for the crowd.

All of this had once thrilled her too, when she was doing it. Now she increasingly felt she would like to do something more constructive. Like make something. A baby seemed like a good place to start. She had fought against being stereotyped as a woman, but recently her hormones seemed to be telling her something.

She glanced down at Shanley. He was standing in the same group as Fitzduane and Kilmara. And Kilmara was shouting something and pointing.

At that moment, Shanley looked up at her and pointed also at the first sky diver who was coming in to land, and she saw the three men head behind a low wall as if diving for cover.

She turned again to look at the helicopter that was now almost at the hotel and she saw lights flashing underneath it. Then she half-turned back again to look down at Shanley as the long burst of heavy-caliber machine gun fire smashed into her and blew her off the roof in a mist of blood and flesh and bone.

Her body plummeted down and smashed into the barbecue area below, scattering hot charcoal in every direction.

Shanley died a little as he watched. Then his head hit the ground hard as Fitzduane knocked him down behind cover.

"Look at his arms, Hugo!" Kilmara had shouted. "They are strapped to his sides. He's not controlling his own ‘chute."

Fitzduane had snatched the binoculars. The sky diver's head lolled forward. He looked lifeless, like some full-sized puppet. There was a device on his chest with wires connecting it to the toggles.

And then the import of what they had seen hit them and, grabbing Shanley and shouting at the others, they dived for cover.

The sky diver floated in for what looked like a perfect landing.

The crowd made way as he glided in, then surged forward as he touched down.

It was at that moment that the flechette-packed bomb strapped to the radio-controlled corpse of the sky diver exploded, sending several thousands of miniature metal darts in every direction. The man's body was blasted into a fragmented pink cloud of blood and fragments of flesh and bone.

The flash of the explosion was followed by the noise of the blast. Confined and magnified within the confines of the pool area, it seemed to last for an eternity. The ground shook under them.

As the initial shock faded, there were further sounds of glass and other debris crashing to the ground in a rain of destruction.

Fitzduane was disoriented for several seconds. Then realization returned. He raised his head from behind the low wall that had saved their lives. Bodies lay strewn everywhere, and farther away from the main blast survivors were standing or slumped, dazed with shock. Many were bleeding from injuries, some superficial, some serious.

Others had been blasted into the pool, and some survivors went forward to aid them.

Fitzduane was just moving out of cover to help also when he saw the helicopter pulling away from the roof of the block where Texas had been and masked black-clad figures appearing at the parapet. For a moment he thought it might be the local SWAT team coming to help, and then he heard the chatter of automatic weapons and saw the helpers at the poolside cut down one after the other as if an invisible saw had sliced through them.

The water in the pool frothed as machine-gun fire from both the helicopter and the terrorists who lined the roof was poured down into the pool area. What had been the location for a poolside party was now a killing ground.

Fitzduane watched appalled as the gunfire reached a trio of line dancers and they jerked like marionettes as the rounds punched into them.

He ducked down. Kilmara and Shanley lay there also. Kilmara had drawn his automatic but made no move to fire back. Given the sheer weight of fire raining down upon the area, it would have been suicide.

The door into the accommodation block was only twenty feet away, but to cross that divide meant inviting death. As they watched, one of the exhibition security men made a run for it, turning around halfway to return covering fire from his pistol and then sprinting on.

A rocket hissed down from the parapet and blew the legs off the unfortunate man and his torso back into the open corridor.

"We've got to get out of here," said Kilmara. "Our friendly wall will stop rounds, but RPGs will walk right through it. All ideas welcome. I haven't got a fucking clue how to move without getting perforated. And that's a hell of an admission for a general."

Fitzduane was a great believer in the principle that any decision was better than no decision but in this case it seemed wiser to put that particular aphorism on hold. As of now they had a place out of the line of fire. Better yet, the terrorists did not seem to know they were there or a few more rockets would have come their way.

"My room is just up the corridor," said Shanley. He sounded shaky, but he was hanging in there. "I've got an M16 and a Barrett inside which I use for demonstrations. If we can get at them, we can do something. They're locked up in security boxes, of course, but I have the keys."

Fitzduane was struck by the irony of it all. Here they were surrounded by every conceivable light infantry weapon in the exhibition, but most of the weaponry had no ammunition and all was locked up. A further irony was that no one was going to react to all the shooting. The hotel was freestanding, and the fact that there was going to be some kind of special-operations demonstration had been widely announced precisely to prevent the local citizenry from getting worried. And the police had also been informed. So for the next few minutes at least they were on their own. And people were dying.

"Ammunition?" he said.

"Not a lot," admitted Shanley. "I used most of it at the range. Perhaps thirty rounds for the M16 and half that for the Barrett."

"How about your Stinger missile?" said Kilmara.

"It's a mock-up," said Shanley. "The case is real, but there is no electronics or firing mechanism."

"What's your Barrett's ammo?" said Fitzduane. His life had once been saved by a marksman with a Barrett, and he had made a point of finding out everything he could about the weapon, down to visiting the plant in Tennessee. The Barrett was a large rifle ingeniously designed to make it possible for an individual soldier to fire rounds the size of a cigar without being flattened by the recoil. The benefits for certain situations were considerable. You could snipe at up to two kilometers, you could penetrate light armor, and you could fire right through a concrete wall. "Rafoss multipurpose," said Shanley.

Fitzduane looked at Kilmara and nodded. The Norwegian-made rounds were armor piercing with an explosive core and incendiary characteristics. They would do a very nice job on the parapet of the wall from which the fire was coming – and on whoever was behind the wall.

But there was still the problem of getting at the weapons. Also, if the black-clad terrorists were on the roof opposite, there was a reasonable chance that they had landed people on the opposite block. Carrying that thought further, some terrorist might be working their way down to the pool to finish off the job.

In other words, as they made a dive for the door to Shanley's room to get the heavier weapons they could meet terrorists coming in the other direction.

Fitzduane did not like this scenario at all. They had to move. And there had to be a way.

Doors crashed open about fifty feet away and a hotel employee emerged pushing a trolley stacked high with freshly starched laundry, apparently oblivious to the mayhem around him. The earphones of a Walkman were clamped to his ears and he pushed his heavy load with his head down, doing little dance steps from time to time.

All three men shouted warnings, but the laundryman was in another world. He advanced down the path toward where they lay. He seemed to have a charmed life. At first he was unnoticed by the terrorists, and then their fusillades missed both him and the trolley.

It was a distraction.

Shanley and Kilmara leapt for the open doorway and just made it before heavy fire raked the wall behind them.

Fitzduane aimed his automatic with care a and shot the laundryman below the knee. He fell behind the safety of the low wall and stared around frantically, shocked and terrified.

"STAY DOWN!" shouted Fitzduane, and made a gesture with his arm.

The laundryman looked at him, his mouth open. He was only about thirty feet away, but there was a gap in the low wall and fire was pouring through it. The Walkman had fallen off the laundryman as he had collapsed, but the earphones were still clipped around his head. Fitzduane fired at the machine and blew it apart.

The laundryman's eyes became round saucers. Then he suddenly seemed to realize the earphones and ripped them off.

"STAY THE FUCK DOWN!" shouted Fitzduane again. "THIS ISN'T SOME WAR GAME. IT'S REAL. STAY RIGHT DOWN AND DO NOT MOVE!"

The laundryman nodded frantically and then squeezed himself up as small as he could in the angle formed by the wall and the path.

Fitzduane got ready, waited until the focus of fire had moved away for a moment, and then launched himself at the trolley. Linen flew in every direction as he threw himself flat on the top and propelled it through the open doorway into the corridor. It shot down the corridor and smashed into a mirror.

"Seven years bad luck," said Fitzduane savagely to himself, "and I was doing so well."

He picked up a piece of mirror and used it as a crude periscope to check around the next corner.

A hooded terrorist clad in the familiar black was moving carefully up the corridor. As Fitzduane had feared, they were moving down to finish the job. But there just could not be that many of them, or they would be checking the rooms too. There should be at least one backup, but he could see no one. It was bad military practice, but this seemed like a lone scout.

The terrorist came around the corner. As he did so, Fitzduane pushed his weapon up and rammed the mirror splinter into his throat.

The man gurgled, and then blood poured through the fabric of his hood and he slumped. Fitzduane broke his neck. A dying enemy could still be a dangerous enemy.

The man was carrying a Russian version of the M16, and AK-74. It helped to explain the intensity and accuracy of the fire. The weapon was equipped with double forty-round plastic magazines on a neat device that allowed a magazine change by simply sliding the empty magazine to one side and the one into place. It also came with an unusually effective muzzle brake, which allowed more-accurate automatic fire. The downside was that the gases were deflected to either side wit a considerable risk of doing not good to your companions.

Fitzduane checked the ammunition pouches of the dead man. He had come loaded with fifteen magazines, six hundred rounds, and only three spare magazines were left in addition to the two on the rifle. That, and the sheer risk of local law enforcement being alerted eventually, suggested that the terrorists would be pulling out soon.

He lay down and rolled over once so he could check the corridor while presenting a minimum target. He knew he should have used the mirror trick again, but the sliver he had used before was deep in the terrorist's throat and he did not feel like going back to the broken mirror. He wanted to link up with Kilmara and Shanley, and quickly.

Muzzle flash blinded him and rounds sliced through the air above his head. If he had been standing or even kneeling, it would have been inconvenient. There was a backup man, and he had fired instinctively from the hip when he had seen movement. He was very fast, but his target was not where he had expected it to be.

Fitzduane fired back low, and then as his assailant buckled, he put a second burst into his head.

"KILMARA! SHANLEY!" he shouted. He could not remember where Shanley's room was, and this was no time for playing hide-and-seek.

There was an answering shout from down the corridor. Then a door opened and the long muzzle of a Barrett emerged.

Fitzduane thought through the next action. The block they were in had three stories and the one across the way had five. So if they went up on the roof they would still have the low ground. Worse still, they would be exposed.

They could head through the main body of the hotel and try and get up to the higher roof that way. That would take too long, and who knew what shit was going down in the middle.

The best solution seemed to be to fire form the second floor from the cover of a room window. They would be shooting at a diagonal and up, but since the Barrett round could travel eight miles, gravity at that short range should not be much of a problem. The distance across the pool area to the parapet was less than a hundred and fifty meters.

"One floor up," said Fitzduane.

"My thoughts exactly," said Kilmara.

Shanley made to lead, but Fitzduane beckoned him to one side. The Barrett had many fine qualities, but close-in fighting going up stairs was more the job of a lighter, short-barreled weapon. The Barrett weighed well over twenty pounds. You could drop it on someone's toe and put him out of action.

The stairs were empty. The second-floor corridor was empty.

Fitzduane kicked at a door with the flat of his foot and the room door splintered at the lock and sprang open. The room was empty. The blinds were drawn, but the glass had been blasted away by terrorist gunfire from across the pool area. The walls of the room were pockmarked with bullet holes.

He could hear a series of other crashes from the corridor as Kilmara kicked in the doors. First, he did not want any surprises, and second, they wanted to be able to move from room to room at will. It made no sense to present a static target when you could move around.

Kilmara would watch their back from the corridor while he and Shanley took on the other side. It was not something they had discussed. They had worked together for so long and trained so often that the moves came naturally.

They could hear the whump of rotor blades but could not see it from their position. He tried to judge the helicopter's location. It sounded as if it had landed on the roof of the main block. The terrorists were withdrawing. The parapet was still manned, but any second now they would start pulling away out of sight.

"I've only got seven rounds," said Shanley apologetically. He had remembered to put acoustic plugs in his ears, Fitzduane observed. A very good idea, given the decibel count of a. 50 in a confined space.

"I'm going hot," said Shanley.

Fitzduane put his fingers to his ears and was glad he had. There was a deafening crack, and a large chunk of parapet blew away, carrying a black-hooded gunman with it.

Shanley fired again and again in a measured sequence, demolishing a long chunk of the parapet. A figure rose from the rubble, and Fitzduane snapped the AKM to his shoulder and dropped him.

The terrorist helicopter rose from behind the dome of the main block and swiveled its machine guns toward their position.

Shanley was taking aim with the Barrett. Fitzduane grabbed him and pulled him down.

A long, intense burst of fire raked along the second floor and blew every remaining window apart.

Fitzduane and Shanley crouched down below the window as the air was filled with fire. Then they could hear the helicopter pulling away. They stood up and Shanley raised the Barrett hopefully, but already it was out of sight behind the cover of the hotel and receding into the distance.

"How many rounds have you got left in that thing?" said Fitzduane.

Shanley removed the magazine. It was empty. He worked the bolt. The round was ejected. "One," he said.

Fitzduane contemplated his companion. The man was surprisingly calm for someone who had seen action for the first time. His forehead was beaded with sweat, but he was in control.

"Shanley," he said. "You are a piece of work."

Kilmara came in brushing plaster dust from his clothing and eyed the damage to the parapet across the way. It looked as if a demolition crew had been at work for a morning. "The hotel may not like you," he said.

"Don was planning to take on the helicopter with one round," said Fitzduane. "This is a man who believes in his weapon."

Kilmara was still eyeing the destruction. "One round, one helicopter! Well, by the looks of that mess it would probably be enough."

Shanley did not say anything. He could not stop it. Tears flooded from his eyes. He felt confused, tired, and terribly sad. As he looked up at the wrecked parapet he could see only Texas still alive. And then she was blasted apart and falling through this terrible red mist.

It could not have happened. It was his imagination. All of this was some elaborate war game. It was simulated. Soon everyone would get up and walk around and the music would start up again.

He looked down to the poolside below.

It was a mistake.

Her body was still there. Nothing had changed. It was not a dream. The water was now a solid, glowing, backlit crimson.

He slumped to his knees and sobbed uncontrollably.

Fitzduane reached out and rested his hand on Shanley's shoulder. He knew it helped. It had been done to him under very similar circumstances.

Kilmara looked at them and remembered. Fitzduane had been young then. They both had.

There was always a reaction. After a while it did not show, but it stayed with you.


*****

Maury had designed his mobile home to be as near soundproof as possible. He wanted to be able to work anywhere without interruption.

In this case, matters were made even more convenient by the fact that the Bastogne Inn, which specialized in conferences and exhibitions, had a special serviced area for mobile homes and trailers. You had to pay, of course, but you could plug into the hotel phone system, cable TV, power and plumbing, and even utilize room service if you wanted. For Maury, it was an ideal arrangement.

He was oblivious to the terrorist attack. He was also so buried in his analysis that he had completely forgotten to pass on a message he had received. It had not struck him as particularly urgent, and then Lee Cochrane had phoned and the fax had beeped and the note got buried under a file.

After a while, the phone became a nuisance and he hit the mute button and engaged the answering machine. He needed to focus. There were aspects to this Mexican thing that did not make sense. There had to be more to it. There was an agenda he was missing, he was sure of it. But what?

He learned about the attack when Kilmara came to get him. Immediately he tried to notify Cochrane but could not get through.

Feeling decidedly shaken and, for no rational reason, guilty for not having been there, he went to help Fitzduane and Kilmara do what they could with the injured and the shell-shocked survivors. A stream of ambulances was already beginning to arrive, and medical teams were soon hard at work. The air was filled with the sound of medevac and other helicopters. Local, state, and federal law-enforcement units poured in.

The message remained forgotten.


*****

Fitzduane watched the ambulance doors close and the vehicle accelerate away, siren screaming and lights flashing.

That was the last of the wounded taken care of. There would now be the whole wretched business of being questioned by the bevy of law-enforcement people who had spent the last couple of hours installing themselves in strength and debating jurisdiction. Some had tried to question him earlier, but apart from giving what descriptions he could of the terrorist helicopter, he had refused to say any more until the wounded were attended to.

His motive was not entirely altruistic. He had found that giving succor to another helped ease the stress reaction that cut in after combat and the suppressed guilt that came from the taking of human life. On the conscious level he had not regret about what he had done, but his subconscious seemed to have feelings of its own. It was confusing, and all the more so because he was incredibly tired.

He slumped down on a sofa in the reception area. The rooms were all cordoned off. They were going to have to bunk down in Maury's trailer, he supposed. He looked down at his clothing. God, he was a mess!

His shirt and trousers were ripped, and caked with dried blood. His hands and forearms were streaked with dried blood also. The blood of the killers and the blood of the victims. It had been a long time since he had seen so many terrible injuries. More than sixty had been killed and perhaps two hundred wounded. Many were critical. The butcher's bill would mount up over the next few days.

Where was Kathleen?

He felt a sudden rush of concern. He checked his watch. It was after 10:00 P.M. and it was dark outside. Actually, it was a blessing that she had not been at the party, but still, he was worried. It was not in her nature to stay out of touch like this. They were not a typical couple who could wander at will. They were under terrorist threat, and there were routines and disciplines they had to stick to. One key routine was regular communication. It was a burden but it was reality, and Kathleen was conscientious. In fact, she was better than he was.

Two men with law enforcement stamped all over them were talking to a grim-faced Kilmara over by the reception counter. One slid a photograph out of a file and showed it to Kilmara. He studied it intently and shook his head. The other then slid something small and gold out of a plastic envelope and held it in the palm of his hand.

Kilmara picked up the bracelet and read the inscription inside, then nodded. He looked across at Fitzduane, and there was both shock and sympathy in his face.

Fitzduane suddenly felt cold and sick. He tried to stand up, but for a moment his body seemed unwilling to respond. His limbs felt leaden and he seemed to have no strength.

Kilmara and the two men came over.

"Hugo," said Kilmara quietly, "just prepare yourself. This may not be as bad as it seems."

" What? Fitzduane wanted to scream. What is it? Why don't you just tell me? At the same time he understood what Kilmara was trying to do and his whole being fought to be ready for what he was going to hear.

The photograph of the murdered woman meant nothing to him, and his hopes began to rise. She was young and blond, and her features were not remotely familiar.

Then he saw the bracelet and absolute horror swept through him. Kathleen had been kidnapped. But by whom and why?

The older of the two men spoke. "My name is Sheriff Jacklin, Colonel Fitzduane, and this here is Detective Erdman. I hate to say this, but it looks as if your wife might have been taken by the same people" – he made a gesture toward the pool – "who did all this. And as to who they are, you can rest assured we're going to find out."

Fitzduane looked at him blankly, as if he had not heard the words. Then he got to his feet unsteadily and turned away without explanation and walked toward the entrance. He felt as if he could not breathe and fresh air was the only solution. He staggered like a drunken man.

Kathleen was gone. He would never see her again. The people who had taken her killed without hesitation. They would not let her live. She would be a witness. She would have learned something. You always learned something, and these were people who took no chances. Kathleen would die – might already be dead – and he would have to accept it.

He could not accept it. Emotion ran through him. He held up his bloody hands. He was responsible for all this. Action and reaction and his cursed curiosity. It all went back to finding a hanging body and deciding to find out why. It was one body too many and it was on his doorstep and the victim had been so damned young. If only he had just walked on and never looked back.

"Hugo!" called Kilmara, his voice loud and sharp.

Fitzduane lowered his hands, then shook his head a couple of times as if trying to wake himself up. He had been oblivious to his surroundings, aware only of the balmy night air. He breathed in and out deeply.

The forecourt was a hive of activity. Law-enforcement vehicles came and went, and media vans with TV cameras mounted on their roofs were lined up behind the guarded perimeter. Arc lights supplemented the hotel lighting. As he watched, a helicopter touched down. Other helicopters circled above. Media again, he supposed.

Beyond the perimeter held back by barriers were many hundreds, perhaps thousands, of curious onlookers wedged five or six deep.

"Publicity is the oxygen of terrorism," someone had said. Well, these terrorists were getting plenty of oxygen. He hoped they choked on it.

Maury was standing beside Kilmara, looking rather anxious. Kilmara was reading something, and then he looked up. He appeared puzzled, and, followed by Maury, he walked toward Fitzduane.

"Maury took a phone message earlier on," he said. "It was from a woman. The switch tried your room and, finding no one there, rang Maury's trailer."

Maury shrugged apologetically. "I'm sorry, Hugo. Probably I should have delivered it earlier, but you were in and out all day and I thought you would be in again soon -and then I forgot about it."

Fitzduane read the message.

CALL ME SOONEST. R. O IS ALIVE. YAIBO ARE IN YOUR AREA. TAKE EVERY CARE. CHIFUNE

The number she had given bore a Fayetteville area code.

The blood drained from Fitzduane's face.

R.O.? Reiko Oshima! It was all beginning to make horrible sense.

He told Kilmara.

The General's face turned gray. He had come up against her in Ireland. She was the most dangerous terrorist he had ever encountered. Most of the time there was no longer any rationale as to why she killed. The act was an end in itself to her.

Fitzduane called the number.

"Fitzduane- san," she said. The voice was the same, the formal address a barrier between them. Unbidden, the memory of her body came to him.

"I have an address," she said. "It is a Yaibo safe house. Your wife may be there. Go quickly."

"How do you know?" he said. "Chifune, how do you know?"

"I've had my people out," she said. "Now hurry, Fitzduane- san. There is very little time. Approach carefully but in force. Go quickly. They will move soon. I cannot stay."

"Oshima?" said Fitzduane. "Is she behind this?"

The phone was dead.

"Sheriff," said Fitzduane, showing Jacklin the address. "Where is this place?"

Jacklin checked the paper. "About an hour away, I guess. Maybe more. It's outside my jurisdiction."

"Sheriff," said Fitzduane. "Give me some people. I beg you. There's no time to clear this. Please."

Jacklin thought quickly. "I'll lay on a chopper. There will be a SWAT team waiting when you land." He barked into his radio.

Eight minutes later, Fitzduane and his pilot were airborne.

Fitzduane's face was wet with tears. Dear God, he thought. Let us be in time.

Kathleen. Our baby.

Oshima! His heart turned to stone. It is you, I know it. I will find you if you're with the devil himself, and this time there will be no mistake. I will kill you.

He dried his cheeks and checked his weapons.

However long it takes, I will kill you. I swear it.

The helicopter swooped in to land in a clearing. The spot was wooded. Fitzduane had no sense of location. Jacklin had said the address sounded like a farm, which seemed to make sense.

"Colonel," said the pilot. " Semper Fi, sir."

Fitzduane shook his head wordlessly as a rush of emotion gripped him.


*****

A deserted shack had been selected as temporary headquarters. Marked and unmarked vehicles were parked around it. They entered. The room had been cleared and now housed a bank of communications equipment on trestle tables. Maps of the area were being pinned up.

"Colonel Fitzduane?" said a man in black combat fatigues. A submachine gun hung around his neck. "Special Agent Hillgrove. FBI HRT out of Raleigh."

"The house?"

"It's about four hundred meters up ahead," said Hillgrove. "Clapboard farmhouse, kinda run-down. A barn and some other outbuildings. A rusty tractor and no animals. Two cars parked outside, but no lights on inside the farm that we can see. The drapes are closed. And that's about all we know."

"It's surrounded?" said Fitzduane.

"Yes, sir," said Hillgrove. "The state troopers have it sewn up every which way. We only got here ten minutes ago."

"My wife?"

Hillgrove's face reflected compassion and caution. According to Sheriff Jacklin, the woman had been grabbed the previous afternoon and a helicopter had been involved. That suggested that she had already been flown out of the area. Still, you could never be certain.

He shook his head. "We just don't know yet, sir. An electronic-surveillance team are moving into position now. They'll try and drill through and place a few miniature probes in position. But it will take some time. Best get some rest, sir."

Fitzduane absorbed the news. He was exhausted, he knew, and still in shock. He was not thinking clearly. There was information he should pass on to the FBI man, but he could not think what it was. He felt dizzy.

"Glass of water, sir," said Hillgrove, his voice concerned by distant. "You'd better sit down."

Fitzduane could feel his vision dimming, and there was a ringing in his ears. Someone took his arm and eased him onto a chair. He took the water with both hands and drank greedily. God, he was making all the classic errors. He was in shock, he had let himself get dehydrated, and he hadn't eaten. He was way overtired. He was personally involved.

He would have to get a grip. He closed his eyes. In the background he could hear the constant chatter of radio communications and the sound of footsteps as people walked to and for. The floor creaked.

Hillgrove seemed to know what he was doing, Fitzduane reflected sleepily. But there is something I should tell him. He dozed.


*****

"Tac One," said a voice in Hillgrove's earpiece.

"Roger, Five," said Hillgrove.

"We're inserting now," said Five. "Should come up on video any second."

Hillgrove had a mental picture of the surveillance team withdrawing their drill bits very slowly, careful to avoid the slightest sound, and inserting cameras and sound probes no bigger than the head of a matchstick.

He stared intently at the three video monitors. Any moment the first picture would come through. Whether there was light inside or not would make no difference except to the quality of the images. The miniature cameras had night-vision capability.

The first camera was coming on stream. The focus was slightly off and was adjusted.

"My God!" said a voice in absolute shock. "What have they done to her? What's that stuff hanging out of her? Oh My God!"

The wide-angle lens distorted the image and the picture had the greenish negative quality of night vision, so flesh tones could not be seen.

Nonetheless, the content was clear.

The naked woman's arms had been tied to the rafters and her legs spread and tied apart.

Her throat had been slashed, and her body and the floor beneath her were black with blood.

She had been gutted.

The voice was a harsh whisper, a cry of hatred, pain, and the very depths of despair. The name was drawn out, a long sibilant sound.

"Oshimaaaaaa! Oshimaaaa!" whispered Fitzduane. "That's how she kills."

Hillgrove's mouth was dry. He swallowed. Fitzduane had woken and was staring intently at the monitor.

"Is it – do you recognize…?"

"I-I don't know," he whispered. "Her face. They've cut off her face."


*****

Hillgrove continued the electronic surveillance for an hour. The findings were clear enough. The killers, whoever they were, were long gone.

The entry team were moving into position when Fitzduane remembered. "Don't go in," he said suddenly.

"Wait one," said Hillgrove into his mouthpiece. "What did you say, sir?" he said to Fitzduane.

"I know these people," said Fitzduane, "and they know us. As soon as they find a safe house, they prepare to move on. The house then becomes a trap. They know we will find it sooner rather than later, and they know roughly how long it will take us. The place will be mined."

"Then why the body?" said Hillgrove.

"To make us angry, to stop us thinking," said Fitzduane. "To lure us in. And it's working."

Hillgrove exhaled. He had been caught up in the immediacy of the entry routine and this distraction was disorienting. He was tempted to shut the man up or have him forcibly removed, but despite the torn, bloodstained clothing and the exhausted, haunted look on Fitzduane's face there was something about the man's bearing that made him credible. According to Sheriff Jacklin, this Irishman knew the world of terrorism, which was more than Hillgrove did.

"What do you suggest?" he said.

"Pull back and send in an ordnance disposal team. Tell them to take their time and to be very careful," said Fitzduane.

"But your – your – the victim?" said Hillgrove hesitantly. It was hard to imagine that hideous thing hanging from the rafters as living flesh and blood.

Your wife was unspoken.

"It's – it's too late for her," whispered Fitzduane. He was having trouble getting the words out. "If you could have done anything, I'd have let you go in and to hell with the risks. But she's dead, and what's the point of more people following?" There was agony in his voice.

"Who are these people?" said Hillgrove.

Fitzduane did not answer. Tears were streaming down his face.

Hillgrove hesitated.

"Tac One?" said a voice in his ear. "Ready to go."

"Pull back," said Hillgrove. "Get back fifty meters and get your heads down."

"What's-"

"DO IT!" snapped Hillgrove.

The entry team were still pulling back when two tons of homemade explosive ignited.


*****

The noise was persistent. Fitzduane heard it through waves of sleep. He knew he was supposed to react in some way, but something told him that he did not want to wake up. There were matters he would have to face that he did not want to have to deal with. Sleep was safer. His body screamed for more rest.

The phone went silent. The hours passed. Fitzduane slept on.

"Hugo," said a familiar voice. The tone was gentle, sympathetic. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

He tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids felt leaden. His throat was dry. He felt muzzy.

"Kathleen," he whispered. There was something important he should remember, he knew, and Kathleen was involved. "Kathleen," he said again.

"Hugo, you've got to wake up," said Kilmara.

Fitzduane struggled to open his eyes. He sat up slowly and took the proffered glass of orange juice. He drank greedily.

The room was in semidarkness, but chinks of light around the drapes suggested it was daytime.

Suddenly he remembered. A long, low cry as of physical pain escaped him. Internally, Kilmara winced. He felt helpless and inadequate in the face of such suffering.

"What time is it," said Fitzduane.

"Nearly four in the afternoon," said Kilmara. "Don't feel bad. You did all you could before you crashed, and even then you were sedated. Grab a shower and you'll feel better. But first I've got one bit of good news. The dead woman in that house was not Kathleen."

Fitzduane felt a rush of relief followed by renewed anxiety. "Kathleen? Has she been found?"

"No," said Kilmara heavily. "It looks like she's been kidnapped, all right, but they are keeping her alive. And Chifune has turned up. The dead woman was her agent. She'll explain."

"Where is she?" said Fitzduane.

"Down the hall in my room waiting for you to wake up," said Kilmara. "Oga's with her."

Fitzduane swung his legs out of the bed and sat on the edge and rubbed his eyes. "Sergeant Oga?" he said. "Good man. What the hell is he doing here?"

"Inspector Oga now," said Kilmara. "And on the same assignment as Chifune."

"Oshima," said Fitzduane heavily, and headed into the bathroom.

"Oshima," said Kilmara to his friend's back. He had been in counterterrorism most of his life and tried to remain professionally detached. Oshima was personal. But for a Delta sniper called Al Lonsdale, Oshima would have already killed his friend. It had been damn close.

Fitzduane was in the bathroom for ten minutes. When he emerged, his distress was no longer evident. He was pale but his manner was calm.

There was coffee and toast on the table. Fitzduane poured two cups and forced himself to eat a little food.

"Where are we?" he said. "I remember that damned house and the explosion and then a whole lot more questions from the feds. Then I was given something to drink and I don't remember much more. I guess I dozed off in the helicopter."

Kilmara smiled grimly. "You didn't doze. The feds gave you enough jungle juice to knock out an elephant and then flew you back to Fayetteville. We're in a hotel about two miles from the Bastogne Inn. They want us to stick around for a few more days until they've made sense of all this."

"Who's they?" said Fitzduane.

"Just about everybody who carries a badge," said Kilmara. "Which is a whole lot of people in this part of the world."

"Do they know anything?" said Fitzduane.

"Not really," said Kilmara. "But it's early."

Fitzduane was silent.


*****

Chifune had tried to prepare herself mentally for the encounter, but when Fitzduane entered the room it was if she had learned nothing about protecting herself from the emotional rigors of the world.

A mature woman, she felt defenseless. Her self-possession deserted her. Her heart pounded and a wave of feeling swept over her. She remembered the last time they had seen each other. It had been on the aircraft as Fitzduane was about to leave Tokyo to fly back to Ireland and Kathleen. To marry Kathleen. The man she, Chifune, had fallen in love with. Was still in love with. It hurts, Hugo. It hurts.

She bowed formally. Beside her, Oga bowed also.

Fitzduane returned their bows. As Chifune straightened their eyes met fleetingly, and suddenly she knew that Fitzduane had not forgotten and that she was very important to him and that this would never change. She wanted to embrace him, to console him. It was not appropriate.

"Tanabu- san and Oga- san, it is good to see you again," said Fitzduane.

Oga beamed. He had been suspicious of the gaijin when they had first met, but that initial reserve had evolved into high regard. His one reservation concerned Chifune. He was devoted to Tanabu- san and did not want to see her hurt any more.

"Fitzduane- san, we deeply regret we could not have done more," said Chifune, "but we believe we can help."

"Kathleen is alive," said Fitzduane flatly, "and we're going to get her back. That is one of two certainties. The other is that this time Oshima will be stopped permanently."

"Fitzduane- san," said Chifune cautiously, "it is not certain that Oshima has Kathleen."

"But it is probable?" said Fitzduane.

"Yes, Fitzduane- san, it is probable," said Chifune.

"Let's talk," said Fitzduane. "How much time do you have?"

"As long as is necessary," said Chifune. "Oga- san was in the Japanese airborne, you may remember, Fitzduane- san, and the airborne have an expression which sums up our situation."

"‘All The Way,’" quoted Oga.

The thought came to Kilmara that Oshima seemed to have much the same motto. She would stop at nothing.


*****

Three hours later, Fitzduane was acutely conscious of not having had enough sleep and strongly suspected that whatever the FBI medic had pumped into him was not the kind of thing you wanted to play with too often.

Still, fatigue and headache apart, some of the helplessness he had been feeling had evaporated and he felt a course of action was beginning to come clear. It might not conform to the standards of evidence the FBI required, but he, Fitzduane, ran on instinct and it seemed to work for him.

Chifune and Oga had gone, Fitzduane and Kilmara were going over what they had heard.

"Something to bear in mind," said Kilmara, "is that Chifune's position is not easy. Her own side don't entirely trust her, or they would have told her that Oshima was still alive much earlier. Even more relevant right now is her situation in the U.S.. She can't just go to the FBI and pour out her life story. She's the agent of a foreign power, and currently she's working through a Koancho network set up in the U.S. Tell the feds all about this, and they'll roll them up quicker than the NRA blocking a gun-control bill."

"The Japanese are a friendly foreign power," said Fitzduane.

"That doesn't give them carte blanche to have a network of spies in the U.S.," said Kilmara. "And remember that friendly covers a multitude, including quite a dose of international espionage, which gives the feds gas pains. So friendly doesn't mean let's all trust each other and share secrets. Its more like how you treat your in-laws."

"Okay," said Fitzduane. "I understand that Chifune is here to track down Yaibo and is working through her own people, but why, when she got wind of action here, didn't she contact me? She knew I was around. She'd rung home. They know her. They'd told her where I was."

Because in my opinion she's still in love with you, Hugo, and did not know how to handle an encounter, Kilmara felt like saying, but this was not quite the time for such directness.

"I guess she was going to contact you," said Kilmara, "but all this shit blew up first. Also, Chifune and Oga are emphatic they did not know what was going to happen. They thought there was going to be some kind of terrorist meeting. They did not envisage any action, let alone this kind of carnage. Hell, who would!"

"But when Kathleen was brought to the terrorist safe house, Chifune made contact," said Fitzduane. "But then Kathleen was moved before we arrived."

"This time with Chifune following," said Kilmara. "Until they boarded a helicopter and headed out to sea. End of the trail."

"And the woman killed at the safe house by the terrorists was one of Chifune's agents left behind on watch," said Fitzduane. "What a mess!"

"The good news is Kathleen is definitely alive," said Kilmara, "and since they could easily have killed her it is reasonable to assume they intend to keep her alive for some purpose. They killed that unfortunate hitchhiker she gave a lift to without hesitation."

Fitzduane nodded. "But we don't know where Kathleen is or who is holding her. Oshima is a good guess, but here people were only one of several groups involved in the assault. Oshima herself was not seen. So Kathleen could be anywhere. Or held by anyone."

"You don't believe that, Hugo," said Kilmara.

"I guess not," said Fitzduane. "Every instinct tells me she's in Tecuno, but without proof the U.S. is going to do nothing. And even with proof, Mexico seems to be a no-go area."

"All true," said Kilmara, "but those kind of constraints never stopped us before, and this time I don't think we'll be alone. Have faith."

Fitzduane went over to the window and peered through the blinds. Night had fallen, and under the lights outside he could see the sheriff's deputies and state police. Off to one side a Humvee mounting a 40mm automatic grenade launcher was parked.

"Serious security," he said.

"One of these days we are going to learn to hit them before they hit us," said Kilmara.

"If they hit us tonight, I'm going to sleep through it," said Fitzduane. "I'm going to hit the sack."

"You've one more thing to do," said Kilmara. "Talk to Dana. She'd like to apologize about losing her charge." He stood up. "I'll go get her."

According to Captain Dana Felton, Kathleen had asked her three times to leave her alone. She was fed up with all this security and needed some space. Eventually, Dana had pulled way back out of sight and then lost her client when Kathleen had switched off the agreed-upon road.

The rules of the bodyguard business were that your client's safety was more important than a client's feelings. On the other hand, when Kathleen needed her space it was an unwise person who got in her way, and she was eminently capable of losing her tail. Dana's story had the ring of truth, and in all honesty Fitzduane could not see that she could have acted in any other way.

Dana came in. Kilmara stayed outside.

"I feel like shit, sir," said Dana. "I should have known better. I was trained better. I have no excuses, sir. I feel sick about Mrs. Fitzduane. Anything I-"

Fitzduane held up a hand to halt the flood. "How many people does it take to provide real security on someone, Dana?" he asked.

"It depends, sir," said Dana. "Six at least if the threat is serious. One or two if you're going through the motions. Shit, sir, I didn't mean it that way."

"I know my wife when she wants to be alone," said Fitzduane, "and I know you did what you could, Dana. None of us anticipated this level of threat. If you'd been with Kathleen when she was jumped, you'd have been killed. Simple as that. You'd be dead like Texas, and I'm damn glad you're not."

Dana took several deep breaths. There was a glint of moisture at the corner of each eye.

"I miss Texas, sir. She was a good buddy. I'd like to even the score, sir. What can I do?"

Fitzduane smiled tiredly. "Keep me safe while I work on getting Kathleen back Can do, Captain?"

"HOOAH, SIR!" said Captain Dana Felton.

Kilmara returned after Dana left. He had a bottle of red wine and two glasses. "Better than pills," he said.

"What does hooah mean?" said Fitzduane.

"‘Fucking A’ or similar," said Kilmara. "It's also used to indicate the right stuff. If you are an Okay guy in the airborne or rangers, you are ‘hooah.’"

"What's the origin?" said Fitzduane.

"Rangers in World War Two had completed a hazardous mission and were resting when they were asked to go back into action. ‘Who, us?’ they said indignantly, but back they went. And ‘Who us’ became ‘hooah.’"

Fitzduane suddenly felt a rush of fatigue and emotion. His voice broke. "You know, Shane, in the middle of all this shit it does sometimes strike me that there are some really good people out there. Despite everything."

Kilmara filled their glasses. "Despite everything," he said with feeling. He raised his glass. "To Kathleen. We're going to get her back. Whatever it takes."

"Whatever it takes," said Fitzduane.


*****

In the morning they heard that the murdered woman found in the trunk of the Dodge had been officially identified as Sergeant Jenny Pullman, a parachute rigger with the 82 ^ nd Airborne who had been hitching back from the coast after seventy-two hours' compassionate leave. She was an innocent victim who had been unlucky enough to hitch a lift with the wrong person.

The wreckage of the destroyed farmhouse was sifted through item by item. The body had been blown apart and pieces had been found over a wide area.

One arm was found sufficiently intact to take fingerprints. They were identified as belonging to Akio Taro, a Japanese freelance journalist doing an assignment on FortBragg. Chifune's agent.

The Dodge found by the state police had been rented by Kathleen Fitzduane. The rental company recognized Kathleen's photograph and the driver's license number checked out.

There was no longer any doubt about the identity of the kidnap victim.

They had also heard that apart from the terrorist attack on the special-forces exhibition, an explosive device concealed in a large, self-propelled floor-cleaning machine had gone off in the Oak Creek shopping mall in Fayetteville. The place was packed with shoppers at the time, including thousands of off-duty airborne soldiers and their families.

The cleaning machine was capable of washing, drying, polish application, and buffing, and contained tanks for its consumables. These tanks had been packed with more than two hundred pounds of miniature steel balls suspended in a gel. An odorless gas contained in a cylinder in the built-in storage compartment – normally used for spare buffing pads – had been released in advance.

The explosives combined with the gas to create a destructive effect considerably more powerful than the explosive on its own would have achieved. It was, in effect, a fuel air bomb.

The American military establishment was being attacked where it was most vulnerable by an unknown enemy following an unknown agenda. In strictly military terms, the casualties were of little significance.

But internationally, the political symbolism of the actions was considerable.

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