Warlord

FORTY-ONE

COMMANDER HAWKE HIMSELF," the commanding officer of the British Army commando unit said, easily managing to make the greeting sound distinctly unfriendly. Alex ignored him and climbed in through the rear hatch of the black Saxon AT105C command vehicle. There wasn't a lot of room in these damned battle taxis, so Alex Hawke and Major Masterman assumed uncomfortably chummy positions.

There was a turret on top with a 7.62mm machine gun in the highly unlikely event any of the enemy combatants trapped inside the safe house ever got anywhere within a mile of the major's heavily armored hideout.

Hawke smiled at the army man, still fine-tuning exactly how he was going to go about this. Masterman smiled back, a man appallingly sure of himself. He was short, beefy, had narrow eyes the color of lead, a stubborn, cornerstone chin, and wore a moustache of the old wing commander variety.

Beneath the two men's smiles lurked a great deal of tension. Hawke let it build to an uncomfortable level, forcing Masterman to speak first.

"Everything all squared away up on the hill, I take it? Talked some sense into that pompous ass from Scotland Yard, did you?" the major asked. "And that pipsqueak policeman, what's his name, Drummond? Worked with him once. Talked about nothing but tea roses. Closet poofter if you ask me. I asked you a question about them, I believe."

Hawke looked at him, expressionless.

"Sorry. What did you say?" Hawke said.

"I asked you if you'd squared everything away with those two fools up on the hill."

"They're not happy, but they understand."

"And how about you? Do you understand?"

"Major Masterman, I know this is your operation. And that MI6 has no jurisdictional right to interfere or intercede on my behalf."

"Correct."

"But I must tell you, Major, that I absolutely insist on going into that safe house with the lads."

"And, as I said to you over an hour ago, I absolutely insist that you remain here with me in the command vehicle until we've accomplished our objective. Secured the house."

Hawke glared at the man, his eyes cold as winter rain, giving no hint of the furnace within. When he finally spoke, his voice was as sharp and hard-edged as Sheffield steel.

"Major, it is contrary to my nature to pull rank, but I'm afraid in the present circumstances, you leave me no other choice."

"Pull rank on me?" Masterman guffawed. "Is that what you said? You can't go high enough to pull rank on me, sir."

"I'm afraid I actually can. You serve in the Prince of Wales's Own Regiment of Yorkshire, according to your insignia."

"What of it?"

"I am here today at the express request of an old friend. He has entrusted me with finding the man or men who have threatened not only him, but his entire family. One of the men inside that house may have murdered my friend's godfather. I swore an oath to find that man. And I am honor bound to take direct action against him. Not after the fight. Now."

"Rubbish. I've never heard such a farcical fairy tale in all my life."

"I warn you, Major, do not ever insult me again. You've just called me a liar. Your entire career is on the line at this moment. I'm offering you one last chance to save it. Make your decision."

"Bollocks."

"As you wish. In the last half hour, I have spoken directly to my friend regarding this situation. He told me that should I encounter further difficulty in carrying out his explicit instructions, I was to call him on his private line immediately. I have that number on my mobile. Shall I ring it?"

"Of course, why not? This is rank insanity."

Alex pulled out his mobile and punched in Charles's private number. Masterman, seething and sputtering, seemed on the verge of spontaneous human combustion.

"Hello, sir, Hawke here. Still a bit of trouble at this end, I'm sorry to say…Yes, sir, Major Masterman is right here with me now."

Hawke listened for a few more moments and said, "He would like to speak with you, Major."

Masterman snatched the cell phone out of Hawke's hand.

He barked into the phone, "This is Major Milo Masterman, Prince of Wales's Own Regiment of Yorkshire. Who the bloody hell is this?"

Hawke watched the man listening to the famous voice at the other end, his eyes growing wider, his hand beginning to tremble uncontrollably, and his face turning the deepest shade of scarlet Alex had ever seen.

Hawke, having no wish to humiliate the man further, quickly made his exit and went to join the young platoon commander, Lieutenant Sebastian Bolt, who would soon be leading the attack on the safe house.

HAWKE FOUND BOLT IN THE MIDST of three or four commandos, leaders of the assault group, crouched behind some heavy underbrush, each man doing a last-minute check of gear and weapons. The assault would commence in exactly twenty-five minutes. A roughly drawn layout plan of the Barking Dog lay on the ground. One man held a pencil light while Lieutenant Bolt went through a final brief.

"Two teams, Yankee upstairs, Zulu down. You've all memorized the layout of this target. Three floors, central staircase. Two rooms right and two rooms left on the top two floors, here and here. One room left, one room right on the ground going in. Exits front and rear. Shoot like a surgeon when you acquire a target and verify he's armed."

He looked at each man, making eye contact one last time, waiting for each to nod.

"Night-vision goggles are a huge advantage here; use them. The enemy may be disoriented, but they are highly trained and highly motivated terrorist fighters. They kill innocent women and children, and they will be more than happy to kill you. You all know what to do, so let's do it! We go in twenty. Good hunting and good luck."

"Lieutenant Sebastian Bolt?" Hawke said, kneeling down beside him. He was blond, ruddy cheeked, and surprisingly young, and Hawke suddenly felt his age.

"Yes, sir, I am. You're Commander Hawke, aren't you? MI6? There was a pool as to whether or not you'd make it here in time. Or at all."

"I made it."

"Glad you did, sir, and honored. There's a rumor floating round you conceived and executed the hostage rescue aboard that Russian airship in the middle of the Atlantic. From a submarine. True?"

"I was there, yes. Now, how can I help?"

"Can you help us identify the terrorist leader known only as 'Smith'?"

"I cannot. No one on earth can, it seems. The invisible man."

"Then all you can do is help us kill or capture as many of these bastards as possible. Plain enough, sir?"

Hawke grinned at the eager-to-fight young lieutenant. "You're my kind of leader."

"We have the element of surprise in our favor, sir. Four of their sentries in the woods have been taken out silently in the last hour. None of them had a chance to use his radio."

"No one on the roof?"

"We've been watching that. You'd think they'd post a man up there. But, no. They did post an armed sentry out front. Stood by the door, smoked a fag or two, and went to bed about a half hour ago. All lights were extinguished. There has been no noise, no light, no sign of movement inside since."

"Lieutenant, if Smith is in there, I'd like very much to take him alive. In other words, I'd rather have prisoners than corpses."

"I understand. I'll get that message out immediately. We're using heavy loads, so a hit anywhere will take a man down without a kill."

Bolt, like all the troops, was wearing a battlefield commo set inside his helmet. An NVG device was mounted atop the helmet. He turned away and spoke quickly into his lip mike, passing on the new orders to his second in command.

He produced a similar Kevlar commo helmet for Hawke who donned it, pulling the flip-up NVGs into position and checking them. He noticed white circles painted around the tops of all the black helmets around him. The white paint popped, like something under black light, and he asked Bolt about it.

"Recently developed. Highly reflective through NVGs. You'll find it very handy once we're inside that house in the pitch-dark."

Hawke grinned. "Our troops look like angels with halos."

"That's the general idea," Bolt said, and looked at the digital countdown on his watch. "Helps you keep track of whose side you're on."

"The side of the angels."

"You got it, Commander."

"We go in twenty. I estimate a minimum of fifteen to twenty-five heavily armed IRA soldiers inside. All armed with AK-47s. We have microphones under the house and all we're getting is snoring. Safe to say we have the element of surprise."

"What kind of firepower do you have?" Hawke asked, checking his own M8 weapon, fitted with a noise suppressor, selecting a three-shot burst, and putting a round in the chamber. He also had a Kahr P9 9mm pistol in a Velcro holster strapped high on his right thigh.

"I've got two sections, twelve men in each, all armed with individual weapon IW-SA80s with noise suppressors, with the exception of my LMGs, light machine gunners. Each man also carries two 'Bullet Catcher' rifle grenades."

"Never heard of them."

"The grenade is simply pushed onto the muzzle of the barrel, and an ordinary 5.56mm round is fired into it. The grenade absorbs the bullet without damage and is projected toward the target up to 150 meters away."

"Good. You understand why I want to nix the mortar emplacements on the hillside?"

"Yes, sir. I heard from them and I agree with your assessment. We learn more from captured maps, documents, and laptops than we ever do from dead enemy combatants. I wonder. Did Major Masterman agree with that no-mortar decision, sir? I've received no direct orders from him on that."

"I didn't ask for his opinion."

"Radio must be down. I can't raise him."

Hawke didn't say a word.

"Anything wrong, sir?"

"Lieutenant Bolt, for the safety of your men and the success of this mission, I think it best if you immediately assume full command of this operation."

Lieutenant Bolt looked at Hawke carefully, thought a moment, then flipped up his tiny battlefield communicator mike and said, "Mortars, mortars. This is Bolt. Hold fire, repeat, mortars hold your fire until and unless you hear from me, personally. Roger that? The CO's radio is down, all orders during this operation will come directly from me. Over."

"Thanks," Hawke said, attaching a few more stun and smoke grenades to his utility belt.

"Fifteen minutes," Bolt said. "Sir, I suggest you stick with me and Yankee. Upon entry, we immediately mount the center stairs and clear the top two floors. Zulu, under the command of Second Lieutenant Hunter Foreman, will cover and clear the ground floor. He also has three of his LMG men posted outside at the rear and two sides of the building, covering those exits with machine guns."

"I'm with you, Lieutenant. I assume you're going in with flash-bangs and smoke grenades?"

"Yes. Both bangers and smokers through every window as well, upstairs and down. Maximum disorientation. They'll have enough time to pull their balaclavas over their faces and grab their AK-47s and that's about it before we come in shooting."

"Good," Hawke said.

Bolt's hidden commandos were creating so much warrior energy in the woods surrounding the Barking Dog you could cut it with a knife. Good energy. Killer energy. This was it, Alex thought, these were the moments that made staying alive a viable notion again. A novel concept, considering his recent state of mind. But he felt it, coursing through his veins, a liquid fire.

Hawke would find this bloody Smith tonight or the next, or the next. But he would find him and he would take him out, and he would do it for his future King and country.