Rules of The Hunt f-2

by VICTOR O'REILLY

  Fitzduane swept him up and kissed him. Small muddy arms encircled his neck. A small muddy face was pressed to his. Fitzduane had never associated Irish mud with absolute happiness, but at that moment he was as happy and content as a human being can ever be.

  He hosed down Boots in the shower, and when a recognizable three-year-old had emerged, they both went for a soak in the big Victorian bath. As Fitzduane lay back in the soothing water, eyes closed, Boots lay in his arms for the first few minutes. Then the normal mischievous nature of PeterFitzduane took over. He slid from his father's body and went to play in the water.

  Minutes passed. Fitzduane, eyes closed, was practically asleep. Playing with taps was forbidden, and the hot faucet had been made too stiff to turn, but small hands wrestled with the large brass cold outlet and very quietly half filled a jug. The boy stood up, protected from falling by an unconscious reflex action of his father's legs. He held the jug over Fitzduane and started to giggle.

  Fitzduane opened his eyes just as the icy water hit him. His shout of indignation could be heard through the double doors and echoed through the stone passageways beyond. It was immediately followed by the sound of Boots in an advanced fit of the giggles and then Fitzduane's laughter.

  * * * * *

  Colonel — to be General in two days' time, despite the opposition of more conservative military figures and countless politicians and civil servants he had crossed over the years — Shane Kilmara flipped back the cover of his watch and began to check the time.

  Just as he focused, the plane lurched again and his stomach surged toward the top of his skull. He still felt nauseated, despite the motion-sickness pills, but had been saved the indignity of actually throwing up. Low-level combat flying was an effective way to penetrate airspace undetected, but in a special-forces-modified Lockheed C130 Combat Talon — where functionality was awarded a decidedly higher priority than comfort — you tended to have a hard ride this close to the ground, or the sea, or whatever terrain you happened to be over.

  The Irish Rangers had initially been set up as an antiterrorist unit in the mid-seventies, following the assassination of the British Ambassador by a culvert bomb. The political establishment felt they could also end up in the firing line unless they took some precautions, and that gave the founder of the new organization some extra leverage. Kilmara, who had served in a special-forces capacity with other national forces for many years after a falling-out with the Irish authorities, had emerged as the most suitable candidate to head up the new unit.

  The entire Irish army, cooks and mascots included, was tiny — at around 13,000 personnel smaller than on U.S. Army division — and was chronically underequipped and underfunded. Accordingly, Kilmara, whose own special-forces unit was actually quite well-equipped, thanks to special supplementary funding, had become a world-class expert in the art of scrounging. It helped that he was something of a legend in the Western special forces community, and that said community was a small, highly personal world which tended to transcend national boundaries under the banner of a motto aptly propounded by David Stirling, founder of the SAS: "If you need something, do not be put off by bureaucracy — find a way to take it."

  Kilmara hadn't taken the Lockheed Combat Talon — it actually belonged to the U.S. Air Force — he had merely borrowed it and its highly skilled crew in a complex arrangement with Delta. He had a tendency toward elegantly complex barter deals, because then, in his experience, no bureaucrat could ever possibly unravel them. A much-simplified interpretation of this particular arrangement was that the Irish were given access to the Combat Talon and certain other goodies in exchange for Delta being allowed to train in Ireland, and in particular with the new high-speed, heavily armed FAV — Fast Attack Vehicle — know as the Guntrack.

  None of this, needless to say, had been arranged through official channels. However, all of it was supported by appropriate paperwork. Kilmara had operated in this outrageous manner for years. He got away with it because he was very good at what he did. And he was consummate at working the system.

  The Guntrack was a Rangers innovation and had been inspired by Fitzduane. The primary purpose of the exercise was to test the dramatic-looking, black, tracked vehicle under simulated combat conditions. The C130 would infiltrate the ‘enemy’ airspace of Fitzduane's island, flying little higher than the roof of a suburban house, and then drop down to the approximate level of the top of the front door. The rear door s of the Lockheed would be open. At a precise point, a cargo parachute attached to the palleted Guntrack would activate ad the vehicle would be pulled sharply out of the rear doors and fall only a few feet onto the ground — hopefully in one piece.

  The technique was know as LAPES — low-altitude parachute extraction system — and provided the pilot didn't sneeze while flying a bulky cargo plane at 120 mile an hour five feet above the ground at night in new terrain. LAPES was considered a safer way to put cargo on the ground than by actually dropping things from a height. It was regularly used by airborne troops, even for substantial items like armored vehicles.

  The whole procedure tended to scare the shit out of Kilmara. He could just see the pilot absentmindedly spill his coffee at the wrong moment. Fortunately, LAPES was not recommended for people. The drill was to drop the equipment first, the climb to five hundred feet and start throwing out the human element. Five hundred feet just about allowed a parachute to open, but the enemy didn't have much time to shoot you as you dangled silhouetted against the sky. And, with luck, they would be asleep.

  The pioneers of airborne had tried dropping people first and then the heavy equipment on top of them. The survivors had suggested that this had not been a good idea.

  The trouble with Europe was that it was too congested. There just weren't enough places where you could drop things and shoot things without damaging the locals. The nice thing about Fitzduane's island was that all you were likely to flatten, if you picked the right spot, was the heather.

  The warning light came on. Hydraulics began to whine. Outside, the night was dark and cold and looked bloody miserable. The Combat Talon was now so low that Kilmara found he could look up at some of the terrain. He just hoped that all the microchips that made this kind of lunatic flying possible were getting on well with their electrons. He wanted to live to be a general in two days.

  * * * * *

  Fitzduane had reached the stage of an evening where, although he knew common sense dictated getting some sleep, he just hadn't the energy to make a move.

  He was thinking about what he was going to do with his life. Apart from the part-time occupation of acting as something of a ‘think tank’ for the Irish Rangers as they expanded their operations, for the last few years he had tended to take the easier way out, to let his accountant take care of his affairs and to concentrate on bringing up Boots. It was not good enough. He now had a feeling that this course would change, and it brought with it a sense of forboding.

  He checked the security system and then went to pot Boots. His small son lay there, long eyelashes over closed eyes, cheeks pink and tanned from the wind, lithe young body sprawled in over and around the duvet. He looked very beautiful. His bed was very wet.

  Fitzduane stripped the bed, meditated briefly on bladder control and a three-year-old's potty training, then carried his son to his own big bed. He hadn't the energy to remake the cot — or that is what he told himself.

  Father and son slept side by side in the big bed throughout the night. Fitzduane's sleep was somewhat disturbed, since Boots tended to wriggle. In the early hours he thought he heard the sound of a familiar aircraft, but before the thought had fully registered he was asleep again.

  2

  Fitzduane's Island, Ireland

  January 29, 2011

  Boots was giving Oona, the housekeeper, a hard time in the kitchen.

  It was staggering, thought Fitzduane affectionately, how much time, effort, and emotional energy such a very small person could soak up. He imagined having twins or �
�� he went pale at the thought — triplets. In fact, right now, he couldn't really contemplate looking after more than one child at a time.

  How did women do it, and, as often as not these days, combine raising a family with a career? In truth, he had considerable sympathy for Etan, Boots's mother. It was partly her strength of character that he had initially found so attractive. It was scarcely surprising now that she wanted to make her mark on the world.

  That was where the age difference came in. Fitzduane had personal wealth, and, after the army, had reached the top of his chosen profession of combat photographer, strange occupation though it was. He had been ready to settle down.

  Etan still had to achieve some personal goal before she would be content. They hadn’t fallen out of love. It was more a case of being out of sync. How many relationships foundered on career conflicts and bad timing? But Etan had one her own way, and that was the way of it.

  Fitzduane tried to convince himself that someday soon she would return and they would at last get married and be a family unit, but deep down he no longer believed it. He suddenly felt a terrible loneliness, and tears came to his eyes.

  He was lost in thought, staring out the glass wall at a choppy green black sea, when Boots came tearing in hood up, garbed for the outdoors, bright red Wellington boots flashing. "Daddy! Daddy! Let's go! Let's go!" He skidded to a halt. "Daddy, why are you crying?"

  Fitzduane smiled. Children were disconcertingly observant at times. "I've got a cold," he said, sniffing ostentatiously and wiping his eyes.

  Boots reached into his anorak and explored a pocket. A small hand emerged, clutching a tissue that looked like it was beyond recycling. A half-eaten hard candy was stuck to it. He proffered the combination to Fitzduane. "Sharing is caring," he said, repeating Oona's carefully drummed-in propaganda. "Can I have a sweetie?"

  Fitzduane laughed. "Three years old and working the angles," he said. He had read all the books about the importance of feeding children properly and not encouraging bad habits, but he was fighting a losing battle where Boots and candy were concerned. He tossed Boots an apple taken from the fruit bowl on the sideboard.

  Boots made a face, then grabbed the apple with one hand and Fitzduane's arm with the other: "Daddy! Let's go! Let's go! Let's go!"

  * * * * *

  The sniper reflected that the vast majority of his fellow citizens had never even held a weapon, let alone fired one.

  Japan had abjured war. An army, as such, was specifically forbidden by the constitution. There was no conscription. The self-defense forces were manned exclusively by volunteers. The police carried guns but almost never drew them, let alone used them. The streets were safe. Criminals threatened only each other, and even then mostly used swords.

  The sniper spat. His country was degenerating, suborned by materialism and false values. The politicians were corrupt. The rulers of his country had lost direction. The warrior class had been contaminated by commerce and were effete. The true wishes of the Emperor — views he never communicated or expressed but which they knew he must, at heart, profess — were being ignored.

  A new direction was required. As always in history, a few people of strong will and clear vision could change destiny.

  The sniper emptied the magazine of his rifle and reloaded it with hand-loaded match-grade ammunition. He checked every round. Beside him, the spotter had placed his automatic weapon to hand and was sweeping the killing ground in front of them with binoculars.

  The watcher was in position fifty meters above and to the left of them.

  All three saw the portcullis of the castle rise, and horse, rider, and passenger emerge.

  The killing team settled in to wait. It would be about an hour.

  They could hear the sounds of the small waterfall flowing into the stream below them. The stream widened and became shallower at this point. It was a location where people had traditionally established a crossing point or ford. The name wasn't marked on any map, but it was known, by the Fitzduanes, as Battleford.

  At that spot, centuries earlier, Hugo's ancestors had fought, held, and died.

  * * * * *

  It was a truism of special forces that nothing ever went entirely to plan.

  In this case the objective was to test the air deployment of three Guntracks and nine personnel onto the ground at night via LAPES, then mount a simulated assault on the abandoned DrakerCastle, which was at the opposite end of the island to Duncleeve. Kilmara didn't want Fitzduane complaining about having his beauty sleep disturbed. He had longer-term plans for the island which depended on his retaining his friend's goodwill. Good training areas were in short supply.

  The first two Guntracks had made an uneventful landing by the standards of this truly terrifying technique. The third Guntrack, mounted on its special shock-absorbing pallet, had its landing ever further cushioned by a flock of panic-stricken sheep. Seven seemed unlikely to wake up again. Kilmara winced. He knew Fitzduane, and was having nightmares of an outsized trophy board being delivered to Ranger headquarters. He was never going to live this down.

  The second hitch was that they had misplaced three Rangers — actually Delta troopers on secondment from FortBragg. The Irish were well-practiced in jumping in the unusually windy and gusty conditions of the West of Ireland. The Delta team were at the start of the learning curve and were going to have to leg it, cross-country and at night, to catch up.

  Still, they hadn't vanished into the Atlantic, as Kilmara had at first feared. He thanked the Great God of Special Forces they weren't keeping full radio silence, as would have been the case on a real operation. After more than thirty years of the military, he had never gotten used to losing men. The Texas drawl in his earpiece had reassured him. He had acknowledged briefly and caustically and was then able to meditate, with rather more equanimity, on the matter of the dead sheep.

  The sun was well up when Kilmara suspended the exercise and they laid up and prepared food. It was only then that one of the Delta team mentioned the civilian helicopter he had seen land on the north side of the island. He had assumed it was connected with some local inhabitant, and, since it was away from the exercise area, he brought the subject up only in passing.

  Kilmara knew the topography and the context. "A forced landing?" he said hopefully, a mug of tea in his hand.

  "Maybe," said Lonsdale, the Texan, who as a reflex had examined the helicopter briefly with his night-vision binoculars.

  He sounded unconvinced. There had been no smoke or erratic maneuvering. The flying had been purposeful, skilled.

  "It came in low and fast." He thought again. "It was a civilian bird, but it was more like he was heading for a hot landing. Probably an army hotshot reliving his past."

  Kilmara sipped his tea without tasting it. "What then?" he said.

  "Three guys got out. They were dressed in vacation gear, you know, hats with flies and those sleeveless jackets with lots of pockets. They had fishing poles with them. They seemed to know where they were going. They headed toward Duncleeve, your friend's place. I guess they fucked up on their navigation and landed a little short. They wouldn’t have been able to see the castle from that height with the hills in the way."

  "Fishing poles?" said Kilmara.

  "I guess they call them rods over here," said Lonsdale. "They had them in those long bags you use when you're traveling. You know, kind of like a gun c—" It hit him. "Oh, shit!"

  Kilmara's unfinished tea cut a glistening swath through the air as he flung the mug to one side. "It's not the fishing season," he snarled. His command echoed through the clearing. "RANGERS, MOUNT UP! THIS IS NO DRILL!"

  They were at the wrong end of the island.

  * * * * *

  It had been Fitzduane's practice to ride the length of the island along the cliffs of the southern coastline and past DrakerCastle to the headland.

  This pleasant routine had lost something of its attraction one morning when he had found young Rudivon Graffenlaub with a rope around his
neck hanging from a tree. And it was that hanging that had brought him into the world of counterterrorism. It was a world that had no exit. That particular incident had ended with the destruction of the terrorist known as the Hangman, but the dead terrorist had been the linchpin of a worldwide network, and revenge by one of the surviving terrorist groups was no small possibility.

  The memories of that incident and its consequences lingered on all too well without the added stimulus of the sight of the hanging tree. Also, Boots had a three-year-old's attention span. He liked shorter rides, more variety, and to finish up at the waterfall.

  The cascading water at Battleford entertained him and distracted him sufficiently for Fitzduane to be able to enjoy his surroundings without having to answer a question every thirty seconds. Boots liked to splash and float sticks and throw stones into the water. The stream was shallow there and relatively safe.

  That day, with Boots secure between his arms on a special seat on the saddle in front of him, Fitzduane first headed west toward Draker, as had been his old routine, but then turned inland, past a section of particularly treacherous bog, and veered north across the track that ended with Draker Castle and on toward the hills that guarded the northern coastline.

  Fitzduane loved the feeling of the young body next to his. Boots's curiosity and sense of fun were contagious. His excitement and enthusiasm were total. From time to time, unconsciously, Fitzduane would pull Boots to him and caress the top of his head with his lips or stroke his cheek. He knew that this was a special age and a special closeness, and that this time would pass all too soon.

  The center of the island was relatively flat by the standards of the terrain, and here, just north of the track, Fitzduane and Boots found a neat row of dead sheep. A note written on milspec paper was wired to a stick and fluttering in the wind.