Rules of The Hunt f-2

by VICTOR O'REILLY

  He could see blood seeping from his body, but he could not move and he felt nothing. He heard more smashing of glass and then a huge figure came through the kitchen door, kicked away his automatic rifle, and stood looking down at him.

  Eamon found he could not raise his head. He noticed that the mud-stained figure was wearing wet, muddy, but expensive shoes. They were Swiss, he recalled, but he could not remember the name.

  The plainclothes detective came into the kitchen. His grandfather had been in the old IRA in the fight for freedom against the British and he had served on the border in Dundalk for several years. What today's terrorists did made him sick. And time and again, they seemed to evade the security forces through legal technicalities and playing one side against the other.

  How could you fight a completely ruthless terrorist organization within the context of a legal framework designed for peacetime civilian application?

  One of the uniformed gardai had broken down the door, but the detective, being armed and experienced in such things, was the first man to enter the house. The front room was on his right. With one of the uniforms keeping an eye on his back, he kicked open the door, but kept to one side, half expecting an answering burst of fire. There was nothing — which was just as well. The protection of the thin partition wall was an illusion.

  He entered the room in a sudden movement and rolled to find cover. He could see very little. There was no light and the blinds were drawn. Outside, the rain had stopped as abruptly as it had started, but the sky was still overcast with black clouds. There was a disturbing sweetish metallic smell in the air. It set his nerves on edge. It was the smell of blood and body matter and fear, the odor of the slaughterhouse.

  His eyes adjusted to the gloom. Tentatively, he stood up, glanced around, and opened the blinds. The floor and furniture and part of the walls were drenched in blood. There was something on the floor half covered in a newspaper. He pulled the paper aside and gagged. The man's throat gaped at him and the expression on his face was that of utter horror.

  One of the uniforms came in. "Jesus, mother of God," he said, and crossed himself. He then went across to the two bound figures in the corner and, removing a clasp knife, cut their bonds.

  One of the figures, the younger woman, was trying to say something. Her face and upper body were sticky with blood, and she smelled of vomit. The policeman suppressed his nausea and put his head close to hers. "I had to," she said. "I had to."

  The policeman did not understand. He tried to say something reassuring, but the bloody figure reached out a hand and gripped his arm with such intensity that it hurt. "They made me talk," she said. "They killed my father."

  She started sobbing. "They killed my father. They killed my daddy."

  The policeman was a kindhearted man, used to dealing with farmers who had not licensed their cars and poachers who were overly fond of other people's salmon. He felt tears come to his eyes, and he put his arms around the woman.

  Her grip tightened. "Now they are going for Hugo," she said, "in the hospital." The she was silent, and the policeman could see her gathering her strength. Her next words came out almost in a shout.

  "They know everything," she said. "They know everything, the guards, the layout, the routines." She made a final effort. "But I told them the wrong room. I told them Room Number 4."

  The policeman gently disentangled himself and wrote down what he had heard in his notebook.

  The second policeman had telephoned for an ambulance and other assistance and then ministered to Kathleen's mother. The ambulance would come from ConnemaraRegionalHospital, but where it could safely go would require some thought.

  The detective, a father of four and an experienced graying sergeant in his forties, a man noted if not for brilliance, then for reliability, went into the kitchen and saw Eamon sprawled on the floor.

  "One of them?" he said to the Bear.

  The Bear indicated the AK-47 and nodded. Blood dripped from a long cut on the back of his hand, but he seemed oblivious to it.

  "Have a look next door," said the detective heavily. His Uzi was now pointed at Eamon.

  The Bear lowered his pistol and headed toward the front room.

  The detective walked closer to Eamon. The terrorist smiled at him nervously. The man looking down at him was more of a known quantity. A policeman always looked like a policeman. There would be an ambulance and medical assistance and a cop by his bedside while he recovered. There would be questioning and a trial and a sentence to some high-security prison. He would either escape or be with his own kind. It wouldn't be too bad. It went with the job.

  The detective took up the pressure on the trigger and looked into Eamon's eyes, and for an instant Eamon knew he was about to die.

  He was screaming as the detective fired and continued firing until the magazine was empty.

  The Bear carried Kathleen out of the charnel house that was the front room and laid her on the big bed in the master bedroom. She had fainted briefly, but her eyes opened again as he covered her. He sat beside her and held her hand.

  There was a glimmer of recognition in Kathleen's eyes. She had never seen this man before, but she knew. "You're the Bear," she said. "Hugo told me about you."

  The Bear knew his nickname well enough, but he was never so called to his face. There were conventions in these matters. Anyway, he rather liked his given name of Heinrich — Heini, for short — and Sergeant worked fine for those who knew him less well.

  Still, this was a woman of courage, and it was not time to stand on ceremony. "I am the Bear," he said, nodding his large and shaggy head.

  Kathleen started to laugh and cry, and the Bear sat on the edge of the bed and held her in his big arms until the ambulance came.

  * * * * *

  McGonigal had three of his own men with him — Jim Daid, Tim Pat Miley, and Gerry Dempsey — and Sasada.

  His men were a known quantity on an operation; Sasada was not. It had been agreed that he would stay with the cars unit they had completed the hit. The persuasive argument had been that a Japanese, in this backwater, would attract attention.

  McGonigal was not sure who true this was. Japanese businesses seemed to be everywhere these days.

  They arrived at the hospital shortly after midday. Doctors' rounds would be over. Lunch would just be starting. Visitors' hours would not start until two o'clock. The place would be just about as quiet as it could be except at night. They had considered doing a nighttime hit but had scrapped it. It was too predictable. The parking lot would be nearly empty and security, as like as not, doubled. People expected a night attack. And escaping on strange roads by night was another problem.

  The hospital parking lot surrounded the hospital on three sides. To the rear was a goods-delivery area and various utility buildings, including the boiler house and mortuary. McGonigal had considered going in the back way, but there was a porter there to monitor deliveries and prevent theft. A second factor against that plan was that the route through the kitchens was longer. They were housed in a single-story extension at the rear, and the terrorists would have to pass through that before entering the main building.

  The parking spaces directly in front of the hospital were reserved for the senior medical staff, and there was a clearway for ambulances. Since this facility was old and small, both visitors and emergency patients were brought in through the same entrance at the front. Emergency itself was at the front across from reception. The arrangement would not have worked in a busy city hospital.

  They parked on the right side of the building, out of sight of the front of the hospital, but only a few yards away from the fire escape that led up to the ward facing the private wing. McGonigal and his men were all dressed in maintenance workers' blue overalls. They got out of the cars and opened the trunks. The weapons inside were concealed under painter's tarpaulins.

  McGonigal's nerves had been at fever pitch as he drove in. Every sense was honed for the slightest hint of danger, but he could
see nothing amiss.

  The hospital, an ugly, raw, concrete construction at the best of times and even worse when wet, and its bumpy, black asphalt parking area looked depressingly normal. The rain had stopped, but water lay in pools everywhere. The sky overhead was still heavily overcast and obscured the slightest hint of direct sunlight. The chill air complemented the gloom. The dreadful weather and the drab environment reminded McGonigal of Belfast.

  He nodded at Jim Daid.

  The terrorist walked around to the front of the hospital and asked to use the rest room. The receptionist paid him little attention. Daid looked around and noticed that no policeman was present. However, a garda raincoat hung from a hook in the reception area.

  "Excuse me," he said politely to the receptionist. There was no reaction. He cleared his throat. "Excuse me, I'm looking for my brother."

  The receptionist, a middle-aged barrel-shaped woman to whom life had not been kind, looked up from the book she was reading. This was outside visiting hours and one of the quieter times of the day, and she resented the interruption. The heroine in the book with whom she identified was young, attractive, and currently being made love to by an equally attractive hero.

  She was not pleased to be reminded of real life when fantasy was so much more pleasant. "Who?" she said unpleasantly.

  "He's a policeman," said Daid. "I thought he might be on duty here." He nodded toward the coat.

  The receptionist shrugged. "Lunch, the rest room, who knows?"

  Daid looked at her and decided further conversation was pointless. He had just come from the rest room, and that had been empty. Lunch meant the cop would return at any time, which could be inconvenient.

  He then remembered that the uniforms in the Republic were not armed. It would have been neater to take him out in advance, but if he showed up later, what the fuck. Daid turned and went back to McGonigal.

  McGonigal thought about what Daid had told him. The policeman's absence disturbed him, but it was too late to turn back now.

  "Go," he said to Tim Pat and Gerry Dempsey. Immediately, they removed the heavy canvas tool bags from the cars and commenced climbing up the fire escape.

  The metal staircase, designed to allow the ill and elderly to escape, had originally been an attractive construction. Now it was pitted and rusty, a victim of tight budgets, sloppy management, and the unrelenting Irish weather. But it was more than adequate for fast access. The two terrorists were outside the third-floor fire door in seconds.

  Beyond the fire door lay the corridor of a public wing inhabited mainly by geriatric patients who would now be having their lunch. Such patients frequently required help when eating, so it was a fair assumption that the nursing staff would be preoccupied. At the end of the corridor was another fire door, and beyond that a landing and another staircase. Across the landing was an armed Ranger, the two doors of the security zone, and the private wing.

  One of the terrorists outside the third-floor fire door removed a battery-operated hand drill, made a small hole in the door, and inserted a probe.

  Seconds later he had engaged the crash bar and opened the door. Just before the second terrorist entered the corridor, he turned and looked down at McGonigal and gave a thumbs-up signal. Immediately, he turned and vanished.

  "Sixty seconds, Jim," said McGonigal, pressing the button on his stopwatch.

  The two headed toward the entrance, muttered, "We're expected" at the indifferent receptionist, and headed up the stairs. On the half-landing just above the first floor, they opened their tool bags but did not yet remove their weapons.

  McGonigal checked his stopwatch again. The counterterrorist special forces were not the only people who understood timing. The Ranger outside the third-floor security zone would hear them coming, but would not be suspicious of a couple of workmen. While he was distracted, he would be shot by the boys who had come up the fire escape.

  It would then be just a matter of blowing a way in with the rocket launchers. And they had Semtex, too, if something heavier was needed.

  The Libyans had provided some serious firepower.

  * * * * *

  Most people's mental image of a security television camera is of a highly visible, though compact, wall-mounted metal rectangular box fronted with a lens.

  A security camera looks menacing. It whirs as it rotates to follow you. Its telephoto lens can watch you in intimate close-up while its operator remains concealed. It is not a friendly piece of equipment. However, its visibility and offputting presence is part of its purpose. It is there not just to observe but to deter.

  Kilmara was making some use of conventional security cameras, but the bulk of his information was coming from devices which owed more to microsurgery than to the television industry.

  They were small enough to fit inside a human artery. For all practical purposes they were invisible, and the information they transmitted traveled at the speed of light along optical fibers which looked to the uninitiated — in the rare cases where they were not concealed — like ordinary house wiring.

  What he saw, as he looked at his monitors, did not please him.

  Of the six Rangers normally either on duty or on call, he now had five, since one was away on emergency personal leave. Now another, who he had placed in a sniper role some three hundred meters away on top of a grain silo to cover the entrance to the hospital, would be of limited use. He had expected the terrorists to park in the front to ensure themselves the fastest possible getaway. Their parking at the side was quite unexpected and put them out of the line of fire. By the time the sniper could be brought into play, the main event would be over.

  The second thing that caused him concern was the firepower displayed by the two terrorists on the third-floor fire escape. The image from the miniature lens was wide angle and not as clear as he would have liked, but there seemed little doubt that both men had rocket-propelled grenades in addition to automatic rifles. The specially installed doors of the security zone were going to be of little use.

  He was comforted that he had taken the unarmed policeman at reception off his post and had redeployed the armed Ranger who was normally positioned outside the security zone. The terrorists might well suspect something when they found the second man absent too, but by then they would be committed.

  Kilmara spoke briefly into his headpiece microphone and received three one-word acknowledgments. The fourth and fifth Rangers, Sergeants Grady and Molloy, were concealed in a linen cupboard on the half-landing above the third floor. From this position, using the electronic equivalent of a periscope, they could observe the landing area between the geriatric ward and the control zone, and also most of the last flight of stairs as it arrived at the third floor.

  It was a good position, the best available, but it was not ideal. To fire, they had to open the door, and then their field of fire would be slightly restricted by the banisters. A secondary problem was that anyone advancing through the fire doors of the geriatric ward could jump back immediately if not hit in the first burst and then be immediately under cover. As a killing ground, the landing was not really large enough and cover was too close at hand.

  But then, circumstances were rarely ideal. That was why elite counterterrorist forces trained daily in the Killing House under constantly varying circumstances.

  Relentless training of Rangers who entered the unit as the best of the best could make all the difference when life of death was decided in fractions of a second. The ability to select targets in order of threat, change a magazine or unblock a weapon faster than the eye could follow, read terrain for the maximum cover without conscious thought, anticipate the actions of the enemy — these and numerous other skills were basic to their particular calling.

  The best CRW — counterrevolutionary warfare — troops tended to be in their early thirties to mid-forties. It was a calling where training alone and youthful reflexes were never enough. Above all, you needed experience and judgment, and these strengths only developed over time.


  In the ideal world, every Ranger waiting for the assault would have had access to the monitoring equipment. In practice, only Kilmara had access to all the incoming information, and there were areas that the cameras did not cover. He lost the two terrorists who had broken in through the fire-escape entrance. Fortunately, the external camera on the fire escape showed no more attackers coming from that quarter.

  The last thing he wanted was shooting in a normal ward. With automatic weapons in a confined space there would be civilian dead — not to mention the potential for hostages. It was imperative that the action not commence until both terrorists were out of the geriatric area. On the third-floor landing or in the private ward, it was another matter. In these locations he had his firepower deployed and the discretion to do what was necessary.

  There was a camera halfway along the corridor of the geriatric ward pointing toward the internal fire doors and the landing. He picked up the two terrorists as they passed it.

  There was a lunch trolley in the way, being pushed by a ward attendant. Without breaking stride, the first terrorist hurled the trolley to one side and his companion smashed the attendant in the face, sending her sprawling. Both men were armed with AK-47s and RPGs. The man in front had his rifle at the ready. The man behind him had his rifle slung and the rocket-propelled grenade launcher ready to fire.

  "Position One," said Kilmara to Grady and Molloy. "There are two coming from the geriatric ward on your left — rifle in front, RPG follows."

  Kilmara was faced with two unpalatable alternatives. He could either order fire into the corridor and the geriatric ward, which could well incur civilian casualties, or else wait until the rocket launchers were fired across the landing and into the security doors — the direction in which he and three of his Rangers and the man he was supposed to protect were located. Thankfully, the security zone and the corridor behind had been evacuated.