"We're about to take out the 12.7s," Kilmara informed him. "Well be dropping the second stick — Günther's lot — almost immediately and near the action. It shouldn't be much longer. What's your situation?"
"We're close to the bow and arrow stage," said Fitzduane, "and we're kind of low on arrows."
"Try charm," said Kilmara. "One extra thing: your roof is on fire. I can't see anything yet, but there's a heat buildup like you wouldn't believe on the IR."
"Well, fuck ‘em," said Fitzduane. "Now I'm really pissed off. It's my home they're messing with."
"Will the heat be a problem?" said Kilmara. "Can you defend the keep if there's an inferno next door?"
"I think so," said Fitzduane. "Heat rises, and the walls are damned thick. It might get hot in here, but it shouldn't become untenable."
"I'll hold you to that," said Kilmara. "Got to go. It's show time."
* * * * *
The Tunnel Under The Castle — 0023 hours
Andreas watched the heavy iron door, which was all that separated the defenders from their attackers, glow cherry red as the oxyacetylene cutting flame bit into it. The door was old — made generations before the invention of modern hardened metals — and the flame was cutting through it effortlessly. Sparks poured into the tunnel, and soon the cutting flame itself could be seen.
The radio wouldn't function underground, so Andreas sent one of the students to inform Fitzduane that thing were about to liven up again. The good news was that their use of a torch to break in suggested that the attackers were either very low on, or out of, explosives.
Andreas's main fear was grenades. He tried to think whether he'd taken enough precautions against them. The defenders had prepared their normal sandbag barricades, of course, but they had also made extensive use of chicken wire and fishing net screens, which they could shoot through but which should, while they lasted, deflect any thrown object.
He wondered if the tunnel defense was a strong enough force to hold. The addition of the ten students had seemed like a major boost, but after the two fatalities, and once the runner was subtracted, the net gain was only seven — and four of those were on duty at various locations in the keep. The tunnel force actually numbered just six: Andreas himself, Judith, de Guevain, and three students. Henssen was now unconscious under Katia's care, and Oona was acting as den mother to the noncombatants.
Six amateur defenders against a trained attack force didn't sound quite enough somehow, thought now that he thought of it, he, Lieutenant Andreas von Graffenlaub of the Swiss Army, wasn't exactly an amateur —and these bastards who were trying to break in were already responsible for the deaths of three members of his family.
He switched off the main lights in the tunnel and brought his SA-80 up to the point of aim. A light-colored outline in his image intensifier marked the line of the cutting torch. The door was almost through. The tunnel defenders were about to find out if there was a grenade problem.
The severed door crashed forward onto the stone flags of the tunnel. The sudden noise was followed by absolute silence.
Beside Andreas, Sig Bengtquist licked his lips and tried to swallow. He had no night vision equipment, and all was threatening darkness. "Day and Night": he thought of Osman with a sense of terrible loss and sadness, and then anger and a resolute determination to hit back, to put a stop to this evil, gripped him.
* * * * *
The Milan Team Outside Fitzduane's Castle — 0023 hours
The pre-aim mark of the Ranger Milan was aligned with the protruding barrel of the first heavy-machine-gun position. The terrorist gun crew was hidden by the stacked rocks and improvised sandbags of the emplacement, but Grady could imagine the scene inside: the heat from the weapon as belt after belt of ammunition snaked its way through the receiver to be sundered into brass cartridge case, propellant, and projectile. The crew members would be concentrating on their comrades to secure them from any unexpected attack. They would be tired but exhilarated, infected by the power of the weapon they served. They would be young men with mothers and families and children and dreams, motivated to be here on this island far from their home for reasons Grady would never know or ever really want to know — what difference would it make?
He pressed the firing button, sending a signal to the junction box. From there a powerful current ignited the gas generator at the back of the missile, simultaneously launching the missile and blasting the now-useless launch tube away from the launcher. Once the rocket was free of the launcher, its motor cut in. The missile accelerated up to its maximum velocity of more than nine hundred meters per second, trailing its guidance wire behind it.
With the weight of twelve kilos of missile now free of the firing post, the pre-aim mark was no longer needed, and Grady concentrated on keeping the missile with the ‘80 mil’ circle at the center of the reticule sight on the target. The trick was, in fact, to concentrate on the target, not the missile, since the Milan's tracking computer monitored the missile's position by reading the infrared signals emitted by the missile's rocket motor and sending any fresh guidance instructions along the hair-thin guidance wire.
For the first four hundred meters the missile's flight path was normally erratic, but beyond that distance the missile would follow the instructions transmitted by the wire and could be flown with unjammable accuracy onto the target. In simple terms, where Grady pointed the eight-power sight on the firing post, the missile went. Grady was flying it the way a child flies a model airplane, only at a speed and with a precision and purpose that had little to do with any child.
The missile hit precisely as aimed. Designed for punching through the thick super strength metal skin of a main battle tank, the warhead achieved its purpose by a savage transfer of kinetic energy rather than conventional explosives. Massive shock waves spread through the rock emplacement, shattering it into lethal fragments and destroying men and weapon in a millisecond.
"Cut!" shouted Grady. His number two, Roche, the loader, activated the quick-release latch that held in position the now-defunct junction box and the other end of the fired missile's guidance wire. A new missile tube was clipped into position in a routine practiced a thousand times; a fresh junction box and guidance wire were connected with the Milan firing post's electronic brain.
Grady traversed to the second heavy-machine-gun emplacement, the tripod mechanism smooth and positive; it was checked automatically by a test 360-degree traverse each time the tripod was set up. Training, training, training, concentrating only on what had to be done: no other thoughts were in his mind.
He could see the second gun firing tracer toward the castle. He aligned the pre-aim mark. This time he could see into the emplacement. Someone was gesticulating. The 12.7 mm stopped firing.
He pressed the firing button. Again his vision was obscured for perhaps half a second while the smoke from the initial ignition dissipated. On still days the smoke could linger for over a second and a half, and an operator would have to steer blind for that time, relying only on skill and experience. Novices tended to try to jerk the missile back on target when it reappeared, but that never worked. You had to keep cool and work smoothly. The Milan liked to be caressed to a kill.
The gun was swiveling toward his position. The high magnification periscope sight of the Milan showed a gaping muzzle that now seemed to be pointed directly at him. He could see the flames as the heavy weapon fired. The rounds traveled faster than the missile and cracked supersonically over his head. He was unaware of the incoming fire. He was thinking about that flaming muzzle pointed toward him made an excellent point of aim.
There was a small explosion where the muzzle had been, and the target was obscured. His mind simultaneously registered a 40 mm grenade strike, estimated that it was either Hannigan or Quinlan giving him cover fire, registered annoyance that his aiming point had been removed, suddenly understood that he had been with a split second of being killed — and guided the missile home through the smoke and debris of the grenade e
xplosion to the target.
It was another direct hit. "Cut!" he shouted, and again the release mechanism was activated by Roche, the junction box and umbilical wire were released, and a fresh missile was clipped into place.
Quinlan and Hannigan raked the shattered remnants of the heavy-machine-gun positions with 44 mm grenade and machine-gun fire, cutting down the few survivors in seconds.
An intense firefight broke out all around the Rangers. The terrorists, realizing that they had been infiltrated, were trying to wipe out the threat. Automatic fire filled the air, and there was the flash and crack of exploding grenades, the whump of 40 mm projectiles, and the dreadful scything and slashing of Claymores. The highly trained Rangers, though outnumbered, had the advantages of surprise, night-vision telescopic sights, better weaponry, and full ammunition supplies.
Circling above them, Kilmara in the Optica, now able to fly much lower thanks to the elimination of the heavy machine guns, identified pockets of resistance. The IR-18's thermal imager cut through darkness and normal camouflage effortlessly. Body heat given off by exertion and the radiant heat from weaponry made the task easier still. Personal infrared IFF (Identification — Friend or Foe?) transmitters worn by the Rangers enabled him to filter out his own unit. The task was made administratively easier by a coupled computer unit that remembered the situation on the ground at a designated point in time and overlaid coordinates.
The moment the destruction of the Hangman's 12.7s had been confirmed, Kilmara had given the order for the remaining Ranger transport to go in and, this time, drop its cargo of six heavily laden and impatient Rangers within five hundred meters of the outer perimeter of combat. Within minutes the Ranger reinforcements were in action. Günther now took over ground command.
It soon struck Günther that hostile fire was slackening and had been lighter than expected ever since they landed. In the noise and fury and chaos of the firefight it took a few minutes for the significance of this to register, but when with three aimed three-round bursts of his SA-80 he had killed a small group of men with bayonets fixed to their AK-47s, he thought it worth investigating further. He checked the ammunition pouches on the corpses. All were empty. He checked the clips on the AK-47s. These were empty also.
He radioed his suspicions to Kilmara. Seconds later a ‘Hold fire unless threatened’ order was given to the Rangers, and a loudspeaker-enhanced voice boomed a call to surrender from the sky. The command was repeated in French and German and Kilmara's rather basic Arabic.
There was no response. The surrender plea had come to late. As best they could determine, all the terrorists outside the castle were now dead or incapacitated, the fallen having been given an extra bust as they lay in accordance with normal Ranger procedure in a firefight of making sure that what goes down stays down. Save prisoner taking was impossible under such circumstances, but the threat of being shot by a wounded fanatic — as experience had shown — was very real.
The battle outside the castle was over.
30
The Tunnel Under Fitzduane's Castle — 0100 hours
Sig Bentquist lay sprawled against some sandbags that had become dislodged in the fight and tried to make sense of it all.
He found it difficult since he was in pain, though the medication given to him by the Ranger medic — a grim figure in his blue-black combat uniform, blackened face, radio-equipped combat helmet, and mass of high tech weaponry — was starting to take effect. He was beginning to feel drowsy. Recent memory and current reality were becoming confused.
He fought the drug. He knew he'd never experience anything like these last few minutes again. The firefight had been more intense, more savage, and more brutal than he had ever imagined. The saving grace was that it had been brief. The carnage in the tunnel had been over in a few terrible minutes, and now the floor and the walls and even the ceiling were streaked with blood and human matter, and shattered bodies littered the ground.
The stench was that of a slaughterhouse.
He remembered the door crashing onto the flagstones after the terrorists had cut through it. It was pitch-dark. The sound had reverberated in his ears for what seemed an eternity, and he had become convinced that under its cover the terrorists were advancing, that even as he cowered in fear, they were only seconds away, the blades of their fighting knives and bayonets ready to cut and slash at his body.
Sit had a horror of knives. Clammy sweat poured off him as he crouched blind and helpless.
"A soldier has three enemies," Fitzduane had said. "Boredom, imagination and the enemy. Lucky you — you won't have time to be bored. That leaves two: your imagination and the terrorists. Of the two, you'll find your own mind by far the more dangerous, so watch it. A little fear gets the adrenaline going and gives you a fighting edge; that's fine. Too much fear, on the other hand, paralyzes you like a rabbit caught in a car's headlights. That, my friends, gets you — and the comrades who depend on you — killed."
He had smiled reassuringly: "The solution to excessive fear is to keep your mind busy with what has to be done and not what might happen. Think like a professional with a problem to solve and not some kid with his head under the bed sheets. Remember, chances are that there isn't anyone under the bed, but if there is, blow the motherfucker away." He had paused a beat. "This isn't a lecture from the textbooks. I've been there. Believe me, I know."
Think like a professional! Think like a professional! The instruction ran through Sig's mind like a mantra, blocking out the terror that had so nearly overwhelmed him and giving him something very specific to focus on.
He could hear footsteps moving toward him and make out the faint glow of a shielded flashlight. This wasn't his imagination. They were coming, and they seemed to think that they had found an undefended way into the keep; otherwise there would have been gunfire and grenades and certainly no flashlight. They believe we would have fired by now if defenders were in place, he thought. He heard voices speaking in whispers, and the intonations suggested relief. "Jesus Christ," he said to himself, "they really do think they have made it."
* * * * *
Andreas watched them in his image intensifier as they came through the door. First came a pair of scouts obviously primed for trouble — but with no grenades. And their bayonets were fixed. Could they be short of ammunition as well, or what this their routine when mounting a close assault? Had they fixed bayonets when they closed in on the gatehouse? He thought not, but he couldn't be sure.
The first scout checked out the dummy emplacements and found no one. They had been arranged to look as if they had been abandoned uncompleted, as if it had been decided not to defend the tunnel. The ruse seemed to be working. The first scout signaled his partner, who in turn signaled back through the doorway. Reinforcements started slipping through. They came fast and then crouched on either side of the tunnel ready for the next phase of the assault. Andreas could still see no grenades. Of course, they could have them in ammunition pouches or fatigue pockets, but still, there would normally be some in evidence in this kind of attack. Could the defenders be having some luck for a change? They were going to need it. Eighteen terrorists were now in the tunnel — that seemed to be the entire strength of the assault group — and the scouts were preparing to move forward yet again.
Andreas tapped Judith on the arm. She silently counted to five, giving him time to line up his SA-80 again. The first scout was only a few paces away. He was now beyond the killing ground of the Claymore.
Judith fired the remote switch linked to the Claymore, and seven hundred steel balls were blasted by the directional mine down the tunnel into the advancing terrorists. Floodlights positioned to leave the defenders in darkness flashed on, revealing bloody carnage.
Andreas shot the first terrorist scout through the torso and put a second round through his head. The five surviving terrorists rushed forward, guns blazing, knowing that speed and firepower were now their only defense. There was nowhere for them to hide and no time to flee.
> * * * * *
Sig saw a bayonet slide toward his face and parried it with a desperate swing of his Uzi. Another AK-47 turned toward him, and he saw the muzzle flash and felt a savage blow on his shoulder. He raised the Uzi by the pistol grip and emptied half a magazine into the desperate face in front of him.
Andreas was on the ground, locked in hand-to-hand combat with a terrorist. Judith seized the attacker by the hair, pulled back his head, and cut his throat.
A fighting knife slashed at Sig's thigh, and then the hand wielding the knife was gripped by one of the student volunteers — it was Kagochev, the Russian — and the two went rolling over the sandbags into the bloodstained killing ground. Kagochev was thrown against the wall. As the attacker was about to finish him, an arrow sprouted from the terrorist's chest, and slowly he slid backward. A second arrow hit him as he was falling.
Another terrorist leaped at de Guevain as he was drawing his bow for the third time, and the Frenchman fired at point-blank range, sending the arrow right through the attacker's body to pin him against a storeroom door.
Andreas had the SA-80 in his hands again and was firing aimed shots. As if in slow motion, Sig swathe brass cartridge cases sail through the air to bounce off the wall or the ground. Andreas was moving in a fighting frenzy, shooting every terrorist he could see whether living or dead. And then his magazine was empty. He ejected it and slapped a fresh one in place. He worked the bolt and fired, and the click of firing pin on empty chamber in the tunnel was like a slap in the face. Andreas stopped and shook his head and looked around.
He and Sig looked at each other and knew the attack was over. There was silence in the tunnel but for the sound of heavy breathing.
Shortly afterward there was a warning shout and a quick exchange of identification, and the first of the Rangers appeared through the door they had been defending.
Games of The Hangman f-1 Page 57