Fitzduane 01 - Games of The Hangman

by O'Reilly-Victor

  Fuel poured into the tunnel and then blew when it encountered a red-hot grenade fragment. A fireball shot out of the entrance, engulfing the greenhouse that had so recently sheltered Andreas and Murrough.

  There was silence from the tunnel mouth except for the crackling of flames. Black smoke billowed upward and stained the sky. At the bottom of the tunnel, and standing well to one side, Kadar felt the touch of a dragon's breath on his face. The men inside were dead, but most of the others had been withdrawn before the explosion.

  The lead climbers were approaching the last stage of the ascent to the top of the cliff.

  * * * * *

  The Island Road

  — 1825 hours

  The pilot of the Islander took his eyes off the group of students running toward him. They were now spread out in an irregular field more than a hundred yards long. He calculated that he could bring the aircraft to a halt about a quarter of a mile ahead of the leading runners, allowing plenty of time for the Phantom Air team to deplane and set up blocking positions.

  The pilot felt his wheels touch the ground in a near-perfect landing. Ahead of him he saw the runners break to left and right and a Volvo station wagon accelerate from their midst and head straight toward him. Frantically he applied the brakes; the Volvo, bouncing and vibrating at high speed, he eaten up his runway margin in less than seven seconds. The pilot tried to imagine the effect of a head-on crash at a combined speed of more than a hundred miles an hour. He knew that whatever the outcome, after it was over, the respective occupants would be unlikely to take much interest in the matter.

  He looked at the patch of bright green boggy ground that bordered the road to his left and then back at the Volvo, now only seconds away from impact. His resolve faltered. Better chicken than dead, he decided, and slid the plane off the road into the bright green grass. A mere fraction of a second later the Volvo skidded to a tire-burning halt on the other side of the road.

  "A draw!" the terrorist pilot said to himself, feeling pleased that the Volvo driver's nerve had cracked only a split second after his. But the pilot's glee didn't last long. The bright green grass was, in fact, algae, he noted, and his aircraft, complete with the entire Phantom Air Unit, sank in twelve feet of scummy brown water.

  "Fuck that for a caper," said Fitzduane as he stood on the verge and watched air bubbles make patterns on the green surface. "It's always easier to play a match on your home ground."

  Runners streamed past him, and he waved them on toward the castle. De Guevain and Henssen puffed to a halt beside the Volvo.

  "You're absolutely crazy," said de Guevain, shaking his head. Sweat streamed off him.

  "Crazy but effective," corrected Henssen.

  Fitzduane grinned, then opened the tailgate of the Volvo. "You old people," he offered, "need a lift?"

  * * * * *

  Fitzduane's Island — 1845 hours

  The castle portcullis crashed into place as the first of the terrorists reached the top of the cliff. Farther down the road there was a series of scummy plops as the two surviving members of Phantom Air who had escaped from the aircraft pulled themselves out of the algae and started to walk back to the college. Neither was looking forward to Kadar's reception, but there was nowhere else to go.

  27

  Ranger Headquarters, Dublin — 1945 hours

  The director general of the Irish Tourist Board was an urbane-looking silver-haired political appointee in his early fifties. His main operational tools — whatever the issue — were his smile, his connections, and his ability to say virtually nothing endlessly until the opposition was worn down.

  In this case the issue was the proposed detention of a group of Middle Eastern travel agents by the Rangers. His aides had assured him that arresting visiting travel agents was unlikely to advance the cause of Irish tourism — and it would look and sound really lousy on television.

  "Lousy on television" — the director general reacted to such stimuli like a dog to Pavlov's bell. He salivated, nearly panicked, and demanded an immediate crisis meeting with the commander of the Rangers.

  It took Kilmara ninety minutes to get rid of the idiot and his supporting cast. Only then did he return to his desk to find that the informal two-hourly radio check he had agreed upon with Fitzduane during their last call had not been made and that the telephone line seemed to be out of order. A call to the security detail at DrakerCollege proved to be equally abortive, which was not surprising since all the phones on the island ran off the same cable. He put a call in to the police station at Ballyvonane, the nearest village on the mainland. He knew the station itself would be closed at this time of the evening, but the normal routine was for calls to be transferred to the duty policeman at his home.

  The phone was answered on the tenth ring by a noticeably out-of-breath voice. Kilmara was informed by O'Sullivan, the local policeman, that he had just cycled back form the bridge access to Fitzduane's Island after trying to get hold of Sergeant Tommy Keane, who was in turn wanted by the superintendent to answer a small matter to do with an assault on a water bailiff. Kilmara had the feeling that O'Sullivan might expire before the conversation finished. He waited until the policeman's breathing sounded less terminal. "I gather you didn't find the sergeant?" Kilmara finally asked.

  "No, Colonel," said O'Sullivan.

  "What's this about the bridge access? Why didn't you cross onto the island?"

  "Didn't I tell you?" answered the policeman. "The bridge seems to have collapsed. There is nothing there except wreckage. The island is cut off completely."

  Kilmara hung up in frustration. It was now nearly 2000 hours. What the hell was happening on that island? The evidence was stacking up that all was not well, but it was still not conclusive. Geranium Day in Bern and severed communications didn't necessarily add up to a combat jump onto Fitzduane's Island. Or did it if you threw in Fitzduane's vibes about the Hangman's track record?

  He looked at the paperwork on the Middle Eastern group, which was due to arrive on the last flight from London. The flight had originated in Libya, but there was no direct connection to Ireland. Was it credible that such a group wouldn't at least overnight in London to recharge on Western decadence?

  He had a sudden insight that he was approaching the problem the wrong way. The question wasn't whether the travel agents were genuine or otherwise. The question was how to deal with two problems at once, and the answer, from that perspective, was obvious. In a way he had that cretin from the tourist board to thank for pointing it out. It took him twenty-five minutes on the phone to make the arrangements.

  He found Günther in the operations room. The German looked up as he entered. He had been trying the direct radio link to Fitzduane, but now he shook his head. "Nothing," he said. "Completely dead."

  He followed Kilmara back to his office. Kilmara gestured for him to close the door. "The British owe us a few favors," he said.

  Günther raised his eyebrows. "So?"

  "I've called one in," said Kilmara. "The Brits aren't too happy, but they'll do it."

  "Fuck me," said Günther. "You're getting the British to handle the problem at the stopover in London."

  Kilmara nodded. "We can't stand down the embassy security until it's done and we've sorted out our Japanese friends. But it does clear the decks a little and allow us to take a trip with a clear conscience."

  "So we drop in on Fitzduane."

  "We do," said Kilmara. "Let's move."

  * * * * *

  Baldonnel Military Air Base outside Dublin — 2045 hours

  Voices crackled in his headphones. They were being cleared for takeoff. In an ideal world, Kilmara began to think — but then he brushed the thought from his mind. He had spent most of his career working within financial constraints when it came to equipment, and lusting after night-flying helicopters in a cash-strapped economy like Ireland's wasn't going to achieve much right now.

  Truth to tell, apart from the helicopter deficiency — the most expensive items
on his shopping list by far both to buy and to maintain — the Rangers were well equipped and were as highly trained as he could ever hope. They'd find out soon enough whether it would all come together as planned. This was going to be like no other operation the Rangers had carried out — and it would be their first combat jump as a unit.

  Of course, it could all be a false alarm, yet somehow Kilmara knew it wasn't. Something told him that on the other side of Ireland blood had started to flow. Spontaneously his right hand felt for the steel and plastic of the SA-80 clipped into place beside his seat.

  He looked through the transparent Perspex dome of the Optica cockpit at the runway ahead, then glanced behind him to where the two Islander twin-engine light transports waited with their cargoes of Rangers and lethal equipment. The pilot's voice sounded in his earphones. The Optica had been specially silenced so that normal conversation was possible without using the intercom, but external communications made the intercom mandatory.

  "We're cleared," the pilot said.

  "Final check," ordered Kilmara.

  Günther's voice crackled in immediately, followed by that of the commander of the second plane.

  Kilmara looked at the pilot. "Let's get airborne."

  They took off and headed west into the setting sun.

  * * * * *

  Draker College — 2045 hours

  As reversal followed reversal, while outwardly showing scant reaction, Kadar had experienced the full spectrum of emotions from paralyzing fear to a rage so intense that he felt as if his gaze alone would destroy. The news that Fitzduane was, in fact, still alive did nothing to help his mood. Executing the pilot of the Islander had provided the cathartic outlet he needed. A smear of algae on the floor and a head-high blood and brain matter stain on the wall were all that remained of that incompetent.

  His mind had adjusted to face the change in developments head-on. He could now see the advantages of the situation. He was confronted with the most satisfying challenge of his professional life and an adversary worthy of his talents. Operation Geranium would succeed, but only after effort and total commitment. It would be a fitting finale to this stage of his career, and to look on the bright side, fatalities on the scale he had suffered meant a much-enhanced bottom line. A reduction of overhead, you might say.

  Kadar studied the map and the aerial photographs. He now knew who and what he was up against — and where they were. The island was isolated. Fitzduane's castle was surrounded, and Kadar had the men and the weapons to do the job. That damned Irishman was about to learn some military facts of life.

  Lesson one: His medieval castle would prove no match for late-twentieth-century firepower.

  * * * * *

  Fitzduane's Castle — 2118 hours

  Fitzduane had let the rest for ten minutes after they made it back to the castle and then put them all to work in an organized frenzy of effort. The terrorists had appeared not long after the portcullis had slammed into place but at first had made no attempt to approach closer than about a thousand meters. Then, as the evening shadows deepened, movement could be detected in brief flashes. The noose was tightening.

  When the nearest terrorist was about six hundred meters away, Fitzduane ordered Murrough and Andreas to open fire on single shot. Sporadic sniping then broke out, with no automatic fire being used on either side. The firing died down after about fifteen minutes, with the terrorists in position for an assault in a semicircle around the castle and with their watchers monitoring the sea side. Murrough and Andreas swore they had achieved some hits but couldn't be too precise about the numbers.

  Sergeant Tommy Keane was the castle garrison's first fatality. A random sniper round hit him in the center of his forehead while he was peering through an arrow slit in the keep. He died instantly.

  Kadar's forces were now dug in around them, just outside normal combat-rifle range, and daylight was fading. The castle defenders had completed most of their preparations, but Fitzduane noticed that his people were getting tired and potentially careless. He called a food break and called a council of war wit those not on watch. The mood was somber but determined. Tommy Keane's death had countered any euphoria left after their escape from Draker. The brutal realities of combat were becoming clear: it was kill or be killed, winner take all.

  "At the college we had surprise on our side," said Fitzduane. "Now they know where we are and roughly who we are, and the ball is more in their court. We'll have to keep sharp if we're to come out of this in one piece."

  "How long do you think we'll have to hold?" asked Henssen.

  Fitzduane shrugged. "We had a regular radio check with the Rangers set up. We've missed several in a row now, so that should bring some help in a couple of hours. On the other hand, we're cut off from the mainland, and who knows how much help will arrive? My guess is that it might take some time before the scale of the problem becomes known and adequate reinforcements are thrown in. We may have to hold until morning or even later."

  "Not a long time for a siege," said Henssen.

  "Long enough when modern weaponry is involved," said Fitzduane. "But let's save conjecture till later. First of all, I want to review our preparations." He turned to the Bear. The Swiss detective's formal training and his personal interest in weaponry made him the natural choice as armorer.

  "We've improved our small-arms position," said the Bear, "thanks to the weapons taken from the frogmen and from DrakerCollege. In fact, unless we arm some of the students, we have more weapons than people to use them. Starting with automatic weapons, as of now, we have the four SA-80 rifles, one M-16, one AK-47, five Ingrams, and three Uzis — that's fourteen in all. In conventional rifles, we have Murrough's .303 Lee-Enfield and two .303 deer rifles I found in the armory.

  "Moving on to shotguns, we have one Remington pump action — that's the shotgun Hugo brought back from Switzerland — one Browning automatic shotgun, and six double-barrel shotguns." He turned to Fitzduane. "Including a pair of Purdeys, I see," he added, referring to the famous English sporting guns, each individually tailored and costing about as much as a suburban house.

  "It's a long story," said Fitzduane, "which will keep."

  "That makes a total of eight shotguns," continued the Bear, "although only the Remington and the Browning are of much military use. The next category is handguns. We have seven — four nine-millimeter Brownings, one nine millimeter Mauser broom handle, a U.S. Army .45 Colt service automatic, and a rather old .45 Webley. Ammunition: moderately healthy if everyone maintains fire discipline and uses either single shot or short bursts; not so good if we all operate on full automatic. In numbers, we have about three thousand rounds of 5.56-millimeter ammunition left, about fifteen hundred of nine-millimeter, over a thousand rounds of assorted shotgun ammunition, and less than two full clips for the AK-47. In terms of other firepower, we have a regular arsenal of antique weapons, including half a dozen muskets, two crossbows in full working order, and Christian's longbow."

  "My longbow is not an antique," objected de Guevain.

  "Whatever," said the Bear. "The point is that we have a large collection of weapons of limited military value in modern terms, but some of which could prove useful. I've distributed them around the castle to be grabbed in emergencies. The muskets, incidentally, are loaded, so be careful."

  "I assume you'll be using a crossbow, Heini," said de Guevain.

  "The Swiss national weapon wasn't the crossbow, as it happens, but the pike or halberd."

  "Let's get back to other firepower," said Fitzduane.

  "Well," continued the Bear, "here we have the Hawk forty-millimeter grenade launcher and about thirty grenades of different types. We have a box of conventional hand grenades. We have some C-4 explosives and Claymores we took off the frogmen's raft, and we have some home brew made with weed killer and sugar and diesel oil and other trimmings. Unfortunately we don't have a lot of gasoline, since the castle vehicles run on diesel, but we've siphoned a few gallons from the Volvo to make Molo
tov cocktails." He looked at Fitzduane. "I used the poteen to make up for the gas shortage. I'm afraid I made quite a dent in your reserve stock."

  "My whiskey." Fitzduane paled. "You've taken my whiskey and mixed it with gasoline?"

  "Hard to tell the difference sometimes," muttered Henssen.

  "What about the cannon?" asked de Guevain. "Are we going to give them a try?" He was referring to the two small eighteenth-century cannon that normally stood in the bawn.

  "We'll see," said the Bear. "There is only a small stock of black powder, which I'm keeping for the muskets. That means using our weed killer explosive for the cannon — with trial and error being the only way of working out the right load. I can't say I'd like to be the gunner during those tests."

  "They'd be ideal for covering the gate," said de Guevain. "We can load them with nails and broken glass and the like to get a shrapnel effect."

  "Let's do it," urged Fitzduane. "We'll try a few test shots at one of the outhouses to get the loading right — and use a long fuse."

  "And watch out for the recoil," said Henssen, "or your toes will be flattened — or worse."

  "This fellow obviously knows what he's talking about," said the Bear. "And I thought you only knew about computers. Consider yourself volunteered."

  Henssen raised his eyes to the ceiling. "Why did I open my big mouth?"