Fitzduane 02 - Rules of The Hunt

by O'Reilly-Victor

  Tim Pat burst through the door, firing. Rounds stitched across the security door.

  There was no Ranger there.

  McGonigal and Jim Daid rushed up the last few stairs, slight surprised that they had not seen the guard yet, but not concerned, as the outer security door was a good ten yards back along the corridor and did not come into view until you reached the top of the stairs and turned the corner.

  Nothing! No guard sprawled on the ground in a pool of his own blood. Instantly, McGonigal knew something was wrong.

  Matters started to develop very fast indeed.

  Dempsey stepped through the fire door with the RPG-7 on his shoulder and fired, blowing aside the first security door and impacting on the frame of the metal and explosive detector inside and blowing it to pieces.

  At the landing at the top of the stairs, McGonigal had flung himself to the ground, twisting around and searching desperately for an ambush position.

  "One, GO!" said Kilmara a split second after he saw that both terrorists had moved beyond the fire door into the killing zone.

  Tim Pat had unslung his RPG-7 and fired at the second security door. It exploded with a roar and blew the steel structure aside. The air was thick with fumes.

  McGonigal spotted the linen cupboard at the precise moment that Molloy emerged, and fired a long desperate burst, hitting the Ranger in his torso and face, killing him instantly and knocking him back into Grady.

  McGonigal then picked himself up and rushed forward down the corridor into the private ward, firing. The lust of battle was on him and he was determined that whatever happened, he was going to do what he came for and kill a few of these pigs into the bargain.

  Sick at Molloy's death and cursing himself for not having moved faster, Sergeant Grady pushed his comrade's body aside and brought his weapon into action.

  He was using an automatic shotgun with a twenty round rotary magazine that fired fléchette ammunition. Known as a force multiplier, it allowed one man to put out the firepower of several in the crucial first few seconds that normally determine the outcome of a firefight. Each Magnum cartridge held twelve long steel darts. It was of little use at ranges of over a hundred and fifty meters, but at close quarters it was highly effective.

  The corridor was lit by recessed fluorescent tubes and, normally, such daylight as filtered in through he fanlights over each of the six doors. In addition, there was backup lighting in the event of power failure.

  Some of the fluorescents had been smashed in the blast of the exploding rockets, but enough still functioned to illuminate the corridor adequately.

  McGonigal crouched behind the smashed metal detector. Jim Daid came up beside him and dropped into firing position. McGonigal glanced over his shoulder. Tim Pat was in position behind the twisted door frame of the first security door, and Dempsey was just coming up on the other side. All his force was unharmed and the fellow in the ambush position had been taken out.

  McGonigal began to feel confident.

  Up ahead, there were three rooms on his left and three on his right. Normal procedure would be to secure each room as he advanced with grenades and a few quick bursts of automatic fire.

  But in this case, he wouldn’t bother. He had a target and knew exactly where it was. He and Dempsey would head straight for Room Number 4. A quick kick at the door or burst at the door lock, and in with the firepower.

  It would be over in seconds. There had to be other Rangers waiting in the rooms, expecting them to clear them out as normal before heading for Fitzduane. Well, they could bloody well wait. If they opened the doors, he was confident the covering fire of Tim Pat and Dempsey could deal with them.

  He made a quick hand signal to Jim Daid and readied himself to run forward. First, they both threw grenades forward. The corridor looked empty, but they could not see everything from behind cover.

  The grenades exploded in two shattering blasts, blowing open the doors at either side of the end of the corridor.

  Rooms 3 and 4 were now open to attack. This was an extra bonus as far as McGonigal was concerned. Both doorways seemed to stare at him blankly. Something was wrong. And then it came to him.

  It was the middle of the bloody day and there was no light.

  Sergeant Grady moved out of the linen cupboard and started down the stairs. One of the terrorists spotted the movement and turned, and as he did so, Grady fired a three-round burst.

  Thirty-six steel darts sliced through the air and turned the wall behind the terrorist into a stipple of blood, bone, and flesh.

  Tim Pat turned to see horror as the skin and tissue of Dempsey's body was flayed off him by the hail of metal.

  The sight was terrible, and he was momentarily frozen as his friend's body disintegrated as if sliced by unseen blades.

  He turned toward the angle of threat and started to fire. He could see a figure in black combat clothes and some sort of high-tech helmet with a microphone and strange goggles.

  Grady fired a second longer burst.

  The man in front of him seemed to come to pieces, as if his clothes and flesh were being blown off him by some terrible wind. For a split second he could see the man's bone structure, and then the half-man, half-skeleton was a heap on the floor.

  Kilmara cut the lights and activated a switch.

  There was a metallic roar as a specially installed folding partition fell from a box on the ceiling. It was similar in design to that used to protect shop windows while still keeping the display visible, but it was painted a matte black. The principle was practically as old as warfare itself: In case you lose your outer defenses, always have a strong point to which to retreat.

  The end of the corridor hosing the last four of the six rooms was now sealed off.

  It was now near total darkness as far as McGonigal and Jim Daid were concerned. About to rush forward, they hesitated at his unexpected development.

  McGonigal fired a burst.

  The muzzle flashes were blinding in the darkness, but he was just able to orient himself. He tried to fire again, but his magazine was empty. He changed in the darkness. It was an effortless maneuver practiced hundreds of times before.

  He turned around, expecting to see some minimal light from the stairwell of the corridor behind him. There was almost nothing. Just a faint illumination from the safety panel of the fire door of the geriatric ward.

  As he watched, that too vanished. It was now utterly dark. Too late, he remembered that the heavy curtains covering the windows of the stairwell had been drawn as they had ascended. It had been a gloomy day and the lights had been on, so he had thought nothing of it.

  Rage gripped him. This was such a simple, foolish way to be defeated. It was the middle of the day. How could he have been expected to foresee darkness?

  He reached out for Jim Daid, who gave a start as McGonigal gripped his arm.

  "Relax, man," said McGonigal. "We'll follow the wall up. Fuck their tricks. We'll get the job done and be out of here in a moment."

  He moved across to the corridor wall on the right, and with Jim Daid beside him began moving up slowly. Ahead were Rooms, 6, 5, and 4.

  He felt the door frame of Room 6 and briefly considered blasting his way in and opening the windows to get some light. Instead, he decided the darkness could work to his advantage also.

  Grady and two other Rangers watched the two terrorists through their night-vision equipment. All had activated their laser sights. The thin beams were invisible except to those wearing the appropriate goggles. As it was, the Rangers could see each of the two terrorists fixed with pinpoints of imminent death. No one fired.

  Kilmara studied the situation. Both men had removed their masks to see better in the darkness, and he could now identify them. He wanted a prisoner who knew something. This was a contract job, so probably neither of them would know much, but it was worth a try.

  "Filters on," said Kilmara. He flicked a switch again and an immensely powerful light blazed from the end of the corridor, then wen
t out again immediately.

  McGongal and Daid blinked in the light and mentally marked its source. They would shoot it out when it came on again.

  Suddenly it flashed on and off again at bewildering speed, like some disco strobe light gone berserk.

  Both terrorists fired, but the strobe effect was disorienting. They concentrated and fired short aimed bursts straight at the light. They could hear rounds whining and ricocheting, and it occurred to McGonigal that the light must be covered with bulletproof glass or transparent ballistic plastic. He began to feel sick and disoriented; then he started to shake. His weapon slid from his hands and he collapsed to the floor in what looked like a seizure.

  He was the victim of a device which had initially been developed for crowd control and which exploited the discovery that certain people were disoriented by strobe lights. The developers had increased the intensity and flashing frequency of the beam and the results had exceeded their expectations. Prolonged exposure, even for a few minutes, could turn the recipient into a permanent epileptic. The technology was cheap and effective and belonged in a category known as ‘non-lethal weapons.’ Having seen the results of some of these toys — sonic beams designed to deafen, laser beams designed to blind — Kilmara found the category something of a misnomer. Still, he had to admit the Megabeam was a more compassionate alternative to being shot very permanently dead.

  Unfortunately, shielded behind McGonigal, Jim Daid was not equally affected. Disoriented though he was, he still managed a desperate rush at the door of Fitzduane's room, his automatic rifle blazing.

  Bullets splintered the door already blasted half open by the grenade. Sick and nauseated, Daid stumbled in, firing.

  His last glimpse of life was of a near-solid line of light emanating from the far side of the room and terminating in his upper body. Flesh was ripped, bones were smashed, blood spewed from a dozen holes. Lifeless, he was thrown backwards into the corridor beside the gibbering McGonigal.

  An electric motor whirred and the partition rose. The Rangers moved forward. The entire action, from the time the terrorists had started climbing the fire escape to enter the hospital, had taken two minutes and twenty-three seconds.

  Fitzduane had slept through everything until the grenades had gone off. Then he had woken and reached for the Calico automatic rifle. The weapon was exceptionally easy to operate. The safety catch could be operated by either hand, and by touch alone. The cartridges ejected downward into a nylon bag as he fired. The weapon was environmentally friendly — no litter. The balance was perfect. It was loaded with red tracer. He just had to point and hose.

  That is exactly what he did.

  "Shit! Shit! Shit!" said Kilmara, turning the room lights back on. "May the Lord fuck you from a height, Hugo! Why did you have to shoot him? Why couldn't you just wound the fucker? We need someone to question. We need to know who is doing this. We need a prisoner. We need some answers."

  Fitzduane was sitting up in his bed, smoke trickling from his automatic weapon. He looked as dangerous as anyone in pajamas can.

  "A modest priority," he snarled, "I need to stay alive. Besides," he added, "I've been wounded — and believe me, it isn't fun."

  * * * * *

  Sasada heard muffled explosions and his heart leaped. It's done, he thought, it's done.

  He looked at his watch, imaging bursts of automatic-rifle fire as McGonigal and his people tidied up behind them and ran down the stairs. He started the engine of the Cavalier and kept his eye on the corner. Any moment now, they would appear around it.

  Seconds passed, and then suddenly a figure clad in a blue boilersuit appeared and ran toward him. He flung open the door on the passenger side. The figure still wore his Halloween mask.

  The fangs of a vampire told Sasada it was McGonigal. The figure beckoned to the others behind him, though Sasada could not see them. He felt relieved. He had thought for a moment that something had gone wrong and only McGonigal had made it out.

  The vampire haled at the open door and pointed his AK-47 at Sasada. The Japanese stared at him.

  "New rules," said Grady. "I don't get in; you get out."

  Sasada reached for the door handle and suddenly flung himself out of the car. To his surprise, Grady did not fire. Sasada, now crouched behind the front of the car, drew his automatic.

  "Oh dear, oh dear," said Grady patiently. "I guess I'd better count up to ten."

  Sasada suddenly stood up to fire at the spot from which the voice had come, and felt the gun plucked from his hand from behind. Seconds later, he was spread-eagled over the car's hood and being handcuffed behind his back. The handcuffs were secured to an unbreakable belt made out of the same material as body armor. Looser restraints were placed around his ankles so that he could hobble but not walk and he was hauled to his feet.

  He was surrounded by men in black combat uniforms wearing body armor with built-in pouches, microphone-equipped helmets, and carrying a range of futuristic-looking weaponry, none of which he was familiar with.

  A distinguished looking bearded man in the same black combat clothing and helmet walked over to him. He had an automatic weapon slung over one shoulder and a holstered handgun at his waist. He wore no badges of rank, but it was clear he did not need to.

  He said nothing until two of the black-clad men completed an extremely thorough body search. Then he spoke.

  "You and I are going to get to know each other very well," he said. "Normally the police and prison service handle people like you, but in this case, you will be our guest." The voice was gentle, almost friendly. "And you will talk."

  Sasada felt weak and very much afraid. As he was being handcuffed, he had clung to the belief that he would be handed over to the police and the civil authorities. In such custody, he would say nothing, reveal nothing, as his oath dictated. Now the certainty in this man's voice cut through his resolution.

  The man-in-black's eyes were merciless, though his voice remained relaxed. "Under the Irish legal system, you have the right to remain silent, and I'm sure your little group demands no less." He paused. Sasada felt as if his mind was being read. "But," the man continued, "you are an exceptional case and you are playing in a very special game."

  Sasada wanted to defy this man in some way, but his mouth was too dry to spit and he did not want to give him the satisfaction of hearing him speak.

  "And you know what my friends in the U.K. — you've heard of the SAS, I'm sure — say about our rather particular activities?"

  Sasada could feel the sweat break out on his forehead, and he felt a quick pain in his upper arm. He turned his head sharply and saw a hypodermic syringe being emptied into him. He tried to struggle, but he was thoroughly immobilized by the Rangers on either side of him. He could no longer focus, and he could feel his limbs getting weaker.

  His mind seemed to float away from his body. He could understand what was being said, but he could not reply. He was in despair and he knew, without being told, that his mission had failed. He also knew that this terrible man was right. He would talk. These people would do what was necessary to break him and there was nothing he could do to resist.

  "Big boys' games, big boys' rules," said the voice relentlessly.

  Sasada's eyeballs rolled upward in their sockets, and he stiffened in a last attempt to fight the drug, then collapsed.

  Kilmara felt nauseated at what he was about to do to this man and the other he had captured, but events had gone far enough to demand special measures, and Molloys' death had tipped the balance.

  These men would talk and their individual determination to resist would have no effect on the outcome, though their brains could well be permanently damaged. It was an unpleasant business, tinkering with somebody's mind, but the alternatives were worse.

  Ranger Molloy's body was removed from the hospital in a body bag, and Kilmara accompanied it as it was carried to the mortuary at the rear of the hospital. He was married with three children, Kilmara recalled. The youngest had been born
a few months ago, and Kilmara had attended the christening.

  Big boys' games, big boys' rules.

  I have no answers, he thought to himself, but a great deal to do.

  * * * * *

  Tokyo, Japan

  February 1

  The helicopter beat its way across the skies of central Tokyo, heading south.

  Night had fallen, and the gray concrete drabness of much of the architecture was no longer evident. Instead, the city was a blaze of light, glowing with vitality. To the right, the recently erected skyscrapers of Nishi Shinjuku soared into the clouds.

  Getting permission to fly across the metropolitan area was a rare privilege, but Hodama-sensei had made the necessary arrangements some five years previously, when private helicopters for Japan's business elite had started coming into vogue, and now the chairman of Namaka Industries could make the trip from the Namaka Tower at Sunshine City to Namaka Steel in forty minutes, instead of the normal two to three hours, and include a detour over the sea — a relaxing contrast to the urban sprawl.

  There was no getting around it. Tokyo traffic was a bitch, and to use the faster subway-and-suburban-train combination was unacceptable from both a security and prestige point of view. A helicopter was the only way to go. It was also a measure of the scale of the Namaka brothers' achievement. As he looked down, Kei could still remember the desperation of the postwar years, the hunger, the fear, and above all the humiliation, of having and being nothing.

  They crossed the docks, still a mass of activity, then went over the dark polluted waters of Tokyo bay, the traditional resting ground of yakuza victims and still popular, though now rivaled by more scientific disposal methods. The memory of so many faces frozen in fear flashed through Kei's mind as he looked down. The climb had been hard and bloody. Staying at the top was no easier. Standards had to be kept high. Examples had to be made.

  The lights of Kawasaki showed up ahead, and soon the cooling towers and industrial labyrinth that was the might of Namaka Steel. The plant was vast and operated around the clock. All kinds of steel were produced there. Pride of place was given to the well-guarded inner compound which housed the long, beige, ultramodern building of Namaka Special Steels. Special Steels forged the high-specification alloys required for the aerospace industry and it also made a range of items for the Japanese Self-Defense Forces. Accordingly, the facility was classified top secret and its security guards were legally authorized to be armed. Only the most carefully selected Namaka employees worked within it.