Games of The Hangman f-1

by VICTOR O'REILLY

  "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 Molotov 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?"

  "Good question, said de Guevain.

  The review continued, covering the placing of the Claymores, distribution of the hand-held radios, food, medical backup, blackening of faces, duty rosters, and the host of matters, major and minor, essential to consider if the castle was to be defended properly.

  "Is there any way we haven’t thought of so far that we can send for help?" said Harry Noble. The ambassador's face was pale and strained, the shock of his son's death etched on his features. For the moment the heavy work load was keeping him sane. Fitzduane didn't like to think about the private torments the man would face in the future. To have killed your own son; it was a nightmare. The Hangman had much to answer for.

  "Fair point," said Fitzduane. "The question is how. We're completely surrounded and now their ship—"

  "The Sabine," said the Bear.

  "The Sabine," continued Fitzduane, "is blocking the seaward route." The ship, now that the focus of the Hangman's attention had switched to Fitzduane's castle, had left the point and was less than half a mile offshore from the castle.

  There was silence for a few moments. The fact was that sooner or later the Rangers should realize that something was wrong and send help. In contrast, no one present had any illusions about the dangers of trying to break through the Hangman's cordon, let alone getting off the island.

  "Something else to think about," said Fitzduane. "We don't want to let the Hangman get hold of a hostage."

  Harry Noble nodded. "That's something I hadn't considered. Perhaps we should wait it out."

  Fitzduane looked around. From everyone's eyes he could tell there was general agreement to wait, so they moved on to discuss the students. Some were still in shock at what had happened, but a number, refreshed after eating and intrigued by the preparations they had witnessed while filling sandbags and doing other manual work, wanted to join the active defenders. They were now bunked down behind locked doors in a storeroom off the tunnel. They hadn't gone willingly. The protests had been vigorous and had died down only when Fitzduane explained the problem: After the business of the Sacrificers, who could be trusted?

  "I don't know about keeping them all locked up," said Andreas. "I appreciate the problem, but I think we're going to have to arm a few of them. We need the manpower. The perimeter is too big to hold for long with what we've got."

  There was some agreement with this view. The defenders were stretched thin, and things would get worse after dusk.

  "They're not kids," said Judith. "Many of them are about my age."

  The Bear smiled.

  "Look," continued the Israeli girl, "they know the security problem. Why not let them pick some volunteers? They ought to be able to pick some people who can be trusted — unless you think they've all been suborned."

  Fitzduane shook his head. "No, we probably don't' have a security problem with the students anymore, but even so I'm reluctant to pout them on the firing line. Let's compromise. Let's put them to work picking some volunteers, but let's not use them unless we really have to."

  "Makes sense," said the Bear.

  Fitzduane looked at Andreas and Judith.

  "Fair enough," Andreas agreed.

  "Judgment of Solomon," said Judith.

  "Let's get on to considering what we're up against," continued Fitzduane, "and the options open to the Hangman."

  He looked at Noble, who had been given the job of coordinating everything they knew, including the string of reports from those on watch. The ambassador, de Guevain, and Henssen had then put themselves in the Hangman's shoes to evaluate his options. Both Noble and de Guevain had previous combat experience — de Guevain had been a paratrooper in his earlier years — and Hensssen had the greatest knowledge of the Hangman's methods of operation gleaned from his endless hours working with the Nose in Wiesbaden.

  "Best estimate," said Noble, "is that we're up against a force of between seventy and eigh
ty hard-core terrorists, to which may be added a small crew from the Sabine. I would guess the one motivation they have in common is mercenary, but considering the Hangman's MO, there will be subgroups with their own specific reasons for wanting to strike back at what they see as the establishment.

  "The terrorists will have been highly trained in a rather rigid, unquestioning way. They will have been oriented toward a violent assault against ill-prepared opposition with an emphasis on inflicting maximum damage in the shortest possible time; they probably won't have had the kind of systematic, specialist infantry training needed for an assignment like taking this castle. But whatever the weaknesses in the fine points of their training, they will all be highly proficient in basic weapons handling and are undoubtedly fit, committed, and determined.

  "Their weapons seem to be typical Eastern bloc stuff apart from the Ingrams carried by the frogmen and the explosives, which are American. They have AK-47 assault rifles, Makarov automatics, plastic explosives, undoubtedly hand grenades, and probably a few RPG-7 anti-tank grenade launchers. We've seen no sign of anything heavier so far, but with the Sabine freeing them of normal transport constraints, they may have something more lethal in reserve. If they do, I'm afraid we'll find out the hard way. The likely candidates would be heavy machine guns, mortars, rockets of various kinds, or even artillery. Somehow I can't see most of that stuff being available because, on the basis of what the Hangman originally intended to do, what would be the need? But you never know with this fellow. He likes gadgetry, and he likes surprises.

  "We can hold out fairly well against small-arms fire and the other light stuff, but the RPG-7s, if they have them, could be a problem. They won't blow a hole through walls this thick, but if they get one through a window, the room inside won't' be a lot of fun."

  The Bear broke in. "We've used up every sheet and blanket and fertilizer bag and sack in the place, so we've got sandbagged blast shelters in every room and sandbags hanging inside every window and weapons slit. You can pull aside the bags with a rope if need be. We've also sandbagged the floors against blast and built extensive overhead cover."