"What's the range of the RPG-7?" asked Etan.
"Up to five hundred meters, theoretically," said Fitzduane, "but they are normally used at less than half that. To hit something as small as an arrow slit, particularly at night and shooting upward, you'd want to be closer in still. I don't think the RPG-7s are going to be our main problem. We want to worry more about explosive charges placed up close by sapper squads. A few pounds of C-4 in the right place, and the scenery starts changing. Make sure nobody gets in close, and make doubly sure if they are carrying anything like a satchel charge. Another thing: make sure when you drop somebody, he stays dead. For all the hype about hydrostatic shock and exit wounds the size of soup plates, 5.56-millimeter doesn’t always have the knockdown power of 7.62-millimeter.
"Or .303," said Murrough.
"So aim for multiple hits if possible," continued Fitzduane. "Three rounds rapid works just fine." He looked at Noble. "I'm sorry, Harry. We're getting off the point."
Noble nodded. "Okay," he said. "We've covered who we are up against and how many, and we've had a quick look at their firepower. Now the question is, what are they going to do with all this?
"The Hangman, as far as we know — and thanks to our friend's computers" — he pointed to Henssen — "we know a great deal — has never been faced with this sort of problem. Up to now he has always fought on his terms, mostly quick in-and-out actions with much smaller groups of men. His tactics then have been based on deception, surprise, speed, and firepower; they have been characterized by a disregard for human life and, from time to time, a warped sense of humor and a fondness for the bizarre.
"In this case the Hangman has to get hold of at least some hostages, or he has no chips to play with. Unusually for him, because an escape route is one consistent feature of his operations, he seems to have committed himself totally. That mightn't have been his intention — the plane may have been his way out — but it's the situation now, with all that it implies. He and his men have nothing to lose. They are going to be driven by desperation."
"What's to stop him from getting back on the Sabine and sailing off into the sunset?" said Andreas.
"Because high seas or not, he knows full well he'll never be allowed to get away. Every antiterrorist force in Europe wants his hide, and I wouldn't put it past the Israelis to swim over; they tend to travel when the incentive is right. No, the Hangman has to get what he came for here, or he hasn't much of a future."
"So what do you think he'll do?" asked Andreas.
"There are various scenarios we've looked at." Fitzduane broke in. "First, it looks like he's going to wait until dark; that's the most likely explanation as to why he hasn’t attacked up till now. Second, he's likely to use massive firepower to keep our heads down. Third, he's going to mount at least two attacks simultaneously, and one or more of them will be a diversion.
"The high ground in this battle is the keep. If he gets that, he commands everything else. On the other hand, a direct assault on the keep could be mounted only by scaling the walls on the seaward side, and that would be suicidal. The other approaches are protected by the curtain walls. He's most likely to try for the gatehouse first, because from there he can mount a protected fire base against the keep and under its cover take us out with explosives or fire. That suggests an attack combining firepower to keep our heads down, a diversionary attack on the curtain walls, and a sapper attack with explosives on the gatehouse. The portcullis would then be blown with explosives, and in they'd pour."
Fitzduane paused. His message was getting home. The analysis was making everybody think more of the totality of the problem and not just about his or her own immediate tasks. Their shortage of manpower to deal with the diverse areas they had to cover became more and more apparent.
"Another possibility is that they'll concentrate on the great hall and use boats to assault from the seaward side. The great hall backs directly onto the sea, and although it has firing slits in the windows, it has no battlements. Also, it's lower to scale, and the slate roof could be penetrated.
"Yet another possibility is that they'll use a favorite Middle Eastern weapon — the car bomb. I imagine they can get some of the vehicles at Draker going again. One of those driven at speed against the portcullis and loaded with a few hundred pounds of explosives might make whoever is manning the gatehouse very unhappy."
He smiled. "Right, so much for the crystal ball stuff. Here's the deployment. Harry and Andreas will take the gatehouse with their personal weapons and the Hawk. Heini and Murrough will man the keep's fighting platform and watch the curtain wall facing the lake. Etan and Henssen will watch the curtain wall facing inland and the great hall. Judith, Christian, and I will make up the mobile reserve. Katia and Oona will look after food, first aid, the students, and whatever else is necessary. We'll keep in touch by radio.
"By the way, one thing we don't know is whether they have any night-vision equipment. I would doubt it, given the operation they thought they were mounting, but let's play it safe. Anyway, they have had enough daylight to map the apertures and our defense positions, so we'd better expect to receive accurate incoming fire.
"The good news, of course, is that we do have some night-vision sights for the SA-80s. They'll work up to about six hundred meters. I suggest you fit them immediately and zero them in in the tunnel on a rotating basis. Night vision is something they probably won't expect from us — let's not reveal the fact that we have it too early. I'll tell you when.
"We do have floodlights set up for the bawn, the battlements, and the outside perimeter of the castle. We've wired them up on separate circuits, so one shot won't put out the lot, but I don't think they'll last too long in a firefight. The hope is that they'll give us an edge when it matters.
"Remember to use the cover we've got and not to fire from the same position for more than a few seconds. Our muzzle flashes will show up in the darkness." He paused for a moment, then clapped his hands. "Let's go to it."
Outside, full darkness was fast descending, and a strong breeze had picked up, sending the clouds scudding across the half-moon. No movement could be detected amid the force that faced them, but each defender knew that the respite would be short-lived.
Those issued the SA-80s switched sights under the Bear's direction from the four-power day and low-light SUSAT sights to the similarly magnified night-vision Kite system and then zeroed in one by one in the tunnel. The compact Kites were a vast improvement over the bulky image intensifiers Fitzduane had first encountered in Vietnam. They carried third-generation tubes resistant to ‘whiteout’ and weighed only a kilogram each.
The magnified picture they presented dispelled any illusions the defenders might have had that the terrorists had somehow vanished. The noose had tightened further.
Working swiftly, the Bear and Christian de Guevain set up the initial experimental charges in the two cannon. The weapons looked sound, but what ravages time had worked to their castings would be determined only by experiment. Using a ramrod made from a mop handle, de Guevain loaded the first charge of weed killer mix and a wad. As an afterthought he inserted one of the ornamental cannonballs. He then retreated smartly behind a pile of sandbags while the Bear lit a paraffin-soaked rag stuck on the end of a fishing rod and, remaining under cover himself, swung the burning rag to the touchhole that he'd primed with black powder. There was a modest explosion, and the cannonball plopped to the ground about ten meters away.
"It'll scare ‘em shitless," said de Guevain.
The Bear handed de Guevain the mop. "Sponge out," he said.
Sponging was an essential part of the procedure if the next gunpowder charge was not to be prematurely ignited by either the hot barrel or any remaining particles from the previous firing. "This time I'm doubling the load — and you can do the honors."
The fourth shot sent the cannonball right through the stone wall of the storehouse. It came to the Bear that Fitzduane's castle was due for considerable structural alteration before the night
was out.
They increased the charge slightly for the fifth test and used the shrapnel mix. The results were awe-inspiring. The Bear and de Guevain settled on that formula and went to work making extra pre-packed charges of both propellant and shrapnel out of rolled-up newspapers and panty hose. By the time they had finished, darkness had fallen.
Finally, it was truly night.
* * * * *
Airborne approaching the west of Ireland — 2223 hours
Kilmara was in continuous radio contact with Ranger headquarters in Dublin, but there was still no word from Fitzduane, and the Ranger colonel was becoming increasingly worried. He could understand one or two checks being missed, given the social rather than military environment in Fitzduane's castle, but the total silence over such a long period was disturbing. Add in the inability to communicate with the guards at Draker — or, indeed, anyone else on the island — and the bridge's being down, and it looked like this was going to be no drill.
Flying in the silenced Optica in darkness was an experience. The transparent Perspex bubble in which they were encased became invisible, and one had the sense of being part of the night, of actually flying without the physical aid of an airplane. It was disorienting. There was no apparent structure form which to get one's bearings, no window ledge or solid door. It was both exhilarating and terrifying, but it did make for an outstanding observation platform, and unlike a helicopter, which spends most of its time trying to shake itself to pieces, the Optica had no problem with vibration.
He switched on the lightweight Barr and Stroud IR-18 thermal imager and scanned the countryside below with the zoom lens set at wide angle. The unit worked on the principle that everything above absolute zero emits some radiation in the electromagnetic spectrum and that some of this is infrared, with contrast resulting from both the relative temperatures and the strength of emission. The resulting television picture was a cross between conventional video black and white and a photographic negative. The system could ‘see’ through mist and fog and normal camouflage. Fortunately, he thought, the human body is also an excellent heat source and shows up clearly against most terrain. The unit just might help make some sense out of what was going on on the island.
As the Optica flew on, he practiced mostly by spotting cows. On the outskirts of one village he ran across a hot spot he could not identify at first: the shape was horizontal and smaller than a cow, though it was emitting nicely. A check with the zoom revealed a couple hard at it on a blanket, a penumbra of hot air around the central image bearing witness to their dedication.
Kilmara knew that it was theoretically possible to land any of the three aircraft in the flight on the island — all had short takeoff and landing characteristics — but the margin for error was slight even during the day. It was not a viable option at night.
The Rangers were going to have to jump once he had some idea of the local tactical situation. The big question was where. Jumping on top of a hostile force in an age when everyone carried automatic weapons wasn't the best way to boost morale. He had already had the dubious thrill of jumping into enemy fire, and although the tracers looked pretty as they sailed up toward you, it wasn't an experience he longed to repeat.
From their past discussions Kilmara knew that Fitzduane's preferred tactical option would be to hole up in his castle until help came, but he also know that what one wants and what happens in a combat situation can be very different things. Since the two sides, by definition have totally opposing objectives, much of combat in reality tends to be a chaotic mess. In this situation the views of the college faculty could have complicated the equation. The action could be concentrated around DrakerCollege.
Kilmara knew that his best chance of finding out what was going on before he committed his small force lay in making radio contact. The long-range transceiver might be out for some reason, but when he came close to the island, he should be able to make contact with Fitzduane's personal radio — if anyone was listening.
A message from Ranger headquarters sounded in his ears. An emergency meeting of the Security Committee of the Cabinet had convened. Right now the primary task of the Rangers, it had been clearly laid down, was to ensure the safety and integrity of the U.S. Embassy in Dublin. No convincing case had been made for any change to those instructions. Colonel Kilmara and the airborne Ranger group were to return to Baldonnel immediately. Kilmara's request for backup army support on standby had been denied.
The Taoiseach's hostility was becoming a problem. Well, fuck him anyway. The pilot looked at Kilmara. He had not acknowledged the radio message, though the routine words had come instinctively to his lips. He had served under the colonel for a considerable period of time. Kilmara pointed at the long-distance radio and drew a finger across his throat. The pilot switched off the unit and grinned. "Doing a Nelson?" he asked.
Kilmara made a face. "I've no ambitions to be a dead hero or to be kissed as I lie there dying," he said into the intercom.
"But Nelson won the battle," said the pilot.
Kilmara raised his eyebrows and went back to looking at cows. On previous operations they had always had the reassuring backup of the regular army. This time it looked as if they'd be on their own.
The black silhouettes of the hills of Connemara showed up on the horizon, and there was the glint of moonlight off a lake below. "ETA twenty-two minutes, Colonel."
The colonel had his eyes closed. "Too many cows," he said.
The pilot checked the firing circuits of the Optica's electronically controlled machine guns and rocket pods. The aircraft had been designed for observation and endurance, but with lightweight armaments it had proved possible to give it some punch.
The firing circuit check light glowed green. All was in order. The Rangers flew on.
* * * * *
Fitzduane's Island — 2220 hours
All preparations had been completed more than twenty minutes earlier, but a glow had lingered longer than expected in the sky, and Kadar wanted the maximum benefit from the cover of darkness. The night still wasn't jet black, but given the near-perfect day and the half-moon, it was as dark now as it was going to get within his time frame, and the increase in cloud cover should provide the needed protection.
Fitzduane's castle had been well enough sited to cope with medieval warfare and even conventional musketry, but it had disadvantages when longer-range weapons were brought into play. Kadar had found several random jumbles of boulders in a semicircle about a thousand meters from the castle, and there he had constructed three sangars, rock-fortified emplacements, to hold his heavy machine guns and the SAM-7 missile. He was out of normal rifle range but well within the distance appropriate for a heavy sustained-fire weapon. The Russian 12.7 mm DShK 38/46 was effective up to two thousand meters.
Kadar regretted he hadn't brought any specialist night-vision equipment, but he doubted it would prove essential. Firing parameters had been constructed while there was still adequate light, and the basic structure of the castle was clearly outlined against the night sky. His covering fire might not be as accurate as he would have liked, but the volume would make up for it.
Another dull explosion sounded from within the castle courtyard — what the plans he had found in the DrakerCollege library called a bawn — and he again failed to identify its source. It was too loud and resonant for a rifle or shotgun but lacked the acoustic power of a heavier weapon. Perhaps it wasn't an explosion at all but some kind of pile-driving or hammering or attempt to signal. A signal — that was probably it. He smiled to himself. It was a brave attempt, but there was nobody to hear.
He had brought two Powerchutes on the Sabine for the primary purpose of providing an escape vehicle in an extreme emergency. A Powerchute would get him off the island to a place where a vehicle, money, and other emergency supplies were concealed. The second unit was a backup.
He knew that in committing the Powerchutes to the battle ahead, he was cutting off his own last retreat, but that didn't matter an
ymore. This was a fight he was going to win. He didn't want the second-class option. He wanted the exhilaration that makes men the world over attempt the impossible, the thrill that comes from taking the maximum risk: of committing everything or dying.
He gave the signal. The Powerchutes started their engines and moved forward. Each powered parachute consisted of a tricycle framework with a propeller mounted at the rear. Forward momentum and the slipstream from the propeller inflated the parachute canopy. Within a few yards the Powerchutes were airborne and climbing rapidly. The Powerchute was a parachute that could go up as well as down; it could be maneuvered much like a powered hang glider, reach a height of ten thousand feet, fly at fifty kilometers per hour — or descend slightly with the engine cut off. Each Powerchute had a maximum payload of 350 pounds, and in this case it was being used to the absolute limit. Each was fully laden with pilot, weapons, grenades, satchel charge, and homemade incendiaries.
Kadar turned to his final surprise. The welders of Malabar Unit had done an excellent job. The big German tractor and the trailer they had found at DrakerCollege had been armored with steel plate — front, back, and sides — thick enough to stop high-velocity rifle bullets. Firing ports had been cut at regular intervals for the crew's automatic rifles, and an explosive charge protruded from a girder at the front.
Kadar had made himself a tank. He spoke into one of the Russian field radios and the tank's-tractor's engines burst into life.
"Geranium force," he ordered. "Attack! Attack! Attack!"
The darkness around the castle was rent with streams of fire.
28
Fitzduane's Castle — 2228 hours
The sandbags covering the arrow slits shook under a burst of heavy-machine-gun fire that raked across the front of the gatehouse. Fitzduane had stipulated that the sandy earth used to fill the bags be well dampened. The sweating students had groaned because the earth was noticeably heavier when wet, but the merit of this precaution now became obvious: the damp earth absorbed even the heavy machine-gun rounds, and though the sacks themselves were becoming bullet-torn, their contents stayed more or less in place. Their defenses against direct gunfire and the more dangerous problem within the stone confines of the castle — ricochets — were holding. Noble's mental image of the sandbags leaking their contents like a row of egg timers did not seem likely to materialize for some time.
Games of The Hangman f-1 Page 52
