The body twitched again and swung slightly on the rope.
Fitzduane slid his automatic shotgun into firing position and released four XR-18 rounds into Kadar's form, smashing the torso completely, ripping the heart from the body, but leaving the head and hands intact.
"Dead?" he said to the Bear.
"I think it is quite probably," said the Bear, going very Swiss and cautious all of a sudden. There was a pulpy mess where Kadar's middle had been. "Yes," he said, nodding. "Yes, he is very definitely dead."
"Swiss timing," said Fitzduane.
"So it is over," said the Bear. He was looking at Fitzduane with compassion and not a little awe. The business of killing was a tawdry activity, whatever the need, but it was a business, like most human activities, that demanded talent. Fitzduane, sensitive and sympathetic though he was by nature, had a formidable talent for violence, a hard and bloody edge to his character. Here was a decent man who had tried to do a decent thing and who had stumbled into a bloodbath, had participated in that slaughter. What scars would his friend's soul now carry? The Bear sighed quietly. He was weary. He knew that he, too, was tainted.
He shook his head, depressed, then pulled himself together and gave a quiet growl and stared at the remains of the Hangman. Fuck him anyway; he deserved to die. It had to be done.
Fitzduane looked out over the glowing remains of the great hall and beyond the bawn. There were no lines of tracer, no explosions, no screams of pain or sounds of gunfire. Rangers were moving into the sandbagged emplacements on the battlements. Kilmara in his Optica still circled in the sky above.
Fitzduane reached out for his radio. "You still up there?"
"Seems like it," said Kilmara. "It's really quite beautiful from the air, but there's nowhere to pee."
"The Hangman's dead," said Fitzduane.
"Like the last time?" said Kilmara. "Or did you manage a more permanent arrangement?"
"I shot him," said Fitzduane, "and knifed him and the Bear shot him and we hanged him and he's still here — well, most of him. Enough to identify anyway."
"How often did you shoot him?" said Kilmara for no particular reason. Stress reaction was setting in. He suddenly felt very tired.
"Quite a lot," said Fitzduane. "Why don't you come down and take a look?"
"So the fat lady has finished singing," said Kilmara.
"Close," said Fitzduane.
* * * * *
Duncleeve — Fitzduane's Castle — 0300 hours
Fitzduane and Kilmara finished their tour of inspection, and then Kilmara was called away to take a radio message from Ranger headquarters in Dublin.
Kilmara was limping but otherwise in good shape. He had sent the Optica back to refuel an hour ago and had parachuted into the bawn. It had been a perfect jump, but he had landed on one of the cannon and twisted his ankle.
The immediate threat seemed to be over, but until the island had been thoroughly searched by daylight, they couldn't be sure, and it was prudent to play safe. Accordingly the exhausted defenders and the only marginally fresher Rangers stood to and manned the full castle perimeter again but left the territory outside to the dead and whatever else chose to roam around at that hour of the morning.
Ground transport brought regular army units to the mainland end of the island road, and a company of troops was sent over by rope while the engineers set to building a Bailey bridge. Mortar and light artillery emplacements were set up to give fire support if needed. As dawn was breaking, around five in the morning, the first regular army unit arrived on the island.
Kilmara had been absent longer than expected. He returned looking distinctly annoyed, sat on a sandbag, and poured some whiskey into the mug of coffee a trooper brought in.
"I've got good news and ridiculous news," he said. "What do you want to hear first?"
"You choose," said Fitzduane. He was sitting on the floor, his back resting against the wall. His wounded cheek had been tended to by a Ranger medic. It appeared quite likely there would be a scar. Etan was nestled in his arms, half asleep. Without conscious thought he was stroking her gently, as if seeking reassurance that she was indeed alive. "I'm too bloody tired. I don't think I've ever been so tired. If this is what a siege is like, I'm glad I missed out on the Crusades. Imagine this kind of caper going on for months on end in a temperature like a furnace while you're wearing the equivalent in metal of half a car body under a caftan with a cross painted on it for the other side to shoot at. They must have had iron balls in those days."
"Or died young," said the Bear.
"Start with the good news," said Etan, who was bandaged and in slight pain but cheerful; she was just glad to be — more or less — unharmed. The Ranger medic had said the wound wasn't serious and would heal quickly.
"We've got a prisoner —a guy named Sartawi, one of their unit commanders," said Kilmara, "and nearly in one piece for a change. And he's talking. It will make explaining away all these dead bodies a lot easier if we have the background. All I can say so far is that it's just as well you had your shit together, Hugo; otherwise we really would have been headed for a bad scene. The Hangman didn't intend to leave any survivors. There was a hidden agenda, and Sartawi was in the know. All the students were to go in the exchange. It was the Hangman's idea of a little joke."
"What's the ridiculous news?" asked the Bear.
"We're having a visitor," said Kilmara. "He's flying in by chopper — piloting the damn thing himself — in less than an hour, and he's being tailed by a press helicopter. This is all going to be a media event."
"The little fucker doesn't miss a trick," said Fitzduane. "I take it you tried to put him off?"
"Need you ask?" said Kilmara. "I told both him and his press guy that the time wasn't right, and anyway, the place isn't secure."
"But he didn't believe you," said Fitzduane.
"No," said Kilmara. "He did not."
"Why don't we kill him?" said Fitzduane. "I've had a lot of practice lately."
"On live television," said Etan, "and in front of half the Irish media? And me without my makeup on."
"I'll help," said the Bear, "but who are you talking about?"
"Our Taoiseach," said Fitzduane, "one Joseph Patrick Delaney, the prime minister of this fair land . He screwed us in the Congo, and he's been screwing this country ever since. He's coming here to kiss babies and pin medals on the wounded — and make a short speech saying he did it all himself. He's corrupt and a class-A shit and decidedly not one of our favorite people."
"Oh," said the Bear. "I thought the Rangers were responsible for keeping him safe."
"This is a very mixed-up country," said Kilmara. "I think I'll get drunk."
* * * * *
Fitzduane's Castle — 0623 hours
It had started to rain shortly after dawn, and the wounded man lying concealed under the remains of the homemade tank greeted this downturn in the weather with relief. The cold rain soothed his horribly burned body and helped conceal him from the searching soldiers.
The man hadn't been wounded in the tank itself, but near the walls. He had been caught by a Molotov cocktail blast as he prepared to throw a grapnel, and for some seconds before his comrades had beaten out the flames he had been a human torch. By the time he recovered consciousness the comrades who had saved him had been killed. He had found their bodies one by one as he crawled his way to the cover of the tank and temporary safety.
He was within a few seconds of the cooling wreckage of the tank — the journey seemed to have taken hours — when a random burst of automatic-weapons fire smashed into his legs, splintering the bones and destroying any lingering hope that he might have a future. He could, perhaps, surrender, but the best he could hope for would be life a revoltingly disfigured cripple — and he had no home to go to, no country to go to. The idea of a future in a refugee camp — if he wasn't shot or imprisoned — had no appeal. And he would be penniless. Ironically, for many the whole point of this mission had been to make enough money
to give themselves completely new lives. And for a time it looked as if they might make it.
Well, it was the will of Allah. Now all that remained was to die in the most suitable manner — to die avenging his comrades and so to meet them again in the Gardens of Paradise.
He had lost his AK-47 when he was hit by the gasoline bomb, and that he regretted, for a true soldier never abandons his weapon; but crawling to his steel sanctuary he had found something far more deadly: an RPG-7 rocket launcher. It was loaded, and although there were no spare rockets, he was confident that one would be enough for his purpose. He doubted very much that he would have the opportunity to fire for a second time. It would be as Allah willed. Each man had his own destiny, and out of apparent disaster often came good.
The man with the burned body and smashed legs moved his weapon into firing position when he heard the sound of helicopter rotors coming ever closer. The pain was truly terrible, but he embraced it and used it to keep himself conscious for those last few precious seconds.
The helicopter came into range. The RPG-7 was a straightforward point-and-shoot weapon with no sophisticated guidance system, so it was vital that he be accurate.
The helicopter was going to land in front of the castle. Through the 2.5 magnification telescopic sight it looked as if there were only one person inside it, but he must be someone important because soldiers were bracing themselves and an officer was shouting commands.
All eyes were on the helicopter. No one noticed the tip of the RPG-7 pointing out of a slit in the wrecked tank. The helicopter was less than seventy meters away when the dying man fired.
The Taoiseach of Ireland was actually thinking of Kilmara, and the bittersweet irony that the man he had betrayed so long ago was now going to enhance his political reputation through reflected glory, when he saw the 1.7-kilogram rocket-assisted fin-stabilized missile blasting toward him. For an infinitesimal moment he thought his victorious troops were firing some kind of victory salute.
The HEAT warhead cut straight through the Perspex canopy, making two neat, round holes as if for ventilation. There was no explosion. Fitzduane, Kilmara, the Bear, Etan,, and the other survivors of the original defenders watched the missile strike — and plow through the cabin harmlessly — with absolute incredulity.
There was a barrage of shots as the firer of the missile was cut down.
Kilmara put down his high-power binoculars. He had been looking directly at the Taoiseach in the approaching helicopter at the precise moment of the free-flight missile's impact.
"Well, I guess we can't win them all," he said slowly as the Taoiseach headed to fast toward a decidedly rough landing. "Too much vodka on the RPG-7 production line, I suppose." His eyes lit up. "Still, that'll teach him to listen to my advice. What a hell of a way to start the day."
"How did you do that?" said the Bear to Fitzduane.
"And without moving your lips," added de Guevain.
"I didn't," said Fitzduane, "Though it was temping."
"Probably a spell," said de Guevain.
"Great television," said Etan. "The bastard will make the news yet again."
"Nonstick politician or not," said Kilmara with some satisfaction, "I think he'll need a fresh pair of pants. Oh, well, his day will come."
The media helicopter had arrived and was obviously torn between wanting to get close-ups of the perforated aircraft and a not unreasonable desire to avoid receiving the same sort of treatment as the Taoiseach. Camera lenses sprouted from open doors and windows. The pilot, manifestly without combat experience — made a series of quick forays and then darted away. Fitzduane expected this amateur jinking to dislodge one of the cameramen any minute and for a body or two to come flying through the air.
"What's the time," asked the Bear.
"About six-thirty," said Fitzduane. "Time for all good Irish men and women to be in bed."
"Time for breakfast," said the Bear.
"Typical for a bloody Swiss," said Fitzduane.
"If everybody minded their own business," said the Duchess in a hoarse growl, "the world would go round a great deal faster than it does."
—Lewis Carroll,
Alice in Wonderland
"A Swiss Lewis Carroll is not possible."
—Vreni Rutschman, Zurich, March, 1981
FB2 document info
Document ID: 947757e0-6545-44c4-bddf-2dcd52c8cb70
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 20.5.2012
Created using: calibre 0.8.51, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
Victor O'Reilly
About
This file was generated by Lord KiRon's FB2EPUB converter version 1.1.5.0.
(This book might contain copyrighted material, author of the converter bears no responsibility for it's usage)
Этот файл создан при помощи конвертера FB2EPUB версии 1.1.5.0 написанного Lord KiRon.
(Эта книга может содержать материал который защищен авторским правом, автор конвертера не несет ответственности за его использование)
http://www.fb2epub.net
https://code.google.com/p/fb2epub/
Games of The Hangman f-1 Page 59
