by Dick Stivers
"Good to see you awake, Mr. Sticker." The voice came at Leo from all sides. It was a deep mechanical voice, not unlike the synthesized voice in electronic toys. Leo noticed the television camera for the first time. It was in a corner of the room and took in the full sweep of Leo's prison.
"You have been looking for me for quite some time," the electronic voice droned, "and now you have found me. I am Shillelagh. You will get to know me rather well over the next little while, but I don't think the experience will be pleasant for either of us. I am a professional, Mr. Sticker, and I willdo what is necessary. From the little I know about you, I suspect that there could be great profit in knowing more about you. A mixture of drugs and other, shall we say, physical inducements should prove effective in obtaining all of the information I need. Shall we begin?"
Leo writhed in pain as a ball of electricity hit him, dispersed like SMG slugs ripping into his marrow. The current was reduced until it became a steady throb, tolerable but insistent. From somewhere behind, Leo heard a door open and a person walk in.
Moisture was applied to his bicep. He felt a needle pierce his skin. The sound of hard-soled shoes on the cement floor followed the needle out of the room. The current was switched off. As the drug took effect, Leo felt himself drifting into a moonless night that beckoned him like a lover. I'm ready, baby, he thought helplessly. I am ready.
The voice began asking the questions. Probing, insisting, all powerful. An evasion or wrong answer brought Leo to screams as the shock was applied. Then Leo was allowed to drift back again under the drug's influence before the voice resumed its interrogation.
5
The war wagon cruised south along the A332 highway into Windsor.
The castle had been in view for some five minutes. It loomed above the fertile green countryside like a gray sentinel. Built on top of Castle Hill, the royal "weekend retreat" was surrounded by a stone wall that stretched for more than five hundred feet in a radius around the imposing Round Tower.
The minute they saw it, the castle distracted Able Team from the task of cleaning personal weaponry for the upcoming night work. The three warriors stared at the structure, trying to fit what they saw into the detailed picture given them that morning by Leo.
Leo had described the historic building in terms of its sections.
The western section, called the Lower Ward, is an open-ended courtyard, surrounded on the three closed sides by the castle walls. Integrated into the structure of the walls themselves is a large chapel and associated buildings, and quarters for the castle guards. Towers project from the walls at regular intervals.
The Middle Ward is a large grass-covered mound. On top of it sits the bulky Round Tower.
The east boundary of the Middle Ward is a wall that by the standards of this castle is thin — about a foot and a half. At the north end of the wall, a gate leads into the Upper Ward beyond.
As in the Lower Ward, the walls of the Upper Ward have sprouted extensions into the center courtyard, and rooms and quarters of all kinds have been built within these stone extensions.
It was here that the State Apartments began, filling what was once called King Charles II House. This was originally the residence of the royal family itself, who are now housed in the nearby George IV House. The two residences were cozy nests indeed, but not immune to vermin.
Blancanales pulled the van into a parking lot in Peascod Street, across from the Lower Ward. Able Team joined tourists who had been turned back from the castle and sat puzzled in their cars, wondering whether to wait out the closure of the attractions associated with the castle that were scattered along its walls. But Lyons, Blancanales and Schwarz studied the stately architecture for weaknesses in the castle's defenses.
Despite intense pressure in Washington to pull Able Team out of its recent Central American mission, it was in fact Able Team's own urgent sympathy for Leo Turrin's position in London that had brought them to this new arena. The three warriors of Able Team were justice-hungry, ready to reach for victory in this new People's War.
Their trained eyes picked out the SAS snipers on the roof of both King George IV House and King Charles II House. The barrels of the L42Al's were clearly visible. This was a British hard set, and it troubled Able Team. They knew the British had a "by the book" approach to the horrors of terrorism, and Lyons had been told more than once of the British propensity for using geegaws such as the QuickPoint. Big deal. A device like the QuickPoint sniperscope summed up the likely flaws in the defenses of the castle they had come to protect. The trick with the QuickPoint scope was to get the red dot to follow the bouncing target. QuickPoint was nothing special for a good rifleman. Lyons appreciated it had some application in law enforcement, since the red dot served as a warning to a suspect or escaping prisoner. "See the red dot? That's where the bullet will hit." But the red dot did not illuminate the target, it did not identify the target; it identified the point of impact, whether it was a head, a tree, a leaf. It did not aid in accuracy, as the rifle could still waver. In fact it betrayed the rifleman. The target saw the red dot, dodged fast, fired at the QuickPoint scope. Dead rifleman.
The three American specialists stepped from the van and mingled with the tourists. Their casual English sportswear disguised their true background.
They stopped a pedestrian and asked for directions. Within minutes they found themselves at the inn called the Boar and Bull.
The tavern occupied the ground floor of an ancient house on Clarence Street, away from the castle. Unlike the public houses selling drinks on High Street, the Boar and Bull was a local — it catered to the citizenry of the town. Tourists went elsewhere.
The odor of hot steak pies assailed the warriors as they entered. A tall man of about seventy, with a thick white mustache that curled at the ends, immediately approached them. He introduced himself as Geoffrey Hall.
Carl Lyons did not introduce himself or the other two. He openly studied the man.
Hall was a shade taller than six feet, and slender. His bearing had the stamp of the British military. He wore a navy blue double-breasted blazer with a crest on the chest pocket, and gray flannel slacks. Strength radiated from the old man. His eyes impressed Lyons. They spoke of much life lived and more yet to come. They proclaimed it worthwhile to carry on, even in the valley of the shadow of death.
"You gentlemen will find the food here to be very good. May I recommend the shepherd's pie?" The elegant ex-soldier led the three specialists to a corner table that held a half-empty pint of very dark beer.
"I should caution you that our beer is much stronger than what you are used to in America," the old man added.
"I'll drink what you're drinking," Lyons said.
A barmaid took their order. Conversation of an inconsequential nature occupied the four men until food and drink arrived. As they ate, the specialists found out more about their host.
During World War II, Geoffrey Hall had served with the OSS as an agent behind enemy lines in occupied France. His mother was French, and he spoke the language like a native. He also had a supply sergeant's talent for organization and acquisition — a talent that was put to good use in setting up and equipping several units of the French Resistance. More than once he organized raids that equipped the freedom fighters with weapons from German arsenals.
After the war, he applied for service in the Royal Household Staff Corps. He was quickly accepted, and within a few years his organizational and acquisitional talents were utilized as Chief of Household Services, Windsor Castle. He retired from the position five years earlier.
During Stony Man's research into Leo's Shillelagh mission, Hall's name had emerged as the best source of information on the inner workings of Windsor Castle. Now he briefed Able Team on every room and corridor of each strategic zone in the castle. The briefing was lengthy, punctuated by moments taken to sketch key elevations on a scrap of paper. Distilling and absorbing the information was a trial of memory for the three visitors.
"The pr
ince's birthday dinner will be held in the Waterloo Chamber," the crusty Briton said in closing. "The dining table accommodates one hundred fifty people, although tonight's dinner will be a little smaller — about one hundred twenty."
"A small, intimate, family dinner," Lyons volunteered. He wiped froth and a sour grin from his jaw with a backhanded gesture. "Maybe we should join them."
6
The rear door of the war wagon swung open at seven-thirty-three that evening, and three shadowy figures joined the descending night. Their weapons they carried openly. They wore black nightsuits with black watch caps covering their heads.
The contents of the war wagon were distributed among the three men. Each carried an M-16/M-203, a suppressed M-10 on a strap, and a silenced Colt in a hip holster. Radios hung on the opposite side of the belts to the Colts. Grenades and extra magazines were touch-placed on the bandoliers. A Startron nightscope hung on the webbing of each nightsuit.
Politician and Lyons carried two garrotes each. Coiled around Lyons's left shoulder, safely out of the way of the weapons of war, was a rope.
The three men moved to their positions.
Gadgets headed south along High Street, moving from house to house. When he reached the intersection of Park Street, he turned east and worked his way through narrow cobbled streets to the edge of Home Park and the south front of the castle. A door opened and spilled light onto the street. Two couples came out of the house. They saw the heavily armed man and all conversation stopped. Gadgets nodded, continued walking at a measured pace. The success of his cool was confirmed by snatches of the resumed conversation behind him. The couples merely commented on the fortresslike atmosphere of Windsor, not admitting to their fright.
Gadgets reached the border of Home Park and melted into the rows of trees at the west side of the Long Walk. Between him and the castle wall ran an iron fence. With his radio he sent a signal to his partners that he was in position. He ensured he was fully covered by the trees. At any moment he could be picked off by an alert sniper on the castle roof.
Lyons and Blancanales carefully explored Thames Street, which ran beneath the North Terrace. They found the street had been blocked off, two bobbies manning a barrier. The policemen were covered by snipers on the roofs of houses overlooking the street.
Like wraiths, Lyons and Blancanales backed away. Their new objective was the One Hundred Steps.
Built in a previous age, the One Hundred Steps led from the town to the castle's North Terrace. The stone stairs, worn down from centuries of use, were flanked by low stone bannisters. The gateway barring access to the steps was guarded by two British troopers in full combat gear, toting standard British issue Sterling SMGs that spewed five hundred fifty 9mm rounds per minute.
Blancanales found cover in the deep shadows of an evergreen near parked cars, some distance away from the steps. Here he would wait. He sent a two-click signal to Gadgets and felt the tap on his shoulder that marked the departure of Lyons.
As the Ironman moved off, Pol sent a silent prayer into the night. When the two men first met, Carl was an L.A. cop, a good one. Then Lyons became a true soldier — one of the hardest soldiers that Pol had ever known. Lyons was now a legend. But the current situation presented a special challenge. Able Team knew something bad was about to happen and they would move to stop it, but they could not expect back-up of any sort because acknowledgement of their existence might tip a traitor. At best it would tip off British intelligence that there indeed was a traitor among them. Either way the lid would blow too soon.
They had to do it their way, Able Team's way, and that meant Lyons, true to character, would have to go up the wall.
Lyons worked his way along the shadows of tree-lined Thames Street toward the east end of the castle. He knew that an encounter would prove disastrous. These were friendly forces, and he could not fire back.
Soon Thames Street followed the curve between the castle wall and a small section of woodland. Lyons found a hiding place between bushes growing beneath a stand of linden trees.
He looked at the stone wall. It was not immense. It protected only the outer limits of this part of the castle, which held parkland and a forest as small but as dense as the woodland on the outside. He could see the tops of elm trees swaying within the grounds.
From the top of the wall jutted metal spikes to deter trespassers.
Lyons crouched deep in the shadows. He unwound the rope and tied a small loop at one end. He peered out from his position.
He jerked back as two British sentries approached in the night. He watched them pass, holding himself rigid and unbreathing. Their uniforms told him they were Welsh Guardsmen.
They chatted amiably on their patrol, ignorant of what lurked to one side. Lyons watched them. Terrorist atrocities occurred with mounting regularity in Britain, but nothing had yet shaken the islanders' native sangfroid and resigned tolerance. Naked fear was not known in Britain to the degree it was elsewhere.
As the sentries' sauntered paces faded into the night, Lyons waited for minutes more, then made his move.
The rope caught on the first toss. Silently he scrambled up. Exposed at the top for perilous seconds against the night sky, Lyons unhitched the rope from the spike and carried it with him as he jumped down into the bushes on the other side. He absorbed the impact of his drop on bended knees, ending in the right-shoulder roll that Bolan taught him. He came up short behind the sheltering trunk of an elm.
His M-16/M-203 swung automatically into position as he sighted the glowing end of a cigarette at head-height in the shadow of a tree fifty yards away. "Beejaysus, dat's good stuff," the shadow said to itself. Lyons's motor revved on recognition of the accent. Contact confirmed.
The ember continued to glow, periodically burning brighter as the Irishman toked noisily on his prebattle spliff. Battle hash was a common custom in Nam, but Lyons was surprised to see an Irishman smoking up before combat. Welcome to the eighties.
Lyons stripped himself of his combat gear and pulled a Bowie knife from its sheath on his thigh. Silence was imperative, and the Bowie fit that criterion. He moved out on his belly. The orange ember glowed brighter in the otherwise black night. The smoker sucked a hearty lungful. "Christmas, dat's good," the voice said to no one.
Lyons crawled in a semicircle toward his target. When the ember glowed brightly again, he raised himself into a crouch, ran noiselessly toward the target. He staggered the pot smoker with an openhanded blow to the forehead. Then he dragged the knife blade backhand across the man's carotid and jugular. It was an effortless kill.
The joint burned in the grass beside the corpse. Lyons ground it out with the toe of his Israeli combat boot. He heard more Irish voices calling hoarsely into the velvet night.
"Micky, ya'dere?"
"Micky lad, where is ya'?"
Lyons's heart skipped a beat. His grenade launcher and other fighting gear were fifty yards behind him. He would have to dispose of both terrorists, using his wits and the knife.
The pointman passed within inches of his position. Lyons could not see him but he felt the air move as he passed, and he smelled the odor of tobacco on the guy's clothes. With patience and professionalism learned from Blancanales, Lyons waited for the second man. The moon broke briefly through a cloud.
He saw a heavily armed figure walking through the trees. "He'll be spliffin' da' weed," the man said. "See if it ain't true." Lyons came on him in the dark. He reached around the man's head with his left hand and clapped the mouth shut. With his right hand, he drove the Bowie knife deep under the breastbone. Both men fell together to the forest floor.
"Ya' may be right, Stevie," the first man answered, "but we still need the bastard. Right?"
"Uh-huh," said Lyons in the dark. The terrorist's talk had given him a good fix on the guy.
With a smooth, practiced motion, he flung the bloody blade into the middle of the voice.
"I'm kill't!" gurgled the terrorist.
"Good t'ing, too," m
uttered Lyons.
* * *
Whatever else he thought of that Kathleen McGowan bitch, Michael O'Shea had to admit she was one hell of an organizer. During the past two months, thirty-five people involved in the night's operation had undergone training in both Northern Ireland and England, and their leaders had visited the castle as tourists and had studied its interior plans under McGowan's careful eye.
O'Shea knew the information and training would serve him well.
His group was to secure the west end of the North Terrace. O'Shea and his four men had scaled the wall some distance west of the One Hundred Steps, using the trees as cover. The killers with O'Shea carried AK-47s and two HE grenades each. O'Shea held a silenced Uzi; the advantage of silence for the night's work outweighed the loss of accuracy incurred by the silencer.
O'Shea checked his watch, shielding the digital timepiece with his hand so its glow would not give them away. Timing was essential; if he moved earlier than 8:30, his group's actions would not be coordinated with those of the other two assault teams and the attack would fail.
Moments before 8:30, a five-man British patrol slowly made its way down the One Hundred Steps, looking for anything out of place in the forest on both sides of the worn steps. O'Shea heard the thud of the combat boots on the stone. He waited patiently for the first casualties of the night.
The patrol leader had no time to warn his companions. The 9mm parabellums from O'Shea's Uzi tore into his throat. The remainder of the patrol died quickly as the silent onslaught continued. The clatter of their weapons on stone was the only signal that something was amiss.
Two sentries in the street below heard the clatter. Quickly they opened the gate at the bottom of the steps and headed up them toward the noise. So intent were they on their objective that neither noticed the black-clad man slip out of the shadows and follow them. Once through the gate, Blancanales vaulted the left bannister of the steps and followed the two men as they climbed. While moving, Pol transmitted a pair of double clicks, advising his partners that the battle was on.
