by Dick Stivers
O'Shea's finger stroked the trigger of the Uzi again as the two British sentries came up the steps. One of the troopers slipped in the rivulets of blood that washed down the center of the worn stone. Before he could recover, his own life ran out to join with the crimson stream. A heartbeat later, his companion fell. Stillness returned to the night as the stream flowed on.
* * *
From experience gained in the jungles of Nam, Blancanales knew the art of moving silently through a forest. Among the elms and sycamores of this English hill, he was in his element. When he saw the brief flashes from the Uzi, he hurled himself up off the steps and into the undergrowth. He wriggled into hiding. He pulled the Startron from his nightsuit webbing.
Five men were silhouetted in the night-scope's eerie light.
As more boots thudded on the steps, Blancanales saw the five Irishmen move farther into the shadows to strike again. Stealthily he unlimbered his Colt.
* * *
Corporal Phillips had become concerned when the five-man patrol did not radio in. The route down the One Hundred Steps had been timed during the drills, and they should have radioed Phillips from the bottom of the steps two minutes earlier.
Phillips advised his CO of the problem and, with Private Scott, headed down to check on the missing patrol.
The two men reacted immediately as they came within sight of the corpses, but immediately was not fast enough, and Private Scott died where he fell.
As O'Shea swung his Uzi around to take out Phillips, two .45-caliber slugs from Blancanales's Colt found the terrorist's head. O'Shea's finger tightened on the Uzi trigger, sending random blasts of 9mm slugs into the night. The slugs found one of O'Shea's fellow terrorists, dispatching him with silent holes.
A second burst from the Colt sent another ambusher to join O'Shea.
Phillips had ducked when Scott fell. Now he raised his head. The muzzle of his L2A3 hovered just in front of his chin.
He saw two shadows moving. He stood up, aimed at one of them, fired, saw the other one crumple, then the first one, too, before he ducked back down.
Silence descended. Phillips slowly raised his head again. He knew he had an ally in the night.
Holding his Sterling level, the young corporal moved slowly down the steps until a whispered voice from the forest on his right stopped him.
"Friend," said the voice.
Blancanales emerged from the shadows and joined the British soldier. Quickly the American filled him in on the revised picture.
At the top of the steps, a voice from Phillips's radio demanded explanations.
* * *
From their natural blind in the trees the roof of the castle was just over two hundred fifty yards away — nearly point-blank range for their Russian rifles. Collins and Donegal scanned the top of the east wall. Four orange blobs glowed along the roof. British snipers' sites.
They heard the sound of the SMG far off to their right. O'Shea was having problems. It was time to go to work.
Almost as one, the two terrorists fired. A millisecond later, two of the orange blobs dissolved.
* * *
Carl Lyons, M-16 cradled in his arms, crouched just below the east end of the Sunken Garden. The reports of the two weapons to his left signaled the start of the battle in his sector. He began to crawl toward the source of the sounds.
The two snipers fired again. Lyons caught a hint of movement in the trees to his left.
He loaded an HE grenade into the 203, and with a pump, shot it into the middle of three flank men who had appeared in the darkness, black on black. The steel fragments propelled by thirty-five grams of explosive tore into the Irishmen. Screams cut through the night like an animal's cries. The roar of the M-16 restored silence to the scene.
Then two more booming reports. Lyons rolled to the cover of the trees.
* * *
Four riflemen on the east roof lay dead, shards from their nightscopes buried in what was left of their faces.
One of the snipers from the north roof moved to take their place. The British sniper was quickly joined by another, and the two men trained their scopes along the trees at the leading edge of the forest.
A light squeeze on the trigger by one of them and the shadow of a terrorist disappeared into the trees.
The second sniper tracked onto Donegal. The 7.62 NATO round thwacked into the back of the terrorist's head, exploding in a crimson spray of teeth and bone as it exited through the mouth.
Collins turned to see his partner's head explode, then dived for cover as a second round from the L42A1 chopped into a tree.
Collins brought the SVD around. A sigh, a squeeze, and a 7.62mm whoosh of death was dispatched to the castle roof. He rode the recoil and pulled once more.
He was not able to pull a third time; a NATO round had shattered his spine.
* * *
Joseph Flynn's squad number three worked through the forest by the eastern edge of the Sunken Garden. One man was walking point, followed closely by Flynn and two other men.
Lyons had a hot reception ready for the four of them. The M-16 sent a full load into the pointman. Flynn and the two surviving terrorists dived for cover in the trees.
Flynn fired his Uzi at the source of the shots.
Another blast from the M-16 took out one of his companions.
Flynn and the survivor, Kelly, continued toward their objective, the steps that led up the far end of the Sunken Garden.
Flynn kept up a stream of covering fire as Kelly headed for the steps with his only LAW. Pausing just long enough to change the Uzi's magazines, Flynn kept Lyons pinned. Kelly made the stairs leading to the top of the Sunken Garden.
Kelly extended the tube of the LAW, readying it for use against an advancing group of British soldiers.
With a whoosh, the antipersonnel rocket blasted into the middle of the little knot.
Shrapnel cut into the men like a hail of meat cleavers. Cleanly severed parts of human beings littered the air. Kelly threw the now useless tube away and unslung his AK-47. Scrambling up the steps, he ran onto the south side of the terrace and began a zigzag dash to the doors of the State Apartments.
Lyons, firing bursts at Flynn's position, moved out of the forest in pursuit of Kelly.
Lyons raced up the stairs, halted and raised his rifle. He took careful aim and fired a blast of 5.56 rounds at the running figure. Kelly's zag became a tumble as a 55-grain slug caught him in the back and pushed him over the wall.
Flynn was now dashing toward the doors that would take him into the Apartments. As he ran he hurled a grenade at the doorway.
The explosion blasted the doors open, and the terrorist ran through.
* * *
From his position in the sheltering trees at the western edge of Home Park, Gadgets heard the whine of high-powered engines coming toward him. He turned to look, saw three Land Rovers racing along Park Street.
He held up his Startron and took a closer look at the vehicles. In the cab of each Land Rover rode two men. The backs of the vehicles were covered with tarpaulins that might be concealing other men.
If they were reinforcements for the beleaguered British snipers, they were welcome. If not, they were dire trouble.
Telling friend from foe in a firefight can be hard, and an error had terrible consequences. In Able Team's war, the problem was paramount. Their fight was directed only at legitimate targets, terrorists and those who actively supported the pattern of death that followed terrorists wherever they went. If Bolan's men fired without knowing for certainthat their target was a legitimate one, then they became no different than the murdering terrorists. Gadgets fretted over each second of delay while the new players in the deadly game remained unknown.
The three vehicles reached the castle's gate.
The lead vehicle rammed the gate, tearing it from its ancient hinges. The ornamental ironwork hardly slowed the vehicle. It raced through the opening, taking tangled metal with it, followed by the other two Land Rover
s.
As the three vehicles accelerated up the long walk, a blast from an LAW in the lead vehicle opened the next obstacle, the King George IV Gate, in a flurry of smoke and debris.
The last vehicle to enter the inner gate received a 40mm grenade from Gadgets's M-203. From his position on the slope above the walk, Gadgets saw the grenade land on the tarp and explode with a dull whump. He fired a second grenade and the vehicle burst into a ball of flame, a funeral pyre for the two men in front and any others concealed beneath the tarpaulin.
British soldiers poured from the Norman Gate in pursuit of the other two vehicles. A second LAW collapsed the Norman Gate's overhanging stone, crushing several soldiers underneath.
Automatic-rifle fire from within the Land Rovers cut through the survivors like a scythe.
7
Her Majesty had arrived at Windsor Castle shortly before six o'clock.
Dinner was served promptly at eight. One hundred twenty-seven guests had filed into the Waterloo Chamber.
They were just finishing the first course when they heard the opening shots in the battle.
Within seconds, eleven soldiers barged into the dining room. Their leader ran to Sergeant Stephen Mallik, Her Majesty's personal bodyguard.
At one time, Mallik and the queen had had a stormy relationship. Security for the British sovereign was always a touchy issue because the royal family refused to live as prisoners. Gradually the relationship between the bodyguard and his charge evolved into mutual respect. Security remained tight — tighter than Her Majesty cared for — but not oppressively so.
Mallik and the other troops began to herd the assembled guests under the huge polished oak table.
Without protest, the queen, too, ducked under the table.
Mallik and the soldiers piled up chairs to form a barricade. It would not give much protection, but it was better than nothing.
Mallik stayed close to the queen. Together they heard the explosions and they heard the sound of men dying to protect the royal family.
Beneath the table, each individual tried to deal with the possibility of impending death. More than a few began to weep.
A child near the queen was crying. The monarch pulled the frightened little girl to her and tried to offer her comfort.
Mallik frantically removed his suitcoat and tie to give greater freedom of movement.
Soldiers dressed in camouflage combat fatigues aimed Sterlings or LlAls at the six entrances to the room. The L1A1 was a powerful, dependable weapon that had seen service from the jungles of the Far East to the windswept Falklands.
An explosion blew the east door off its hinges.
Pieces of wood flew through the air, some absorbed by the cushions of the upturned chairs. One of the splinters caught a soldier in the right eye; he was dead before he hit the floor.
A second soldier fell to the fusillade of parabellums streaming into the room through the open doorway.
A low moaning came from beneath the table. Several slugs had torn through the barricade of chairs, finding human flesh.
Flynn slammed a fresh magazine into his Uzi, then dived. He issued a challenge of fire, finding the soldier at the southeast corner of the room. The 9mm slugs punched into the man, standing him straight up before dropping him to the floor.
Flynn rolled quickly, knowing that if he stopped even for a second he would be dead. He instinctively fired another burst from the Uzi. An advancing soldier caught the bullets in the face and throat. Blood sprayed out of the severed jugular, splattering the walls with splotches of red. The flow continued unabated onto the rug around the collapsed body.
Now the southwest corner door blew inward, propelled by an HE grenade. Mallik shielded his face from splinters, but there was no shelter from the 7.62 missiles that followed. His arms fell away from a bloodied face as he died on the floor.
A terrorist dived into the room through the newly blown door. Though he came in low, slugs from an L1A1 caught him in middive. He landed in a crumpled heap.
A grenade bounced into the room from the same entrance. Lance Corporal Andrew Hollinger would earn a posthumous Victoria Cross for covering the explosive with his body in a fine low racing dive. Now a crimson puddle spread out from Andrew's torso where it lay grotesquely askew.
Two terrorists came in firing. One walked high and was thrown against the west wall by 7.62 slugs from the LlAls. The one who crouched low had more success, his AK rounds finding soldiers who tumbled against each other, propping each other up momentarily before they all slumped into a heap on the floor.
Flynn crawled around the head of the table and opened up. His fire thwacked into the walls.
A terrorist had made it to the edge of the table near the queen and was advancing under Flynn's cover.
He stopped and pulled back a chair. A British soldier poked his head out of the space. The terrorist fired a short burst at it, turning it to bloody pulp.
The killer bellowed out, "Any one else makes a move and the queen is dead. I want all weapons on the floor."
Recognizing that further action would be fatal to the royal family, the remaining British soldiers put down their weapons. More terrorists entered the room. One of them was terrorist mastermind Kathleen McGowan. She opened up her Uzi on the unarmed soldiers, dropping each man like a pot of hot noodles hurled into a sieve to drain.
Quiet fell upon the room in a pall, disturbed only by the moaning of the injured and the soft crying of the children.
Two terrorists began picking up weapons. The terrorist at the edge of the table did not move his AK from its target, the queen.
Kathleen took a quick look around the room at her victory.
With these hostages, she and her people would be able to walk right out of the castle.
8
She grew uneasy as the first flush of victory wore off. She had not expected to achieve it without losses, but the losses had been high indeed.
Of the three squads attacking the north side, only Flynn had survived — and judging by his shotgun wounds, he might not yet.
Seven of the main force from the Land Rovers were dead. A graze on her shoulder reminded Kathleen of just how close she had come to joining them.
When the attack against the castle had first been proposed by Shillelagh several months ago, Kathleen thought the idea preposterous. With Shillelagh's help, she turned a preposterous idea into a workable plan. The plan had been launched and the raid had succeeded.
The next step was to get out.
Kathleen pulled a list from her pocket. Shillelagh had provided the names of each member of the royal family and photograph for each name on the list. Thirty-five people.
Each corpse in the room was examined — eliminating four of the names on the list. As terrorists herded the family out from under the table, each face was scanned.
Kathleen separated the hostages into two groups. The first was made up of the survivors on the list, the second were those not on the list. The second group could be let go; it was the first group that mattered. Kathleen went up to an old man who was being set free and handed him the sheet of names and photographs. She gave her instructions in a soft Irish brogue. "When you and the others in your group leave this room, give the list to whoever is in charge out there. The people on the list will be released on payment of one million pounds sterling, in a manner that the authorities will be told of shortly.
"If anyone attempts to follow us when we leave, we will immediately kill the hostages. If our demands are not met, we will begin killing individual hostages starting with the last name on the list and working toward the first.
"Within fifteen minutes, I want a bus brought out to the front of the castle. One of my people will go and check it out. No harm must come to him, or some of these people die..."
The twenty-fourth Earl of Kintail was not the best man Kathleen might have picked for the task. The tall, clear-eyed gentleman from Northern Ireland had an iron will and a sense of duty to the royal family that went be
yond mere patriotism.
The earl was a bastard. As an only child, his legal right to his father's title had fallen in a muddy area of British common law, and the courts had decided against him. Over forty years ago the crestfallen young man had learned of the court's decision against him in his digs in London.
In the short span of a few hours his entire life had changed. In the rigidly structured British army of the thirties, he could never hope to achieve a prominent place without the edge his title had given him. By withdrawing his title, the courts had condemned him to a middle-echelon position where his fine training and talents would be frustrated. He was an eager young man then, with a young man's ambitions.
The courts had also made him ashamed of his parents, something that, until then, Eddie had thought impossible. At school and at university, he had never endured the insults of his fellows. He remembered how the biggest boy in All Saints had called him a "shrewd little bastard" in front of his class. He heard the snickering around him and turned to face the rest of the boys. "I am a royalbastard," he said in his loudest and most precise voice. Then he broke the bully's nose.
Such moments became a source of strength for Eddie, but the news of the court's decision had made his pride disappear. He felt as he had felt as a child holding a fistful of hail pellets tightly in his hands; he remembered his disappointment as the perfect white pearls melted and dripped through his closed fingers.
"Hello Eddie," the voice had said more than forty years ago. "No lad, don't get up." Eddie had not seen the King of England since his father's funeral, but the man now stood inside the doorway of his London apartment. "I heard the news. Bad luck, Eddie, old boy. I expect you'd like to get drunk, what? Do you have any brandy?"
While sipping the liquor, the king explained that under British law, Eddie's father's estate would become the property of the British crown. In effect, the king could do anything he liked with all of the Kintail estate.
