by Dick Stivers
Just as he made the last step, a man came into the hall. Seeing the battered prisoner, the man tried to put down the tray that he was carrying and go for his gun at the same time. To do two things at once proved too much. Flame shot out from Leo's Colt. The bullet slammed into the goon's right shoulder, spinning him into a pirouette.
The tray clattered to the floor with the first shot, and by the second shot, Leo was at the front door. He opened it and glanced behind him quickly for signs of pursuit. He was puzzled that no one came after him, but he wasn't going to stand there and worry about it.
He stumbled into the street.
He didn't care in which direction he went, just so long as it was away from the house.
* * *
Inside the elegant town house, Shillelagh received the last of the report on the assault at Windsor. The interrogation of Sticker had been interrupted earlier this evening when the first reports filtered in from Shillelagh's contact with the CID.
Now two shots told Shillelagh that Sticker was escaping.
Obviously, the man he had set to guard Sticker had been careless. His carelessness had been doubtless terminal. Shillelagh could do nothing.
In addition to Shillelagh and Sticker, there were only two men in the house, both part of Shillelagh's hard arm. Any force larger at this particular house would have drawn the attention of the authorities.
Leo's escape was an inconvenience. Shillelagh picked up the telephone. Long manicured fingers dialed, then a device held tightly to Shillelagh's throat sent eerie directions into the night.
* * *
As he walked along the street, the cold crept up on Leo as his exhilaration at escaping wore off. He had no protection against the cold, he was still without a shirt. The Colt was tucked into the waistband of his pants. People walked by him, stepping out of the way of the wild man with the red welts.
He found a phone booth outside a subway station. Leo peered at the instruction card, took out a handful of the coins liberated from the guard, and dialed 100.
The operator came on, and dialed the American embassy for him. He had no idea how much she told him to deposit, he just fed all the coins into the box.
"Get me Sir Jack Richardson. This is Sticker."
"Good God, sir," the embassy operator exclaimed. "Sir Jack isn't here at the moment. He and half the embassy are out looking for you. Where are you?"
"A subway station. The sign reads Ravenscourt Park."
"Right. Sir Jack's not too far, maybe five minutes away. Stay there and I'll call him."
Leo hung up the phone and collapsed. His knees gave way and he sank to the floor of the booth. He was totally beat.
From across the street, two men in a station wagon watched him slump. They got out of the vehicle and fanned out, alert for any friends of the prey.
A moment later, one of the men had disarmed Leo and was dragging him struggling to the parked car. His companion watched for interference.
* * *
Constable Brown had patrolled the Ravenscourt Park area for most of his working life. It was a quiet district; in fifteen years he had seen very little that had made him truly scared.
He had just turned into King Street when he saw the two men. Constable Brown called out to the man to release his struggling captive.
The lookout hesitated too long. By the time he had swung his weapon, Brown was rapping his club across the guy's wrist. The gun skittered across the pavement. A billy-club blow into the lookout's stomach had the guy doubled over.
Mustering his final reserves of strength with fierce determination, Leo reached back and delivered a roundhouse right to the nose of the man who held his left arm in a vicelike grasp. The man reeled as much in surprise as from the force of the blow. Leo took the advantage and grabbed his Colt back. He fired two shots into the guy's chest. The corpse collapsed in a gory heap. A pool of blood quickly spread.
Constable Brown looked at the disheveled fellow he had just helped rescue. The man looked like hell.
"Well, you had to shoot him, I suppose," the constable sighed. He held the captive lookout by the scruff of the neck.
A limo cornered heavily at the end of the street. It roared up, then slammed on its brakes to stop parallel to Leo and the bobby and his prisoner.
Armed Marines from the embassy force spilled out of the car and surrounded the three men.
It took Sir Jack Richardson a moment longer to get out of the car. The cane kept getting in the way. He raised himself to his full height and marched toward his American colleague and the two strangers, one of them regrettably a policeman.
"Let me see your permits, please!" boomed Constable Brown, his eyes bulging at the man with the cane and at each and every one of the Marines. With his prisoner still securely accounted for by the neck, he prodded the Marine with the nightstick as Leo laughed. "You first, soldier. Your papers where I can see 'em, and put that thing down!"he snapped, rapping the man's rifle barrel with his stick.
Sir Jack Richardson watched. It was going to be a long night.
11
Three Bell UH-1D helicopters settled down onto the south lawn of Windsor Castle. Rocket packs were mounted on the sides of each. As the rotors slowed, a U.S. Army officer clambered from one of the Hueys and approached the nearest group of men.
"Major Sam Johnson reporting. I'm looking for Able Team."
Pol Blancanales identified himself as Able Team.
"My orders are simple," the major said. "Do what I'm told, when I'm told to do it. Sorry we took so long getting here."
"That's all right, Major," Blancanales said. "There wasn't a damn thing any of us could do. But we can use you now."
Major Johnson smiled, pointed to the idling helicopters. "An M-60 on each side, sixteen 2.75-inch rockets in the packs. Armed like in Nam…"
* * *
The three Hueys flew west, just beside and above the A40 highway to Oxford. Major Johnson flew nearly at treetop level in the night, following the blip.
"Any chance this could turn into a fire mission?" he asked Blancanales.
"Yeah," Lyons replied. "It's very likely."
Johnson's copilot interrupted. "Major, the signal indicates the bus has stopped."
Johnson brought the Huey to a hover, radioed the two other gunships, asked Blancanales for instructions.
"What sort of country are we in, Major?"
"Farm country, sir. There is some urban buildup, we're just west of High Wycombe."
"Then you must guide us to where the bus is. You must put us down within a half-mile of it."
Johnson sent the Huey farther down the A40. Within two miles he veered to the right, reported that he had reached position. Johnson maneuvered his gunship over a field of barley and set the chopper down amid swaying grain.
Three men stepped into the field, and headed toward the bus.
* * *
Kathleen McGowan was home. Home being, in this case, a hardsite. Scattered around the perimeter were members of the Irish Freedom Army. Roving patrols checked on the sentries at irregular intervals, the irregularity of the visits keeping the sentries alert.
The thirty hostages had disembarked from the bus right after Kathleen. She pointed them toward the farmhouse under the watchful eye of men toting weapons with 75-round drums, a demonstration of massed firepower.
Then McGowan spoke briefly with several patrol leaders. The leaders headed away to roust more troops to protect the farm.
She entered the parlor of the two-story stone house to find that her fellow terrorists had split the hostages into two groups. One of the groups, consisting of twelve hostages, sat in the middle of the floor of the empty living room. Five terrorists with Uzis and AK-47s kept their guns trained on the group. The remaining hostages, including the queen and the princes, were put in what had been the dining room under heavy guard.
Kathleen nodded approval, and headed up the stairs followed by Joseph Flynn. Both had borne the brunt of the night's work, and now they wanted
only to sleep.
Looking from an upstairs window, Kathleen watched as two of the terrorists put the bus inside the barn. The fit was tight, but they got inside and closed the doors. That job completed, the two men returned to their patrol.
* * *
The night was still as the men worked their way toward the farm. Their black suits were invisible in the night. Two British soldiers who followed at a distance blended in nearly as well, their lighter uniforms melding into the golden shafts of grain around them. Guided by triangulations radioed from the two helicopters, the five men crept into a large field that abutted a farmhouse.
Using his Startron, Blancanales picked out perimeter guards. Lieutenant Colonel Carlton also appraised the defending forces.
"Those roving patrols are a problem," Carlton whispered.
"Our biggest problem is locating the hostages," Blancanales responded.
"Quiet probe," Lyons said.
"Let's do it," Blancanales agreed.
They signaled the two British soldiers to back off. Able Team lay prone, modified Colts held at full extension; accuracy was essential. They aimed into the darkness of the field.
The three autopistols, set for single shots, sneezed three .45-caliber bullets.
Two terrorists on roving patrol spun quickly, minus lower jaws, their mouths and throats ripped away. A third fell straight back with a hole above his eyes.
Before the two surviving patrolmen could react, the next trio of slugs hit. One crushed a larynx, another an eye that it drove into the brain. The third slug hit the same man in the bridge of his nose.
The corpses fell silently to the soft earth.
The three Americans had created their opening. Five raiders went through it. The attack team advanced into the blackness.
12
In twenty seconds, the gunships would be moving in to take care of the troops in the yard. To avoid being chewed up in the impending slaughter, the raiders had to be inside the farmhouse when the gunships hit.
Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen…
Phillips tapped Blancanales on the shoulder and pointed to their left. Blancanales saw two approaching terrorists. The terrorists still had not seen the raiders.
Ten, nine, eight…
The terrorists never would see the raiders. Three .45's from Pol's Colt sailed into them like angels of death.
Five, four, three…
Blancanales did not wait to see the two corpses fall. Already they could hear the rotors of the three gunships roaring into M-60 range.
Two, one…
Blancanales and the British corporal ran toward the side of the house as the choppers opened up on the troops gathered in the yard. Blancanales reached for a stun grenade, pulled the pin and lobbed it through a window, shattering the glass. The grenade was quickly followed by one from Phillips. As the first grenade burst, Lyons and Gadgets dashed for the front of the house.
The Hueys' M-60s raked through the terrorists.
Terrorists fired back from the barn where the bus had been parked.
Major Johnson brought his Huey in and delivered eight rockets to the barn. The structure exploded in a ball of fire, the rockets igniting the fuel in the bus. Three terrorists emerged from the inferno, burning like torches.
* * *
Christ, thought Kathleen McGowan, staring at the headless remains of Joseph Flynn as she hid behind the smoking remains of the barn.
She ran the length of the barn toward the open field. Someone saw her, friend or foe, and suddenly a mass of pellets tore through her insides. The shooting triggered more shooting as the remaining terrorists opened fire in panic on anything that moved. The raiders, too, joined in the mayhem, but with purposeful precision.
Outside the battle was over.
* * *
Pandemonium had erupted in the two rooms where Blancanales's and Corporal Phillips's stun grenades had burst. A stun grenade explodes without shrapnel. The flash temporarily blinds anyone within a confined area. The concussion can cause deafness. In every way, stun grenades disorient the enemy.
Gadgets on one side of the door and Lyons on the other poked their Ingrams through windows and sprayed the walls at chest height. Nine millimeter slugs stitched through plaster and flesh alike.
Under the cover of the fire, Blancanales and Phillips slammed the door open with their feet and rolled into the room. Phillips's Sterling barked twice, delivering death both times. Four fell in the dining room under Blancanales's onslaught.
Lyons squeezed the trigger of his M-16 and carved a figure eight into everything before him. He caught a hint of movement at the top of the stairs to his left, and rolled as a 7.62mm slug plowed into the hardwood floor where he had stood a heartbeat earlier. More slugs slashed the floor as the burst from the top of the stairs continued. Then the gunner fell, and the staccato challenge ceased as abruptly as it had begun.
Lyons looked into the dining room. The hostages cowered behind a young man holding a smoking Uzi. The Uzi pointed directly at Lyons.
Carlton's voice called from the open window. "Your Highness, he's one of us."
The young prince looked unblinkingly at the intruder.
Lyons nodded to a nearby youth holding an AK-47. "Friend of yours?" Lyons asked the prince.
"My brother."
"Take my M-16," he said, tossing the weapon to the younger prince. "It looks better on you." He admired the two young aristocrats for their alacrity in securing guns from the dead and protecting the other hostages.
The other hostages included the Queen of England. The regal lady, her tawny suit marked with dust, stepped forward from within the group to confront the stranger in the blacksuit, who used his Ingram to cover the scene before him.
"Why your black uniform? Who are you?"
Donald Fagan's penetration of her palace in 1983 might have shaken the queen, but nothing had prepared her for the horror and carnage that had scarred the most recent hours of her reign. Abducted from a palace filled with bodies chopped by gunfire, terrorists and soldiers alike draped bleeding over the furniture, then herded into a farmhouse that came under attack from missile-firing helicopters, she stood at last under the suspicious gaze of a blacksuited man waving a gun. It took all the stamina she possessed to come forward with her head high.
"I demand to know who you are," she said to the stranger.
"Lady, I haven't got the time," Lyons said.
A good-looking man stepped forward. "Mother..."
The queen signaled him not to interrupt. She was still in control. She repeated her question to Lyons, adding, "Whose side are you on?"
"If I was a bad guy, you'd be dead by now."
The prince bridled at hearing his mother addressed with such lack of respect. "Are you some sort of American mercenary?" he said.
"Mercenary?" Lyons sneered contemptuously. "If a man fights only for money..." he swept the snout of his weapon to indicate the smouldering corpses outside "...he won't go the last mile for you. Maybe you wouldn't understand."
The prince stared back into the cold steel of Lyons's eyes.
The queen headed off a clash between the two men by shaking her head in resignation. "Is there to be no end to this killing?" she intoned softly. "Does peace demand such a bitter price?"
Lyons looked at her. "You can only hope for peace," he said levelly, "if you can bring yourself to understand war."
"You are an intentional and emotional berserker!" huffed the young prince. "We do it different over here."
"I kill people who don't give other people respect," Lyons shot back. "We're not so different."
"All you talking of is killing…" the prince replied.
"If you want peace," Lyons explained, "you must understand war. You must understand the organization of violence. You must know why men fight. It's a bloody game and mankind has had a long time to practice it. We are much better at waging war than making peace."
The prince revealed a respect for the American's words. "Madam," he said to
his mother, using the formal term in order to seek permission, "I must go with these gentlemen. I believe they can use my contacts and influence to track down the perpetrators." The young man's eyes were eager.
Lieutenant Colonel Carlton addressed the queen from the doorway of the overcrowded room. "Your son tells the truth, Your Majesty. We must act fast. We need access and influence, starting now. I will ensure His Royal Highness's safety."
The queen glared at Lyons. "If word of any of this should ever leak out…" She hesitated; she did not even know the stranger's name. Lyons looked back over his shoulder as he left with the lieutenant colonel and the prince.
"I'm sure not going to tell anybody, lady. Are you?"
13
The three men of Able Team, Corporal Phillips and His Highness went directly to the U.S. Embassy. There, Able Team and Phillips changed into civilian clothes. While they changed, Sir Jack Richardson briefed the five men on Leo's kidnapping and Ripper's death.
Leo met them all in a study downstairs. He appeared shaken. But his physical wounds were minor compared to the wounds on the inner man. He had very nearly broken under the unremitting questions of Shillelagh's electronic voice; the knowledge that only fictional heroes are able to completely resist torture did not make him feel any better.
Scotland Yard had raided the interrogation house in Chiswick — and found nothing. The dead tagmen had disappeared, and the floor of the room where Leo had been kept was spotless. All traces of Shillelagh and the operation had been removed.
Leo listened in as various options for nailing Shillelagh were discussed by the hunters. Finally Gadgets spoke. His words were clear but cryptic.
"I say we bug'em all."
"Corporal Phillips," Blancanales said, "are there any good electronics stores around here?"
"Several. But none are open this early."
"No problem," Lyons volunteered. "We just do a little midnight shopping."
"Your Highness, you may not want to hear this," Gadgets told the prince.
