The phone was answered on the tenth ring by a noticeably out-of-breath voice. Kilmara was informed by O'Sullivan, the local policeman, that he had just cycled back form the bridge access to Fitzduane's Island after trying to get hold of Sergeant Tommy Keane, who was in turn wanted by the superintendent to answer a small matter to do with an assault on a water bailiff. Kilmara had the feeling that O'Sullivan might expire before the conversation finished. He waited until the policeman's breathing sounded less terminal. 'I gather you didn't find the sergeant?' Kilmara finally asked.
'No, Colonel,' said O'Sullivan.
'What's this about the bridge access? Why didn't you cross onto the island?'
'Didn't I tell you?' answered the policeman. 'The bridge seems to have collapsed. There is nothing there except wreckage. The island is cut off completely.'
Kilmara hung up in frustration. It was now nearly 2000 hours. What the hell was happening on that island? The evidence was stacking up that all was not well, but it was still not conclusive. Geranium Day in Bern and severed communications didn't necessarily add up to a combat jump onto Fitzduane's Island. Or did it if you threw in Fitzduane's vibes about the Hangman's track record?
He looked at the paperwork on the Middle Eastern group, which was due to arrive on the last flight from London. The flight had originated in Libya, but there was no direct connection to Ireland. Was it credible that such a group wouldn't at least overnight in London to recharge on Western decadence?
He had a sudden insight that he was approaching the problem the wrong way. The question wasn't whether the travel agents were genuine or otherwise. The question was how to deal with two problems at once, and the answer, from that perspective, was obvious. In a way he had that cretin from the tourist board to thank for pointing it out. It took him twenty-five minutes on the phone to make the arrangements.
He found Gunther in the operations room. The German looked up as he entered. He had been trying the direct radio link to Fitzduane, but now he shook his head. 'Nothing,' he said. 'Completely dead.'
He followed Kilmara back to his office. Kilmara gestured for him to close the door. 'The British owe us a few favors,' he said.
Gunther raised his eyebrows. 'So?'
'I've called one in,' said Kilmara. 'The Brits aren't too happy, but they'll do it.'
'Fuck me,' said Gunther. 'You're getting the British to handle the problem at the stopover in London.'
Kilmara nodded. 'We can't stand down the embassy security until it's done and we've sorted out our Japanese friends. But it does clear the decks a little and allow us to take a trip with a clear conscience.'
'So we drop in on Fitzduane.'
'We do,' said Kilmara. 'Let's move.'
Baldonnel Military Air Base outside Dublin – 2045 hours
Voices crackled in his headphones. They were being cleared for takeoff. In an ideal world, Kilmara began to think – but then he brushed the thought from his mind. He had spent most of his career working within financial constraints when it came to equipment, and lusting after night-flying helicopters in a cash-strapped economy like Ireland's wasn't going to achieve much right now.
Truth to tell, apart from the helicopter deficiency – the most expensive items on his shopping list by far both to buy and to maintain – the Rangers were well equipped and were as highly trained as he could ever hope. They'd find out soon enough whether it would all come together as planned. This was going to be like no other operation the Rangers had carried out – and it would be their first combat jump as a unit.
Of course, it could all be a false alarm, yet somehow Kilmara knew it wasn't. Something told him that on the other side of Ireland blood had started to flow. Spontaneously his right hand felt for the steel and plastic of the SA- 80 clipped into place beside his seat.
He looked through the transparent Perspex dome of the Optica cockpit at the runway ahead, then glanced behind him to where the two Islander twin-engine light transports waited with their cargoes of Rangers and lethal equipment. The pilot's voice sounded in his earphones. The Optica had been specially silenced so that normal conversation was possible without using the intercom, but external communications made the intercom mandatory.
'We're cleared,' the pilot said.
'Final check,' ordered Kilmara.
Gunther's voice crackled in immediately, followed by that of the commander of the second plane.
Kilmara looked at the pilot. 'Let's get airborne.'
They took off and headed west into the setting sun.
DrakerCollege – 2045 hours
As reversal followed reversal, while outwardly showing scant reaction, Kadar had experienced the full spectrum of emotions from paralyzing fear to a rage so intense that he felt as if his gaze alone would destroy. The news that Fitzduane was, in fact, still alive did nothing to help his mood. Executing the pilot of the Islander had provided the cathartic outlet he needed. A smear of algae on the floor and a head-high blood and brain matter stain on the wall were all that remained of that incompetent.
His mind had adjusted to face the change in developments head-on. He could now see the advantages of the situation. He was confronted with the most satisfying challenge of his professional life and an adversary worthy of his talents. Operation Geranium would succeed, but only after effort and total commitment. It would be a fitting finale to this stage of his career, and to look on the bright side, fatalities on the scale he had suffered meant a much-enhanced bottom line. A reduction of overhead, you might say.
Kadar studied the map and the aerial photographs. He now knew who and what he was up against – and where they were. The island was isolated. Fitzduane's castle was surrounded, and Kadar had the men and the weapons to do the job. That damned Irishman was about to learn some military facts of life.
Lesson one: His medieval castle would prove no match for late-twentieth-century firepower.
Fitzduane's Castle – 2118 hours
Fitzduane had let the rest for ten minutes after they made it back to the castle and then put them all to work in an organized frenzy of effort. The terrorists had appeared not long after the portcullis had slammed into place but at first had made no attempt to approach closer than about a thousand meters. Then, as the evening shadows deepened, movement could be detected in brief flashes. The noose was tightening.
When the nearest terrorist was about six hundred meters away, Fitzduane ordered Murrough and Andreas to open fire on single shot. Sporadic sniping then broke out, with no automatic fire being used on either side. The firing died down after about fifteen minutes, with the terrorists in position for an assault in a semicircle around the castle and with their watchers monitoring the sea side. Murrough and Andreas swore they had achieved some hits but couldn't be too precise about the numbers.
Sergeant Tommy Keane was the castle garrison's first fatality. A random sniper round hit him in the center of his forehead while he was peering through an arrow slit in the keep. He died instantly.
Kadar's forces were now dug in around them, just outside normal combat-rifle range, and daylight was fading. The castle defenders had completed most of their preparations, but Fitzduane noticed that his people were getting tired and potentially careless. He called a food break and called a council of war wit those not on watch. The mood was somber but determined. Tommy Keane's death had countered any euphoria left after their escape from Draker. The brutal realities of combat were becoming clear: it was kill or be killed, winner take all.
'At the college we had surprise on our side,' said Fitzduane. 'Now they know where we are and roughly who we are, and the ball is more in their court. We'll have to keep sharp if we're to come out of this in one piece.'
'How long do you think we'll have to hold?' asked Henssen.
Fitzduane shrugged. 'We had a regular radio check with the Rangers set up. We've missed several in a row
