find some way to whittle down the list to the ten names we've been asked for. I would suggest nothing more scientific than reviewing the sixteen names and, after any objections, putting all the remaining ones into a hat and pulling out the first ten.'
'Makes sense,' said Osman Ba.
'What are these criteria?' asked one of the Mexicans. 'I think it's only fair that we should know how these names have been selected.'
'Of course,' said Sig. 'The points are mostly obvious. All additional suggestions are welcome.' There was silence in the room before Sig spoke again. They could hear the sounds of gunfire and more explosions. The prospect of leaving their safe underground haven was looking less appealing by the minute.
'Not a member of the ski club,' said Sig. 'All the known Sacrificers were, you will recall.'
'That lets me out,' said a Polish student, 'but it doesn't make me a Sacrificer.'
'Eighteen or over,' continued Sig, 'familiar with weapons, good health, and eyesight and no serious physical defects, good reflexes, good English – that seems to be the common language among the existing defenders. Not an only child.' The list went on for another dozen points. 'And someone we all instinctively trust. Gut feel,' he added.
He read out the sixteen names. Three were vetoed. At Sig's suggestion, no reasons were given. The remaining thirteen names were placed in the now-empty bread bin. Three minutes later the chosen ten looked at each other in the knowledge that before dawn one or some or all of them might be wounded, even dead.
Sig was elected leader of the volunteers.
'Why only ten of us, I wonder?' asked Osman Ba. 'They could have asked for more. Why not twelve like the apostles?'
'One of the twelve was a traitor,' said Sig. 'I guess Fitzduane is trying to improve the odds.' He was reflecting that his little group was about as multinational as it could be. Would it help that traditional enemies – Russian and Pole, Kuwaiti and Israeli, French and German among them – were now on the same side? Did it make any difference what nationality you were when you were dead?
His mouth was dry, and he swallowed. Osman was doing the same thing, he noticed. That made him feel marginally better.
Above Fitzduane's Castle – 2307 hours
'Quite a party,' said Kilmara into his helmet microphone.
'About bloody time,' answered Fitzduane. The signal strength was good, and though his tone was professionally neutral, the relief in his voice was palpable. 'I hope you've brought some friends. The Hangman is here in strength.'
'Situation report,' said Kilmara.
Fitzduane told him, his summary succinct and almost academic, detailing nothing of the fear and pain and the gut-churning tension of combat.
'Can you hold?' asked Kilmara. 'I'll have to locate my DZ well north of you or the 12.7s won't leave much of us. It could take an hour or longer to link up with you.'
'We'll hold,' said Fitzduane, 'but it's getting hairy. We don't have enough bodies to man the full perimeter properly. We may have to fall back to the keep.'
'Very well,' said Kilmara. A heat signature blossomed on the IR-18 screen. Reflexes already primed, virtually simultaneously the pilot punched a switch to ripple-fire flares and, banking away from the oncoming missile, put the Optica into a series of violent maneuvers culminating in a steep dive.
'A fucking SAM,' said the pilot seconds later when it was clear that the heat-seeking missile had been successfully decoyed by the intense heat of the flares. 'Who would have thought it? A heat-seeking SAM-7 at a guess. Good thing we got away or we'd be fireworks.'
'Brace yourself for more fancy flying,' said Kilmara. 'We're going to have to keep their heads down during the jump.' He broke off to bark instructions to the two Ranger transport aircraft, which were preparing for a run to the drop zone. In response, the lead plane peeled off to starboard, leaving the second Islander alone heading toward the DZ. It was out of range of the heavy machine guns, but a SAM-7, what the Russians called a Strela or “Arrow” – has a range of up to 4,500 meters, depending on the model, and the slow Islander, low and steady for the drop, would be a tempting target. A possible tactic was to fly very low because a SAM-7 isn't at its best below 150 meters, but there was the small matter of allowing the parachutes time to open. In addition, budget constraints had meant that automatic flare dispensers weren't fitted to the transports, though conventional Very pistols were carried and might be of some help.
Kilmara raised Fitzduane again for a brief discussion of tactics and the disposition of the Hangman's forces. The primary targets would be the missile position and the heavy-machine-gun emplacements. The other threats would have to wait.
Unfortunately they wouldn't. As the Optica prepared for its strafing run and the Ranger transport flew toward the DZ, the Hangman launched another attack on the castle, with the tank spearheading the thrust.
Fitzduane's Castle – 2318 hours
The tank was advancing very slowly. The weight of its armor alone was unlikely to account for its pace, nor would there be any tactical reason for advancing at a crawl, so either the machine wasn't working properly or there were more unpleasant surprises in store.
At 150 meters, Andreas opened fire with the Hawk, acutely conscious that he had only four armor-piercing rounds left. A Kalashnikov bullet ricocheted through the arrow slit as he fired the first projectile, and he missed completely. Shaken, he aimed again. When the tank was about 120 meters away, he fired. This time the round punched through the armor plate and exploded. Still the tank came on.
At eighty meters Andreas fired two more armor-piercing rounds. One 40 mm grenade hit the facing armor plate close to where it butted against the side armor. The explosion blew the welding, peeling open the front of the tank like the lid of a sardine can. Still the tank came on, and only then were the slow speed of the vehicle and its resistance to the armor-piercing grenades explained. Behind the steel plate was a second multilayer wall of concrete blocks and sandbags, their sheer physical mass impossible to penetrate with the light weaponry at the defenders' disposal.
The peeled-back armor and the close range did offer some possibilities. Andreas lowered his aim. Perhaps he could knock out a wheel or disable the steering mechanism. His last armor-piercing round seemed to have little effect, but three high-explosive grenades fired in quick succession from less than forty meters at the right front wheel of the armored tractor jammed a steering rod and forced the vehicle marginally out of alignment with the gate.
Still the vehicle came on. Firing was now incessant on all sides. The terrorists sensed that they were close to breaching the castle, and the defenders, casting aside all attempts at restraint, used their night vision-equipped SA-80s and full firepower to devastating effect.
It wasn't enough. Six terrorists died in the hail of accurate automatic rifle fire before the remainder realized what they must be up against and sought physical cover – but then sheer numbers began to tell. A gap in the clouds meant that moonlight illuminated the battleground for a few critical minutes. Windows and firing slits could be seen as black rectangles against the gray mass of the castle walls. Accurate automatic rifle fire kept the defenders pinned down while the tank prepared to advance to point-blank range, where it would detonate the explosives it carried on a boom.
Keeping Fitzduane's castle between it and the SAM-7 position, the Optica screamed low over the sea at near-zero height, causing Murrough on the roof of the dugout to duck as the futuristic-looking aircraft flashed above him before it climbed at the last moment and then banked and dived. The SAM-7 fired a split second before a stream of tracer bullets followed by rockets blew the entire missile crew to pieces and the launcher into the undergrowth.
The SAM-7 had been aimed at the Ranger transport carrying out its low level drop on the north side of the
