– almost immediately and near the action. It shouldn't be much longer. What's your situation?'
'We're close to the bow and arrow stage,' said Fitzduane, 'and we're kind of low on arrows.'
'Try charm,' said Kilmara. 'One extra thing: your roof is on fire. I can't see anything yet, but there's a heat buildup like you wouldn't believe on the IR.'
'Well, fuck ‘em,' said Fitzduane. 'Now I'm really pissed off. It's my home they're messing with.'
'Will the heat be a problem?' said Kilmara. 'Can you defend the keep if there's an inferno next door?'
'I think so,' said Fitzduane. 'Heat rises, and the walls are damned thick. It might get hot in here, but it shouldn't become untenable.'
'I'll hold you to that,' said Kilmara. 'Got to go. It's show time.'
The Tunnel Under The Castle – 0023 hours
Andreas watched the heavy iron door, which was all that separated the defenders from their attackers, glow cherry red as the oxyacetylene cutting flame bit into it. The door was old – made generations before the invention of modern hardened metals – and the flame was cutting through it effortlessly. Sparks poured into the tunnel, and soon the cutting flame itself could be seen.
The radio wouldn't function underground, so Andreas sent one of the students to inform Fitzduane that thing were about to liven up again. The good news was that their use of a torch to break in suggested that the attackers were either very low on, or out of, explosives.
Andreas's main fear was grenades. He tried to think whether he'd taken enough precautions against them. The defenders had prepared their normal sandbag barricades, of course, but they had also made extensive use of chicken wire and fishing net screens, which they could shoot through but which should, while they lasted, deflect any thrown object.
He wondered if the tunnel defense was a strong enough force to hold. The addition of the ten students had seemed like a major boost, but after the two fatalities, and once the runner was subtracted, the net gain was only seven – and four of those were on duty at various locations in the keep. The tunnel force actually numbered just six: Andreas himself, Judith, de Guevain, and three students. Henssen was now unconscious under Katia's care, and Oona was acting as den mother to the noncombatants.
Six amateur defenders against a trained attack force didn't sound quite enough somehow, thought now that he thought of it, he, Lieutenant Andreas von Graffenlaub of the Swiss Army, wasn't exactly an amateur -and these bastards who were trying to break in were already responsible for the deaths of three members of his family.
He switched off the main lights in the tunnel and brought his SA-80 up to the point of aim. A light-colored outline in his image intensifier marked the line of the cutting torch. The door was almost through. The tunnel defenders were about to find out if there was a grenade problem.
The severed door crashed forward onto the stone flags of the tunnel. The sudden noise was followed by absolute silence.
Beside Andreas, Sig Bengtquist licked his lips and tried to swallow. He had no night vision equipment, and all was threatening darkness. 'Day and Night': he thought of Osman with a sense of terrible loss and sadness, and then anger and a resolute determination to hit back, to put a stop to this evil, gripped him.
The Milan Team Outside Fitzduane's Castle – 0023 hours
The pre-aim mark of the Ranger Milan was aligned with the protruding barrel of the first heavy-machine-gun position. The terrorist gun crew was hidden by the stacked rocks and improvised sandbags of the emplacement, but Grady could imagine the scene inside: the heat from the weapon as belt after belt of ammunition snaked its way through the receiver to be sundered into brass cartridge case, propellant, and projectile. The crew members would be concentrating on their comrades to secure them from any unexpected attack. They would be tired but exhilarated, infected by the power of the weapon they served. They would be young men with mothers and families and children and dreams, motivated to be here on this island far from their home for reasons Grady would never know or ever really want to know – what difference would it make?
He pressed the firing button, sending a signal to the junction box. From there a powerful current ignited the gas generator at the back of the missile, simultaneously launching the missile and blasting the now-useless launch tube away from the launcher. Once the rocket was free of the launcher, its motor cut in. The missile accelerated up to its maximum velocity of more than nine hundred meters per second, trailing its guidance wire behind it.
With the weight of twelve kilos of missile now free of the firing post, the pre-aim mark was no longer needed, and Grady concentrated on keeping the missile with the ‘80 mil’ circle at the center of the reticule sight on the target. The trick was, in fact, to concentrate on the target, not the missile, since the Milan's tracking computer monitored the missile's position by reading the infrared signals emitted by the missile's rocket motor and sending any fresh guidance instructions along the hair-thin guidance wire.
For the first four hundred meters the missile's flight path was normally erratic, but beyond that distance the missile would follow the instructions transmitted by the wire and could be flown with unjammable accuracy onto the target. In simple terms, where Grady pointed the eight-power sight on the firing post, the missile went. Grady was flying it the way a child flies a model airplane, only at a speed and with a precision and purpose that had little to do with any child.
The missile hit precisely as aimed. Designed for punching through the thick super strength metal skin of a main battle tank, the warhead achieved its purpose by a savage transfer of kinetic energy rather than conventional explosives. Massive shock waves spread through the rock emplacement, shattering it into lethal fragments and destroying men and weapon in a millisecond.
'Cut!' shouted Grady. His number two, Roche, the loader, activated the quick-release latch that held in position the now-defunct junction box and the other end of the fired missile's guidance wire. A new missile tube was clipped into position in a routine practiced a thousand times; a fresh junction box and guidance wire were connected with the Milan firing post's electronic brain.
Grady traversed to the second heavy-machine-gun emplacement, the tripod mechanism smooth and positive; it was checked automatically by a test 360-degree traverse each time the tripod was set up. Training, training, training, concentrating only on what had to be done: no other thoughts were in his mind.
He could see the second gun firing tracer toward the castle. He aligned the pre-aim mark. This time he could see into the emplacement. Someone was gesticulating. The 12.7 mm stopped firing.
He pressed the firing button. Again his vision was obscured for perhaps half a second while the smoke from the initial ignition dissipated. On still days the smoke could linger for over a second and a half, and an operator would have to steer blind for that time, relying only on skill and experience. Novices tended to try to jerk the missile back on target when it reappeared, but that never worked. You had to keep cool and work smoothly. The Milan liked to be caressed to a kill.
The gun was swiveling toward his position. The high magnification periscope sight of the Milan showed a gaping muzzle that now seemed to be pointed directly at him. He could see the flames as the heavy weapon fired. The rounds traveled faster than the missile and cracked supersonically over his head. He was unaware of the incoming fire.
He was thinking about that flaming muzzle pointed toward him made an excellent point of aim.
There was a small explosion where the muzzle had been, and the target was obscured. His mind simultaneously registered a 40 mm grenade strike, estimated that it was either Hannigan or Quinlan giving him cover fire, registered annoyance that his aiming point had been removed, suddenly understood that he had been with a split second of being killed – and guided the missile home through the smoke and debris of the grenade explosion to the target.
It was another direct hit. 'Cut!' he shouted, and again the release mechanism was activated by Roche, the junction box and umbilical wire were released, and a fresh missile was clipped into place.
Quinlan and Hannigan raked the shattered remnants of the heavy-machine-gun positions with 44 mm grenade and machine-gun fire, cutting down the few survivors in seconds.
An intense firefight broke out all around the Rangers. The terrorists, realizing that they had been infiltrated,
