medals on the wounded – and make a short speech saying he did it all himself. He's corrupt and a class-A shit and decidedly not one of our favorite people.'
'Oh,' said the Bear. 'I thought the Rangers were responsible for keeping him safe.'
'This is a very mixed-up country,' said Kilmara. 'I think I'll get drunk.'
Fitzduane's Castle – 0623 hours
It had started to rain shortly after dawn, and the wounded man lying concealed under the remains of the homemade tank greeted this downturn in the weather with relief. The cold rain soothed his horribly burned body and helped conceal him from the searching soldiers.
The man hadn't been wounded in the tank itself, but near the walls. He had been caught by a Molotov cocktail blast as he prepared to throw a grapnel, and for some seconds before his comrades had beaten out the flames he had been a human torch. By the time he recovered consciousness the comrades who had saved him had been killed. He had found their bodies one by one as he crawled his way to the cover of the tank and temporary safety.
He was within a few seconds of the cooling wreckage of the tank – the journey seemed to have taken hours – when a random burst of automatic-weapons fire smashed into his legs, splintering the bones and destroying any lingering hope that he might have a future. He could, perhaps, surrender, but the best he could hope for would be life a revoltingly disfigured cripple – and he had no home to go to, no country to go to. The idea of a future in a refugee camp – if he wasn't shot or imprisoned – had no appeal. And he would be penniless. Ironically, for many the whole point of this mission had been to make enough money to give themselves completely new lives. And for a time it looked as if they might make it.
Well, it was the will of Allah. Now all that remained was to die in the most suitable manner – to die avenging his comrades and so to meet them again in the Gardens of Paradise.
He had lost his AK-47 when he was hit by the gasoline bomb, and that he regretted, for a true soldier never abandons his weapon; but crawling to his steel sanctuary he had found something far more deadly: an RPG-7 rocket launcher. It was loaded, and although there were no spare rockets, he was confident that one would be enough for his purpose. He doubted very much that he would have the opportunity to fire for a second time. It would be as Allah willed. Each man had his own destiny, and out of apparent disaster often came good.
The man with the burned body and smashed legs moved his weapon into firing position when he heard the sound of helicopter rotors coming ever closer. The pain was truly terrible, but he embraced it and used it to keep himself conscious for those last few precious seconds.
The helicopter came into range. The RPG-7 was a straightforward point-and-shoot weapon with no sophisticated guidance system, so it was vital that he be accurate.
The helicopter was going to land in front of the castle. Through the 2.5 magnification telescopic sight it looked as if there were only one person inside it, but he must be someone important because soldiers were bracing themselves and an officer was shouting commands.
All eyes were on the helicopter. No one noticed the tip of the RPG-7 pointing out of a slit in the wrecked tank. The helicopter was less than seventy meters away when the dying man fired.
The Taoiseach of Ireland was actually thinking of Kilmara, and the bittersweet irony that the man he had betrayed so long ago was now going to enhance his political reputation through reflected glory, when he saw the 1.7-kilogram rocket-assisted fin-stabilized missile blasting toward him. For an infinitesimal moment he thought his victorious troops were firing some kind of victory salute.
The HEAT warhead cut straight through the Perspex canopy, making two neat, round holes as if for ventilation. There was no explosion. Fitzduane, Kilmara, the Bear, Etan,, and the other survivors of the original defenders watched the missile strike – and plow through the cabin harmlessly – with absolute incredulity.
There was a barrage of shots as the firer of the missile was cut down.
Kilmara put down his high-power binoculars. He had been looking directly at the Taoiseach in the approaching helicopter at the precise moment of the free-flight missile's impact.
'Well, I guess we can't win them all,' he said slowly as the Taoiseach headed to fast toward a decidedly rough landing. 'Too much vodka on the RPG-7 production line, I suppose.' His eyes lit up. 'Still, that'll teach him to listen to my advice. What a hell of a way to start the day.'
'How did you do that?' said the Bear to Fitzduane.
'And without moving your lips,' added de Guevain.
'I didn't,' said Fitzduane, 'Though it was temping.'
'Probably a spell,' said de Guevain.
'Great television,' said Etan. 'The bastard will make the news yet again.'
'Nonstick politician or not,' said Kilmara with some satisfaction, 'I think he'll need a fresh pair of pants. Oh, well, his day will come.'
The media helicopter had arrived and was obviously torn between wanting to get close-ups of the perforated aircraft and a not unreasonable desire to avoid receiving the same sort of treatment as the Taoiseach. Camera lenses sprouted from open doors and windows. The pilot, manifestly without combat experience – made a series of quick forays and then darted away. Fitzduane expected this amateur jinking to dislodge one of the cameramen any minute and for a body or two to come flying through the air.
'What's the time,' asked the Bear.
'About six-thirty,' said Fitzduane. 'Time for all good Irish men and women to be in bed.'
'Time for breakfast,' said the Bear.
'Typical for a bloody Swiss,' said Fitzduane.
