hand.
'Maybe,' said Lonsdale, the Texan, who as a reflex had examined the helicopter briefly with his night-vision binoculars.
He sounded unconvinced. There had been no smoke or erratic maneuvering. The flying had been purposeful, skilled.
'It came in low and fast.' He thought again. 'It was a civilian bird, but it was more like he was heading for a hot landing. Probably an army hotshot reliving his past.'
Kilmara sipped his tea without tasting it. 'What then?' he said.
'Three guys got out. They were dressed in vacation gear, you know, hats with flies and those sleeveless jackets with lots of pockets. They had fishing poles with them. They seemed to know where they were going. They headed toward Duncleeve, your friend's place. I guess they fucked up on their navigation and landed a little short. They wouldn’t have been able to see the castle from that height with the hills in the way.'
'Fishing poles?' said Kilmara.
'I guess they call them rods over here,' said Lonsdale. 'They had them in those long bags you use when you're traveling. You know, kind of like a gun c-' It hit him. 'Oh, shit!'
Kilmara's unfinished tea cut a glistening swath through the air as he flung the mug to one side. 'It's not the fishing season,' he snarled. His command echoed through the clearing. 'RANGERS, MOUNT
UP! THIS IS NO DRILL!'
They were at the wrong end of the island.
It had been Fitzduane's practice to ride the length of the island along the cliffs of the southern coastline and past DrakerCastle to the headland.
This pleasant routine had lost something of its attraction one morning when he had found young Rudivon Graffenlaub with a rope around his neck hanging from a tree. And it was that hanging that had brought him into the world of counterterrorism. It was a world that had no exit. That particular incident had ended with the destruction of the terrorist known as the Hangman, but the dead terrorist had been the linchpin of a worldwide network, and revenge by one of the surviving terrorist groups was no small possibility.
The memories of that incident and its consequences lingered on all too well without the added stimulus of the sight of the hanging tree. Also, Boots had a three-year-old's attention span. He liked shorter rides, more variety, and to finish up at the waterfall.
The cascading water at Battleford entertained him and distracted him sufficiently for Fitzduane to be able to enjoy his surroundings without having to answer a question every thirty seconds. Boots liked to splash and float sticks and throw stones into the water. The stream was shallow there and relatively safe.
That day, with Boots secure between his arms on a special seat on the saddle in front of him, Fitzduane first headed west toward Draker, as had been his old routine, but then turned inland, past a section of particularly treacherous bog, and veered north across the track that ended with Draker Castle and on toward the hills that guarded the northern coastline.
Fitzduane loved the feeling of the young body next to his. Boots's curiosity and sense of fun were contagious. His excitement and enthusiasm were total. From time to time, unconsciously, Fitzduane would pull Boots to him and caress the top of his head with his lips or stroke his cheek. He knew that this was a special age and a special closeness, and that this time would pass all too soon.
The center of the island was relatively flat by the standards of the terrain, and here, just north of the track, Fitzduane and Boots found a neat row of dead sheep. A note written on milspec paper was wired to a stick and fluttering in the wind.
It read: 'Hugo -if you find these sheep before I have had a chance to hide them, I can explain everything! See you for dinner this evening.' It was signed, 'Shane (Colonel, soon to be General) Kilmara.'
Fitzduane smiled. Kilmara tended toward the incorrigible. It was a miracle he was making general, given the number of enemies he had made, but occasionally talent will out.
He was curious about how Kilmara's exercise would work out. He had high hopes for the Guntrack concept, small light fast vehicles festooned with weaponry and capable of outrunning and destroying a tank, and costing a fraction of the amount.
There was evidence of several of the tracked vehicles around. The tracks seemed to have sprung out of nowhere and then headed north. He followed them, and behind a clump of rocks found the drop pallets and Kevlar restraining straps under a camouflage net. The tracks then headed in different directions. Well, he would find out the details that evening.
Boots was enjoying himself playing with the camouflage net and jumping from pallet to pallet. Fitzduane dismounted and let Pooka, their horse, nibble. Boots soon worked out a game whereby he would throw himself off a pallet and Fitzduane would have to catch him. Boots jumped fearlessly, utterly confident that his father would keep him from harm.
Boots suddenly screwed up his face, so Fitzduane pulled down the little boy's pants and let him pee away from the wind. The exercise was a success. They mounted up and headed due east, parallel more or less with the hills, and toward Battleford.
The watcher saw them first. He took no action. His main concern was guarding their rear and their escape route. It was all clear.
Below him, the spotter picked them up as they emerged around the base of a foothill and headed toward the waterfall. He spoke to the sniper.
The rifleman adjusted his point of aim in response to this information.
Seconds later, rider and son on horseback entered the limited field of vision of his telescopic sight.
Kilmara had often noticed there was a natural temptation to consider the movement in itself a positive result. In his opinion, this tendency had bedeviled maneuver warfare since Cain initiated the process by terminating Abel.
But Kilmara was an old hand. He went for the high ground – a protruding foothill – and there positioned himself on a reverse slope. He then spoke into his headset microphone, and a telescopic mast began to extend from the back of the Guntrack. It stopped when it was just over the brow of the hill. A higher slope behind them meant nothing was silhouetted against the skyline.
Kilmara could now view most of the low-lying terrain as far as Duncleeve and beyond. There was some dead ground due to natural variations in the fall of the land and there were hills on the north side of the island – to his left from where he was positioned – but it was the best he could do in the time available, and Kilmara rarely worried about the theoretical optimum. He wasn't an idealist; he was a pragmatist. He had learned over more than three decades that the profession of arms was a practical business.
Mounted on the extended mast was a FLIR – forward looking infrared observation unit. This operated like a variable, very-high-magnification telescope, but with the added advantage of a wider angle of vision linked with the ability to see through mist and rain and smoke and darkness. The image was transmitted to a high-resolution television screen which was built into the console in front of him.
Methodically, he began an area search, operating the FLIR head with a small joystick. Concurrently, he had ordered the other two Guntracks forward. One was following the line of the foothills. The other was advancing toward Duncleeve at high speed on the track that ran the length of the island.
