automatic fire from the other end of the hall. Bolt's men were already engaged in clearing two of the four top-floor rooms.
The sound of fire, he knew, would make the terrorist combatants on the other side of his door trigger-happy to say the least. His men were going in with weapons suppressed. This bought you precious time while the bad guys were trying to figure out 'what the hell was that and where did it come from?' Suppressors also keep muzzle blast to a minimum, assisting the entry team in situation awareness.
Yankee squad had been trained to the point of automatic response. The body automatically brought the weapon up to the ready. Trained endlessly in the fundamentals of sight alignment and trigger control, they now reflexively applied those two muscle-memory skills in the heat of combat. These British Army troops were as lethal a group of men as existed, taught to neutralize the hostile until he is no longer a threat.
'Yankee, go,' Hawke said into his lip mike, signaling the other team's entry at the same moment his commando put his shoulder to the door, blowing it inward. He immediately rolled to his right, followed by Hawke and the balance of the team. Rule One was you never enter a room from the center of the doorway; that is called the Death Zone.
You go in from either side, low and fast, acquire targets, and hit them.
Which is what Hawke did to the man firing his AK-47 at him from the floor, the rounds zipping over Hawke's head and raining down plaster, as he began to lower the weapon for the kill. Hawke drew the P9 handgun with blinding speed and shot the man in the forehead in a single motion. There'd been no time for a body shot.
'Commander, behind you!' he heard one of his men shout and he whirled about to face a man three feet away with a gun pointed at his head. Hawke's instincts were operating at a level where he could see the man's finger applying pressure to the trigger. He was looking death right in the face when that face ceased to exist, the man's head literally disintegrating before his eyes. A halo from across the room had taken him out with a head shot.
Hawke estimated about ten armed men remaining in the room, half of them capable of getting off a shot before they were killed. The IRA soldiers, disorganized and disoriented by the intensity of the surprise attack, were firing blindly and missing. Three more of them went down, and it was clear Yankee had achieved dominance in the room.
'The rest of you,' Hawke shouted, swinging his M8 back and forth to cover them, 'throw down your weapons! Now.'
Seeing resistance was useless, they complied instantly, the AKs rattling to the floor.
'Hands up where I can see them. Everyone against the far wall. Good. Now turn and face it, putting your hands on the wall above your heads.'
He now had seven prisoners on his hands. His only thought was that one of them might be Smith. He reached forward and yanked the balaclava off the head of the nearest man. A redheaded kid not much more than twenty stared at him with blinking blue eyes.
'Sergeant, cuff these men. Two of you stay here and cover these prisoners. The rest of you follow me,' Hawke said, heading for the door. Once more in the hallway, he heard minimal fire and Lieutenant Bolt's voice screaming, 'On the floor! Now, get on the fucking floor or you're fucking dead!'
Situation under control at that end, he thought, peering into the adjacent room. The shooting had ceased, but he saw two halos on the floor alongside the dead IRA men and the prisoners already with their hands cuffed behind them.
'Two of ours down in here, sir.'
'How badly are they hurt, Sergeant?'
'It's Onslow, sir. Afraid he's dead. Gut shot. Bled out during the firefight. Afraid I didn't see him in time.'
'Don't blame yourself, you were busy. How about the other soldier?'
'That's Briggs, sir. He'll make it, all right. Took a round, he did, blew out his shoulder.'
'Prisoners secure?'
'Yes, sir. Five of them in here. And three down.'
'Take them next door. Along the wall with the others.'
To get to the other end of the hall, Hawke had to step over the body of a young British Army soldier who'd been shot in the back at the top of the stairs. He found Bolt in the farthest room, kneeling beside one of his men, who was badly wounded. He was holding the boy's hand.
Looking up at Hawke, he said, 'Casualties?'
'Two dead, one wounded.'
'Prisoners?'
'Twelve.'
'Have a look in the room right there, Commander,' Bolt said, pointing at a closed door. 'See what happens to an IRA rat who gets caught.'
Hawke kicked it open. The room was empty save for an unrecognizable human being tied to a chair. Obviously dead. There was not a square inch of his naked body that had not been ripped, burned, or beaten. Hawke crossed and looked carefully at the corpse, confirming his suspicions. Although the eyes were swollen shut, the nose smashed, and all the teeth broken or missing, the face was still faintly recognizable.
It was the IRA bomb maker, Thomas McMahon, the man who'd steered them to the Barking Dog for thirty pieces of silver.
'Zulu, Zulu, this is Yankee,' Bolt said into his commo as Hawke returned. 'What's your situation, Lieutenant Foreman?'
'We've secured the building, sir. All hostiles neutralized. We have four casualties, all wounded, no KIA. We have also recovered two laptops and numerous documents.'
'Well done. Medics?'
'Just coming through the door.'
'Send one up here, on the double. I've got a boy bleeding to death right here.'
'Yes, sir, already on his way up.'
'How many prisoners, total, down there? Ground floor and first?'
'Fifteen, sir.'
'All right. I want all prisoners assembled in one room. You have a clear room down there?'
'Kitchen, sir. Clean as a whistle.'
'Everyone hear that? I want all prisoners in the kitchen. Right now. Try and raise Major Masterman in the command vehicle. Tell him the house is secure.'
'He's not in the command vehicle, sir. I just sent Nichols to inform him.'
'Where the hell is he?'
'No one's quite sure, sir.' At that moment a young medic came racing up the stairs, calling for Bolt. His face was a mask of terror.
'Lieutenant! We've got to evac immediately!'
'What?' Bolt said.
'Sir! I was attending a wounded hostile on the ground floor, desperate to be moved outside. He says the basement is a weapons cache. There is an explosive device down there on a timer. He says he saw another hostile trigger the timer just as he died!'
'Go!' Bolt said, screaming at the top of his lungs. 'Everybody evac the premises right now! Take the wounded, leave the dead. There is a bomb in the cellar that could go off any second. I want every last man out of this house in twenty seconds or less!'
It was chaos. Wounded men screaming as they were bodily hauled down the stairs and out the front and rear entrances. Soldiers diving out of second-story windows, taking their chances of suffering a broken leg or worse. Hawke raced down the stairs, found two wounded British Army boys, and somehow managed to get both of them up onto his shoulders. He ran for the front door as fast as he could, leaping over the dead, hearing the cries of the two young men he carried, praying he wasn't injuring them further.
'Get as far away from the house as fast as you can!' Hawke heard Bolt shout in his headphones. 'There are possibly tons of explosives down there!'
Hawke made it into the woods with his two casualties. He put them down as gently as he could before turning to look back at the Barking Dog Inn.
A young British soldier, his right arm hanging by a thread, was just coming through the front door when the
