house erupted in an earthshaking geyser of flame, debris, and thick, acrid smoke that climbed into the sky a hundred feet or more. When the smoke had cleared somewhat, Hawke saw a massive hole in the ground, almost a hundred feet across.
The Barking Dog had been vaporized.
And with it, enough arms and explosives to take down a large city.
TWENTY MINUTES LATER THE BRITISH Army and enemy wounded had received emergency first aid and were being MedEvaced to the HQ hospital in Sligo. The surviving prisoners had been placed under guard in a clearing in the forest beyond the cart path. Army vehicles had their lights aimed at the group of hooded terrorists, and soldiers with flashlights were everywhere.
Hawke and Bolt entered the clearing. Having been driven around the hill to the command vehicle, and found no trace of a CO to report to, they'd no choice but to return to the woods to interrogate the prisoners. Hawke thought that after his conversation with Prince Charles, Masterman had probably jumped off the nearest bridge.
'Commander,' Bolt said to Hawke, 'I think you and I should take a look first. We'll deal with them individually later back in the interrogation section at HQ. After those laptops have been vetted.'
Hawke nodded and walked across the ground to the first prisoner in line. All of them had been cuffed.
He reached out and pulled the black balaclava off the man's head.
The man was dark-skinned and had a full black, unkempt beard. If this was an IRA killer, he surely didn't resemble one. Bolt took one look at the man and came rushing over. He ripped the hood off the second man in line. And found himself staring into another Arabic face.
'What in hell?' Bolt, stunned, said to Hawke. 'Bloody al Qaeda in Northern Ireland?'
'Let's find out. Speak English?' Hawke said. For emphasis, he'd removed his assault knife from the sheath on his thigh and placed the tip under the man's chin.
The man murmured yes.
'Name?'
'Yusef Najeeb.'
'Ah. One of the celebrated Najeebs of Londonderry, no doubt.'
'No. From North Waziristan, Pakistan.'
'Why the devil are you here?'
The man smiled. 'We come to Northern Ireland to fight the oppressors alongside our brothers.'
'Ah, your Catholic brothers. Where is Smith?'
'I don't know any Smith.'
Hawke looked at Bolt. The lieutenant was just as amazed as he was.
Instead of further questions, Hawke simply went down the line removing the masks from each prisoner until he came to an IRA soldier. He put the blade of his knife across the man's throat. 'I'm looking for a man named Smith. Has he been here?'
In a strangled voice, the terrorist said, 'He was here. But he was gone before we came.'
'You know him, then.'
'I've heard of him, yeah.'
'What does he look like?'
'No one ever sees him.'
'I said, what does he look like? Someone must have seen him.' Hawke pressed his point.
'Those who have seen him will not tell you his identity.'
'Why would that be?'
'They are far more afraid of him than you.'
When all had been unmasked, twenty-four of the prisoners were IRA, while fifteen were Middle Eastern terrorists. The implications of this one fact were enormous.
Hawke shot out a hand and grabbed the last Pakistani by the neck, pulling him out of his loose-fitting sandals.
'Who comes to Ireland to fight alongside their brothers? Taliban? Al Qaeda?'
'Sword of Allah, praise be to God.'
Hawke was still scanning all the faces.
'Smith?' he asked the man again. 'Which one of you has seen Smith?' he asked the second, and third, and the fourth.
He gave up after six or seven. Smith had to be in his seventies now. These were all boys and middle-aged men. If Smith had been here at all, he was long gone.
AN HOUR LATER, HAWKE AND SEBASTIAN BOLT were sitting inside the abandoned command vehicle of Major Milo Masterman. The sun had risen fully and with it came black clouds and a fierce rainstorm that beat against the steel roof above their heads. The major had simply disappeared. Troops had fanned out through the dense forest in search of him but so far with no result. Bolt was mystified. Hawke told him they should be searching the local pubs, not the woods.
Ambrose Congreve and Bulldog Drummond had had enough of the Barking Dog and had retired to their quarters at the Swan to get a few hours of sleep before taking up the matter of a thorough interrogation of the captured terrorists. Both had congratulated the two men now sipping hot coffee inside the APC for a job well done before catching a ride back to Sligo in a British Army vehicle.
'Sword of Allah,' Bolt said. 'I recall the name. Heathrow, no? Terminal Four a year or so ago, wasn't it? That despicable bombing?'
'Yes.'
'Behind that monstrous attack in the States, as well. A Miami hospital, if memory serves.'
'The same,' Hawke replied.
'So my question is the same, Commander Hawke. What the bloody hell are the Taliban doing in Northern Ireland? Fighting alongside the New IRA? It beggars belief.'
'I think all these bastards are joining forces. And will go anywhere in the world, Lieutenant. Fight alongside anyone who hates Britain. Or America. Or the West in general. Remember, you had IRA bombers like McMahon training in Libya thirty years ago.'
'They have the resources and the manpower to do this on a worldwide scale? Sword of Allah? That in itself is terrifying.'
'It appears they do, doesn't it? The world's first transnational Islamic superpower, so to speak.'
'You're right in the middle of this one, aren't you, Commander?'
'I am.'
'What do you do now?'
'Defend the realm, of course.'
FORTY-THREE
DAYBREAK. THE VENERABLE THAMES BARGE PUDGE, narrow of beam but with eighty feet of gleaming black hull on her waterline, was docked at Greenwich Pier. Her captain, Terrence Spencer, was a ruggedly put together seaman with a broad chest, heavily muscled shoulders, and a full red beard. He stood drinking a mug of steaming coffee just outside the low-roofed wheelhouse. Terry and his young charter client were watching the rental truck being unloaded.
Terry, like his dad and gramps before him, had been a Thames riverman since he was old enough to swim. He looked at the bearded lads offloading boxes of equipment from the lorry and shook his head. What a sorry lot. He thought he'd seen it all. He had chartered the old girl countless times over the years, anniversaries, weddings, retirement parties, but this bunch was a first, he had to say.
A rock-and-roll band. Called themselves Sunni and the Scimitars.
Clever, that.
