Victor O'Reilly - Rules of The Hunt

The pioneers of airborne had tried dropping people first and then the heavy equipment on top of them. The survivors had suggested that this had not been a good idea.

The trouble with Europe was that it was too congested. There just weren't enough places where you could drop things and shoot things without damaging the locals. The nice thing about Fitzduane's island was that all you were likely to flatten, if you picked the right spot, was the heather.

The warning light came on. Hydraulics began to whine. Outside, the night was dark and cold and looked bloody miserable. The Combat Talon was now so low that Kilmara found he could look up at some of the terrain. He just hoped that all the microchips that made this kind of lunatic flying possible were getting on well with their electrons. He wanted to live to be a general in two days.

Fitzduane had reached the stage of an evening where, although he knew common sense dictated getting some sleep, he just hadn't the energy to make a move.

He was thinking about what he was going to do with his life. Apart from the part-time occupation of acting as something of a ‘think tank’ for the Irish Rangers as they expanded their operations, for the last few years he had tended to take the easier way out, to let his accountant take care of his affairs and to concentrate on bringing up Boots. It was not good enough. He now had a feeling that this course would change, and it brought with it a sense of forboding.

He checked the security system and then went to pot Boots. His small son lay there, long eyelashes over closed eyes, cheeks pink and tanned from the wind, lithe young body sprawled in over and around the duvet. He looked very beautiful. His bed was very wet.

Fitzduane stripped the bed, meditated briefly on bladder control and a three-year-old's potty training, then carried his son to his own big bed. He hadn't the energy to remake the cot – or that is what he told himself.

Father and son slept side by side in the big bed throughout the night. Fitzduane's sleep was somewhat disturbed, since Boots tended to wriggle. In the early hours he thought he heard the sound of a familiar aircraft, but before the thought had fully registered he was asleep again.

Fitzduane's Island, Ireland

January 29, 2011

Boots was giving Oona, the housekeeper, a hard time in the kitchen.

It was staggering, thought Fitzduane affectionately, how much time, effort, and emotional energy such a very small person could soak up. He imagined having twins or – he went pale at the thought – triplets. In fact, right now, he couldn't really contemplate looking after more than one child at a time.

How did women do it, and, as often as not these days, combine raising a family with a career? In truth, he had considerable sympathy for Etan, Boots's mother. It was partly her strength of character that he had initially found so attractive. It was scarcely surprising now that she wanted to make her mark on the world.

That was where the age difference came in. Fitzduane had personal wealth, and, after the army, had reached the top of his chosen profession of combat photographer, strange occupation though it was. He had been ready to settle down.

Etan still had to achieve some personal goal before she would be content. They hadn’t fallen out of love. It was more a case of being out of sync. How many relationships foundered on career conflicts and bad timing? But Etan had one her own way, and that was the way of it.

Fitzduane tried to convince himself that someday soon she would return and they would at last get married and be a family unit, but deep down he no longer believed it. He suddenly felt a terrible loneliness, and tears came to his eyes.

He was lost in thought, staring out the glass wall at a choppy green black sea, when Boots came tearing in hood up, garbed for the outdoors, bright red Wellington boots flashing. "Daddy! Daddy! Let's go! Let's go!" He skidded to a halt. "Daddy, why are you crying?"

Fitzduane smiled. Children were disconcertingly observant at times. "I've got a cold," he said, sniffing ostentatiously and wiping his eyes.

Boots reached into his anorak and explored a pocket. A small hand emerged, clutching a tissue that looked like it was beyond recycling. A half-eaten hard candy was stuck to it. He proffered the combination to Fitzduane. "Sharing is caring," he said, repeating Oona's carefully drummed-in propaganda. "Can I have a sweetie?"

Fitzduane laughed. "Three years old and working the angles," he said. He had read all the books about the importance of feeding children properly and not encouraging bad habits, but he was fighting a losing battle where Boots and candy were concerned. He tossed Boots an apple taken from the fruit bowl on the sideboard.

Boots made a face, then grabbed the apple with one hand and Fitzduane's arm with the other: "Daddy! Let's go! Let's go! Let's go!"

The sniper reflected that the vast majority of his fellow citizens had never even held a weapon, let alone fired one.

Japan had abjured war. An army, as such, was specifically forbidden by the constitution. There was no conscription. The self-defense forces were manned exclusively by volunteers. The police carried guns but almost never drew them, let alone used them. The streets were safe. Criminals threatened only each other, and even then mostly used swords.

The sniper spat. His country was degenerating, suborned by materialism and false values. The politicians were corrupt. The rulers of his country had lost direction. The warrior class had been contaminated by commerce and were effete. The true wishes of the Emperor – views he never communicated or expressed but which they knew he must, at heart, profess – were being ignored.

A new direction was required. As always in history, a few people of strong will and clear vision could change destiny.

The sniper emptied the magazine of his rifle and reloaded it with hand-loaded match-grade ammunition. He checked every round. Beside him, the spotter had placed his automatic weapon to hand and was sweeping the killing ground in front of them with binoculars.

The watcher was in position fifty meters above and to the left of them.

All three saw the portcullis of the castle rise, and horse, rider, and passenger emerge.

The killing team settled in to wait. It would be about an hour.

They could hear the sounds of the small waterfall flowing into the stream below them. The stream widened and became shallower at this point. It was a location where people had traditionally established a crossing point or ford. The name wasn't marked on any map, but it was known, by the Fitzduanes, as Battleford.

At that spot, centuries earlier, Hugo's ancestors had fought, held, and died.

It was a truism of special forces that nothing ever went entirely to plan.

In this case the objective was to test the air deployment of three Guntracks and nine personnel onto the ground at night via LAPES, then mount a simulated assault on the abandoned DrakerCastle, which was at the opposite end of the island to Duncleeve. Kilmara didn't want Fitzduane complaining about having his beauty sleep disturbed. He had longer-term plans for the island which depended on his retaining his friend's goodwill. Good training areas were in short supply.

The first two Guntracks had made an uneventful landing by the standards of this truly terrifying technique. The third Guntrack, mounted on its special shock-absorbing pallet, had its landing ever further cushioned by a flock of panic-stricken sheep. Seven seemed unlikely to wake up again. Kilmara winced. He knew Fitzduane, and was having nightmares of an outsized trophy board being delivered to Ranger headquarters. He was never going to live this down.