Victor O'Reilly - Games of The Hangman

"What about the Rangers?" asked Sartawi. "A few jumped, I think, before we hit the plane."

"A handful of men two kilometers away isn't likely to affect the outcome," said Kadar. "And by the time they get close enough to join in the fighting, we'll have the castle and the hostages."

I hope you're right, thought Sartawi, but he didn't say anything. He'd heard the Rangers were formidable, but it was true there could be only a few of them – and they would be out in the open against the fortified heavy-machine-gun positions.

Kadar took one last look at the great hall. "Beautiful, isn't it?"

Sartawi issued the orders. Battle-fatigued members of Icarus Unit hauled cans of fuel up the stairs and drenched the floor and timbers of the huge room, then spilled more fuel on the stairs and the rooms below.

Fitzduane's Castle – 0013 hours

There had been a brief lull in the fighting, though sporadic sniping continued. Fitzduane had used the brief respite to arm and deploy the students and to carry out a quick tour of inspection of his much-diminished perimeter. Everyone was exhausted and hungry and looked it. Food was provided while there was the opportunity. They all knew they had very little time.

Slumped on a sandbag in a corner of what had been his bedroom but was now the main defensive post at the top of the keep – the fighting platform seemed to attract a disproportionate amount of heavy-machine-gun fire – Fitzduane took the mug of coffee and the sandwich that Oona offered him. He didn't really know what to say to her. Only twelve hours ago she had been a contented woman with a husband she adored – and now Murrough was dead. So many dead, and because of him. Would it have been better to have stood aside and let the Hangman have his way? He didn't think so, but then your own immediate world was affected, it was hard to know what was right.

Truth to tell, violence didn't discriminate. The victims of warfare in the main weren't any better or worse than anybody else, whatever the propaganda made out. The North Vietnamese, the South Vietnamese, the Israelis, the Arabs, the police, the terrorists – almost all were fundamentally alike when you really got down to it: ordinary people with wives and mothers like Oona who got caught up with something that got out of control.

Oona finished dispensing coffee and sandwiches to the others in the room before turning back and looking at him. Fitzduane felt the sandwich turn to cardboard in his mouth. He swallowed with difficulty and then tried to say something appropriate, but what words he managed sounded inadequate.

Oona kissed him on the forehead. "Now look, Hugo," she said, "we all have to die, and Murrough died in a good cause, to save other people, and children at that. He died fighting and, may the Lord have mercy on his soul, but he loved to fight."

When Fitzduane took her in his arms, he could feel her sobs, he could hear Murrough talking to him, he could see him, and he knew then whatever the Hangman might attempt this time, he was going to be stopped.

Oona gently freed herself and wiped the tears from her eyes. "Eat you food and don't worry about Etan," she said. "And then put a stop to the Hangman once and for all."

Fitzduane smiled thinly. "No problem."

Oona hugged him again, then returned to helping the others.

As she left, the Bear came into the room and sat down on another sandbag facing Fitzduane. He was puffing slightly. "Castles," he finally managed, "weren't built for people of my dimensions and stature."

"If you wore armor regularly," said Fitzduane, "you got into shape fast enough, and hopping up and down circular stairs was no problem. Also, everyone was smaller in those days."

"Hmph," muttered the Bear. He ate the rest of Fitzduane's sandwich in silence.

"You did an ammunition check?" asked Fitzduane.

"Uh-huh," – the Bear nodded – "another one. You won't be surprised to hear the situation has worsened. I'm impressed at how much we've been able to get through. I guess it's not surprising when you can empty a thirty-round in less than three seconds."

"So how many seconds do we get per man?" said Fitzduane with a tired smile.

"For automatic weapons, less than five. We're better off for shotgun rounds and pistol ammunition, though not by much. We're out of grenades and Molotov cocktails. We've go two Claymores left and plenty of antique weaponry – and food."

"Food?"

"Lots of it. If an army really does fight on its stomach – and who should know better than Napoleon? – we're going to be fine."

"I am glad to hear that," said Fitzduane.

Fitzduane's Island – 0013 hours

If there was one thing in the world – leaving out drink and women – that Ranger Sergeant Geronimo Grady loved more than driving fast cars at somebody else's expense, it was firing the Milan Missile at government expense.

At least he was one taxpayer who knew exactly where his money was going, for each missile cost as much as he would earn in two years, and the supporting equipment, such as the computerized simulator he had spent so many hours, days, and weeks practicing on, cost more than he was likely to earn in a lifetime. It was a sobering thought, and it added a definite piquancy to his pleasure.

Oddly enough, he had never considered firing the Milan at a real human target. Up to now it had been more like a giant video game, even when he'd fired live missiles in the Glen of Imaal. He wondered how he'd feel as he pressed the firing button knowing that other human beings were about to be obliterated by his action. Given his relentless Ranger training, the briefing on the Hangman, and the basic fact that if he did not eliminate the opposition first, it would be quite delighted to do that small thing to him, he thought he'd feel just fine, but he didn't know. He wouldn't actually know until he'd done it – and that experience was only scant minutes away. His hands felt sweaty, but he couldn't move to wipe them.

Twenty meters ahead of him Lieutenant Harty was about to kill two terrorists posted on the Hangman's perimeter to take out any Rangers who had survived the SAM-7. Grady could have done it – they looked close enough to touch and smell through the gray-green image of his four-power night sight – but it was to be done silently. Harty specialized in such tasks and was equipped accordingly.

The double thunk of the specially built heavy-caliber subsonic weapon was scarcely perceptible in the gusting wind. Grady saw the effect before he heard the noise, and the result was all the more obscene for being rendered bloodless by the limited-color filtered image in his telescopic sight. It was as if the first man's face had suddenly been wiped away and replaced with a dark smear. The second terrorist turned his head in a reflex action toward his dead comrade. The modified Glaser bullet struck him on the cheekbone and blew off the top of his skull.

Grady and his loader ran forward and slid into the captured position. A regular army Milan had a four-man section to direct, load, and fire the missile, but in the Rangers, as always, you did more with less, better and faster. Or you didn't get in, or you died.

It was a natural depression, nearly ideal as a Milan position, though devoid of the top cover that was a basic requirement if you were going after tanks. But there were certainly more than the five meters of clearance that you needed to the rear to avoid toasting yourself in the backblast.

Eighteen kilos of firing post – the unglamorous term applied to the expensive missile-launching setup containing tripod, aiming mechanism, electronic sight, and firing button – were placed in position and carefully leveled. Grady lay down behind the weapon, and twelve kilos of factory-sealed missile were placed in position on the firing post.