"Sapper at two o'clock — a hundred and twenty meters," he said to Noble. "You take him." Noble looked toward him uncertainly, hearing the noise but not the words, and Andreas realized he must still be deafened from the blast. He repeated his request, shouting into Noble's ear. Noble nodded and readied his Uzi.
The sapper advanced another twenty meters on his belly and then broke into a run. The heavy machine-gun began concentrating its fire on the gatehouse.
The sapper was fifty meters away when Noble, still dazed, fired and missed. The sapper hit the ground. He was now dangerously close, and Andreas was thinking that playing it smart and not using the SA-80s yet might mean not using the SA-80s ever. "Being too clever by half," as the English put it. The sapper showed himself again, and Andreas was about to fire when heavy machine-gun rounds hitting just above the arrow slit made him duck, granite chips filling the air. He heard Noble's Uzi give a long half-magazine burst. Then the air outside the gatehouse was in flames as the satchel charge blew up, the force of the blast blowing him back from his firing position.
"Got him," said Noble.
Andreas grunted in acknowledgment. His ears were ringing. He thought he heard Noble say something, and then all he could think of was crouching out of harm's way as the heavy machine gun again cut in and methodically traced and retraced its malevolent way across the front of the gatehouse. The damn gun would burn out its barrels soon if it kept up this rate of fire.
There was a pause in its firing s if the gunner had read his mind, and he snatched a look into the darkness again with the SA-80 sight. He could see shaped getting nearer and decided to examine the ground in front of them more methodically. The heavy machine gun was still quiet, and the automatic rifle fire, though intense, was mostly going high.
Fitzduane had been right. The opposition was getting cocky. Whereas earlier, during daylight — and even more recently when the firing had commenced — they had all been nearly invisible under cover, now, confident of the concealing darkness, they had emerged from their positions and were moving forward slowly for an assault.
The death of the sapper did not seem to deter them, so something else must be up. He scanned the line of men again. There were on signs of scaling ladders or any other obvious method of gaining access to the castle. He looked deeper into the darkness. The Kite image intensifier was at its limit of operational effectiveness of six hundred meters when he began searching the road that led up to the castle. At first he could detect nothing except a faint impression of slow movement, and then out of the darkness he could see a large black shape with some long object protruding in front of it. He waited while the shape slowly advanced another hundred meters and then, after a further look, passed the SA-80 to Harry Noble.
The ambassador looked where he indicated and then ducked as muzzle flashes stabbed from the armored monolith creeping toward them. "I think we're moving toward the surprise event," he said."
"I hate surprises," said Andreas.
Noble was speaking by hand radio to Fitzduane. He put down the radio and fired several single shots into the darkness toward the spread-out line of advancing terrorists. Andreas watched them dive to the ground and then cautiously rise again when they realized that no one had been hit and the opposition was light.
There was an enormous explosion behind them from the direction of the keep. They both looked at the radio, which remained silent. Noble reached out and picked it up. He was about to press the call button when Fitzduane's voice crackled out of it. "Relax," it said. "That's part of the Bear's war, and he's doing just fine. Now get on with the gate."
Andreas looked at Noble. "Does he mean what I think he means?"
"It's what we planned," said Noble. "He wants us to open the portcullis." He pressed the switch, wondering if they still had power or if they would have to crank it by hand. The old motor whirred, then caught, and the spiked portcullis began to rise from the ground.
"This is crazy," said Andreas. "They'll get in."
"I think that's the whole idea," said Noble.
Andreas felt his bowels go liquid. He could hear Noble inserting a fresh magazine into the pistol grip of the Uzi and the click as the weapon was cocked. Noble indicated the Hawk grenade launcher and the bandolier of 40 mm grenades. "Fléchette rounds," he said, "then armor-piercing explosive."
* * * * *
The fighting platform of the keep was the best observation point in the castle. That was fine, except for the fact that it could clearly be seen to be so and as such was likely to attract unwelcome attention.
Apart from the anticipated volume of incoming fire, Fitzduane had been worried about its nature. The top of the keep was a flat, open rectangle with a high crenellated parapet that would tend to concentrate the effect of blast. It could be neutralized with one single mortar round or even a couple of grenades.
Fitzduane's solution led one student to remark that the Fitzduane family motto should be "Dig and Live" and its coat of arms a crossed pick and shovel on a background of sweat-saturated sandbags. A block and tackle were rigged on the platform, and a seemingly unending succession of sandbags and balks of timber and pieces of corrugated iron was hauled up. Te result was a fair reproduction of a First World War trench dugout in the sky. The roof was designed to be mortarproof — at least for the first couple of blasts (during which time the occupants, if they had any sense, would bug out to the floor below). As it happened, the construction of the dugout roof made all the difference.
The pilots selected for the Powerchutes, two brothers, Husain and Mohsen, were Iranians and followers of a modified version of the teachings of Hasane Sabbah, had founded the sect of the Assassins in the Elburz Mountains north of Teheran in the purity of assassination as a political tool had been tempered by the discovery that the game could work two ways. After an Israeli hit team had whittled their dedicated band of twenty down to just the pair of them, they had added the profit motive to the teachings of Hasane Sabbah. But they still retained enough fanaticism, or were just plain dumb enough, in Kadar's judgment, to be prepared to push their attacks to the absolute limit.
Photographs and drawings of the main features of Fitzduane's castle had been found in several books in the DrakerCollege library, so the brothers had been thoroughly briefed. The plan was for the first Powerchute, flown by Husain, to swoop in and drop a satchel charge on the keep's fighting platform while the second Powerchute, flown by Mohsen, would send its specially weighted charge through the slate roof of the great hall, into the yawning aperture made by the explosion of the weighted satchel charge, thus setting the top floor of the building alight —one guidebook made great reference to ‘the splendor of the carved oak beams dating back from medieval times’ — and rendering it uninhabitable. The pilots would then cut their engines and, using only the steerable ramjet parachutes of the Powerchutes, would land on the cleared fighting platform and hold it while their brethren reinforced them by climbing up from below on ropes.
The entire Powerchute attack, Kadar calculated, could be completed in less than ninety seconds. To check this, a rehearsal was carried out on the mock-Gothic keep of DrakerCollege. Using dummy bombs and in daylight, the two brothers clocked in, on their first attempt, at a creditable ninety-four seconds, including a final sweep of the ‘fighting platform’ with automatic rifle fire as they sailed down. They shaved a further five seconds off with practice.