Harrison reported back to Zulu Control and advised that the oil can might still be active for the benefit of those following up.
Tall LloydWilliams informed him that the Wheelbarrow was making slow, but so far successful, progress at the south end and that still appeared to be the terrorists’ chief concern. So far, so good. But two more landings to clear.
In fact the next landing was devoid of obstacles. But as Harrison used his feeler-probe on the last staircase, he found the tripwire, otherwise unseen in the lamplight. Letting them think they were nearly there, that they were over the worst, getting careless in their anxiety to get it over with, to get stuck in.
He traced the wire to the side wall where the old damp bricks had been chiselled out. The space was just deep enough to allow the Mk 15 to fit. A standard PIRA coffee-jar grenade. Filled with half a kilogram of Semtex and a metal fragmentation liner, a microswitch in the base that would be released when the glass shattered. If a careless foot had caught the wire, the jar would have toppled from its shelf. Crude but devastatingly effective.
Gingerly he twisted the jar round without lifting it, until he could get to the det and cut the leads.
Just a short distance to go now and they were entering Monk’s domain. Now the SAS man took over the lead with his Number Two in support. With his back hard against the wall, he edged up the last few steps until his eyes were level with the floor of the top storey.
They’d discussed it earlier. On the south side, the stairwell came up on the right-hand side into a passage which was formed on the right by the building’s outer wall and the thin brick wall of the first of the three offices on the left. That was the room the terrorists used most, where McGirl and Clodagh rested. The middle room was where Archie was held. Next was the office Muldoon and Doran used. The layout and approximate disposition of the hostiles had been worked out by the technical experts of SO 7 and their thermal-imaging cameras designed for finding survivors in earthquake rubble.
Monk took the last few steps to bring him up into the passage. Ahead of him was a shut ‘door. That led into the open space beyond. He had no doubt it would be wired. Very possibly to explosives hidden somewhere in the darkness of the stairwell. They had no way of knowing. So the door would not be their way in.
Instinctively Monk ran his free hand over the bricks of the partition wall on his left. It would take them straight into the first office where Trenchard had been instructed to leave the landline telephone earlier.
He turned and beckoned the first men of the assault ‘brick’. One dropped to his knee, covering the door with his Remington repeater shotgun. The next two carried the frame-charge between them, secured it to the partition wall and withdrew. Then Monk and the SAS trooper with the shotgun pulled back down the stairs.
Normally a frame-charge would not be used indoors because there was a good chance the reverberating overpressure of the explosion would bring the roof down on top of them. But there was an outside window across the top passage that should relieve the massive blast of displaced air. If the theory held good, it would be a damn sight faster than breaking through the wall with sledges.
The sergeant major spoke rapidly into his mike. ‘Sunray to Zulu. In position. Request sitrep. Over.’
‘Roger, Sunray, McGirl has been told the helicopter is coming in to land.’ Diversion, get them to the windows, away from the boy. ‘At present two hostiles by south stairwell — worried about Barrow — and one each on east and west sides, approx midway. Expect Armalites and sidearms. Three minutes okay? Over.’
‘Roger. Over.’ Set.
‘Three minute countdown… now! Standby and off.’
Monk pulled back further, to be well clear of the frame-charge blast. Glanced back at the stairway now filled with black figures, poised, sweating. Knew all had heard on the net. Safeties coming off. Tense, muscles like coiled springs.
Above their heads the ceiling began to shake as the helicopter came lower, swooping in for its final descent. Into the blaze of floodlights on the concrete apron at the front of the old brewery building.
Monk looked at Harrison, now drawn back against the wall to allow the others to pass, and gave him a thumbs-up sign of reassurance.
Get it right, Harrison thought savagely. I’ve got you this far, you big bastard, now you get it right for me. That’s Archie in there. My son. Just through two thin partition walls. If he dies now, I’ll even hear his screams. Get him killed, Sergeant Major Monk, and I’ll fucking well kill you\ So get it bloody right.
The sound outside was deafening now, the big Puma swaggering out of the night sky, its downdraught blasting away the rubbish on the forecourt, the building trembling to its foundations.
‘All hostiles moved to windows on east side,’ intoned the voice of the SO7 man with the thermal-imager over the net.
Nearly there, Harrison thought, looking at his watch. Thirty seconds to go… Too long, they should be going in now. McGirl and the others have seen the helicopter, will start thinking about leaving, collecting their weapons. Collecting their insurance. Archie. Go now for pity’s sake!
The second hand dragged as though restrained by glue. ‘Fifteen, fourteen…’
‘Standby, standby.’ Monk’s voice in his ear. Patient. All the time in the bloody world.
‘One hostile leaving window for north end. SO7.’
Sod! Which hostile coming towards us, towards Archie? No way of knowing.
Eight, seven…
How fast was the bastard walking? How long would it take him to get to Archie’s cell?
Four, three…
C’mon, c’monl
Two, one.
‘FIREP Monk’s voice yelled in his ear.
Leo Muldoon was halfway across the open space of the top floor, Armalite held loosely in his hand. There was a smile on his face. You had to hand it to Pat McGirl. Hard bastard, but he knew his stuff. Had got the Brits and Dublin by the short and curlies. A flight to freedom courtesy of the bloody Royal Air Force. Not bad that. Worth a few free beers down the Falls Road that…
All he saw was a sudden pulse of light ahead of him. It came from the open door of the office where McGirl and the Dougan woman had slept. The brilliance of the light blinded him, stopped him in his tracks. Almost simultaneously the rolling boom of the frame-charge hit him, making him jump.
He recovered quickly, bringing up his Armalite into the fire position, trying to focus, the afterimage of the explosion still etched in front of his eyes. Now the smoke, tumbling out of the open office door.
A thousand thoughts rushed through his mind. No one could have got through the north-end defences without them knowing. So it was some sort of grenade, lobbed from the outside… No, the landline telephone. The bastards had filled it with explosive…
Outside, the floodlights died, pitching the place into utter darkness. It was followed by the crack of small-arms fire. He heard glass shattering, something falling onto the debris on the floor. The faint hiss and the acrid stench.
‘GAS!’ McGirl shrieked.
Muldoon dropped to his knees, threw down his Armalite and grabbed at the army-surplus gas mask in the case attached to his belt. McGirl, you fucken genius, you think of everything.
The rubber strap was only halfway over his head when the first black shadow emerged from the haze of smoke, a starburst of light dazzling from the torch fitted over the barrel of the MP5. More shadows in the smoke, jostling for position.
His hand found the Armalite, began to lift it when the two rounds slammed into his chest. As he fell back, the air above his head was filled with a hail of fire passing in both directions.
Doran had opened up with half-a-magazine while Clodagh and McGirl were pulling on their gas masks. He saw the sinister dark figures in the smoke, tracked along as they tried to reach the second door where Archie was held. Then he aimed at the telltale positioning of their gun torches before they flicked off.