* * * * *
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.
The second hitch was that they had misplaced three Rangers — actually Delta troopers on secondment from FortBragg. The Irish were well-practiced in jumping in the unusually windy and gusty conditions of the West of Ireland. The Delta team were at the start of the learning curve and were going to have to leg it, cross-country and at night, to catch up.
Still, they hadn't vanished into the Atlantic, as Kilmara had at first feared. He thanked the Great God of Special Forces they weren't keeping full radio silence, as would have been the case on a real operation. After more than thirty years of the military, he had never gotten used to losing men. The Texas drawl in his earpiece had reassured him. He had acknowledged briefly and caustically and was then able to meditate, with rather more equanimity, on the matter of the dead sheep.
The sun was well up when Kilmara suspended the exercise and they laid up and prepared food. It was only then that one of the Delta team mentioned the civilian helicopter he had seen land on the north side of the island. He had assumed it was connected with some local inhabitant, and, since it was away from the exercise area, he brought the subject up only in passing.
Kilmara knew the topography and the context. "A forced landing?" he said hopefully, a mug of tea in his hand.
"Maybe," said Lonsdale, the Texan, who as a reflex had examined the helicopter briefly with his night-vision binoculars.
He sounded unconvinced. There had been no smoke or erratic maneuvering. The flying had been purposeful, skilled.
"It came in low and fast." He thought again. "It was a civilian bird, but it was more like he was heading for a hot landing. Probably an army hotshot reliving his past."
Kilmara sipped his tea without tasting it. "What then?" he said.
"Three guys got out. They were dressed in vacation gear, you know, hats with flies and those sleeveless jackets with lots of pockets. They had fishing poles with them. They seemed to know where they were going. They headed toward Duncleeve, your friend's place. I guess they fucked up on their navigation and landed a little short. They wouldn’t have been able to see the castle from that height with the hills in the way."
"Fishing poles?" said Kilmara.
"I guess they call them rods over here," said Lonsdale. "They had them in those long bags you use when you're traveling. You know, kind of like a gun c—" It hit him. "Oh, shit!"
Kilmara's unfinished tea cut a glistening swath through the air as he flung the mug to one side. "It's not the fishing season," he snarled. His command echoed through the clearing. "RANGERS, MOUNT UP! THIS IS NO DRILL!"
They were at the wrong end of the island.
* * * * *
It had been Fitzduane's practice to ride the length of the island along the cliffs of the southern coastline and past DrakerCastle to the headland.
This pleasant routine had lost something of its attraction one morning when he had found young Rudivon Graffenlaub with a rope around his neck hanging from a tree. And it was that hanging that had brought him into the world of counterterrorism. It was a world that had no exit. That particular incident had ended with the destruction of the terrorist known as the Hangman, but the dead terrorist had been the linchpin of a worldwide network, and revenge by one of the surviving terrorist groups was no small possibility.
The memories of that incident and its consequences lingered on all too well without the added stimulus of the sight of the hanging tree. Also, Boots had a three-year-old's attention span. He liked shorter rides, more variety, and to finish up at the waterfall.
The cascading water at Battleford entertained him and distracted him sufficiently for Fitzduane to be able to enjoy his surroundings without having to answer a question every thirty seconds. Boots liked to splash and float sticks and throw stones into the water. The stream was shallow there and relatively safe.
That day, with Boots secure between his arms on a special seat on the saddle in front of him, Fitzduane first headed west toward Draker, as had been his old routine, but then turned inland, past a section of particularly treacherous bog, and veered north across the track that ended with Draker Castle and on toward the hills that guarded the northern coastline.
Fitzduane loved the feeling of the young body next to his. Boots's curiosity and sense of fun were contagious. His excitement and enthusiasm were total. From time to time, unconsciously, Fitzduane would pull Boots to him and caress the top of his head with his lips or stroke his cheek. He knew that this was a special age and a special closeness, and that this time would pass all too soon.
The center of the island was relatively flat by the standards of the terrain, and here, just north of the track, Fitzduane and Boots found a neat row of dead sheep. A note written on milspec paper was wired to a stick and fluttering in the wind.
It read: "Hugo —if you find these sheep before I have had a chance to hide them, I can explain everything! See you for dinner this evening." It was signed, "Shane (Colonel, soon to be General) Kilmara."
Fitzduane smiled. Kilmara tended toward the incorrigible. It was a miracle he was making general, given the number of enemies he had made, but occasionally talent will out.
He was curious about how Kilmara's exercise would work out. He had high hopes for the Guntrack concept, small light fast vehicles festooned with weaponry and capable of outrunning and destroying a tank, and costing a fraction of the amount.
There was evidence of several of the tracked vehicles around. The tracks seemed to have sprung out of nowhere and then headed north. He followed them, and behind a clump of rocks found the drop pallets and Kevlar restraining straps under a camouflage net. The tracks then headed in different directions. Well, he would find out the details that evening.
Boots was enjoying himself playing with the camouflage net and jumping from pallet to pallet. Fitzduane dismounted and let Pooka, their horse, nibble. Boots soon worked out a game whereby he would throw himself off a pallet and Fitzduane would have to catch him. Boots jumped fearlessly, utterly confident that his father would keep him from harm.
Boots suddenly screwed up his face, so Fitzduane pulled down the little boy's pants and let him pee away from the wind. The exercise was a success. They mounted up and headed due east, parallel more or less with the hills, and toward Battleford.
* * * * *