“That should do it, Patrick. I’ll give us a minute to get clear before she explodes. And then the Crown of Scotland is ours!”
Major Colin Stewart and his four-man squad were in the process of inspecting the castle’s great hall when a thunderous explosion broke the inanimate quiet. The intricate wooden rafters of the hall shook in response to this blast, and the major cried out at the top of his lungs.
“Everyone out into the courtyard! It sounds as if those mick bastards are going for the crown jewels!”
This supposition was given substance as the Highlanders ran outside and viewed the cloud of smoke that was still rising from the roof of the nearby royal apartments.
“Come on, lads!” cried the Major.
“For the glory of Scotland, we’ve got our country’s honor to uphold!”
This frenzied shout stirred the souls of the young soldiers who sprinted across the courtyard at breakneck speed. It was Colin Stewart who led the charge into the royal apartments and up the stairway to the crown room. The smoke was still heavy as he spotted the jagged hole in the wall where the vault door had once stood. It was then he heard the sickening sound of breaking glass, and without any thought of his personal safety, he burst into the room where the regalia was stored.
The angry blast of a carbine greeted him as he dived to the ground to dodge the oncoming bullets. Again the crack of glass breaking stirred him into action. He rolled to his left, and using the base of a display case for cover, dared to squat upright. This afforded him the barest glimpse of a longhaired young man reaching into the case that held the crown jewels. Instinct took over as Colin Stewart raised the barrel of his rifle and let loose a burst of 7.62-mm hollow-point bullets. His Heckler and Koch was set on full automatic, and in a matter of seconds twenty-five empty shells littered the floor beside him.
He was in the process of jamming in yet another clip when the members of his squad opened up with their own weapons. Bullets whined overhead, and he was forced to hug the ground to keep from getting hit by the dozens of ricocheting rounds. It seemed to take an eternity for this barrage to cease. The air was thick with the scent of cordite as Colin Stewart cried out.
“Hold your fire. lads!”
Conscious that nothing could have lived through that hail of bullets, he again squatted upright and peeked over the display case. It was when he spotted the blood-soaked wall beyond that he stood fully.
A single bullet-ridden body lay on the floor, covered by broken glass and splinters of wood and plaster. The deceased appeared to be in his mid-twenties and had long brown hair and a fair complexion. He wore blue jeans and a nylon windbreaker. With little time to mourn this stranger’s passing, Colin Stewart kicked aside the M-1 carbine that lay at his side and turned to check the integrity of the royal regalia. He breathed a sigh of relief: although the glass of the outer display case had been smashed, the three-inch-thick plexiglass inner case remained intact.
The jeweled crown, sword, and scepter took on a radically new meaning as Colin recognized them for what they were, the symbolic equivalent of the seat of Scottish government. His heart swelled with pride. He found himself feeling ashamed for downgrading his assignment here, when an excited voice cried out behind him.
“Major, it looks like the other one’s getting away through Queen Mary’s apartment!”
Having completely forgotten that they had been searching for two men, Colin Stewart cursed and went running for the doorway. He reached the queen’s room and found his men huddled around the open window.
“I tell you, I saw him climbing over the ramparts of the Half Moon battery,” pleaded one of the soldiers.
“Then get after him, lads!” ordered Colin Stewart, who just then heard the distant whining alarm that indicated the rest of the garrison would now be available to join in on the manhunt.
As his men began scrambling out the window, the major sighed heavily. His arm and shoulder hurt where he went smacking into the floor of the crown room.
Somehow he had managed to bruise his forehead. But that still didn’t account for the puddle of sticky blood that he found staining the ledge of the windowsill. It suddenly dawned on him that if this didn’t originate from one of his own men, then at the very least they had been able to injure their quarry. With this hope in mind, the forty-two-year-old veteran agilely climbed out the window to join in on the hunt himself.
Chapter Six
The Pentagon was built as the world’s largest office building. Situated on the banks of the Potomac River across from Washington, D.C.” the colossal structure housed over 30,000 employees. It was not one building, but about fifty, all interconnected, that formed five complete pentagons placed one inside the other in a series of concentric five-sided rings over two blocks wide.
The outermost and largest ring was known as the Ering.
Offices here were the only ones with an outside view and were for the most part reserved for such distinguished personages as the Secretary of Defense, the Secretaries of the various services, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and the other chiefs. Admiral Alien Long was genuinely flattered when he was offered an office in this coveted part of the building.
From his current vantage point, as he peered out the window behind his desk, he could just make out the rounded dome of the Capitol in the distance. It was mid-morning, and the quick moving storm front that had made his early commute such a nightmare had since passed, leaving a brilliant blue sky in its place.
On the banks of the Potomac the trees were green with freshly budded leaves, while tulips and daffodils colored the grassy slopes with spring color.
Alien Long would have much rather preferred to play golf on a glorious morning such as this, but his current workload wouldn’t allow it. Lately he had even resorted to taking work home, and the light in his study often burned late into the night.
His wife Nancy argued that the pressures of his job were too much for a man his age. But Alien Long would hear of no such nonsense. He had spent over four decades of his life in the U.S. Navy, and he wasn’t going to retire until they tied and bound him, as they had to his old friend Hyman Rickover.
As with Rickover, Alien Long’s specialty was submarine development. He had been one of the original project managers of the Trident program and was currently involved with R&D on a new class of nuclear-powered attack submarines that would hopefully go into production soon. Because of his many years of experience with such matters, the navy was using him to act as their main liaison with Congress. This was a thankless, often frustrating position. Most of the time he felt more like an accountant than a naval officer as he worked on a seemingly endless collection of appropriations requests.
In an era of monetary constraint and budget deficits, Alien Long was responsible for explaining to the various congressional committees the necessity of each new request for funds. Since much of the technology involved was highly classified, he had to walk a thin line between those with a legitimate need to know and those without. Often it was his decision alone that allowed a senator or congressman detailed information on a project that only a handful of Americans were aware of.
Admiral Long took his difficult job most seriously, and often spent many a sleepless night worrying about the consequences of a poor decision.
In addition to his work with Congress, he also oversaw several pet projects with the office of Naval Research and the Naval Ocean Systems Command. His area of special interest was mainly in the field of ROVs, or remotely operated vehicles. Most of these were unmanned submersibles that could reach depths much greater than any manned vessel could. Usually controlled from a mother ship by means of a fiberoptic cable, such ROVs showed great promise, especially in the fields of ASW, oceanographic research, and marine salvage.