Constable Brown had patrolled the Ravenscourt Park area for most of his working life. It was a quiet district; in fifteen years he had seen very little that had made him truly scared.

He had just turned into King Street when he saw the two men. Constable Brown called out to the man to release his struggling captive.

The lookout hesitated too long. By the time he had swung his weapon, Brown was rapping his club across the guy's wrist. The gun skittered across the pavement. A billy-club blow into the lookout's stomach had the guy doubled over.

Mustering his final reserves of strength with fierce determination, Leo reached back and delivered a roundhouse right to the nose of the man who held his left arm in a vicelike grasp. The man reeled as much in surprise as from the force of the blow. Leo took the advantage and grabbed his Colt back. He fired two shots into the guy's chest. The corpse collapsed in a gory heap. A pool of blood quickly spread.

Constable Brown looked at the disheveled fellow he had just helped rescue. The man looked like hell.

"Well, you had to shoot him, I suppose," the constable sighed. He held the captive lookout by the scruff of the neck.

A limo cornered heavily at the end of the street. It roared up, then slammed on its brakes to stop parallel to Leo and the bobby and his prisoner.

Armed Marines from the embassy force spilled out of the car and surrounded the three men.

It took Sir Jack Richardson a moment longer to get out of the car. The cane kept getting in the way. He raised himself to his full height and marched toward his American colleague and the two strangers, one of them regrettably a policeman.

"Let me see your permits, please!" boomed Constable Brown, his eyes bulging at the man with the cane and at each and every one of the Marines. With his prisoner still securely accounted for by the neck, he prodded the Marine with the nightstick as Leo laughed. "You first, soldier. Your papers where I can see 'em, and put that thing down!"he snapped, rapping the man's rifle barrel with his stick.

Sir Jack Richardson watched. It was going to be a long night.

11

Three Bell UH-1D helicopters settled down onto the south lawn of Windsor Castle. Rocket packs were mounted on the sides of each. As the rotors slowed, a U.S. Army officer clambered from one of the Hueys and approached the nearest group of men.

"Major Sam Johnson reporting. I'm looking for Able Team."

Pol Blancanales identified himself as Able Team.

"My orders are simple," the major said. "Do what I'm told, when I'm told to do it. Sorry we took so long getting here."

"That's all right, Major," Blancanales said. "There wasn't a damn thing any of us could do. But we can use you now."

Major Johnson smiled, pointed to the idling helicopters. "An M-60 on each side, sixteen 2.75-inch rockets in the packs. Armed like in Nam…"

The three Hueys flew west, just beside and above the A40 highway to Oxford. Major Johnson flew nearly at treetop level in the night, following the blip.

"Any chance this could turn into a fire mission?" he asked Blancanales.

"Yeah," Lyons replied. "It's very likely."

Johnson's copilot interrupted. "Major, the signal indicates the bus has stopped."

Johnson brought the Huey to a hover, radioed the two other gunships, asked Blancanales for instructions.

"What sort of country are we in, Major?"

"Farm country, sir. There is some urban buildup, we're just west of High Wycombe."

"Then you must guide us to where the bus is. You must put us down within a half-mile of it."

Johnson sent the Huey farther down the A40. Within two miles he veered to the right, reported that he had reached position. Johnson maneuvered his gunship over a field of barley and set the chopper down amid swaying grain.

Three men stepped into the field, and headed toward the bus.

Kathleen McGowan was home. Home being, in this case, a hardsite. Scattered around the perimeter were members of the Irish Freedom Army. Roving patrols checked on the sentries at irregular intervals, the irregularity of the visits keeping the sentries alert.

The thirty hostages had disembarked from the bus right after Kathleen. She pointed them toward the farmhouse under the watchful eye of men toting weapons with 75-round drums, a demonstration of massed firepower.

Then McGowan spoke briefly with several patrol leaders. The leaders headed away to roust more troops to protect the farm.

She entered the parlor of the two-story stone house to find that her fellow terrorists had split the hostages into two groups. One of the groups, consisting of twelve hostages, sat in the middle of the floor of the empty living room. Five terrorists with Uzis and AK-47s kept their guns trained on the group. The remaining hostages, including the queen and the princes, were put in what had been the dining room under heavy guard.

Kathleen nodded approval, and headed up the stairs followed by Joseph Flynn. Both had borne the brunt of the night's work, and now they wanted only to sleep.

Looking from an upstairs window, Kathleen watched as two of the terrorists put the bus inside the barn. The fit was tight, but they got inside and closed the doors. That job completed, the two men returned to their patrol.

The night was still as the men worked their way toward the farm. Their black suits were invisible in the night. Two British soldiers who followed at a distance blended in nearly as well, their lighter uniforms melding into the golden shafts of grain around them. Guided by triangulations radioed from the two helicopters, the five men crept into a large field that abutted a farmhouse.

Using his Startron, Blancanales picked out perimeter guards. Lieutenant Colonel Carlton also appraised the defending forces.

"Those roving patrols are a problem," Carlton whispered.

"Our biggest problem is locating the hostages," Blancanales responded.

"Quiet probe," Lyons said.

"Let's do it," Blancanales agreed.

They signaled the two British soldiers to back off. Able Team lay prone, modified Colts held at full extension; accuracy was essential. They aimed into the darkness of the field.

The three autopistols, set for single shots, sneezed three .45-caliber bullets.

Two terrorists on roving patrol spun quickly, minus lower jaws, their mouths and throats ripped away. A third fell straight back with a hole above his eyes.

Before the two surviving patrolmen could react, the next trio of slugs hit. One crushed a larynx, another an eye that it drove into the brain. The third slug hit the same man in the bridge of his nose.

The corpses fell silently to the soft earth.

The three Americans had created their opening. Five raiders went through it. The attack team advanced into the blackness.