Patsy and Sandy froze, as people usually did when suddenly confronted with weapons. Their eyes were wide and faces shocked. To their left, someone screamed. Behind this deliveryman, three others now held identical weapons, and faced outward, aiming at the others in the reception area, and a routine day in the Emergency Room changed to something very different.
Outside, Carr popped open his box, smiling as he aimed it at the police car only twenty feet away.
The engine was running, and the cop’s first instinct was to get clear and report in. His left hand slipped the selector into reverse, and his foot slammed down on the accelerator, causing the car to jolt backward.
Carr’s response was automatic. The weapon up, bolt back, he aimed and pulled the trigger, firing fifteen rounds into the automobile’s windscreen. The result was immediate. The Rover had been moving backward in a fairly straight line, but the moment the bullets started hitting, it swerved right, and ended up against the brick wall of the hospital. There it stopped, the pressure off the accelerator now. Carr sprinted over and looked inside to see that there was one less police constable in the world, and that,, to him, was no great loss. “What’s that?” It was the helpful roadside cop rather than Popov who asked the rhetorical question. It was rhetorical because automatic-weapons fire is not something to be mistaken for anything else. His head turned, and he saw the police car-an identical twin to his own-scream backward, then stop, and then a man walked up to it, looked, and walked away. “Bloody hell!”
Dmitriy Arkadeyevich sat still, now watching the cop who’d come to his unneeded assistance. The man ran back to his vehicle, reached inside and pulled out a radio microphone. Popov couldn’t hear what was said, but, then, he didn’t need to.
“We’ve got them, Sean,” O’Neil’s voice told him. Grady acknowledged the information, thumbed the end button and speeddialed Peter Barry’s cell phone.
Yes?”
“Timothy has them. The situation appears to be under control.'”
“Okay.” And this call ended. Then Sean speed-dialed yet another number. “Hello, this is Patrick Casey. We have seized the Hereford community hospital. We are currently holding as hostages Dr. Chavez and Nurse Clark, plus numerous others. We will release our hostages if our demands are met. If they are not met, then it will be necessary for us to kill hostages until such time as you see the error of your ways. We require the release of all political prisoners held in Albany and Parkhurst prisons on the Isle of Wight. When they are released and seen to be released on the television, we will leave this area. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I understand,” the desk sergeant replied. He didn’t, but he had a tape of this call, and he’d forward the information to someone who would understand.
Carr took the casualty-receiving entrance; the Barry twins, Peter and Sam, walked through the inside of the building to the main entrance. Here things were somewhat chaotic. Carr’s initial fusillade hadn’t been heard clearly here, and most of the people had turned their heads to the rough direction of the noise, and on seeing nothing, had turned back to attend to their business. The hospital’s security guard, a man of fifty-five who was wearing something that looked like a police uniform, was heading for the door into the hospital proper when he saw the twins coming toward him with weapons in hand. The retired policeman managed to say, “What’s all this?”-the usual words of a British constable-before a jerk of one rifle muzzle convinced him to raise his hands and shut up. Sam grabbed his collar and shoved him back into the main lobby. There, people saw the weapons. Some screamed. A few made for the doors, and all of them got outside without being fired upon, since the Barry twins had enough to do already.
The police constable’s radio call from the side of the road generated a greater response than Grady’s phone call, especially with the report that a constable had been shot and probably killed in his car. The first reaction of the local superintendent was to summon all of his mobile units to the general area of the hospital. Only about half of them had firearms, and those were mainly Smith & Wesson revolvers-not nearly enough to deal with the reported use of machine guns. The death of the constable was established when an officer who had been parked near the hospital failed to report in, despite numerous calls over the police radio.
Every police station in the world has preset responses for various emergencies. This one had a folder labeled “Terrorism,” and the superintendent pulled it out. even though he had the contents memorized, just to make sure he didn’t forget anything. The top emergency number went to a desk in the Home Office, and he reported what little he knew to the senior civil servant there, adding that he was working to get more information and would report back.
The Home Office headquarters building, close to Buckingham Palace, housed the bureaucrats who had oversight over nearly every aspect of life in the British Isles. That included law enforcement, and in that building, too, was a procedures folder, which was pulled from its slot. I n this one was a new page and a new number.
“Four-two-double-three,” Alice Foorgate said, on picking up the phone. This was the line used exclusively for important voice traffic.
“Mr. Clark, please.”
“Yes. Wait, please.”
“Mr. Clark, a call on double-three,” she said into the intercom.
“This is John Clark,” Rainbox Six said, lifting the receiver.
“This is Frederick Callaway at the Home Office. We have a possible emergency situation,” the civil servant said.
“Okay, where is it?”
“Just up the road from you, I’m afraid, the Hereford hospital. The voice which called in identified itself as Patrick Casey. That is a codename that the PIRA use to designate their operations.”
“Hereford Hospital?” John asked, his hand suddenly cold on the phone.
“That is correct.”
“Hold for a second. I want to get one of my people on this line.” John put his hand over the receiver. “Alice! Get Alistair on this one right now!”
“Yes, John?”
“Mr. Callaway, this is Alistair Stanley, my second-in command. Please repeat what you just told me.”
He did so, then added, “The voice identified two hostages by name, a Nurse Clark, and a Dr. Chavez.”
“Oh, shit,” John breathed. “I’ll get Peter’s team moving, John,” Stanley said.
“Right. Anything else. Mr. Callaway?”
“That is all we have now. The local police superintendent is attempting to gather more information at this time.”
“Okay, thank you. You can reach me at this number if you need me.” Clark replaced the receiver in its cradle. “Fuck,” he said quietly.
His mind was racing. Whoever had scouted out Rainbow had done so for a reason, and those two names had not been an accident. This was a direct challenge to him and his people-and they were using his wife and daughter as a weapon. His next thought was that he would have to pass command over to A1 Stanley, and the next-that his wife and daughter were in mortal danger . . . and he was helpless.
“Christ,” Major Peter Covington muttered over his phone. “Yes, sir. Let me get moving here.” He stood and walked into his squad bay. “Attention, we have some business. Everyone get ready to move immediately.”
Team-I’s members stood and headed to their lockers. It didn’t seem like a drill, but they handled it as though it were. Master Chief Mike Chin was the first to be suited up. He came to see his boss, who was just putting on his body armor.
“What gives, skipper?”
“PIRA, local hospital, holding Clark’s and Ding’s wives as hostages.”
“What’s that?” Chin asked, blinking his eyes hard.
“You heard me, Mike.”
“Oh, shit. Okay.” Chin went back into the squad bay. ‘`Saddle up, people, this ain’t no fuckin’ drill.”
Malloy had just sprinted to his Night Hawk. Sergeant Nance was already there, pulling red-flagged safety pins from their plug points and holding them up for the pilot to confirm the count.
“Looking good, let’s start ‘er up, Lieutenant.”
“Turning one,” Harrison confirmed, as Sergeant Nance reboarded the aircraft and strapped on his move-around safety belt, then shifted to the left-side door to check the tail of the Night Hawk.
“Tail rotor is clear, Colonel.”
Malloy acknowledged that information as he watched his engine instruments spooling up. Then he keyed his radio again. “Command, this is Bear, we are turnin’ and burnin’. What do you want us to do, over?”
“Bear, this is Five,” Stanley’s voice came back, to Malloy’s surprise. “Lift off and orbit the local hospital. That is the site of the current incident.”
“Say again, Five, over.”
“Bear, we have subjects holding the local hospital. They are holding Mrs. Clark and Mrs. Chavez as hostages. They’ve identified both of them by name. Your orders are to lift off and orbit the hospital.”