Kilmara had arranged for the Bear to act as jumpmaster on Fitzduane's C130 on the inward flight.
It was a good move. There was something vastly reassuring about the Bear's presence and about exchanging tall tales as they flew. It helped to counteract the long buffeting ride in the Combat Talon and the smell of puke in the aircraft and the suppressed terror as they hooked up and prepared to jump into the darkness.
To step from safety into space was an unnatural act, and even though Fitzduane had done it before and his brain told him it could be done, his very being cried that two hundred and fifty feet was too low! The parachute would not open in time. Could not open in time. The pilot would misjudge the height. Something would go wrong.
The incredible relief as the canopies blossomed – each and every one. And then the silence as the sound of the aircraft receded and they lay there, weapons loaded and ready, getting used to this new environment and listening for any sign that the DZ that was supposed to be safe and empty was occupied and dangerous and they were about to die.
As they flew in, the DZ had been scanned by sensors that could detect a snake changing its sleeping position, but still he worried. There were things you knew and there were fears that impinged regardless of the logic.
But the sensors had been right. There was nothing. Just backbreaking work as the vehicles were unpacked from their drop pallets and loaded and readied. And then more work as the pallets and ‘chutes were buried. That was the toughest part, and really only possible because each Guntrack came equipped with a miniature bulldozer blade in front of it. The primary role of the blade was to enable to vehicle to dig itself in, but in this case it was used to conceal the evidence of the incursion. No ground patrol would pass by, but from the air one glimpse of a ‘chute would be enough to raise the alarm. The burial process was thorough.
A final meticulous check of the DZ. Nothing could be seen.
The column moved off.
When dawn came up, it was as if Task Force Rapier had vanished into the rocky shale and packed, reddish clay of the plateau.
Nothing could be seen.
Underneath the camouflage nets, a quarter of the team manned sensor units and other passive detective equipment, while the balance ate and slept and cleaned weapons.
The heat steadily increased until by midday the whole plateau seemed in shimmering motion.
In the shade, leaning back against the side of a Guntrack, Al Lonsdale once again gave thanks to the designer of the Guntrack for building copious water tanks into each vehicle. He had been trained to survive on a couple of canteens, but dehydration got to you in the end no matter how good your endurance. Here each track carried enough water to last a couple of weeks. This was special-forces soldiering in comfort. The tanks were even muffled and baffled inside to eliminate the sound of water sloshing as they moved.
A helicopter patrol passed by in the distance, tracked by a Starburst missile team and one of the SAS on a GECAL – just in case. The pilot was flying nice and straight and was about 3,000 feet up. He was obviously an unworried man. He was also a lucky one.
"What a hellhole," said Lonsdale, wiping his face with a towel and then draping it loosely around his neck. "No people, no water, no greenery. Just sun like a flame out of hell, and snakes and scorpions and terrorists. No wonder they call it the Devil's Footprint. He must have thought he was home."
Fitzduane yawned. "You're forgetting oil," he said sleepily. "Tecuno has not got much else, but it has got oil."
"Oil and the devil seem to run together," said Lonsdale lazily. "That's my insight for the day."
Fitzduane did not reply. He was asleep.
Madoa Air Base, Tecuno, Mexico
General Luis Barragan's naked body was not responding to Reiko Oshima's ministrations.
Her tongue explored his groin and plowed little damp trails through his plentiful and already sodden pubic hair, but to no avail. The supergun might be ready to test-fire in a few days, but Barragan's personal weapon was down for maintenance.
Privately, he was of the opinion that he had more than done his duty. He had taken her twice over the last three hours and had brought her to orgasm in other ways. That really ought to be enough for any woman, but Oshima did few things in moderation.
He wondered about her upbringing. What had caused a middle-class Japanese brat like Oshima to reject her upbringing and turn to a philosophy that was little more than destruction turned into a religion? Upon reflection, he decided he did not really care. It was too hot and she was phenomenal in bed and she served her purpose. The fact that her schoolteacher had exposed himself to her when she was seven – or whatever had set her off – was of little consequence. Probably, it was as simple as a severe case of repression. All that Japanese social obligation and enforced group behavior was enough to drive anyone nuts. Though was Oshima insane? Not in a legal sense, he thought. She was rational in her way and certainly was aware of the difference between right and wrong. So it could be argued that she was insane. But she was certainly warped. Seriously sick was another way of putting it. And obsessive.
Whatever Reiko did, she did obsessively.
An evil woman? By conventional bourgeois standards, without question. But a great lay. And in this kind of heat, what else was a man to do in the middle of the day. Apart from rest.
He did not like admitting it even to himself, but right now rest was decidedly the preferred option.
Distraction was required or Oshima was going to wear away parts of his body he was rather attached to. She had a tongue like velvet sandpaper, a penchant for marathons – and the stamina to go with it. But fortunately she had a strong sense of duty, which she exercised to excess like everything else. And General Luis Barragan was, at least nominally, her superior.
Mention work and she hopped to it. Of course, she had her own long-term agenda, but right now she had done what she had been hired to do extremely well. Security at the Devil's Footprint was as tight as one could wish. The only slipup had been Patricio Nicanor, and frankly that had been Barragan's error in the first place in hiring a Zarrista. Well, who would have expected such idiocy in his own family!
But Oshima had redeemed the Nicanor situation before any damage was done. An incredible operator. Hard to control, but worth the effort.
Oshima's relationship with Edgar Rheiman remained a worry. Both, ideally, were needed if the project was to be brought to completion, but the reality was that whereas Oshima's security talents were incredibly useful, Rheiman's scientific skills were essential.
With Rheiman, the whole Devil's Footprint project would not have been possible, and without a weapon such as the supergun, breaking Tecuno away from Mexico would have been much more hazardous. The supergun meant they could thumb their noses at Mexico City. Tecuno would become an independent country, and from then on the possibilities were endless.
Oil profits, drug profits, money laundering, forgery, arms trading, the fast-growing area of electronic piracy, the counterfeiting of branded goods. There were so many opportunities to exploit if you ran your own country. Because who was to touch you when you were the law?
God knows the Mexican elite had proved that very point over the years. It had not done much for the population as a whole, of course, but no intelligent man really gave a fuck about the masses. There would always be a very few who ruled and prospered – and General Luis Barragan intended to stay one of them – and the rest were a resource to be used.
Idealism: nice if you were a middle-class adolescent.
The practicalities: what most people concerned themselves with.
Barragan considered himself a practical man. He was not an opportunistic strategist like his brother-in-law Diego Quintana, or a fanatic like Oshima, or a major talent with rather bad habits when it came to women like Edgar Rheiman. He was a hands-on, take-charge kind of guy who got things done. The world was run by practical men like him.
Which brought the subject back to Rheiman. Oshima had moved from tonguing him to small nips with her lips. Now the scientist was someone guaranteed to distract her. Just as well, because when she started to bite down there the omens were worrying. This was a woman who would not necessarily stop.
"Oshima- san," said Barragan. "There are some matters we must discuss. With regret, but time is short and there are issues to review."
Oshima lifted her head. She looked, he thought, like some animal disturbed momentarily from eating its prey. A plastic surgeon could have minimized her scars. As it was, she wore them like a badge of pride, her long black hair tied back to reveal every detail.
She was a frightening and erotic sight. Her lips were full, the skin of her face and body shiny with sweat and bodily juices. Her teeth white and sharp. Shadows reminded him of blood. Fortunately, it was an illusion. If there had been blood, it would be his. That was not a prospect he liked to contemplate.
There was a moment of hesitation, and then she rose from her end of the bed and sat cross-legged, facing him.
She was completely naked and appeared entirely unselfconscious as she sat there, her sex revealed – indeed displayed – by her posture. Her breasts were firm, the nipples prominent. She was in superb physical condition for her age. She was old enough, he realized, to be a grandmother. Hard to imagine. Had Oshima ever had children? He thought not. But then again, Oshima's past was something of a mystery and not something she talked about.
"Rheiman worries me, Reiko," he said, his manner now less formal as he saw he had her attention. "More to the point, your attitude towards him concerns me. We've less than a week to go and there is much at stake, and there you are, Reiko, still playing games with him. Or are you?"
Oshima's eyes were on him as she replied. He had rarely encountered a woman with more beautiful eyes, and Luis Barragan prided himself on knowing many women.
"Rheiman is a sick man," she said. "He killed in America and he has killed again since he came here. Six women have died in this camp alone."
"Prostitutes brought in for the men," said Barragan. "Of no consequence. They could not be returned anyway."
"At your request, I gave him – lent him – the Irishwoman," said Oshima demurely, casting her eyes downward. "What more could I do, my general?"
Barragan eyed her suspiciously. When Oshima was submissive, she was up to something. She could never let a situation alone. Always there was a subtext, a maneuver, a scheme.
"You can let him play with the damned woman for as long as it lasts," growled Barragan. "I want him content for as long as his services are required, without interference from you."
"And if she dies?" said Oshima softly. "After all, she is mine, my general, and she has a purpose to serve."
To be played with and broken and finally to be dismembered solely as an act of vengeance against this man Fitzduane. Barragan shuddered inwardly. He found it hard to imagine the level of hate this woman felt toward her enemies. Barragan had his opponents killed as any sane man in his position would do, but he did not dwell on the process. Such things were necessary, no more.
And this Irishman. What would he do? By all accounts he was resourceful, yet in truth what could he do? He would have no idea where his wife had been taken. The Devil's Footprint was about as remote a spot as could be imagined and was virtually a sealed environment. So how could the man find out? But if by some miracle he did manage to locate his wife and throw together some operation, he had no chance of penetrating the defenses. Using state-of-the-art stealth helicopters, the American Drug Enforcement Administration had tried and had failed a year earlier, and Tecuno's antihelicopter precautions had been increased since then. So Oshima's optimistic move at picking up her enemy's wife was a distraction from the main event but posed no real threat. Though perhaps it was an indication that Reiko needed to be kept under tighter control.
"If Rheiman strangles her as he has strangled the others, it will be unfortunate," said Barragan, "but there are priorities.
Personally, I don't think he will for some little time. This is not some puta. This is a real Caucasian woman he can talk to, boast to, fuck if he wants to. The woman is helpless. She is a marvelous plaything, and not easy to replace in this part of the world. No, he won't kill her yet. So don't interfere, Reiko, or I may forget what you can do for me."
Oshima said nothing. There was the briefest flash of anger and then she bowed her head submissively. She held the position and then her head bent lower.
Seconds later, Barragan was surprised to find that his most favored appendage seemed to have recovered. He lay back to enjoy and think.
Rheiman was happy and was delivering the goods. Oshima had been pulled back from stirring up the Americans before any serious damage had been caused. Valiente Zarra had been taken out with some finesse. The PRI would get back into power as normal, and Diego Quintana could handle them and President Marinas with both hands tied behind his back.
Most important of all, the base was secure. The plateau defenses could not be breached without his knowing, and his combined defenses in and around the Devil's Footprint could handle anything. Not that the Americans would ever mount such a mission. If the media was right, all PresidentGeorgieFalls's firmness of resolve went into his prick and he had no more for anything else. Clearly, his cojones were not up to the job.
Barragan groaned with pleasure as Oshima brought him to a peak of ecstasy. Visibly, the General's cojones were in better shape.
Oshima raised her head but kept it bowed. Then she reached behind and released her hair. In the shaded room, it was now nearly impossible to read her expression.
The precaution was scarcely necessary. Since she was out of arm's reach, Barragan gave her a slight squeeze with his legs in acknowledgment and fell asleep.
The flaw in Barragan's plans is very simple, reflected Oshima. He and Quintana are motivated by money and see the supergun merely as a deterrent. Leave us alone and we'll leave you alone. All we want is one small country called Tecuno.
But the flaw was the Reiko Oshima had altogether different plans and her group, Yaibo, controlled the inner security perimeter, including that of the supergun itself. An independent Tecuno was neither here nor there compared to the opportunity to inflict some serious damage on the United States of America.
Such a blow would expiate some of the rage that threatened, at times, to engulf her, and the knowledge that it had been carried out by her would establish her once again as a terrorist force to be reckoned with.
She could return to Japan and followers would flow to her. The system was rotten, and ripe for the plucking.
The first projectile to be fired from the supergun was supposed to be a test. It would not be. Instead it would be a small missile of Russian origin – not hard to purchase – targeted right at that part of Washington known colloquially as the Hill.
The warhead was not nuclear. It did not need to be. It was still capable of inflicting casualties on a scale commensurate with Hiroshima.
Japanese politicians, dominated by America for half a century, would make shocked noises and go through all the right motions. But the people of Japan would support her.
They had not forgotten. They would never forget.
Reiko Oshima would never let them forget.
She uncoiled herself. General Luis Barragan snored on. He was, in his way, she reflected, not a bad man. But he paled compared to the only man she had ever really loved, the terrorist known as the Hangman. But her lover was dead, and since that time she had resolved that no one would ever get close to her. Soon Barragan would die too.
In this business it is your friends who betray you, she had been taught and she had not forgotten. The inner circle of Yaibo was regularly purged. It was a technique that worked. The terrorist leaders and dictators that survived practiced it. And Stalin, who had purged more than most, had died in his bed.
It was something of a paradox, but to survive in the world she had chosen, you had to kill your friends.
It was best that death served a purpose. Barragan was right. Rheiman would have to kept sweet for the moment – which meant Fitzduane's woman could not be touched physically. But the effect of the execution on her would be amusing. This was something she would not be used to. This would shake her up and maybe drive her into Rheiman's arms. Which would be a small revenge in its way.
The person to be executed? That was no problem. Who had served her best and most faithfully? Who had succored her after she had dragged herself from TokyoBay?
Hori would die. He was the man who least deserved to. It was appropriate. History had shown he was the most likely person to have betrayed her. Who else had become close?
Jin Endo had occupied her bed much recently, and her thoughts more than a little. He was young and he was devoted to her. He was a point of vulnerability. He had done well in the United States. He had served his purpose. There were always others.
Endo- san would die too. But perhaps not yet.
No, for the moment, Hori would die alone.
Approaching the Devil's Footprint,
Tecuno, Mexico
"Here comes SkyEye," said Chuck Freeman, one of the Delta contingent, his eyes glued to image-intensifying binoculars. "Just watch that sucker land. I swear Calvin flew before he crawled."
Fitzduane smiled and raised his own night-vision binoculars in the direction that Chuck was indicating. He was just in time to see Calvin make one of his famed landings.
The aviator took full advantage of the airfoil qualities of the dihedral wing and the very low stall speed of the microlight, and did not so much land as drop the tiny aircraft gently onto the ground at the last minute after a gentle glide with all the power switched off.
With forward momentum virtually canceled by air resistance when still airborne, the microlight rolled for only a few yards before coming to a halt.
Fitzduane had been worried about the feasibility of finding suitable landing and takeoff surfaces in the rough terrain, but he need not have. Calvin could take off and land almost anywhere.
The decision to bring the microlight had turned out to be a fortunate one. Their maps and satellite photos were inadequate for the finer details of the terrain, and on several occasions so far aerial reconnaissance had enabled them to steer around obstacles.
Guntracks could handle most surfaces, but gullies, ravines, and wadis could pose problems. Of course, even near-vertical surfaces could be handled with the right winch technique – and every vehicle mounted a built-in winch with a forty-nine meter cable – but winching vehicles up and down was notoriously time-consuming, and surplus time was a commodity that Team Rapier did not possess.
Fitzduane and Freeman helped Calvin pack up the microlight and slide it into its travel tube.
"The recce team is on the way back, Colonel," said Calvin. "They should be here in about twenty minutes."
He was wearing black flame-resistant Nomex overalls, black body armor, and a black helmet, so he might have looked a little like Batman except for the black goose-down parka he wore over the top.
It was cold in the desert plateau at night, and even colder when you were flying in an open cockpit, so Calvin – whose unclothed build was slight – when fully bundled and padded out, looked more like the exceptionally rotund Penguin. Add in the night-vision goggles and he looked even more horrific.
Fitzduane thought he was probably scaring hell out of the local vultures. There did not seem to be any more friendly bird life in the area. Vultures set the tone.
Since Calvin had come recommended by people he trusted, and the mission had been put together in a hurry, Fitzduane had not looked at his file at first. Special forces were NCO heavy and everyone seemed to call Calvin by his first name, so he had assumed the man was a sergeant. Though he looked far too young, it turned out Calvin was a major. It was not important. What counted was not your rank but how you did your job, and in that context the aviator was a formidable asset.
Minutes later, the recce team were detected over a kilometer away by the mast-mounted FLIR on Fitzduane's Guntrack.
Weapons were trained on them until they were identified. Soon they entered the perimeter of the concealed camp. It was good navigation in this rocky wasteland, but although they were using traditional methods – it did not come easy to put all your faith in technology – they were also equipped with GPS, or global positioning sets, which determined one's position by picking up pre-positioned navigation-satellite signals.
Fitzduane gave the recce team a few minutes to eat and drink and then called a briefing. He used the flattopped rear engine compartment of his Guntrack as a map board.
The layout of the camp was now augmented by the observations of the recce team over twenty-four hours. The team reported in detail. All the electronic intelligence in the world could not substitute for hands-on human intelligence. These people had felt the texture of the enemy position. They had been close enough to reach out and nearly touch the very people they had come to kill. But first they had looked and learned.
The assault plan remained intact. There were changes of detail to be accommodated, but that was normal. Fitzduane summarized.
"We're going to be in position by 2200 hours. At 0100 hours, having had three hours to eyeball the target and fine-tune our understanding of the opposition, we're going to attack.
"The assaults will be silent and simultaneous. Shadow Four will infiltrate Dali and do what has to be done on the supergun. Shadow Two will take out the blockhouse on the central spur. Shadow Three and Shadow Five will enter Salvador, hit the Yaibo barracks, extract Kathleen, and kill all Yaibo members, including – if we are so lucky – Reiko Oshima. Shadow One, my track, will run interference from the other side of the perimeter road and will coordinate. Calvin will fly topside and advisee us of any approaching hassle. We go in and out in twenty minutes – no more! So no stopping for a shower, a shit, and a shave. We are not tourists, people.
"Now to the detail."
The briefing continued. The twenty-four-hour reconnaissance, as well as confirming intelligence they already possessed, had added detail that could only be gathered by close observation.
The two valleys had separate generator systems. The main camp generator in Salvador was particularly noisy and prone to brownouts and breakdowns. It had cut out twice while the recce team was in position, and each time a bored soldier had left the guardhouse a the main gate and after ten minutes or so had restored it to life. There had been no reaction from elsewhere in the camp when the lights had died. It was clear that this was a routine occurrence.
In contrast, the generator in Dali, while still noisy, was quieter and manifestly more reliable. There, illuminating the maze of pipes that included the supergun, the security lights burned bright and even. Even more to the point, it had been ascertained that the double fence that circled the camp from the main gate at the front to the rim of the valley at the back was electrified on the inside perimeter. It would have been convenient if this had been powered by the faulty generator in the main camp, Salvador, but unfortunately that was not so.
"That's the bad news," continued Fitzduane. "However, by the standards of this landscape, the ground beneath the fence is soft – well, vulnerable – in places, and the recce team have already probed an entry point on the rim. Al's team, Shadow Two, will go in from there. A regular jeep patrol goes by every fifteen minutes, but that apart, it will be just good old-fashioned burrowing. Healthy exercise, I'm told."
The team of Shadow Two looked appropriately thrilled. In fact, their digging had been extensively rehearsed and their Guntrack was equipped with a variety of powered tools to cope with various contingencies. The fastest was a compressed-air powered auger that was portable and virtually silent. Other equipment was hydraulically based and derived from devices used by rescue teams and police SWAT teams to prize apart obstacles. Such specialized tools could peel armor plate back in seconds as if it were aluminum foil.
There had been concern about motion sensors or beams, even though the notes on Patricio Nicanor's plan had stated they were not being used. The reconnaissance using sensors had shown he was right. A high-technology fence of such dimensions would have been expensive and difficult to maintain in such a location. Further, motion sensors would have been hard to coordinate with the jeep patrols and vulnerable to being set off by wild animals. Still, two fences, the inner one electrified, separated by a patrolled strip and overlooked by a blockhouse, were not insignificant.
"In sum," continued Fitzduane, "while Shadow Two is infiltrating from behind to take out the blockhouse on the high ground, three other teams are going to enter by the front gates. After all, what are gates for?
"In Salvador, the valley containing the mercenary garrison and the terrorists, the sentries will be taken out with silenced weapons, and two teams, six people, Chifune Shadow Three and Peter Harty's Shadow Five, will enter on foot and head immediately for the Yaibo barracks building. You will shut off the generator silently so it looks like a normal breakdown. You will also destroy the radio room, which is on the first floor of the main building. Then, again using silenced weapons, you will kill – I repeat kill – all Yaibo inside and anyone else you encounter except for the hostage. In the ensuing darkness, all of you will exfiltrate with the hostage and rejoin your vehicles, which will be concealed in the scrub and rocks on the other side of the perimeter road. In all, I expect you to be in the camp for no more than five to seven minutes – ten at the outside.
At precisely the same time as Salvador is being entered and the blockhouse being neutralized, Brick's team, Shadow Four, will enter Dali, the supergun valley. In this case, they will bring in their Guntrack when the internal opposition has been neutralized. Here, apart from mercenaries at the entrance, you will have to deal with four Yaibo guarding the supergun control bunker. That done, you can tame the supergun and check out what kind of warheads they have in store. No matter what you find, I expect you to be inside for no more than fifteen minutes.
"All of this adds up to three synchronized assaults taking out respectively the terrorists, the supergun, and the blockhouse that commands the two valleys. The watchwords are stealth, speed, and silence.
"Although you know the enemy dispositions full well, I am going to repeat that we are not just up against around fifty Yaibo terrorists. On the left-hand side of the main camp, Salvador, as you enter – that is the side opposite the Yaibo barracks – there is tented accommodation for over six hundred Tecuno mercenary soldiers, and just to make life more interesting, there are normally half a dozen tanks laagered up in the middle, and there is a helicopter pad. In short, tiptoes might be a good idea. These guys are classified as special forces themselves, and though they may not be the best in the world, even six hundred idiots can spray a lot of lead around, and they have other unfriendly toys like heavy mortars and rocket launchers.
"To further encourage discretion, I would remind you that the twin valleys, Salvador and Dali, that make up the Devil's Footprint are bordered by a perimeter road that also circles the Madoa military airfield only eight kilometers away. Convoys of armor patrol that perimeter road. Finally, I should mention that the Madoa airfield, apart from being the base for two thousand more troops, boasts MiG-23s and armed helicopters. So be discreet folks. Keep the decibels down.
"The mercenaries – the battalion in the Devil's Footprint and the brigade in the air base – are not on the menu unless we have no alternative. But if the shit does hit the fan, I want very serious destruction.
"These people are not our friends. They threaten our countries. They threaten our values. They have already killed many hundreds of our people. So do not pull back. I can promise you, this is no time to be nice. They won't kiss you back. And I intend to go home no matter what is in the way. Fundamentally, like Lee here, I'm a carpet slippers type."
There was laughter, and Steve Kent slapped Cochrane on the back. The incident was a small thing, but Lee at last felt part of the team. It was a strange feeling, as if a circuit had been closed. He no longer had to prove anything. He just had to perform better than he would ever have thought possible. By himself it could not be done. With these people – his people – he would do it. Unit pride? It was more than that. It was an understanding; something very deep and very strong. It was a higher level of commitment. Beyond words.
It was a crazy feeling. It was probable that he was about to die. But he was happy.
Fitzduane had joined in the laughter. Now he turned serious and held a hand up for silence. "I have to talk about a sad event, the death of a very brave man. It behooves us to pay attention. What we are about to witness could be any one of us. This is the face of our enemy. It says everything that needs to be said.
"The quality of our intelligence on the target has a great deal to do with Koancho, the Japanese security service, and their agent in place, Hori- san. Recently you memorized his photograph so that you would not kill him in error. The intention had been that Chifune would go in in advance to remove her colleague from the line of fire. Now, I regret to say, it is academic. Yesterday the recce team witnessed this."
A ruggedized television monitor had been set up to show the videos of the target made by the reconnaissance team. So far they had viewed the routine functioning of the camp both in context and in close-up. Now the high-power telephoto lens of the miniaturized surveillance camera was focused on the Yaibo compound in the Salvador valley. It was wired off from the general camp area.
It looked at first at if some game was being played.
There were two teams of roughly fifteen people, each side pulling at opposite ends of a rope as if it were a tug-of-war.
But there was someone in the middle. And his hands and feet were bound and the rope was looped in a slipknot around his neck.
He was being executed.
The camera zoomed in, and they could see the man's face in close-up as his face and body contorted and he was slowly – very slowly – strangled to death.
Fitzduane froze the image. "I don't think we need to see any more. The whole think took over fifteen minutes and ended up with his decapitation by rope. That is Yaibo in action. They have a tradition of purges. Why? Who knows?"
He looked at Chifune. Her face was expressionless, but he could feel a great grief. There was no anger. Instead there was a feeling of enormous strength, of resolution.
Hori- san had died, but his torch had been passed. His sense of purpose would live on. Those who had killed him would pay for their crime. It was a matter of justice, and it was certain.
"I am deeply sorry, Chifune," said Fitzduane. "Sorry for what has happened and sorry to have to show you the manner of his death."
Chifune lifted her eyes, and there were tears in them. "It was necessary," she said. "We all have to understand. To know."
There was silence in the group.
Chifune looked back to the frozen image. Her face was pale. "It makes me ashamed to be Japanese," she said quietly. "Why do we produce people who could do such things? What are we doing that is so wrong?"
"Nothing to be ashamed of Chifune," said Calvin. "The man who died was Japanese too. Every nation has good and bad. That's just the way of it."
Chifune raised her hand and gently placed two fingers on the monitor screen on the frozen scene of the dying man's face. It was at once a gesture of affection and farewell.
Fitzduane switched off the video and the screen went blank and there was silence for a little time. It seemed appropriate. No one had met the man who had died, but he had been a colleague. He deserved respect.
The group dispersed, but Calvin remained behind.
He cleared his throat. "I'd like to change the aviation plan. I've been thinking, and I can do more than fly top cover."
Fitzduane looked at him. It was a relief to be able to focus on a technical problem, and Calvin was normally worth listening to. "A little late in the day, Calvin, don't you think?"
Calvin reminded him in a way of U.S. General Billy Mitchell. Mitchell had pioneered the use of airpower in warfare in the 1920s, against stubborn opposition, with such enthusiasm that he had been court-martialed for his pains before the merit of his thinking had been vindicated.
Calvin had the same zeal when it came to pushing the airborne role in special-forces operations. He was not just a competent aviator. He had a definite vision of how air assets might be used, and he and Fitzduane had talked at length on the subject.
Calvin nodded. "I should have spoken earlier, but I wanted to get the hang of the terrain first. Now I'm sure I can do it, and it won't change the ground assault plan."
"Do what?" said Fitzduane.
"Hit Madoa airfield," said Calvin. "When we bug out after the assault, the greatest threat is going to come from the air, and in particular from helicopter gunships. They are the ones that can hunt us down and counter the Guntracks' speed and agility. Sure, I know we've got air defenses, but I think it makes more sense to take them out on the ground."
Fitzduane thought for a moment. The microlight was a tiny machine and up to now it had been positioned only for observation. But maybe that was blinkered thinking.
"When would you propose doing this, Calvin? There is a balance here between alerting the enemy flyboys and making the hit. Throwing stones at a wasps' nest is not a good idea."
Calvin smiled. "I'd suggest striking after the ground attack on the Devil's Footprint," he said. "That way Madoa airbase won't alert the target before we are in, and at the same time when the target calls them they'll be too busy with their own world of woe to respond."
"Do you really think you can do that much damage from the SkyEye?" said Fitzduane. "You don't have much of a payload left after the FLIR."
"It's a two-seater even with the FLIR," said Calvin. "That means I have up to about two hundred pounds to play with. That's ten RAW projectiles, an Ultimax, and a forty-millimeter pump-action grenade-launcher – with room to spare. That is serious grief from the sky, and the sat photos show aircraft parked out in the open. They have no hardened bunkers. No need, they think. There is supposed to be no threat around here. Only the devil walks in these parts, and he's a friend."
Fitzduane smiled. "Very droll, Calvin."
He considered the proposition and then called in the others for discussion. Since Calvin's arrival, the team had become rather attached to their eye in the sky and were not sure they wanted it put at risk. On the other hand, armed helicopters were not a pleasant prospect.
Fitzduane made the decision. If Calvin was in position over the airstrip when the ground attack went in, he should be back in time for the exfiltration. His little machine could go at over a mile a minute when the sound suppressor was not switched on.
"Go for it, Calvin," he said, and explained. Calvin nodded.
Final preparations were made, and for the first time miniature headsets were worn. Radio silence disciplines had been absolute so far and would continue until the assault. But Fitzduane had weighed the options. The advantages of instant communication between team members during the actual assault outweighed the risks of the signals being overheard. In addition, the transmissions were encrypted. An eavesdropper would hear something that would sound like static.
There was a last equipment check. Watches were synchronized. It was a moonless night, but the sky was cloudless and a canopy of stars ensured just enough light to make the passive night-vision goggles fully effective. It would not have mattered if the darkness had been absolute. Shanley's company's thermal driving aids had become second nature.
Calvin, again dressed like the Penguin, took off.
Fitzduane made a hand signal, which was passed on from Guntrack to Guntrack.
The column moved off toward the target.
In a few hours, thought Shanley, I am going to have to kill another human being. I don't care what they have done. I cannot be judge, jury, and executioner. The others can do it. They are professionals. Even Lee Cochrane served in Vietnam. I cannot do it. In Fayetteville, it was self-defense and I did not have time to think.
Here I have plenty of time to think, and I know I cannot do this. I have never served.
If I can, if my body does not betray me, I will try to do everything that is required of me – but I will not kill. I cannot. Let the others take life.
I have not served.
Guilt and fear ran raw through him. He had thought it would be like the endless training. The careful preparation, the long periods of waiting, the excitement of the impending assault, the adrenaline rush, and then action.
This was superficially just like that in many ways. The same people, the same equipment, the same feel of the Guntrack's suspension as it leveled the appalling terrain. But inwardly, inside his very being, he felt entirely different.
The certainty was gone. It was as if the skills that had given him so much confidence had evaporated and every last defense stripped away. Now there was nothing but terror and overwhelming self-doubt.
I have abandoned my family for nothing. I cannot do this thing. I will let down my comrades. I will die here in Mexico to no purpose.
Why me? Why now?
I am afraid beyond the very meaning of fear.
The Devil's Footprint
The guard on the main gate of the Devil's Footprint valley known as ‘Salvador’ looked at his watch.
Time seemed to have slowed its tempo. It was an occupational hazard on guard duty and especially so in this mind-numbingly dull part of the world. Nothing ever happened. The main defenses were on the perimeter of the plateau hundreds of kilometers away, and the immediate area was deserted. It was scarcely surprising. Who, in their right mind, would want to live in this hellhole?
He had come on duty at midnight, only an hour ago if he was to believe the evidence of his watch, but is seemed like an eternity, a particularly cold eternity. The Devil's Footprint was not only 3,800 feet up on the plateau, but it was in the foothills of the Tecuno mountains and every foot of additional height seemed to make a difference for the worse. The high desert at night was cold enough. Throw in some altitude and it was downright uncomfortable. In his opinion, the location was well-named. It was fit only for the devil.
It was too cold at night and too hot during the day, and the ground was harsh and arid and stony and brutal on boots, and there were far too many things around that bit, like flies and scorpions and snakes and lizards. Frankly, why the base was located here was beyond him. Still, no one had asked him his opinion or seemed likely to. As a mercenary, he got paid but not consulted.
"Hey, Ahmed," he called.
Ahmed grunted. He was sitting in the turret of the T55 tank that blocked the camp entrance at night. He was marginally more comfortable than his colleague, since he had a woolly hat his wife had knitted him on his head and was well bundled up and gaining some benefit from a small oil heater inside the tank; but his main distraction came from the pornographic Japanese comic book he was looking at.
Manga, they called such things. He had traded a stack from one of the Yaibo fanatics in exchange for hash.
"Ahmed," repeated the gate guard. Ahmed raised his head from the comic book and as he did so pieces of his skull seemed to detach themselves from his head. They could be seen like bloody snow reflecting in the gate floodlights, except that they flew sideways. And there was no snow.
The guard's mouth dropped open and then he, too, crumpled. His body twitched as it lay on the ground and a further burst tore into it.
Black-clad figures ran forward, and a split second later the Yaibo guard on the inner perimeter lay lifeless on his back.
Two black figures entered the guardroom where six off-duty guards were sleeping.
It took seven seconds.
The entire group were now at the base of the Yaibo barracks. An orange light glowed in one window where the duty radio operator sat; otherwise the place was in darkness.
There was a hand signal and a faint click as the power supply to the building was severed. Seconds later, the radio operator came out swearing under his breath. He had been practically asleep. He had assumed it was that fucking generator again, but then he saw that the perimeter lights were on, and anyway he could hear the bloody thing thumping. It must be a main fuse.
He started to turn just as his mouth and nose were clamped and his head pulled back. His own momentum helped to do the work of the blade. Dead, his heart was still pumping as he was lowered to the ground. The only sound was a slight gurgle.
The assault group split into two three-person teams and entered the two floors simultaneously.
Fitzduane was positioned on the reverse slope of a low ridge facing the entrance to the main camp.
The two temporarily abandoned vehicles of the assault group were concealed nearby. To retrieve them the crews would have to cross the perimeter road. During the day, when it was well traveled, that would be risky, but this time of night there should be no problem.
Fitzduane watched the assault teams go in with mixed feelings.
A special-forces assault bestrode a fine line between recklessness and audacity, and being forced to let other people spearhead the action while he remained in reserve did not please him. On the other hand, the people he had selected were younger and better qualified for the particular tasks involved, and a commander's job was to look at the woods, not get lost in the trees. Still, no matter how he rationalized, waiting outside was difficult.
He rotated the FLIR, but so far nothing untoward could be seen. The viewing head of the high-magnification night/day vision device was extended over the rim of the hill. He felt like a submariner looking through his periscope. Steve Kent, his driver, sat beside him. Lee Cochrane, his rear gunner who had checked out surprisingly well with the GECAL, was fifteen yards away, lying in a dip of the rim, monitoring the road.
Fitzduane missed his eye in the sky.
Calvin would warn him of any vehicles approaching from the north, but he would not be able to see any southern arrivals while away at the airfield. Still, life was a compromise. Armed helicopters were the most lethal short-term threat, and if he could neutralize them the exfiltration would be a whole lot safer. There were no other helicopters based within range.
He focused the FLIR on the Yaibo barracks. There was one light burning on the first floor. That would be the radio room.
He watched as the light went out. Inside that building, according to his information, Kathleen lay. In seconds she would be free or perhaps dead. He knew she had been maltreated and abused and was kept blindfolded and chained – but had it been even more serious? Could she walk? Was she still sane? Had she been tortured? Had she been raped? The baby! How was the baby? Could it have survived?
He wanted to put his arms around Kathleen and hug her as he had so many times in the past, but he could do nothing but watch and wait.
Near the Devil's Footprint,
Tecuno, Mexico
Calvin allowed himself plenty of time and traveled slowly and in optimum stealth mode to reach Madoa airfield.
On a moonless night like this and a thousand feet up the SkyEye was almost impossible to detect visually, but the engine could conceivably be heard unless the ‘super trap’ silencer was used.
The super trap – fitted also to the Guntracks – was highly effective, but though it increased torque, it decreased performance. The system could be varied by the operator, but fully invoked, the price for being nearly silent was a top speed dropped from over eighty to around thirty miles an hour.
The air was cold and clear against his face, and with the engine noise almost completely suppressed, he felt like some giant bird of prey as he flew over the nearly deserted landscape beneath him.
The northern end of the perimeter road was dark. There were no truck lights. He peered through his FLIR and examined the lozenge-shaped ribbon of the road more closely. There was still nothing to be seen. Team Rapier was safe from the north. As for the south, that would have to be the boss's problem, because Calvin could see the lights of the airfield show up ahead. It was clear they were not anticipating any enemy action. There were lights at the main gate and in the barracks and around the maintenance hangars. The runway was dark.
Six MiG-23 jets stood parked in sandbagged emplacements, and nearby another four helicopters were similarly lined up.
Calvin circled the airfield at a discreet distance, studying every detail through his FLIR. He had practiced until he could fire an aimed RAW projectile every ten seconds. Close examination showed half a dozen heavy-machine-gun positions around the base. They might not be designed for antiaircraft work, but they could still make life very unpleasant for him if he was detected.
"Don't be either a hero or a perfectionist, Calvin," Fitzduane had said. "How can you lobby the cause of special-forces air if you're a permanent part of the Tecuno landscape? Do what you can in a single pass and then get the fuck out AFAFP – As Fast As Fucking Possible."
Calvin smiled to himself as he prepared to attack. He would confine himself to the aircraft parked outside. Anything under repair in the maintenance hangar was unlikely to be flyable in time to pose a threat anyway.
Unfortunately, he did not see the small passenger helicopter parked inside one of the hangars for no more serious reason than it was having its windscreen cleaned. It was used by Reiko Oshima, and it was at Madoa airfield because Oshima was spending that particular night with General Luis Barragan.
Unaware of each other's presence, Calvin prepared to attack.
The Devil's Footprint,
Tecuno, Mexico
Chifune entered the second floor of the Yaibo barracks, the layout imprinted on her mind.
Toilets, four stalls. Thirty-six-bed barracks area with passage down the center. Two rooms at either side of the corridor. Kathleen on the right. Oshima sometimes – she moved around – on the left.
Chifune was designated right and Chuck Freeman was assigned left, with Grady acting as backup. Nothing was said. This was a prearranged routine practiced so many times it was an instinctive reflex.
The floor was dark, but through her PNV goggles she could see. There were no colors except shades of green fading to black and the red dot of her laser gun sight, which was invisible except to those wearing the goggles and the appropriate filter.
A figure rose from a bed and stumbled sleepily toward the toilets. Outside the stalls, as he fumbled for a light switch, Chifune shot him twice in the back of the head and caught the body and lowered it to the ground. Black liquid ran out of his skull. She checked the other stalls. All were empty.
Thirty of the beds were still occupied.
Chifune fired, and a split second later Chuck Freeman opened up. The weapons made almost no noise, and the ejected brass fell downward into cloth bags so there was not even the sound of empty cases rattling on the floor.
Bodies whipped as rounds tore into them, and blood blackened the bedclothes and sheets and leaked onto the floor and spread in a great pool.
The attackers advanced, firing steadily in aimed three-round bursts, and Grady followed up with head shots.
One terrorist rose up and screamed and reached for his weapon, but died as Chifune fired a longer burst and five 10mm armor-piercing slugs cut through his torso.
At the end of the room, a Yaibo member got his weapon up and cocked it, then slammed back and slid along the corridor as Grady spotted him and took him out with a head shot and a burst to the throat.
A pair of lovers sharing the same bed half rose in alarm as the man in the next bed shuddered and fell back, and then Freeman's rounds found them and they collapsed in each other's arms.
A Yaibo woman seized a sword and ran down the central aisle toward her executioners until three streams of Calico rounds converged and cut her nearly in half.
She fell forward and her weapon cut into the toe of Freeman's boot before falling from her lifeless hands.
One young Yaibo member – he was older but he looked no more than sixteen – held up his hands in a vain effort to surrender. The movement attracted Grady's attention and a burst took him in the face.
A terrorist rolled off his bed and, crawling frantically, emerged between Chifune and Freeman. Neither could fire without hitting the other. Grady was blocked by Freeman.
The terrorist scrabbled to cock his automatic rifle. As he did so, Freeman drew his fighting knife with his left hand and stabbed the man in the throat.
In less than thirty seconds, thirty-one members of Yaibo lay dead or dying and the air was thick with the smells of slaughter. All the bodies were checked quickly, and where there was any sign of life at all, it was terminated.
The assault team moved on. There was no emotion. This was what they had trained to do. Reaction would come later.
The door of Oshima's room was flung open. It was empty.
The Blockhouse Above The Devil's Footprint,
Tecuno, Mexico
Shanley watched through filtered PNV goggles as Al Lonsdale emerged on the inside of the electric fence.
Despite their equipment and hindered by the requirement for absolute silence, tunneling under it had proved to be harder and to take longer than expected. What had appeared like sandy ground had degenerated into rock, and they had been forced to hunt for another location.
Seconds later, Dana Felton emerged and Shanley passed through the Clucas pole in sections. The Clucas had been designed for Britain's SBS – Special Boat Service – marine commando unit as a way of covertly climbing onto ships from an assault boat below. It consisted of a central shaft of light, strong alloy with short steps protruding on either side. It could be up to fifty-four feet long and was much faster to climb than a rope ladder.
Shanley could see headlights. He sank back to the ground, and Al and Dana did the same. A minute later the guard jeep with its crew of four and mounting a heavy machine gun passed by, headlights blazing and occupants chatting away.
They are bored out of their minds and the lights and the fence give an illusion of security, thought Shanley. The form and the substance – the split between the two was a curious paradox in the military world. People still only went through the motions, even when their very lives were at stake. It was the ‘It can't happen to me’ syndrome, and it was the friend of special forces the world over.
Al Lonsdale and Dana rose from the ground and, making every use of the terrain and keeping to the shadows, moved towards the reinforced concrete observation post that commanded the two valleys below. Even with his night-vision equipment and knowing they were there, Shanley found it very hard to follow them. Mostly there was more the faintest impression of movement than a hard image.
When they came to the base of the post, they vanished.
They will now be moving around to the base on the other side, thought Shanley. Seconds later, three clicks and then one sounded in his earpiece.
Keeping well under cover, he picked up a lamp and pointed it at the observation post and shouted in Japanese. It was not a language he spoke, but he had parrot-learned a few phrases. Seconds later, a searchlight swung in his direction and he ducked right down as the beam moved toward him.
"What's up? What did you see?" said the startled second guard on the blockhouse roof. He spoke in Spanish. Numb with boredom and the chill of the night, he had two blankets wrapped around him and had been almost asleep when his companion had cried out.
"I saw a headlight," said the first guard, "and then someone shouted in Japanese. It sounds like the yo-yos are playing games out there." Relations between the Japanese Yaibo terrorists and the mainly Mexican mercenary force were not cordial.
"Well, fuck ‘em," said his companion. "They should know better. Give them a burst and teach them to behave. It'll liven things up."
The first guard swung the 12.7mm heavy machine gun around. It was sorely tempting, but Yaibo were supposed to be their allies, and shooting up a group who had got lost on some exercise would not look like such fun in the light of day. He decided to play it safe and call the guardhouse.
He was reaching for the telephone as the burst from Al Lonsdale's silenced Calico struck him in the back. The 10mm armor-piercing rounds plowed effortlessly through his Russian-made flak jacket.
His companion fell at the same time Dana fired. Seconds later, the two members of Shadow Two had descended into the floor below where eight other members of the duty section lay sleeping.
It did not take long. They checked the bodies, switched the current off the electric fence, and ascended to the roof again.
Shanley watched with growing concern as the lights of the duty jeep came closer. The jeep, in the normal scheme of things, was not due back for another fifteen minutes, so he could only assume that the blockhouse had called them up to investigate the mysterious light. Bloody hell, it was an obvious move with hindsight, but actually one they had not anticipated. There was always something staring you in the face that you missed. As Brick had once remarked, life was a monument to mankind's fuckups.
"The blockhouse is secure," said Al Lonsdale's voice in his earpiece. This was technically correct and though on the open net primarily for Fitzduane's benefit, Shanley meanwhile had a jeepload of Mexican mercenaries bearing down on him.
What to do? It had to be done virtually silently. A shout would not attract attention in either of the camps below, but unsilenced gunshots were another matter.
He would have to take out the four before they could respond. This was what he had trained for. It could be done.
"Take them out – kill them."
Kill four perfect strangers. Take the lives of four human beings as peremptorily as one might swat a fly.
He broke out in a sweat.
I cannot kill. I will not kill. Let the others take life.
He had known this moment would come, and yet he had no idea how he would respond. It was not an issue you could resolve in a vacuum. This was not a theoretical debate. This was not an exercise. Albeit for reasons he considered valid, this was the slaughter of sentient human beings. It was immoral. It was wrong. It was something he could not do – would not do.
The guard jeep slowed to a halt.
It was the other side of the double fence and past him by about ten meters. At the most they were fifteen meters away from his position and looking away from him.
Two dismounted from the jeep and went to look more closely. The driver and the machine gunner remained in position.
Shanley faced with the immediate reality, no longer rationalized.
Reflex took over and basic survival instinct took over – and something more. A determination not to let his people down. They were not perfect. Some he did not even like.
Not important. They were a team. There was a shared purpose, shared loyalties, shared experiences. They were his people. Better yet, even those he did not warm to were his comrades. They were his friends.
He fired four quick, silent bursts and then a further burst at the machine gunner who was still alive. Black blood fountained from the man's throat as the second burst hit him, and he fell over the pintle mount, his arms seeming to reach out toward the wire.
"Blockhouse power off," said a voice in his ear. "The wire is tame."
Shanley cut his way through the fences and drove the Guntrack toward the blockhouse.
Al Lonsdale had watched the entire exchange through high-powered vision equipment. He reached down a helping hand as Shanley climbed the Clucas pole. "Welcome aboard," he said.
Dana smiled at Shanley as he stepped on the OP roof. It was a quiet smile, but it said all that was needed. Shanley thought he was going to be sick, but then things seemed to come into focus and he looked at Al Lonsdale and nodded. "Yeah," he said. "No problems."
"I should hope not," said Lonsdale with a slight smile.
Then they all heard the same transmission. It came from Brick Stephens, who was on road watch.
"More guests at the party, boss," said Stephens, his voice quiet but clear, his remark directed specifically at Fitzduane. "Tanks, APCs and trucked troops on the perimeter road and heading north towards us. ETA five to ten minutes. They are moving fairly fast. The sound was blanketed by the hill, but you'll be able to hear them now."
Shadow Two, the strongpoint commanding the two valleys below them now secure, looked south at the new arrivals. A quick estimate suggested a battalion-size force.
No matter how you looked at it, it was not a visit from the tooth fairy.
The Barracks, The Devil's Footprint,
Tecuno, Mexico
Rheiman made sure the small window was covered and then lit the six candles he had brought. He liked to look at her by candlelight, and he had made the occasions something of a ritual.
It was his eighth visit, she thought. Her mental makeup, she was discovering, was tougher than she would ever have believed.
Rheiman had undressed her after his last visit, and as her soiled clothing was removed she had expected the inevitable to follow. There was not much she could do to resist. A chained victim was every rapist's dream. But he had not raped her. Instead, he washed her and tended to her cuts and bruises and gave her water and extra food and vitamin pills and antibiotics. He was saving her life.
The Voice and the other terrorists thought he was screwing her every time he visited, but all he actually wanted to do was undress her and look at her by candlelight and talk.
And his talk was not sexual. He talked of his creation and the destruction it would wreak and the fame it would bring. He talked of the missile it would carry and the lethal nerve agent it would carry. He digressed into technicalities and explained at length why hydrogen was a superior propellant to anything Bull had ever thought up.
It came to Kathleen with some force that her plight was of little significance in the scheme of things. The carnage that Rheiman's warped mind threatened to let loose must be stopped.
He talked on, and Kathleen encouraged him. He held her hand.
Chifune prepared to enter Kathleen's door.
Freeman turned the handle and flung it open. There seemed to be candles everywhere, and she could see a naked figure chained to the wall.
"FRIENDS, KATHLEEN!" she shouted.
Kathleen! It did not look like her at first. The contrast between the beautiful full-bodied woman she had met in Ireland and this abused figure was truly shocking.
Bile rose in her throat.
She took in another figure, a European in desert khakis, and was within a tenth of a second of shooting him when Kathleen screamed. "NO! NO! DON'T KILL HIM. WE NEED HIM."
Chifune grunted, and smashed Rheiman against the wall.
She spun him around and tied his wrists with plasticuffs. She had a great desire to put a burst through his head, but she heard Kathleen's plea, and if she, who had been through all this, wanted the bastard kept alive there had to be a good reason.
There had better be, or she would kill him where he stood.
Freeman removed the hostage's blindfold, then took the bolt cutters from a belt pouch and cut through the chains. Kathleen! It was definitely her. She was crying and gesturing toward the man in khaki. "You mustn't kill him. We need him. He knows."
Freeman wrapped her clothes around her and then a bulletproof vest. "Hugo is outside," he said. "We're taking you home." He indicated Rheiman. "What about this fuck? Friend or enemy?"
Kathleen looked at him, her hands rubbing her eyes. "He's one of them," she said, "but we must take him. He knows too much."
"Roger that," said Freeman. He picked her up and slung her over his shoulder. He was used to exercising with a hundred-and-fifty-pound pack. She felt disturbingly light.
"Shadow One," said Chifune. "Yaibo barracks clear and we have Kathleen. She's okay. We have a prisoner. Leaving now."
"Roger that, Shadow Two," said Fitzduane. He felt light-headed with relief at the news, but fought to keep his mind focused. "Move it fucking fast. We have visitors coming up the perimeter road from the southern. ETA less than five minutes."
A prisoner? There were to be no prisoners. Chifune knew that as well as anyone, so there had to be a reason.
"Shadow Four," said the Brick. He was inside the supergun bunker working on the firing mechanism, aided by Hayden, while Sergeant Oga kept watch outside. The shattered bodies of the Yaibo guards lay where they had fallen. The work was demanding. "We are in, but we need a minimum seven to ten minutes more – I repeat, seven to ten."
Fitzduane made a quick assessment.
He currently had four teams inside the camps. Two had neutralized the Yaibo barracks and looked like they would get out in time, but the remaining two units would be cut off when the approaching column arrived.
It would occupy the road end to end, from the main camp to way beyond the supergun valley. It was dark, and he considered having them infiltrate the column, but that would mean leaving the Guntracks, and they still had to make the pickup point forty kilometers away. The logic was simple and the outcome would be bloody, but there was very little choice.
The lights flickered as the generator in the main camp coughed and then died again. Suddenly it was dark. Chifune and the five other members of her assault group ran for the main gates and then across the perimeter road to their waiting Guntracks.
"I'm going to thin out the approaching column," said Fitzduane. "Heavy shit for the next ten minutes and then we all bug out for the emergency RV. Acknowledge."
The four teams acknowledged in numerical order.
"Go! Go! Go!" said Fitzduane. "Calvin, where the fuck are you?"
There was no reply.
Fitzduane's Shadow One shot forward toward the approaching column. The Guntrack was maneuvering through the low hills beside the perimeter road, travelling a roughly parallel route.
In a little over a minute they would be side by side, separated by little more than a hundred meters but traveling in opposite directions. It was, Fitzduane reflected briefly as he roared toward the T55 tank that headed the column, almost a modern version of medieval jousting, except that only one side knew he had an enemy to deal with. The Guntracks had not been detected.
This was not a joust. It was war. It was the business of killing. Fair play did not come into it.
Fitzduane spoke into his microphone on the internal net, and Steve Kent slewed to a halt and crept into a firing position shielded by a rocky outcrop.
Lee Cochrane readied the. 50 GECAL heavy machine gun.
Fitzduane brought his RAW up to the point of aim.
A T55 tank looked disconcertingly formidable to rifle-equipped infantry and was strongly armored at the front, but it was vulnerable from the side and at the rear engine compartment. And Shadow One would be firing down, which would help. Tanks were thinly armored at the top. It was a matter of keeping the weight down. Maximum armor everywhere had the same effect as on a knight of old. The end result was unwieldy and virtually too heavy to move.
The T55 ground tank passed them, treads squealing in protest. This was a tank that had been six months on routine patrols and needed tender loving care from the maintenance shop. It did not get it. A split second after the RAW smashed into its engine compartment it ignited, flames jetting into the darkness.
Fitzduane fitted another RAW and fired at the next vehicle, an armored personnel carrier. The vehicle exploded.
Troop-laden trucks following the two lead vehicles braked to avoid crashing into the burning wrecks, and several crashed into each other. Soldiers poured out of the backs of the trucks, and it was into this chaos that the rotating-barreled. 50 GECAL began to fire.
Seconds afterward, Shadow Four leapfrogged Fitzduane and headed down to the end of the column, guns blazing and extending the slaughter. Shortly afterward, the Brick aimed his Dilger's Baby at the vehicle bringing up the rear.
There was an earsplitting crack and a tongue of flame, and the uranium-depleted projectile smashed through the side of the tank and ignited the ammunition inside. The whole tank blew and the turret sailed into the air and turned, landing upside down.
"Reverse! Move fifty," said Fitzduane, and Steve Kent shot Shadow One backward and moved to a fresh firing position fifty meters away.
And so it continued. Fire and movement. Shoot and maneuver. And using night-vision equipment under cover of darkness so that the Guntracks were almost never seen.
Take every advantage.
The engagement was brutal, and it took little time before most of the vehicles in the convoy were ablaze. Cochrane raked the carnage one more time and the two vehicles sped away to the rendezvous point. The survivors were convinced they had been hit by at least a battalion-size force.
Al Lonsdale's team high in the blockhouse and commanding both valleys and the perimeter road below entered the fray.
When the order came to shoot up the main camp, he sent Dana down to the Guntrack while he and Shanley stayed on the blockhouse roof to use the weapons available. Team Rapier had massive firepower, but ammunition was limited and it made sense to use what the other side was kind enough to provide. They appeared to have been generous. Apart from the 12.7mm heavy machine gun, there was an 82mm mortar and substantial stocks of ammunition.
Dana maneuvered the Guntrack into firing position and then went back to man the 40mm grenade launcher. Below them they could see sudden frantic action as the tented lines heard the sound of the perimeter guard column being shot up. A klaxon sounded. Tank crew ran toward their vehicles. Weapons teams sped toward mortar pits. Other troops spilled out of their tents while officers shouted and tried to impose some order.
Al Lonsdale's first mortar bomb exploded in the middle of the tented lines at almost the same time as Dana and Shanley opened fire.
Armored personnel carriers ignited and their crews ran from them into the maelstrom as 40mm grenades cut through their thin armor. Dana was firing a cocktail of armor-piercing, high explosive, and flechettes in three-round bursts at a cyclical rate of 350 rounds a minute.
In the confined space of the camp, the destruction was appalling. Each single high-explosive grenade had a kill radius of five meters. It was intensified by the green tracer from Shanley's heavy machine gun.
Further firepower came from Guntracks firing from the low hills opposite the main entrance outside the camp. RAW projectiles were followed by streams of armor-piercing Ultimax fire and the earsplitting crack of Dilger's Baby.
The tank guarding the main entrance gate burst into flame. Another T55 had its track blown off and spun slow round in circles until a depleted uranium shell blew its turret off. The colonel commanding the armored battalion tried to make a run for his armored command vehicle but was eviscerated by a Dilger round as he was climbing in. The APC ignited and commander and vehicle were burned together.
Laser sights, night-vision equipment, and high-magnification optics not only had vastly increased the first hit probability of Team Rapier's weapons but also, at such close ranges, made the business of killing disturbingly personal.
Through the viewfinders of the weapons sights the enemy looked close enough to touch, and the expressions of individual soldiers could be seen as high-velocity metal and explosives tore through them and blew them apart.
In the intensity of the action, the sights of such horrors made no impression on the outnumbered assault force. It was a matter of brute survival, and such images were repressed as fast as they were seen.
The killing continued with savage precision.