Book Three
The Devils
23

She was sleeping.

The blinds and drapes were drawn and only a dim sidelight illuminated the hospital room. He could see a drip feeding into her arm, and she was connected to a monitor. For a moment, despite what he had been told, he felt a spasm of dread.

Who knows what they did to her when she was a captive.

I can still lose her.

He closed the door gently and the hospital noises were muted. Carefully, he lifted a chair from the corner and placed it close to one side facing the bed so that he could look at her and be there for her when she awoke. He longed to touch her and hold her, but for now sleep was what she needed most.

He could hear her breathing, and the sound was deep and regular and so reassuringly familiar. Emotion welled up in him and quiet tears coursed down his cheeks. My wife. Kathleen. I have never seen you look more beautiful. I have never loved you more.

She was thin and malnourished. Her face was pale and scratched, and there were bruises around her neck and throat. Her hair looked as if it had been hacked off. There were more bruises on her arms, and as his gaze took in her bandaged hand where her finger had been severed, anger and horror and pity gripped him and left him shaken.

But you are back, my love. We found you and brought you back and every last effort was worth it.

Images of the carnage in the Devil's Footprint flashed through his mind. The guards outside the main camp, struck down without warning. Bodies spasming and falling in the sleeping area as rounds cut into them. Armored vehicles exploding and the screams of burning men.

So many dead. So high a price. But there were some situations where you had to fight. Evil was not some abstract notion. It existed, and you fought it without compromise until that battle was won. And you kept on fighting because the war, as such, never ended. Conflicting values. Those who wanted to build against those who were determined to destroy. It was the human condition. Reasonable people tended to rest up and drop their guard after a major struggle, but peace was an illusion. At best there was a lull in the fighting.

But while there was a lull you made the most of it. You loved and nurtured and regained your strength. And a few, a very few, kept watch. They did not rest. They stayed alert. Ordinary people with human strengths and failings who put their lives on the line to buy time for their fellows. People like Lee Cochrane and Maury and Warner. Men like Al Lonsdale. Women like Chifune. Unsung and unacknowledged except occasionally in time of open war. But mostly not just unrecognized, but unwanted.

The paradox of peace. The very people who made it possible were an unpleasant reminder of the alternative. They were starved of resources. Often they were shunned. Until the next time.

He dozed, his thoughts a fatigue-induced jumble. Great happiness and fear intermingled. Then one image began to dominate.

Oshima! She was still alive!

Fitzduane gave a start and rubbed his eyes. His unshaven chin itched, and the sand of Tecuno was still on his hair and skin and in his clothes.

The thought occurred to him that he had not slept in a bed for about a week. Catnapping on the web seating of a C130 went just so far. No wonder the gremlins were crowding his mind. Twelve hours' decent sleep in a proper bed followed by a long hot tub would restore his sense of proportion.

Kathleen was back. She was here with him. She was alive and soon she would be well, and that was what counted.

Fitzduane gazed at his wife, and without conscious thought his hand reached out and stroked her fingers and then her eyes opened.

For a moment, her eyes were those of a stranger. Terror and suffering kept in check only by force of will stared out at him, and nothing else so conveyed the horror of what she had gone through than that split second when he seemed to be able to look into her mind.

Then relief and joy came into her eyes. She stretched out her arms, then stopped and looked with wonder at her bandaged wrists. "No chains," she whispered. "No chains. They hurt so."

Fitzduane lay beside her and took her in his arms. "Never again, my love," he said quietly.

Her fingers touched his cheek. "You're all bristly, Hugo," she said sleepily. Her eyes were closed again. Soon her breathing was relaxed and regular.

A feeling of contentment and happiness so complete that he wanted to cry out – except he was too tired and certainly did not want to wake Kathleen – swept over him.

Memories of the mission were banished from his mind. Kathleen was safe in his arms, and that was what mattered.

Even better, Romeo and Julietta had survived the ordeal. The medical staff had warned Fitzduane not to have his hopes set high, but the examination had revealed that Kathleen, despite her ordeal, was still healthily pregnant. The doctor had given away the secret. Romeo and Julietta would be a girl. No penis could be detected.

"Sounds reasonable," Fitzduane had remarked gravely.


*****

Rheiman shuffled into the interrogation room and blinked in the harsh fluorescent light.

His right handcuff was removed and then locked to an eyebolt in the interrogation table. The table itself was secured to the floor. A large mirror took up much of one wall. One-way glass, he knew with certainty, and behind it a select audience. An audience he had to win over if he was to live.

Two men faced him. Not policemen, he thought. The street left its mark after a while; a certain look about the eyes. These people had Langley written all over them. Different pressures, different body language. Though again you never quite knew. The CIA was only one player in the intelligence community these days. Anyway, these were intelligence types, possibly with military backgrounds.

"Cigarette?" said the younger man. He had closely cropped blond hair and wore a tan suit.

Rheiman shook his head. "I don't smoke," he said. "I guess you know that."

The older man smiled. "There's a lot of good shit to smoke in Tecuno," he said, "and not a whole lot else to do. Or so I hear."

"I'm Olsen," said the younger man. He indicated his companion. "And this is Mr. Steele."

Steele consulted the screen of his notebook computer. "The convenient thing about you, Edgar," he said, "is that we don't have to charge you with anything. You've already been tried and sentenced. You're a fugitive from justice. All we've go tot do is ship you back home and they're going to strap you in the chair and pull the switch. No new trial needed. Just the formality of an execution."

"A messy business," said Olsen. "Or so they say. And slow. Of course, I've never seen an actual execution. Yours will be the first, Edgar. For that I'm going to get a front seat. I'm told that you literally cook to death."

"You're a multiple murderer and a rapist, Edgar," said Steele, "and worse than that, you're a traitor. Personally, I think the chair is too good for you."

Rheiman shook his head. "I'll serve time," he said, "but I won't be executed. The governor remits every sentence where I come from." He smiled. "Good liberal values."

Steele looked across at Olsen and sighed. "You know, Edgar, you may have a point. And, frankly, that does not make me happy."

"Worse still, Mr. Steele," said Olsen, "Edgar may appeal and argue that he wasn't legally deported from Mexico and then he will probably have to be freed."

"Not a pretty picture," said Steele.

"But then again," said Olsen, "if Edgar was not legally deported, then he is not legally here in the United States."

"Which opens a whole host of possibilities," said Steele. He reached inside his jacked and removed an automatic pistol. Seconds later he screwed on a compact silencer.

Rheiman felt ill. He knew they must be bluffing. Yet it was true. He had not been legally deported. No one knew where he was. He did not know where he was. He could still be in Mexico. This could be a test. He remembered Kathleen and then pain, confusion, and nothing. This was probably one of Oshima's games, a test of loyalty. She did things like this. "Probing defenses," she called it. Well, they would not push it too far. He was essential to the project.

"Who are you people?" said Rheiman.

Steele smiled.

"None of your fucking business," said Olsen.

"What do you want?" said Rheiman.

There was phtt! Sound as Steele fired at Rheiman's left hand.

Blood spurted as Rheiman's thumb and half his palm were blown away. He looked at Steele in horror. "What do you want?" he whispered.

"Nothing really," said Steele cheerfully.

"We're going to kill you," said Olsen. "Though since you're here, Edgar, you can't die."

"A consoling thought, Edgar," said Steele. He raised the pistol again and fired.

Rheiman's eyes were closed. He felt the muzzle flash burn into him. Nothing more. He opened his eyes.

"Just to set the tone," said Olsen. "But you're still alive, Edgar."

"What do you want to know?" he breathed.

"The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth, Edgar," said Steele.

"Or we'll blow your fucking head off," said Olsen. "And enjoy it."

"Frankly, we'd prefer it, Edgar," said Steele.

"Who are you?" said Rheiman faintly. "I'll tell you everything, but who – who are you?"

"The government calls us in when they really – but really – mean it," said Olsen. "When pushed to the wall, governments are not very nice. Think of us as the end of the line. We're kind of like morticians. We bury shits like you."

"Not everyone knows that, Edgar," said Steele, "but you're a scientist, a curious type, and you were determined to find out."

"So now you know, Edgar," said Olsen. "So the thing is: What are you going to tell us?"


*****

Vernon Slade, National Security Advisor to the President of the United States of America, sat silent, momentarily stunned at what he had heard.

"But Mexico…" he said weakly, "there is a great deal at stake there. Mexico is our neighbor. Our policy is to let Mexico sort out its own problems and eventually they will become truly democratic. We can't intervene in the internal affairs of a friendly nation."

"Mr. Slade," said the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, " eventually is not the problem. It is the here and now we have got to worry about. As we speak, a terrorist weapon of mass destruction is pointed at this country. Perhaps even more to the point, it is aimed at this city by people we know are ruthless enough and irrational enough to act. They will use this weapon. They have attacked this country already. Consider the congressional killings and the Fayetteville massacre."

"And sooner rather than later, Mr. Slade," said William E. Martin. "And you should know that it is our assessment that the Mexican government will cooperate in this venture. They don't want Tecuno seceding any more than we do. The trick is to ask them to ask us to help sort out a little internal problem."

"And if they agree?" said the National Security Advisor.

"The 82 ^ nd Airborne goes into the Devil's Footprint, the base on the plateau," said General Frampton, "and the Mexican Army handles the mopping up." He was silent.

"The terrorist base is a strong position," said Slade, "and this man Fitzduane's assault has already alerted them. We will take casualties."

"Without the Task Force on Terrorism and Fitzduane, we would not know we had a problem," said William Martin. He remembered he was in Washington and corrected himself. "We would not know the extent of the problem."

The slip reassured National Security Advisor Slade. If the Deputy Director of Operations was sufficiently concerned to let his guard down that much, then there really and truly was a problem. Washington, D.C., was on the firing line. He, Vernon Slade, was in actual physical danger. The thought gave him a strange, not unpleasant feeling.

"Are you absolutely sure of this supergun's capability?" said Slade. "Can this turncoat Rheiman's information be relied upon?"

"Mr. Rheiman's information is accurate," said William E. Martin grimly. "He had every motivation to tell the truth, and unfortunately what he said checks out."

The National Security Advisor looked intently at the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. "General Frampton, if the President authorizes this mission are you absolutely certain the 82 ^ nd Airborne will succeed?"

General Frampton smiled grimly. "Hooah, sir," he said.

The National Security Advisor looked puzzled. "I don't understand, General. What does – hooah mean?"

General Frampton told him.

There was silence in the room. "Sometimes we forget," said the National Security Advisor, "what we ask of our young men."

"Shall I alert the 82 ^ nd?" said the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

"Yes," said the National Security Advisor.

"Will you recommend the mission, sir?" said William E. Martin.

"Hooah," said the National Security Advisor.


*****

In shocked silence, Governor Diego Quintana drove around the box canyon that had housed the main camp of the Devil's Footprint.

His examination was detailed and took over two hours. At its conclusion, he was pale and a vein could be seen pulsing in his forehead. He tried to hide his feelings, but the tremor in his voice was perceptible. Quintana was terrified, and his fear fed a vicious anger.

His twelve-man bodyguard looked on uneasily. When the Governor was in this kind of mood, he could lash out at anyone. The Japanese woman was the obvious target, but you never quite knew.

"Over a battalion of troops, armor, most of your group, Oshima, and who knows how many fortifications and other emplacements – all destroyed as if they were defenseless. It's incredible. Who were they? How did they do it? I don't understand. We have radar all around the plateau. It spotted that DEA helicopter raid last year. Why no warning this time? And on top of the losses here, the damage to the Madoa airfield has been considerable. It's a disaster."

Oshima had been as affected as Quintana initially. But what was done was done was done. Now she was focused on what action to take in the future. Losses were just a cost of doing business. There was always more human raw material to be recruited and molded. There was no shortage of weapons if you knew where to look. The important thing was to buy time. That was the irreplaceable element.

"General Barragan planned our defenses against conventional ground attack or helicopters," said Quintana. "His precautions would normally have been more than adequate, but this was a land attack using some sort of new-technology vehicles – evidently with stealth characteristics. They caught us completely by surprise. But even so, they were not entirely successful. They got the woman, but the weapon and the warheads are unscathed. Charges were placed around the breech of the supergun, but we were able to remove them in time."

Quintana brightened momentarily, but then he remembered that Rheiman had been killed. The fire that had swept the camp after the helicopter crash had burned the block that housed Rheiman and his team to the ground. Quite a few of the scientists had struggled to safety, but evidently Edgar Rheiman had not made it. He was one of a dozen blackened bodies found in the wreckage. It was impossible to tell who was who. He had been a revolting man in many ways, but useful. He'd be hard to replace.

"The supergun has never been tested," he said, "and the chief designer is dead."

"Rheiman was a scumbag, but he was good at what he did," said Oshima. "He left behind a good team and a weapon ready for firing. We have his notes and plans. It won't be hard to build more tubes."

Quintana gave a command, and the group mounted their vehicles and headed into the valley that housed the supergun complex. Here the destruction was minimal, and he could feel his spirits rise.

The weapon was immense. It soared toward the sky, a symbol of his power, a monument to his achievement. Most men would have laughed at Rheiman and his dreams, but he, Governor Diego Quintana, had the necessary vision. And here was the proof.

"I can see their problem," he said. "How could any small raiding party destroy anything so big in twenty minutes or so? And, of course, the warheads were untouched."

"I don't think they knew about them," said Oshima. "I think this was first and foremost a hostage-rescue mission, and I believe I know who was behind it."

"The Irishman?" said Quintana.

"Fitzduane," Oshima spat out. Her eyes blazed and she swore violently in Japanese. " Yotsu-ashi no yabajin! "

Quintana looked at Oshima. She had proved invaluable in whipping his forces into shape, but she was a hard person to control.

Impossible, it could be argued.

Her terrorist attacks across the border were part of their original deal but had Norteamericanos, but they were strong and should not be directly provoked. It was a balance. There were ways of doing such things. This raid was proof that this balance was no longer being maintained.

Reiko Oshima had outlived her usefulness. Fitzduane's savage assault was proof.

But a dead Oshima- san could well make a suitable peace offering. As he had learned in the drug business, every so often it was good politics to toss the Americans someone they were after. They got publicity and kept their budgets safe. The dealers had the pressure taken off. Meanwhile, business life went on as normal. Smoke and mirrors. Life was mostly about illusion.

Quintana stroked his mustache.

That beautiful hair, that perfect face scarred so horribly, the still so compelling. That aura of menace mixed with unbridled sexuality. He had never slept with her, and now there really was not the time. Barragan had enjoyed her and that was as close as he was likely to get, though he had had descriptions of how she was and what she would do. Of how she tasted and smelled and sounded. Of every intimate perversion.

His brother-in-law had been obsessed by her. She will do anything, Diego! Anything!

A woman who would do anything was nice, but Quintana was not short of women who would do whatever he required. And a leader had to control his desires. There had to be an example of discipline.

Oshima's eyes had gone dead. She seemed to have withdrawn into herself. She was still physically present but was behaving as if she were utterly alone. It was almost as if she was praying.

Quintana smiled. The thought of Oshima praying was a quaint notion. But she was a strange woman. There she stood in her stained combat clothing with a gun on her hip and that damned Japanese sword strapped to her back like some Fury from Hell. And her posture was that of a nun praying in front of some relic. Her head was now bowed as if in submission.

"Tomas," he said.

" Jefe," said Tomas, stepping forward. He was a head taller than the others in the bodyguard and had been with Quintana longer than most. He was loyal, and he killed without comment or scruple. He was armed with an automatic rifle and wore a razor-sharp machete at his waist.

"Kill her," said Quintana.

Tomas looked at Oshima almost as if seeking her approval.

She raised her head and looked directly into Quintana's eyes. The vacant look had gone. It was as if she was recharged with energy. Her eyes blazed, and in them there was knowledge and amusement.

"You would kill me, jefe?" she said mockingly. "I do what you ask, I train and discipline your men, and you order my death. Is that just?"

"Kill her now, Tomas," said Quintana.

"I train men well, Diego," said Oshima. She nodded at Tomas, and Diego Quintana, Governor of Tecuno, felt himself being grabbed and forced to his knees.

Oshima's sword hissed from her scabbard and, impacting on Quintana's skull, sliced on down until the Governor was cut completely in two.

The one bodyguard reeled back drenched in blood, as if caught by a power hose. He stood there openmouthed, holding half a body, as if he did not quite believe what had happened.

Oshima flicked her katana clean and slid it back into its home with one neat, continuous movement. Quintana was already forgotten.

Rheiman's legacy was not. The Devil's Footprint was now in her hands and the supergun was going to be put to some immediate good use. It was trained on Washington, D.C., and it was loaded.

Once fired, the Americans could do nothing to stop the missile. They had no antimissile defense. The famed Patriot was designed to shoot down aircraft. It might manage the occasional Scud, but a small ballistic missile such as that from the supergun was unstoppable.

The U.S. defense budget came to more than $250 billion a year, but against ballistic missiles the United States of America was defenseless.


*****

By popular demand, Fitzduane had been sitting at the head of the table, but as the evening wore on the orderly layout of the celebration dinner degenerated roughly in proportion to the increase in alcohol consumed and the noise level.

Everyone had settled in for a long night. Figuring he was likely to need all the support he could get, he had reversed his chair and was leaning on the back, watching Maury doing Russian dancing on the tabletop.

All things considered, Maury was doing a creditable job, but it would have helped if the table had been cleared first. As his ungainly legs shot out to the ever-increasing tempo of the hand-clapping, bottles, glasses, and other accoutrements flew in every direction.

It was chaos. It was a terrific party. Even Grant Lamar was letting his guard down. He had discarded his jacket and his tie was loose and his hair was disheveled. For the first time, Fitzduane saw not the Washington insider but the younger man who more than two decades earlier had penetrated deep into North Vietnamese lines to rescue American prisoners at Son Tay. Lamar had been there. He understood.

Al Lonsdale stood up, swaying slightly, a freshly opened bottle of beer frothing in his hand. He chugalugged half of it and then pointed at Maury. "Jesus, Maury, you're wrecking the place. We've got to clear the table first."

He seized the linen tablecloth and was soon joined by Cochrane and the others. "One-two-three, PULL!"

Maury leaped off the table as the command cut in and grabbed for the ornate central light fixture.

Lonsdale and his cronies, faced with no resistance, crashed backward to land in a tangle of arms and legs and tablecloth against the wall.

Maury shouted something triumphant in Russian at having escaped the fate that had been planned for him.

And then the light fixture gave way.


*****

Fitzduane awoke slowly.

He had the sense it was afternoon – whatever afternoon was – but the effort of looking at his watch was not something he felt he should rush into. Besides, he could not see.

It was rather nice not being able to see. If he could ignore someone bashing his head with a baseball bat and the feeling he had swallowed rat poison, it was pleasantly peaceful.

He remembered you had to do something if you wanted to see, but exactly what that involved was proving elusive.

Eyes! Eyes came into it. He was sure of it.

He thought about eyes for a while. He had some, he was sure, but how you activated them was another matter. Perhaps there was a switch.

Well, it all seemed like too much effort. The world could go on without him.

He slept again.


*****

The noise was vile, horrendous, horrible. It screamed at him, slicing through his safe, warm igloo of sleep like some manic snowplow.

"Uuuagh!" he groaned.

"What the fuck!" said a hoarse voice that seemed to emanate from somewhere in the neighborhood.

The banging came next.

Thump! Thump! Thump! Fitzduane was reminded of sheltering in some bunker while incoming artillery zeroed in. Only, this was much worse. Much, much worse!

"I'm going to shoot them down," said the hoarse voice. "Where's my gun? Has anyone seen my gun Where the fuck am I, anyway?"

There were bangs and crashes and then the sound of falling. Fitzduane decided he had better do something. He pushed his eyelids up and a vague blur appeared. He moved his watch close to his eyes. It did not help. The watch face seemed to have taken up swimming. He shook it a bit, but it still would not cooperate. It was about as static and well-defined as a pulsating jellyfish.

His hand touched a vase. There were flowers in it. He put his fingers into the neck of the vase and they came back wet.

He removed the flowers and poured the water over his upturned face. Paradise! It felt marvelous.

The thumping started again. He had not been aware it had stopped.

There was light coming from somewhere. He shuffled toward it, one hand feeling the wall, and stopped when he encountered a tensioned cord.

The cord did something, he was sure of it. Good or bad, he did not know. Either way, it was coming in handy to hang on to.

He swayed and pulled the cord to steady himself.

Light flooded the room. The Iwo Jima memorial floated toward him.

Hurriedly, he closed the drapes. Muffled shouting was now mingled alternating with the banging noise. He headed toward the door, silently praying they would not use the bell again. Another blast would surely kill him.

"I can't find my gun," said a voice.

Fitzduane's eyes swiveled slowly and grittily toward the noise. The process seemed to take an effort akin to sailors hauling up the anchor of a ship-of-the-line with a creaking windlass.

Lonsdale lay on a collapsed coffee table in his underwear and cowboy boots. His eyes were closed and his hands were flailing in slow motion.

Various other bodies lay littered around the room. Vague memories of the previous night's shenanigans came back to him.

He felt like smiling, but his facial muscles did not seem able to respond.

A party to die for. It seemed quite possible he'd succeed.

He leaned against the door and fumbled for the latch. There was a large drawing pinned to the back of the door. It had been done with a black felt pen on the back of one of the restaurant's giant menus.

The sketch showed the devil with his arms up, dancing as a circle of raiders fired at his feet. The body of each raider was loosely sketched, but the heads had been drawn with some care and each could be identified. Fitzduane himself, Lonsdale, Cochrane, Chifune, Oga. They were all there. The drawing had been signed: Grant Lamar.

The slogan was simple: ‘The Devil Raiders.’

Memories suddenly came flooding back. The Devil's Footprint. They had done it. They had really done it. They had done the impossible and had lived to tell the tale. Except Steve. Poor bastard.

He realized then that he had never expected to live. The odds had been too great. The planning too rushed. It had to be tried, but he had expected to die.

But they had done it – IT WAS OVER!

He opened the door. Kilmara stood outside in uniform, looking unusually pressed and polished and sharp.

But he was as nothing compared to the paragon beside him. Polished jeep boots with a shine so bright that Fitzduane felt he should have screwed up his eyes – except that they were screwed up already. A uniform that clearly had been intimidated into discarding even the smallest crease. A row of medals that was a one-man insult to the peace movement. A face that needed only bronzing to look instantly at home on a war memorial.

A maroon paratrooper's beret. The All-American divisional patch of the 82 ^ nd Airborne.

"What's up, Doc?" said Fitzduane.

"God, you look horrible," said Kilmara. "May we come in? This corridor is losing its charm. We've been here so long, we're taking root."

Fitzduane scratched his head. His hand came away full of wet petals and some kind of perforated metal gadget. He blinked and waved his visitors in.

Kilmara gazed around at the melange of bodies. Accompanied by the war memorial, he walked through to the kitchen, found Fitzduane a seat, and closed the door.

"This is Colonel Zachariah Carlson," he said. "He's flown in from FortBragg. I'll let him speak for himself."

The one-man war machine was looking slightly uncertain. He had heard about Hugo Fitzduane and his extraordinary mission, but this bedraggled, unshaven figure pulling pieces of greenery out of his hair did not quite fit the hero picture.

Still, orders were orders.

Carlson cleared his throat. "Colonel Fitzduane," he said. "The National Command Authority has ordered the 82 ^ nd Airborne Division to take out the terrorist base at the location known as the Devil's Footprint in Tecuno, Mexico."

Fitzduane's eyes rose slowly. "I could have sworn we did that," he said in a puzzled voice.

"You did a great job, Colonel," said Carlson. "But Rheiman – that prisoner you brought back – talked, and it seems there are weapons of mass destruction down there which pose an immediate threat to the United States. The bottom line is that the president has ordered us in."

Fitzduane shrugged. "Nice of you to tell me, Zach. Best of luck. Sorry about the mess. We had an end-of-mission party last night. I think there's still some booze around…" He opened a cupboard door and a floor mop fell out. "…somewhere."

Carlson looked uncomfortable. "The thing is, Colonel, we're mounting this operation in seventy-two hours."

"Very nice," said Fitzduane. His voice was muffled. He was looking in another closet.

Kilmara looked at Carlson. "Try subtlety, Zachariah."

Carlson closed the closet door and sat Fitzduane down gently but firmly. "Colonel Fitzduane, we need your specialist knowledge. We'd like you and maybe one of your people to jump into the Devil's Footprint with us."

Fitzduane eyes rose another half-inch. His face tilted until he was looking at the Airborne colonel towering above him. "Who? Us?" he said weakly.

"Airborne, sir," said Carlson.

Fitzduane's eyes rolled. His gaze switched to Kilmara. "Shane," he said. "Sit the fuck down here beside me. I'm too hungover to get up – but I'm going to strangle you. And enjoy it."

"All the way, sir," said Carlson.


*****

He lay down beside her and she snuggled up to him. He put his arms around her and held her. Sleep and food were already making a difference. Another couple of weeks at most and she would be able to travel. She could travel now if she had to, but rest and medical care were advised.

"They've asked me to go back," said Fitzduane. He explained.

Kathleen was silent for some time. "I would have said no," she said eventually, "but now I've seen it. I know how they are. I know what Oshima is capable of. If she isn't stopped… There's no real limit."

She'll come after us again, thought Fitzduane.

"What are the 82 ^ nd Airborne like?" said Kathleen.

"We'll look after each other," said Fitzduane.

"Yes, you will," said Kathleen slowly. "That's part of the attraction, isn't it? You and Kilmara and the others. You kill, but you care. Soldiering as a caring profession. A strange concept. If one of you calls, the others come and help and no one questions. I think it's crazy – but it's magnificent."

"I won't go, my love, unless you agree," said Fitzduane.

"But you think you should?" said Kathleen.

"Oshima," said Fitzduane.

"Oshima!" agreed Kathleen grimly.

"You're not to worry about me," said Fitzduane simply. "-Okay."

Kathleen forced a small smile. Oshima, she thought again. God, how I hate you.

"I'm going to finish it," said Fitzduane. He kissed her long and slow. Her arms came up and held him. He could feel her fingers digging into him, and then she pulled back and looked at him.

"And then you're coming back to make more babies," said Kathleen, trying to smile.

"If I can find a good-looking woman who'll have me," said Fitzduane.

"Could happen," said Kathleen. There were tears in her eyes. "Now, go."

Fitzduane kissed his wife again.

"I'm not going to worry," said Kathleen, "so don't you worry about me. Make the most of it. Enjoy. You'll be changing diapers soon."

"I like babies," said Fitzduane. "And mostly they like me."

He blew her a final kiss and closed the door. Outside in the corridor, he felt tears coming to his eyes. He went into the rest room and washed his face.

When he emerged, his step was firm.

Oshima!

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