"The Air Force is open for business. MOUNTUP!"
Lines of paratroopers waddled toward waiting C130s. Laden with parachute, reserve, rucksack, weapon, ammunition, and specialist equipment – everything from explosives to spare batteries to AT4s – the troopers moved with the grace and dynamism of sumo wrestlers on a chain gang.
The Airborne were renowned for dash and elan, but that was after they hit the ground. Loading up was a tortuous process. Flight time was not much of an improvement.
No aircraft was better loved by the Airborne than the C130, but the hard truth was that by the time sixty-four fully equipped troopers were sandwiched in, even moving a sick bag up and down required collaborative effort. There was no walking up and down the aisles. There was no aisle space left in which to perambulate. Paratroopers sat knee to knee in two double rows facing each other, with all the intervening space jammed with their equipment. If you had an itch, or a weak bladder, you were well advised to attend to your needs beforehand. The only way you could move from one end of the aircraft to the other was by behaving rather like a monkey moving around in a cage, with the web mesh that supported the seating acting as the bars. A monkey in jump boots.
Fitzduane was of the opinion that the powers that be knew what they were doing. The crush was so great that as time wore on jumping out of the aircraft became an increasingly attractive option.
The ramp was half raised but not closed. There were few windows in the rear of the C130, and the air and just the sight of the sky provided a welcome respite.
The four turboprop engines fired up and clouds of red dust obscured the open aperture. The aircraft vibrated. The background noise level rose to something above pleasant but below tolerable. You could talk, but only by banging your coveralls together. The jumpmasters and safeties wore headphones and were plugged in to the flight intercom system.
Fitzduane had been custom-fitted between Lieutenant Colonel Zachariah Carlson and Lonsdale. Across from him sat Brock. Scout Platoon occupied the adjoining space. The unit looked quite menacing enough to carry out the mission on their own.
Carlson leaned toward Fitzduane. "We were just like this, waiting for takeoff before the Haiti mission," he said, "when there was a banging on the door and we found one of the sergeant majors outside. He'd been on leave, but just couldn’t bear to miss the action. He drove right to Green Ramp in civilian clothes. No weapon, no helmet, no parachute even."
Fitzduane wasn't paying full attention. If his eyes did not deceive him, a head had appeared above the top of the half-open ramp.
He blinked. The head had vanished. He was imagining things. The aircraft started to taxi.
He focused on Carlson. "What did you do with the guy?" he said. "Throw him out to test the wind?"
Carlson smiled. "Hell no. We kitted him out with bits and pieces. Anyone with that kind of Airborne spirit deserves to jump."
Fitzduane blinked again. This time there was no mistake. The head had reappeared above the ramp, and as he watched, the figure slid down into the aircraft in a cloud of red North Carolina dust. The C130 was picking up speed.
Sixty-four helmeted green and black faces stared at the intruder. He was wearing a suit and tie that, once given a good vacuuming, would have passed muster on the Hill when Congress was in session.
"Glad you know the form," said Fitzduane to Carlson.
"What the fuck!" said Brock.
"WHERE DO I SIT?" shouted Cochrane.
Fitzduane grinned evilly.
"Friend of yours?" said Carlson.
Fitzduane shook his head. "Pass the word to that yo-yo that it's going to be a long fucking flight."
Cochrane caught his eye and waved. "Hi, Hugo!" he shouted.
Sixty-four helmeted green and black faces stared at Fitzduane.
"What the fuck!" said Brock.
With some difficulty and the cooperation of his entire row, who all leaned to give him space, Fitzduane wrapped a two-inch-wide strip of white tape around Cochrane's left arm.
The chief of staff had been scavenging and negotiating for some considerable time and now looked more like a paratrooper. He had a helmet and uniform and his face was green. Even the shoes had gone, though the boots were zip-up flight issue.
His roster of equipment was nearly complete – but not quite.
"What's the tape for?" said Cochrane.
"Identifies you as belonging to the First Brigade," said Fitzduane, "and may stop you getting shot. Maybe I should take it back."
Cochrane ignored the comment. "What do I need to know? Keep it very simple. Brief me like you were using big print – and I was a politician. No big words."
"When we hit the ground, we're going after Oshima," said Fitzduane.
"How do you know where she'll be?" said Cochrane.
"There's a command bunker under Madoa airfield," said Fitzduane. "Rheiman was persuaded to draw a map. In the event of an attack, that's apparently where she'll be."
"If she isn't?" said Cochrane.
"I'll be profoundly irritated," said Fitzduane.
"Anything else?" said Cochrane.
"Roll when you hit the ground," said Fitzduane. "But first, remember to borrow a parachute."
Cochrane sat very still. "Aaaah!" he said slowly. "And I was doing so well."
Brock's eyes rolled upward. He shook his head. "What the fuck!" he said.
"You forget to tell him the challenge and the countersign," said Carlson.
Fitzduane nodded. " Happiness," he said, "is the challenge."
"What's the countersign," said Cochrane.
" Dead woodpecker," said Brock. He pumped his arm.
"HOOAH, SIR!" said Scout Platoon in unison.
Cochrane leaned toward Fitzduane. "Are they always like this?" he said.
"Pretty much," said Fitzduane.
The two jumpmasters, one for each door, faced down their respective double rows of troopers. Their legs were spread, the knees slightly bent, and their arms were ready at their sides as if to draw.
The posture was straight out of Dodge City. Straight gunslinger. And just as compelling.
The tension ratcheted up. The eyes of every trooper were focused on their respective jumpmasters. Fitzduane could feel the adrenaline start to pump. Hands flashed up palms outward, opening and closing twice.
"TWENTY MINUTES!" roared the jumpmasters, voices and hand movements in perfect harmony.
"TWENTY MINUTES!" responded the combined voices of sixty-four paratroopers.
"They've secured Arkono, sir," said Colonel Dave Palmer, the divisional executive officer. "No opposition. The strip was abandoned. The Kiowas are being landed as we speak."
General Mike Gannon nodded. He was a great believer in the 82nd's Kiowa Warrior helicopters, but they had neither the range nor the air-to-air refueling capability to make the journey on their own. That meant flying them in C130s and landing them close enough to the target area to be unloaded and on station when the division went in.
The nearest airstrip of adequate size was Arkono – the same strip that Fitzduane's group had used for their escape. There had been a decided possibility that Arkono would be occupied this time, but a pathfinder team had shown it still to be deserted.
The terrorist were consolidating their manpower. The Devil's Footprint complex was going to be a hard nut to crack. Gannon had no doubt but that the 82 ^ nd would triumph, but the question of casualties was foremost in his mind.
An airborne assault accelerated the entire combat cycle. You could win your objective faster, but the price could be terrible. In the past, parachute assaults had cost as high as fifty percent casualties.
The figure should be nothing like that this time, if Carlson and his team had planned everything correctly.
But the wild card was the supergun.
The faintest hint of a smile on his lips, Lieutenant Colonel Zachariah Carlson sat with his eyes closed as if meditating.
Slap a saffron robe on him and give him a begging bowl, and he would do well as a Buddhist monk, Fitzduane reflected. He already damn near had the shaven head.
An aura of calm exuded from the paratrooper. Internally he was probably using "What the fuck am I doing here?" as a mantra, but externally he looked as if he had just had sex – and it had been good – and Nirvana was just coming up over the horizon.
No worries. Positive vibrations.
His example seemed to be infectious. Although the tension had definitely increased in the aircraft since the jumpmasters' initial warning call, there were few external signs of fear. Of course, packed that tightly together, you could not really do much to show what was churning away inside.
You couldn't prowl up and down. You couldn't shuffle your feet. You could not even shake with fear without alerting your entire row.
You certainly could not run away. All you could do was sweat, and laden with equipment and packed together as you were, you were doing that anyway.
You were committed.
In minutes you would be doing what you had been trained to do. You would be jumping into a hot zone where several thousand hostiles would be doing their best to kill you.
Unless you killed them first. Which was beginning to seem like an increasingly good idea. In fact, the only option.
Acceptance of that decision had a definite calming effect. Instead of focusing on what might happen, you zeroed in on what had to be done and the tools you had to do the job.
Mission focus. The best antidote to fear. Combat-proven since the first cave dweller had sallied out to kill something large and unfriendly for supper.
Carlson's brain was racing. The assault plan was the product of the entire divisional planning team and had been signed off on by the CG and more than a few layers above his pay grade. Nonetheless the core strategy was his and, rather more than he cared to admit, Fitzduane's.
The airborne had half a century's experience in parachute assaults, so how in hell had he allowed this stranger to so influence their thinking?
Conventional wisdom dictated that they should assault Madoa airfield and the heavily reinforced supergun valley simultaneously. Instead, the entire focus was on the airfield and the supergun was being left to destroy itself – with a little follow-up help from the air force.
But what about the troops dug in around the supergun valley's perimeter? Even if the supergun did blow, what was to stop the perimeter troops from attacking the airborne from the rear as they battled to secure the airfield? There were only eight kilometers to cross, and the terrorists had artillery, mortars, and armor.
Fitzduane had argued that the supergun explosion would be devastating and that any survivors of the perimeter forces could be handled by air or mopped up afterward. The clincher was that friendly forces should be kept out of the area until the supergun was destroyed or they would be duck soup too.
It had seemed to make sense, but now Carlson was wondering. Well-dug-in troops have an incredible ability to survive blast. How violent can one conventional explosion be? Anyway, even if the sabotage works, how do we know that the terrorists will fire the weapon?
I know Oshima, Fitzduane had said with absolute certainty. She won't fire immediately. She will keep her options open for as long as she can – but as soon as she knows the full scale of the assault and realizes that she cannot hold, then she will fire. Sooner rather than later.
And then? Carlson had queried.
If the supergun blows, she will do three things, Fitzduane had said. She will fight a furious delaying action for as long as possible; if she has the expertise she may try to mine or activate any nerve agents stored off the command bunker in some way that will buy her time; and she will try to escape.
How can you be so sure? Carlson had argued.
She learned much of her trade under the terrorist known as the Hangman, Fitzduane had said. Her subsequent record proved that she learned well. As sure as it rains in the West of Ireland – both when you expect it and when you don't – Oshima will have an escape route planned.
The Devil's Footprint complex is hundreds of kilometers from anywhere, Carlson had said. Oshima's command bunker in Madoa is going to have two brigades of the 82 ^ nd Airborne Division descend around it and blow it to shit. The airfield itself is surrounded by a belt of mines up to half a kilometer deep. There will be so much aerial reconnaissance an AWACS will have to make sure no one bumps into each other. So how?
That's for her to know and us to find out, Fitzduane had said.
How do we do that? Carlson had asked.
You lie back and soak in a nice deep hot bath with your eyes closed and think a lot, said Fitzduane.
Carlson smiled to himself at the memory, but the anxiety did not go away.
"TEN MINUTES!" shouted the jumpmasters, hands opening and closing twice, energy and urgency radiating from them like some kind of psychic transfusion.
"TEN MINUTES!" roared back the planeload of paratroopers.
Carlson's mind snapped clear of doubt and uncertainty. Repining was useless.
It was going to happen.
"Shit!" said Cochrane. "I nearly forgot."
Fitzduane was thinking about the ground disturbance the infra red satellite photographs had shown up. On the face of it an extensive tunnel network had been constructed under the airfield by the relatively fast technique of evacuating the earth, constructing a deep trench, roofing it over, and then covering it in.
But Oshima must have known that surveillance would show up the disturbed ground, and it was not like her to limit her work to something so obvious.
So what else had she done? What had she constructed that would not show? How many of the tunnels she had constructed were decoys? Had she constructed other tunnels by purely underground digging that would not show up on film? The giveaway would be the extracted earth, but that could be intermingled in the earth extracted from the trenches.
Detectable tunnels near the surface. Hidden tunnels much deeper down. But deep digging would be much harder, and this was a rocky plateau. Where could you dig? How fast could you dig? They had seen an excess of bulldozers and surface-digging equipment, but had they seen any tunneling equipment? What were your options?
What he had really needed were the detailed geological reports. The whole area had originally been surveyed when exploring for oil.
"I've got the reports," said Cochrane. "Maury dug them up."
Fitzduane glared at him. "You’ve spent too long on the Hill, Lee, briefing congressmen just before they vote. It's supposed to be done differently when people are shooting at you."
Cochrane tried to shrug. It wasn't possible.
"What am I supposed to do with them?" snarled Fitzduane. "Read them on the way down?"
"Airborne!" said Brock. "Cool suggestion, sir!"
"FIVE MINUTES!" roared the jumpmasters. Five fingers came up.
"FIVE MINUTES!" came the response.
"GET READY!"
"OUTBOARD PERSONNEL, STAND UP!"
"HOOK UP!"
"CHECK STATIC LINE!"
"CHECK EQUIPMENT!"
"I can't get to them anyway," said Cochrane. "They're in the small of my back under all this gear. God, I feel like an Egyptian mummy."
"You should live so long, sir," said Brock.
The side doors were slid open. The sound of the engines suddenly increased and was combined with the rush of air and the noise of the slipstream.
'THREE MINUTES!" shouted the jumpmasters.
"THREE MINUTES!" blasted back the paratroopers.
"STAND BY!"
A row of holes appeared toward the tail of the aircraft.
Seconds later there was a flash of tracer and the helmet of one of the air force loadmasters seemed to explode.
Blood showered from his neck over a nearby safety officer as he collapsed. The aircraft bucked and rolled as antiaircraft fire exploded nearby.
"Guess we'd better get down there," said Brock quietly, "and refocus the fucks."
The jumping light was red. As they watched, it turned green.
"GO! GO! GO! GO! GO! GO! GO! GO! GO!"
Two open doors. A paratrooper in just under a second jumped out of each door, the rhythm alternating.
The last two to jump were the jumpmasters.
In thirty-six seconds, the sixty-four troopers were gone and the C130 was headed to Arkono to refuel and wait to extract the dead and wounded.
The surviving air force loadmaster secured the doors, then slumped on a bench in shock. He had seen quite enough through the open doors to make him glad he had joined the air force rather than the infantry. The 82 ^ nd were jumping into a maelstrom.
The command bunker was made up of a linked series of insulated steel spheres supported by hydraulic shock absorbers similar to the kind used by high-rise buildings in Japan to make them earthquake resistant. Above the bunker there were layers of armor plate, reinforced concrete, packed earth, and yet more concrete to a height of fifty feet.
For all practical purposes, they were invulnerable to conventional bombing. There were rumors of rocket-assisted penetrator bombs in development, but as far as anyone seemed to know they were just rumors. Certainly, they were immune to virtually all existing bombs in general use.
The bombing had started without warning. Radar screens showed nothing. Oshima had been making a personal inspection of the radar facility when the attack started, and she could see the screens for herself when she felt the shock of the first impact.
There was absolutely nothing on the radar – not even a hint or a shadow.
Artillery? Was the Mexican Army making a move at last? Chiapas was relatively quiet, so maybe they thought now was the time to make a move.
Yet someone would have warned them. True, Quintana was dead, but they still had plenty of informants in place. Someone would have told them if the Mexicans were planning anything. Anyway, could the Mexicans have penetrated the plateau in strength without being detected?
Impossible.
The bunker rocked again and then again. The lights flickered and went off. Seconds later, emergency power cut in and then the reserve generator started up and full light was restored.
"Bombing, Commander. Heavy bombing," said Jin Endo, one of the few remaining Yaibo members still left alive. The few others were unfortunately not of the first rank. But, despite his youth, Jin Endo was special. He was intelligent, he was quick, and he had proved himself. Above all, he was loyal. Jin Endo would be useful.
Colonel Carranza had been General Barragan's second in command. His loyalty was based on nothing more than the stark reality that he had no place to go.
He would fight if it came to that. But this was Mexico. The Americans might conceivably bomb Tecuno if requested by the Mexican government, but they would never send in ground troops. Vietnam, Lebanon, Somalia, and the U.S. media had seen to that. Casualties were not politically acceptable.
"She's right," said Carranza grimly. "Those are bombs, and no radar warning means Stealth fighters – which means the Americans."
"Activate the monitors," said Oshima.
The command bunker exercised its command-and-control function through a network of deeply buried landlines and video monitors. The most important link was to the supergun valley. Oshima could fire the weapon from the command bunker. It was a simple matter of inserting two keys and flicking a small switch. Quintana used to be the primary key holder, but he no longer featured in the firing solution. Both keys were now around Oshima's neck.
The bank of a dozen monitors came on stream. They were on permanently during daylight hours, but in darkness they were activated only as needed to preserve the batteries on their night-vision equipment. The terrorist troops did not have night-vision devices except in key points, but a limited number of the long-lens monitor cameras were equipped with them.
As Oshima watched, one of the heavily fortified perimeter positions erupted in a massive yellow and pink blast. She could see bodies and weapon parts sail skyward and rain down. Blast followed blast with such frequency that one shock ran into another and the vibrations of the bunker on its hydraulic mounts were continuous. With each explosion, the destruction mounted.
"Do a perimeter scan," said Oshima.
The monitors followed a preset pattern. Portion after portion of the external perimeter was illuminated, but she could see nothing. If there was going to be an external attack, there would be some sign at this stage, even if it was only incoming artillery fire.
"Bring up the Devil's Footprint," said Oshima, "and let me speak to the supergun commander."
The link with the Devil's Footprint was by fiber-optic cable, with multiple redundancy built in. The images came up immediately.
As she looked, Oshima felt a surge of exhilaration. The supergun valley was not being attacked. Somehow, she suspected, the American must know what she had and they were afraid to act directly against the weapon in case they set it off. They were strong, incredibly strong, but they were vulnerable.
"Commander, look," said Carranza. "Look at the radar."
The screens had been blank. Now, suddenly, the radar silhouettes of dozens of approaching aircraft could be seen. The speeds were slow. These were not fighter bombers. These were transport planes. Even for transports they were flying slowly.
"Paratroops," breathed Carranza. "Incredible! Lightly armed paratroops. What a target! We'll slaughter them in the air and we'll slaughter them on the ground. When they jump, their air cover will have to cease and then we'll get them. Thank God for General Barragan's foresight."
Most of Madoa airfield's eighty-nine fixed weapons positions had been either destroyed or badly damaged. However, that was of limited significance. The positions were lightly manned and were primarily decoys.
The real defenses were buried. They included a heavily armored mechanized force and a hand surface-to-air held missile unit. The SAMs had been trained to regard their main enemy as the helicopter, but lumbering C130s traveling at much the same speed would be an even easier target.
"Shall I give the order, Commander?" said Carranza to Oshima.
Oshima waited until the lead aircraft were within visual range and showing up on the monitors. Carranza had been right. The bombing had virtually stopped. Another few seconds.
Suddenly she could see black dots falling from the aircraft and then parachutes opening.
"Now!" she said.
Carranza spoke into his microphone. From bunkers and tunnels all over the airfield, aircraft-killing teams erupted and took up position in prepared fighting holes.
Twenty thousand feet up, an air force C141 command-and-control aircraft circled and monitored the unfolding battle below.
Inside the spacious cargo bay of the aircraft, slide-in communications modules housed a combined services team. Data was being fed in from AWACS and JSTARS aircraft and from a host of other sources, including Special Forces A-teams that were monitoring a chain of lookout posts around the perimeter.
The closest monitoring was being carried out by a Delta unit who were actually inside the terrorist base. They HAHOed into the center of Madoa Air Base under cover of the opening assault fires and were now concealed on the roof of the main hangar and in the control tower.
They had assailed the control tower expecting it to be fully manned, but in fact it was empty. The occupants had had little to do since most of their air assets were destroyed in the microlight raid, and as soon as the first bombs had dropped they had headed for a bunker. Delta had the control tower to themselves.
It commanded a perfect view of the terrorist air base, and even with its windows blown in by the blasts of the initial bombing, it was an ideal observation point.
Delta troopers concealed on the hangar roof four hundred meters away regarded their colleagues in the tower with some envy. They did not know much about the bird life on the Tecuno plateau, but whatever was there had seemed to produce copiously and to regard the roof as its dumping ground.
The soldiers were lying in years of accumulated bird shit. It made the going hazardous and the smell vile. It might have been funny, except that the second man to land on the roof had slipped on the mess and broken his neck. Lifeless, he had been unable to stop himself and his body had slid over the edge to have several feet below the parapet. He had been hauled back by his parachute harness without being seen and now lay in a gully temporarily out of sight and mind.
Colonel Dave Palmer, the 82 ^ nd 's divisional executive officer, was the senior military man in the C141, and he regarded the unfolding developments with a blend of concern, fascination, and frustration. If military logic had had anything to do with it, the Commanding General would have been in the command-and-control aircraft. It was the location with the best position from which to direct the battle.
However, there were some situations where immediate military logic did not come into it and overall unit pride was considered more important. In the 82 ^ nd officers led from the front, and that meant the General Mike Gannon jumped at the head of his troops.
Palmer sweated as he watched the terrorist base transform itself. Within five minutes of the cessation of the bombing, dozens of new fighting positions had appeared as top cover was pulled away, and there looked to be several hundred smaller fighting holes.
For the moment, his focus was entirely on antiaircraft defenses, particularly SAMS and heavy machine guns. Data flowed in, and after it was plotted and assigned a targeting number, the mission was passed to a killing team.
Palmer was soon convinced that virtually all the hidden antiaircraft defenses had now been plotted, but the final test was about to come. Any missiles or gun positions still hidden were certain to be revealed when the attacking aircraft were actually overhead. Far below him he watched the first flight approach the airfield. The radar showed them flying low, straight, and level, as they had to do to effect an accurate drop.
The approach to a drop zone was always the most dangerous part of an airborne operation. For those brief few moments, the aircraft were exposed and vulnerable and the paratroopers inside – laden with the tools of killing though they were – were entirely helpless.
As he watched, missiles streaked up from the airfield and first one and then another and then most of the first flight were hit. Explosions lit up the sky and pieces of flaming aircraft cascaded toward the ground.
He felt ill as he watched. In his mind he was hooked up, ready to jump. He could see the jump light switch from red to green and feel the slap of the jumpmaster on his shoulder. "GO!"
He shook his head and looked across to his air force opposite number.
"Now?" said the colonel.
"Now," said Palmer.
A single phrase went out to the prepositioned air assets. Two aircraft had been assigned to each air defense position, and there were further aircraft in reserve to pick up any slack. Kiowa Warriors hovered hidden behind rocks or in folds in the ground, only their mast sights protruding.
"ACTIVATE BARRACUDA! ACTIVATE BARRACUDA!"
"The radar screens have all gone blank again," said Carranza. "I don't understand it. A moment ago we could see the aircraft coming in two by two like cattle into a slaughterhouse – and now there is nothing."
"We are being jammed, sir," said one of the operators at the console.
"Then why didn't they jam earlier?" said Carranza. "Why allow us to see their aircraft as they approach and then jam us after most of them have been destroyed? It makes no sense."
Oshima was looking at a blank monitor. The cameras overlooking the supergun valley showed total normality. Elsewhere, the airfield flickered with dozens of fires from falling aircraft debris. As she looked, she could see her troops moving out from their fighting positions to examine the wreckage and round up any paratroopers left alive.
Oddly enough, she could not see any parachutes on the ground, and there certainly should have been some there by now. Were they set on fire by falling debris? Had they fallen outside the perimeter? Well, it was an oddity but of no major concern. It was probably more to do with the cameras. They gave a good overall picture of the airfield, but they were no substitute for direct vision.
Carranza had been listening to reports from the units on the surface. Initial reports were vastly encouraging and confirmed what the monitors had shown. The antiaircraft crews had enjoyed major success. Nine out of the initial dozen aircraft had been totally destroyed in a couple of minutes.
Carranza tried to remember how many paratroops fit into a C130. Something like sixty, he thought. The total destroyed equated to the best part of a battalion.
His, Carranza's, troops were beating the Americans! What all their might and technology, they could bleed too.
All the monitors except those showing the supergun flickered and then went dull.
The communications operator's face went gray as a further report came in. "Major Carranza," he said. "We have a report from Captain Alonzo. He'd like to speak to you."
Carranza took the phone. "Major," said Alonzo's familiar voice. He was one of the best battalion commanders. Imaginative and cool under pressure. He never flapped.
"Major," said Alonzo dully. "The aircraft that we destroyed…"
"Yes," said Carranza. "A magnificent job. Absolutely magnificent."
There was a pause at the end of the phone. Alonzo was breathing heavily, as if he had been running or was completely stressed out. Either way, it was out of character. Alonzo was calm to the point of deliberateness.
"Yes, Captain," said Carranza impatiently. "What is it?"
"Major, they're drones," said Alonzo. "They're all RPVs."
Carranza's hand holding the phone fell to his side.
"What?" said Oshima impatiently.
Carranza whipped the phone back up to his ear. "Captain, GET BACK UNDER COVER NOW! NOW!"
"CARRANZA!" shouted Oshima. "WHAT IS GOING ON?"
"We've been tricked," said Carranza. "Those aircraft were decoys. Remotely piloted vehicles. Models."
"The radar picture?" said Oshima incredulously.
"We saw what they wanted us to see," said Carranza. "They've been playing with us."
The module suddenly shook, and this time the explosions were virtually continuous. Oshima tried the phones. All were silent except for the supergun. Everywhere else was shut down. The shaking continued. The bombardment seemed without end.
Colonel Dave Palmer checked the targeting display.
Combat at this level was goddamn clinical. You identified targets, selected the best tool to handle the job in much the same manner as choosing a golf club for a tricky shot, and then passed the chosen the details.
The flight leaders muttered, "Roger that, Big Daddy," and that was that.
Minutes – sometimes seconds – later, men died. Some quickly. Some slowly and horribly. The scale of the destruction was vast, the human impact impossible to truly comprehend.
But this was the reality of war. This was what he trained for and this was what he was good at. From 20,000 feet, he could not see the blood or hear the screams. So why was it so much worse at this remove?
"Coffee, sir?" said an air force crewman.
Palmer shook his head. To be sipping coffee while Mike Gannon was slugging it out on the ground seemed wrong.
"Take some," said his air force colleague. The man was looking at him with concern. Palmer nodded and took it.
"The fast movers are out," said a chief at a monitor. "The count is good. One F16 hit, but the pilot reckons he can make it to Arkono. SAMs and triple-A pretty much wiped. The Airborne are going in. Spectres and A10s are working the margins. The Kiowas say the Fourth of July is like nothing compared to what's going on down there. It's a field of fires, sirs."
And the division is jumping right into the middle, thought Palmer. All the goddamn way. Which is the way it should be. But why am I up here out of harm's way when friends are fighting and dying?
Targeting was approached as methodically as possible, but it was an imperfect world.
Palmer had switched his focus to enemy armor deployment when the only heavy missile battery the Barracuda strikes had missed got a lock on the lumbering C141 and blew its left wing off at the root.
With fire spreading throughout the fuselage, the doomed aircraft spiraled erratically toward the ground below.
Desperately, Palmer scrabbled for his ‘chute. There wasn't time to put it on. He broke out of the module and ran for a side door.
It was open. The rear air crew had already jumped.
Holding on to his parachute pack for dear life, he threw out into the safety of nothing.
Where was the D ring? He could not find it.
Above, at 23,000 feet, the reserve command-and-control aircraft had taken over. You built redundancy into airborne missions.
The new airborne command was fully operational before Palmer hit the ground.