The Devil's Footprint (66 page)
Read The Devil's Footprint Online
Authors: Victor O'Reilly
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 mélange 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
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
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
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!
24
Fitzduane
emerged from the shower with the strong feeling that he was associating with a
subculture whose values the original Sir Hugo Fitzduane — he of the thirteenth
century who invasion of Ireland had started the cycle — would readily have
identified with.
"They all
run?" he said incredulously.
"Hell, man,
there's
fifteen thousand of
them.
Some of them have to be couch
potatoes.
It's against human nature for
the entire population of the equivalent of a small Irish city to go running every
morning.
I mean
I
run, Al, and
you
run —
and we have our reasons — but a complete community rising up and putting in
five miles before breakfast is downright kinky."
Lonsdale
grinned.
"Scout's honor," he
said.
"Every morning they close off
the lowliest trooper, they all pound the pavement.
Even after an EDRE."
"What is
an EDRE?" said Fitzduane.
"Emergency
deployment readiness exercise," said Lonsdale.
"That's what the 82
nd
is all
about.
They're a kind of strategic fire
brigade.
Give them eighteen hours'
notice, and they are wheels up to just about anywhere."
"In the
world?" said Fitzduane.
"If an
aircraft can fly over it, they can get to it," said Lonsdale.
"‘Force projection,’ they call it."
"A subtle
turn of phrase," said Fitzduane.
"Fucking
the bad guys from a height," said Lonsdale.
"If I may be so bold
as to translate."
"Ah!"
said Fitzduane.
*
*
*
*
*
It was hot in
the SCIF and getting hotter, but though the 82
nd
had a budget of $65
million for running expenses, apparently that did not run to an effective
airconditioning system for the top-security divisional operations center.
Most present
had stripped down to T-shirts.
Given the
useful minority of outstandingly healthy young women troopers present,
Fitzduane's respect for
Airborne
tactics was
rising.
But then again, he reminded
himself, he was a married man and never happier to be so.
He thought of Kathleen, safe again, and
smiled.
He had been walking on air these
past few days.
A little cold reality
would not go amiss.
The Airborne
assault on Oshima's base looked quite likely to provide it.
His previous mission had been a twenty-minute
raid with all the advantages of surprise on their side.
This was a military problem of a different
order of magnitude.
The entire terrorist
base complex now known generically as the Devil's Footprint was to be seized,
held, searched, and destroyed — before being turned over to Mexican federal
troops.
And this time there was every
sign that the terrorists were prepared and waiting.
Taped-together
satellite photographs covered the floor.
The only way you could study the overall picture properly was by taking
your boots off and walking across the imagery in your socks.
You hunkered down with a magnifying glass for
the small stuff.
The detail was
superb.
Faces could not be easily recognized,
but you could look at an individual's load-bearing equipment and see whether he
had grenades clipped to his belt or not.
As he looked
at the planning staff crawling around the floor, Fitzduane, who suffered from
an irreverent cast of mind, had a surreal flash of infants in a day-care
center.
He suppressed the thought.
The Airborne took
themselves
seriously, as well they might, given what they were expected to do.
Jumping out of aircraft into the darkness and
a hail of enemy fire required a certain mindset.
And getting to the ground in one piece was
only the start of the exercise.
You then
had to deal with mines and weapons emplacements and a dug-in enemy who wanted
you permanently dead.
Airborne assault
was a deadly serious business.
Fitzduane's
military specialty was special-forces warfare, where heavy weaponry was
normally nonexistent and the ethos was to be as sneaky and possible.
To do anything head-on was considered bad
form.
He had to rethink his approach
when considering the 82
nd
's way of war.
It was not that it was wrong.
But it surely was different.
Lieutenant
Colonel Zachariah Carlson looked up from perusing the satellite
extravaganza.
He looked less like a war
memorial in his T-shirt and socks.
And
they had moved to first-name terms, which got over the potential problem of Al
Lonsdale's lack of commissioned rank.
"How do
you want to play this, Zach?" said Fitzduane.
"We're on
a countdown," said Carlson.
He
checked his watch.
"If hell freezes
over, we hit the Devil's Footprint in sixty-three hours and eighteen minutes.
You've been
there already.
You've fought these
people.
Anything you can contribute
which will make our task easier will be appreciated."
Fitzduane
looked down at the satellite photographs again.
He did not like what he saw.
Madoa
airfield had been significantly reinforced, and there were mobile armored
columns on the perimeter.
In the Devil's
Footprint itself the main camp had been thoroughly destroyed, but the supergun
valley appeared untouched.
The blockhouse
had been reoccupied and surrounded by extra defenses.
Troops were dug in along the rim.
Whoever was now in command knew just what
they were doing and had the drive and energy to see it was done.
What had been accomplished in such a short
time was incredible.
Oshima
!
he
thought to himself.
He had hoped against hope that she had been
killed in the original assault.
Looking
at the hornet's nest that had been created since the attack, he knew he had
been wrong.
"Let's
get out of this sweatbox, Zach," he said, "and you can give me the
ten-cent version of who the 82
nd
operates these days.
I grew up on World War Two stories where
paratroops were always dropped in the wrong place and used guts instead of
firepower to do the job."