Read The Devil's Footprint Online
Authors: Victor O'Reilly
The Devil's Footprint (72 page)
His mind ran through the blueprints and
electronic schematics.
Suddenly, he
knew.
But if he admitted he had not
checked the gas controller, what would this woman do?
Oshima saw the
flicker in
eyes.
So he had forgotten
something.
It was always the same with
experts.
Long on
theory.
Short
on practicalities.
"Talk to
me, Dr. Salerno," she said.
25
"The Air
Force is open for business.
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 élan, 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
"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
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
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.
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?