Small pieces of ground started to move.
Four lined up about thirty meters away, and the fifth came up close. It was not until the vehicles were less than fifty meters away that they were noticeable at all, and even then it was their movement more than shape that made them stand out from the landscape.
"Sexy," breathed Sergeant Hawkeye. "What are they, sir?"
"Think of the Three Wise Monkeys," said Kilmara, "and I'll tell you."
"See, hear, and say nothing," said Hawkeye, who had been cleared to Level One. "Deal, sir."
Fitzduane came over. "It's a Swiss-made material," he said. "Typically Swiss. Bloody expensive, but the stuff seems to work. Basically, within a limited range, it picks up the color of the surrounding terrain and blends. And it also cuts way down on your thermal signature. It is not general-purpose camouflage, but if you know where you're going, it will do the job."
Hawkeye was examining the Guntrack close up. "If you deploy your weapons fully, you lose some of the camouflage effect on the top, sir," she said. "You were cheating a bit."
Fitzduane smiled. "We were testing lying-up during the day, Sergeant," he said. "But you've got a point."
Kilmara was amused. "We really came to see Dilger's Baby," he said. "Surprise me."
Fitzduane pointed at what looked like a thick-walled pipe mounted on the back of a Guntrack. It had a crude, almost agricultural look, but the sight on top looked state-of-the-art. The whole thing, including the breech, was no more than seven feet long.
"You start off with the A10 Thunderbolt tank-busting aircraft," he said. "The Warthog. As you know, it's a slow-flying, rather ugly aircraft built around a huge multibarreled Gatling-gun that fires uranium-depleted rounds the size of milk bottles that go right through armor. Ground troops love it because it can stay in the battle zone for hours. Rumor has it the USAAF aren't too keen on it because it's slow and lacks avionics and they are not too fond of CAS — close-air support — in the first place.
"The upshot is that the A10 is being phased out. That means that a load of their GAU-8A Avenger guns are becoming available."
Kilmara made a gesture. "But that's a huge weapon," he said. "It's — I don't know — twenty feet long and weighs as much as a Cadillac." He pointed at the weapon on the Guntrack. "I don't get the connection."
"Think laterally," said Fitzduane agreeably. "That's what a man called Bob Dilger did. I guess it helped that he had been behind the A10 gun program in the first place. Anyway, he had the idea of taking just one barrel out of the seven and a simple six-shot, clip-fed breech and making a much simpler anti-armor weapon. Now you've got Dilger's Baby. It's the size you see, it weighs under a hundred pounds without mount, and it's deadly accurate. Ballistically it is remarkable. The projectile hits 1.9 kilometers a second, and up to two kilometers the trajectory is damn near flat. Armed with a laser sight it will substantially outrange any Soviet tanks short of the very latest models. Add Shanley's thermal gizmos and night becomes day. A single shot can plow through five feet of reinforced concrete or make the Fourth of July out of armor."
Kilmara was taking a folded checklist out of his map pocket. "It has come to a pretty pass when a cheap high-speed plastic box like the Guntrack can take out heavy armor."
Fitzduane smiled. "I don't know what it is, but there is something about a tank that makes people want to shoot at it. Thanks to technology, now they can. I expect people felt much the same about armored knights and bows and arrows."
He indicated the front gunner's seat.
Kilmara climbed in. He had ridden in all three crew positions quite a few times before, but always on testing and exercises. The knowledge that they were now preparing for a combat mission was a sharp reality check.
He put on the proffered helmet and plugged in the intercom. The helmet fit. A tag tied to the chin strap had listed his name. Hugo was like that.
The Guntrack purred almost silently into life. Early models had sounded like sports cars and had emitted the same exhilarating engine growls. Good for the adrenaline and bad for the life span. Now Guntracks were very, very quiet. And even that, in Fitzduane's opinion, was too noisy. Sound tended to travel at night, and that was when special-operations people, like vampires, mostly functioned best also. The idea was not to be seen — or heard.
Ten minutes later, Kilmara had gotten the point. The Guntrack had air brakes and hydraulics. They hissed to a halt.
Kilmara was contemplative. It had been a wild ride and the targets had snapped up without warning.
From exhilaration to absolute threat in maybe a tenth of a second. Maybe less.
"It's — it's different," he said.
Fitzduane looked across. It had only been minutes, but his face was strained from concentration and when he took off the helmet his hair was matted with sweat. "We practiced in Ireland amidst the rocks and rain and mud," he said. "Hard to get up serious speed. And there was not the same urgency. This terrain is hot and dry and will soon be the real thing. That adds a certain dimension. It is more like flying a fighter in World War Two. It's fast and you don't too often have a second chance. And you end up drained and exhausted and dying for a pint of beer."
"Or dead," said Kilmara exhaustedly. "Probably from a heart attack." He climbed out of the Guntrack unsteadily.
Sergeant Hawkins was staring, fascinated. There was a pronounced delay, and then her hand snapped up in a salute. Kilmara was a general and he had reappeared. Which was something of a surprise.
The whole thing had been so incredibly fast and yet had gone on for so long. Could people really maneuver and fight this way? It was a hell of a thing to see.
She snapped her hand down and glanced discreetly at her watch. Only ten fucking minutes! Unreal!
"You're still too vulnerable from the air," said Kilmara. "You've got Stingers, and they're fine if you are static, but if you're on the move and get strafed you want something heavier than the 5.56mm Ultimaxs you've mounted that will really persuade a pilot to keep his distance if he doesn't want to fly right into a buzz saw. My suggestion is that you mount a GECAL .50 as the standoff weapon on at least one Guntrack. Use the three-barrel version and you can get off two-thousand rounds an minute if you're feeling sociable."
Fitzduane's eyebrows had both risen. A GECAL .50 was a Gatling gun designed originally for aircraft use. He did not doubt its effectiveness but was far from sure it could be mounted on a Guntrack. "Surely, it would be too heavy," he said.
"Well under a hundred pounds," said Kilmara. "As to ammunition, you will have to work that out. The problem with GECALs is keeping them fed. But you have that NATO pallet on the back of each Guntrack, and we put in load-carrying capacity for a reason."
"I'll look at it," said Fitzduane. "Subject to time."
There really was not much time. He was operating on the minimum time necessary to do the job right the first time.
He had allowed three weeks. Twenty-one days to plan, assemble equipment, recruit, train, and rehearse to such a level of perfection that when they hit they would not fail.
They could not fail. It was far too long to his mind, but there was so much to be done and he knew that for the duration of this mission his head must rule his heart. Every emotional feeling made him want to throw together an ad hoc mission and go storming in by helicopter, but all his experience dictated that such an approach had a high chance of failure. That was exactly what the opposition would expect and had taken precautions against. He had to find another way, even if it took longer.
He felt he was letting Kathleen down.
It was tearing him apart.
Surprisingly little showed.
Kilmara swung back into the Humvee.
Sergeant Hawkeye looked across at him. He had expected the inquiry. Fitzduane seemed to have that effect. Women almost always did ask about him, even when it was a need-to-know operation and such a question was most decidedly out of line.
"Who was that man, sir?" she said. "The colonel? The one you ca
lled Hugo?"
"The rules say its none of your business, Sergeant," said Kilmara.
"I know, sir," said Hawkeye quietly. "But I don't often see men like that. He seemed exceptional and maybe a little sad. Is that the way it is, sir?"
"He was my pupil once and he is my friend now, and I guess that is the way it is," said Kilmara heavily. "Life has a habit of screwing up the best-laid plans."
"Amen to that," said the sergeant fervently, and Kilmara looked at her and wondered.
Then the Humvee's suspension cut in and the General had more immediate and painful concerns on his mind.
* * * * *
It was late when Fitzduane and Kilmara got back from the Aberdeen Proving Grounds to the apartment in Arlington.
Fitzduane made Kilmara an Irish coffee. He took his black and straight. Kilmara sprawled with relief in one of the armchairs. Fitzduane sat on the edge of his chair nursing his coffee mug. It was near midnight.
"Still no news?" inquired Kilmara cautiously but with the privilege of an old friend.
He had delayed asking earlier. Fitzduane was wound tight as a drum but seemed to be controlling himself by shutting down unnecessary thoughts of Kathleen. He rarely mentioned her name and was focused almost coldly on the mission. Kilmara could almost feel the tension building up day by day, but he knew from experience that Fitzduane had the stamina to stay in control as long as was necessary. Eventually there would be a catharsis, an explosion of pent-up feeling.
Right now the mask of normality was down. It was almost convincing.
Fitzduane had made some calls before sitting. Since the kidnapping there had been no word of Kathleen at all. No messages, no demands for ransom, nothing.
Kathleen had vanished without a trace, yet Fitzduane proceeded as if he knew with absolute certainty that she was in Mexico. He was running entirely on instinct. He was probably right, Kilmara reflected. He had seen Hugo like this on a number of occasions before, and it was uncanny how often the man's feelings had proved right.
Life should be more rational, in Kilmara's opinion, but for Fitzduane, in situations like this, intuition was rationality.
"Kathleen is in Tecuno," said Fitzduane flatly.
"Has that been confirmed?" said Kilmara. "A positive ID?"
"No," said Fitzduane slowly. "Nothing more than you know, and now the near certainty that Oshima and Yaibo are behind this. I've talked more to Chifune, and it's the only thing that makes sense. Incidentally, Chifune thought Oshima was dead also. Now it appears that some of her superiors in the Japanese intelligence community have been mounting an operation which has gone somewhat adrift. Instead of a terrorist on an invisible string leading them to her colleagues, they've got a loose cannon.
"Even worse from their point of view, it looks like Oshima is mounting operations against the U.S. from her Mexican base. Given the uncertain relations between the U.S. and Japan, this is worse than embarrassing. It's bloody serious. It might just occur to someone in the U.S. government that the Japanese are behind this in some way. They are not, she insists, but it looks bad. The Tokyo bureaucrats involved hoped the problem would just go away. Now it has escalated and Chifune has been sent over to try and resolve it discreetly."
Kilmara tried to drink his Irish coffee without giving himself a cream mustache. He more or less succeeded.
He remembered Koancho agent Chifune Tanabu vividly from Japan. Now, there was a woman of true worth, if not exactly the wife and mother type. He had the feeling that she and Fitzduane had been involved briefly, but Hugo had never said anything. He had returned and married Kathleen, the homemaker.
"Chifune knows Oshima better than anyone," he said. "What's her take on Oshima's motive in grabbing Kathleen?"
"Pure revenge," said Fitzduane. "Interesting, Chifune thinks kidnapping Kathleen was a secondary objective, a pure target of opportunity. I tend to agree."
"So you don't think Kathleen is being held as bait," said Kilmara. "A sprat to catch a mackerel, with Hugo Fitzduane being the fish in question?"
Fitzduane shook his head. "It's possible, but I don't think so. To spring a trap she would have to be sure that I knew about the Devil's Footprint, and that would mean laying a trail. So far all the evidence is that their base is being kept under wraps. No, my gut tells me that Oshima has a different agenda and Kathleen is peripheral. If precedent is anything to go by, Oshima will play with Kathleen for months, try to break her, and eventually kill her. That's the pattern. Oshima likes having a few victims around. It's a power thing. She kidnapped a policeman in Japan and kept him chained up for two years in a cave." He did not mention what Oshima had done to her victim. When the policeman had been found he had been alive, but... He blocked the picture from his mind. The only consolation was that Oshima tended to leave serious physical torture until late in the game. Her initial torture was always psychological.
"Tell me more about this Japanese agent in Tecuno," Kilmara said. "If there is someone on the inside, surely you can get confirmation on whether they've got Kathleen."
Fitzduane recounted the history of the Japanese operation as he knew it. Then he continued. "The good news is that thanks to Chifune's man we now know much more about the physical layout and other details of the base. The bad news is that Hori-san, although in place and close to Oshima, is having great difficulty in communicating. In Tokyo, he could use the phone or mail a letter or meet a contact in the subway and do a brush pass. In Tecuno, trusted by Oshima or not, the poor guy is damn close to being a prisoner. These people are paranoid. That's how they have survived so long. Informers are THE enemy, so every precaution is taken against them. Worse still, the track record shows that your nearest and dearest are most likely to betray you, so even the inner circle like Hori-san are not excluded."
"How had Hori gotten information out so far?" said Kilmara. "From what you say, there has been some contact?"
"I asked Chifune exactly the same question," said Fitzduane. "Apparently he has been there for about fifteen months and has gotten messages out only twice. The first time he risked the mail to a Koancho address in Mexico City. The second time, he passed a package to a Japanese service technician who was inside the perimeter servicing some electronic gear. That was a real risk, because he did not know the guy. He must have been desperate. But it worked."
"Why not use the technician again if he has access?" said Kilmara.
"It was a one-off technical problem," said Fitzduane. "Normally, all the gear in the inner compound is serviced by Quintana's people. Further, the original serviceman was posted back to Tokyo. Koancho did try and initiate a follow-up call from a planted substitute, but no dice. Insofar as is possible in that place, no one goes in and no one goes out. The word is that there is not the normal Mexican mañana approach to security. This place is very tight, and it was precisely for this reason the Quintana brought terrorist mercenaries in.
"Oshima's primary job is to run a tight ship, and that she seems to do. Everyone is scared shitless of her. She does not give you ten days in the cells if you fail to search a truck properly. She has you staked out in the sun with your balls cut off and ants and scorpions for company. This is not a sweet-natured woman."
Kilmara smiled and then turned serious. "There has got to be some way of making contact," he said. "Tell me something about the layout and the routines."
"Tecuno is vast and the least-populated state in Mexico," said Fitzduane. "Virtually all the population live on the coastal strip or in the port city of Tecuan. Inland, it is hot, dry, arid plateau country. On average, inland is about three to five thousand feet up. You bake during the day and you freeze at night. There are few roads, because there is nowhere to go to. Mexico is railway country, but the only railway line in this case goes along the coast."
"But the oil is inland?" said Kilmara.
"Oil seems to like emerging from godforsaken spots like the Saudi desert or the North Sea," said Fitzduane, "and inland Tecuno surely qualifies. So the oil is under the central
plateau, which consists mainly of rock, shale, boulders, and sand. It gets pumped up by mainly automated equipment and piped down to the coast. It is a strategic resource, so the whole inland portion of Tecuno is off-limits to visitors on the grounds of protecting the oil fields against bandits and saboteurs. Because of the sheer scale of the distances involved, the security in the area is carried out by the local militia operating from a joint army and air force base called Madoa. About eight kilometers from that is the Devil's Footprint. And the Devil's Footprint is where the terrorist base is located."
"The first thought that comes to me," said Kilmara, "is that if I were Quintana, and wanted optimum security, I would have put my terrorist base inside the airfield perimeter. So why is it located eight kliks away? Quintana isn't dumb by all accounts, so there has to be a reason. And that brings us back to the Devil's Footprint. What has it got that makes it worthwhile compromising security?"
"Their security has not been much affected — unfortunately," said Fitzduane, "though your point is valid. It would be ideal for them if the two locations were merged into one or at least side by side. However, the terrain makes that impossible. You need flat land for an airfield, and the ground between the airfield and the Devil's Footprint is anything but. So this is the best arrangement under the circumstances and there is a road between the two camps. The road encircles the two locations, so it constitutes a perimeter in itself. It is too big an area to fence off, but it is patrolled regularly by light armor and there is an armored column on standby which sometimes does a circuit as well. These people are serious."
"Let's get back to the Devil's Footprint," said Kilmara. "El Huella del Diablo!"
Fitzduane smiled. Kilmara had had to return to Ireland and his beloved Rangers after the Fayetteville incident, and although they talked regularly, still had missed out on much of the detail. And that frustrated him. General Kilmara was used to being on the inside track.
"The Devil's Footprint," said Fitzduane, "gets its name from resembling the footprint that might be made by a cloven hoof. It consists of two box canyons side by side and from the air looks something like a pair of horseshoe-shaped valleys. To secure each valley, all you have to do is to establish a fortified position on the high ground and fence off each open end, and that is exactly what our friends have done. The first valley holds the terrorist base and the second valley, nominally the site of a top-secret oil-extraction process — so it is full of pipes and process plat — is what they are guarding."
Fitzduane 03 - Devil's Footprint, The Page 17
