"Not your problem, Hugo," said Cochrane grimly. "You're an Irishman. This is strictly an American political matter. It is an old custom. It is called throwing out the baby with the bathwater. It is also called shitting on your friends."
Fitzduane smiled. "The U.S. has no monopoly on either slinging babies out or dumping on the undeserving. So enlighten me."
Cochrane looked straight at Fitzduane. "The Task Force on Terrorism has been a highly effective tool of the United States Congress for nearly a decade and a half. Now it is to be wrapped up. It is all part of the lesser government drive being pushed by our new Speaker. It is a good idea, but it is being implemented indiscriminately. There has never been a greater threat to this country from terrorism and our work has never been more in demand or more on the button — but the Task Force is to go. Go figure!"
Fitzduane was momentarily speechless. The entire Mexican operation was being driven through the Task Force. Kathleen! The implications were horrendous.
"What about the Tecuno mission, Lee?"
A vein throbbed in Cochrane's forehead. "I seem to recall a recent time when you weren't too keen on going to Mexico, Hugo," said Cochrane, sarcasm and anger heavy in his voice. His whole body was tense with rage. The chief of staff had a short fuse and liked to crack the whip, but Fitzduane had never seen him like this before.
He tried to defuse the situation. "Lee, you're tired and quite reasonably pissed off with what is being done to the Task Force. But maybe it is not such a good idea to take it out on me. You know exactly why I changed my mind."
"Fuck you, you damned Irishman," exploded Cochrane. "I care about this country. I fight for the United States. I fight for a cause. All you seem to care about is some damned woman. There are bigger issues, and you don't seem to give a shit about them. You're nothing but a fucking mercenary!"
Fitzduane could feel his own anger boiling up, which would accomplish precisely nothing. He fought for control. He had a tremendous desire to hit the man. He took his time answering.
"Causes are about people, Lee," he said quietly, "and you know that better than most, which is why you do what you do. And Kathleen is rather more than ‘some damned woman.’ Further, she is being held by people who threaten the well-being of this country. We're on the same side on this thing. So swear away at me if it will advance our cause. Better yet, get some sleep."
Cochrane slumped back into his seat. "Goddamn you, Fitzduane," he said wearily. "Why don't you lose it like a normal human being? It's fucking frustrating to talk to someone who is being calm and reasonable when all you want is to let fly. Hell man, have you no understanding? I thought all you Irish flared up at the slightest provocation."
Fitzduane smiled grimly. "I can't afford to, Lee," he said. "Too much is at stake."
Cochrane rubbed his forehead. The outburst was over. He suddenly looked incredibly tired. "I'm sorry," he said.
"Let's focus," said Fitzduane.
"There is a wind-down period for the Task Force," said Cochrane. "And no one likes losers on the Hill, so our effectiveness will be cut in half. We'll be lame ducks flapping our wings and going nowhere except into somebody's cooking pot. But the mission will proceed as planned. There is more than the Task Force behind this thing now. But you know that, Hugo, don't you?"
Fitzduane nodded. "I know we've got friends," he said. "But I haven't put much time into finding out who and why. There are other priorities. But I know the Task Force is the mainspring of this thing, and I appreciate it. And I appreciate what you stand for."
Cochrane stared at the table for a few moments. Then he looked up. "Enough to do something for me?" he said.
"Maybe," said Fitzduane. "But only after you get some sleep. Crisp white shirts will get you just so far."
"I want to go with you," said Cochrane.
Fitzduane's eyebrows shot up. "You're shitting me, Lee!" he said. "Look, the Hill is your battleground."
"I've spent fifteen years pushing the Task Force," said Cochrane, "and now it's going to be wiped. I want to go out in style. I'm owed that. And I can do what has to be done. I'm a trained soldier and I'm fit. I can hack it."
"This is a special-forces mission," said Fitzduane, "and the word ‘special’ is no accident."
"I can do it," said Cochrane stubbornly. He looked straight at Fitzduane again. "Do you want an apology?"
Fitzduane smiled. "I'll settle for you telling me why I had to get back here ASAP."
Cochrane leapt to his feet. "Shit! I was forgetting all about Jaeger."
"Who is Jaeger?" said Fitzduane.
"‘Doctor’ Jaeger," said Cochrane. "Maury tracked him down. He's from Livermore."
"Livermore as in the Lawrence Livermore Laboratory where they do nuclear and other weapons research?" said Fitzduane.
"The very same," said Cochrane. "Ten thousand mad scientists all working on Doomsday. We're trying to get there before the Russians, or whoever are the bad guys these days. The word is that we're doing pretty well. The Japanese may have consumer electronics sewn up, but when Earth is blown into smithereens, the device that does it will have ‘Made in the USA’ stamped on it. There will probably be a subtext: ‘Researched at the Lawrence Livermore Laboratories.’"
"That thought may bring a lump to your throat when you salute the flag, Lee," said Fitzduane, "but what has Dr. Jaeger of Livermore got to do with the mission?"
"You don't want to know," said Cochrane. He smiled. He looked less tired. Here was a man who thrived on action. "But you're going to have to."
"I have not said you can go," warned Fitzduane. "But you can train, and then we'll see."
"I may surprise you," said Cochrane.
"I will be surprised if you don't, Lee," said Fitzduane. "So bring on Jaeger."
"Maury will lead off," said Cochrane. "This is really his jigsaw. He is good at jigsaws, and this is one of his best. It just shows what the Task Force can do— and should continue to do."
"Everyone around here walks on water," said Fitzduane pleasantly. "In Ireland, we're more used to it descending on us from a height."
"The Task Force runs on it," said Cochrane.
* * * * *
The footsteps sounded different.
Permanently blindfolded as she was, Kathleen was becoming quite proficient at recognizing sounds and building up a mental model of her surroundings. The guards, wearing boots and doubtless armed and laden down with military equipment, walked heavily and talked loudly. Doors were slammed. Jokes were made. Coarse laughter echoed from the concrete walls. Shouts were exchanged.
The Voice had a distinctive walk. There was a liquidity about her movements that suggested a lithe, supple body, but there was also arrogance. This new arrival was not her tormentor. In fact, The Voice now visited less frequently. The novelty had worn off. She was becoming bored, and had indeed said as much. Kathleen's chosen strategy of not reacting had worked. A defiant prisoner would have provided entertainment. An immobile slumped body quickly palled.
These sounds were a break from the normal pattern. The cell door was closed quietly. The footfalls sounded more like civilian shoes. She could hear a faint squeak of leather, and the soles, she thought, were made from softer rubber.
She could just detect the sound of breathing. Her visitor was close and was at her level, which meant he or she had bent down. She was being examined. She could smell soap and an aftershave, and there was no smell of stale sweat. This person was freshly groomed.
Her hand throbbed, but the pain had been her salvation. The shock of her kidnapping and the drugs and then the horror of what she was going through had temporarily driven her over the edge.
Then had come the first dismemberment.
As the machete had cut into her hand and had removed her finger, such a powerful anger had surged through her that she had suddenly realized she could win. No matter how hopeless her position looked, she could and would triumph. She was strong. Her spirit, the essence of her being, was extraordinarily strong. The
y might desecrate her body, but no matter what they did, she would win. As the pain coursed through her, she knew that she was going to make it. Her baby would make it.
I am strong, she said silently over and over again. I am strong and they cannot break me. They cannot break me because I will not break. I am strong. I am strong. I am strong... My body may be weak and in pain, but I am strong. I am strong. I am strong...
"Kathleen," said a voice. He called again. She did not react but lay slumped. My eyes might have given me away, she thought, and shown fear, but I am blindfolded so he cannot see. I can use their weapons, their devices, against them. If I show no fear, I am not afraid. I am strong. I am strong. I am strong. I will show nothing. I will give them nothing.
I am strong.
"Kathleen," called the voice yet again.
The tone was sympathetic. Warm? Perhaps. It was a trick, of course, so she would not react visibly, but in her mind she would make the most of the diversion. Truly, the mind was amazing. Her mind was amazing. For most of her life to date she had taken it for granted. It was just one of several assets, and since she was a beautiful woman, her looks had arguably been more important on a day-to-day basis because, quite simply, her appearance got results.
But her mind was her true friend, and it had taken all this to bring that home to her. And the power of the mind was quite staggering. She could feel the force.
A hand was stroking her cheek. The touch was tentative and lasted for only a few seconds and then was gone. Was it an illusion? She longed to be touched, to be held, to be caressed gently by Hugo.
She wanted to cry but held back her tears. She would not show weakness. She would not move. She would not react in any way. She imagined her body in a state of suspension. It was completely immobile. It was just as well. She needed all her energy for her mind. It was a powerhouse. It was a dynamic, thrusting, vital world, and best of all, it was her world.
The voice called yet again.
She wished it would go away. It was distracting her and she was extremely busy. Her mind was a hive of activity. Ideas were just flooding into it. And memories, too. People, places, smells, textures, sounds; the very fabric of life. Truly, it was a wonderful world. And there was so much to do. She was never going to have enough time. The possibilities seemed endless. I never knew it was like this, she thought. There is so much here. I am so rich, so lucky, so blessed.
"Perhaps I should start by telling you my name," said the voice. "We are not being introduced under the best of circumstances, but there is much to be said for the formalities all the same. They oil the social wheels, don't you think? Anyway, my name is Edgar Rheiman. You spell that R-H-E-I-M-A-N. Silent H. Not an obvious spelling."
An American accent, thought Kathleen. Now, where in the United States? Not the South or California, for sure? Not New York City either. Somewhere Northern. Beyond that she was not sure. She had a good ear and had spent considerable time in the United States, but she had been born and spent most of her life in Ireland.
"Kathleen," said Rheiman. "I can guess how you must feel, but I would like if you would trust me. You see, we're both in the same boat. You're a prisoner and they are going to kill you. That's a given. Well, though I can walk around within the base, I am effectively a prisoner too. And when I have completed doing what they want, I am for the chopping block as well. That's the way these people are."
He paused. "Do you mind if I sit down?"
Kathleen remained immobile.
"I guess not," said Rheiman. His voice sounded middle-aged.
There were sounds of rustling and then a sigh of satisfaction. He's in his late forties or early fifties, thought Kathleen, and he is somewhat overweight and certainly not fit. But he is intelligent, indeed very smart in his way. So who is he and what is he? What is he doing here? Why is he being so nice to me?
"There are no chairs in here," said Rheiman, "not even a stool, and I'm really not built for floors. But that's Reiko Oshima for you. She is good at her job — you cannot deny that — but she is not a kindly woman. I'll bet she chopped worms up when she was a child and pulled the wings off flies when they were still alive. Well, who knows. Certainly, she is a major league psycho right now. A very vicious woman. If they did not need me, I would be sushi. But they do need me. Lucky old me! Born in the North to die in the South. That's what the North Vietnamese used to say. Over two million killed against our fifty-eight thousand. An interesting way to win a victory. But that is fanaticism for you. Not reasonable. I guess that kind of defines Reiko Oshima. She is about as reasonable as Dracula. And she needs to spill blood to stay alive."
He leaned forward. She could feel his breath on her face.
"Mrs. Fitzduane, you are not in good hands. So you would be well advised to avail yourself of my friendship.
"I would like us to be very good friends."
Kathleen had a sudden urge to spit in his face. She did not move. She had learned to husband every resource. She was going to be raped. It would make no difference. They could take her body. They would not touch her mind.
I am strong.
* * * * *
Jaeger looked like a fading beach boy who still kept himself — mostly — in excellent condition.
The blond hair was flecked with gray but was still thick and flopped over one eye. His upper body was muscular under the light tan suit. His piercing blue eyes were well complemented by his shirt. His tie was loose and the top two buttons of his collar were unbuttoned. He peered over half-glasses. He carried his slight paunch well.
"John is a friend," Cochrane had announced. In Task Force language, Fitzduane had learned, that meant he could be trusted.
He is one of us.
Grant Lamar was sitting in one corner. The man had the ability to render himself damn near invisible. Most people when entering or exiting a room communicated with their fellow men even if it was only a ‘Hi’ or ‘I'm out of here!’ Lamar normally did not. He came and went without comment and seemingly without affecting the equilibrium of those present.
Maury cleared his throat and looked around. He really did not have to. He had everyone's attention.
"This is a reconnaissance photo of the terrorist base in Tecuno known as the Devil's Footprint. The valley on the left is where the actual terrorist base is located, together with a supporting garrison of about six hundred troops. The valley on the right is what we are currently concerned with. We have christened the two valleys Salvador and Dali. Salvador is the base. Dali is the big question."
He pressed the remote again and the screen filled with an aerial photo of Dali. The illustration was marked with numbers and had been computer enhanced, and there were other signs of the photo interpreter's art.
To Fitzduane, at first glance it did not mean very much except it bore all the signs of some kind of industrial installation. There were what looked like long pipes, and some of these were cross-linked. One was massive. There were also large containers of various types.
At a quick glance it looked like just the sort of steel-spaghetti facility the oil industry seemed to love, but if someone had told him it was for making breakfast cereal on an industrial scale, he wouldn't have argued too much.
"The Devil's Footprint installation is guarded by a battalion of Tecuno troops and an inner force of somewhere between thirty-five and fifty terrorist mercenaries, in addition to the brigade stationed at the air base only eight kilometers away. Given the strategic importance of the Tecuno oil fields, that might seem reasonable if the other major oil installations were similarly guarded. The reality is that they are not. There are token forces — ten to thirty soldiers — at other pumping stations and patrols along the pipelines, but there is nothing approaching this scale of security elsewhere. No, the evidence is clear that whatever is going on in Dali is special and warrants maximum protection.
"We showed this photograph to a number of military analysts. They could not work out what was going on but were able to point out certain features and
to eliminate certain possibilities.
"The installation in the valley we have named Dali is not — on the face of it — consistent with nuclear, chemical, or biological manufacturing plants. I won't get technical, but the military assure me that, based upon known production techniques, the Dali structures do not have what it takes. However, they did add that there were some interesting structures in the valley of the kind you would not normally associate with civilian activities."
Maury activated a laser pointer. The red beam settled on a low mound that seemed almost part of the valley until you looked closely.
"Have a look at that, for example. There, say my military friends, you are talking about a reinforced observation blockhouse. It is the kind of thing you would build if you wanted to look fairly closely at a missile taking off without being fried. Plenty of protection. You will note it is built into one side of the valley and overlooks the other.
"Our military friends identified other blockhouses designed, it would appear, purely for storage. Estimates suggest they are also heavily reinforced against blast. Hardened bomb or resistant structures."
Fitzduane shook his head in some puzzlement. "So we've got what looks like an oil installation of some kind — lots of pipes, and reinforced storage facilities and a blockhouse. I don't get it. Frankly, that kind of setup seems entirely consistent with a process for extracting oil under pressure. We're talking big numbers here. The compression of whatever they are pumping into the ground must be enormous. So if something blows you are likely to need all the protection you can get. A reinforced blockhouse seems entirely reasonable under such circumstances."
Maury nodded. "Fair enough if you exclude the street cop's instincts. But, in this case, we know Governor Quintana and Reiko Oshima and their followers. These are not people who take these kinds of precautions over an industrial process unless it can be put to practical — and normally destructive — use. These are seriously bad people."
"So?" said Fitzduane quizzically.
Fitzduane 03 - Devil's Footprint, The Page 21
