* * * * *
The air base was south of Laredo, Texas.
Fitzduane did not ask the name of the base or inquire exactly where he was. It did not seem the protocol, it was not important, and he had other things on his mind.
Dusk was approaching. The two unmarked C130s were loaded, and now it was a matter of checking and checking and checking again. The checking was mostly pointless, but it passed the time. It was when you had nothing to do that fear started to play with your soul.
"The SAS have an expression," said Fitzduane. "‘The Seven Fucking Ps!’"
"What are they?" said Kilmara.
"Proper Planning and Preparation Prevents Piss-Poor Performance," said Fitzduane.
"That sounds more like the Fitzduane family motto," said Kilmara. He smiled. "Or maybe that is: ‘Let life not be dull!’"
Fitzduane laughed. "Sometimes I'd settle for dull!" he said.
General Kilmara contemplated his friend. "How is Cochrane shaping up?"
Fitzduane was thoughtful. "I can't fully read him," he said. "At first, he was trying too hard. The Eternal Soldier in the making and having a hard time taking orders. After Zarra and Dan Warner got killed and I invited him along, he changed. Now he's a team player and he has become very good indeed. God help the enemy."
"I doubt he will," said Kilmara. He took his time continuing, and when he did he was smiling. "You don't deserve it, but I think he's going to help you."
Fitzduane was about to make a cutting riposte, but there was a certain air of anticipation emanating from Kilmara. "Which particular angel has he designated for the task?" he growled.
"I told a mutual friend," said Kilmara, "that you were a little strained, a little stressed, about to do something decidedly dangerous, but I thought you could succeed with help. The friend, as unlikely an angel as I ever have seen — he is rather bulky and has a mustache and a Bernese accent you could cut with a knife — volunteered. He's commanding the second C130 instead of Cochrane. It seemed to make some sense to have someone up there watching over you. Better yet, more than one. God, as they say in Bragg, is ‘Airborne.’"
"The Bear," breathed Fitzduane. He'd met the portly Swiss detective some years past in the original hunt for the terrorist known as the Hangman. Subsequently, the Bear had helped rescue Kathleen from a revenge mission carried out by terrorists led by Reiko Oshima. The Bear and Fitzduane went way back.
"The very man," said Kilmara. "I know you were reluctant to ask him on account of his domestic state in Bern, but you have to remember he is on Oshima's shit list too. He was there when you took down the Hangman and does not fancy remaining a target for a revenge mission. He'd like to get his paw in first. Also, he's a friend."
Fitzduane turned his head away. Maybe he rubbed his eyes and maybe that was just because of the dust. This part of Texas was decidedly dusty.
He checked his watch and headed for the briefing hut.
Shadow Team were gathered inside in a semicircle. Including him, the ground element was now sixteen strong.
"Final briefing," he said.
* * * * *
Kilmara watched Fitzduane's unit file into the briefing hut.
They seemed about as concerned as if they were going into a cafeteria for a meal but were not particularly hungry. This was a routine exercise, nothing more. Except that it was not. This was the real thing, and it was about to happen.
Unless they were exceptionally lucky, not all would make it back. There would probably be some dead. There would certainly be wounded.
The events of the next few days would change lives forever. That was certain.
They would kill fellow human beings. That was certain too.
Kilmara tried to work out in his mind the impression that Fitzduane's people conveyed. They certainly were not an average team. They were older and more experienced than most, even in the context of the inner circles of the special-forces elites. They also mixed and matched the nationalities and sexes without any evidence of strain.
Either you could do the job or you couldn't. It was that simple. That apart, no one seemed to give a damn if you were a man, woman, or zebra. It was all about performance. ‘Doing the job’ did not mean getting a passing mark. It meant operating at a level of proficiency that was rare indeed in normal life.
The one weak link could be Lee Cochrane. God knows his military skills had improved over the past few days, but he was still an amateur among professionals. For an amateur he was excellent, and no one could doubt his commitment, but enthusiasm, in Kilmara's judgment, was not enough. You could train all you liked under live fire, but there was nothing like the moment when you faced the reality of ‘kill or be killed.’ Then enthusiasm did not come into it.
It was down to basics like mind-set and skills. Using night-vision equipment but otherwise in darkness, Chifune could draw, aim, and shoot a grapefruit-size target twenty meters away in less than one third of a second. She was exceptional, but others were still close to that league.
Cochrane did not come into it. At heart he was a congressional staffer — and a very good one — but he was no longer a soldier. Vietnam had been decades back. In Kilmara's opinion, he was a worry. Worse yet, he was a mistake. Kilmara knew why Fitzduane had made that particular decision but regarded it as a case of heart over head.
But sometimes Fitzduane was like that. He was the best combat leader Kilmara had ever seen, but his one weakness was that he had too much heart. Combat was about killing the enemy. A generous nature was a debatable asset on the battlefield.
"Listen up," said Fitzduane. "The operation is a go."
There was silence in the briefing room. Every unit member had been through the plan countless times, but still paid as much attention as if this was the first time.
"Operation Rapier," he said. "Three objectives. One: to release a hostage, Kathleen Fitzduane, an Irish citizen kidnapped in the United States of America. Two: to inflict maximum damage on the terrorist base known as the Devil's Footprint, and specifically to wipe out the terrorist group known as Yaibo together with their leader Reiko Oshima. Three: to destroy the offensive capability they have been working on — the supergun.
"The assault team numbers sixteen divided into five Guntracks, with Calvin up on high — as needed — in the microlight. We are flying to the target in two special-operations-modified C130 Combat Talons. These will fly south initially over the Gulf of Mexico at four hundred feet — effectively below radar height — and then will make a dogleg at Waypoint Two and enter Mexican airspace from the sea at Waypoint Three over Tecuno. They will drop us northwest of the target. The aircraft will be contour flying at this stage and will be using RAVEN radar-suppression equipment, so we should arrive unseen at 1430 hours on Night One.
"The Guntracks will go out first using LAPES, and then the aircraft will pop up and drop us out from two-fifty feet.
"We hit the ground, we immediately mount up, from a combat wedge and head for this position about a klik away" — he tapped the map — "where there is cover we can blend into and where we will render ourselves as invisible as only we can and wait for daylight. So ends Night One.
"Daylight comes, we still wait. On this mission, as we have rehearsed again and again, the approach will be to travel and attack at night. We have thermal imagers. We have image enhancement. The night is our friend.
During the daylight, we want to be invisible. During daylight, we will be invisible. If we are going to be spotted, it is most likely to be by aircraft seeing our dust trail. By hiding up during the day under full camouflage with thermal blankets and not moving, the chances of our being spotted are minimal.
"Normally, military choppers in this part of the world fly at five thousand feet to avoid small-arms fire — at which height they will see fuck-all. The Guntrack is not a large lump of metal radiating heat like a tank. It is only about six feet wide and thirteen feet long — if you ignore the pallet at the back, which adds only a couple of feet — so the whole damn th
ing is small and low-slung and extremely easy to conceal, and thanks to its plastic body and engine baffling and thermal camouflage it is a rotten thermal target. Nonetheless, don't get cocky. Be invisible!
"Night Two, one hour after last light, one vehicle will leave to do a recce. Upon its return, using our night-vision equipment, the unit will advance one hundred and twenty kliks towards the target, averaging about twenty kliks hour. The formation will be diamond with the command vehicle, Shadow One, in the center. Point will stay half a klik ahead. We will pause every half hour for five minutes for a listening watch.
"Make sure everything is padded, particularly the weapons mounts. Sound travels for miles at night, so travel slow and quiet.
"As before, we will lie up during the day. Night Three, again an hour after last light, a recce Guntrack will move out, and subsequently we will again advance. This time the objective will be to achieve a hundred and ten kliks.
We will lager up several hours before Night Three at Strike Base, within forty kliks of the target, so great care will need to be taken. We will still be outside the defensive loop which surrounds the air base and the Devil's Footprint, but we will be close enough to need to be extremely cautious. As best we know, no ground patrols come that far out, but you never can be sure. We do know that helicopters do security checks over this area. So I want the unit to just osmose into the ground.
"We will arrive at Strike Base in time for a three-person recce team to be able to move on to take a long, hard look at the target. Remember, they will have forty miles cross country to cover, so they will use silenced motorbikes for thirty-five kliks or so and then foot the rest. The objective here is that recce team be in a hide overlooking the camp before dawn.
"Recce team will stay in position for twenty-four hours right through the day and into Night Four. During that time, all strongpoints and routines will be logged together with any other items of interest so that we have a complete idea of the target's routine before we attack. Sure, we have satellite photos and much other intel, but the Mark One eyeball still takes some beating. So, twenty-four hours of surveillance before we move.
"One of the recce team will stay on watch while the others return to Strike Base to brief us. The stayback will continue to log activities but won't make contact unless there is a significant change.
"We will strike during Night Five. The exact time will depend on their routine, but the provisional timing is set for 0100 hours. That is a time when all good terrorists are tucked up in bed and when even the most conscientious sentries are nodding off. We will be in position several hours in advance. I want everyone to have a chance to examine the objective in detail before the assault.
"The objective, the Devil's Footprint, as you can see on the map and have studied every which way, consists of two small dead-end valleys — box canyons — separated by a promontory. Facing the two valley entrances, from the other side of the perimeter road, you can see that the valley on the left — Salvador — contains the main camp and the valley on the right — Dali — the supergun and supporting equipment.
"Both valleys are dominated by a fortified blockhouse built on the promontory. From up there, you command all you survey. You can fire down into either valley. You can protect the rear. You dominate the road. You dominate the low hills on the far side. That blockhouse is pivotal. It is the high ground, literally and figuratively.
"One Guntrack is one fire team. We have five fire teams at our disposal. The plan of attack is that one team will neutralize the supergun while two teams take out the terrorists in Salvador and rescue Kathleen. The two remaining teams will, respectively, neutralize the blockhouse and cover the perimeter road at the front. And that's it. We're traveling light on this mission. There is no reserve.
"The intention is that the assault be over within twenty minutes of the initial contact. We are not there to slug it out toe-to-toe with the local militia. We go in. We do what is necessary and then we get the hell out.
"To concentrate your minds, keep remembering ‘shoot and scoot.’ ‘Stay and pray’ will get you killed. If that is not enough for you, try mathematics. There are nearly seven hundred bad guys in the Devil's Footprint and two thousand-plus more just up the road at the airfield. So do not do a Custer, people. Hit them as hard as you can and then you're outta there. You're invisible again. You're gone!
"We came in from the northwest. We're getting out southwest. All units will meet up at the RV and the will zigzag towards the pickup point.
"At this stage, all hell will be breaking loose and the element of surprise will be gone, so the important thing will be to cover ground fast.
"The pickup point looks like another piece of desert these days, but our research through the oil records says it is hard enough to take C130s and was used as an airstrip during their exploration — but so were many other locations as they moved around, so this should not stand out. Better yet, we are planting remote-controlled radio as we go in. As we leave, they will go on air and give the impression we are heading north. And, as you know, we've a few other tricks.
"One final point: Over the past few years, the people we are going in to attack have wreaked unparalleled havoc — mainly on innocent civilians. Hundreds have been killed. Thousands have been directly affected. The quota of misery and suffering that these people have caused is incalculable. Left alone, what has happened to date will seem as nothing. You do not build a supergun with intercontinental capability unless you are serious.
"Our fundamental objective is not to warn these people or inflict a sharp rap on the knuckles or put them on probation. We're way past that stage. So our objective, reduced to elementals, is very simple.
"It is to destroy them. It is to kill as many of them as we can. The lesson must be: Terrorism is not conducive to longevity. Terrorism gets you killed. So when your finger is on the trigger, do not hesitate to fire. It is a hard paradox, but taking these people out will save lives. And that is what the counterterrorist business is all about."
Fitzduane, a faint smile on his face, looked up at the group. "Well, folks, there is the mission plan. Clean, hard, and simple. Comments?"
A member of the SAS contingent, Shadow Four, raised his considerable eyebrows. Bob ‘Brick’ Stephens, a short squarish weather-beaten sergeant in his late thirties, spoke. This was an event because Bob spoke seldom. His specialty was demolitions. Bob truly loved to blow things up.
"Fly a thousand miles, spend five days in hostile territory in plastic dodgems up against heavy armor, attack two positions defended by nearly seven hundred men with another couple of thousand just up the road, kill an inner core of fifty Yaibo terrorists, rescue a damsel, destroy a weapon that is too big to be destroyed, and get out with half an army on our tail. Hell, Colonel, it looks like a cakewalk. Isn't there anything else you want us to do?"
"Get back in one piece, Brick," said Fitzduane politely, "if you would be so kind."
The Brick looked thoughtful and then he grinned. He had spent six months with the Australian SAS two years earlier. "No worries, boss," he said.
Fitzduane did not doubt him.
"Now to details," he said. "I know you people love details. I know you love checking on them even more." He smiled. "Again and again and again."
Outside the sun was setting. Soon it would be time. Meanwhile, there was work to do. There was always work to do when Fitzduane was around. The man knew how to push, and he never seemed to let up.
20
Kilmara had arranged for the Bear to act as jumpmaster on Fitzduane's C130 on the inward flight.
It was a good move. There was something vastly reassuring about the Bear's presence and about exchanging tall tales as they flew. It helped to counteract the long buffeting ride in the Combat Talon and the smell of puke in the aircraft and the suppressed terror as they hooked up and prepared to jump into the darkness.
To step from safety into space was an unnatural act, and even though Fitzduane had done it before and his brain told h
im it could be done, his very being cried that two hundred and fifty feet was too low! The parachute would not open in time. Could not open in time. The pilot would misjudge the height. Something would go wrong.
The incredible relief as the canopies blossomed — each and every one. And then the silence as the sound of the aircraft receded and they lay there, weapons loaded and ready, getting used to this new environment and listening for any sign that the DZ that was supposed to be safe and empty was occupied and dangerous and they were about to die.
As they flew in, the DZ had been scanned by sensors that could detect a snake changing its sleeping position, but still he worried. There were things you knew and there were fears that impinged regardless of the logic.
But the sensors had been right. There was nothing. Just backbreaking work as the vehicles were unpacked from their drop pallets and loaded and readied. And then more work as the pallets and ‘chutes were buried. That was the toughest part, and really only possible because each Guntrack came equipped with a miniature bulldozer blade in front of it. The primary role of the blade was to enable to vehicle to dig itself in, but in this case it was used to conceal the evidence of the incursion. No ground patrol would pass by, but from the air one glimpse of a ‘chute would be enough to raise the alarm. The burial process was thorough.
A final meticulous check of the DZ. Nothing could be seen.
The column moved off.
When dawn came up, it was as if Task Force Rapier had vanished into the rocky shale and packed, reddish clay of the plateau.
Nothing could be seen.
Underneath the camouflage nets, a quarter of the team manned sensor units and other passive detective equipment, while the balance ate and slept and cleaned weapons.
The heat steadily increased until by midday the whole plateau seemed in shimmering motion.
In the shade, leaning back against the side of a Guntrack, Al Lonsdale once again gave thanks to the designer of the Guntrack for building copious water tanks into each vehicle. He had been trained to survive on a couple of canteens, but dehydration got to you in the end no matter how good your endurance. Here each track carried enough water to last a couple of weeks. This was special-forces soldiering in comfort. The tanks were even muffled and baffled inside to eliminate the sound of water sloshing as they moved.
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