A helicopter patrol passed by in the distance, tracked by a Starburst missile team and one of the SAS on a GECAL — just in case. The pilot was flying nice and straight and was about 3,000 feet up. He was obviously an unworried man. He was also a lucky one.
"What a hellhole," said Lonsdale, wiping his face with a towel and then draping it loosely around his neck. "No people, no water, no greenery. Just sun like a flame out of hell, and snakes and scorpions and terrorists. No wonder they call it the Devil's Footprint. He must have thought he was home."
Fitzduane yawned. "You're forgetting oil," he said sleepily. "Tecuno has not got much else, but it has got oil."
"Oil and the devil seem to run together," said Lonsdale lazily. "That's my insight for the day."
Fitzduane did not reply. He was asleep.
* * * * *
Madoa Air Base, Tecuno, Mexico
General Luis Barragan's naked body was not responding to Reiko Oshima's ministrations.
Her tongue explored his groin and plowed little damp trails through his plentiful and already sodden pubic hair, but to no avail. The supergun might be ready to test-fire in a few days, but Barragan's personal weapon was down for maintenance.
Privately, he was of the opinion that he had more than done his duty. He had taken her twice over the last three hours and had brought her to orgasm in other ways. That really ought to be enough for any woman, but Oshima did few things in moderation.
He wondered about her upbringing. What had caused a middle-class Japanese brat like Oshima to reject her upbringing and turn to a philosophy that was little more than destruction turned into a religion? Upon reflection, he decided he did not really care. It was too hot and she was phenomenal in bed and she served her purpose. The fact that her schoolteacher had exposed himself to her when she was seven — or whatever had set her off — was of little consequence. Probably, it was as simple as a severe case of repression. All that Japanese social obligation and enforced group behavior was enough to drive anyone nuts. Though was Oshima insane? Not in a legal sense, he thought. She was rational in her way and certainly was aware of the difference between right and wrong. So it could be argued that she was insane. But she was certainly warped. Seriously sick was another way of putting it. And obsessive.
Whatever Reiko did, she did obsessively.
An evil woman? By conventional bourgeois standards, without question. But a great lay. And in this kind of heat, what else was a man to do in the middle of the day. Apart from rest.
He did not like admitting it even to himself, but right now rest was decidedly the preferred option.
Distraction was required or Oshima was going to wear away parts of his body he was rather attached to. She had a tongue like velvet sandpaper, a penchant for marathons — and the stamina to go with it. But fortunately she had a strong sense of duty, which she exercised to excess like everything else. And General Luis Barragan was, at least nominally, her superior.
Mention work and she hopped to it. Of course, she had her own long-term agenda, but right now she had done what she had been hired to do extremely well. Security at the Devil's Footprint was as tight as one could wish. The only slipup had been Patricio Nicanor, and frankly that had been Barragan's error in the first place in hiring a Zarrista. Well, who would have expected such idiocy in his own family!
But Oshima had redeemed the Nicanor situation before any damage was done. An incredible operator. Hard to control, but worth the effort.
Oshima's relationship with Edgar Rheiman remained a worry. Both, ideally, were needed if the project was to be brought to completion, but the reality was that whereas Oshima's security talents were incredibly useful, Rheiman's scientific skills were essential.
With Rheiman, the whole Devil's Footprint project would not have been possible, and without a weapon such as the supergun, breaking Tecuno away from Mexico would have been much more hazardous. The supergun meant they could thumb their noses at Mexico City. Tecuno would become an independent country, and from then on the possibilities were endless.
Oil profits, drug profits, money laundering, forgery, arms trading, the fast-growing area of electronic piracy, the counterfeiting of branded goods. There were so many opportunities to exploit if you ran your own country. Because who was to touch you when you were the law?
God knows the Mexican elite had proved that very point over the years. It had not done much for the population as a whole, of course, but no intelligent man really gave a fuck about the masses. There would always be a very few who ruled and prospered — and General Luis Barragan intended to stay one of them — and the rest were a resource to be used.
Idealism: nice if you were a middle-class adolescent.
The practicalities: what most people concerned themselves with.
Barragan considered himself a practical man. He was not an opportunistic strategist like his brother-in-law Diego Quintana, or a fanatic like Oshima, or a major talent with rather bad habits when it came to women like Edgar Rheiman. He was a hands-on, take-charge kind of guy who got things done. The world was run by practical men like him.
Which brought the subject back to Rheiman. Oshima had moved from tonguing him to small nips with her lips. Now the scientist was someone guaranteed to distract her. Just as well, because when she started to bite down there the omens were worrying. This was a woman who would not necessarily stop.
"Oshima-san," said Barragan. "There are some matters we must discuss. With regret, but time is short and there are issues to review."
Oshima lifted her head. She looked, he thought, like some animal disturbed momentarily from eating its prey. A plastic surgeon could have minimized her scars. As it was, she wore them like a badge of pride, her long black hair tied back to reveal every detail.
She was a frightening and erotic sight. Her lips were full, the skin of her face and body shiny with sweat and bodily juices. Her teeth white and sharp. Shadows reminded him of blood. Fortunately, it was an illusion. If there had been blood, it would be his. That was not a prospect he liked to contemplate.
There was a moment of hesitation, and then she rose from her end of the bed and sat cross-legged, facing him.
She was completely naked and appeared entirely unselfconscious as she sat there, her sex revealed — indeed displayed — by her posture. Her breasts were firm, the nipples prominent. She was in superb physical condition for her age. She was old enough, he realized, to be a grandmother. Hard to imagine. Had Oshima ever had children? He thought not. But then again, Oshima's past was something of a mystery and not something she talked about.
"Rheiman worries me, Reiko," he said, his manner now less formal as he saw he had her attention. "More to the point, your attitude towards him concerns me. We've less than a week to go and there is much at stake, and there you are, Reiko, still playing games with him. Or are you?"
Oshima's eyes were on him as she replied. He had rarely encountered a woman with more beautiful eyes, and Luis Barragan prided himself on knowing many women.
"Rheiman is a sick man," she said. "He killed in America and he has killed again since he came here. Six women have died in this camp alone."
"Prostitutes brought in for the men," said Barragan. "Of no consequence. They could not be returned anyway."
"At your request, I gave him — lent him — the Irishwoman," said Oshima demurely, casting her eyes downward. "What more could I do, my general?"
Barragan eyed her suspiciously. When Oshima was submissive, she was up to something. She could never let a situation alone. Always there was a subtext, a maneuver, a scheme.
"You can let him play with the damned woman for as long as it lasts," growled Barragan. "I want him content for as long as his services are required, without interference from you."
"And if she dies?" said Oshima softly. "After all, she is mine, my general, and she has a purpose to serve."
To be played with and broken and finally to be dismembered solely as an act of vengeance against this man Fitzduane. B
arragan shuddered inwardly. He found it hard to imagine the level of hate this woman felt toward her enemies. Barragan had his opponents killed as any sane man in his position would do, but he did not dwell on the process. Such things were necessary, no more.
And this Irishman. What would he do? By all accounts he was resourceful, yet in truth what could he do? He would have no idea where his wife had been taken. The Devil's Footprint was about as remote a spot as could be imagined and was virtually a sealed environment. So how could the man find out? But if by some miracle he did manage to locate his wife and throw together some operation, he had no chance of penetrating the defenses. Using state-of-the-art stealth helicopters, the American Drug Enforcement Administration had tried and had failed a year earlier, and Tecuno's antihelicopter precautions had been increased since then. So Oshima's optimistic move at picking up her enemy's wife was a distraction from the main event but posed no real threat. Though perhaps it was an indication that Reiko needed to be kept under tighter control.
"If Rheiman strangles her as he has strangled the others, it will be unfortunate," said Barragan, "but there are priorities. Personally, I don't think he will for some little time. This is not some puta. This is a real Caucasian woman he can talk to, boast to, fuck if he wants to. The woman is helpless. She is a marvelous plaything, and not easy to replace in this part of the world. No, he won't kill her yet. So don't interfere, Reiko, or I may forget what you can do for me."
Oshima said nothing. There was the briefest flash of anger and then she bowed her head submissively. She held the position and then her head bent lower.
Seconds later, Barragan was surprised to find that his most favored appendage seemed to have recovered. He lay back to enjoy and think.
Rheiman was happy and was delivering the goods. Oshima had been pulled back from stirring up the Americans before any serious damage had been caused. Valiente Zarra had been taken out with some finesse. The PRI would get back into power as normal, and Diego Quintana could handle them and President Marinas with both hands tied behind his back.
Most important of all, the base was secure. The plateau defenses could not be breached without his knowing, and his combined defenses in and around the Devil's Footprint could handle anything. Not that the Americans would ever mount such a mission. If the media was right, all PresidentGeorgieFalls's firmness of resolve went into his prick and he had no more for anything else. Clearly, his cojones were not up to the job.
Barragan groaned with pleasure as Oshima brought him to a peak of ecstasy. Visibly, the General's cojones were in better shape.
Oshima raised her head but kept it bowed. Then she reached behind and released her hair. In the shaded room, it was now nearly impossible to read her expression.
The precaution was scarcely necessary. Since she was out of arm's reach, Barragan gave her a slight squeeze with his legs in acknowledgment and fell asleep.
The flaw in Barragan's plans is very simple, reflected Oshima. He and Quintana are motivated by money and see the supergun merely as a deterrent. Leave us alone and we'll leave you alone. All we want is one small country called Tecuno.
But the flaw was the Reiko Oshima had altogether different plans and her group, Yaibo, controlled the inner security perimeter, including that of the supergun itself. An independent Tecuno was neither here nor there compared to the opportunity to inflict some serious damage on the United States of America.
Such a blow would expiate some of the rage that threatened, at times, to engulf her, and the knowledge that it had been carried out by her would establish her once again as a terrorist force to be reckoned with.
She could return to Japan and followers would flow to her. The system was rotten, and ripe for the plucking.
The first projectile to be fired from the supergun was supposed to be a test. It would not be. Instead it would be a small missile of Russian origin — not hard to purchase — targeted right at that part of Washington known colloquially as the Hill.
The warhead was not nuclear. It did not need to be. It was still capable of inflicting casualties on a scale commensurate with Hiroshima.
Japanese politicians, dominated by America for half a century, would make shocked noises and go through all the right motions. But the people of Japan would support her.
They had not forgotten. They would never forget.
Reiko Oshima would never let them forget.
She uncoiled herself. General Luis Barragan snored on. He was, in his way, she reflected, not a bad man. But he paled compared to the only man she had ever really loved, the terrorist known as the Hangman. But her lover was dead, and since that time she had resolved that no one would ever get close to her. Soon Barragan would die too.
In this business it is your friends who betray you, she had been taught and she had not forgotten. The inner circle of Yaibo was regularly purged. It was a technique that worked. The terrorist leaders and dictators that survived practiced it. And Stalin, who had purged more than most, had died in his bed.
It was something of a paradox, but to survive in the world she had chosen, you had to kill your friends.
It was best that death served a purpose. Barragan was right. Rheiman would have to kept sweet for the moment — which meant Fitzduane's woman could not be touched physically. But the effect of the execution on her would be amusing. This was something she would not be used to. This would shake her up and maybe drive her into Rheiman's arms. Which would be a small revenge in its way.
The person to be executed? That was no problem. Who had served her best and most faithfully? Who had succored her after she had dragged herself from TokyoBay?
Hori would die. He was the man who least deserved to. It was appropriate. History had shown he was the most likely person to have betrayed her. Who else had become close?
Jin Endo had occupied her bed much recently, and her thoughts more than a little. He was young and he was devoted to her. He was a point of vulnerability. He had done well in the United States. He had served his purpose. There were always others.
Endo-san would die too. But perhaps not yet.
No, for the moment, Hori would die alone.
* * * * *
Approaching the Devil's Footprint,
Tecuno, Mexico
"Here comes SkyEye," said Chuck Freeman, one of the Delta contingent, his eyes glued to image-intensifying binoculars. "Just watch that sucker land. I swear Calvin flew before he crawled."
Fitzduane smiled and raised his own night-vision binoculars in the direction that Chuck was indicating. He was just in time to see Calvin make one of his famed landings.
The aviator took full advantage of the airfoil qualities of the dihedral wing and the very low stall speed of the microlight, and did not so much land as drop the tiny aircraft gently onto the ground at the last minute after a gentle glide with all the power switched off.
With forward momentum virtually canceled by air resistance when still airborne, the microlight rolled for only a few yards before coming to a halt.
Fitzduane had been worried about the feasibility of finding suitable landing and takeoff surfaces in the rough terrain, but he need not have. Calvin could take off and land almost anywhere.
The decision to bring the microlight had turned out to be a fortunate one. Their maps and satellite photos were inadequate for the finer details of the terrain, and on several occasions so far aerial reconnaissance had enabled them to steer around obstacles.
Guntracks could handle most surfaces, but gullies, ravines, and wadis could pose problems. Of course, even near-vertical surfaces could be handled with the right winch technique — and every vehicle mounted a built-in winch with a forty-nine meter cable — but winching vehicles up and down was notoriously time-consuming, and surplus time was a commodity that Team Rapier did not possess.
Fitzduane and Freeman helped Calvin pack up the microlight and slide it into its travel tube.
"The recce team is on the way back, Colonel," said Calvin. "They should be h
ere in about twenty minutes."
He was wearing black flame-resistant Nomex overalls, black body armor, and a black helmet, so he might have looked a little like Batman except for the black goose-down parka he wore over the top.
It was cold in the desert plateau at night, and even colder when you were flying in an open cockpit, so Calvin — whose unclothed build was slight — when fully bundled and padded out, looked more like the exceptionally rotund Penguin. Add in the night-vision goggles and he looked even more horrific.
Fitzduane thought he was probably scaring hell out of the local vultures. There did not seem to be any more friendly bird life in the area. Vultures set the tone.
Since Calvin had come recommended by people he trusted, and the mission had been put together in a hurry, Fitzduane had not looked at his file at first. Special forces were NCO heavy and everyone seemed to call Calvin by his first name, so he had assumed the man was a sergeant. Though he looked far too young, it turned out Calvin was a major. It was not important. What counted was not your rank but how you did your job, and in that context the aviator was a formidable asset.
Minutes later, the recce team were detected over a kilometer away by the mast-mounted FLIR on Fitzduane's Guntrack.
Weapons were trained on them until they were identified. Soon they entered the perimeter of the concealed camp. It was good navigation in this rocky wasteland, but although they were using traditional methods — it did not come easy to put all your faith in technology — they were also equipped with GPS, or global positioning sets, which determined one's position by picking up pre-positioned navigation-satellite signals.
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