Fitzduane gave the recce team a few minutes to eat and drink and then called a briefing. He used the flattopped rear engine compartment of his Guntrack as a map board.
The layout of the camp was now augmented by the observations of the recce team over twenty-four hours. The team reported in detail. All the electronic intelligence in the world could not substitute for hands-on human intelligence. These people had felt the texture of the enemy position. They had been close enough to reach out and nearly touch the very people they had come to kill. But first they had looked and learned.
The assault plan remained intact. There were changes of detail to be accommodated, but that was normal. Fitzduane summarized.
"We're going to be in position by 2200 hours. At 0100 hours, having had three hours to eyeball the target and fine-tune our understanding of the opposition, we're going to attack.
"The assaults will be silent and simultaneous. Shadow Four will infiltrate Dali and do what has to be done on the supergun. Shadow Two will take out the blockhouse on the central spur. Shadow Three and Shadow Five will enter Salvador, hit the Yaibo barracks, extract Kathleen, and kill all Yaibo members, including — if we are so lucky — Reiko Oshima. Shadow One, my track, will run interference from the other side of the perimeter road and will coordinate. Calvin will fly topside and advisee us of any approaching hassle. We go in and out in twenty minutes — no more! So no stopping for a shower, a shit, and a shave. We are not tourists, people.
"Now to the detail."
The briefing continued. The twenty-four-hour reconnaissance, as well as confirming intelligence they already possessed, had added detail that could only be gathered by close observation.
The two valleys had separate generator systems. The main camp generator in Salvador was particularly noisy and prone to brownouts and breakdowns. It had cut out twice while the recce team was in position, and each time a bored soldier had left the guardhouse a the main gate and after ten minutes or so had restored it to life. There had been no reaction from elsewhere in the camp when the lights had died. It was clear that this was a routine occurrence.
In contrast, the generator in Dali, while still noisy, was quieter and manifestly more reliable. There, illuminating the maze of pipes that included the supergun, the security lights burned bright and even. Even more to the point, it had been ascertained that the double fence that circled the camp from the main gate at the front to the rim of the valley at the back was electrified on the inside perimeter. It would have been convenient if this had been powered by the faulty generator in the main camp, Salvador, but unfortunately that was not so.
"That's the bad news," continued Fitzduane. "However, by the standards of this landscape, the ground beneath the fence is soft — well, vulnerable — in places, and the recce team have already probed an entry point on the rim. Al's team, Shadow Two, will go in from there. A regular jeep patrol goes by every fifteen minutes, but that apart, it will be just good old-fashioned burrowing. Healthy exercise, I'm told."
The team of Shadow Two looked appropriately thrilled. In fact, their digging had been extensively rehearsed and their Guntrack was equipped with a variety of powered tools to cope with various contingencies. The fastest was a compressed-air powered auger that was portable and virtually silent. Other equipment was hydraulically based and derived from devices used by rescue teams and police SWAT teams to prize apart obstacles. Such specialized tools could peel armor plate back in seconds as if it were aluminum foil.
There had been concern about motion sensors or beams, even though the notes on Patricio Nicanor's plan had stated they were not being used. The reconnaissance using sensors had shown he was right. A high-technology fence of such dimensions would have been expensive and difficult to maintain in such a location. Further, motion sensors would have been hard to coordinate with the jeep patrols and vulnerable to being set off by wild animals. Still, two fences, the inner one electrified, separated by a patrolled strip and overlooked by a blockhouse, were not insignificant.
"In sum," continued Fitzduane, "while Shadow Two is infiltrating from behind to take out the blockhouse on the high ground, three other teams are going to enter by the front gates. After all, what are gates for?
"In Salvador, the valley containing the mercenary garrison and the terrorists, the sentries will be taken out with silenced weapons, and two teams, six people, Chifune Shadow Three and Peter Harty's Shadow Five, will enter on foot and head immediately for the Yaibo barracks building. You will shut off the generator silently so it looks like a normal breakdown. You will also destroy the radio room, which is on the first floor of the main building. Then, again using silenced weapons, you will kill — I repeat kill — all Yaibo inside and anyone else you encounter except for the hostage. In the ensuing darkness, all of you will exfiltrate with the hostage and rejoin your vehicles, which will be concealed in the scrub and rocks on the other side of the perimeter road. In all, I expect you to be in the camp for no more than five to seven minutes — ten at the outside.
At precisely the same time as Salvador is being entered and the blockhouse being neutralized, Brick's team, Shadow Four, will enter Dali, the supergun valley. In this case, they will bring in their Guntrack when the internal opposition has been neutralized. Here, apart from mercenaries at the entrance, you will have to deal with four Yaibo guarding the supergun control bunker. That done, you can tame the supergun and check out what kind of warheads they have in store. No matter what you find, I expect you to be inside for no more than fifteen minutes.
"All of this adds up to three synchronized assaults taking out respectively the terrorists, the supergun, and the blockhouse that commands the two valleys. The watchwords are stealth, speed, and silence.
"Although you know the enemy dispositions full well, I am going to repeat that we are not just up against around fifty Yaibo terrorists. On the left-hand side of the main camp, Salvador, as you enter — that is the side opposite the Yaibo barracks — there is tented accommodation for over six hundred Tecuno mercenary soldiers, and just to make life more interesting, there are normally half a dozen tanks laagered up in the middle, and there is a helicopter pad. In short, tiptoes might be a good idea. These guys are classified as special forces themselves, and though they may not be the best in the world, even six hundred idiots can spray a lot of lead around, and they have other unfriendly toys like heavy mortars and rocket launchers.
"To further encourage discretion, I would remind you that the twin valleys, Salvador and Dali, that make up the Devil's Footprint are bordered by a perimeter road that also circles the Madoa military airfield only eight kilometers away. Convoys of armor patrol that perimeter road. Finally, I should mention that the Madoa airfield, apart from being the base for two thousand more troops, boasts MiG-23s and armed helicopters. So be discreet folks. Keep the decibels down.
"The mercenaries — the battalion in the Devil's Footprint and the brigade in the air base — are not on the menu unless we have no alternative. But if the shit does hit the fan, I want very serious destruction.
"These people are not our friends. They threaten our countries. They threaten our values. They have already killed many hundreds of our people. So do not pull back. I can promise you, this is no time to be nice. They won't kiss you back. And I intend to go home no matter what is in the way. Fundamentally, like Lee here, I'm a carpet slippers type."
There was laughter, and Steve Kent slapped Cochrane on the back. The incident was a small thing, but Lee at last felt part of the team. It was a strange feeling, as if a circuit had been closed. He no longer had to prove anything. He just had to perform better than he would ever have thought possible. By himself it could not be done. With these people — his people — he would do it. Unit pride? It was more than that. It was an understanding; something very deep and very strong. It was a higher level of commitment. Beyond words.
It was a crazy feeling. It was probable that he was about to die. But he was happy.
Fitzduane had joined in the laughter. Now
he turned serious and held a hand up for silence. "I have to talk about a sad event, the death of a very brave man. It behooves us to pay attention. What we are about to witness could be any one of us. This is the face of our enemy. It says everything that needs to be said.
"The quality of our intelligence on the target has a great deal to do with Koancho, the Japanese security service, and their agent in place, Hori-san. Recently you memorized his photograph so that you would not kill him in error. The intention had been that Chifune would go in in advance to remove her colleague from the line of fire. Now, I regret to say, it is academic. Yesterday the recce team witnessed this."
A ruggedized television monitor had been set up to show the videos of the target made by the reconnaissance team. So far they had viewed the routine functioning of the camp both in context and in close-up. Now the high-power telephoto lens of the miniaturized surveillance camera was focused on the Yaibo compound in the Salvador valley. It was wired off from the general camp area.
It looked at first at if some game was being played.
There were two teams of roughly fifteen people, each side pulling at opposite ends of a rope as if it were a tug-of-war.
But there was someone in the middle. And his hands and feet were bound and the rope was looped in a slipknot around his neck.
He was being executed.
The camera zoomed in, and they could see the man's face in close-up as his face and body contorted and he was slowly — very slowly — strangled to death.
Fitzduane froze the image. "I don't think we need to see any more. The whole think took over fifteen minutes and ended up with his decapitation by rope. That is Yaibo in action. They have a tradition of purges. Why? Who knows?"
He looked at Chifune. Her face was expressionless, but he could feel a great grief. There was no anger. Instead there was a feeling of enormous strength, of resolution.
Hori-san had died, but his torch had been passed. His sense of purpose would live on. Those who had killed him would pay for their crime. It was a matter of justice, and it was certain.
"I am deeply sorry, Chifune," said Fitzduane. "Sorry for what has happened and sorry to have to show you the manner of his death."
Chifune lifted her eyes, and there were tears in them. "It was necessary," she said. "We all have to understand. To know."
There was silence in the group.
Chifune looked back to the frozen image. Her face was pale. "It makes me ashamed to be Japanese," she said quietly. "Why do we produce people who could do such things? What are we doing that is so wrong?"
"Nothing to be ashamed of Chifune," said Calvin. "The man who died was Japanese too. Every nation has good and bad. That's just the way of it."
Chifune raised her hand and gently placed two fingers on the monitor screen on the frozen scene of the dying man's face. It was at once a gesture of affection and farewell.
Fitzduane switched off the video and the screen went blank and there was silence for a little time. It seemed appropriate. No one had met the man who had died, but he had been a colleague. He deserved respect.
The group dispersed, but Calvin remained behind.
He cleared his throat. "I'd like to change the aviation plan. I've been thinking, and I can do more than fly top cover."
Fitzduane looked at him. It was a relief to be able to focus on a technical problem, and Calvin was normally worth listening to. "A little late in the day, Calvin, don't you think?"
Calvin reminded him in a way of U.S. General Billy Mitchell. Mitchell had pioneered the use of airpower in warfare in the 1920s, against stubborn opposition, with such enthusiasm that he had been court-martialed for his pains before the merit of his thinking had been vindicated.
Calvin had the same zeal when it came to pushing the airborne role in special-forces operations. He was not just a competent aviator. He had a definite vision of how air assets might be used, and he and Fitzduane had talked at length on the subject.
Calvin nodded. "I should have spoken earlier, but I wanted to get the hang of the terrain first. Now I'm sure I can do it, and it won't change the ground assault plan."
"Do what?" said Fitzduane.
"Hit Madoa airfield," said Calvin. "When we bug out after the assault, the greatest threat is going to come from the air, and in particular from helicopter gunships. They are the ones that can hunt us down and counter the Guntracks' speed and agility. Sure, I know we've got air defenses, but I think it makes more sense to take them out on the ground."
Fitzduane thought for a moment. The microlight was a tiny machine and up to now it had been positioned only for observation. But maybe that was blinkered thinking.
"When would you propose doing this, Calvin? There is a balance here between alerting the enemy flyboys and making the hit. Throwing stones at a wasps' nest is not a good idea."
Calvin smiled. "I'd suggest striking after the ground attack on the Devil's Footprint," he said. "That way Madoa airbase won't alert the target before we are in, and at the same time when the target calls them they'll be too busy with their own world of woe to respond."
"Do you really think you can do that much damage from the SkyEye?" said Fitzduane. "You don't have much of a payload left after the FLIR."
"It's a two-seater even with the FLIR," said Calvin. "That means I have up to about two hundred pounds to play with. That's ten RAW projectiles, an Ultimax, and a forty-millimeter pump-action grenade-launcher — with room to spare. That is serious grief from the sky, and the sat photos show aircraft parked out in the open. They have no hardened bunkers. No need, they think. There is supposed to be no threat around here. Only the devil walks in these parts, and he's a friend."
Fitzduane smiled. "Very droll, Calvin."
He considered the proposition and then called in the others for discussion. Since Calvin's arrival, the team had become rather attached to their eye in the sky and were not sure they wanted it put at risk. On the other hand, armed helicopters were not a pleasant prospect.
Fitzduane made the decision. If Calvin was in position over the airstrip when the ground attack went in, he should be back in time for the exfiltration. His little machine could go at over a mile a minute when the sound suppressor was not switched on.
"Go for it, Calvin," he said, and explained. Calvin nodded.
Final preparations were made, and for the first time miniature headsets were worn. Radio silence disciplines had been absolute so far and would continue until the assault. But Fitzduane had weighed the options. The advantages of instant communication between team members during the actual assault outweighed the risks of the signals being overheard. In addition, the transmissions were encrypted. An eavesdropper would hear something that would sound like static.
There was a last equipment check. Watches were synchronized. It was a moonless night, but the sky was cloudless and a canopy of stars ensured just enough light to make the passive night-vision goggles fully effective. It would not have mattered if the darkness had been absolute. Shanley's company's thermal driving aids had become second nature.
Calvin, again dressed like the Penguin, took off.
Fitzduane made a hand signal, which was passed on from Guntrack to Guntrack.
The column moved off toward the target.
In a few hours, thought Shanley, I am going to have to kill another human being. I don't care what they have done. I cannot be judge, jury, and executioner. The others can do it. They are professionals. Even Lee Cochrane served in Vietnam. I cannot do it. In Fayetteville, it was self-defense and I did not have time to think.
Here I have plenty of time to think, and I know I cannot do this. I have never served.
If I can, if my body does not betray me, I will try to do everything that is required of me — but I will not kill. I cannot. Let the others take life.
I have not served.
Guilt and fear ran raw through him. He had thought it would be like the endless training. The careful preparation, the long periods of waiting, the excit
ement of the impending assault, the adrenaline rush, and then action.
This was superficially just like that in many ways. The same people, the same equipment, the same feel of the Guntrack's suspension as it leveled the appalling terrain. But inwardly, inside his very being, he felt entirely different.
The certainty was gone. It was as if the skills that had given him so much confidence had evaporated and every last defense stripped away. Now there was nothing but terror and overwhelming self-doubt.
I have abandoned my family for nothing. I cannot do this thing. I will let down my comrades. I will die here in Mexico to no purpose.
Why me? Why now?
I am afraid beyond the very meaning of fear.
* * * * *
The Devil's Footprint
The guard on the main gate of the Devil's Footprint valley known as ‘Salvador’ looked at his watch.
Time seemed to have slowed its tempo. It was an occupational hazard on guard duty and especially so in this mind-numbingly dull part of the world. Nothing ever happened. The main defenses were on the perimeter of the plateau hundreds of kilometers away, and the immediate area was deserted. It was scarcely surprising. Who, in their right mind, would want to live in this hellhole?
He had come on duty at midnight, only an hour ago if he was to believe the evidence of his watch, but is seemed like an eternity, a particularly cold eternity. The Devil's Footprint was not only 3,800 feet up on the plateau, but it was in the foothills of the Tecuno mountains and every foot of additional height seemed to make a difference for the worse. The high desert at night was cold enough. Throw in some altitude and it was downright uncomfortable. In his opinion, the location was well-named. It was fit only for the devil.
It was too cold at night and too hot during the day, and the ground was harsh and arid and stony and brutal on boots, and there were far too many things around that bit, like flies and scorpions and snakes and lizards. Frankly, why the base was located here was beyond him. Still, no one had asked him his opinion or seemed likely to. As a mercenary, he got paid but not consulted.
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