"Hey, Ahmed," he called.
Ahmed grunted. He was sitting in the turret of the T55 tank that blocked the camp entrance at night. He was marginally more comfortable than his colleague, since he had a woolly hat his wife had knitted him on his head and was well bundled up and gaining some benefit from a small oil heater inside the tank; but his main distraction came from the pornographic Japanese comic book he was looking at.
Manga, they called such things. He had traded a stack from one of the Yaibo fanatics in exchange for hash.
"Ahmed," repeated the gate guard. Ahmed raised his head from the comic book and as he did so pieces of his skull seemed to detach themselves from his head. They could be seen like bloody snow reflecting in the gate floodlights, except that they flew sideways. And there was no snow.
The guard's mouth dropped open and then he, too, crumpled. His body twitched as it lay on the ground and a further burst tore into it.
Black-clad figures ran forward, and a split second later the Yaibo guard on the inner perimeter lay lifeless on his back.
Two black figures entered the guardroom where six off-duty guards were sleeping.
It took seven seconds.
The entire group were now at the base of the Yaibo barracks. An orange light glowed in one window where the duty radio operator sat; otherwise the place was in darkness.
There was a hand signal and a faint click as the power supply to the building was severed. Seconds later, the radio operator came out swearing under his breath. He had been practically asleep. He had assumed it was that fucking generator again, but then he saw that the perimeter lights were on, and anyway he could hear the bloody thing thumping. It must be a main fuse.
He started to turn just as his mouth and nose were clamped and his head pulled back. His own momentum helped to do the work of the blade. Dead, his heart was still pumping as he was lowered to the ground. The only sound was a slight gurgle.
The assault group split into two three-person teams and entered the two floors simultaneously.
* * * * *
Fitzduane was positioned on the reverse slope of a low ridge facing the entrance to the main camp.
The two temporarily abandoned vehicles of the assault group were concealed nearby. To retrieve them the crews would have to cross the perimeter road. During the day, when it was well traveled, that would be risky, but this time of night there should be no problem.
Fitzduane watched the assault teams go in with mixed feelings.
A special-forces assault bestrode a fine line between recklessness and audacity, and being forced to let other people spearhead the action while he remained in reserve did not please him. On the other hand, the people he had selected were younger and better qualified for the particular tasks involved, and a commander's job was to look at the woods, not get lost in the trees. Still, no matter how he rationalized, waiting outside was difficult.
He rotated the FLIR, but so far nothing untoward could be seen. The viewing head of the high-magnification night/day vision device was extended over the rim of the hill. He felt like a submariner looking through his periscope. Steve Kent, his driver, sat beside him. Lee Cochrane, his rear gunner who had checked out surprisingly well with the GECAL, was fifteen yards away, lying in a dip of the rim, monitoring the road.
Fitzduane missed his eye in the sky.
Calvin would warn him of any vehicles approaching from the north, but he would not be able to see any southern arrivals while away at the airfield. Still, life was a compromise. Armed helicopters were the most lethal short-term threat, and if he could neutralize them the exfiltration would be a whole lot safer. There were no other helicopters based within range.
He focused the FLIR on the Yaibo barracks. There was one light burning on the first floor. That would be the radio room.
He watched as the light went out. Inside that building, according to his information, Kathleen lay. In seconds she would be free or perhaps dead. He knew she had been maltreated and abused and was kept blindfolded and chained — but had it been even more serious? Could she walk? Was she still sane? Had she been tortured? Had she been raped? The baby! How was the baby? Could it have survived?
He wanted to put his arms around Kathleen and hug her as he had so many times in the past, but he could do nothing but watch and wait.
* * * * *
Near the Devil's Footprint,
Tecuno, Mexico
Calvin allowed himself plenty of time and traveled slowly and in optimum stealth mode to reach Madoa airfield.
On a moonless night like this and a thousand feet up the SkyEye was almost impossible to detect visually, but the engine could conceivably be heard unless the ‘super trap’ silencer was used.
The super trap — fitted also to the Guntracks — was highly effective, but though it increased torque, it decreased performance. The system could be varied by the operator, but fully invoked, the price for being nearly silent was a top speed dropped from over eighty to around thirty miles an hour.
The air was cold and clear against his face, and with the engine noise almost completely suppressed, he felt like some giant bird of prey as he flew over the nearly deserted landscape beneath him.
The northern end of the perimeter road was dark. There were no truck lights. He peered through his FLIR and examined the lozenge-shaped ribbon of the road more closely. There was still nothing to be seen. Team Rapier was safe from the north. As for the south, that would have to be the boss's problem, because Calvin could see the lights of the airfield show up ahead. It was clear they were not anticipating any enemy action. There were lights at the main gate and in the barracks and around the maintenance hangars. The runway was dark.
Six MiG-23 jets stood parked in sandbagged emplacements, and nearby another four helicopters were similarly lined up.
Calvin circled the airfield at a discreet distance, studying every detail through his FLIR. He had practiced until he could fire an aimed RAW projectile every ten seconds. Close examination showed half a dozen heavy-machine-gun positions around the base. They might not be designed for antiaircraft work, but they could still make life very unpleasant for him if he was detected.
"Don't be either a hero or a perfectionist, Calvin," Fitzduane had said. "How can you lobby the cause of special-forces air if you're a permanent part of the Tecuno landscape? Do what you can in a single pass and then get the fuck out AFAFP — As Fast As Fucking Possible."
Calvin smiled to himself as he prepared to attack. He would confine himself to the aircraft parked outside. Anything under repair in the maintenance hangar was unlikely to be flyable in time to pose a threat anyway.
Unfortunately, he did not see the small passenger helicopter parked inside one of the hangars for no more serious reason than it was having its windscreen cleaned. It was used by Reiko Oshima, and it was at Madoa airfield because Oshima was spending that particular night with General Luis Barragan.
Unaware of each other's presence, Calvin prepared to attack.
* * * * *
The Devil's Footprint,
Tecuno, Mexico
Chifune entered the second floor of the Yaibo barracks, the layout imprinted on her mind.
Toilets, four stalls. Thirty-six-bed barracks area with passage down the center. Two rooms at either side of the corridor. Kathleen on the right. Oshima sometimes — she moved around — on the left.
Chifune was designated right and Chuck Freeman was assigned left, with Grady acting as backup. Nothing was said. This was a prearranged routine practiced so many times it was an instinctive reflex.
The floor was dark, but through her PNV goggles she could see. There were no colors except shades of green fading to black and the red dot of her laser gun sight, which was invisible except to those wearing the goggles and the appropriate filter.
A figure rose from a bed and stumbled sleepily toward the toilets. Outside the stalls, as he fumbled for a light switch, Chifune shot him twice in the back of the head and caught the body and lowere
d it to the ground. Black liquid ran out of his skull. She checked the other stalls. All were empty.
Thirty of the beds were still occupied.
Chifune fired, and a split second later Chuck Freeman opened up. The weapons made almost no noise, and the ejected brass fell downward into cloth bags so there was not even the sound of empty cases rattling on the floor.
Bodies whipped as rounds tore into them, and blood blackened the bedclothes and sheets and leaked onto the floor and spread in a great pool.
The attackers advanced, firing steadily in aimed three-round bursts, and Grady followed up with head shots.
One terrorist rose up and screamed and reached for his weapon, but died as Chifune fired a longer burst and five 10mm armor-piercing slugs cut through his torso.
At the end of the room, a Yaibo member got his weapon up and cocked it, then slammed back and slid along the corridor as Grady spotted him and took him out with a head shot and a burst to the throat.
A pair of lovers sharing the same bed half rose in alarm as the man in the next bed shuddered and fell back, and then Freeman's rounds found them and they collapsed in each other's arms.
A Yaibo woman seized a sword and ran down the central aisle toward her executioners until three streams of Calico rounds converged and cut her nearly in half.
She fell forward and her weapon cut into the toe of Freeman's boot before falling from her lifeless hands.
One young Yaibo member — he was older but he looked no more than sixteen — held up his hands in a vain effort to surrender. The movement attracted Grady's attention and a burst took him in the face.
A terrorist rolled off his bed and, crawling frantically, emerged between Chifune and Freeman. Neither could fire without hitting the other. Grady was blocked by Freeman.
The terrorist scrabbled to cock his automatic rifle. As he did so, Freeman drew his fighting knife with his left hand and stabbed the man in the throat.
In less than thirty seconds, thirty-one members of Yaibo lay dead or dying and the air was thick with the smells of slaughter. All the bodies were checked quickly, and where there was any sign of life at all, it was terminated.
The assault team moved on. There was no emotion. This was what they had trained to do. Reaction would come later.
The door of Oshima's room was flung open. It was empty.
* * * * *
The Blockhouse Above The Devil's Footprint,
Tecuno, Mexico
Shanley watched through filtered PNV goggles as Al Lonsdale emerged on the inside of the electric fence.
Despite their equipment and hindered by the requirement for absolute silence, tunneling under it had proved to be harder and to take longer than expected. What had appeared like sandy ground had degenerated into rock, and they had been forced to hunt for another location.
Seconds later, Dana Felton emerged and Shanley passed through the Clucas pole in sections. The Clucas had been designed for Britain's SBS — Special Boat Service — marine commando unit as a way of covertly climbing onto ships from an assault boat below. It consisted of a central shaft of light, strong alloy with short steps protruding on either side. It could be up to fifty-four feet long and was much faster to climb than a rope ladder.
Shanley could see headlights. He sank back to the ground, and Al and Dana did the same. A minute later the guard jeep with its crew of four and mounting a heavy machine gun passed by, headlights blazing and occupants chatting away.
They are bored out of their minds and the lights and the fence give an illusion of security, thought Shanley. The form and the substance — the split between the two was a curious paradox in the military world. People still only went through the motions, even when their very lives were at stake. It was the ‘It can't happen to me’ syndrome, and it was the friend of special forces the world over.
Al Lonsdale and Dana rose from the ground and, making every use of the terrain and keeping to the shadows, moved towards the reinforced concrete observation post that commanded the two valleys below. Even with his night-vision equipment and knowing they were there, Shanley found it very hard to follow them. Mostly there was more the faintest impression of movement than a hard image.
When they came to the base of the post, they vanished.
They will now be moving around to the base on the other side, thought Shanley. Seconds later, three clicks and then one sounded in his earpiece.
Keeping well under cover, he picked up a lamp and pointed it at the observation post and shouted in Japanese. It was not a language he spoke, but he had parrot-learned a few phrases. Seconds later, a searchlight swung in his direction and he ducked right down as the beam moved toward him.
"What's up? What did you see?" said the startled second guard on the blockhouse roof. He spoke in Spanish. Numb with boredom and the chill of the night, he had two blankets wrapped around him and had been almost asleep when his companion had cried out.
"I saw a headlight," said the first guard, "and then someone shouted in Japanese. It sounds like the yo-yos are playing games out there." Relations between the Japanese Yaibo terrorists and the mainly Mexican mercenary force were not cordial.
"Well, fuck ‘em," said his companion. "They should know better. Give them a burst and teach them to behave. It'll liven things up."
The first guard swung the 12.7mm heavy machine gun around. It was sorely tempting, but Yaibo were supposed to be their allies, and shooting up a group who had got lost on some exercise would not look like such fun in the light of day. He decided to play it safe and call the guardhouse.
He was reaching for the telephone as the burst from Al Lonsdale's silenced Calico struck him in the back. The 10mm armor-piercing rounds plowed effortlessly through his Russian-made flak jacket.
His companion fell at the same time Dana fired. Seconds later, the two members of Shadow Two had descended into the floor below where eight other members of the duty section lay sleeping.
It did not take long. They checked the bodies, switched the current off the electric fence, and ascended to the roof again.
Shanley watched with growing concern as the lights of the duty jeep came closer. The jeep, in the normal scheme of things, was not due back for another fifteen minutes, so he could only assume that the blockhouse had called them up to investigate the mysterious light. Bloody hell, it was an obvious move with hindsight, but actually one they had not anticipated. There was always something staring you in the face that you missed. As Brick had once remarked, life was a monument to mankind's fuckups.
"The blockhouse is secure," said Al Lonsdale's voice in his earpiece. This was technically correct and though on the open net primarily for Fitzduane's benefit, Shanley meanwhile had a jeepload of Mexican mercenaries bearing down on him.
What to do? It had to be done virtually silently. A shout would not attract attention in either of the camps below, but unsilenced gunshots were another matter.
He would have to take out the four before they could respond. This was what he had trained for. It could be done.
"Take them out — kill them."
Kill four perfect strangers. Take the lives of four human beings as peremptorily as one might swat a fly.
He broke out in a sweat.
I cannot kill. I will not kill. Let the others take life.
He had known this moment would come, and yet he had no idea how he would respond. It was not an issue you could resolve in a vacuum. This was not a theoretical debate. This was not an exercise. Albeit for reasons he considered valid, this was the slaughter of sentient human beings. It was immoral. It was wrong. It was something he could not do — would not do.
The guard jeep slowed to a halt.
It was the other side of the double fence and past him by about ten meters. At the most they were fifteen meters away from his position and looking away from him.
Two dismounted from the jeep and went to look more closely. The driver and the machine gunner remained in position.
Shanley faced with
the immediate reality, no longer rationalized.
Reflex took over and basic survival instinct took over — and something more. A determination not to let his people down. They were not perfect. Some he did not even like.
Not important. They were a team. There was a shared purpose, shared loyalties, shared experiences. They were his people. Better yet, even those he did not warm to were his comrades. They were his friends.
He fired four quick, silent bursts and then a further burst at the machine gunner who was still alive. Black blood fountained from the man's throat as the second burst hit him, and he fell over the pintle mount, his arms seeming to reach out toward the wire.
"Blockhouse power off," said a voice in his ear. "The wire is tame."
Shanley cut his way through the fences and drove the Guntrack toward the blockhouse.
Al Lonsdale had watched the entire exchange through high-powered vision equipment. He reached down a helping hand as Shanley climbed the Clucas pole. "Welcome aboard," he said.
Dana smiled at Shanley as he stepped on the OP roof. It was a quiet smile, but it said all that was needed. Shanley thought he was going to be sick, but then things seemed to come into focus and he looked at Al Lonsdale and nodded. "Yeah," he said. "No problems."
"I should hope not," said Lonsdale with a slight smile.
Then they all heard the same transmission. It came from Brick Stephens, who was on road watch.
"More guests at the party, boss," said Stephens, his voice quiet but clear, his remark directed specifically at Fitzduane. "Tanks, APCs and trucked troops on the perimeter road and heading north towards us. ETA five to ten minutes. They are moving fairly fast. The sound was blanketed by the hill, but you'll be able to hear them now."
Shadow Two, the strongpoint commanding the two valleys below them now secure, looked south at the new arrivals. A quick estimate suggested a battalion-size force.
Fitzduane 03 - Devil's Footprint, The Page 31
