She clawed at him and he pushed her away in panic, but she clung on to him and would not let go. Her fingernails ripped his face, and he could feel his flesh tearing.
"They're all dead!" she screamed. "Everyone! Everyone! Everyone! Everyone! They're all dead!
"There's nothing but blood! BLOOD! BLOOD! BLOOD! BLOOD!"
The words hammered out of her. Her spittle showered his face. He wanted to retch. At first he thought Oshima was experiencing some kind of breakdown, but then he realized that what he was witnessing was nothing of the sort.
It was an uncontrollable rage.
* * * * *
Outside the Devil's Footprint,
Tecuno, Mexico
Seven minutes had passed.
Fitzduane was methodically searching the terrain around them with the FLIR, but there was no sign of Calvin. Behind him, Cochrane was doing much the same thing with his night-vision equipment.
Three mercenary soldiers ran out of the black smoke that had now settled over the perimeter road and stopped in shock as, at the last minute, they saw the menacing black wedge shape that was Shadow One.
In their initial panic as the road column was shot up, they had dropped their weapons. Most were campesinos — young men, peasants, wanting no more than to go home and be with their families.
They stared at the Guntrack, frozen with fear, uncertain what to do.
Let them live, said Fitzduane's heart. They are the enemy, but they can do us no harm.
Kill them, his mind said. They have seen us and they just might say something that could help the opposition, and I owe it to my people to see they are given every chance.
I have no choice.
He fired the pump-action grenade launcher that was kept clipped beside the driver's seat and the three soldiers shot backward as a swarm of hundreds of miniature fléchette darts ripped them asunder.
He felt nauseated.
A laser beam cut through the darkness and settled on him. He could imagine the enemy gunner registering his aim and he knew, at that precise moment, that he was going to die. He thought of Boots and he felt a great sadness that he would never see his young son grow. He thought of...
The laser flicked out and then on again, and there was an irregular rhythm to the beam. Then the beam slowly rose to the vertical and cut into the night sky pointing at the stars.
Morse code: ‘C-A-L-V-I-N.’
The exhilaration that follows despair gripped him. He gunned the engine and drove toward the source of the light. He'd been an idiot. The light was the type that only Team Rapier could see through special filters. This was not the enemy.
A skirmishing line of enemy troops showed up ahead of them just beyond the light source. Through his night vision goggles, Fitzduane could see they were armed and purposeful and that this was a different problem to the three he had just killed.
He accelerated and turned slightly to the left so that he would break ground above the light source and have a clear shot at the enemy.
The mercenaries had no night vision goggles, but the heard the rapidly approaching engine noise and opened fire. Flashes could be seen in the darkness, and there was the zip and crack of rounds passing over and around the Guntrack.
An aiming laser flashed out from Cochrane's GECAL and a moment later the weapon began to fire. Fitzduane halted the Guntrack and emptied the magazine of his grenade launcher. In just five seconds, the area occupied by the mercenary patrol was hit by more than a thousand metal projectiles. Their firing ceased.
The friendly laser flashed on again. Fitzduane zigzagged down the hill toward it and at last Calvin could be seen. He lay there on his back tied to the wing with carabiners, but there was no sign of the fuselage.
Fitzduane leaped out while Ross kept watch, cut the aviator free, then bundled him into the front gunner's seat, gave him a headset, and plugged him into the intercom.
The entire exercise took no more than forty-five seconds. Calvin was bruised and had a broken ankle and was in some pain, but otherwise he seemed in reasonable condition. Fitzduane felt an overwhelming sense of relief. He contemplated giving the aviator morphine but decided against it.
The grim fact was that someone might need it more urgently later. The shooting was not necessarily over. They had to exfiltrate successfully, and that, in special-forces operations such as this, was always the hardest part. The element of surprise was gone and now they were the hunted.
He talked to Calvin as he drove to distract him from the pain. "You went up with an engine, Calvin," he said as he sped through the night toward the RV point, "but came down without one. What gives?"
Calvin forced a laugh.
"After I got the helicopter gunship with the RAW, I got chased by a much smaller machine. It wasn't armed as such, but someone inside it had a weapon and went after me as if it was personal.
"Well, I maneuvered every which way and my whole machine started coming apart. The struts had already been damaged over the airfield and jury-rigged, and these kind of gymnastics were just too much. The fuselage and engine decided to go their own way, and I had no parachute. And I was a couple thousand feet up. In addition, AK-47 rounds were pinging off the engine. It was a little hairy."
Fitzduane could imagine the reality behind the dry account. "So what did you do, Calvin?" he said. "Wake up?"
"I went back in aviation history a bit," said Calvin through clenched teeth as the Guntrack hit a rough patch. "The chopper was shooting at the fuselage for the obvious reason that that is where the pilot sits."
"So?" said Fitzduane encouragingly.
"Flex flying all started with the wing alone," said Calvin. "Suspending a fuselage for the pilot to sit in and to hold an engine came much later. Well, that being the case, the solution was obvious."
"Not to me, it isn't," said Fitzduane. Wearing PNV goggles, his world endless shades of green, he was driving over the appalling terrain as fast as the terrain would allow, and his concentration — to put it mildly — was not entirely on Calvin's story.
"I clipped my harness to the wing and then cut free the fuselage and engine," said Calvin. "The helicopter followed the fuselage down and blew it apart as it fell, and I just flew the wing down like a hang glider. It worked fine. I didn't need a parachute. I don't know why I was worried.
Fitzduane nearly choked with laughter and reaction.
"Fucking A!" said Cochrane.
Fitzduane recovered and then started to laugh again, and the Guntrack slithered and bucked and jumped and raced across the shale and gravel toward the RV, and up in the sky their salvation flew toward them.
Unfortunately, it was short one critical aircraft.
22
Madoa Air Base,
Tecuno, Mexico
Reiko Oshima stood in the shower for three minutes and washed General Luis Barragan's blood off her body. It disgusted her. It was a symbol of their failure.
Her outburst had left her drained and tired, but the water was soothing and she could feel her resolution returning.
Her strength of will was one of her strongest assets, and now she focused on what should be done immediately. Recriminations would have to wait. There was a score to settle now, and she was fairly sure she knew how.
She hastily toweled her long black hair to an acceptably damp state and put it up in a bun. Then she dressed in fresh desert camouflage fatigues tucked into combat boots and donned full combat webbing. Finally she tied in place the ritual hachimaki — the headband — worn by Yaibo and strapped a katana to her back.
She paused as she finished and looked in the mirror and was pleased with what she saw. She had regained her poise and her command quality. She was once again a force to be respected and feared. The brief time lost taking the shower and dressing had been worth it.
She looked at her watch. It read 0209. It seemed an age but was actually only just over an hour since Luis had bled to death on top of her. She shuddered.
There was a banging on the door. "Oshima-sa
n," said a panting voice. "Please come to the operations room immediately. Governor Quintana is calling and wants a full situation report."
There was bedlam in the operations room as she walked in. A dozen different people were talking at the top of their voices and gesticulating wildly, and there seemed to be no one person capable of restoring order.
She went through the large operations room to the adjoining radio room, but left the door open. The radio operator looked distinctly relieved when she arrived, and handed her a headset. She put on the headset and evicted the operator from the room with a single gesture, and this time closed the door.
"Governor," she said respectfully. "This is Oshima-san."
"Oshima," said Quintana, the strain evident in his voice, "what is happening? I hear we have been attacked, but I have received a dozen different contradictory reports."
Oshima took a deep breath.
"Out with it, woman," said Quintana. "I need to know."
Reiko Oshima gave him a situation report, appalled as she spoke at the sheer scale of the destruction. It had seemed bad enough at the time. In its totality, it was very much worse. But in one fundamental way, they had been exceptionally lucky.
The supergun was unscathed. True, one installation holding explosive and experimental chemical warheads had been completely destroyed, but the charge placed in the all-important bunker that controlled the hydrogen feed had, by some miracle, failed to go off. Evidently, the attackers had been disturbed. Oshima speculated that it must have been the arrival of the armored column from the south. And there was also the fact that the supergun itself was virtually indestructible.
Quintana was normally a hard man to read, especially over the radio, but this time his relief was evident. There were plenty more terrorists, hostages, tanks, and mercenary soldiers in the world, but his future was tied to the supergun. If it had been destroyed, his future would have been painful and short. He had made too many enemies over the decades.
Oshima decided now was the time to make her move. She was the bringer of good news, and with a bit of luck, now she could reap her reward.
"Governor Quintana," she said. "The attack was ground based, and I think I know where they are going. Give me the forces I require and I'll destroy them for you."
"Explain," said Quintana. This was the first positive suggestion anyone had made to him since the attack. He considered the angles. Oshima's theory made some sense.
If armed jeeps were being used, they could be trying to escape by land to the border, but an air pickup was an option. And in that case, a deserted airstrip built by the oil people at Arkono was a reasonable possibility. Certainly, it was worth a shot, and putting Oshima in charge was justified by the special circumstances. He smiled to himself. Certainly, she had the balls for the job.
Three minutes later, a task force of twenty armed vehicles that was camped to the northwest of Arkono was roused and dispatched to block the valley that led to the airstrip, and Oshima was headed there by helicopter to take personal charge.
Quintana terminated the radio conference severely shaken but in a better mood.
The supergun was safe; and as for Oshima, if she was successful he would reap the credit, and if she failed she would make an excellent scapegoat.
* * * * *
"Say again, Eagle Leader," said Fitzduane.
He had arrived at the RV point and immediately called up the C130 flight that was coming to pick them up. No air cavalry and there would need to be a distinct reappraisal. It was one hell of a long way to home.
"Eagle flight on course on schedule for PUP," replied Kilmara, "but we have no Dragon. I repeat, we have no Dragon. ETA as original."
"Affirmative that there is no Dragon," said Fitzduane. "Eagle's welcome nonetheless. We've got big hearts and we're homesick. Over and out."
"’Luck to you, Team Rapier," said Kilmara. "See you soon. Over and out."
Fitzduane peeled off the headset. The five camouflaged Guntracks were laagered in a rough semicircle, weapons pointing outward. It appeared all vehicles had made it so far. Only the microlight had been destroyed. There was now only twenty-five kliks to go, but it would be the most dangerous time, and the news he had just received was seriously disturbing.
He had looked at a great number of escape plans, from the obvious to the most exotic. All of the conventional options meant long land journeys and imposed serious logistical difficulties. Would they be detected given the extra time on the ground? Would the vehicles stand up? Could they carry enough fuel? Would there be enough water?
In the end he had opted for a simple solution — to be picked up by air the very same night as the raid. In essence, pull out before the opposition had time to rally themselves.
The downside was that an air pickup imposed certain obvious practical limitations. The aircraft needed a place to land, and in such grim terrain there were only so many options.
Second, a pickup was an attention-getter. Guntracks were small, quiet, and unobtrusive. Compared to them, C130 Combat Talons were big noisy beasts and their landing in the middle of nowhere would certainly attract attention if there was anyone around.
Fitzduane had studied satellite photographs for weeks prior to setting forth on the operation and there had never been any sign of activity either on, or adjacent to, the abandoned airstrip. This was reassuring, but he had been around long enough to know that the world is unpredictable and that fate likes its little games.
Accordingly, as a hedge against the downside, he had arranged for a U.S. Special Forces C130 Spectre gunship to cover the final withdrawal and deal with any interference. The Spectre combined heavy firepower with the most sophisticated night-vision targeting equipment, so it should have evened things up a little.
But unfortunately the gunship was not going to be there.
He would find out why afterward — mechanical failure of whatever — but right now it did not matter. The Spectre was code named Dragon and the message had been clear.
There would be no Dragon covering their withdrawal. No problem if the coast was clear. Serious rat-shit if it was not.
He called a final briefing. One man per gunship remained on sentry duty peering through night-vision equipment into the darkness. The rest gathered around.
"Casualty report?" he said "I'll get the ball rolling. Shadow One has lost Steve. The microlight is out of the game and Calvin has a broken ankle."
Each Guntrack reported in turn. There were no other fatalities, but Chuck Freeman in Shadow Three had a piece of shrapnel in his shoulder and Peter Hayden had been seriously injured when Shadow Four had received a near miss from a T55 tank round. His Guntrack was also in bad shape. The track had been damaged and would last only a few kilometers at best.
"People," said Fitzduane, "if I can borrow some of Al's language — you done good."
There were smiles from the group, but little was said. They were all incredibly tired from the fear, tension, and exhilaration of the assault and the exfiltration, and they were under no illusions as to what might lie ahead. The unexpected guard convoy on the perimeter road from the south had been one major surprise, and there would be others. They conserved their energies and paid close attention. Fitzduane knew what he was doing.
"We're going to strip and abandon Shadow Four here," he said, "and double up where necessary. All rear pallets will be left. Ammunition and supplies will be redistributed. Fuel tanks will be topped up. The emphasis will be on speed and maneuverability. We could have a clear run, but we won't know until we are in close. We have lost our aerial recon and we are not going to have a Spectre gunship up top. So it's up to us. We should be airborne in well under an hour, but we've got to keep moving."
There was a brief silence. Fitzduane looked at each person in the dim red glow of the map light. He could not really see expressions, but full body language was sufficient. The team was in good shape, all things considered. Certainly, there was evidence of fatigue and some doubts and uncertainties, but over
all he felt fortunate. These were good people.
"One extra thing," he said. "We're down to four Guntracks and we're going to need a tail-end Charlie. If everything goes sweet, they'll be the last people on board. If the shit hits the fan, Charlie stays behind or no one will get away." He pointed at the map. "I don't need to tell you why."
There was no argument. They had all participated in the discussions about the abandoned airstrip and they all knew the rationale and the problems. The negative side of the pickup point was that access to it from the north meant going through a two-mile-long valley that they had christened the Funnel; and there was not time to go around it.
Further, if the enemy got on the hills of the Funnel no aircraft was going to make it away. That meant, if opposition surfaced, holding the high ground until the two rescuing aircraft were safely airborne. That job could have been carried out by the Spectre, but now there was no alternative.
Fitzduane was right. But it was a crock. The Guntrack doing tail-end Charlie was not going to have much of a future.
"I will do Charlie," said Fitzduane. "Just so you know, that's not negotiable — but I'll need two extra crew and I'm moving to a track with a Dilger."
"I will be one," said a firm voice, "and just so you know, that's not negotiable either."
There was laughter. Fitzduane smiled and held out his hand to Lee Cochrane. "Lee, you're one persistent son of a bitch," he said.
There was a low murmur of voices and hand gestures as everyone else tried to volunteer and yet keep their voices way down. Sound traveled at night in the desert.
"SAS have more than paid their dues," said Fitzduane, referring to the injured Peter Hayden and the dead Steve Kent from that unit, "and I represent the Irish Rangers."
"Which leaves Delta," said the Delta contingent, including Calvin, virtually in unison.
"And since I was in at the beginning," said Al Lonsdale, "it just seems appropriate."
Fitzduane nodded. "Now let's do it, people. We go in ten minutes."
Fitzduane 03 - Devil's Footprint, The Page 34
