Shock and disbelief hit him.
Holy shit! Everything his mother had said was true. He had died and gone to heaven and now he was an angel and he could fly! It was terrifying and it was incredible and it was unbelievably exciting. Well, who would have guessed!
He could see a light up ahead, and slowly they approached it. It was strange. Somehow it all looked familiar. And then there was the engine noise. How many hours had he spent listening to that noise on the way to or from a mission?
His feet touched the ramp and he was pulled in by the winch crew and the ramp was raised.
He looked around, and beside him he could see Fitzduane and Cochrane, and they were grinning with relief and clapping each other on the back and the crew were smiling and there were the familiar smells of the cargo bay of a Lockheed Hercules C130 Combat Talon.
He felt confused. He had enjoyed being an angel, albeit surprised that some of his more exotic physical peccadilloes had not counted against him. For instance, there had been those two...
He glared at Fitzduane.
"Boss, this isn't Heaven," he said indignantly.
Fitzduane gave the Bear a high five and then turned to Al.
"Well," he said tiredly, but with a smile playing about his lips, "it will do for me."
Book Three
The Devils
23
She was sleeping.
The blinds and drapes were drawn and only a dim sidelight illuminated the hospital room. He could see a drip feeding into her arm, and she was connected to a monitor. For a moment, despite what he had been told, he felt a spasm of dread.
Who knows what they did to her when she was a captive.
I can still lose her.
He closed the door gently and the hospital noises were muted. Carefully, he lifted a chair from the corner and placed it close to one side facing the bed so that he could look at her and be there for her when she awoke. He longed to touch her and hold her, but for now sleep was what she needed most.
He could hear her breathing, and the sound was deep and regular and so reassuringly familiar. Emotion welled up in him and quiet tears coursed down his cheeks. My wife. Kathleen. I have never seen you look more beautiful. I have never loved you more.
She was thin and malnourished. Her face was pale and scratched, and there were bruises around her neck and throat. Her hair looked as if it had been hacked off. There were more bruises on her arms, and as his gaze took in her bandaged hand where her finger had been severed, anger and horror and pity gripped him and left him shaken.
But you are back, my love. We found you and brought you back and every last effort was worth it.
Images of the carnage in the Devil's Footprint flashed through his mind. The guards outside the main camp, struck down without warning. Bodies spasming and falling in the sleeping area as rounds cut into them. Armored vehicles exploding and the screams of burning men.
So many dead. So high a price. But there were some situations where you had to fight. Evil was not some abstract notion. It existed, and you fought it without compromise until that battle was won. And you kept on fighting because the war, as such, never ended. Conflicting values. Those who wanted to build against those who were determined to destroy. It was the human condition. Reasonable people tended to rest up and drop their guard after a major struggle, but peace was an illusion. At best there was a lull in the fighting.
But while there was a lull you made the most of it. You loved and nurtured and regained your strength. And a few, a very few, kept watch. They did not rest. They stayed alert. Ordinary people with human strengths and failings who put their lives on the line to buy time for their fellows. People like Lee Cochrane and Maury and Warner. Men like Al Lonsdale. Women like Chifune. Unsung and unacknowledged except occasionally in time of open war. But mostly not just unrecognized, but unwanted.
The paradox of peace. The very people who made it possible were an unpleasant reminder of the alternative. They were starved of resources. Often they were shunned. Until the next time.
He dozed, his thoughts a fatigue-induced jumble. Great happiness and fear intermingled. Then one image began to dominate.
Oshima! She was still alive!
Fitzduane gave a start and rubbed his eyes. His unshaven chin itched, and the sand of Tecuno was still on his hair and skin and in his clothes.
The thought occurred to him that he had not slept in a bed for about a week. Catnapping on the web seating of a C130 went just so far. No wonder the gremlins were crowding his mind. Twelve hours' decent sleep in a proper bed followed by a long hot tub would restore his sense of proportion.
Kathleen was back. She was here with him. She was alive and soon she would be well, and that was what counted.
Fitzduane gazed at his wife, and without conscious thought his hand reached out and stroked her fingers and then her eyes opened.
For a moment, her eyes were those of a stranger. Terror and suffering kept in check only by force of will stared out at him, and nothing else so conveyed the horror of what she had gone through than that split second when he seemed to be able to look into her mind.
Then relief and joy came into her eyes. She stretched out her arms, then stopped and looked with wonder at her bandaged wrists. "No chains," she whispered. "No chains. They hurt so."
Fitzduane lay beside her and took her in his arms. "Never again, my love," he said quietly.
Her fingers touched his cheek. "You're all bristly, Hugo," she said sleepily. Her eyes were closed again. Soon her breathing was relaxed and regular.
A feeling of contentment and happiness so complete that he wanted to cry out — except he was too tired and certainly did not want to wake Kathleen — swept over him.
Memories of the mission were banished from his mind. Kathleen was safe in his arms, and that was what mattered.
Even better, Romeo and Julietta had survived the ordeal. The medical staff had warned Fitzduane not to have his hopes set high, but the examination had revealed that Kathleen, despite her ordeal, was still healthily pregnant. The doctor had given away the secret. Romeo and Julietta would be a girl. No penis could be detected.
"Sounds reasonable," Fitzduane had remarked gravely.
* * * * *
Rheiman shuffled into the interrogation room and blinked in the harsh fluorescent light.
His right handcuff was removed and then locked to an eyebolt in the interrogation table. The table itself was secured to the floor. A large mirror took up much of one wall. One-way glass, he knew with certainty, and behind it a select audience. An audience he had to win over if he was to live.
Two men faced him. Not policemen, he thought. The street left its mark after a while; a certain look about the eyes. These people had Langley written all over them. Different pressures, different body language. Though again you never quite knew. The CIA was only one player in the intelligence community these days. Anyway, these were intelligence types, possibly with military backgrounds.
"Cigarette?" said the younger man. He had closely cropped blond hair and wore a tan suit.
Rheiman shook his head. "I don't smoke," he said. "I guess you know that."
The older man smiled. "There's a lot of good shit to smoke in Tecuno," he said, "and not a whole lot else to do. Or so I hear."
"I'm Olsen," said the younger man. He indicated his companion. "And this is Mr. Steele."
Steele consulted the screen of his notebook computer. "The convenient thing about you, Edgar," he said, "is that we don't have to charge you with anything. You've already been tried and sentenced. You're a fugitive from justice. All we've go tot do is ship you back home and they're going to strap you in the chair and pull the switch. No new trial needed. Just the formality of an execution."
"A messy business," said Olsen. "Or so they say. And slow. Of course, I've never seen an actual execution. Yours will be the first, Edgar. For that I'm going to get a front seat. I'm told that you literally cook to death."
"You're a multiple
murderer and a rapist, Edgar," said Steele, "and worse than that, you're a traitor. Personally, I think the chair is too good for you."
Rheiman shook his head. "I'll serve time," he said, "but I won't be executed. The governor remits every sentence where I come from." He smiled. "Good liberal values."
Steele looked across at Olsen and sighed. "You know, Edgar, you may have a point. And, frankly, that does not make me happy."
"Worse still, Mr. Steele," said Olsen, "Edgar may appeal and argue that he wasn't legally deported from Mexico and then he will probably have to be freed."
"Not a pretty picture," said Steele.
"But then again," said Olsen, "if Edgar was not legally deported, then he is not legally here in the United States."
"Which opens a whole host of possibilities," said Steele. He reached inside his jacked and removed an automatic pistol. Seconds later he screwed on a compact silencer.
Rheiman felt ill. He knew they must be bluffing. Yet it was true. He had not been legally deported. No one knew where he was. He did not know where he was. He could still be in Mexico. This could be a test. He remembered Kathleen and then pain, confusion, and nothing. This was probably one of Oshima's games, a test of loyalty. She did things like this. "Probing defenses," she called it. Well, they would not push it too far. He was essential to the project.
"Who are you people?" said Rheiman.
Steele smiled.
"None of your fucking business," said Olsen.
"What do you want?" said Rheiman.
There was phtt! Sound as Steele fired at Rheiman's left hand.
Blood spurted as Rheiman's thumb and half his palm were blown away. He looked at Steele in horror. "What do you want?" he whispered.
"Nothing really," said Steele cheerfully.
"We're going to kill you," said Olsen. "Though since you're here, Edgar, you can't die."
"A consoling thought, Edgar," said Steele. He raised the pistol again and fired.
Rheiman's eyes were closed. He felt the muzzle flash burn into him. Nothing more. He opened his eyes.
"Just to set the tone," said Olsen. "But you're still alive, Edgar."
"What do you want to know?" he breathed.
"The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth, Edgar," said Steele.
"Or we'll blow your fucking head off," said Olsen. "And enjoy it."
"Frankly, we'd prefer it, Edgar," said Steele.
"Who are you?" said Rheiman faintly. "I'll tell you everything, but who — who are you?"
"The government calls us in when they really — but really — mean it," said Olsen. "When pushed to the wall, governments are not very nice. Think of us as the end of the line. We're kind of like morticians. We bury shits like you."
"Not everyone knows that, Edgar," said Steele, "but you're a scientist, a curious type, and you were determined to find out."
"So now you know, Edgar," said Olsen. "So the thing is: What are you going to tell us?"
* * * * *
Vernon Slade, National Security Advisor to the President of the United States of America, sat silent, momentarily stunned at what he had heard.
"But Mexico..." he said weakly, "there is a great deal at stake there. Mexico is our neighbor. Our policy is to let Mexico sort out its own problems and eventually they will become truly democratic. We can't intervene in the internal affairs of a friendly nation."
"Mr. Slade," said the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, "eventually is not the problem. It is the here and now we have got to worry about. As we speak, a terrorist weapon of mass destruction is pointed at this country. Perhaps even more to the point, it is aimed at this city by people we know are ruthless enough and irrational enough to act. They will use this weapon. They have attacked this country already. Consider the congressional killings and the Fayetteville massacre."
"And sooner rather than later, Mr. Slade," said William E. Martin. "And you should know that it is our assessment that the Mexican government will cooperate in this venture. They don't want Tecuno seceding any more than we do. The trick is to ask them to ask us to help sort out a little internal problem."
"And if they agree?" said the National Security Advisor.
"The 82nd Airborne goes into the Devil's Footprint, the base on the plateau," said General Frampton, "and the Mexican Army handles the mopping up." He was silent.
"The terrorist base is a strong position," said Slade, "and this man Fitzduane's assault has already alerted them. We will take casualties."
"Without the Task Force on Terrorism and Fitzduane, we would not know we had a problem," said William Martin. He remembered he was in Washington and corrected himself. "We would not know the extent of the problem."
The slip reassured National Security Advisor Slade. If the Deputy Director of Operations was sufficiently concerned to let his guard down that much, then there really and truly was a problem. Washington, D.C., was on the firing line. He, Vernon Slade, was in actual physical danger. The thought gave him a strange, not unpleasant feeling.
"Are you absolutely sure of this supergun's capability?" said Slade. "Can this turncoat Rheiman's information be relied upon?"
"Mr. Rheiman's information is accurate," said William E. Martin grimly. "He had every motivation to tell the truth, and unfortunately what he said checks out."
The National Security Advisor looked intently at the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. "General Frampton, if the President authorizes this mission are you absolutely certain the 82nd Airborne will succeed?"
General Frampton smiled grimly. "Hooah, sir," he said.
The National Security Advisor looked puzzled. "I don't understand, General. What does — hooah mean?"
General Frampton told him.
There was silence in the room. "Sometimes we forget," said the National Security Advisor, "what we ask of our young men."
"Shall I alert the 82nd?" said the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
"Yes," said the National Security Advisor.
"Will you recommend the mission, sir?" said William E. Martin.
"Hooah," said the National Security Advisor.
* * * * *
In shocked silence, Governor Diego Quintana drove around the box canyon that had housed the main camp of the Devil's Footprint.
His examination was detailed and took over two hours. At its conclusion, he was pale and a vein could be seen pulsing in his forehead. He tried to hide his feelings, but the tremor in his voice was perceptible. Quintana was terrified, and his fear fed a vicious anger.
His twelve-man bodyguard looked on uneasily. When the Governor was in this kind of mood, he could lash out at anyone. The Japanese woman was the obvious target, but you never quite knew.
"Over a battalion of troops, armor, most of your group, Oshima, and who knows how many fortifications and other emplacements — all destroyed as if they were defenseless. It's incredible. Who were they? How did they do it? I don't understand. We have radar all around the plateau. It spotted that DEA helicopter raid last year. Why no warning this time? And on top of the losses here, the damage to the Madoa airfield has been considerable. It's a disaster."
Oshima had been as affected as Quintana initially. But what was done was done was done. Now she was focused on what action to take in the future. Losses were just a cost of doing business. There was always more human raw material to be recruited and molded. There was no shortage of weapons if you knew where to look. The important thing was to buy time. That was the irreplaceable element.
"General Barragan planned our defenses against conventional ground attack or helicopters," said Quintana. "His precautions would normally have been more than adequate, but this was a land attack using some sort of new-technology vehicles — evidently with stealth characteristics. They caught us completely by surprise. But even so, they were not entirely successful. They got the woman, but the weapon and the warheads are unscathed. Charges were placed around the breech of the supergun, but we were able to remove them in time."
Quintana brightened momentarily, but then he remembered that Rheiman had been killed. The fire that had swept the camp after the helicopter crash had burned the block that housed Rheiman and his team to the ground. Quite a few of the scientists had struggled to safety, but evidently Edgar Rheiman had not made it. He was one of a dozen blackened bodies found in the wreckage. It was impossible to tell who was who. He had been a revolting man in many ways, but useful. He'd be hard to replace.
"The supergun has never been tested," he said, "and the chief designer is dead."
"Rheiman was a scumbag, but he was good at what he did," said Oshima. "He left behind a good team and a weapon ready for firing. We have his notes and plans. It won't be hard to build more tubes."
Quintana gave a command, and the group mounted their vehicles and headed into the valley that housed the supergun complex. Here the destruction was minimal, and he could feel his spirits rise.
The weapon was immense. It soared toward the sky, a symbol of his power, a monument to his achievement. Most men would have laughed at Rheiman and his dreams, but he, Governor Diego Quintana, had the necessary vision. And here was the proof.
"I can see their problem," he said. "How could any small raiding party destroy anything so big in twenty minutes or so? And, of course, the warheads were untouched."
"I don't think they knew about them," said Oshima. "I think this was first and foremost a hostage-rescue mission, and I believe I know who was behind it."
"The Irishman?" said Quintana.
"Fitzduane," Oshima spat out. Her eyes blazed and she swore violently in Japanese. "Yotsu-ashi no yabajin!"
Quintana looked at Oshima. She had proved invaluable in whipping his forces into shape, but she was a hard person to control.
Impossible, it could be argued.
Her terrorist attacks across the border were part of their original deal but had Norteamericanos, but they were strong and should not be directly provoked. It was a balance. There were ways of doing such things. This raid was proof that this balance was no longer being maintained.
Fitzduane 03 - Devil's Footprint, The Page 37
