Reiko Oshima had outlived her usefulness. Fitzduane's savage assault was proof.
But a dead Oshima-san could well make a suitable peace offering. As he had learned in the drug business, every so often it was good politics to toss the Americans someone they were after. They got publicity and kept their budgets safe. The dealers had the pressure taken off. Meanwhile, business life went on as normal. Smoke and mirrors. Life was mostly about illusion.
Quintana stroked his mustache.
That beautiful hair, that perfect face scarred so horribly, the still so compelling. That aura of menace mixed with unbridled sexuality. He had never slept with her, and now there really was not the time. Barragan had enjoyed her and that was as close as he was likely to get, though he had had descriptions of how she was and what she would do. Of how she tasted and smelled and sounded. Of every intimate perversion.
His brother-in-law had been obsessed by her. She will do anything, Diego! Anything!
A woman who would do anything was nice, but Quintana was not short of women who would do whatever he required. And a leader had to control his desires. There had to be an example of discipline.
Oshima's eyes had gone dead. She seemed to have withdrawn into herself. She was still physically present but was behaving as if she were utterly alone. It was almost as if she was praying.
Quintana smiled. The thought of Oshima praying was a quaint notion. But she was a strange woman. There she stood in her stained combat clothing with a gun on her hip and that damned Japanese sword strapped to her back like some Fury from Hell. And her posture was that of a nun praying in front of some relic. Her head was now bowed as if in submission.
"Tomas," he said.
"Jefe," said Tomas, stepping forward. He was a head taller than the others in the bodyguard and had been with Quintana longer than most. He was loyal, and he killed without comment or scruple. He was armed with an automatic rifle and wore a razor-sharp machete at his waist.
"Kill her," said Quintana.
Tomas looked at Oshima almost as if seeking her approval.
She raised her head and looked directly into Quintana's eyes. The vacant look had gone. It was as if she was recharged with energy. Her eyes blazed, and in them there was knowledge and amusement.
"You would kill me, jefe?" she said mockingly. "I do what you ask, I train and discipline your men, and you order my death. Is that just?"
"Kill her now, Tomas," said Quintana.
"I train men well, Diego," said Oshima. She nodded at Tomas, and Diego Quintana, Governor of Tecuno, felt himself being grabbed and forced to his knees.
Oshima's sword hissed from her scabbard and, impacting on Quintana's skull, sliced on down until the Governor was cut completely in two.
The one bodyguard reeled back drenched in blood, as if caught by a power hose. He stood there openmouthed, holding half a body, as if he did not quite believe what had happened.
Oshima flicked her katana clean and slid it back into its home with one neat, continuous movement. Quintana was already forgotten.
Rheiman's legacy was not. The Devil's Footprint was now in her hands and the supergun was going to be put to some immediate good use. It was trained on Washington, D.C., and it was loaded.
Once fired, the Americans could do nothing to stop the missile. They had no antimissile defense. The famed Patriot was designed to shoot down aircraft. It might manage the occasional Scud, but a small ballistic missile such as that from the supergun was unstoppable.
The U.S. defense budget came to more than $250 billion a year, but against ballistic missiles the United States of America was defenseless.
* * * * *
By popular demand, Fitzduane had been sitting at the head of the table, but as the evening wore on the orderly layout of the celebration dinner degenerated roughly in proportion to the increase in alcohol consumed and the noise level.
Everyone had settled in for a long night. Figuring he was likely to need all the support he could get, he had reversed his chair and was leaning on the back, watching Maury doing Russian dancing on the tabletop.
All things considered, Maury was doing a creditable job, but it would have helped if the table had been cleared first. As his ungainly legs shot out to the ever-increasing tempo of the hand-clapping, bottles, glasses, and other accoutrements flew in every direction.
It was chaos. It was a terrific party. Even Grant Lamar was letting his guard down. He had discarded his jacket and his tie was loose and his hair was disheveled. For the first time, Fitzduane saw not the Washington insider but the younger man who more than two decades earlier had penetrated deep into North Vietnamese lines to rescue American prisoners at Son Tay. Lamar had been there. He understood.
Al Lonsdale stood up, swaying slightly, a freshly opened bottle of beer frothing in his hand. He chugalugged half of it and then pointed at Maury. "Jesus, Maury, you're wrecking the place. We've got to clear the table first."
He seized the linen tablecloth and was soon joined by Cochrane and the others. "One-two-three, PULL!"
Maury leaped off the table as the command cut in and grabbed for the ornate central light fixture.
Lonsdale and his cronies, faced with no resistance, crashed backward to land in a tangle of arms and legs and tablecloth against the wall.
Maury shouted something triumphant in Russian at having escaped the fate that had been planned for him.
And then the light fixture gave way.
* * * * *
Fitzduane awoke slowly.
He had the sense it was afternoon — whatever afternoon was — but the effort of looking at his watch was not something he felt he should rush into. Besides, he could not see.
It was rather nice not being able to see. If he could ignore someone bashing his head with a baseball bat and the feeling he had swallowed rat poison, it was pleasantly peaceful.
He remembered you had to do something if you wanted to see, but exactly what that involved was proving elusive.
Eyes! Eyes came into it. He was sure of it.
He thought about eyes for a while. He had some, he was sure, but how you activated them was another matter. Perhaps there was a switch.
Well, it all seemed like too much effort. The world could go on without him.
He slept again.
* * * * *
The noise was vile, horrendous, horrible. It screamed at him, slicing through his safe, warm igloo of sleep like some manic snowplow.
"Uuuagh!" he groaned.
"What the fuck!" said a hoarse voice that seemed to emanate from somewhere in the neighborhood.
The banging came next.
Thump! Thump! Thump! Fitzduane was reminded of sheltering in some bunker while incoming artillery zeroed in. Only, this was much worse. Much, much worse!
"I'm going to shoot them down," said the hoarse voice. "Where's my gun? Has anyone seen my gun Where the fuck am I, anyway?"
There were bangs and crashes and then the sound of falling. Fitzduane decided he had better do something. He pushed his eyelids up and a vague blur appeared. He moved his watch close to his eyes. It did not help. The watch face seemed to have taken up swimming. He shook it a bit, but it still would not cooperate. It was about as static and well-defined as a pulsating jellyfish.
His hand touched a vase. There were flowers in it. He put his fingers into the neck of the vase and they came back wet.
He removed the flowers and poured the water over his upturned face. Paradise! It felt marvelous.
The thumping started again. He had not been aware it had stopped.
There was light coming from somewhere. He shuffled toward it, one hand feeling the wall, and stopped when he encountered a tensioned cord.
The cord did something, he was sure of it. Good or bad, he did not know. Either way, it was coming in handy to hang on to.
He swayed and pulled the cord to steady himself.
Light flooded the room. The Iwo Jima memorial floated toward him.
Hurriedly, he
closed the drapes. Muffled shouting was now mingled alternating with the banging noise. He headed toward the door, silently praying they would not use the bell again. Another blast would surely kill him.
"I can't find my gun," said a voice.
Fitzduane's eyes swiveled slowly and grittily toward the noise. The process seemed to take an effort akin to sailors hauling up the anchor of a ship-of-the-line with a creaking windlass.
Lonsdale lay on a collapsed coffee table in his underwear and cowboy boots. His eyes were closed and his hands were flailing in slow motion.
Various other bodies lay littered around the room. Vague memories of the previous night's shenanigans came back to him.
He felt like smiling, but his facial muscles did not seem able to respond.
A party to die for. It seemed quite possible he'd succeed.
He leaned against the door and fumbled for the latch. There was a large drawing pinned to the back of the door. It had been done with a black felt pen on the back of one of the restaurant's giant menus.
The sketch showed the devil with his arms up, dancing as a circle of raiders fired at his feet. The body of each raider was loosely sketched, but the heads had been drawn with some care and each could be identified. Fitzduane himself, Lonsdale, Cochrane, Chifune, Oga. They were all there. The drawing had been signed: Grant Lamar.
The slogan was simple: ‘The Devil Raiders.’
Memories suddenly came flooding back. The Devil's Footprint. They had done it. They had really done it. They had done the impossible and had lived to tell the tale. Except Steve. Poor bastard.
He realized then that he had never expected to live. The odds had been too great. The planning too rushed. It had to be tried, but he had expected to die.
But they had done it — IT WAS OVER!
He opened the door. Kilmara stood outside in uniform, looking unusually pressed and polished and sharp.
But he was as nothing compared to the paragon beside him. Polished jeep boots with a shine so bright that Fitzduane felt he should have screwed up his eyes — except that they were screwed up already. A uniform that clearly had been intimidated into discarding even the smallest crease. A row of medals that was a one-man insult to the peace movement. A face that needed only bronzing to look instantly at home on a war memorial.
A maroon paratrooper's beret. The All-American divisional patch of the 82nd Airborne.
"What's up, Doc?" said Fitzduane.
"God, you look horrible," said Kilmara. "May we come in? This corridor is losing its charm. We've been here so long, we're taking root."
Fitzduane scratched his head. His hand came away full of wet petals and some kind of perforated metal gadget. He blinked and waved his visitors in.
Kilmara gazed around at the mélange of bodies. Accompanied by the war memorial, he walked through to the kitchen, found Fitzduane a seat, and closed the door.
"This is Colonel Zachariah Carlson," he said. "He's flown in from FortBragg. I'll let him speak for himself."
The one-man war machine was looking slightly uncertain. He had heard about Hugo Fitzduane and his extraordinary mission, but this bedraggled, unshaven figure pulling pieces of greenery out of his hair did not quite fit the hero picture.
Still, orders were orders.
Carlson cleared his throat. "Colonel Fitzduane," he said. "The National Command Authority has ordered the 82nd Airborne Division to take out the terrorist base at the location known as the Devil's Footprint in Tecuno, Mexico."
Fitzduane's eyes rose slowly. "I could have sworn we did that," he said in a puzzled voice.
"You did a great job, Colonel," said Carlson. "But Rheiman — that prisoner you brought back — talked, and it seems there are weapons of mass destruction down there which pose an immediate threat to the United States. The bottom line is that the president has ordered us in."
Fitzduane shrugged. "Nice of you to tell me, Zach. Best of luck. Sorry about the mess. We had an end-of-mission party last night. I think there's still some booze around..." He opened a cupboard door and a floor mop fell out. "...somewhere."
Carlson looked uncomfortable. "The thing is, Colonel, we're mounting this operation in seventy-two hours."
"Very nice," said Fitzduane. His voice was muffled. He was looking in another closet.
Kilmara looked at Carlson. "Try subtlety, Zachariah."
Carlson closed the closet door and sat Fitzduane down gently but firmly. "Colonel Fitzduane, we need your specialist knowledge. We'd like you and maybe one of your people to jump into the Devil's Footprint with us."
Fitzduane eyes rose another half-inch. His face tilted until he was looking at the Airborne colonel towering above him. "Who? Us?" he said weakly.
"Airborne, sir," said Carlson.
Fitzduane's eyes rolled. His gaze switched to Kilmara. "Shane," he said. "Sit the fuck down here beside me. I'm too hungover to get up — but I'm going to strangle you. And enjoy it."
"All the way, sir," said Carlson.
* * * * *
He lay down beside her and she snuggled up to him. He put his arms around her and held her. Sleep and food were already making a difference. Another couple of weeks at most and she would be able to travel. She could travel now if she had to, but rest and medical care were advised.
"They've asked me to go back," said Fitzduane. He explained.
Kathleen was silent for some time. "I would have said no," she said eventually, "but now I've seen it. I know how they are. I know what Oshima is capable of. If she isn't stopped... There's no real limit."
She'll come after us again, thought Fitzduane.
"What are the 82ndAirborne like?" said Kathleen.
"We'll look after each other," said Fitzduane.
"Yes, you will," said Kathleen slowly. "That's part of the attraction, isn't it? You and Kilmara and the others. You kill, but you care. Soldiering as a caring profession. A strange concept. If one of you calls, the others come and help and no one questions. I think it's crazy — but it's magnificent."
"I won't go, my love, unless you agree," said Fitzduane.
"But you think you should?" said Kathleen.
"Oshima," said Fitzduane.
"Oshima!" agreed Kathleen grimly.
"You're not to worry about me," said Fitzduane simply. "—Okay."
Kathleen forced a small smile. Oshima, she thought again. God, how I hate you.
"I'm going to finish it," said Fitzduane. He kissed her long and slow. Her arms came up and held him. He could feel her fingers digging into him, and then she pulled back and looked at him.
"And then you're coming back to make more babies," said Kathleen, trying to smile.
"If I can find a good-looking woman who'll have me," said Fitzduane.
"Could happen," said Kathleen. There were tears in her eyes. "Now, go."
Fitzduane kissed his wife again.
"I'm not going to worry," said Kathleen, "so don't you worry about me. Make the most of it. Enjoy. You'll be changing diapers soon."
"I like babies," said Fitzduane. "And mostly they like me."
He blew her a final kiss and closed the door. Outside in the corridor, he felt tears coming to his eyes. He went into the rest room and washed his face.
When he emerged, his step was firm.
Oshima!
24
Fitzduane emerged from the shower with the strong feeling that he was associating with a subculture whose values the original Sir Hugo Fitzduane — he of the thirteenth century who invasion of Ireland had started the cycle — would readily have identified with.
"They all run?" he said incredulously. "Hell, man, there's fifteen thousand of them. Some of them have to be couch potatoes. It's against human nature for the entire population of the equivalent of a small Irish city to go running every morning. I mean I run, Al, and you run — and we have our reasons — but a complete community rising up and putting in five miles before breakfast is downright kinky."
Lonsdale grinned. "Scout's honor
," he said. "Every morning they close off Ardennes and, from the commanding general to the lowliest trooper, they all pound the pavement. Even after an EDRE."
"What is an EDRE?" said Fitzduane.
"Emergency deployment readiness exercise," said Lonsdale. "That's what the 82nd is all about. They're a kind of strategic fire brigade. Give them eighteen hours' notice, and they are wheels up to just about anywhere."
"In the world?" said Fitzduane.
"If an aircraft can fly over it, they can get to it," said Lonsdale. "‘Force projection,’ they call it."
"A subtle turn of phrase," said Fitzduane.
"Fucking the bad guys from a height," said Lonsdale. "If I may be so bold as to translate."
"Ah!" said Fitzduane.
* * * * *
It was hot in the SCIF and getting hotter, but though the 82nd had a budget of $65 million for running expenses, apparently that did not run to an effective airconditioning system for the top-security divisional operations center.
Most present had stripped down to T-shirts. Given the useful minority of outstandingly healthy young women troopers present, Fitzduane's respect for Airborne tactics was rising. But then again, he reminded himself, he was a married man and never happier to be so. He thought of Kathleen, safe again, and smiled. He had been walking on air these past few days. A little cold reality would not go amiss.
The Airborne assault on Oshima's base looked quite likely to provide it. His previous mission had been a twenty-minute raid with all the advantages of surprise on their side. This was a military problem of a different order of magnitude. The entire terrorist base complex now known generically as the Devil's Footprint was to be seized, held, searched, and destroyed — before being turned over to Mexican federal troops. And this time there was every sign that the terrorists were prepared and waiting.
Taped-together satellite photographs covered the floor. The only way you could study the overall picture properly was by taking your boots off and walking across the imagery in your socks. You hunkered down with a magnifying glass for the small stuff. The detail was superb. Faces could not be easily recognized, but you could look at an individual's load-bearing equipment and see whether he had grenades clipped to his belt or not.
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