As he looked at the planning staff crawling around the floor, Fitzduane, who suffered from an irreverent cast of mind, had a surreal flash of infants in a day-care center. He suppressed the thought. The Airborne took themselves seriously, as well they might, given what they were expected to do. Jumping out of aircraft into the darkness and a hail of enemy fire required a certain mindset. And getting to the ground in one piece was only the start of the exercise. You then had to deal with mines and weapons emplacements and a dug-in enemy who wanted you permanently dead. Airborne assault was a deadly serious business.
Fitzduane's military specialty was special-forces warfare, where heavy weaponry was normally nonexistent and the ethos was to be as sneaky and possible. To do anything head-on was considered bad form. He had to rethink his approach when considering the 82nd's way of war. It was not that it was wrong. But it surely was different.
Lieutenant Colonel Zachariah Carlson looked up from perusing the satellite extravaganza. He looked less like a war memorial in his T-shirt and socks. And they had moved to first-name terms, which got over the potential problem of Al Lonsdale's lack of commissioned rank.
"How do you want to play this, Zach?" said Fitzduane.
"We're on a countdown," said Carlson. He checked his watch. "If hell freezes over, we hit the Devil's Footprint in sixty-three hours and eighteen minutes.
You've been there already. You've fought these people. Anything you can contribute which will make our task easier will be appreciated."
Fitzduane looked down at the satellite photographs again. He did not like what he saw. Madoa airfield had been significantly reinforced, and there were mobile armored columns on the perimeter. In the Devil's Footprint itself the main camp had been thoroughly destroyed, but the supergun valley appeared untouched. The blockhouse had been reoccupied and surrounded by extra defenses. Troops were dug in along the rim. Whoever was now in command knew just what they were doing and had the drive and energy to see it was done. What had been accomplished in such a short time was incredible.
Oshima! he thought to himself. He had hoped against hope that she had been killed in the original assault. Looking at the hornet's nest that had been created since the attack, he knew he had been wrong.
"Let's get out of this sweatbox, Zach," he said, "and you can give me the ten-cent version of who the 82nd operates these days. I grew up on World War Two stories where paratroops were always dropped in the wrong place and used guts instead of firepower to do the job."
Carlson smiled. "Well, some things have changed," he said, "but when you get right down to it LGOPS are still the secret."
"Enlighten me," said Fitzduane.
Al Lonsdale grinned. "LGOPS — Little Groups Of Paratroopers," he said.
"And that's it?" said Fitzduane.
"Airborne, sir!" said Carlson seriously. The reply cracked out.
Fitzduane nodded slowly.
* * * * *
Oshima had planned the takeover of the Devil's Footprint over many months.
From the beginning she had known that Diego Quintana would turn on her. In the end, she was surprised that he had acted so clumsily. Signaling his intentions as if he alone were the determinant of the outcome.
In truth, some of Quintana's complacency was justified. Oshima knew that directly superseding Quintana's rule over all of Tecuno state would not have been possible. Leaving out her terrorist background, she was Japanese, a woman, and not from Tecuno — three strikes against her. Accordingly, she had initially planned to work through her lover, Luis Barragan. That was a promising plan, but even before Barragan's untimely death it had been fairly certain it was not going to work. She held Barragan in sexual thrall, but even so, he remained loyal to Quintana.
Rejecting the option of working through Barragan and making a play for the whole state, it came to her that taking over only the plateau and the Devil's Footprint was the obvious alternative.
It was all that was necessary. She did not want to hold enemy territory permanently. She wanted to inflict as much damage as possible on America and return to Japan in triumph.
There were many who remembered the unforgivable insults of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Her achievements would not go unheralded. Yaibo would rise again. New recruits would flock to her. The myth of America's invulnerability would be punctured.
After killing Quintana, Oshima had worked furiously to consolidate her position. The steel supergun was aimed at Washington and ready to fire, but that would alert the Americans and provoke an immediate counterstrike. No, what was really required was a multiple-strike capability. Then the Americans would think twice before replying. With Washington hit and New York the next target, the American options would be seriously diminished. Destroying a terrorist base when the price was serious damage to your principal financial and commercial center was the kind of trade-off the American population would not accept.
So Oshima held her fire while her people worked frantically to erect two more of the special concrete weapons. The pipes had been cast months ago and the breeches constructed. Rheiman had said the concrete guns would work and thought she had despised the man, she had the utmost faith in his technical ability.
To be able to hit the capital of the United States of America and for the U.S. president to be unable to respond was a prospect that justified every risk. Now all she needed was time. The new weapons would take several more days to install fully.
Then, for all practical purposes, the Devil's Footprint would be invulnerable.
* * * * *
Carlson, back in full uniform, drove Fitzduane and Lonsdale the short distance over to First Brigade Headquarters. The building was an unpretentious two-story rectangular block with a basement. A short flight of steps led up to the main entrance.
Set into the floor as they entered was the slogan "The Devils In Baggy Pants."
Fitzduane stopped for a closer look. "We got the name in World War Two," said Carlson. "So our target is well named."
"It seems they're all over the place," said Fitzduane. They turned left and followed Carlson down a corridor to a corner office, which ran out of floor space after a desk, a couple of stuffed chairs, and a mound of combat equipment had been squeezed in.
Carlson removed a Kevlar helmet from one of the armchairs and propped it on top of a filing cabinet. "What are?" he said.
"Devils," said Fitzduane and Lonsdale in unison.
A trooper brought in Cokes. Carlson took a slug, then sat back. He opened his mouth to speak and then paused.
"I feel a little stupid trying to explain Airborne doctrine to two guys who've been there," he said eventually. "Hell, you people jumped in there only a few days ago."
"So we did," said Fitzduane. He sounded almost surprised. "But shoot and scoot is not the same as..."
"Jump and thump," said Lonsdale helpfully.
"Quite so," said Fitzduane. "So assume we know nothing."
"Or close to nothing," said Lonsdale. "Give or take a few details."
Carlson shrugged. "The first thing to understand is that modern airborne assault techniques have evolved a great deal.
"In the early days of the airborne a half century ago, paratroopers jumped and fought pretty much with what they carried. They had probably landed in the wrong place and were widely scattered. They had no close-air support, lousy communications, limited firepower, and no armor or artillery. They were light troops and their capabilities were limited. Even so, airborne training seemed to produce a particularly high caliber of combat soldier. The record speaks for itself. Paratroopers get the job done.
"An airborne assault today is a whole different ball game. It is force projection carrying with it lethal firepower of a vastly greater order of magnitude.
"The foundation is good intelligence. Today when we go in, thanks to satellite reconnaissance and other capability — including advance teams on the ground — we normally know everything we need to know about the enemy right down to his shoe size. Accurate and comprehe
nsive intel is the rock on which we build.
"Next phase is to get together with the air force and try and make sure that every identified threat is neutralized before we show up. We're not trying to give the bad guys a fair fight. If they are all dead before we jump, that is just fine by us. The idea is to identify every defensive position, every radar, every enemy soldier with a missile, every form of opposition — and take out the lot of them before we go in. So every target is listed in advance and then allocated. Stealth fighters start the whole thing. Then, layer by layer, other elements in the package cut in and peel the defenses away. F16s follow the Stealth boys. A10s follow the F16s. Mostly smart weapons are used, so what we see is what we hit.
"We don't just kill the enemy. We blind him. Wild Weasels take out his radar. ECM-equipped aircraft and helicopters blanket the electronic spectrum and shut down his communications.
"Our window of maximum vulnerability is really just before we jump. Aircraft dropping paratroopers can't jink around. They've got to fly slow and steady. For that couple of minutes we are sitting ducks for triple A or some hotshot with a handheld missile.
"The good news is that A10s and C130 Spectre gunships act as our guardian angels during that window. The A10s can take out anything heavy. The gunships can deliver pinpoint fire. From three thousand feet up they can see and kill anything that moves. Higher up, JSTARS and AWACS watch the ground and air. Way low down, if we plan it right, Kiowa Warrior helicopter gunships hover out of sight. They have mast-mounted sights and high-magnification devices. The are the Airborne commander's eyes. And they have teeth too. If the air force is otherwise occupied, the Kiowas have Hellfire missiles, rockets, and heavy machine guns."
As Carlson spoke, Fitzduane was translating his words into a mental model and then relating it to the realities of combat. Everything the Airborne colonel was saying hung together, and yet the chances of something going seriously wrong were considerable.
Intelligence was never perfect. You could see a great deal from the air, but so much of modern weaponry was small and powerful. If the defenders knew what they were doing, a handheld missile was not left on permanent display for all to see. It was brought out at the last moment. It was moved around. Positions were camouflaged. Vision equipment could see through darkness, smoke, and haze, but not into a concrete bunker. Equipment broke down. And there was always the human factor. People missed things, they got confused, they fucked up. Particularly they fucked up under pressure. And people trying to kill you was serious pressure. You could ameliorate it with training and the right disciplines, but it was always there.
"What do you hate most?" said Fitzduane.
"Before we land, anything that can shoot down a troop-carrying aircraft makes us unhappy," said Carlson. "Paratroopers hate to die before they've had a chance to fight.
"Once we've landed, we get pissed off by armor, artillery, and mines in roughly that order. And then there is the NBC area. None of that is a barrel of laughs."
NBC" nuclear, biological, chemical. A terrifying amount of misery summed up by three letters, reflected Fitzduane.
Carlson smiled. "But, hey, it's an imperfect world. And we lov-v-v-e to jump."
He caught Fitzduane's look. "Well, to land, anyway," he added.
Fitzduane looked at Lonsdale. He was getting some ideas. "Can we contribute?"
Lonsdale pursed his lips. "Probably," he said. Regardless of rank, you got $112 a month while on airborne status. You could earn more in tips in one night in many bars.
But the money was not really the point.
* * * * *
They were back in the SCIF.
In full name was the Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility, a title that required excessive energy just to think about pronouncing.
Fitzduane was becoming to seriously hate the divisional plans and operations facility. Grateful nations tended to erect monuments in memory of their warriors. In the case of the 82nd Airborne, he was of the opinion that bronze statues could be usefully bypassed in favor of an air-conditioned ventilation system and deodorizer that really worked. The place was getting like the SaudiDesert crossed with the humidity of Vietnam. The atmosphere was thick enough to slice and dice. The planning staff were not going to need to acclimatize when they arrived in some tropical hellhole. The climatic conditions of the Devil's Footprint were going to be light relief.
Meanwhile, faces shiny with sweat, clothing looking as if it had been run through a sauna, and tempers were getting frayed. Files and papers adhered to hands as if with thinned-out treacle. Fingers lifted from computer keyboards sounded as if they were being detached from the suckers of overfriendly octopi.
"I'll buy you an air conditioner," muttered Fitzduane. "A very large air conditioner with a Coke machine and ice-cold showers built in."
"The U.S. Army doesn't work that way," said Lonsdale. "You work with what you've got. A hundred years ago, the U.S. cavalry had single-shot carbines and the Indians had repeating rifles. Work that one out."
"If I was Custer," said Fitzduane, "I would feel pretty bloody upset."
* * * * *
Beads of sweat formed up on Carlson's brow, slid in globule formation down his nose, waited until over the drop zone, and then went splat! onto the remains of a giant cheeseburger shipped over from the Airborne PX.
"Gentlemen," he said formally. "The 82nd Airborne Division is deeply grateful for your help, but now I must ask you to leave. ASAP, sirs."
Fitzduane blinked. It was an effort, because his eyelids were weighed down with sweat. He thought of wiping them with a corner of his T-shirt, but there wasn't a dry corner left. He poked under the cheeseburger, but someone else had already grabbed the napkin.
He blinked again. "Zachariah," he said, "you guys asked us to come down here. All we've done so far is help target the opposition. There is still the minor matter of what the fuck we all do when we hit the ground. Do we join hands and sing?"
Carlson looked uncomfortable. "Need to know, sir," he said. "Standard security precaution. You've gotta understand that the actual planning process is classified."
Fitzduane stood up. "We've been to the Devil's Footprint. We've tangoed and we've come back alive, and you are standing here telling me that you're throwing us out. Am I reading you right, Zachariah?"
"Orders, sir," said Carlson uncomfortably. "You must understand, Hugo, that this is a military operation, and as far as the U.S. Army is concerned, you people are civilians. Valued citizens, but whatever you have done in the past..."
"...we don't need to know," said Fitzduane grimly.
"Airborne!" said Carlson.
Fitzduane eyed Carlson. In the short time he had known the man he had been impressed. The man was not just well-trained. He was bright, innovative, and thorough. But how could someone of this caliber put up with such manifest bullshit? Fitzduane figured that in this humidity no one was likely to notice the steam coming out of his ears. He counted to ten and added another decade and felt his mood calming slightly.
"My worry is that the left hand doesn't know what the right hand is doing," he said, "let alone all the fingers and toes."
* * * * *
Fitzduane and Lonsdale headed back to First Brigade, made some calls, and got kitted out while they were waiting for some action. If they were going to jump in with the 82nd they were going to look like they belonged. Around them everyone moved just that bit faster. There was electricity in the air. The Airborne were going into action.
Fitzduane abandoned his Calico submachine gun with regret, but Lonsdale was adamant.
"You've spent too long on small unit actions where you know all your team, Hugo," he said. "There are going to be a shitload of aggressive young troopers on this one, and if you don't look right, they'll waste you on reflex. So wear your Kevlar, carry your M16, and don't complain."
He stood back and eyed Fitzduane. From his jump boots to body language, the Irishman looked completely at home in his U.S. Army combat fatigues and equi
pment, but there was one thing not quite right.
Fitzduane wore his hair cropped short but en brosse. It was trim but not quite the Airborne white sidewalls with a half-inch thatched oval on top. A sort of reversed tonsure.
"Who'll know when I'm wearing a helmet?" said Fitzduane.
"Trust me," said Lonsdale. "It'll be appreciated."
Within minutes of emerging from the PX barbershop, Fitzduane knew Lonsdale had been right. It was a gesture toward the Airborne way, and this was Airborne territory. It was a token of acceptance and, as such, was noted.
Fitzduane eyed his new hairstyle in a small mirror in Carlson's office. It occurred to him that judging by the tapestries he had seen, his Norman ancestors had cropped their hair in a not dissimilar style. The barbershop floor had cheered him. He was agreeably surprised he still had that much hair to lose.
"Hugo?"
Fitzduane turned.
Carlson stood in the door. He looked at Fitzduane's newly cropped head and nodded approvingly. "Good news and bad news," he said. "Full security clearance has come through."
"And?" said Fitzduane.
"Back to the SCIF," said Carlson. "A Dr. Jaeger from Livermore is joining us. The CG is sitting in."
"CG?" said Fitzduane.
"Commanding General of the 82nd," said Carlson. "General Mike Gannon. He's a two-star and climbing. A real good man, sir. Airborne from way back."
"Is he commanding the mission?" said Fitzduane.
"This is the Airborne, Hugo," said Carlson. "General Gannon will be the first man to jump."
* * * * *
Fitzduane had once met a U.S. Marine general who looked more like a rather gentle schoolteacher than a hard-charging combat veteran of considerable distinction.
Fitzduane 03 - Devil's Footprint, The Page 39
