The Devil's Footprint (53 page)

Fitzduane made the decision.
 
If
Calvin was in position over the airstrip when the ground attack went in, he
should be back in time for the exfiltration.
 
His little machine could go at over a mile a minute when the sound
suppressor was not switched on.

"Go for it, Calvin," he said, and explained.
 
Calvin nodded.

Final preparations were made, and for the first time miniature headsets
were worn.
 
Radio silence disciplines had
been absolute so far and would continue until the assault.
 
But Fitzduane had weighed the options.
 
The advantages of instant communication
between team members during the actual assault outweighed the risks of the
signals being overheard.
 
In addition, the
transmissions were encrypted.
 
An
eavesdropper would hear something that would sound like static.

There was a last equipment check.
 
Watches were synchronized.
 
It was
a moonless night, but the sky was cloudless and a canopy of stars ensured just
enough light to make the passive night-vision goggles fully effective.
 
It would not have mattered if the darkness
had been absolute.
 
Shanley's company's
thermal driving aids had become second nature.

Calvin, again dressed like the Penguin, took off.

Fitzduane made a hand signal, which was passed on from Guntrack to
Guntrack.

The column moved off toward the target.

In a few hours, thought Shanley, I am going to have to kill another human
being.
 
I don't care what they have
done.
 
I cannot be judge, jury, and executioner.
 
The others can do it.
 
They are professionals.
 
Even Lee Cochrane served in
Vietnam
.
 
I cannot do it.
 
In
Fayetteville
,
it was self-defense and I did not have time to think.

Here I have plenty of time to think, and I know I cannot do this.
 
I have never served.

If I can, if my body does not betray me, I will try to do everything that
is required of me — but I will not kill.
 
I cannot.
 
Let the others take
life.

I have not served.

Guilt and fear ran raw through him.
 
He had thought it would be like the endless training.
 
The careful preparation,
the long periods of waiting, the excitement of the impending assault, the
adrenaline rush, and then action.

This was superficially just like that in many ways.
 
The same people, the same
equipment, the same feel of the Guntrack's suspension as it leveled the
appalling terrain.
 
But inwardly,
inside his very being, he felt entirely different.

The certainty was gone.
 
It was as
if the skills that had given him so much confidence had evaporated and every
last defense stripped away.
 
Now there
was nothing but terror and overwhelming self-doubt.

I have abandoned my family for nothing.
 
I cannot do this thing.
 
I will
let down my comrades.
 
I will die here in
Mexico
to no purpose.

Why me?
 
Why now?

I am afraid beyond the very meaning of fear.

*
         
*
         
*
         
*
         
*

The Devil's Footprint

The guard on the main gate of the Devil's Footprint valley known as ‘
Salvador
’ looked at his
watch.

Time seemed to have slowed its tempo.
 
It was an occupational hazard on guard duty and especially so in this
mind-numbingly dull part of the world.
 
Nothing ever happened.
 
The main
defenses were on the perimeter of the plateau hundreds of kilometers away, and
the immediate area was deserted.
 
It was
scarcely surprising.
 
Who, in their right
mind, would want to live in this hellhole?

He had come on duty at midnight, only an hour ago if he was to believe
the evidence of his watch, but is seemed like an eternity, a particularly cold
eternity.
 
The Devil's Footprint was not
only 3,800 feet up on the plateau, but it was in the foothills of the Tecuno
mountains
and every foot of additional height seemed to make
a difference for the worse.
 
The high
desert at night was cold enough.
 
Throw
in some altitude and it was downright uncomfortable.
 
In his opinion, the location was
well-named.
 
It was fit only for the
devil.

It was too cold at night and too hot during the day, and the ground was
harsh and arid and stony and brutal on boots, and there were far too many
things around that bit, like flies and scorpions and snakes and lizards.
 
Frankly, why the base was located here was
beyond him.
 
Still, no one had asked him
his opinion or seemed likely to.
 
As a
mercenary, he got paid but not consulted.

"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.