The Devil's Footprint (59 page)

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 overall 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."

The team dispersed and went to complete the final preparations.
 
Fitzduane walked across to Shadow Three,
where Kathleen lay sedated and wrapped in a sleeping bag against the night
cold.
 
He put his arms around her and
held her close.
 
Then he kissed her and
hugged her again.

"Half from me and half from Boots," he said.
 
"We missed you, little love.
 
But now you're back and you're safe."

"I knew you'd come, Hugo," said Kathleen sleepily.
 
"
I
knew you'd come
— and you have.
 
I
love you, Hugo.
 
I never stopped thinking
about you.
 
And it made it all right, you
know.
 
Truly.
 
It was terrible, but it was all right.
 
I was strong.
 
I was..."

Fitzduane tried to smile.
 
It was
difficult, because he was crying.
 
All right!
 
Jesus Christ!
 
Kathleen looked terrible and he did not want to think about what she had
been through.
 
The baby?
 
It would be too much to hope for.
 
He did not ask.