Fitzduane slowed to a halt, stood absolutely still, and then seemed to merge with the surrounding trees.
He had been running for an hour in full camouflaged fatigues and combat equipment, and despite the relative chill of the predawn air, he was drenched in sweat.
He wanted to wipe his face.
He remained immobile, his Calico submachine gun now ready to fire. There was a hundred-round magazine on the weapon and six more in his load-bearing vest. He was carrying a further arsenal in his belt pouches. Training so heavily loaded was not the most comfortable way to start the day, but the unit trained hard and the tone was set from the top.
People normally noticed movement itself before identifying what it was that was moving.
What had he seen?
There was some light in the sky, but the tree cover made visibility at ground level a somewhat inexact business. It was somewhat better in the clearing, but not much.
There was another quick movement, and Fitzduane focused in on it.
There was a tree stump in the tree line at the edge of the clearing roughly facing the entrance to his hut.
Someone was sitting on it, almost completely concealed by the surrounding trees. If he had not moved, Fitzduane would probably to, he considered, have seen him.
A threat? Not only were they inside the perimeter of Grant Lamar's Son Tay estate, but there was additional security around the training camp itself. Further, a potential attacker would not normally sit on a tree stump, albeit under some cover.
Still. A visual decoy was an old trick. You saw the one and forgot to consider the others.
At that moment, the figure stood up and stretched. Then it turned around to look in Fitzduane's direction.
The face was hideous, distorted, grotesque.
Then a hand came up and peeled the face away.
It was Grant Lamar, as elegantly dressed as always, the night-vision goggles dangling from his hand. He was smiling as he handed Fitzduane an envelope.
"It's a computer-enhanced enlargement courtesy of the National Security Agency," he said. "She's a beautiful woman."
Fitzduane tore open the envelope and stared at the picture. There was not enough daylight to be certain.
He ran to his hut and snapped on the light. The detail was blurred, as if slightly out of focus. Nonetheless, the likeness was unmistakable.
"Kathleen," he whispered. "Kathleen… Thank God."
Lamar entered the hut. For days Lamar had seen Fitzduane operate with a controlled purposefulness that betrayed little emotion and at times was almost cold in its intensity.
Now the Irishman stood there with tears streaming down his cheeks.
"Only fourteen hours old," said Lamar. "Straight from the Tecuno plateau courtesy of Aurora. Positive confirmation."
"The Devil's Footprint?" said Fitzduane.
"The Devil's Footprint," confirmed Lamar. "Huella del Diablo."
Fitzduane experienced such an intense feeling of joy and anger that he did not know quite whether to laugh or cry or shout or what to do.
After a couple of minutes he wiped the tears from his face. "I don't know how to thank you, Grant," he said.
"Do the deed," said Lamar. "Just do the deed."
The. 50-caliber GECALs arrived and were fitted.
The weapon operated on the Gatling principle. Each weapon had three electrically driven rotating barrels, so while one was actually firing the other two could be reloaded and have the crucial time necessary to cool down. The rate of fire could be varied from a thousand to two thousand rounds a minute.
A single. 50 multipurpose armor-piercing explosive round – correctly placed – was capable of penetrating a light armored vehicle or downing a helicopter.
The effect of a sixty-round burst fired in less than two seconds was awesome. Conventional cover was swept away. Anything short of a main battle tank was shredded. Reinforced concrete bunkers were drilled through as if by a jackhammer.
The weapons had quite phenomenal shock value.
The greatest benefit came from the GECALs antiaircraft capability. Reaction time was in fractions of a second. Low-flying helicopters now flew into a curtain of fire up to around 5,000 feet. Above that, the small, fast-moving Guntracks were hard enough to see, let alone hit, from the air. Further, Fitzduane had added the Shorts Starburst missile. Unlike the heat-sensitive Stinger, this was optically guided onto the target by a low-power laser beam and was immune to conventional countermeasures like dropping flares. It required some more operator skill, but a few hours' practice resulted in a steady kill rate up to a height of 20,000 feet. They shot against small Skeets targets that were one-twentieth the size of a typical fighter aircraft.
"We're taking along a few Stingers as well, because they are compact and everyone knows them," said Fitzduane, "but the Stinger, being heat sensitive, is at its best shooting at a target after it has made a pass over you. Then it goes for the hot tail of the aircraft like a bat out of hell. Well, that is fine, but by that time you have already been strafed.
"The advantage of the Starburst, although it is slightly slower, is that you can take out an aircraft before it can do the business, which is very nice. I'm a great believer in fucking the enemy before he fucks you. Also, if you find out the supposed attacker is friendly after you have fired – an embarrassing discovery – you can steer the thing away with the laser and detonate it safely."
Shanley nodded. Fitzduane had brought him along officially to see if the Magnavox thermal sight used on the Stinger could be adapted to work with the Starburst as well. Thermals were great at acquiring a target. You were able to detect not just the target itself but the heat all around it. Much more to see.
The unofficial reason was to sound him out on the mission. Fitzduane moved on to that delicate matter. Shanley was coming through the training with flying colors, but he had a wife and children and he was a civilian.
"I've thought about it, Hugo," said Shanley. "I've thought about it a great deal and I've talked it over with Lydia. The long and the short of it is, I've got to go on this thing. I've briefed guys before dozens of missions in the past and always wondered why they should be putting their asses on the line for me. Now I'm getting a chance to do my bit. It's just the right thing to do. I was at Fayetteville and I've seen what these people will do if given the chance. Well, they've got to be stopped, and I intend to help do it."
"Fifteen of us are going out, and even if we are successful, it is unlikely that all of us will make it back," said Fitzduane quietly. "You could be killed or wounded or taken prisoner. A professional soldier takes his chances. Risk goes with the territory. For a civilian it is very different. Whatever you feel inside, you are under no obligation to go. We all appreciate your technical input. You've nothing to prove."
Shanley looked at Fitzduane. "It's the right thing," he said firmly. "I know it's right, and so does Lydia. We've no second thoughts. Besides, Hugo, I've never seen a better-planned mission. This is gonna work."
As he drove away, Fitzduane felt weighed down by Shanley's words. He had been on enough missions t know that you could prepare as much as you wanted but death came randomly on the battlefield.
Would he bring Shanley back home to his little family? Who the hell really knew? Faith was great, but it was not enough.
Faith and firepower and a team of the right caliber. Now you were talking.
There still remained the problem of the supergun.
Fitzduane had pored over the intelligence information of every kind on the Devil's Footprint and amended his initial scenario to take in an assault on the weapon, but how to destroy it physically was another matter.
There was no shortage of ideas, but all foundered on the sheer size of the weapon and the time they would have to accomplish the task. Fitzduane was adamant they were not going to hang around. Once the alarm was raised, reinforcements from the Madoa air base could be there in twenty minutes or less, and there were two thousand troops who were likely to arrive with decidedly unfriendly intentions.
Acid down the barrel would work but would be dangerous to carry in sufficient quantity. Shaped charges could damage the breech but would take time to place correctly and would leave the bulk of the weapon unscathed. Using a plasma cutter would be possible but again would take far too long.
They considered seeding it with radioactivity until Lonsdale remarked that Quintana would still use the weapon and it would be just tough shit on the gun crew. Quintana was not renowned for concern about his workforce.
"What we really want to do is shake their confidence in the weapon itself," mused Maury during one bull session.
Fitzduane pricked up his ears. "Explain."
"We damage the weapon," said Maury, "the bad guys are going to think it is worth damaging – and therefore worth repairing. On the other hand, if we could do something to the installation so the weapon would to work when test-fired, then Quintana might be persuaded that he was on a loser, string up his scientists, and go back to something normal like buying a few more tanks or poisoning water supplies. There is a psychological-warfare element to counterterrorism, and we should be paying more attention to it."
Fitzduane looked at him. "Maury," he said, "you are not just a thing of beauty with a horribly devious mind. Contact Livermore and donate Jaeger your golden thought. I think you may have come up with something."
Maury looked pleased. "What?" he said.
"Let Livermore worry about the details," said Fitzduane. "That is what they are good at. You just give them the slant. I think it will appeal to Jaeger. He's got that kind of mind."
"A nice detail," said Maury. "I was checking on Livermore. The first nuke they produced in 1953 had only enough of a blast to mangle the top of the three-hundred-foot tower. The second did not do much better. Mind you, they have made up for it since then."
Fitzduane smiled. "Two failed test firings in a row would be just fine down in Tecuno. Go to it, Maury – now. We don't have much time."
Fitzduane hit a computer key and leaned back in his chair.
The laser printer whirred quietly and a single sheet of paper emerged. The cycle was repeated until a thin sheaf lay stacked in the tray.
He stapled the sheets together and tossed the document to Kilmara.
"That's it," he said. "I've made the final selection of the team and most of the preparations are completed. War games in the NationalTrainingCenter and then we go.
"Regarding the supergun, we still don't know what the fuck to do. Livermore tells me they've got a solution but they've still got a few things to do. Jaeger is going to catch up with us when we are tooling around in the Mojave Desert. He says it will save him commuting. It's a whole lot closer to Livermore."
Kilmara read carefully through he lists before looking up. "One Mexican name, I see?"
Fitzduane nodded. "Ernesto Robles of Delta, and as it happens, Mexican-born. A U.S. citizen these days. Good people. None better. As to how he feels, he lost friends in the bombing in Fayetteville. He'd like to close the account."
"By invading Mexico?" insisted Kilmara.
"He doesn't see it as invading Mexico," said Fitzduane. "This is a hostage-rescue mission which just happens to be taking place in Mexico. If we succeed, we'll be doing the Mexicans a service. I'd be happier still if we had some Mexican citizens along, but that is not politically possible. So stop shit-stirring!"
Kilmara laughed. "Just so you've thought things through," he said. He flicked through the report again. "You've assembled quite some firepower for a force only fifteen strong. Frankly, I've never seen anything like it. You can handle most anything from infantry to tanks on the ground, and now you've got good antiair defense. But you're duck soup if they corner you and bring in artillery. That's where the lack of heavy armor on the Guntracks will really show up."
Fitzduane shrugged. "We've been through enough war games at this stage to be aware of what we can do and what we can't do. This mission is based upon stealth and speed -and faith and firepower. Nothing is perfect. If we get cornered we'll need a little help from above to get us out." He smiled. "Which, I guess, brings us back to faith."
"Talk to me about the team," said Kilmara.
"Five Guntracks each with a crew of three," said Fitzduane. "Shadow One is the command Guntrack. That's myself, Steve Kent driving, and a rear gunner still to be decided. Probably Calvin Welbourne when he isn't flying.
"Shadow Two consists of Al Lonsdale, Dana Felton, and Don Shanley. Since that Fayetteville business, Al and Don have picked up where they left off to make an exceptionally smooth team, and Dana is airborne at its best. Al is the mission second in command. If I go down, he takes over."
"Al is not even a commissioned officer, let alone the most senior," said Kilmara. "Has that created any waves?"
Fitzduane shook his head. "You don't make command sergeant major in Delta by being a lightweight. Al knows what to do and how to do it – and it shows. The man has camouflaged blood in his veins."
"Shadow Three?" said Kilmara.
"Chifune, Chuck Freeman, and Grady," said Fitzduane. "All good shooters. Freeman is another Delta sergeant and a quiet, introspective type. He's vastly experienced and the sort of man who inspires confidence without having to say anything. Al suggested the combination. He knows Freeman of old and said if you had a couple of unorthodox types and wanted to put a team together, Freeman was the glue to use. Seems he was right."
Kilmara checked the list and looked up again. "I've got to ask," he said. "What have you done with Lee Cochrane? I have never seen a man so anxious to put himself in harm's way. I suspect he has the Stars and Stripes tattooed on his balls."
Fitzduane laughed. "Ouch!" he said, "Shane, you might retract that statement if someone showed you a mirror. After all, who is commanding the two C130s that are coming in to pick us up?"
"Hell, I wouldn't miss this if you paid me," said Kilmara.
"Lee is your 2I/Cochrane," said Fitzduane. "You can't fly two aircraft at once. You get shot down, he takes over. One thing I can be sure of is that Lee won't back off. If it is humanly possible, Lee Cochrane will come through – tattooed balls and all."
Kilmara beamed at him. "Hugo, you are a genius," he said, "and a diplomat."
"Only occasionally," said Fitzduane politely.
"Shadow Four?" said Kilmara.
The venue for the latest Valiente Zarra presidential rally was a bullring.
It was not the biggest bullring in the world, but it officially held thirty thousand, and given the modest population of Gualara that seemed likely to be more than enough.
It was not.
People poured in from the surrounding countryside, and several hours before the rally was due to start, not only was the bullring full to overflowing but the immediate area around the ring was jammed and laughing, cheering crowds filled the nearby streets and squares.
There was but one topic – the imminent victory of Valiente Zarra – and despite his deep skepticism about effecting real change in the Mexican political system, Dan Warner was beginning to believe it.
The PRI were going to be overturned and Mexico was at last going to be able to realize its potential. The excitement in the air was electric. "Everywhere there was the two-syllable chant “ZAR-RA!
ZAR-RA! ZAR-RA!”
The broadcast was coming in live from Mexico.
Lee Cochrane had left the confines of the camp to watch the rally with Grant Lamar in his house.
Dan Warner was very much on Cochrane's mind. Dan liked his Washington comforts and wheeling and dealing politically in Bullfeathers, but he had accepted the Zarra assignment without any more than the normal quota of bitching, and when down in Mexico had done – was doing – an outstanding job. With Zarra elected, there would be genuine dialog between Mexico and the United States. Protectionism would become a thing of the past. The two economies together would really go places.
Mexico would no longer be a haven for drug barons and terrorists. The country would begin to demonstrate its enormous economic potential and the United States would gain a genuinely strong ally. Such an alliance was sorely needed. China was suddenly becoming an economic and military force to be reckoned with, and Japan was showing increasing signs of being focused on its own regional objectives. As for Europe, that part of the world seemed tired and indecisive.
The camera panned around the building, showing endless excited brown faces and waving Zarrista banners.
There was a decided carnival atmosphere. There was going to be change, and it was going to be good change, and they were part of it. Unlike so many previous regimes throughout Mexico's bloody history, Valiente Zarra would not let them down. Here was a man who could drag Mexico from its feudal roots into the wealth and dynamism of the twenty-first century.
The Zarrista party was unstoppable. Within ten years, twenty years at the most, Mexico would enjoy the same wealth and prosperity as the United States. Countries in the Far East like Japan, Korea, Singapore, and Malaysia had done it on the back of a vast U.S. market. Why could not Mexico, so much closer, do it too? All it would take was shaking off the dead hand of the PRI and voting in a new progressive regime.
The camera zoomed in on the podium where Zarra and his immediate entourage would stand. The original plan had been for the podium to be in the bullring itself.
For security reasons, Dan Warner had been uneasy at Zarra being totally out in the open without a convenient exit, so, after his objections, the new podium had been located on the side of the arena where the band normally was located. The band were now playing from some seats normally occupied by spectators.
The slight change from their normal location had not dampened their ardor. Assisted by loudspeakers, music blasted out over the arena.
There was silence, then a single trumpet call followed by a huge shout from the crowd.
The bandstand, empty up to now, began to fill up with Zarra's inner group. Then came his immediate advisors, including Warner.
Six bodyguards followed, surrounding Zarra himself.
The party moved to the front of the bandstand and then the bodyguards moved to the sides, leaving Zarra, dressed in a white suit and shirt, in front of a bank of microphones in the center.
He was wearing a tie, but it had been loosened and his top shirt button was undone. Zarra was correctly dressed as befitted his status as a professor, but he was also informal and approachable – a man of the people.
Zarra raised his arms above his head in a salute to the crowd.
People rose to their feet as one and the air was filled with the rhythmic chants of “VIVA ZARRA! VIVA ZARRA!”
Zarra put his arms down and was about to speak. Suddenly he roared with laughter, and then, still shaking with mirth, pointed down at the bullring below.
The cameras followed the direction he was indicating.
Down below in the ring itself, seated on more comfortable chairs than the hard benches of the spectators, a group of officials and leading dignitaries from the town and surrounding countryside had been assembled to hear Zarra from this privileged location. All were dressed in their best clothes, and officials wore sashes of office.
They were running in every direction, tripping over fallen chairs and diving headfirst over the wooden barriers at the ringside.
A clown's bull had been let loose in the ring. His horns were padded and he was festooned with streamers, but he was no joke to the people actually in his way. He could not kill or seriously wound, but he could butt and create chaos, and that he was certainly doing.
Zarra's laughter was joined by that of the crowd, and the cameras picked up little vignettes of slapstick comedy a landowner had his pants ripped off and only just made it to cover, while the bull turned and chased an unpopular mayor.
It was the best day of the campaign so far, in Dan Warner's opinion.