Madoa Air Base,
Tecuno, Mexico
Reiko Oshima stood in the shower for three minutes and washed General Luis Barragan's blood off her body. It disgusted her. It was a symbol of their failure.
Her outburst had left her drained and tired, but the water was soothing and she could feel her resolution returning.
Her strength of will was one of her strongest assets, and now she focused on what should be done immediately. Recriminations would have to wait. There was a score to settle now, and she was fairly sure she knew how.
She hastily toweled her long black hair to an acceptably damp state and put it up in a bun. Then she dressed in fresh desert camouflage fatigues tucked into combat boots and donned full combat webbing. Finally she tied in place the ritual hachimaki – the headband – worn by Yaibo and strapped a katana to her back.
She paused as she finished and looked in the mirror and was pleased with what she saw. She had regained her poise and her command quality. She was once again a force to be respected and feared. The brief time lost taking the shower and dressing had been worth it.
She looked at her watch. It read 0209. It seemed an age but was actually only just over an hour since Luis had bled to death on top of her. She shuddered.
There was a banging on the door. "Oshima- san," said a panting voice. "Please come to the operations room immediately. Governor Quintana is calling and wants a full situation report."
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.
He hugged her again and held her. "I love you, Kathleen," he said over and over again. She was already asleep; the drugs had won out.
Chifune was guarding Shadow Three. He took her hand briefly between his, and she smiled.
"All the way," she said. And there were tears in her eyes.
"Always," said Fitzduane. "Always…"
They looked at each other. There was no need to speak. They had never been closer.
"Let's go," said Fitzduane.
The convoy of four Guntracks moved out. Their next destination was the pickup point – and airborne to home.
Tecuno, Mexico
Governor Diego Quintana's mercenaries were mainly Mexican but included soldiers from many nations.
Major Khalifa Sherrif's country of birth was Libya. Major Sherif was not without military talent, but his map-reading skills were minimal. He could get lost crossing the street, which was why currently he was within striking distance of the Arkono airstrip instead of a hundred kilometers to the west as his original orders dictated.
Normally he could rely on his adjutant to keep him more or less on course, but a shotgun blast from one recalcitrant peasant had put paid to that convenient solution and had also fucked up Major Sherrif's one and only map of this dreadful area.
He had been fast asleep when the new orders came in, and he did not take kindly to being roused so abruptly. His mood took a sharp turn for the worse when he heard that he was to prepare for action and that he was to hand over command to the Japanese woman called Reiko Oshima.
THAT WOMAN! It was unbelievable. Women had their place in his particular world, but so did camels and dust and crawly things he did not even want to think about, and he only calmed down slightly when his ever-reliable sergeant brought him hot sweet tea.
A Mi-4 Hound helicopter beat its way through the darkness and landed to the side of the armored column in a haze of dust. He sipped his tea again as he waited for this Amazon to emerge and found that he was not sipping grit.
Two minutes later, he found that his command tank and his bloodstained map had been commandeered and he had been packed into the back of an APC like a common private.
With Reiko Oshima in the lead tank, the column headed at full speed for the Funnel, the narrowing valley that led to the airstrip. The hound had already taken off again to scout the terrain.
The column was able to make excellent time. All vehicles and the helicopter were equipped with active infrared searchlights that projected a beam that was invisible to the naked eye but showed up as illumination to anyone wearing the right goggles. It was an effective enough technique unless your opponent had infrared detection capability, in which case it was like driving along with full headlights on. You could see where you were going, but then everyone could see you – and from a considerable distance away.
Twenty minutes later, when the column was within just a few kilometers of the Funnel, a radio message came in from the helicopter that a cloud of dust heading at high speed toward the old airstrip had been sighted.
Reiko Oshima felt a surge of optimism and passed the order to prepare for action to her new command. The enemy, whoever they were, had every reason to believe that, in the middle of this vast empty space, no one would ever think of one long-abandoned airstrip among dozens built by the oilmen more than a decade ago.
Unfortunately for them, Reiko Oshima had scouted Arkono airstrip as a possible base for Yaibo only a year back and she knew the strip and the surrounding terrain intimately. She was also, she considered, getting to know her enemy.
The Arkono strip was not an obvious choice, but it would do – which made it a strong possibility. Other units were fanning out to cover other locations.
The black silhouette of the Funnel showed up in the distance, and Fitzduane thought of Calvin and how nice it would be to be able to check the valley and its environs from the air before entering their confines.
For all they knew, the valley now contained hostiles waiting to shoot them up. It was a near-perfect choke point. Nearly a kilometer wide on the way in, it narrowed to less than a hundred meters as it approached the airstrip. The Funnel was well-named.
He banished wishful thinking and focused entirely on the task at hand. He had a feeling he was missing some obvious move or precaution. He checked his watch and ran through the plan of the final stages of the exfiltration and the various contingencies and options. There was something there, he was sure of it, but what?
He switched to the Team Rapier radio net and pressed the transmit button. There was now less than twenty minutes to go before the pickup time, and they had reached the stage when speed was more important than running silent. "Rapier Team, this is Shadow One. Deactivate super traps and increase to sixty."
The diamond-shaped fighting group of four Guntracks surged ahead as the sound-suppression units were deactivated. The increased speed would be hell for the wounded, but the alternatives would be a great deal worse.
There was a sudden flash from the sky as the Mi-4 Hound turned on its infrared searchlight and swooped to try to see what this mysterious enemy consisted of. Reports had suggested armed jeeps, but no one seemed quite sure, and the armored column desperately needed more intelligence.
"Bomburst!" said Fitzduane, and instantly the four vehicles spread in four directions. "Shadow One will take it."
Heavy machine-gun fire arched up at the helicopter from three Guntracks while Shadow One halted and Al Lonsdale aimed a Starburst surface-to-air missile.
Green tracer and rocket fire from the helicopter plowed into the ground around the fleeing Guntracks, but the small black vehicles were extremely hard to hit. They were very fast and changed direction constantly, and clouds of smoke and dust confused the issue.
The helicopter's infrared searchlight showed up in Lonsdale's night-vision goggles like an arrow pointing toward a target.
Seconds later the searchlight vanished as machine-gun fire from the ground blew it apart, but he could still see the big machine through the Starburst's six-power sights.
Shoulder-launched surface-to-air missiles were not foolproof, and the pilot knew that the Stinger, to give the example he was most familiar with, could be outmaneuvered under some circumstances and that its range was limited. However, in this case the Mi-4 Hound's pilot was more scared of the known threat of Reiko Oshima than of the unknown; and he had been ordered to find out what they were up against or not come back. And he was also up against a missile that did not need a heat source to make a hit. The Starburst was optically guided by a low-power laser beam.
He did his duty. He had just finished describing one of the strange black tracked vehicles that he had caught in his infrared searchlight for a brief moment when the missile's proximity fuse ignited near the fuselage and slammed a shower of tungsten cubes into the fuel tank and rotor blades.
A fireball blossomed in the sky.
That bloody woman! the pilot thought before his world exploded.
"Re-form," said Fitzduane urgently. "Loose Deuce. Move! Move! Move!"
The four Guntracks of Team Rapier re-formed in two teams of two, with one Guntrack on the right set back to its partner. It was a formation that would have been familiar to fighter pilots. The vehicle in front covered threats to the front. The Guntrack set back covered threats to the rear.
They had lost time in terrorist encounter with the helicopter. They had now increased the speed to one hundred kilometers an hour. Across the rough shale and rock of the ground, this was a grueling speed even with air suspension. Weapons accuracy was affected. It was difficult – almost impossible – to use some of the advanced vision equipment because of the vibration. The engine noise had risen to a crescendo, and regularly the vehicles left the ground and hurtled through the air as they hit an undulation or a fissure.
For the wounded, it was agony. Fitzduane knew this and remembered what it had been like for him and the pain and sense of helplessness, and he hated what he was doing.
Through his night-vision goggles, he could see a glow ahead of him but to the left. His brain tired, he thought at first it might be the dawn and he was surprised because it seemed too early, and then he realized what he was seeing.
The glow was moving, and it must be coming from a column of vehicles heading for the entrance to the Funnel.
They were in a race, and the enemy column, although almost certainly slower, was sufficiently ahead of them for it to get there first.
He felt sick and then, for a brief moment, blindly angry, and then there were things to do and very little time for emotion.
"Shadow One to Eagle Leader," he said.
"Come in, Shadow One," said Kilmara. The sound quality was good. They were close.
Fitzduane could almost see the two Hercules C130 Combat Talons in their matte-black camouflage hurtling at contour-following height over the harsh terrain. The pilot and copilot and navigator would be wearing night-vision goggles and faces would be tired and strained from the long flight. There would be the steady throb and whine of turboprops. There would be the jolts and shocks that came from flying so close to the ground you were virtually in ground effect.
"Eagle Flight, what is your firepower status?" said Fitzduane.
"Both aircraft configured for Guntrack evacuation, so weapons load minimized," said Kilmara.
Fitzduane felt a sinking feeling and then realized that ‘minimized’ was a relative term in special-forces aviation. These people felt nervous if they did not have some serious firepower up their sleeve.
"Both aircraft have two GECAL fifties for ground suppression and other toys for the air," continued Kilmara, "but they do not have gunship status and are tasked for evac. I do not want to risk the evac, but state your thinking."
"We will only be evacuating three – I repeat THREE – Guntracks," said Fitzduane. "Shadow One will be staying on ground as tail-end Charlie. Accordingly, only one aircraft will need to land. Suggest second EAGLE adopt a ground suppression role. We have heavy company from the east."
Wait one, Shadow One," said Kilmara. He switched to the second Combat Talon and talked to the Bear. In less than a minute he was back to Fitzduane.
"Eagle Leader will land to evac," Kilmara said, "and Eagle Friend will carry out ground suppression. He can handle up to armored personnel carriers, but tanks could be a problem. Eagle Friend awaits your instructions. Please advise how crew of Shadow One plans to evac. I presume Skyhook."
"Affirmative on Skyhook," said Fitzduane. "But we will need maneuvering space. There are people down here who do not have our best interests at heart."
"Understood, Shadow One," said Eagle Friend. "We await your call." It was the Bear's voice.
Fitzduane looked at the approaching glow. He could now see a shitload of tanks and APCs. Worryingly, they were ignoring Team Rapier's convoy of Guntracks and were still heading hell-for-leather toward the Funnel. Someone too damn smart was in command.
Once the valley was blocked, the hostiles could pick off the Guntracks at their leisure.
Reiko Oshima felt excited as she rarely had before as her armored column thundered toward the Funnel.
There was the roar of the tank engine and the smell of oil and the wind against her face and the exhilaration of speed, and she felt, for the first time since this fracas had started, that she was going to end up on the winning side.
The helicopter pilot had delivered. She now knew that she was dealing with some kind of high-speed tracked vehicle and that there were four in the dust clouds off to the right.
They were obviously the advance guard. Given the scale of the damage that had been inflicted so far, it was clear that a larger force was involved, and she estimated that there were probably a further twenty or so following behind. Allowing four people to a vehicle crew – she thought commander, gunner, loader and driver per tank – that suggested an overall enemy force of about a hundred. That seemed to make sense. It also suggested that they would leave their vehicles behind when they evacuated or else that deserted strip at Arkono was going to be a busy little place for a while.
The important thing was that she had called it right. She had guessed the enemy's intentions and now she was beating this hostile force to the punch. The enemy tracks were faster, that was sure, but her force was ahead and was going to get there first.
And then there would be a killing ground. Retribution.
Fitzduane knew that this would be the last time that Team Rapier would be together, and for a brief moment he felt unaccountably sad and tired but also immensely proud.
There were few things more satisfying than to command a combat unit at its peak, and the people of Team Rapier had been the best, the very best. And now it was almost over, this courageous, audacious adventure, and he felt regret.
The moment passed. The immediate pressed on him.
"Shadow One to all," he said on the unit net, "Shadow Three will remain with me and fight the hostile column to a halt. Shadows Two and Five will head on through the Funnel and will evac. Shadow Three will join if possible.
"Move! Move! Move!"
Cochrane brought Shadow One to a halt and lowered the rear air springs, while Al Lonsdale loaded a six-round clip into the Dilger and aligned the laser sight. After the noise and buffeting of the high-speed advance, to be still and silent on this vast undulating space seemed strange.
Off to the right, Shadow Three advanced toward the column, firing on the move with its. 50 GECAL. Its job was to draw fire while Fitzduane's vehicle killed tanks. Only the Dilger could do that with certainty at this range.
The two other Guntracks sped into the distance. Both vehicles were overloaded and carrying wounded and really in no condition to fight unless there was no other option. Shadow Two carried Chifune, Geronimo Grady, and Dana Felton as crew, together with the wounded Chuck Freeman and the drugged Kathleen and Steve Kent's body. Shadow Five carried Oga, Brick Stephens, and Ross Gallini, with Ernesto Robles and Calvin injured.
Al Lonsdale's night-vision equipment pierced the darkness and aligned the Dilger on the lead tank.
He fired.
A tongue of flame jetted from the muzzle and the whole Guntrack rocked with the recoil.
Two seconds later he fired again, and then kept on firing until he had exhausted a second clip. The second clip.
Twelve rounds. The Dilger was now out of ammunition.
"Move! Move! Move!" said Fitzduane, and Cochrane started raising the air springs and roared away. The springs completed their adjustment on the move.
Two seconds after they had left their firing position, tank shells plowed into the evacuated space, and rock and shale fountained into the air.
There was a crack and Oshima's tank, roaring forward at full speed, suddenly lurched to the left, lost forward momentum, and started rotating on its own axis.
The driver's hatch opened and he leaned over the right side of the tank, then looked up at Reiko Oshima. "We've been hit. The track's gone and we're a sitting target. We'd better get out."
Oshima drew her pistol and shot him in the head, then pointed the gun at the gunner. "Does the tank still work?"
He nodded.
"Well, then stay here and fight the tank or you'll join that coward."
The loader slammed in an HE round and the gunner rotated the turret and fired. Oshima could see the flash of the impact explosion in the distance.
The infrared searchlight shattered as machine-gun rounds hit it. A further burst spanged off the armor.
Oshima hauled herself out of the turret and looked for a replacement tank. She was appalled at what she saw. The powerful column of nineteen armored vehicles that had followed her was now strewn with flaming and exploding vehicles, and as she watched, there was a row of small explosions in the ground as if a machine gun was being hosed onto a target and then an armored personnel carrier in the direct line of fire blew up.
Burning figures ran into the darkness and collapsed, and the air was rent with screams.
A hundred meters away, a T55 fired its main gun and then reversed. She ran after it, waving.
An armored personnel carrier was spraying the darkness with its heavy machine gun. The gunner could see nothing because his infrared searchlight had been shot out, but he fired steadily until the ammunition box ran out. Incoming machine-gun fire caught him as he was attempting a barrel change and blew out his throat.
A black shape shot out of the darkness and there was an enormous explosion from the armored carrier, and a huge hole appeared in its side as if it had been hit by an artillery shell.
Two tanks maneuvering in opposite directions collided, then the commander's hatches opened and the two commanders started swearing at each other.
An explosive grenade hit one commander and blew his torso into pieces, showering the second man with blood and body parts. He dropped back into his cupola, banged the hatch shut, and reversed rapidly.
The air seemed to be full of flying metal. Oshima had never seen anything like it. This was not conventional machine-gun and cannon fire but some other, much more lethal, system.
Now she was beginning to understand how her base, with all its armor and security, had been overcome so quickly.
A tank roared past her, tracks churning, and she fell back, terrified. The stars were fading. It would be dawn soon.
She heard the heavy throb of an armored personnel carrier and looked up. The vehicle stopped and the commander looked down.
Somehow he looked familiar. A red map light illuminated his face from below. That was ironic. The face was that of Major Khalifa Sherrif, the ‘hero’ who could not navigate. Life, she thought, was a joke; a sick joke. It was a pity she had not understood this sooner.
The Major looked away and shouted a command.
The Major's armored personnel carrier accelerated, leaving Oshima alone in the desert.
The evacuating Guntracks roared through the Funnel and on to the airstrip.
Behind them there was the sound and fury of the firefight, and each person's thoughts were with the rear guard as they battled.
Ten minutes later, Shadow Three disengaged on Fitzduane's instructions and joined the two other Guntracks. Less than a minute later, alerted by radio, Kilmara's C130 Combat Talon swooped in and taxied to a halt, the ramp already almost down.
Immediately, the three Guntracks drove on board and the Combat Talon, with the ramp still open, took off and headed out of Tecuno-controlled airspace at contour-following height, electronic-warfare systems fully operational. Tecuno wavebands were a mass of activity, and they could hear jet fighters being vectored into the search area. Timing was critical. They would have more than eighty minutes' exposure before the fighter threat would be over.
Kilmara hated the abrupt departure with Fitzduane and the crew of Shadow One still on the ground, but every second spent in the area increased the chance of detection and his first priority was the safety of the aircraft and crew and passengers.
It was now up to the guts and ingenuity of Fitzduane and his remaining team on the ground, the flying skills of Eagle Friend, and a quite extraordinary device known as Skyhook or the Fulton Rescue System.
And there were also the moves of the enemy to consider.
Shadow One had been located, and the noose would be tightening by the second.
Fitzduane felt dazed and disoriented, and he could not see and he felt rising panic.
He fought for control. Where was he? What had happened? He put his hand to his face. It was wet and sticky. Shit! He was bleeding from a gash in his forehead. He staggered to his feet and splashed some water from his belt water-bottle on his face and washed the blood from his eyes.
He could see! The relief was intense. He could feel the rush of fear receding and his self-confidence reestablishing itself.
Shadow One lay on its side about twenty yards away. One track was missing and there was a huge hole in the rear engine compartment through which diesel was leaking. They had been hit but they had been lucky. Or had they? It was then that he noticed Lee Cochrane. He was bent over Al Lonsdale, who lay motionless on the ground.
Fitzduane began to remember what had happened. They had chewed up the advancing armored column with some success thanks to Dilger's Baby, night-vision equipment, and some seriously aggressive tactics. They then had disengaged. Shadow Three had headed on to the airstrip and Shadow One had made it to the Funnel.
He recalled the Guntrack roaring down the Funnel to where it narrowed, and then suddenly everything had gone blank.
Ahead of him he saw a Combat Talon climb into the night sky and then recede into the distance.
The sight was like a physical blow, and again there was that feeling of fear.
He went over to Cochrane. "How is he?" he said, looking at Lonsdale.
"Concussed, I think," said Cochrane. "I can't find any external wound." He held up something. "Here are your NVGs. They got ripped off when you screwed up your landing, Hugo."
Fitzduane started to raise his eyebrows in surprise, but they seemed to be stuck in place. Cochrane was in his element. This was a man who had found himself.
The goggles still worked. Fitzduane started to feel generally more optimistic. Half the Tecuno army might be on their tail, but at least he could find his way around and, truth to tell, their thermal viewers and passive night vision had given them an incredible edge over the opposition, so it was nice to hang on to some of the equipment. There was still some serious work to do.
He looked down the valley. In the distance, roughly halfway down the valley, he could see vehicles burning. Cochrane saw his look and grinned.
"The hostiles chased us into the Funnel," said Cochrane, "but I had a go with the. 50 Barrett after we got hit. It seems ridiculous that a rifle can take out an armored vehicle like a BMP-1, but there is the proof. An average of three rounds each at nearly a kilometer, and up they went. Thin armor, vulnerable fuel tanks, and armor-piercing incendiary make a lethal combination. Anyway, they pulled back and now seem to be regrouping. I guess they figure time is on their side. They put up some flares a few minutes ago, so they know our track is out. And where are we going on foot? There is nothing in every direction."
Fitzduane decided to ignore that last rather disconcerting remark and focus on the shooting. "Just so you know, Lee," he said. "Running a private war – just because Al and I were unconscious – is greedy."
Cochrane laughed out loud.
"Back to business," said Fitzduane. "Any contact with Eagle Friend?"
"Affirmative," said Cochrane.
He tapped the personal radio every member of the team carried for emergencies. It was low power and strictly line of sight, but it combined voice capability with a locator beam. "He's doing a run in any minute. He's contour flying to avoid SAMs, so voice contact is intermittent."
The Combat Talon was using the surrounding mountain range to shield it from SAMs – surface-to-air missiles – as it approached. The Talon had some useful offensive firepower, but its main defense lay in being extraordinarily hard to detect. Its electronic warfare black boxes made it effectively invisible to most radar. Nonetheless, line-of-sight triple-A – antiaircraft artillery – and SAMs could be a serious threat when it could be seen with the naked eye, so Talon pilots worked hard to remain invisible. In this context, a few mountains between them and hostiles were highly approved of.
Fitzduane unclipped an Ultimax from its mount and fitted a fresh hundred-round magazine. A pump-action grenade launcher went over his shoulder and more ammunition went into a rucksack. Then he joined Cochrane in carrying Al Lonsdale into a natural rock emplacement in the foothills.
It was a far-from-perfect location because there was no overhead cover, but there was nothing better immediately around and their plans depended on their moving up rather than out in the next few minutes. That meant they needed access to the sky.
Parachute flares exploded in the sky and the valley was lit up with white light. Backed up by field glasses, it was an old-fashioned solution for dealing with the visibility problem but effective nonetheless.
The wrecked Guntrack could be clearly seen. Fitzduane doubted that the Tecuno mercenaries could see them crouched down behind the rocks in camouflage with blackened faces, but common sense dictated their rough location.
There was a moaning sound and a salvo of mortar shells bracketed the wrecked vehicle, and blast after blast hurled metal splinters into the surrounding rocks. Half a dozen heavy machine guns joined in.
The parachute flares died out but the barrage continued, and Fitzduane knew it would only be a matter of time. They seemed to be up against some serious opposition, and the way the assault was being conducted suggested that the hostiles had recovered from their confusion.
He prayed that someone up high would come to their assistance very soon, or they would be up there themselves checkout out their new wings.
It was a prospect Fitzduane was willing to postpone. He decided he would try the direct approach.
"Eagle Friend," he said quietly and deliberately into his radio, "we have heavy incoming here, so hear me well. This is no time for subtlety. Knock off your coffee break and be kind enough to seriously fuck the bad guys. Do you copy?"
"Loud and clear, Hugo," said the Bear, and there was a roar of engines as the Combat Talon popped up and tracked the valley, its two six-barrel. 50-caliber GECALs blazing.
Eight thousand rounds a minute – armor-piercing, high explosive, and tracer – into the broad end of the valley occupied by the mercenary task force.
Devastation. Slaughter. A scale of destruction it was hard to comprehend.
Explosion after explosion rent the air as armored vehicles blew up. The incoming mortar and APC rounds ceased.
Fitzduane and Cochrane peered between two rocks at the holocaust.
"Unbelievable," said Fitzduane in an awed voice.
A parachute opened above them, and seconds later a bulky package hit the ground.
Fitzduane grinned at Cochrane. "It's been easy up to now," he said.
Major Khalifa Sherrif might have been a truly terrible map reader, but militarily he was moderately competent.
Under fire, he normally had a reasonable idea of what to do if it was only how to keep his own valuable body out of harm's way. Nonetheless, fighting Indian peasants in Tecuno armed with only shotguns, the odd AK-47 assault rifle, and RPG-7 rocket launchers had not prepared him for this kind of combat.
Rifles that could take out armored personnel carriers at well over a kilometer and aircraft guns that could put a round in every square meter of land in a valley-wide swath were new to him – and quite terrifying.
He thought about the situation. Another column had showed up from the south and he had deployed them around the airstrip. Part of the enemy force had already left – he had seen the Combat Talon taking off in the distance – but at least the remainder were now surrounded somewhere in the narrow end of the funnel and the airstrip had been rendered unusable.
The enemy, whoever they were, but certainly commandos of some kind, were trapped. They had no way out. And by morning the forces around them would be overwhelming. Infantry and armor was converging on the Funnel from every direction.
It was going to work out. The post of military aide to Governor Quintana that he had been after would be his. The minor detail that his armored column had been shot to pieces by the enemy would be glossed over, and anyway there was a useful technique called creative accounting. No one was really going to come out here to the battlefield to take a look.
He switched to consideration of immediate tactics. Sending in armor was for the birds. The burning wrecks of T55s and armored fighting vehicles dotting the valley floor below were blunt proof of that.
No, the best tactic overall was to wait the enemy out and let the sun do its work tomorrow. There was no water in the Funnel, so it would only be a matter of time.
He considered this option. It certainly made the most sense militarily. Still, the politics of the situation also had to be factored in. Surrounding – without doing anything more – did not have a heroic ring, and soldiers were supposed to fight.
He had one platoon of hard cases he used for chasing Indians in the hills. A small group used to this kind of terrain might just do the trick where armor had failed.
He sent them in and watched them as they disappeared into the darkness. In his report, he would lead them, of course. Fortunately, in real life he had more sense and whistled up his sergeant for a cup of tea.
The Bear watched the loadmaster get his end of the Fulton Rescue System ready and tried to get his mind around what was about to happen.
It had been explained to him in some detail during the long flight in, but frankly it was hard to grasp.
It was not that it was complicated. It was more that it was quite loopy. It also was unnatural, decidedly only for the insane, and certainly the most terrifying way of boarding an aircraft that he had ever heard of. Bar none. In his considered opinion, it belonged only in cartoons. He could imagine Bugs Bunny having a high old time with it and Woody Woodpecker chortling with glee. But it was decidedly not for humans.
He thought about the procedure again and shuddered. It made throwing yourself out of an aircraft door with a backpack full of nylon tied together with string appear positively safe.
But if they were to get Fitzduane and his people out of terminal trouble, it was the only way.
The intercom crackled. "We're going in," said the pilot.
The GECAL crews readied their weapons.
And then the firing started.
Fitzduane and Cochrane put on the still-unconscious Lonsdale's suit and then scrambled into their own.
A webbing harness was built into each suit, and that in turn was attached to a line. The line looked disturbingly fragile. It looked scarcely strong enough to support one person, let alone three.
The bulkiest element of the package was a cylinder of helium. Fitzduane connected the helium as indicated and turned on the valve, and with surprising speed an airship-shaped balloon began to appear. It was bigger than he had expected and he wondered why, then realized it had the weight of five hundred feet of line to support.
He released the balloon and it ascended speedily, the line unraveling as it climbed until the umbilical was taut, trembling only slightly as the wind blew at the miniature airship up above.
"Eagle Friend," he said into his radio. "We're ready as we'll ever be – but I feel scared shitless. It'll never work."
"It had better," said Cochrane, who was surveying the approach through binoculars. "The hostiles are learning. There is a platoon-sized group working its way up, and they'll be in range in a couple of minutes."
He raised the Barrett. He was not as good as Al Lonsdale, but he was close. Conventional rifle range and the Barrett's range were two different orders of magnitude.
He aimed and fired rapidly.
The advancing unit's point man, platoon sergeant, and radio operator lay dead on the ground when he had finished, and the rest of the platoon had scurried for cover. Several were wounded by rock splinters gouged out by the massive multipurpose rounds.
There was a roar of aircraft engines and gunfire as Eagle Friend flew down the valley yet again and hosed the surviving mercenary troops.
Major Khalifa Sherrif was waiting with a SAM operator for exactly this development and held his position. Only his head was not under cover, and that seemed a reasonable risk. He wanted to see the kill. The aircraft was flying at just under 500 feet, he estimated, and was keeping surprisingly steady. The trooper would get a lock. They were going to get the aircraft.
The missile leaped from the launcher and soared toward the Combat Talon.
Bright orange fireballs drew glowing streaks in the sky as the Talon fired its antimissile flares.
The heat-seeking SAM, faced with an excess of choice, twisted and turned and plowed into the far side of the valley.
Fitzduane and Cochrane – Lonsdale, still unconscious, held up between them – looked at each other as the huge aircraft approached.
Two eight-foot arms attached to its nose were now extended in an open V to snare the thin line attached to the balloon. The balloon could be detected in the darkness by night-vision goggles, but there was also a strobe light flashing away at the top, shielded from the ground but in the line of sight of the pilot.
The aircraft was going to snare the thin line at something like 125 knots – 156 miles an hour – and Fitzduane did not want to think about what was going to happen next. Whatever he had been told in training, he imagined a horrendous jerk and horrible pain and his body being cut in half by the shock. And anyway, he did not like heights.
"Is this really a good idea?" he said to Cochrane.
"NO!" said Lee Cochrane, the chief of staff of the Congressional Task Force on Terrorism, whose enthusiasm for Washington and all its intrigues had suddenly been revived. I should be on the Hill, he thought. What the hell am I doing here! This stuff is dangerous!
It was a vain thought and ventured upon somewhat late in the day. The engine roar was magnified by the confines of the valley. It was going to happen.
It was happening – and it was unbelievable!
Suddenly, it was directly over them and all they could hear was this terrible throbbing roar and then they were airborne – whipped up into the air with less shock than a parachute opening – and the ground was receding and they were climbing higher and they were through the narrow end of the Funnel and over the abandoned airstrip and they were going higher and higher as the aircraft climbed to avoid mountains ahead and the slipstream whipped at them and it was much colder and Fitzduane realized the reason for the bulky suits.
Skyhook worked.
Instinct suggested that they should have been jerked half to death or sliced into segments by the sudden pull of the line, but the reality was that initially they were pulled up rather than forward, and only slowly – relatively speaking – brought up to the speed of the roaring aircraft. Though hard to grasp by the uninitiated, it was a simple matter of geometry.
Quietly and consistently, Skyhook had worked for nearly fifty years, from the North Pole to Southeast Asia, ever since Robert Edison Fulton had invented it and tested it at his home in Connecticut.
The front of the line was secured by the retrieval mechanism in the nose of the aircraft, and the balance of the line now stretched under the fuselage and for several hundred feet behind.
They were being towed like water skiers, except that the medium that was supporting them was air. Soon they would be winched in.
Al Lonsdale, braced between Fitzduane and Cochrane, groaned as the flow of chill air revived him. Still disoriented, he opened his eyes and all he could see was an impression of the ground rushing below at impossible speeds as he flew through the night air.
Shock and disbelief hit him.
Holy shit! Everything his mother had said was true. He had died and gone to heaven and now he was an angel and he could fly! It was terrifying and it was incredible and it was unbelievably exciting. Well, who would have guessed!
He could see a light up ahead, and slowly they approached it. It was strange. Somehow it all looked familiar. And then there was the engine noise. How many hours had he spent listening to that noise on the way to or from a mission?
His feet touched the ramp and he was pulled in by the winch crew and the ramp was raised.
He looked around, and beside him he could see Fitzduane and Cochrane, and they were grinning with relief and clapping each other on the back and the crew were smiling and there were the familiar smells of the cargo bay of a Lockheed Hercules C130 Combat Talon.
He felt confused. He had enjoyed being an angel, albeit surprised that some of his more exotic physical peccadilloes had not counted against him. For instance, there had been those two…
He glared at Fitzduane.
"Boss, this isn't Heaven," he said indignantly.
Fitzduane gave the Bear a high five and then turned to Al.
"Well," he said tiredly, but with a smile playing about his lips, "it will do for me."