'Fucker's pulled back,' said Gallo. 'Wait one and you'll see.'
'Hold your fire,' shouted Brock. The command was passed along the firing line. He pulled a set of spotter's binoculars from his pocket and called Fitzduane over, and tossed the glasses in his direction.
Fitzduane moved to within ten meters and took the glasses. He did not like coming even that close, since bunched-up targets brought out a mean streak in hostiles. On the other hand, countersniper work was a collaborative effort.
Brock and Gallo were glued to the eyepieces of their rifles. Their problem now was that their angle of vision was severely restricted. A spotter would cover a wider field and then talk the shooters onto target. He would keep an eye out for other opposition.
Fitzduane focused where instructed. Thirty seconds later, he saw movement twenty meters to the right of where Gallo had originally indicated.
The enemy sniper was moving every couple of shots.
'Right twenty,' said Fitzduane.
Gallo fired, followed a fraction of a second later by Brock.
Fitzduane saw a slight movement as a long black shape dropped off the ledge.
'He's dropped his rifle,' he said.
Galle's eyes were closed. 'We got him,' he said.
Fitzduane scanned the rocks. There could be another sniper, but only two had got through and one was ahead. He thought of Oshima increasing her lead in front of them.
'We're going on,' he said to Brock.
Brock opened his mouth to say something and then thought better of it. 'Airborne, sir,' he said.
He rose to his feet. 'Move out,' he said.
The survivors of Scout Platoon rose to their feet. He had logged three dead. The RT operator had taken a round, making it four.
Fitzduane was already running.
Brock and his men followed on. They left the bodies where they lay. Brock felt numb. The drove him on. Hate for Oshima and, as of the moment, a profound and irrational hate for Fitzduane.
The interlude had bought Oshima thirteen minutes and had cost five lives.
Up on the ledge, Jin Endo lay sprawled with a 7.62 round through the bridge of his nose and the back of his skull missing.
Brock's round had torn out his throat.
Up above, the vultures were already circling. Soon two extra black dots swept toward the corpse but kept on going.
Oshima crested the hill and looked backward. In the distance she could see her pursuers. They were now too far behind to catch up, she was certain. She turned and ran for a further ten minutes. She stopped at a pile of rocks and began to pull them aside. Behind the rocks there was earth and then camouflage netting.
She worked furiously. Soon a 250cc motorcycle was uncovered. The fuel tank was full and the panniers were full of supplies. There were other caches up ahead. She now had everything she needed to escape.
She unclipped field glasses and surveyed the terrain. The paratroopers were still out of sight, probably still sweating up the hill in their heavy equipment.
The sky was overcast. The weather was still on her side. All she could see were black specks in the distance.
Vultures were heading for where Jin Endo and the paratroopers he had killed. It was a good end and he had served his purpose, but Oshima felt a slight twinge as she remembered his devotion and his ardor. Endo had touched her. It was as well he was dead.
Oshima kicked her motorcycle into life and headed off down into the gorge. She had picked the route carefully. The rock overhung the gorge for some considerable distance and made the dry wadi in the bottom invisible from the air. She had outdistanced her pursuers behind her and was now safe from discovery by aerial reconnaissance. She was going to make it.
One woman and the might of the famous 82 ^ nd Airborne Division, and she was going to triumph.
She entered the gorge and felt the protection of the rock above fold over her. The sky was blotted out.
'Where?' said Gannon.
Palmer indicated the spot on the map.
'Fitzduane know?'
'Airborne, sir,' said Palmer.
Gannon walked away from the map. Weather conditions were lousy and the wind was higher than he liked. But this damn terrorist was the core of all this bloodshed, and there was nothing worse than a mission half done. Politicians liked to call a halt before the job was finished, but about the only good thing he could find to think about the Devil's Footprint and the Tecuno plateau was that there were absolutely no politicians around.
'What do the air force say?' said Gannon.
'You know the C130 jocks,' said Palmer. 'Anywhere, anytime.'
'Let's do it,' said Gannon. He walked toward the door. Behind him, Palmer was already on the radio passing the word.
The C130's were going hot. Inside, paratroopers were racked like peas in a pod. The dirty yellow sand of the Tecuno plateau filled the air as the four turboprops cut in.
Gannon missed the red earth of North Carolina. FortBragg was not everyone's idea of the place to be, but if you wore a maroon beret it was something special. Soon someone else would get the division, and hell, he was going to miss the place. Jumping out of perfectly good aircraft was just something that got in your blood.
Gannon turned around. 'Dave?' he said.
'Sir?' said Palmer.
'Last jump you made you never quite got around to putting on your ‘chute,' said Gannon. 'How would you like to make one the old-fashioned way – like we taught you?'
Colonel Dave Palmer grinned. 'Nor sure I remember, General.'
'Let's go,' said Gannon. 'I'll remind you on the way down.'
Kitted out, Gannon and Palmer waddles up the ramp.
Black and green faces stared at them.
Gannon scanned them. They looked frightening. God knows why you would want to love these aggressive young people, but he did. They kept the MPs run off their feet, drank like camels, turned Fayetteville into something out of the Wild West, and fucked anything that moved.
But they kept the faith. Not too many people seemed to do that these days. His gaze stopped at one face that did not normally belong.
'Padre,' he said.
'General,' said the padre. Under the camouflage he was looking decidedly guilty. He had not been rostered.
Gannon studied him. 'Just remember to catch Colonel Palmer,' he said.
'Airborne, General,' said the padre with relief.
'When he hits the ground,' said Gannon.
'HOOAH, SIR!' said the padre and a planeload of paratroops.
The ramps came up. The C130s rolled.
The copilot got out of his seat reluctantly but without demur. The two-man Kiowa Warrior crews were a tight
