more than seven feet long.
'You start off with the A10 Thunderbolt tank-busting aircraft,' he said. 'The Warthog. As you know, it's a slow-flying, rather ugly aircraft built around a huge multibarreled Gatling-gun that fires uranium-depleted rounds the size of milk bottles that go right through armor. Ground troops love it because it can stay in the battle zone for hours. Rumor has it the USAAF aren't too keen on it because it's slow and lacks avionics and they are not too fond of CAS – close-air support – in the first place.
'The upshot is that the A10 is being phased out. That means that a load of their GAU-8A Avenger guns are becoming available.'
Kilmara made a gesture. 'But that's a huge weapon,' he said. 'It's – I don't know – twenty feet long and weighs as much as a Cadillac.' He pointed at the weapon on the Guntrack. 'I don't get the connection.'
'Think laterally,' said Fitzduane agreeably. 'That's what a man called Bob Dilger did. I guess it helped that he had been behind the A10 gun program in the first place. Anyway, he had the idea of taking just one barrel out of the seven and a simple six-shot, clip-fed breech and making a much simpler anti-armor weapon. Now you've got Dilger's Baby. It's the size you see, it weighs under a hundred pounds without mount, and it's deadly accurate. Ballistically it is remarkable. The projectile hits 1.9 kilometers a second, and up to two kilometers the trajectory is damn near flat. Armed with a laser sight it will substantially outrange any Soviet tanks short of the very latest models. Add Shanley's thermal gizmos and night becomes day. A single shot can plow through five feet of reinforced concrete or make the Fourth of July out of armor.'
Kilmara was taking a folded checklist out of his map pocket. 'It has come to a pretty pass when a cheap high-speed plastic box like the Guntrack can take out heavy armor.'
Fitzduane smiled. 'I don't know what it is, but there is something about a tank that makes people want to shoot at it. Thanks to technology, now they can. I expect people felt much the same about armored knights and bows and arrows.'
He indicated the front gunner's seat.
Kilmara climbed in. He had ridden in all three crew positions quite a few times before, but always on testing and exercises. The knowledge that they were now preparing for a combat mission was a sharp reality check.
He put on the proffered helmet and plugged in the intercom. The helmet fit. A tag tied to the chin strap had listed his name. Hugo was like that.
The Guntrack purred almost silently into life. Early models had sounded like sports cars and had emitted the same exhilarating engine growls. Good for the adrenaline and bad for the life span. Now Guntracks were very, very quiet. And even that, in Fitzduane's opinion, was too noisy. Sound tended to travel at night, and that was when special-operations people, like vampires, mostly functioned best also. The idea was not to be seen – or heard.
Ten minutes later, Kilmara had gotten the point. The Guntrack had air brakes and hydraulics. They hissed to a halt.
Kilmara was contemplative. It had been a wild ride and the targets had snapped up without warning.
From exhilaration to absolute threat in maybe a tenth of a second. Maybe less.
'It's – it's different,' he said.
Fitzduane looked across. It had only been minutes, but his face was strained from concentration and when he took off the helmet his hair was matted with sweat. 'We practiced in Ireland amidst the rocks and rain and mud,' he said. 'Hard to get up serious speed. And there was not the same urgency. This terrain is hot and dry and will soon be the real thing. That adds a certain dimension. It is more like flying a fighter in World War Two. It's fast and you don't too often have a second chance. And you end up drained and exhausted and dying for a pint of beer.'
'Or dead,' said Kilmara exhaustedly. 'Probably from a heart attack.' He climbed out of the Guntrack unsteadily.
Sergeant Hawkins was staring, fascinated. There was a pronounced delay, and then her hand snapped up in a salute. Kilmara was a general and he had reappeared. Which was something of a surprise.
The whole thing had been so incredibly fast and yet had gone on for so long. Could people really maneuver and fight this way? It was a hell of a thing to see.
She snapped her hand down and glanced discreetly at her watch. Only ten fucking minutes! Unreal!
'You're still too vulnerable from the air,' said Kilmara. 'You've got Stingers, and they're fine if you are static, but if you're on the move and get strafed you want something heavier than the 5.56mm Ultimaxs you've mounted that will really persuade a pilot to keep his distance if he doesn't want to fly right into a buzz saw. My suggestion is that you mount a GECAL. 50 as the standoff weapon on at least one Guntrack. Use the three-barrel version and you can get off two-thousand rounds an minute if you're feeling sociable.'
Fitzduane's eyebrows had both risen. A GECAL. 50 was a Gatling gun designed originally for aircraft use. He did not doubt its effectiveness but was far from sure it could be mounted on a Guntrack. 'Surely, it would be too heavy,' he said.
'Well under a hundred pounds,' said Kilmara. 'As to ammunition, you will have to work that out. The problem with GECALs is keeping them fed. But you have that NATO pallet on the back of each Guntrack, and we put in load-carrying capacity for a reason.'
'I'll look at it,' said Fitzduane. 'Subject to time.'
There really was not much time. He was operating on the minimum time necessary to do the job right the first time.
He had allowed three weeks. Twenty-one days to plan, assemble equipment, recruit, train, and rehearse to such a level of perfection that when they hit they would not fail.
They could not fail. It was far too long to his mind, but there was so much to be done and he knew that for the duration of this mission his head must rule his heart. Every emotional feeling made him want to throw together an ad hoc mission and go storming in by helicopter, but all his experience dictated that such an approach had a high chance of failure. That was exactly what the opposition would expect and had taken precautions against. He had to find another way, even if it took longer.
He felt he was letting Kathleen down.
It was tearing him apart.
Surprisingly little showed.
Kilmara swung back into the Humvee.
Sergeant Hawkeye looked across at him. He had expected the inquiry. Fitzduane seemed to have that effect. Women almost always did ask about him, even when it was a need-to-know operation and such a question was most decidedly out of line.
'Who was that man, sir?' she said. 'The colonel? The one you called Hugo?'
'The rules say its none of your business, Sergeant,' said Kilmara.
'I know, sir,' said Hawkeye quietly. 'But I don't often see men like that. He seemed exceptional and maybe a little sad. Is that the way it is, sir?'
'He was my pupil once and he is my friend now, and I guess that is the way it is,' said Kilmara heavily. 'Life has a habit of screwing up the best-laid plans.'
'Amen to that,' said the sergeant fervently, and Kilmara looked at her and wondered.
Then the Humvee's suspension cut in and the General had more immediate and painful concerns on his mind.
It was late when Fitzduane and Kilmara got back from the Aberdeen Proving Grounds to the apartment in Arlington.
Fitzduane made Kilmara an Irish coffee. He took his black and straight. Kilmara sprawled with relief in one of the armchairs. Fitzduane sat on the edge of his chair nursing his coffee mug. It was near midnight.
'Still no news?' inquired Kilmara cautiously but with the privilege of an old friend.
He had delayed asking earlier. Fitzduane was wound tight as a drum but seemed to be controlling himself by shutting down unnecessary thoughts of Kathleen. He rarely mentioned her name and was focused almost coldly on the mission. Kilmara could almost feel the tension building up day by day, but he knew from experience that Fitzduane had the stamina to stay in control as long as was necessary. Eventually there would be a catharsis, an
