fence off each open end, and that is exactly what our friends have done. The first valley holds the terrorist base and the second valley, nominally the site of a top-secret oil-extraction process – so it is full of pipes and process plat – is what they are guarding.'
'And what is that?' said Kilmara.
Fitzduane spread his hands. 'I don't know,' he said. 'Theories abound. I have heard everything from a missile site to a biological weapons production facility. When I next see pigs flying I could even believe it to be that much-referred to oil extraction process. Personally, I don't much care. I am going down there to get Kathleen back and wipe out some people who really do not do much for the advancement of the human condition. If there is a third leg to the mission. All I can say is that I hope we can do it fast, because it is not going to be healthy to stick around.'
Kilmara poured himself a mug of straight black coffee. There had been a time when both men would have mortally wounded a bottle of Irish whiskey over an evening's talking, but Fitzduane was no longer much of a drinker and his sobriety was catching. Also, there was much to think through, and a reasonably clear head helped. He stood up and stretched. 'I need some air, Hugo,' he said.
Fitzduane opened the sliding doors and both men stood on the balcony. Fitzduane found he was quite affected by the Iwo Jima memorial each time he saw it. It had not just become an everyday part of the view from the apartment. It touched something in him. Life was the way it was – imperfect but still precious – because some people, always a minority, were willing to risk all.
'The paradox,' said Kilmara, as if reading his mind, 'is that the other side have beliefs and values and dedicated people too. We have patriots and they have fanatics. They are both two sides of the same coin. The only distinction is that we think they are wrong.'
Fitzduane laughed. 'A rather important distinction,' he said.
Kilmara grinned. 'Yeah, that's my conclusion when I get philosophical, and it doesn't hurt that I believe it. Love for your fellow man is all very well and has to be the better way, but until Utopia arrives after the talking stops, there will always be a need to hold the line. And that's what people like those marines did and do.'
'Fortunately for us,' said Fitzduane quietly.
Fortunately for us, thought Kilmara, looking at Fitzduane. Fitzduane caught the look and smiled. 'You got me into all this, Shane,' he said.
Kilmara shook his head. 'It was always there, Hugo. Blame your ancestors. A willingness to serve: It's something that is bred into you.'
Fitzduane leaned on the railings and gazed out over Washington. 'Quite a country,' he said with feeling. 'I love the place, the land, the energy, many of the structures, and the sense that in the U.S. anything is possible. But some pundits argue that America's day is over and that power is now gravitating inexorably toward Asia or some other axis. Think so, Shane?'
Kilmara was looking again at the Iwo Jima memorial.
'We're both Irish,' he said, 'and these days we are both European, but the reality is that America is us. We are all of a piece and we are not going to go away.'
He turned to Fitzduane. 'Hugo,' he said firmly. 'You're going to get Kathleen back. But don't get killed. Do what you have to and then get the hell out. We have enough dead heroes.'
Fitzduane smiled. 'Deal!' he said.
They went back inside.
Fitzduane slept for several hours and then he woke.
It was still dark, but he could not sleep. He put on some running gear and jogged down to the Iwo Jima memorial. Somehow it seemed to bring comfort.
He was thinking of Kathleen. Was she really where he thought she was? Could he really bring her back? Were his plans the best that could be devised? Was there an alternative strategy? Should he go in with helicopters, as everyone else had recommended? Was it all as impossible as some had argued?
Endless doubts coursed through his mind. He was not just putting his own life at risk. Apart from the C130 pilots and crew, he was taking with him fourteen others. All of those people had their own relationships and dependents, and it was near certain that some would die. This was too dangerous a mission for all to get through unscathed. Life was not like that. Had he the right to get other people killed and to wreck other lives?
He walked slowly around the memorial. Such self-doubt, he knew, was futile. In the end you did your best and lived or died with the consequences. And that was all you could do. But above all, you had to try.
Dawn was coming. Could Kathleen see the sky as he could, or was she held chained and blindfolded like so many hostages? Was she alive at all?
At first he had been so horrified and angered by her kidnapping that it had taken all his self-control not to head down to Mexico and just do what he could. But that would have been futile and he knew it. The initial shock and fury had passed. Now there was just a cold anger that stayed with him every waking hour and an absolute determination to get Kathleen back.
He stood back and looked at the marines raising the flag on Mount Suribachi. He was sure it had not been quite as depicted, but he was equally sure it was close enough.
He raised his hand in a silent salute and went jogging toward ArlingtonCemetery.
Behind him his shadow ran easily, ever watchful. Dana had been strangely touched by what she had seen. It was not his country, but he still seemed to care.
She had lost her partner. She was not going to lose her charge. And when the mission was mounted she was going to be damn sure she was on it. Texas had been the best of people and the closest of friends, and her killing was not going to go unpunished. She smiled as she cried. Texas had been good fun, too. Outrageous sometimes, humorous practically always.
She thought ArlingtonNationalCemetery at dawn was the most beautiful place she had ever seen. It should be somehow sad, given all the dead and the memories they evoked, but it was not. It was magnificent.
Fitzduane ran steadily toward a tombstone not too far from the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Then he stopped beside the tombstone, took something out of his pocket, and placed it on the base. Next he stepped back and stood with his head bowed for a good ten minutes.
After he had left, Dana checked the headstone:
JAMES N. “NICK” ROWE
COLONEL U.S. ARMY
Then she remembered. This grave had particular significance for special forces. The inscription closed with the stark line:
KILLED BY TERRORISTS, MANILA
Fitzduane had left an Irish Rangers shoulder patch on the base, held in place by a small stone. The rituals of warriors before battle, Dana thought. We think we have changed, but we have not. We prepare, we draw strength from our heroes, we pay our dues, and then we fight. Ancient Roman, Norman knight, or twentieth-century special forces. Different causes, different customs, different weapons, but when it came to facing the reality of combat, common traditions.
11
Fitzduane flew into Phoenix, picked up a rented Ford Bronco, and drove north and east.
He had debated phoning rather than making the trip, but he rationalized that if he was going to ask Al to put his life on the line it was something he had better do face-to-face.
In reality, he was desperate for a change of environment. The mission was coming together, but Washington was one long reminder of Kathleen. He needed space and a chance to get some perspective.
He was heading for the newly incorporated city of Medora, population all of 5,648. It was about three hours' steady driving time from Phoenix. He could have rented a light aircraft and flow the last hop, but he had mixed
