mature man should have gotten over such feelings. The Chief was glad he still had some way to go.
Lonsdale lived five miles out of town in a valley that the local Indians considered sacred. He had built his own house in an as-yet-undeveloped area, but had consulted the local medicine men before commencing construction. They had consulted the spirits and then recommended a series of purification ceremonies that lasted on and off for a month. The rituals did not come free. Lonsdale did not break ground until they were completed.
'Did the ceremonies work?' said Fitzduane.
They were sitting on the raised deck of the house. A bloodred sun was setting in the V formed by the walls of the valley. The red rock glowed as if on fire. It was not hard to see why the Indians considered the location sacred. There was a special, almost spiritual quality about the place, and it was more than beautiful. It was spectacular. It was also isolated. The nearest neighbor was more than two miles away in the next valley.
Lonsdale grinned. 'Sure.' Earlier on he had raised the subject of Kathleen, and Fitzduane had frozen. The look in the man's eyes had said it all. Now Lonsdale steered the conversation to safer subjects. The man was on autopilot. He could function as long as he did not think of her except when absolutely necessary.
The Chief made a gesture encompassing the house. It was a large two-story adobe dwelling surrounded by a high wall that fit nearly perfectly into the landscape. In terms of the basic comforts it was completely modern, but externally it would not have seemed out of place when Arizona was part of Mexico. In truth, it was more like a small fort than a house.
'The last man to try building in this valley,' continued Lonsdale, 'dismissed the Indians' objections as superstition and an attempt at extortion. Medicine men don't perform their ceremonies for free.'
'So what happened to him?' said Fitzduane.
'He was overseeing the clearing of the site when the bulldozer cut into a nest of snakes. One moment he was standing there shouting directions, and the next he was flat on his back on the ground under a whole mess of writhing snakes. They had antitoxin, but he was way beyond that. He was dead within minutes. They say he was bitten more than fifty times and most of his face was torn off. He had no eyes by the time they were finished and his skin was black from the venom.'
'Nice story,' said Fitzduane dryly, looking out over the unspoiled valley, 'but I doubt it will do much for the real estate market around here.'
'I hope not,' said Lonsdale. 'I like the solitude. This really is God's country. I would surely hate to see it spoiled. Snakes are one effective way to keep the crowds down.'
'I hope you keep your medicine men sweet,' said Fitzduane. 'And the local snakes. I would not be at all surprised to find they can be one and the same.'
Lonsdale laughed. 'We have an accommodation,' he said.
As the sun sank, a line of shadow crept up the burning walls of the valley until eventually only the rim glowed a fiery red. Fitzduane was reminded of the contrast between molten lava as it emerged brilliant and glowing from the earth's interior, and its appearance when it faded to a dull patina as it cooled.
Then suddenly the sun was gone. There was a brief afterglow, and then that was gone too. The night skies of northern Arizona were, if anything, even more dramatic.
Fitzduane thought of his thirteenth-century Norman ancestor and the rain-sodden little Irish island he had made his own, and wondered why the man hadn't taken ship and headed west for a modest five thousand miles.
After they had eaten, Fitzduane went through the plan in some detail. Lonsdale listened intently. Special operations had been his whole world for most of his adult life, and it was part of the special-forces tradition that a plan was rarely imposed.
The process was not so much democratic as pragmatic. Enemy fire was no respecter of rank, and the best special-forces troops were risk averse. Unnecessary-risk averse.
'Why not helicopters?' said Lonsdale. 'You get in fast. You get out fast. And obstacles like perimeter fences and minefields don't mean a fucking thing. You envelop the enemy.'
Fitzduane nodded. Heliborne operations were synonymous with the U.S. military, and since the Iranian fiasco, many of the traditional objections to helicopters, such as mechanical unreliability, had been overcome. Still, they were not the only way to mount a raid.
'Quintana had organized his defenses based upon two threats,' he said. 'An attack by the Mexican Army or some kind of helicopter-borne raid. Well, the Mexican army could try and invade. Based upon their strengths, that would almost certainly mean a traditional ground-based attack spearheaded by armor and supported by artillery. To counter that, Quintana has armor and artillery of his own smuggled in from Eastern Europe, and he has the terrain on his side. You can only get up to the plateau where the oil is through a small number of passes, and they are easy to defend.
'Now, the Mexicans do have some paratroops, but not any quantity and they suffer from the classic weakness of many airborne forces. They are too lightly equipped. If they drop onto the plateau, they are going to be cut to pieces by Quintana's army. Mexican airborne are not like the U.S. with their own built-in helicopter and other support – not to mention air supremacy and the might of the U.S. Air Force. These guys just don't have the firepower. Further, they don't have the expertise. Mexico has not fought a modern war.'
'None of that is an argument against a heliborne raid by us,' said Lonsdale. He grinned. 'And we surely have the practice.'
Fitzduane took note of the us. Reiko Oshima was unfinished business and the Chief of Police, despite his beautiful surroundings, was bored. And there was another element that would cement the deal. Lonsdale had been much taken by Chifune.
'Quintana and his people are no fools,' said Fitzduane. 'The other obvious threat is a helicopter assault. Indeed, that is exactly what they are expecting and have already experienced. The DEA mounted a black antinarcotic operation there about a year ago and it went horribly wrong. Quintana has invested heavily in radar and handheld missiles. There is perimeter defense around the plateau and a second line of defense at the airfield and the Devil's Footprint. You've got to remember that this kind of equipment is easy to get these days from the East, and it is not even that expensive.'
Lonsdale got up to throw a log on the fire. He turned around and spoke. 'You fly low and fast and, most likely, you'll get through the outer screen. That's a big perimeter they have to watch. If you are contour flying they'll lose you in the ground clutter. As to the targets themselves, if you stay low, they probably won't pick you up either.'
'Helicopters might work,' Fitzduane admitted. 'But what we are talking about is what is likely to work best. And there are a few more objections to choppers.
'First, even when the noise is suppressed, they remain noisy bloody things. Second, they are vulnerable to ground fire. A rifle can take out a helicopter. Third, they are complex mechanically and require one hell of a logistics tail. Fourth, whether or not we get in undetected, no one is going to miss the actual arrival of two or more helicopters, so when we would try and leave, we would be sitting ducks. Remember, Quintana is expecting helicopters, so that is what he has geared up for. The place is stiff with SAMs.'
Lonsdale grinned ruefully. 'And finally, this is not an officially sanctioned U.S. government operation whereby we can have whatever supporting firepower we need. There will be no close-air support on call up there. Okay. I get the picture.'
'The essence of what I am proposing is stealth,' said Fitzduane. 'We fly in real low in two C130s equipped with contour-following radar and ECM equipment. As you've said, there is a good chance we won't get picked up, but even if we are, the electronic countermeasures will scramble the radar screens for the necessary few seconds. Then the Guntracks get pulled out by LAPES at twenty feet or less. Next, the aircraft pop up to two-fifty feet and we jump. Then down they go again and head for home.'
'Two hundred and fifty feet is goddamn low, Hugo,' said Lonsdale. 'Where I come from, five hundred feet scarcely gives you enough time to scratch your crotch. Any lower and you start digging holes in the ground.'
