'It's a two-seater even with the FLIR,' said Calvin. 'That means I have up to about two hundred pounds to play with. That's ten RAW projectiles, an Ultimax, and a forty-millimeter pump-action grenade-launcher – with room to spare. That is serious grief from the sky, and the sat photos show aircraft parked out in the open. They have no hardened bunkers. No need, they think. There is supposed to be no threat around here. Only the devil walks in these parts, and he's a friend.'
Fitzduane smiled. 'Very droll, Calvin.'
He considered the proposition and then called in the others for discussion. Since Calvin's arrival, the team had become rather attached to their eye in the sky and were not sure they wanted it put at risk. On the other hand, armed helicopters were not a pleasant prospect.
Fitzduane made the decision. If Calvin was in position over the airstrip when the ground attack went in, he should be back in time for the exfiltration. His little machine could go at over a mile a minute when the sound suppressor was not switched on.
'Go for it, Calvin,' he said, and explained. Calvin nodded.
Final preparations were made, and for the first time miniature headsets were worn. Radio silence disciplines had been absolute so far and would continue until the assault. But Fitzduane had weighed the options. The advantages of instant communication between team members during the actual assault outweighed the risks of the signals being overheard. In addition, the transmissions were encrypted. An eavesdropper would hear something that would sound like static.
There was a last equipment check. Watches were synchronized. It was a moonless night, but the sky was cloudless and a canopy of stars ensured just enough light to make the passive night-vision goggles fully effective. It would not have mattered if the darkness had been absolute. Shanley's company's thermal driving aids had become second nature.
Calvin, again dressed like the Penguin, took off.
Fitzduane made a hand signal, which was passed on from Guntrack to Guntrack.
The column moved off toward the target.
In a few hours, thought Shanley, I am going to have to kill another human being. I don't care what they have done. I cannot be judge, jury, and executioner. The others can do it. They are professionals. Even Lee Cochrane served in Vietnam. I cannot do it. In Fayetteville, it was self-defense and I did not have time to think.
Here I have plenty of time to think, and I know I cannot do this. I have never served.
If I can, if my body does not betray me, I will try to do everything that is required of me – but I will not kill. I cannot. Let the others take life.
I have not served.
Guilt and fear ran raw through him. He had thought it would be like the endless training. The careful preparation, the long periods of waiting, the excitement of the impending assault, the adrenaline rush, and then action.
This was superficially just like that in many ways. The same people, the same equipment, the same feel of the Guntrack's suspension as it leveled the appalling terrain. But inwardly, inside his very being, he felt entirely different.
The certainty was gone. It was as if the skills that had given him so much confidence had evaporated and every last defense stripped away. Now there was nothing but terror and overwhelming self-doubt.
I have abandoned my family for nothing. I cannot do this thing. I will let down my comrades. I will die here in Mexico to no purpose.
Why me? Why now?
I am afraid beyond the very meaning of fear.
The Devil's Footprint
The guard on the main gate of the Devil's Footprint valley known as ‘Salvador’ looked at his watch.
Time seemed to have slowed its tempo. It was an occupational hazard on guard duty and especially so in this mind-numbingly dull part of the world. Nothing ever happened. The main defenses were on the perimeter of the plateau hundreds of kilometers away, and the immediate area was deserted. It was scarcely surprising. Who, in their right mind, would want to live in this hellhole?
He had come on duty at midnight, only an hour ago if he was to believe the evidence of his watch, but is seemed like an eternity, a particularly cold eternity. The Devil's Footprint was not only 3,800 feet up on the plateau, but it was in the foothills of the Tecuno mountains and every foot of additional height seemed to make a difference for the worse. The high desert at night was cold enough. Throw in some altitude and it was downright uncomfortable. In his opinion, the location was well-named. It was fit only for the devil.
It was too cold at night and too hot during the day, and the ground was harsh and arid and stony and brutal on boots, and there were far too many things around that bit, like flies and scorpions and snakes and lizards. Frankly, why the base was located here was beyond him. Still, no one had asked him his opinion or seemed likely to. As a mercenary, he got paid but not consulted.
'Hey, Ahmed,' he called.
Ahmed grunted. He was sitting in the turret of the T55 tank that blocked the camp entrance at night. He was marginally more comfortable than his colleague, since he had a woolly hat his wife had knitted him on his head and was well bundled up and gaining some benefit from a small oil heater inside the tank; but his main distraction came from the pornographic Japanese comic book he was looking at.
Manga, they called such things. He had traded a stack from one of the Yaibo fanatics in exchange for hash.
'Ahmed,' repeated the gate guard. Ahmed raised his head from the comic book and as he did so pieces of his skull seemed to detach themselves from his head. They could be seen like bloody snow reflecting in the gate floodlights, except that they flew sideways. And there was no snow.
The guard's mouth dropped open and then he, too, crumpled. His body twitched as it lay on the ground and a further burst tore into it.
Black-clad figures ran forward, and a split second later the Yaibo guard on the inner perimeter lay lifeless on his back.
Two black figures entered the guardroom where six off-duty guards were sleeping.
It took seven seconds.
The entire group were now at the base of the Yaibo barracks. An orange light glowed in one window where the duty radio operator sat; otherwise the place was in darkness.
There was a hand signal and a faint click as the power supply to the building was severed. Seconds later, the radio operator came out swearing under his breath. He had been practically asleep. He had assumed it was that fucking generator again, but then he saw that the perimeter lights were on, and anyway he could hear the bloody thing thumping. It must be a main fuse.
He started to turn just as his mouth and nose were clamped and his head pulled back. His own momentum helped to do the work of the blade. Dead, his heart was still pumping as he was lowered to the ground. The only sound was a slight gurgle.
The assault group split into two three-person teams and entered the two floors simultaneously.
Fitzduane was positioned on the reverse slope of a low ridge facing the entrance to the main camp.
The two temporarily abandoned vehicles of the assault group were concealed nearby. To retrieve them the crews would have to cross the perimeter road. During the day, when it was well traveled, that would be risky, but this time of night there should be no problem.
Fitzduane watched the assault teams go in with mixed feelings.
A special-forces assault bestrode a fine line between recklessness and audacity, and being forced to let other people spearhead the action while he remained in reserve did not please him. On the other hand, the people he had selected were younger and better qualified for the particular tasks involved, and a commander's job was to look at
