The Blockhouse Above The Devil's Footprint,
Tecuno, Mexico
Shanley watched through filtered PNV goggles as Al Lonsdale emerged on the inside of the electric fence.
Despite their equipment and hindered by the requirement for absolute silence, tunneling under it had proved to be harder and to take longer than expected. What had appeared like sandy ground had degenerated into rock, and they had been forced to hunt for another location.
Seconds later, Dana Felton emerged and Shanley passed through the Clucas pole in sections. The Clucas had been designed for Britain's SBS – Special Boat Service – marine commando unit as a way of covertly climbing onto ships from an assault boat below. It consisted of a central shaft of light, strong alloy with short steps protruding on either side. It could be up to fifty-four feet long and was much faster to climb than a rope ladder.
Shanley could see headlights. He sank back to the ground, and Al and Dana did the same. A minute later the guard jeep with its crew of four and mounting a heavy machine gun passed by, headlights blazing and occupants chatting away.
They are bored out of their minds and the lights and the fence give an illusion of security, thought Shanley. The form and the substance – the split between the two was a curious paradox in the military world. People still only went through the motions, even when their very lives were at stake. It was the ‘It can't happen to me’ syndrome, and it was the friend of special forces the world over.
Al Lonsdale and Dana rose from the ground and, making every use of the terrain and keeping to the shadows, moved towards the reinforced concrete observation post that commanded the two valleys below. Even with his night-vision equipment and knowing they were there, Shanley found it very hard to follow them. Mostly there was more the faintest impression of movement than a hard image.
When they came to the base of the post, they vanished.
They will now be moving around to the base on the other side, thought Shanley. Seconds later, three clicks and then one sounded in his earpiece.
Keeping well under cover, he picked up a lamp and pointed it at the observation post and shouted in Japanese. It was not a language he spoke, but he had parrot-learned a few phrases. Seconds later, a searchlight swung in his direction and he ducked right down as the beam moved toward him.
'What's up? What did you see?' said the startled second guard on the blockhouse roof. He spoke in Spanish. Numb with boredom and the chill of the night, he had two blankets wrapped around him and had been almost asleep when his companion had cried out.
'I saw a headlight,' said the first guard, 'and then someone shouted in Japanese. It sounds like the yo-yos are playing games out there.' Relations between the Japanese Yaibo terrorists and the mainly Mexican mercenary force were not cordial.
'Well, fuck ‘em,' said his companion. 'They should know better. Give them a burst and teach them to behave. It'll liven things up.'
The first guard swung the 12.7mm heavy machine gun around. It was sorely tempting, but Yaibo were supposed to be their allies, and shooting up a group who had got lost on some exercise would not look like such fun in the light of day. He decided to play it safe and call the guardhouse.
He was reaching for the telephone as the burst from Al Lonsdale's silenced Calico struck him in the back. The 10mm armor-piercing rounds plowed effortlessly through his Russian-made flak jacket.
His companion fell at the same time Dana fired. Seconds later, the two members of Shadow Two had descended into the floor below where eight other members of the duty section lay sleeping.
It did not take long. They checked the bodies, switched the current off the electric fence, and ascended to the roof again.
Shanley watched with growing concern as the lights of the duty jeep came closer. The jeep, in the normal scheme of things, was not due back for another fifteen minutes, so he could only assume that the blockhouse had called them up to investigate the mysterious light. Bloody hell, it was an obvious move with hindsight, but actually one they had not anticipated. There was always something staring you in the face that you missed. As Brick had once remarked, life was a monument to mankind's fuckups.
'The blockhouse is secure,' said Al Lonsdale's voice in his earpiece. This was technically correct and though on the open net primarily for Fitzduane's benefit, Shanley meanwhile had a jeepload of Mexican mercenaries bearing down on him.
What to do? It had to be done virtually silently. A shout would not attract attention in either of the camps below, but unsilenced gunshots were another matter.
He would have to take out the four before they could respond. This was what he had trained for. It could be done.
'Take them out – kill them.'
Kill four perfect strangers. Take the lives of four human beings as peremptorily as one might swat a fly.
He broke out in a sweat.
I cannot kill. I will not kill. Let the others take life.
He had known this moment would come, and yet he had no idea how he would respond. It was not an issue you could resolve in a vacuum. This was not a theoretical debate. This was not an exercise. Albeit for reasons he considered valid, this was the slaughter of sentient human beings. It was immoral. It was wrong. It was something he could not do – would not do.
The guard jeep slowed to a halt.
It was the other side of the double fence and past him by about ten meters. At the most they were fifteen meters away from his position and looking away from him.
Two dismounted from the jeep and went to look more closely. The driver and the machine gunner remained in position.
Shanley faced with the immediate reality, no longer rationalized.
Reflex took over and basic survival instinct took over – and something more. A determination not to let his people down. They were not perfect. Some he did not even like.
Not important. They were a team. There was a shared purpose, shared loyalties, shared experiences. They were his people. Better yet, even those he did not warm to were his comrades. They were his friends.
He fired four quick, silent bursts and then a further burst at the machine gunner who was still alive. Black blood fountained from the man's throat as the second burst hit him, and he fell over the pintle mount, his arms seeming to reach out toward the wire.
'Blockhouse power off,' said a voice in his ear. 'The wire is tame.'
Shanley cut his way through the fences and drove the Guntrack toward the blockhouse.
Al Lonsdale had watched the entire exchange through high-powered vision equipment. He reached down a helping hand as Shanley climbed the Clucas pole. 'Welcome aboard,' he said.
Dana smiled at Shanley as he stepped on the OP roof. It was a quiet smile, but it said all that was needed. Shanley thought he was going to be sick, but then things seemed to come into focus and he looked at Al Lonsdale and nodded. 'Yeah,' he said. 'No problems.'
'I should hope not,' said Lonsdale with a slight smile.
Then they all heard the same transmission. It came from Brick Stephens, who was on road watch.
'More guests at the party, boss,' said Stephens, his voice quiet but clear, his remark directed specifically at Fitzduane. 'Tanks, APCs and trucked troops on the perimeter road and heading north towards us. ETA five to ten minutes. They are moving fairly fast. The sound was blanketed by the hill, but you'll be able to hear them now.'
Shadow Two, the strongpoint commanding the two valleys below them now secure, looked south at the new arrivals. A quick estimate suggested a battalion-size force.
No matter how you looked at it, it was not a visit from the tooth fairy.
