Victor O'Reilly - The Devil's footprint

However, there were some situations where immediate military logic did not come into it and overall unit pride was considered more important. In the 82 ^ nd officers led from the front, and that meant the General Mike Gannon jumped at the head of his troops.

Palmer sweated as he watched the terrorist base transform itself. Within five minutes of the cessation of the bombing, dozens of new fighting positions had appeared as top cover was pulled away, and there looked to be several hundred smaller fighting holes.

For the moment, his focus was entirely on antiaircraft defenses, particularly SAMS and heavy machine guns. Data flowed in, and after it was plotted and assigned a targeting number, the mission was passed to a killing team.

Palmer was soon convinced that virtually all the hidden antiaircraft defenses had now been plotted, but the final test was about to come. Any missiles or gun positions still hidden were certain to be revealed when the attacking aircraft were actually overhead. Far below him he watched the first flight approach the airfield. The radar showed them flying low, straight, and level, as they had to do to effect an accurate drop.

The approach to a drop zone was always the most dangerous part of an airborne operation. For those brief few moments, the aircraft were exposed and vulnerable and the paratroopers inside – laden with the tools of killing though they were – were entirely helpless.

As he watched, missiles streaked up from the airfield and first one and then another and then most of the first flight were hit. Explosions lit up the sky and pieces of flaming aircraft cascaded toward the ground.

He felt ill as he watched. In his mind he was hooked up, ready to jump. He could see the jump light switch from red to green and feel the slap of the jumpmaster on his shoulder. "GO!"

He shook his head and looked across to his air force opposite number.

"Now?" said the colonel.

"Now," said Palmer.

A single phrase went out to the prepositioned air assets. Two aircraft had been assigned to each air defense position, and there were further aircraft in reserve to pick up any slack. Kiowa Warriors hovered hidden behind rocks or in folds in the ground, only their mast sights protruding.

"ACTIVATE BARRACUDA! ACTIVATE BARRACUDA!"

"The radar screens have all gone blank again," said Carranza. "I don't understand it. A moment ago we could see the aircraft coming in two by two like cattle into a slaughterhouse – and now there is nothing."

"We are being jammed, sir," said one of the operators at the console.

"Then why didn't they jam earlier?" said Carranza. "Why allow us to see their aircraft as they approach and then jam us after most of them have been destroyed? It makes no sense."

Oshima was looking at a blank monitor. The cameras overlooking the supergun valley showed total normality. Elsewhere, the airfield flickered with dozens of fires from falling aircraft debris. As she looked, she could see her troops moving out from their fighting positions to examine the wreckage and round up any paratroopers left alive.

Oddly enough, she could not see any parachutes on the ground, and there certainly should have been some there by now. Were they set on fire by falling debris? Had they fallen outside the perimeter? Well, it was an oddity but of no major concern. It was probably more to do with the cameras. They gave a good overall picture of the airfield, but they were no substitute for direct vision.

Carranza had been listening to reports from the units on the surface. Initial reports were vastly encouraging and confirmed what the monitors had shown. The antiaircraft crews had enjoyed major success. Nine out of the initial dozen aircraft had been totally destroyed in a couple of minutes.

Carranza tried to remember how many paratroops fit into a C130. Something like sixty, he thought. The total destroyed equated to the best part of a battalion.

His, Carranza's, troops were beating the Americans! What all their might and technology, they could bleed too.

All the monitors except those showing the supergun flickered and then went dull.

The communications operator's face went gray as a further report came in. "Major Carranza," he said. "We have a report from Captain Alonzo. He'd like to speak to you."

Carranza took the phone. "Major," said Alonzo's familiar voice. He was one of the best battalion commanders. Imaginative and cool under pressure. He never flapped.

"Major," said Alonzo dully. "The aircraft that we destroyed…"

"Yes," said Carranza. "A magnificent job. Absolutely magnificent."

There was a pause at the end of the phone. Alonzo was breathing heavily, as if he had been running or was completely stressed out. Either way, it was out of character. Alonzo was calm to the point of deliberateness.

"Yes, Captain," said Carranza impatiently. "What is it?"

"Major, they're drones," said Alonzo. "They're all RPVs."

Carranza's hand holding the phone fell to his side.

"What?" said Oshima impatiently.

Carranza whipped the phone back up to his ear. "Captain, GET BACK UNDER COVER NOW! NOW!"

"CARRANZA!" shouted Oshima. "WHAT IS GOING ON?"

"We've been tricked," said Carranza. "Those aircraft were decoys. Remotely piloted vehicles. Models."

"The radar picture?" said Oshima incredulously.

"We saw what they wanted us to see," said Carranza. "They've been playing with us."

The module suddenly shook, and this time the explosions were virtually continuous. Oshima tried the phones. All were silent except for the supergun. Everywhere else was shut down. The shaking continued. The bombardment seemed without end.

Colonel Dave Palmer checked the targeting display.

Combat at this level was goddamn clinical. You identified targets, selected the best tool to handle the job in much the same manner as choosing a golf club for a tricky shot, and then passed the chosen the details.

The flight leaders muttered, "Roger that, Big Daddy," and that was that.

Minutes – sometimes seconds – later, men died. Some quickly. Some slowly and horribly. The scale of the destruction was vast, the human impact impossible to truly comprehend.

But this was the reality of war. This was what he trained for and this was what he was good at. From 20,000 feet, he could not see the blood or hear the screams. So why was it so much worse at this remove?

"Coffee, sir?" said an air force crewman.

Palmer shook his head. To be sipping coffee while Mike Gannon was slugging it out on the ground seemed wrong.

"Take some," said his air force colleague. The man was looking at him with concern. Palmer nodded and took it.

"The fast movers are out," said a chief at a monitor. "The count is good. One F16 hit, but the pilot reckons he can make it to Arkono. SAMs and triple-A pretty much wiped. The Airborne are going in. Spectres and A10s are working the margins. The Kiowas say the Fourth of July is like nothing compared to what's going on down there. It's a field of fires, sirs."

And the division is jumping right into the middle, thought Palmer. All the goddamn way. Which is the way it should be. But why am I up here out of harm's way when friends are fighting and dying?

Targeting was approached as methodically as possible, but it was an imperfect world.

Palmer had switched his focus to enemy armor deployment when the only heavy missile battery the Barracuda strikes had missed got a lock on the lumbering C141 and blew its left wing off at the root.

With fire spreading throughout the fuselage, the doomed aircraft spiraled erratically toward the ground below.

Desperately, Palmer scrabbled for his ‘chute. There wasn't time to put it on. He broke out of the module and ran for a side door.