Victor O'Reilly - The Devil's footprint

It had been a rational decision to forgo the penetrator bombs, but as the massed wedge of tanks had punched out of the hangar toward them, Fitzduane had second thoughts. Mere flesh and blood seemed woefully inadequate to counter this massed steel killing machine.

He wished the hell the airborne had Guntracks.

He had an enormous urge to flee very fast.

The armored vehicle wedge included vehicle-mounted guided-missile teams. Unless taken out, they would keep the Spectre gunships out of the way. Countering Oshima's surprise was going to be down to the infantry.

Brock was gritting his teeth with frustration. The Scouts were correctly positioned to take the armor from the flanks and rear, but he was under direct orders to do nothing. There was also the reality that they were down to only a handful of AT4s. Still, his two Sheridans were positioned off to the right, and they could have really stirred the pot.

Fitzduane put his Kevlar next to Brock's. The noise of engines, the squeal and rumble of tracks, and the constant gunfire made normal speech impossible. He bellowed, and Brock could just hear.

Fitzduane repeated his orders.

"WHERE THE ARMOR CAME UP, WE CAN GET DOWN!" he bawled. "IF THEY CAN GET TANKS UP, WE CAN GET TANKS DOWN! AS SOON AS THE FUCKS ARE PAST, GET YOUR PET SHERIDANS AND LET'S DO IT. TELL THEM TO USE THE SIDE DOOR!"

Brock nodded and held out his hand for the RT. It was slapped into his hand. "WHAT ABOUT THE TWO KIOWAS?" he shouted.

Fitzduane contemplated the vast hangar. It seemed big enough. "WHY NOT!" he said.

The noise of roaring engines diminished as the last enemy armored vehicle squealed by. Fitzduane had counted forty-seven vehicles in all. He revised his total downward as two of the missile carriers exploded. Lased by Delta from the hangar roof, he conjectured accurately. Still not his war for the moment.

A row of 120mm mortar shells from division burst behind the advancing enemy armor, providing smoke cover for Fitzduane's strike force.

The Scouts poured automatic-weapons fire and 40mm grenades into the hangar. Muzzle flashes identified the opposition.

Laser beams flashed out and painted their targets, to be followed split seconds later by bursts of aimed fire.

The two Kiowas moved up and, hovering only a few feet off the ground, let loose ripple-fired antipersonnel rockets.

The terrorists inside the hangar consisted mainly of mechanics and logistics personnel who had been concentrating on helping the armor attack. They had given almost no thought to defending the hangar itself.

Many were cut down in the Scout's initial fusillade of fire. The Kiowas Hydra rockets killed most of the remainder.

The thirteen survivors ran and died as two Sheridan tanks burst through the side wall with machine guns blazing.

Scouts leapfrogged forward and secured the hangar. As they did so, Delta troopers rappelled down from the roof and reinforced Fitzduane's little army.

As he shook hands with the first one and smelled the bird droppings, Brock sniffed and made a face. "What the fuck?" he said. "We'll gas ‘em out."

Ten seconds later, the shaped charge blew and the huge armored door that concealed the ramp in the floor fell away. The Sheridans fired into the cavern below and were joined by the two Kiowas, who were now firing their rockets from inside the hangar. A second shaped charge went off and blew open the steel grille covering a ventilation shaft. Powerful antipersonnel demolition charges were dropped down and exploded with such force that the whole floor shook.

While the Sheridans and half the Scouts roared down the ramp, Fitzduane, Lonsdale, Cochrane, and the balance of the command lowered themselves into the darkness.

The padre pushed another blade of rubble off the runway and then paused to wipe his forehead. He was streaming with sweat.

Driving a bulldozer was harder than it looked. Civilian vehicles might have air-conditioned cabs and soft seats, but the Airborne's equipment was strictly military specification and designed for ruggedness rather than comfort. Civilian ‘dozers did not get dropped.

Rounds spanged off his armored front, and he crouched down in his seat as he raised the blade slightly, gunned the engine and reversed.

Doubtless it was consoling for the engine, having the massive protection of the blade in front, but it was also a reminder that he, the human factor, was sitting up top exposed to the elements and a not inconsiderable amount of incoming fire.

The sky was crisscrossed with tracer, the solid flames of gunship fire, and the visual chaos of exploding missiles, artillery shells, mortar bombs, and other weaponry. Everywhere he looked through his night-vision goggles, he could see targets being painted with the troopers' laser beams, and he knew that the quick flash of a beam was being accompanied by bursts of aimed fire. Targets were being sought out and neutralized one by one.

He was conscious of the fact that his pastoral duties were now being created by that fire and he should probably hand over to someone else and go and provide succor to the wounded, but finding someone to delegate to was no small problem. Also, he was well aware that no matter how helpful a padre's words might be to a wounded trooper, the practical benefit of getting in reinforcements and being able to fly out the wounded could be even more appreciated.

The airstrip was nearly clear, and as best he could see the engineers clearing the mines were finished. He throttled up and headed toward a pile of cement-filled fifty-five-gallon drums. The stench of diesel fumes filled the air and mixed with the odors of sweat, fear, blood, and explosive fumes that now pervaded the battlefield.

Someone ran toward him and shouted. They were pointing toward the oil drums. The noise of the bulldozer drowned the shouter's voice, but it was clear he was indicating the obstructions still to be cleared.

The padre waved an acknowledgment and trundled on.

"MINES!" screamed the engineer behind him. "MINES! WE HAVEN'T CLEARED THERE YET! STOP, YOU FUCKING IDIOT!"

The padre sped across the airstrip and then slowed down as he approached the drums. He lowered the blade and began moving forward. Suddenly he was struck violently on his right side and propelled off the bulldozer onto the runway. He hit the ground hard and painfully, and as he shook himself he became aware that there was a heavy weight on his back.

He began to struggle, and the weight on his back moved. Seconds later, the weight was gone altogether and he rolled over. In front of him, a paratrooper was getting to his feet. It might have been a normal parachute landing fall recovery, except that this paratrooper had his arms through his straps as if he had jumped without putting on the ‘chute properly. He seemed to have descended just holding on to the thing.

The trooper, Colonel Dave Palmer, put out his hand. "Sorry about that, Padre. Left in a hurry."

"Judas Priest, Dave!" said the padre. "You're supposed to wear that bloody thing." He struggled to his feet.

Driverless, the bulldozer was still trundling along with the pile of concrete-filled oil drums rolling in front of it.

"My bulldozer!" cried the padre.

There was a vivid flash as the antitank mine blew and the entire bulldozer seemed to rise in the air and fly for several yards before exploding. A further mine was set off, and then one explosion followed another.

The blast threw the remaining obstacles clear of the paved strip.

"Interesting way to clear a runway, Padre," said Palmer.

"The Lord helped," said the padre hoarsely.

Carranza's tank force hit the perimeter of Second Brigade's firing line and veered away to the right as a barrage of TOWs, Hellfire missiles, AT4s and Sheridan tank fire plowed into it.