Victor O'Reilly - The Devil's footprint

The volume of fire was bad enough. The accuracy was horrifying. All around him tanks were blowing up, men were on fire, and his command was dying.

Within twenty-three seconds, Carranza had lost two-thirds of his force and was driving desperately away from the wall of death that faced him. He tried to grapple with what he was up against. Paratroopers were lightly armed troops. This was firepower of a different magnitude.

A further six tanks exploded behind him. He caught a quick glimpse of a Sheridan tank in the distance. The American tank was aluminum and virtually obsolete, he had been told. He had not taken in that it was fast, light, carried the biggest gun of any tank in general use, and had been upgraded with long-range optics and night-vision equipment.

His one thought now was to get away. He did not care where he was going or what he would do when he got there. He just wanted to flee.

Shells burst around his tank and one wall glowed red when a fragment hit.

Carranza was bruised and bleeding from being bounced around the metal box.

Beside him his gunner had abandoned any attempt to load and fire the main gun. His face was gray with desperation and the foreknowledge of certain death. The driver slewed the tank from side to side in the hope that the jinking would cause the incoming fire to miss. It was making Carranza sick.

The tank drove right through the perimeter defenses and into the minefield beyond.

The mines were laid according to Soviet doctrine, in a massive belt three hundred meters deep. The first two mines had been carelessly laid and did not explode. Carranza's tank hit the third mine after thirty-two meters. The force of the mine was so great, it blew the entire tank into the air.

The tank was still in the air when it was his nearly simultaneously by a Hellfire missile and the 152mm shell from a Sheridan. The combined blast blew all the mines in a two-hundred-meter radius and could be seen with clarity from the command-and-control aircraft 20,000 feet up.

Carranza and his entire crew were vaporized.

Fitzduane fired two rounds from his M16 into the torso of a terrorist in the weapons pit and rammed the barrel into the face of the second man. The terrorist went down and Fitzduane thrust his fighting knife into his throat and wiped it on the dead man's fatigues.

He reloaded and checked his pouches. Ammunition was getting low.

Getting through the hangar had been easy. In contrast, the cavernous bunker below seemed to be defended by some kind of palace guard. They had blown the Sheridans as they came down the ramp, and since then it had been basic infantry slogging as the Scouts and Delta cleaned out a series of interlocking defensive positions.

"Why the fuck didn't I bring a Barrett?" asked Lonsdale.

The heavy rifle fire would have punched through the armor plate of the weapons pits.

The M60 rounds made shallow dents. The M16 rounds just bounced off. They were out of 40mm grenades. They had fired the last of the AT4s. They were nearly out of everything.

"Why the fuck didn't I stay in Washington?" said Cochrane.

"We'd have missed you," said Lonsdale caustically.

"Even if they don't hit us," said Cochrane, "they're going to pollute us to death. The air quality in this place sucks."

"It could get a shitload worse," said Lonsdale.

Fitzduane was silent. If Rheiman's hand-drawn map was to be trusted, beyond that metal door was a hatchway that lead down two flights of metal stairs to the command bunker. Straight ahead was a nerve-agent store. Behind them, at the other end of the cavern, was the second nerve-gas store. If nothing had been moved, the unit had already secured the Xyclax Gamma 18. One component alone was useless.

Of course, Oshima did not have to have moved all the components together. She could have had just one cylinder transported. According to what he had been told, one matched pair of Xyclax Gamma 18 cylinders properly distributed would be enough to take out the entire airfield, let alone the cavern.

"Brock," he called.

"Yo!" said Brock.

"We need a couple of grenades up here," said Fitzduane. "Get someone to check the lockers in the Sheridan that didn't blow."

"Hot damn!" said Brock. "Neat thinking. Those guys are squirrels."

Two minutes later, the weighted end of a parachute cord fell beside Fitzduane. Brock was across to the left and behind a support pillar. He couldn’t get any closer and keep breathing.

The terrorist machine gun and three AK-47s spat flame as the saw the cord and tried to cut it with fire. Ricochets zinged along the cavern. The concrete floor of the cavern spewed fragments as rounds bit into it around the line of the cord.

Fitzduane saw the edge of the cord fray. If he pulled too fast it could break. If he pulled too slowly the contents of the pouch at the end could go up.

Thinking of what was inside, it was an easy decision.

He pulled hard. The cord broke, but enough momentum had already been transferred to the pouch. It slid into home base.

Fitzduane opened the pouch and looked at Brock. There were three grenades inside. "What the fuck!" he mouthed.

Brock shrugged. "Go for it!" he shouted.

Fitzduane handed grenades to Lonsdale and Cochrane. They looked at him.

"All together," said Fitzduane. "FOUR, THREE, TWO…"

The three grenades arced through the air. Two landed inside the gun emplacement.

Four terrorists erupted from their position, guns blazing. Concentrated fire from Scout Platoon cut them to pieces. Smoke from the three signaling grenades filled the air.

Choking, Fitzduane dashed forward.

The steel door had represented a possible escape for its guardians. It was unlocked. He pulled the heavy lever and the door swung open.

He hugged the left side of the door frame. Green, purple, and yellow smoke was making the place untenable. If anyone was on the other side, they would fire into the smoke. Probably.

Or maybe if they were smart and professional, they would wait and try to pick out some kind of a human shape. But it would not really be savvy to wait. Any attacker clever enough to get this far would throw in stun grenades.

If anyone was inside, they should be firing by now.

"On your right," said Lonsdale from the right side of the door frame.

"Ready," said Cochrane's voice from behind Lonsdale.

"GO!" snapped Fitzduane.

Rows of cylinders behind a double steel grid faced them. A door on the right wall led down to the command bunker. It was closed and of the same size and mass as the kind of construction used in bank vaults.

The room itself was empty.

They examined the door. It was not just locked. It was secured as if part of the structure. There was not a hint of how it might be opened. The entire locking mechanism must be located on the other side.

"You say the magic word and this substantial chunk of real estate swings open," said Lonsdale. "You go down two flights of metal stairs. You are faced with another blast door and you knock politely. It, too, swings open and there is Oshima, a smile on her face and her arms open in welcome." He paused. "Or then again, maybe not. Either way, I don't think a foot in the right place is going to achieve much. This fucking thing is built."

Close examination showed that the problem did not end with the door. The whole wall seemed to be of similar strength, and the joins were so finely machined there was no place to pack explosive.

"We can huff and puff," said Cochrane, or we can go and get a cup of coffee while the combat engineers make with the plastic. This is safe blowing. This isn't a job for clean-living amateurs."

Fitzduane rubbed his chin. Oshima had learned much of her trade from the Hangman. The Hangman always had an escape route, and a few surprises for unwelcome visitors.