Victor O'Reilly - The Devil's footprint

The voice called yet again.

She wished it would go away. It was distracting her and she was extremely busy. Her mind was a hive of activity. Ideas were just flooding into it. And memories, too. People, places, smells, textures, sounds; the very fabric of life. Truly, it was a wonderful world. And there was so much to do. She was never going to have enough time. The possibilities seemed endless. I never knew it was like this, she thought. There is so much here. I am so rich, so lucky, so blessed.

"Perhaps I should start by telling you my name," said the voice. "We are not being introduced under the best of circumstances, but there is much to be said for the formalities all the same. They oil the social wheels, don't you think? Anyway, my name is Edgar Rheiman. You spell that R-H-E-I-M-A-N. Silent H. Not an obvious spelling."

An American accent, thought Kathleen. Now, where in the United States? Not the South or California, for sure? Not New York City either. Somewhere Northern. Beyond that she was not sure. She had a good ear and had spent considerable time in the United States, but she had been born and spent most of her life in Ireland.

"Kathleen," said Rheiman. "I can guess how you must feel, but I would like if you would trust me. You see, we're both in the same boat. You're a prisoner and they are going to kill you. That's a given. Well, though I can walk around within the base, I am effectively a prisoner too. And when I have completed doing what they want, I am for the chopping block as well. That's the way these people are."

He paused. "Do you mind if I sit down?"

Kathleen remained immobile.

"I guess not," said Rheiman. His voice sounded middle-aged.

There were sounds of rustling and then a sigh of satisfaction. He's in his late forties or early fifties, thought Kathleen, and he is somewhat overweight and certainly not fit. But he is intelligent, indeed very smart in his way. So who is he and what is he? What is he doing here? Why is he being so nice to me?

"There are no chairs in here," said Rheiman, "not even a stool, and I'm really not built for floors. But that's Reiko Oshima for you. She is good at her job – you cannot deny that – but she is not a kindly woman. I'll bet she chopped worms up when she was a child and pulled the wings off flies when they were still alive. Well, who knows. Certainly, she is a major league psycho right now. A very vicious woman. If they did not need me, I would be sushi. But they do need me. Lucky old me! Born in the North to die in the South. That's what the North Vietnamese used to say. Over two million killed against our fifty-eight thousand. An interesting way to win a victory. But that is fanaticism for you. Not reasonable. I guess that kind of defines Reiko Oshima. She is about as reasonable as Dracula. And she needs to spill blood to stay alive."

He leaned forward. She could feel his breath on her face.

"Mrs. Fitzduane, you are not in good hands. So you would be well advised to avail yourself of my friendship.

"I would like us to be very good friends."

Kathleen had a sudden urge to spit in his face. She did not move. She had learned to husband every resource. She was going to be raped. It would make no difference. They could take her body. They would not touch her mind.

I am strong.

Jaeger looked like a fading beach boy who still kept himself – mostly – in excellent condition.

The blond hair was flecked with gray but was still thick and flopped over one eye. His upper body was muscular under the light tan suit. His piercing blue eyes were well complemented by his shirt. His tie was loose and the top two buttons of his collar were unbuttoned. He peered over half-glasses. He carried his slight paunch well.

"John is a friend," Cochrane had announced. In Task Force language, Fitzduane had learned, that meant he could be trusted.

He is one of us.

Grant Lamar was sitting in one corner. The man had the ability to render himself damn near invisible. Most people when entering or exiting a room communicated with their fellow men even if it was only a ‘Hi’ or ‘I'm out of here!’ Lamar normally did not. He came and went without comment and seemingly without affecting the equilibrium of those present.

Maury cleared his throat and looked around. He really did not have to. He had everyone's attention.

"This is a reconnaissance photo of the terrorist base in Tecuno known as the Devil's Footprint. The valley on the left is where the actual terrorist base is located, together with a supporting garrison of about six hundred troops. The valley on the right is what we are currently concerned with. We have christened the two valleys Salvador and Dali. Salvador is the base. Dali is the big question."

He pressed the remote again and the screen filled with an aerial photo of Dali. The illustration was marked with numbers and had been computer enhanced, and there were other signs of the photo interpreter's art.

To Fitzduane, at first glance it did not mean very much except it bore all the signs of some kind of industrial installation. There were what looked like long pipes, and some of these were cross-linked. One was massive. There were also large containers of various types.

At a quick glance it looked like just the sort of steel-spaghetti facility the oil industry seemed to love, but if someone had told him it was for making breakfast cereal on an industrial scale, he wouldn't have argued too much.

"The Devil's Footprint installation is guarded by a battalion of Tecuno troops and an inner force of somewhere between thirty-five and fifty terrorist mercenaries, in addition to the brigade stationed at the air base only eight kilometers away. Given the strategic importance of the Tecuno oil fields, that might seem reasonable if the other major oil installations were similarly guarded. The reality is that they are not. There are token forces – ten to thirty soldiers – at other pumping stations and patrols along the pipelines, but there is nothing approaching this scale of security elsewhere. No, the evidence is clear that whatever is going on in Dali is special and warrants maximum protection.

"We showed this photograph to a number of military analysts. They could not work out what was going on but were able to point out certain features and to eliminate certain possibilities.

"The installation in the valley we have named Dali is not – on the face of it – consistent with nuclear, chemical, or biological manufacturing plants. I won't get technical, but the military assure me that, based upon known production techniques, the Dali structures do not have what it takes. However, they did add that there were some interesting structures in the valley of the kind you would not normally associate with civilian activities."

Maury activated a laser pointer. The red beam settled on a low mound that seemed almost part of the valley until you looked closely.

"Have a look at that, for example. There, say my military friends, you are talking about a reinforced observation blockhouse. It is the kind of thing you would build if you wanted to look fairly closely at a missile taking off without being fried. Plenty of protection. You will note it is built into one side of the valley and overlooks the other.

"Our military friends identified other blockhouses designed, it would appear, purely for storage. Estimates suggest they are also heavily reinforced against blast. Hardened bomb or resistant structures."

Fitzduane shook his head in some puzzlement. "So we've got what looks like an oil installation of some kind – lots of pipes, and reinforced storage facilities and a blockhouse. I don't get it. Frankly, that kind of setup seems entirely consistent with a process for extracting oil under pressure. We're talking big numbers here. The compression of whatever they are pumping into the ground must be enormous. So if something blows you are likely to need all the protection you can get. A reinforced blockhouse seems entirely reasonable under such circumstances."