Victor O'Reilly - The Devil's footprint

However the war games turned out, there was one immutable as far as Fitzduane was concerned. The mission was not going to be aborted.

There was a knock on the door.

As mission commander, he had a hut to himself. There was accommodation in plenty. It made Fitzduane wonder what Grant Lamar got up to from time to time. Lamar, the evidence would appear to indicate, was a man with complex interests.

He blanked the screen and checked his watch. It was near midnight. When this was all over he was going to sleep for a week. Maybe longer. One thing was certain: The military did not sleep enough.

"Come in!"

A fatigues-clad Lee Cochrane stood in the doorway. Fitzduane waved him to a chair. There was a perceptible odor of propellant and gun oil off him. The unit was training for sixteen hours a day, but Cochrane still put in two more hours in the killing house or on the range. He had not done so well in the initial killing-house exercises and was grimly determined to succeed.

Cochrane found taking orders from Fitzduane difficult. He had been chief of staff for a long time and absolute ruler of his little congressional kingdom. Being another grunt in the woods was something that did not come easy. And in the background was the thought that he was still the chief of staff.

"A beer, Lee?" said Fitzduane. Serious drinking was not encouraged, but a couple of cans at the end of a long sweaty workday – or night – could help. This looked like such a situation. Cochrane was decidedly strung out. He was just in control, but the joins were showing.

Cochrane shook his head. Fitzduane threw him a can anyway and poured himself one. A little sociability might not go amiss.

Cochrane pulled the ring of his can, took a long pull, and stared at him. "Fitzduane, you're a head case. We're camped in the woods and you're using a fucking glass."

Fitzduane picked up his glass and sipped a little beer.

"My ancestors have been fighting for some cause or another for about eight hundred years that I know of," he said, "which translates into a whole lot of camping. One thing they have learned: Any fool can be uncomfortable."

Cochrane glared at him. His eyes were bloodshot from fatigue and cordite fumes, and his face was covered with a thin sheen of sweat.

"Damn you, Fitzduane," he said quietly.

Fitzduane felt a stirring of anger. It was too late and he was too tired to just sit there and be abused by some asshole. On the other hand, Cochrane had been fighting for a good cause for some time and had earned the right to be cut some slack.

"What's on your mind, Lee?" said Fitzduane agreeably.

Cochrane suddenly flung his head back and chugalugged his beer. He wiped his mouth with his hand. His face was flushed, and his fatigues were spotted where the froth had overflowed.

"I need to know," he said. "Am I going to be picked for the assault group? I've got to be on it! "

Fitzduane took his time in replying. "As you well know, Lee, people are picked for assignments such as this because of their very special qualifications. It's not personal. It's a matter of whether you are right for the job."

"You haven't answered my question," said Cochrane.

"You were a good soldier, Lee," said Fitzduane, "and you've kept yourself in exceptional shape. But your military days were a long time ago and military skills atrophy without practice. Your shooting was not good for the first couple of days because you were rusty as hell. Now, because you've worked yourself to the bone, it is vastly improved, but it is still not Delta or SAS or Ranger standard. Perhaps it could be over time, but we don't have that luxury. People are going to be trying to kill us very shortly, and the difference of a fraction of a second is going to make the difference between life and death. This is serious shit, Lee. So, as matters stand, I am not going to pick you."

Cochrane was silent, stunned. It was one thing to expect the worst. It was another to hear it.

Eventually he looked up at Fitzduane and shrugged. "I guess I'd better pack my kit and go home. I could say shooting isn't the only thing. I could give you quite an argument. I could say I deserve to go. But I get the impression whatever I say won't make much difference."

"My comments about your shooting skills are merely an illustration, Lee," said Fitzduane. "I could move on to communications, heavy weapons, the whole enchilada. And remember one thing – you asked."

Cochrane laughed bitterly. "Never get yourself into a situation where the other party is forced to say no. Basic negotiations skills. You'd think I would have learned more on the Hill. So what now?"

Fitzduane tossed Cochrane two more cans of beer. "We get a little drunk. We sleep not quite enough. And we go back to work."

Lee looked bemused. "I thought you said you weren’t picking me."

"We've got enough people to fight without fighting each other," said Fitzduane. "So shut up and drink and listen. I've got an idea."

Kilmara followed the maneuvers intently.

For the purpose of this preliminary exercise the five Guntracks were not camouflaged, which made his job a whole lot easier. Also, it was daylight. Movement during the Tecuno mission was planned to take place entirely at night under stealth conditions. No talking, no lights, camouflaged, silenced exhausts, thermal signatures minimized, radio silence, anything and everything that could make a noise muffled, slow speed to keep down dust.

A helicopter suddenly appeared flying low, and then a second behind it and to the right. A classic hunter-killer team.

Two Guntracks halted and then shot into reverse before halting again. Thick smoke filled the air and obscured them. The remaining three, also trailing thick smoke, raced in different directions before looping back to hide in the smoke. The speed of the Guntrack reactions was extraordinary.

Fitzduane watched the action through a thermal viewer while listening intently to a radio commentary coming through his earphones. The whole action, including all the resultant maneuvers, took no more than a minute.

He winced. "Best estimate by the observers, the helicopters got one of us and we got both of them. Helicopter gunships are our worst nightmare. When they come in fast and low like that, there is very little warning. On the other hand, what we are going to be up against in Tecuno is not so sophisticated and unlikely to be as well trained. And I have got to say, thermal is one hell of an edge. We can see through the smoke, and the combination of the Mag thermal sight on the Stinger makes for real fast acquisition. But we've got to do better."

"Did you factor in your. 50s?" said Kilmara.

"No," said Fitzduane. "They have not come yet, so the team are working with what they've got. The GECALs are due in a couple of days. I'm kind of curious to see them in action."

"Puff the Magic Dragon, only in a heavier caliber," said Kilmara. "But the heavier round makes quite a difference. The way things are shaping up, you are going to be glad to have them. There is going to be rather more on your shopping list of objectives than you know."

Fitzduane looked at him. "So this is not quite a social call, General."

Kilmara shook his head. "Not quite. Let's head back to base. Jaeger's turned up again and Lamar's been stirring the pot. They want to ask you a small favor, seeing as how you'll be in the Tecuno neighborhood."

"We're going into Tecuno very, very hard and we're coming out with Kathleen," said Fitzduane. "And we are not going to fuck around in the middle. That makes for a nice, clean, simple mission. That's a hard thing to find in these political days, but that's the way it's going to be."

"Let's go and talk," said Kilmara wearily. "Unfortunately, life is rarely simple."