Victor O'Reilly - The Devil's footprint

It looked at first at if some game was being played.

There were two teams of roughly fifteen people, each side pulling at opposite ends of a rope as if it were a tug-of-war.

But there was someone in the middle. And his hands and feet were bound and the rope was looped in a slipknot around his neck.

He was being executed.

The camera zoomed in, and they could see the man's face in close-up as his face and body contorted and he was slowly – very slowly – strangled to death.

Fitzduane froze the image. "I don't think we need to see any more. The whole think took over fifteen minutes and ended up with his decapitation by rope. That is Yaibo in action. They have a tradition of purges. Why? Who knows?"

He looked at Chifune. Her face was expressionless, but he could feel a great grief. There was no anger. Instead there was a feeling of enormous strength, of resolution.

Hori- san had died, but his torch had been passed. His sense of purpose would live on. Those who had killed him would pay for their crime. It was a matter of justice, and it was certain.

"I am deeply sorry, Chifune," said Fitzduane. "Sorry for what has happened and sorry to have to show you the manner of his death."

Chifune lifted her eyes, and there were tears in them. "It was necessary," she said. "We all have to understand. To know."

There was silence in the group.

Chifune looked back to the frozen image. Her face was pale. "It makes me ashamed to be Japanese," she said quietly. "Why do we produce people who could do such things? What are we doing that is so wrong?"

"Nothing to be ashamed of Chifune," said Calvin. "The man who died was Japanese too. Every nation has good and bad. That's just the way of it."

Chifune raised her hand and gently placed two fingers on the monitor screen on the frozen scene of the dying man's face. It was at once a gesture of affection and farewell.

Fitzduane switched off the video and the screen went blank and there was silence for a little time. It seemed appropriate. No one had met the man who had died, but he had been a colleague. He deserved respect.

The group dispersed, but Calvin remained behind.

He cleared his throat. "I'd like to change the aviation plan. I've been thinking, and I can do more than fly top cover."

Fitzduane looked at him. It was a relief to be able to focus on a technical problem, and Calvin was normally worth listening to. "A little late in the day, Calvin, don't you think?"

Calvin reminded him in a way of U.S. General Billy Mitchell. Mitchell had pioneered the use of airpower in warfare in the 1920s, against stubborn opposition, with such enthusiasm that he had been court-martialed for his pains before the merit of his thinking had been vindicated.

Calvin had the same zeal when it came to pushing the airborne role in special-forces operations. He was not just a competent aviator. He had a definite vision of how air assets might be used, and he and Fitzduane had talked at length on the subject.

Calvin nodded. "I should have spoken earlier, but I wanted to get the hang of the terrain first. Now I'm sure I can do it, and it won't change the ground assault plan."

"Do what?" said Fitzduane.

"Hit Madoa airfield," said Calvin. "When we bug out after the assault, the greatest threat is going to come from the air, and in particular from helicopter gunships. They are the ones that can hunt us down and counter the Guntracks' speed and agility. Sure, I know we've got air defenses, but I think it makes more sense to take them out on the ground."

Fitzduane thought for a moment. The microlight was a tiny machine and up to now it had been positioned only for observation. But maybe that was blinkered thinking.

"When would you propose doing this, Calvin? There is a balance here between alerting the enemy flyboys and making the hit. Throwing stones at a wasps' nest is not a good idea."

Calvin smiled. "I'd suggest striking after the ground attack on the Devil's Footprint," he said. "That way Madoa airbase won't alert the target before we are in, and at the same time when the target calls them they'll be too busy with their own world of woe to respond."

"Do you really think you can do that much damage from the SkyEye?" said Fitzduane. "You don't have much of a payload left after the FLIR."

"It's a two-seater even with the FLIR," said Calvin. "That means I have up to about two hundred pounds to play with. That's ten RAW projectiles, an Ultimax, and a forty-millimeter pump-action grenade-launcher – with room to spare. That is serious grief from the sky, and the sat photos show aircraft parked out in the open. They have no hardened bunkers. No need, they think. There is supposed to be no threat around here. Only the devil walks in these parts, and he's a friend."

Fitzduane smiled. "Very droll, Calvin."

He considered the proposition and then called in the others for discussion. Since Calvin's arrival, the team had become rather attached to their eye in the sky and were not sure they wanted it put at risk. On the other hand, armed helicopters were not a pleasant prospect.

Fitzduane made the decision. If Calvin was in position over the airstrip when the ground attack went in, he should be back in time for the exfiltration. His little machine could go at over a mile a minute when the sound suppressor was not switched on.

"Go for it, Calvin," he said, and explained. Calvin nodded.

Final preparations were made, and for the first time miniature headsets were worn. Radio silence disciplines had been absolute so far and would continue until the assault. But Fitzduane had weighed the options. The advantages of instant communication between team members during the actual assault outweighed the risks of the signals being overheard. In addition, the transmissions were encrypted. An eavesdropper would hear something that would sound like static.

There was a last equipment check. Watches were synchronized. It was a moonless night, but the sky was cloudless and a canopy of stars ensured just enough light to make the passive night-vision goggles fully effective. It would not have mattered if the darkness had been absolute. Shanley's company's thermal driving aids had become second nature.

Calvin, again dressed like the Penguin, took off.

Fitzduane made a hand signal, which was passed on from Guntrack to Guntrack.

The column moved off toward the target.

In a few hours, thought Shanley, I am going to have to kill another human being. I don't care what they have done. I cannot be judge, jury, and executioner. The others can do it. They are professionals. Even Lee Cochrane served in Vietnam. I cannot do it. In Fayetteville, it was self-defense and I did not have time to think.

Here I have plenty of time to think, and I know I cannot do this. I have never served.

If I can, if my body does not betray me, I will try to do everything that is required of me – but I will not kill. I cannot. Let the others take life.

I have not served.

Guilt and fear ran raw through him. He had thought it would be like the endless training. The careful preparation, the long periods of waiting, the excitement of the impending assault, the adrenaline rush, and then action.

This was superficially just like that in many ways. The same people, the same equipment, the same feel of the Guntrack's suspension as it leveled the appalling terrain. But inwardly, inside his very being, he felt entirely different.

The certainty was gone. It was as if the skills that had given him so much confidence had evaporated and every last defense stripped away. Now there was nothing but terror and overwhelming self-doubt.

I have abandoned my family for nothing. I cannot do this thing. I will let down my comrades. I will die here in Mexico to no purpose.

Why me? Why now?