Victor O'Reilly - The Devil's footprint

I am afraid beyond the very meaning of fear.

The Devil's Footprint

The guard on the main gate of the Devil's Footprint valley known as ‘Salvador’ looked at his watch.

Time seemed to have slowed its tempo. It was an occupational hazard on guard duty and especially so in this mind-numbingly dull part of the world. Nothing ever happened. The main defenses were on the perimeter of the plateau hundreds of kilometers away, and the immediate area was deserted. It was scarcely surprising. Who, in their right mind, would want to live in this hellhole?

He had come on duty at midnight, only an hour ago if he was to believe the evidence of his watch, but is seemed like an eternity, a particularly cold eternity. The Devil's Footprint was not only 3,800 feet up on the plateau, but it was in the foothills of the Tecuno mountains and every foot of additional height seemed to make a difference for the worse. The high desert at night was cold enough. Throw in some altitude and it was downright uncomfortable. In his opinion, the location was well-named. It was fit only for the devil.

It was too cold at night and too hot during the day, and the ground was harsh and arid and stony and brutal on boots, and there were far too many things around that bit, like flies and scorpions and snakes and lizards. Frankly, why the base was located here was beyond him. Still, no one had asked him his opinion or seemed likely to. As a mercenary, he got paid but not consulted.

"Hey, Ahmed," he called.

Ahmed grunted. He was sitting in the turret of the T55 tank that blocked the camp entrance at night. He was marginally more comfortable than his colleague, since he had a woolly hat his wife had knitted him on his head and was well bundled up and gaining some benefit from a small oil heater inside the tank; but his main distraction came from the pornographic Japanese comic book he was looking at.

Manga, they called such things. He had traded a stack from one of the Yaibo fanatics in exchange for hash.

"Ahmed," repeated the gate guard. Ahmed raised his head from the comic book and as he did so pieces of his skull seemed to detach themselves from his head. They could be seen like bloody snow reflecting in the gate floodlights, except that they flew sideways. And there was no snow.

The guard's mouth dropped open and then he, too, crumpled. His body twitched as it lay on the ground and a further burst tore into it.

Black-clad figures ran forward, and a split second later the Yaibo guard on the inner perimeter lay lifeless on his back.

Two black figures entered the guardroom where six off-duty guards were sleeping.

It took seven seconds.

The entire group were now at the base of the Yaibo barracks. An orange light glowed in one window where the duty radio operator sat; otherwise the place was in darkness.

There was a hand signal and a faint click as the power supply to the building was severed. Seconds later, the radio operator came out swearing under his breath. He had been practically asleep. He had assumed it was that fucking generator again, but then he saw that the perimeter lights were on, and anyway he could hear the bloody thing thumping. It must be a main fuse.

He started to turn just as his mouth and nose were clamped and his head pulled back. His own momentum helped to do the work of the blade. Dead, his heart was still pumping as he was lowered to the ground. The only sound was a slight gurgle.

The assault group split into two three-person teams and entered the two floors simultaneously.

Fitzduane was positioned on the reverse slope of a low ridge facing the entrance to the main camp.

The two temporarily abandoned vehicles of the assault group were concealed nearby. To retrieve them the crews would have to cross the perimeter road. During the day, when it was well traveled, that would be risky, but this time of night there should be no problem.

Fitzduane watched the assault teams go in with mixed feelings.

A special-forces assault bestrode a fine line between recklessness and audacity, and being forced to let other people spearhead the action while he remained in reserve did not please him. On the other hand, the people he had selected were younger and better qualified for the particular tasks involved, and a commander's job was to look at the woods, not get lost in the trees. Still, no matter how he rationalized, waiting outside was difficult.

He rotated the FLIR, but so far nothing untoward could be seen. The viewing head of the high-magnification night/day vision device was extended over the rim of the hill. He felt like a submariner looking through his periscope. Steve Kent, his driver, sat beside him. Lee Cochrane, his rear gunner who had checked out surprisingly well with the GECAL, was fifteen yards away, lying in a dip of the rim, monitoring the road.

Fitzduane missed his eye in the sky.

Calvin would warn him of any vehicles approaching from the north, but he would not be able to see any southern arrivals while away at the airfield. Still, life was a compromise. Armed helicopters were the most lethal short-term threat, and if he could neutralize them the exfiltration would be a whole lot safer. There were no other helicopters based within range.

He focused the FLIR on the Yaibo barracks. There was one light burning on the first floor. That would be the radio room.

He watched as the light went out. Inside that building, according to his information, Kathleen lay. In seconds she would be free or perhaps dead. He knew she had been maltreated and abused and was kept blindfolded and chained – but had it been even more serious? Could she walk? Was she still sane? Had she been tortured? Had she been raped? The baby! How was the baby? Could it have survived?

He wanted to put his arms around Kathleen and hug her as he had so many times in the past, but he could do nothing but watch and wait.

Near the Devil's Footprint,

Tecuno, Mexico

Calvin allowed himself plenty of time and traveled slowly and in optimum stealth mode to reach Madoa airfield.

On a moonless night like this and a thousand feet up the SkyEye was almost impossible to detect visually, but the engine could conceivably be heard unless the ‘super trap’ silencer was used.

The super trap – fitted also to the Guntracks – was highly effective, but though it increased torque, it decreased performance. The system could be varied by the operator, but fully invoked, the price for being nearly silent was a top speed dropped from over eighty to around thirty miles an hour.

The air was cold and clear against his face, and with the engine noise almost completely suppressed, he felt like some giant bird of prey as he flew over the nearly deserted landscape beneath him.

The northern end of the perimeter road was dark. There were no truck lights. He peered through his FLIR and examined the lozenge-shaped ribbon of the road more closely. There was still nothing to be seen. Team Rapier was safe from the north. As for the south, that would have to be the boss's problem, because Calvin could see the lights of the airfield show up ahead. It was clear they were not anticipating any enemy action. There were lights at the main gate and in the barracks and around the maintenance hangars. The runway was dark.

Six MiG-23 jets stood parked in sandbagged emplacements, and nearby another four helicopters were similarly lined up.

Calvin circled the airfield at a discreet distance, studying every detail through his FLIR. He had practiced until he could fire an aimed RAW projectile every ten seconds. Close examination showed half a dozen heavy-machine-gun positions around the base. They might not be designed for antiaircraft work, but they could still make life very unpleasant for him if he was detected.