Victor O'Reilly - The Devil's footprint

Unfortunately, it was short one critical aircraft.

Madoa Air Base,

Tecuno, Mexico

Reiko Oshima stood in the shower for three minutes and washed General Luis Barragan's blood off her body. It disgusted her. It was a symbol of their failure.

Her outburst had left her drained and tired, but the water was soothing and she could feel her resolution returning.

Her strength of will was one of her strongest assets, and now she focused on what should be done immediately. Recriminations would have to wait. There was a score to settle now, and she was fairly sure she knew how.

She hastily toweled her long black hair to an acceptably damp state and put it up in a bun. Then she dressed in fresh desert camouflage fatigues tucked into combat boots and donned full combat webbing. Finally she tied in place the ritual hachimaki – the headband – worn by Yaibo and strapped a katana to her back.

She paused as she finished and looked in the mirror and was pleased with what she saw. She had regained her poise and her command quality. She was once again a force to be respected and feared. The brief time lost taking the shower and dressing had been worth it.

She looked at her watch. It read 0209. It seemed an age but was actually only just over an hour since Luis had bled to death on top of her. She shuddered.

There was a banging on the door. "Oshima- san," said a panting voice. "Please come to the operations room immediately. Governor Quintana is calling and wants a full situation report."

There was bedlam in the operations room as she walked in. A dozen different people were talking at the top of their voices and gesticulating wildly, and there seemed to be no one person capable of restoring order.

She went through the large operations room to the adjoining radio room, but left the door open. The radio operator looked distinctly relieved when she arrived, and handed her a headset. She put on the headset and evicted the operator from the room with a single gesture, and this time closed the door.

"Governor," she said respectfully. "This is Oshima- san."

"Oshima," said Quintana, the strain evident in his voice, "what is happening? I hear we have been attacked, but I have received a dozen different contradictory reports."

Oshima took a deep breath.

"Out with it, woman," said Quintana. "I need to know."

Reiko Oshima gave him a situation report, appalled as she spoke at the sheer scale of the destruction. It had seemed bad enough at the time. In its totality, it was very much worse. But in one fundamental way, they had been exceptionally lucky.

The supergun was unscathed. True, one installation holding explosive and experimental chemical warheads had been completely destroyed, but the charge placed in the all-important bunker that controlled the hydrogen feed had, by some miracle, failed to go off. Evidently, the attackers had been disturbed. Oshima speculated that it must have been the arrival of the armored column from the south. And there was also the fact that the supergun itself was virtually indestructible.

Quintana was normally a hard man to read, especially over the radio, but this time his relief was evident. There were plenty more terrorists, hostages, tanks, and mercenary soldiers in the world, but his future was tied to the supergun. If it had been destroyed, his future would have been painful and short. He had made too many enemies over the decades.

Oshima decided now was the time to make her move. She was the bringer of good news, and with a bit of luck, now she could reap her reward.

"Governor Quintana," she said. "The attack was ground based, and I think I know where they are going. Give me the forces I require and I'll destroy them for you."

"Explain," said Quintana. This was the first positive suggestion anyone had made to him since the attack. He considered the angles. Oshima's theory made some sense.

If armed jeeps were being used, they could be trying to escape by land to the border, but an air pickup was an option. And in that case, a deserted airstrip built by the oil people at Arkono was a reasonable possibility. Certainly, it was worth a shot, and putting Oshima in charge was justified by the special circumstances. He smiled to himself. Certainly, she had the balls for the job.

Three minutes later, a task force of twenty armed vehicles that was camped to the northwest of Arkono was roused and dispatched to block the valley that led to the airstrip, and Oshima was headed there by helicopter to take personal charge.

Quintana terminated the radio conference severely shaken but in a better mood.

The supergun was safe; and as for Oshima, if she was successful he would reap the credit, and if she failed she would make an excellent scapegoat.

"Say again, Eagle Leader," said Fitzduane.

He had arrived at the RV point and immediately called up the C130 flight that was coming to pick them up. No air cavalry and there would need to be a distinct reappraisal. It was one hell of a long way to home.

"Eagle flight on course on schedule for PUP," replied Kilmara, "but we have no Dragon. I repeat, we have no Dragon. ETA as original."

"Affirmative that there is no Dragon," said Fitzduane. "Eagle's welcome nonetheless. We've got big hearts and we're homesick. Over and out."

"’Luck to you, Team Rapier," said Kilmara. "See you soon. Over and out."

Fitzduane peeled off the headset. The five camouflaged Guntracks were laagered in a rough semicircle, weapons pointing outward. It appeared all vehicles had made it so far. Only the microlight had been destroyed. There was now only twenty-five kliks to go, but it would be the most dangerous time, and the news he had just received was seriously disturbing.

He had looked at a great number of escape plans, from the obvious to the most exotic. All of the conventional options meant long land journeys and imposed serious logistical difficulties. Would they be detected given the extra time on the ground? Would the vehicles stand up? Could they carry enough fuel? Would there be enough water?

In the end he had opted for a simple solution – to be picked up by air the very same night as the raid. In essence, pull out before the opposition had time to rally themselves.

The downside was that an air pickup imposed certain obvious practical limitations. The aircraft needed a place to land, and in such grim terrain there were only so many options.

Second, a pickup was an attention-getter. Guntracks were small, quiet, and unobtrusive. Compared to them, C130 Combat Talons were big noisy beasts and their landing in the middle of nowhere would certainly attract attention if there was anyone around.

Fitzduane had studied satellite photographs for weeks prior to setting forth on the operation and there had never been any sign of activity either on, or adjacent to, the abandoned airstrip. This was reassuring, but he had been around long enough to know that the world is unpredictable and that fate likes its little games.

Accordingly, as a hedge against the downside, he had arranged for a U.S. Special Forces C130 Spectre gunship to cover the final withdrawal and deal with any interference. The Spectre combined heavy firepower with the most sophisticated night-vision targeting equipment, so it should have evened things up a little.

But unfortunately the gunship was not going to be there.

He would find out why afterward – mechanical failure of whatever – but right now it did not matter. The Spectre was code named Dragon and the message had been clear.

There would be no Dragon covering their withdrawal. No problem if the coast was clear. Serious rat-shit if it was not.

He called a final briefing. One man per gunship remained on sentry duty peering through night-vision equipment into the darkness. The rest gathered around.