Victor O'Reilly - The Devil's footprint

"Casualty report?" he said "I'll get the ball rolling. Shadow One has lost Steve. The microlight is out of the game and Calvin has a broken ankle."

Each Guntrack reported in turn. There were no other fatalities, but Chuck Freeman in Shadow Three had a piece of shrapnel in his shoulder and Peter Hayden had been seriously injured when Shadow Four had received a near miss from a T55 tank round. His Guntrack was also in bad shape. The track had been damaged and would last only a few kilometers at best.

"People," said Fitzduane, "if I can borrow some of Al's language – you done good."

There were smiles from the group, but little was said. They were all incredibly tired from the fear, tension, and exhilaration of the assault and the exfiltration, and they were under no illusions as to what might lie ahead. The unexpected guard convoy on the perimeter road from the south had been one major surprise, and there would be others. They conserved their energies and paid close attention. Fitzduane knew what he was doing.

"We're going to strip and abandon Shadow Four here," he said, "and double up where necessary. All rear pallets will be left. Ammunition and supplies will be redistributed. Fuel tanks will be topped up. The emphasis will be on speed and maneuverability. We could have a clear run, but we won't know until we are in close. We have lost our aerial recon and we are not going to have a Spectre gunship up top. So it's up to us. We should be airborne in well under an hour, but we've got to keep moving."

There was a brief silence. Fitzduane looked at each person in the dim red glow of the map light. He could not really see expressions, but full body language was sufficient. The team was in good shape, all things considered. Certainly, there was evidence of fatigue and some doubts and uncertainties, but overall he felt fortunate. These were good people.

"One extra thing," he said. "We're down to four Guntracks and we're going to need a tail-end Charlie. If everything goes sweet, they'll be the last people on board. If the shit hits the fan, Charlie stays behind or no one will get away." He pointed at the map. "I don't need to tell you why."

There was no argument. They had all participated in the discussions about the abandoned airstrip and they all knew the rationale and the problems. The negative side of the pickup point was that access to it from the north meant going through a two-mile-long valley that they had christened the Funnel; and there was not time to go around it.

Further, if the enemy got on the hills of the Funnel no aircraft was going to make it away. That meant, if opposition surfaced, holding the high ground until the two rescuing aircraft were safely airborne. That job could have been carried out by the Spectre, but now there was no alternative.

Fitzduane was right. But it was a crock. The Guntrack doing tail-end Charlie was not going to have much of a future.

"I will do Charlie," said Fitzduane. "Just so you know, that's not negotiable – but I'll need two extra crew and I'm moving to a track with a Dilger."

"I will be one," said a firm voice, "and just so you know, that's not negotiable either."

There was laughter. Fitzduane smiled and held out his hand to Lee Cochrane. "Lee, you're one persistent son of a bitch," he said.

There was a low murmur of voices and hand gestures as everyone else tried to volunteer and yet keep their voices way down. Sound traveled at night in the desert.

"SAS have more than paid their dues," said Fitzduane, referring to the injured Peter Hayden and the dead Steve Kent from that unit, "and I represent the Irish Rangers."

"Which leaves Delta," said the Delta contingent, including Calvin, virtually in unison.

"And since I was in at the beginning," said Al Lonsdale, "it just seems appropriate."

Fitzduane nodded. "Now let's do it, people. We go in ten minutes."

The team dispersed and went to complete the final preparations. Fitzduane walked across to Shadow Three, where Kathleen lay sedated and wrapped in a sleeping bag against the night cold. He put his arms around her and held her close. Then he kissed her and hugged her again.

"Half from me and half from Boots," he said. "We missed you, little love. But now you're back and you're safe."

"I knew you'd come, Hugo," said Kathleen sleepily. " I knew you'd come – and you have. I love you, Hugo. I never stopped thinking about you. And it made it all right, you know. Truly. It was terrible, but it was all right. I was strong. I was…"

Fitzduane tried to smile. It was difficult, because he was crying. All right! Jesus Christ! Kathleen looked terrible and he did not want to think about what she had been through. The baby? It would be too much to hope for. He did not ask.

He hugged her again and held her. "I love you, Kathleen," he said over and over again. She was already asleep; the drugs had won out.

Chifune was guarding Shadow Three. He took her hand briefly between his, and she smiled.

"All the way," she said. And there were tears in her eyes.

"Always," said Fitzduane. "Always…"

They looked at each other. There was no need to speak. They had never been closer.

"Let's go," said Fitzduane.

The convoy of four Guntracks moved out. Their next destination was the pickup point – and airborne to home.

Tecuno, Mexico

Governor Diego Quintana's mercenaries were mainly Mexican but included soldiers from many nations.

Major Khalifa Sherrif's country of birth was Libya. Major Sherif was not without military talent, but his map-reading skills were minimal. He could get lost crossing the street, which was why currently he was within striking distance of the Arkono airstrip instead of a hundred kilometers to the west as his original orders dictated.

Normally he could rely on his adjutant to keep him more or less on course, but a shotgun blast from one recalcitrant peasant had put paid to that convenient solution and had also fucked up Major Sherrif's one and only map of this dreadful area.

He had been fast asleep when the new orders came in, and he did not take kindly to being roused so abruptly. His mood took a sharp turn for the worse when he heard that he was to prepare for action and that he was to hand over command to the Japanese woman called Reiko Oshima.

THAT WOMAN! It was unbelievable. Women had their place in his particular world, but so did camels and dust and crawly things he did not even want to think about, and he only calmed down slightly when his ever-reliable sergeant brought him hot sweet tea.

A Mi-4 Hound helicopter beat its way through the darkness and landed to the side of the armored column in a haze of dust. He sipped his tea again as he waited for this Amazon to emerge and found that he was not sipping grit.

Two minutes later, he found that his command tank and his bloodstained map had been commandeered and he had been packed into the back of an APC like a common private.

With Reiko Oshima in the lead tank, the column headed at full speed for the Funnel, the narrowing valley that led to the airstrip. The hound had already taken off again to scout the terrain.

The column was able to make excellent time. All vehicles and the helicopter were equipped with active infrared searchlights that projected a beam that was invisible to the naked eye but showed up as illumination to anyone wearing the right goggles. It was an effective enough technique unless your opponent had infrared detection capability, in which case it was like driving along with full headlights on. You could see where you were going, but then everyone could see you – and from a considerable distance away.

Twenty minutes later, when the column was within just a few kilometers of the Funnel, a radio message came in from the helicopter that a cloud of dust heading at high speed toward the old airstrip had been sighted.