One woman and the might of the famous 82 ^ nd Airborne Division, and she was going to triumph.
She entered the gorge and felt the protection of the rock above fold over her. The sky was blotted out.
"Where?" said Gannon.
Palmer indicated the spot on the map.
"Fitzduane know?"
"Airborne, sir," said Palmer.
Gannon walked away from the map. Weather conditions were lousy and the wind was higher than he liked. But this damn terrorist was the core of all this bloodshed, and there was nothing worse than a mission half done. Politicians liked to call a halt before the job was finished, but about the only good thing he could find to think about the Devil's Footprint and the Tecuno plateau was that there were absolutely no politicians around.
"What do the air force say?" said Gannon.
"You know the C130 jocks," said Palmer. "Anywhere, anytime."
"Let's do it," said Gannon. He walked toward the door. Behind him, Palmer was already on the radio passing the word.
The C130's were going hot. Inside, paratroopers were racked like peas in a pod. The dirty yellow sand of the Tecuno plateau filled the air as the four turboprops cut in.
Gannon missed the red earth of North Carolina. FortBragg was not everyone's idea of the place to be, but if you wore a maroon beret it was something special. Soon someone else would get the division, and hell, he was going to miss the place. Jumping out of perfectly good aircraft was just something that got in your blood.
Gannon turned around. "Dave?" he said.
"Sir?" said Palmer.
"Last jump you made you never quite got around to putting on your ‘chute," said Gannon. "How would you like to make one the old-fashioned way – like we taught you?"
Colonel Dave Palmer grinned. "Nor sure I remember, General."
"Let's go," said Gannon. "I'll remind you on the way down."
Kitted out, Gannon and Palmer waddles up the ramp.
Black and green faces stared at them.
Gannon scanned them. They looked frightening. God knows why you would want to love these aggressive young people, but he did. They kept the MPs run off their feet, drank like camels, turned Fayetteville into something out of the Wild West, and fucked anything that moved.
But they kept the faith. Not too many people seemed to do that these days. His gaze stopped at one face that did not normally belong.
"Padre," he said.
"General," said the padre. Under the camouflage he was looking decidedly guilty. He had not been rostered.
Gannon studied him. "Just remember to catch Colonel Palmer," he said.
"Airborne, General," said the padre with relief.
"When he hits the ground," said Gannon.
"HOOAH, SIR!" said the padre and a planeload of paratroops.
The ramps came up. The C130s rolled.
The copilot got out of his seat reluctantly but without demur. The two-man Kiowa Warrior crews were a tight team. He did not grudge the Irishman his seat, but he was concerned about letting his crew chief down.
"Your friend still tracking?" said Fitzduane as he buckled in.
"Roger that, sir," said the crew chief as the Kiowa took off. "Call sign Viper Two."
High above, Viper Two focused his high-resolution TV camera on the speeding motorbike until it vanished under an overhang.
Fitzduane listened to the communications between the two helicopters while watching the ground recede in the distance.
Brock's face was an unreadable mask. Cochrane raised his weapon in farewell.
"The target's vanished, sir," said the crew chief.
Fitzduane's heart gave a lurch.
"Have you ever flown really low, sir?" said the crew chief.
"I hate heights," said Fitzduane.
"A lot of Airborne do," said the crew chief. "Funny thing, when you think about it."
The Kiowa roared over the crest of the hill and then dropped down as it headed into what looked from the helicopter's perspective like a tunnel.
"Relax, Colonel," said the crew chief. "Unless you get claustrophobia."
"I should live so long," said Fitzduane.
Flying five feet off the ground, the Kiowa Warrior entered the gorge and vanished under the overhang.
High up above, Viper Two flew in parallel.
In the distance up ahead, Viper Two could see the shapes of a flight of C130s.
As he flew closer he could see that the sky was filled with the ‘chutes of the Airborne.
The dry riverbed twisted and turned, and Oshima fought to keep her speed up over the irregular surface. The rock had been worn smooth enough, but the surface was strewn with pebbles and boulders. The noise of the motorbike echoed off the rock walls and pounded back at her.]
The silencer had been punctured in a skid a few kilometers back, but the deafening noise was something she could live with. It would only be a temporary inconvenience. In a few minutes she would be in her hide for the day and then could repair the damaged machine at her leisure.
She sideslipped around a patch of gravel and with relief saw the light of the open space ahead. The riverbed widened at this point and the gorge fell away, but shortly afterward there was a cave system. A quick dash across the open space and then she would be under cover.
She skidded to a halt under the final protection of the overhang. The noise was still deafening.
She looked ahead. The open space appeared to be clear.
Out of routine, she looked behind.
As she looked, a helicopter flew around the last bend and hovered a few hundred meters behind her.
Oshima's mouth went dry. She made an animal sound and gunned her machine into the open space. She was a small target traveling at speed, and if she moved very fast and zigzagged she could still get away.
She was halfway across when a salvo of 2.5 rockets blew the rock away from under her.
Oshima flew through the air and crashed into the ground. Dazed but still conscious, she saw that the natural amphitheater made by one side of the gorge and the riverbed was ringed with paratroopers.
She tried to move, but her legs would not respond.
She raised her head and saw that one leg was twisted and broken. The other limb was missing below the knee.
A figure had dismounted from the helicopter and was walking toward her.
Oshima struggled to draw her pistol, but her hand arm would not respond. She raised her arm, and her hand just hung there from its broken wrist.
The figure came closer, and now she could recognize him.
Fitzduane.
She tried to move her left hand, and with relief felt some movement in the fingers.
She eased them around to the small of her back and felt for her backup pistol.
She saw Fitzduane bend down and pick up something. He made a move, and she saw the scabbard cast aside and the blade glint in the sun. Her katana, kept always strapped to her back and now torn loose in her fall.
How many people had she killed with that blade? Too many to recall. One of them had been Christian de Guevain, Fitzduane's closest friend. It would be good to add Fitzduane himself to the list. If he was going to use the sword, then he would have to come close, and she could not miss.
Oshima was still bringing up the pistol when Fitzduane raised the sword and severed her head.
29
Fitzduane jogged through ArlingtonCemetery.
Autumn was in the air. It was cooler to run. That evening he would board the aircraft that would take him back to Ireland with Kathleen.
It was a nice feeling. He would miss America, but it was time to go home.