Kilmara was silent under the cover of hunting for some marmalade. He did not really understand American breakfasts.
He was also very fond of Etan, Boots's mother, and had been quite upset when she had opted for a career ahead of Fitzduane. Particularly when she still loved the man. But people were nothing if to perverse. He was also very fond of Kathleen. He thought his friend had excellent taste in women. A Japanese name also came into his mind, but he could not quite recall it. That was the trouble with these military conventions. Soldiers all drank as if there were no tomorrow. Of course, sometimes they were right.
"Some men can sleep with a woman and then wipe the encounter from their mind as if it was of no consequence," said Fitzduane. "You can do that, Shane. I can't."
"Sometimes it is of no consequence," said Kilmara. "Sex should not be confused with romance, though I admit they can overlap. But if you carve the name of every woman you have slept with on your body, you'll end up looking like an old oak tree on lovers' lane. Well, I like my bark pristine. I also believe in concentration of effort. Remember only the good ones – and for heaven's sake, be quick or selective."
Fitzduane smiled.
"So what did you tell Kathleen when she asked about Etan?" Kilmara asked.
Fitzduane took his time replying. "I think about Etan every day," he said. "She is the mother of my son. Every time I see Boots I am reminded of her. I think of what might have been – of what should have been. And it makes me a little sad. She was my lover and she was my friend. I've adapted, but I miss her."
Kilmara's cup of coffee was frozen in midflight. "You said all that, Hugo?" he said. "Holy shit! Someone is going to have to lock you up." He rolled his eyes. "Basic training: Women do not like to be reminded of other women unless you have a menage a trois. What am I going to do with you!"
"I also said that I have never been happier than with Kathleen and I love her with every atom of my being," said Fitzduane quietly. "And that's true also."
Kilmara waggled his hand and beamed. "Well, for an idiot you recover well." He frowned. "And you did this all over breakfast? Now, that is ridiculous."
Fitzduane smiled and then changed the subject. "Where is Maury?" he said.
"In his mobile home," said Kilmara. "He has got an encrypted mobile phone that he talks to Lee Cochrane with. Mark my words. Those guys are plotting."
"What about?" said Fitzduane.
"Think of them as travel agents," said Kilmara. "I think they are still planning to get you to Mexico. They have this thing about Tecuno, and they think you are the best man for the job. Kind of flattering in its way."
"Not a chance," said Fitzduane. "I have enough firefighting to do at home."
"With Kathleen?" said Kilmara, slightly taken aback.
"With Boots," said Fitzduane with a smile. "My sweet little five-year-old son. You know, the one who was found playing with your loaded service automatic the last time you were staying. He nearly got it into action, too."
Kilmara went pale. He remembered all too well. Terrorism was something he was used to dealing with, but a curious five-year-old was a higher order of threat altogether. And television made the kids familiar with safety catches and the like. Boots had found he was not strong enough to work the slide and had been experimenting holding the weapon in a vise and using two hands when he was caught. He was an ingenious little monster.
"You've got a point," Kilmara said with some feeling.
About fifteen minutes away from the main exhibition, live-firing demonstrations were being given in a converted quarry. You could evaluate weapons just so far in a booth.
Fitzduane and Kilmara took the shuttle bus over. They had not told either Dana or Texas, so they felt a little bit like kids dodging school. On the other hand, it would have been a foolish terrorist indeed who tried anything.
The passengers were equipped with every conceivable kind of weapon to try out on the range. In addition, both men were armed, though automatics were as nothing compared to the exotic firepower they were surrounded with. Fitzduane reflected that the domestic pop-up toaster might not have seen much development over the last half century, but certainly weapons manufacturers had not stunted their ingenuity.
It was hot in the quarry, and a blazing sun in a clear blue sky indicated that it was going to get hotter still.
About forty attendees were gathered in a rough semicircle behind the firing line. Perhaps a third were uniformed, and the rest wore every from black T-shirts emblazoned with slogans – matched with fatigues bloused into combat boots – to suits and ties. More than a dozen were women.
"I don't know whether this is fun or horrible," said Fitzduane.
"Watching things go bang. This is fun," said Kilmara cheerfully. "When the quarry starts to shoot back… that is horrible."
There was movement at the firing line, and a man dressed in well-worn but starched fatigues faced the gathering. He wore a DI's flat-brimmed hat as if it had grown with him in his mother's womb.
"My name is Cutler," he said. "You're about to see a demonstration of the Brunswick RAW – Rifleman's Assault Weapon. It's an unusual weapon."
A 5.56 FN Minimi light machine gun, bipod extended, was positioned on the ground beside him with its muzzle pointed toward a sandbag bunker two thicknesses thick about three hundred meters away.
In front of the bunker and leaning against it was a heavy steel armor plate.
"The trouble with the bad guys," continued Cutler, "is that they are not always willing to stand up and be shot at. They don't play fair. They get behind cover like bunkers or reinforced concrete positions that your itty-bitty rounds can't penetrate, and then what the fuck do you do? It's downright embarrassing."
There were smiles from the assembled group.
"We already have rocket and grenade launchers," Cutler went on, "but rocket launchers are bulky and the 40mm grenade does not quite have the punch for a strongpoint. And so they came up with the RAW. Essentially, it is a spin-stabilized elongated ball five and a half inches in diameter – a teardrop shape – that you fire from a launching mechanism that you attach under the muzzle of your personal weapon."
Cutler opened a compact clamshell container and clipped the mechanism and then the projectile in place. The entire exercise took less than ten seconds.
"With the RAW in place, you can still use your weapon as normal. The interesting thing is that for three hundred meters, the projectile's trajectory is virtually flat. Using your rifle sights, where you point it will hit. At longer ranges we're talking indirect fire, but it will go up to fifteen hundred meters."
Cutler picked up the Minimi with the RAW now attached. "As I said, there is no recoil or backblast, so you can fire it standing or sitting or however you want. The bipod is not necessary except to steady your aim."
He then reached out his hand, turned the RAW activator switch, aimed at the bunker, and fired.
The projectile hissed from its nest under the barrel and then accelerated rapidly.
It looked harmless, thought Fitzduane, more like a well-spun ball than a weapon. But after its initial acceleration, it was extremely fast.
The distant bunker protected by its armor plate could be clearly seen.
And then it just disintegrated, the explosion startlingly violent and more like a heavy artillery shell than a grenade. It seemed an extraordinary amount of destructive power from such a small sphere.
"Well, I'm buggered," said Kilmara. "That little thing does all that damage by itself? You must have set off some explosives in it. You're pulling a fast one, Sergeant."
Cutler grinned. "No, sir," he said. "What you saw is what you got. The RAW is one effective sucker. Ain't technology a wonderful thing. In destructive power, the grapefruit is equivalent to a 105mm howitzer shell."