The air base was south of Laredo, Texas.
Fitzduane did not ask the name of the base or inquire exactly where he was. It did not seem the protocol, it was not important, and he had other things on his mind.
Dusk was approaching. The two unmarked C130s were loaded, and now it was a matter of checking and checking and checking again. The checking was mostly pointless, but it passed the time. It was when you had nothing to do that fear started to play with your soul.
"The SAS have an expression," said Fitzduane. "‘The Seven Fucking Ps!’"
"What are they?" said Kilmara.
"Proper Planning and Preparation Prevents Piss-Poor Performance," said Fitzduane.
"That sounds more like the Fitzduane family motto," said Kilmara. He smiled. "Or maybe that is: ‘Let life not be dull!’"
Fitzduane laughed. "Sometimes I'd settle for dull!" he said.
General Kilmara contemplated his friend. "How is Cochrane shaping up?"
Fitzduane was thoughtful. "I can't fully read him," he said. "At first, he was trying too hard. The Eternal Soldier in the making and having a hard time taking orders. After Zarra and Dan Warner got killed and I invited him along, he changed. Now he's a team player and he has become very good indeed. God help the enemy."
"I doubt he will," said Kilmara. He took his time continuing, and when he did he was smiling. "You don't deserve it, but I think he's going to help you."
Fitzduane was about to make a cutting riposte, but there was a certain air of anticipation emanating from Kilmara. "Which particular angel has he designated for the task?" he growled.
"I told a mutual friend," said Kilmara, "that you were a little strained, a little stressed, about to do something decidedly dangerous, but I thought you could succeed with help. The friend, as unlikely an angel as I ever have seen – he is rather bulky and has a mustache and a Bernese accent you could cut with a knife – volunteered. He's commanding the second C130 instead of Cochrane. It seemed to make some sense to have someone up there watching over you. Better yet, more than one. God, as they say in Bragg, is ‘Airborne.’"
"The Bear," breathed Fitzduane. He'd met the portly Swiss detective some years past in the original hunt for the terrorist known as the Hangman. Subsequently, the Bear had helped rescue Kathleen from a revenge mission carried out by terrorists led by Reiko Oshima. The Bear and Fitzduane went way back.
"The very man," said Kilmara. "I know you were reluctant to ask him on account of his domestic state in Bern, but you have to remember he is on Oshima's shit list too. He was there when you took down the Hangman and does not fancy remaining a target for a revenge mission. He'd like to get his paw in first. Also, he's a friend."
Fitzduane turned his head away. Maybe he rubbed his eyes and maybe that was just because of the dust. This part of Texas was decidedly dusty.
He checked his watch and headed for the briefing hut.
Shadow Team were gathered inside in a semicircle. Including him, the ground element was now sixteen strong.
"Final briefing," he said.
Kilmara watched Fitzduane's unit file into the briefing hut.
They seemed about as concerned as if they were going into a cafeteria for a meal but were not particularly hungry. This was a routine exercise, nothing more. Except that it was not. This was the real thing, and it was about to happen.
Unless they were exceptionally lucky, not all would make it back. There would probably be some dead. There would certainly be wounded.
The events of the next few days would change lives forever. That was certain.
They would kill fellow human beings. That was certain too.
Kilmara tried to work out in his mind the impression that Fitzduane's people conveyed. They certainly were not an average team. They were older and more experienced than most, even in the context of the inner circles of the special-forces elites. They also mixed and matched the nationalities and sexes without any evidence of strain.
Either you could do the job or you couldn't. It was that simple. That apart, no one seemed to give a damn if you were a man, woman, or zebra. It was all about performance. ‘Doing the job’ did not mean getting a passing mark. It meant operating at a level of proficiency that was rare indeed in normal life.
The one weak link could be Lee Cochrane. God knows his military skills had improved over the past few days, but he was still an amateur among professionals. For an amateur he was excellent, and no one could doubt his commitment, but enthusiasm, in Kilmara's judgment, was not enough. You could train all you liked under live fire, but there was nothing like the moment when you faced the reality of ‘kill or be killed.’ Then enthusiasm did not come into it.
It was down to basics like mind-set and skills. Using night-vision equipment but otherwise in darkness, Chifune could draw, aim, and shoot a grapefruit-size target twenty meters away in less than one third of a second. She was exceptional, but others were still close to that league.
Cochrane did not come into it. At heart he was a congressional staffer – and a very good one – but he was no longer a soldier. Vietnam had been decades back. In Kilmara's opinion, he was a worry. Worse yet, he was a mistake. Kilmara knew why Fitzduane had made that particular decision but regarded it as a case of heart over head.
But sometimes Fitzduane was like that. He was the best combat leader Kilmara had ever seen, but his one weakness was that he had too much heart. Combat was about killing the enemy. A generous nature was a debatable asset on the battlefield.
"Listen up," said Fitzduane. "The operation is a go."
There was silence in the briefing room. Every unit member had been through the plan countless times, but still paid as much attention as if this was the first time.
"Operation Rapier," he said. "Three objectives. One: to release a hostage, Kathleen Fitzduane, an Irish citizen kidnapped in the United States of America. Two: to inflict maximum damage on the terrorist base known as the Devil's Footprint, and specifically to wipe out the terrorist group known as Yaibo together with their leader Reiko Oshima. Three: to destroy the offensive capability they have been working on – the supergun.
"The assault team numbers sixteen divided into five Guntracks, with Calvin up on high – as needed – in the microlight. We are flying to the target in two special-operations-modified C130 Combat Talons. These will fly south initially over the Gulf of Mexico at four hundred feet – effectively below radar height – and then will make a dogleg at Waypoint Two and enter Mexican airspace from the sea at Waypoint Three over Tecuno. They will drop us northwest of the target. The aircraft will be contour flying at this stage and will be using RAVEN radar-suppression equipment, so we should arrive unseen at 1430 hours on Night One.
"The Guntracks will go out first using LAPES, and then the aircraft will pop up and drop us out from two-fifty feet.
"We hit the ground, we immediately mount up, from a combat wedge and head for this position about a klik away" – he tapped the map – "where there is cover we can blend into and where we will render ourselves as invisible as only we can and wait for daylight. So ends Night One.
"Daylight comes, we still wait. On this mission, as we have rehearsed again and again, the approach will be to travel and attack at night. We have thermal imagers. We have image enhancement. The night is our friend.
During the daylight, we want to be invisible. During daylight, we will be invisible. If we are going to be spotted, it is most likely to be by aircraft seeing our dust trail. By hiding up during the day under full camouflage with thermal blankets and not moving, the chances of our being spotted are minimal.
"Normally, military choppers in this part of the world fly at five thousand feet to avoid small-arms fire – at which height they will see fuck-all. The Guntrack is not a large lump of metal radiating heat like a tank. It is only about six feet wide and thirteen feet long – if you ignore the pallet at the back, which adds only a couple of feet – so the whole damn thing is small and low-slung and extremely easy to conceal, and thanks to its plastic body and engine baffling and thermal camouflage it is a rotten thermal target. Nonetheless, don't get cocky. Be invisible!