The floor was dark, but through her PNV goggles she could see. There were no colors except shades of green fading to black and the red dot of her laser gun sight, which was invisible except to those wearing the goggles and the appropriate filter.
A figure rose from a bed and stumbled sleepily toward the toilets. Outside the stalls, as he fumbled for a light switch, Chifune shot him twice in the back of the head and caught the body and lowered it to the ground. Black liquid ran out of his skull. She checked the other stalls. All were empty.
Thirty of the beds were still occupied.
Chifune fired, and a split second later Chuck Freeman opened up. The weapons made almost no noise, and the ejected brass fell downward into cloth bags so there was not even the sound of empty cases rattling on the floor.
Bodies whipped as rounds tore into them, and blood blackened the bedclothes and sheets and leaked onto the floor and spread in a great pool.
The attackers advanced, firing steadily in aimed three-round bursts, and Grady followed up with head shots.
One terrorist rose up and screamed and reached for his weapon, but died as Chifune fired a longer burst and five 10mm armor-piercing slugs cut through his torso.
At the end of the room, a Yaibo member got his weapon up and cocked it, then slammed back and slid along the corridor as Grady spotted him and took him out with a head shot and a burst to the throat.
A pair of lovers sharing the same bed half rose in alarm as the man in the next bed shuddered and fell back, and then Freeman's rounds found them and they collapsed in each other's arms.
A Yaibo woman seized a sword and ran down the central aisle toward her executioners until three streams of Calico rounds converged and cut her nearly in half.
She fell forward and her weapon cut into the toe of Freeman's boot before falling from her lifeless hands.
One young Yaibo member – he was older but he looked no more than sixteen – held up his hands in a vain effort to surrender. The movement attracted Grady's attention and a burst took him in the face.
A terrorist rolled off his bed and, crawling frantically, emerged between Chifune and Freeman. Neither could fire without hitting the other. Grady was blocked by Freeman.
The terrorist scrabbled to cock his automatic rifle. As he did so, Freeman drew his fighting knife with his left hand and stabbed the man in the throat.
In less than thirty seconds, thirty-one members of Yaibo lay dead or dying and the air was thick with the smells of slaughter. All the bodies were checked quickly, and where there was any sign of life at all, it was terminated.
The assault team moved on. There was no emotion. This was what they had trained to do. Reaction would come later.
The door of Oshima's room was flung open. It was empty.
The Blockhouse Above The Devil's Footprint,
Tecuno, Mexico
Shanley watched through filtered PNV goggles as Al Lonsdale emerged on the inside of the electric fence.
Despite their equipment and hindered by the requirement for absolute silence, tunneling under it had proved to be harder and to take longer than expected. What had appeared like sandy ground had degenerated into rock, and they had been forced to hunt for another location.
Seconds later, Dana Felton emerged and Shanley passed through the Clucas pole in sections. The Clucas had been designed for Britain's SBS – Special Boat Service – marine commando unit as a way of covertly climbing onto ships from an assault boat below. It consisted of a central shaft of light, strong alloy with short steps protruding on either side. It could be up to fifty-four feet long and was much faster to climb than a rope ladder.
Shanley could see headlights. He sank back to the ground, and Al and Dana did the same. A minute later the guard jeep with its crew of four and mounting a heavy machine gun passed by, headlights blazing and occupants chatting away.
They are bored out of their minds and the lights and the fence give an illusion of security, thought Shanley. The form and the substance – the split between the two was a curious paradox in the military world. People still only went through the motions, even when their very lives were at stake. It was the ‘It can't happen to me’ syndrome, and it was the friend of special forces the world over.
Al Lonsdale and Dana rose from the ground and, making every use of the terrain and keeping to the shadows, moved towards the reinforced concrete observation post that commanded the two valleys below. Even with his night-vision equipment and knowing they were there, Shanley found it very hard to follow them. Mostly there was more the faintest impression of movement than a hard image.
When they came to the base of the post, they vanished.
They will now be moving around to the base on the other side, thought Shanley. Seconds later, three clicks and then one sounded in his earpiece.
Keeping well under cover, he picked up a lamp and pointed it at the observation post and shouted in Japanese. It was not a language he spoke, but he had parrot-learned a few phrases. Seconds later, a searchlight swung in his direction and he ducked right down as the beam moved toward him.
"What's up? What did you see?" said the startled second guard on the blockhouse roof. He spoke in Spanish. Numb with boredom and the chill of the night, he had two blankets wrapped around him and had been almost asleep when his companion had cried out.
"I saw a headlight," said the first guard, "and then someone shouted in Japanese. It sounds like the yo-yos are playing games out there." Relations between the Japanese Yaibo terrorists and the mainly Mexican mercenary force were not cordial.
"Well, fuck ‘em," said his companion. "They should know better. Give them a burst and teach them to behave. It'll liven things up."
The first guard swung the 12.7mm heavy machine gun around. It was sorely tempting, but Yaibo were supposed to be their allies, and shooting up a group who had got lost on some exercise would not look like such fun in the light of day. He decided to play it safe and call the guardhouse.
He was reaching for the telephone as the burst from Al Lonsdale's silenced Calico struck him in the back. The 10mm armor-piercing rounds plowed effortlessly through his Russian-made flak jacket.
His companion fell at the same time Dana fired. Seconds later, the two members of Shadow Two had descended into the floor below where eight other members of the duty section lay sleeping.
It did not take long. They checked the bodies, switched the current off the electric fence, and ascended to the roof again.
Shanley watched with growing concern as the lights of the duty jeep came closer. The jeep, in the normal scheme of things, was not due back for another fifteen minutes, so he could only assume that the blockhouse had called them up to investigate the mysterious light. Bloody hell, it was an obvious move with hindsight, but actually one they had not anticipated. There was always something staring you in the face that you missed. As Brick had once remarked, life was a monument to mankind's fuckups.
"The blockhouse is secure," said Al Lonsdale's voice in his earpiece. This was technically correct and though on the open net primarily for Fitzduane's benefit, Shanley meanwhile had a jeepload of Mexican mercenaries bearing down on him.
What to do? It had to be done virtually silently. A shout would not attract attention in either of the camps below, but unsilenced gunshots were another matter.
He would have to take out the four before they could respond. This was what he had trained for. It could be done.
"Take them out – kill them."
Kill four perfect strangers. Take the lives of four human beings as peremptorily as one might swat a fly.
He broke out in a sweat.
I cannot kill. I will not kill. Let the others take life.