"Get lower! Get lower!" shrieked Oshima over the radio into his ear.
He could just make out her machine. The lunatic was circling around to one side of him but several thousand feet beneath. He couldn't see it, but he knew damn well she would have the side door open and be firing into the maelstrom with her personal weapon.
She would have a Stinger up her arse if she did not watch it – which would be no loss to the world.
He finished his firing pass and circled for another. This time he would drip a couple of bombs. As he circled he noticed a small black shape to one side. It looked like some giant bird.
A vulture? Did vultures fly at night? He wished he had night-vision equipment. Flying the Mi-4 at night without it was really fucking Stone Age and no way to fight a civilized war.
The black shape came closer, and suddenly he realized what he was seeing. He'd never seen one in the flesh, but he'd read about them in aviation magazines.
So this was a microlight. Really it was little more than a cloth wing with a fuselage hanging underneath suspended by wires. He could see the pilot bundled up underneath.
The microlight looked too light and small to carry weapons, but it was not up there in the middle of the night for pleasure. It was some sort of reconnaissance vehicle.
He banked the helicopter and moved into a better firing position.
Fuck! The damn thing was not where he'd left it. He turned and lost height and scanned the sky. The microlight was small, but it should show up against the sky. Starlight had its uses.
He had just found it when a RAW projectile fired by Calvin hit the outer casing of his Shvetsov ASH-82v 1,700-horsepower engine and blew it right out of its mountings and through the fuselage where he sat.
The helicopter broke into flaming fragments and rained down on the remains of the main camp below. Four of the larger fragments were five-hundred-kilo bombs. The entire bowl of the valley erupted in a series of violent explosions, lighting up the surrounding hills with searing white flashes. A moment later the main ammunition store and refueling depot blew up.
Shadow Three and Shadow Five roared across the perimeter road and into the hills on the other side.
"Elegant," said Steve Kent, a broad grin on his face. "Fucking outrageously elegant. The regiment could not have done any better."
"High praise from SAS," said Fitzduane. He keyed his transmit button. "Shadow One to all. Who got the Mi-4? I didn't see a Stinger, so maybe Calvin's up there, but I can't see shit from here. We're in a world of smoke."
Four negatives came back.
"Head for the RV," said Fitzduane. "Shadow One will follow ASAP. Wait fifteen and head for the pickup."
"Roger that," came four times over the radio, and then they were alone.
"Steve," said Fitzduane, "take us back out of the smoke a couple of hundred meters and cut the engine. According to my vibes, Calvin's somewhere near, and we are not going to see him in this smog."
The Guntrack did not move. Fitzduane turned toward Steve. He was slumped back in his seat, the front of his combat smock drenched in blood. Most of his head was missing.
Fitzduane suddenly felt overwhelmingly tired. He put his hand on the dead man's, which still gripped the steering wheel and clasped it for a moment. Then he turned to Cochrane, who was searching the surrounding terrain with his GECAL.
"Lee," he said. "I need a hand. Steve's bought it."
Cochrane looked shocked for a moment, then jumped down and helped Fitzduane remove Steve from behind the steering wheel and into a body bag. The body was then strapped to the rear engine compartment. It was a contingency they did not like to dwell upon, but they had come prepared for it and the exercise had been rehearsed. No bodies were to be left behind. The enemy were not to be given even that much satisfaction.
Fitzduane slid into Steve's seat. It was still slippery with blood.
He drove out of the smoke to some dead ground where they could assess the situation with the FLIR and still stay concealed.
In his bones he knew Calvin was around there somewhere.
It was unthinkable to leave him behind – but there were only minutes to look for him.
A very shaken Reiko Oshima circled the main camp.
It was a scene out of hell lit by dozens of fires, large and small. Destroyed tanks and armored vehicles still poured black smoke, and some were still actively burning. There were sudden flashes and explosions as ammunition was ignited by the extreme heat. Green tracer fired spontaneously.
The neat lines of tents and wooden huts of the mercenary guard battalion had completely vanished, and everywhere she looked there were bodies. She tried to count them, but there were hundreds. Most were still. A few moved in a vain attempt to attract assistance.
She ordered the pilot to circle the observation post on the rim. As they approached there was an enormous explosion and the small Alouette helicopter was caught in the blast and thrown up and to one side. For a few long seconds she thought they were going to crash, and then the pilot regained control.
He looked at her briefly, mutely pleading. Sweat beaded his forehead and he looked quite terrified. She could see that he wanted to ask permission to return to the airfield, but he was even more terrified of her. She grunted. It was just as well. No weak man was going to break when Oshima was in command.
She was beginning to get a rough idea of what had happened. Given the isolated location and the large guard force, the twin valleys of the Devil's Footprint had looked exceptionally secure. However, with the benefit of hindsight it was easy to see that once the attacking force had seized the observation post and the high ground, both valleys were vulnerable.
Still, who could have expected such heavy firepower to be deployed against them and for it to be deployed with such speed and ferocity? The defending force, apart from substantial manpower, had heavy armor and other weapons at its disposal. It should have been able to put up some kind of resistance and to buy time until relief arrived.
No, this was not just a conventional commando raid against them by soldiers on foot. This was some new kind of warfare, faster and more deadly than anything she had either experienced or heard of before.
"Pilot, I want you to land behind the Yaibo barracks," she said, pointing.
The pilot looked at her, ashen. He tried to speak, but his mouth had gone dry. He licked his lips and tried again. "Oshima- san," he croaked, "that is insane. You can see for yourself that the camp is a death trap."
Oshima drew her 9mm Makarov pistol and placed the tip of the barrel against the pilot's scrotum.
"Listen, you fuckhead," she snarled. "If you don't do what I tell you, I'm going to shoot this decoration off. Whatever it contains, it certainly isn't balls."
The pilot started shaking. But he landed.
Amid the destruction and the carnage, the Yaibo barracks was still miraculously intact. Oshima felt a surge of pride as she approached. Though the perimeter guards had been vanquished, the force she had trained was made of tougher stuff. There might be casualties, but most would have survived, she was sure of it. Two minutes after she entered the building, over the background sounds of conflagration and the moaning of the wounded and the sharp crack of exploding ammunition, the pilot heard the most terrible bloodcurdling scream. It was piercingly loud and it rose to a crescendo before it fell, and then this dreadful cadence was repeated again and again.
It was the most awful sound he had ever heard in his life.
Five minutes later, Oshima staggered out the front door and then collapsed. The pilot went to help her, and as he lifted her to her feet he saw with horror that her clothing was completely saturated in blood.