"All the way, sir," said Carlson.
He lay down beside her and she snuggled up to him. He put his arms around her and held her. Sleep and food were already making a difference. Another couple of weeks at most and she would be able to travel. She could travel now if she had to, but rest and medical care were advised.
"They've asked me to go back," said Fitzduane. He explained.
Kathleen was silent for some time. "I would have said no," she said eventually, "but now I've seen it. I know how they are. I know what Oshima is capable of. If she isn't stopped… There's no real limit."
She'll come after us again, thought Fitzduane.
"What are the 82 ^ nd Airborne like?" said Kathleen.
"We'll look after each other," said Fitzduane.
"Yes, you will," said Kathleen slowly. "That's part of the attraction, isn't it? You and Kilmara and the others. You kill, but you care. Soldiering as a caring profession. A strange concept. If one of you calls, the others come and help and no one questions. I think it's crazy – but it's magnificent."
"I won't go, my love, unless you agree," said Fitzduane.
"But you think you should?" said Kathleen.
"Oshima," said Fitzduane.
"Oshima!" agreed Kathleen grimly.
"You're not to worry about me," said Fitzduane simply. "-Okay."
Kathleen forced a small smile. Oshima, she thought again. God, how I hate you.
"I'm going to finish it," said Fitzduane. He kissed her long and slow. Her arms came up and held him. He could feel her fingers digging into him, and then she pulled back and looked at him.
"And then you're coming back to make more babies," said Kathleen, trying to smile.
"If I can find a good-looking woman who'll have me," said Fitzduane.
"Could happen," said Kathleen. There were tears in her eyes. "Now, go."
Fitzduane kissed his wife again.
"I'm not going to worry," said Kathleen, "so don't you worry about me. Make the most of it. Enjoy. You'll be changing diapers soon."
"I like babies," said Fitzduane. "And mostly they like me."
He blew her a final kiss and closed the door. Outside in the corridor, he felt tears coming to his eyes. He went into the rest room and washed his face.
When he emerged, his step was firm.
Oshima!
24
Fitzduane emerged from the shower with the strong feeling that he was associating with a subculture whose values the original Sir Hugo Fitzduane – he of the thirteenth century who invasion of Ireland had started the cycle – would readily have identified with.
"They all run?" he said incredulously. "Hell, man, there's fifteen thousand of them. Some of them have to be couch potatoes. It's against human nature for the entire population of the equivalent of a small Irish city to go running every morning. I mean I run, Al, and you run – and we have our reasons – but a complete community rising up and putting in five miles before breakfast is downright kinky."
Lonsdale grinned. "Scout's honor," he said. "Every morning they close off Ardennes and, from the commanding general to the lowliest trooper, they all pound the pavement. Even after an EDRE."
"What is an EDRE?" said Fitzduane.
"Emergency deployment readiness exercise," said Lonsdale. "That's what the 82 ^ nd is all about. They're a kind of strategic fire brigade. Give them eighteen hours' notice, and they are wheels up to just about anywhere."
"In the world?" said Fitzduane.
"If an aircraft can fly over it, they can get to it," said Lonsdale. "‘Force projection,’ they call it."
"A subtle turn of phrase," said Fitzduane.
"Fucking the bad guys from a height," said Lonsdale. "If I may be so bold as to translate."
"Ah!" said Fitzduane.
It was hot in the SCIF and getting hotter, but though the 82 ^ nd had a budget of $65 million for running expenses, apparently that did not run to an effective airconditioning system for the top-security divisional operations center.
Most present had stripped down to T-shirts. Given the useful minority of outstandingly healthy young women troopers present, Fitzduane's respect for Airborne tactics was rising. But then again, he reminded himself, he was a married man and never happier to be so. He thought of Kathleen, safe again, and smiled. He had been walking on air these past few days. A little cold reality would not go amiss.
The Airborne assault on Oshima's base looked quite likely to provide it. His previous mission had been a twenty-minute raid with all the advantages of surprise on their side. This was a military problem of a different order of magnitude. The entire terrorist base complex now known generically as the Devil's Footprint was to be seized, held, searched, and destroyed – before being turned over to Mexican federal troops. And this time there was every sign that the terrorists were prepared and waiting.
Taped-together satellite photographs covered the floor. The only way you could study the overall picture properly was by taking your boots off and walking across the imagery in your socks. You hunkered down with a magnifying glass for the small stuff. The detail was superb. Faces could not be easily recognized, but you could look at an individual's load-bearing equipment and see whether he had grenades clipped to his belt or not.
As he looked at the planning staff crawling around the floor, Fitzduane, who suffered from an irreverent cast of mind, had a surreal flash of infants in a day-care center. He suppressed the thought. The Airborne took themselves seriously, as well they might, given what they were expected to do. Jumping out of aircraft into the darkness and a hail of enemy fire required a certain mindset. And getting to the ground in one piece was only the start of the exercise. You then had to deal with mines and weapons emplacements and a dug-in enemy who wanted you permanently dead. Airborne assault was a deadly serious business.
Fitzduane's military specialty was special-forces warfare, where heavy weaponry was normally nonexistent and the ethos was to be as sneaky and possible. To do anything head-on was considered bad form. He had to rethink his approach when considering the 82 ^ nd 's way of war. It was not that it was wrong. But it surely was different.
Lieutenant Colonel Zachariah Carlson looked up from perusing the satellite extravaganza. He looked less like a war memorial in his T-shirt and socks. And they had moved to first-name terms, which got over the potential problem of Al Lonsdale's lack of commissioned rank.
"How do you want to play this, Zach?" said Fitzduane.
"We're on a countdown," said Carlson. He checked his watch. "If hell freezes over, we hit the Devil's Footprint in sixty-three hours and eighteen minutes.
You've been there already. You've fought these people. Anything you can contribute which will make our task easier will be appreciated."
Fitzduane looked down at the satellite photographs again. He did not like what he saw. Madoa airfield had been significantly reinforced, and there were mobile armored columns on the perimeter. In the Devil's Footprint itself the main camp had been thoroughly destroyed, but the supergun valley appeared untouched. The blockhouse had been reoccupied and surrounded by extra defenses. Troops were dug in along the rim. Whoever was now in command knew just what they were doing and had the drive and energy to see it was done. What had been accomplished in such a short time was incredible.
Oshima! he thought to himself. He had hoped against hope that she had been killed in the original assault. Looking at the hornet's nest that had been created since the attack, he knew he had been wrong.
"Let's get out of this sweatbox, Zach," he said, "and you can give me the ten-cent version of who the 82 ^ nd operates these days. I grew up on World War Two stories where paratroops were always dropped in the wrong place and used guts instead of firepower to do the job."