Intelligence was never perfect. You could see a great deal from the air, but so much of modern weaponry was small and powerful. If the defenders knew what they were doing, a handheld missile was not left on permanent display for all to see. It was brought out at the last moment. It was moved around. Positions were camouflaged. Vision equipment could see through darkness, smoke, and haze, but not into a concrete bunker. Equipment broke down. And there was always the human factor. People missed things, they got confused, they fucked up. Particularly they fucked up under pressure. And people trying to kill you was serious pressure. You could ameliorate it with training and the right disciplines, but it was always there.
"What do you hate most?" said Fitzduane.
"Before we land, anything that can shoot down a troop-carrying aircraft makes us unhappy," said Carlson. "Paratroopers hate to die before they've had a chance to fight.
"Once we've landed, we get pissed off by armor, artillery, and mines in roughly that order. And then there is the NBC area. None of that is a barrel of laughs."
NBC" nuclear, biological, chemical. A terrifying amount of misery summed up by three letters, reflected Fitzduane.
Carlson smiled. "But, hey, it's an imperfect world. And we lov-v-v-e to jump."
He caught Fitzduane's look. "Well, to land, anyway," he added.
Fitzduane looked at Lonsdale. He was getting some ideas. "Can we contribute?"
Lonsdale pursed his lips. "Probably," he said. Regardless of rank, you got $112 a month while on airborne status. You could earn more in tips in one night in many bars.
But the money was not really the point.
They were back in the SCIF.
In full name was the Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility, a title that required excessive energy just to think about pronouncing.
Fitzduane was becoming to seriously hate the divisional plans and operations facility. Grateful nations tended to erect monuments in memory of their warriors. In the case of the 82 ^ nd Airborne, he was of the opinion that bronze statues could be usefully bypassed in favor of an air-conditioned ventilation system and deodorizer that really worked. The place was getting like the SaudiDesert crossed with the humidity of Vietnam. The atmosphere was thick enough to slice and dice. The planning staff were not going to need to acclimatize when they arrived in some tropical hellhole. The climatic conditions of the Devil's Footprint were going to be light relief.
Meanwhile, faces shiny with sweat, clothing looking as if it had been run through a sauna, and tempers were getting frayed. Files and papers adhered to hands as if with thinned-out treacle. Fingers lifted from computer keyboards sounded as if they were being detached from the suckers of overfriendly octopi.
"I'll buy you an air conditioner," muttered Fitzduane. "A very large air conditioner with a Coke machine and ice-cold showers built in."
"The U.S. Army doesn't work that way," said Lonsdale. " You work with what you've got. A hundred years ago, the U.S. cavalry had single-shot carbines and the Indians had repeating rifles. Work that one out."
"If I was Custer," said Fitzduane, "I would feel pretty bloody upset."
Beads of sweat formed up on Carlson's brow, slid in globule formation down his nose, waited until over the drop zone, and then went splat! onto the remains of a giant cheeseburger shipped over from the Airborne PX.
"Gentlemen," he said formally. "The 82 ^ nd Airborne Division is deeply grateful for your help, but now I must ask you to leave. ASAP, sirs."
Fitzduane blinked. It was an effort, because his eyelids were weighed down with sweat. He thought of wiping them with a corner of his T-shirt, but there wasn't a dry corner left. He poked under the cheeseburger, but someone else had already grabbed the napkin.
He blinked again. "Zachariah," he said, "you guys asked us to come down here. All we've done so far is help target the opposition. There is still the minor matter of what the fuck we all do when we hit the ground. Do we join hands and sing?"
Carlson looked uncomfortable. "Need to know, sir," he said. "Standard security precaution. You've gotta understand that the actual planning process is classified."
Fitzduane stood up. "We've been to the Devil's Footprint. We've tangoed and we've come back alive, and you are standing here telling me that you're throwing us out. Am I reading you right, Zachariah?"
"Orders, sir," said Carlson uncomfortably. "You must understand, Hugo, that this is a military operation, and as far as the U.S. Army is concerned, you people are civilians. Valued citizens, but whatever you have done in the past…"
"…we don't need to know," said Fitzduane grimly.
"Airborne!" said Carlson.
Fitzduane eyed Carlson. In the short time he had known the man he had been impressed. The man was not just well-trained. He was bright, innovative, and thorough. But how could someone of this caliber put up with such manifest bullshit? Fitzduane figured that in this humidity no one was likely to notice the steam coming out of his ears. He counted to ten and added another decade and felt his mood calming slightly.
"My worry is that the left hand doesn't know what the right hand is doing," he said, "let alone all the fingers and toes."
Fitzduane and Lonsdale headed back to First Brigade, made some calls, and got kitted out while they were waiting for some action. If they were going to jump in with the 82 ^ nd they were going to look like they belonged. Around them everyone moved just that bit faster. There was electricity in the air. The Airborne were going into action.
Fitzduane abandoned his Calico submachine gun with regret, but Lonsdale was adamant.
"You've spent too long on small unit actions where you know all your team, Hugo," he said. "There are going to be a shitload of aggressive young troopers on this one, and if you don't look right, they'll waste you on reflex. So wear your Kevlar, carry your M16, and don't complain."
He stood back and eyed Fitzduane. From his jump boots to body language, the Irishman looked completely at home in his U.S. Army combat fatigues and equipment, but there was one thing not quite right.
Fitzduane wore his hair cropped short but en brosse. It was trim but not quite the Airborne white sidewalls with a half-inch thatched oval on top. A sort of reversed tonsure.
"Who'll know when I'm wearing a helmet?" said Fitzduane.
"Trust me," said Lonsdale. "It'll be appreciated."
Within minutes of emerging from the PX barbershop, Fitzduane knew Lonsdale had been right. It was a gesture toward the Airborne way, and this was Airborne territory. It was a token of acceptance and, as such, was noted.
Fitzduane eyed his new hairstyle in a small mirror in Carlson's office. It occurred to him that judging by the tapestries he had seen, his Norman ancestors had cropped their hair in a not dissimilar style. The barbershop floor had cheered him. He was agreeably surprised he still had that much hair to lose.
"Hugo?"
Fitzduane turned.
Carlson stood in the door. He looked at Fitzduane's newly cropped head and nodded approvingly. "Good news and bad news," he said. "Full security clearance has come through."
"And?" said Fitzduane.
"Back to the SCIF," said Carlson. "A Dr. Jaeger from Livermore is joining us. The CG is sitting in."
"CG?" said Fitzduane.
"Commanding General of the 82 ^ nd," said Carlson. "General Mike Gannon. He's a two-star and climbing. A real good man, sir. Airborne from way back."
"Is he commanding the mission?" said Fitzduane.
"This is the Airborne, Hugo," said Carlson. "General Gannon will be the first man to jump."