Fitzduane had been custom-fitted between Lieutenant Colonel Zachariah Carlson and Lonsdale. Across from him sat Brock. Scout Platoon occupied the adjoining space. The unit looked quite menacing enough to carry out the mission on their own.
Carlson leaned toward Fitzduane. "We were just like this, waiting for takeoff before the Haiti mission," he said, "when there was a banging on the door and we found one of the sergeant majors outside. He'd been on leave, but just couldn’t bear to miss the action. He drove right to Green Ramp in civilian clothes. No weapon, no helmet, no parachute even."
Fitzduane wasn't paying full attention. If his eyes did not deceive him, a head had appeared above the top of the half-open ramp.
He blinked. The head had vanished. He was imagining things. The aircraft started to taxi.
He focused on Carlson. "What did you do with the guy?" he said. "Throw him out to test the wind?"
Carlson smiled. "Hell no. We kitted him out with bits and pieces. Anyone with that kind of Airborne spirit deserves to jump."
Fitzduane blinked again. This time there was no mistake. The head had reappeared above the ramp, and as he watched, the figure slid down into the aircraft in a cloud of red North Carolina dust. The C130 was picking up speed.
Sixty-four helmeted green and black faces stared at the intruder. He was wearing a suit and tie that, once given a good vacuuming, would have passed muster on the Hill when Congress was in session.
"Glad you know the form," said Fitzduane to Carlson.
"What the fuck!" said Brock.
"WHERE DO I SIT?" shouted Cochrane.
Fitzduane grinned evilly.
"Friend of yours?" said Carlson.
Fitzduane shook his head. "Pass the word to that yo-yo that it's going to be a long fucking flight."
Cochrane caught his eye and waved. "Hi, Hugo!" he shouted.
Sixty-four helmeted green and black faces stared at Fitzduane.
"What the fuck!" said Brock.
With some difficulty and the cooperation of his entire row, who all leaned to give him space, Fitzduane wrapped a two-inch-wide strip of white tape around Cochrane's left arm.
The chief of staff had been scavenging and negotiating for some considerable time and now looked more like a paratrooper. He had a helmet and uniform and his face was green. Even the shoes had gone, though the boots were zip-up flight issue.
His roster of equipment was nearly complete – but not quite.
"What's the tape for?" said Cochrane.
"Identifies you as belonging to the First Brigade," said Fitzduane, "and may stop you getting shot. Maybe I should take it back."
Cochrane ignored the comment. "What do I need to know? Keep it very simple. Brief me like you were using big print – and I was a politician. No big words."
"When we hit the ground, we're going after Oshima," said Fitzduane.
"How do you know where she'll be?" said Cochrane.
"There's a command bunker under Madoa airfield," said Fitzduane. "Rheiman was persuaded to draw a map. In the event of an attack, that's apparently where she'll be."
"If she isn't?" said Cochrane.
"I'll be profoundly irritated," said Fitzduane.
"Anything else?" said Cochrane.
"Roll when you hit the ground," said Fitzduane. "But first, remember to borrow a parachute."
Cochrane sat very still. "Aaaah!" he said slowly. "And I was doing so well."
Brock's eyes rolled upward. He shook his head. "What the fuck!" he said.
"You forget to tell him the challenge and the countersign," said Carlson.
Fitzduane nodded. " Happiness," he said, "is the challenge."
"What's the countersign," said Cochrane.
" Dead woodpecker," said Brock. He pumped his arm.
"HOOAH, SIR!" said Scout Platoon in unison.
Cochrane leaned toward Fitzduane. "Are they always like this?" he said.
"Pretty much," said Fitzduane.
The two jumpmasters, one for each door, faced down their respective double rows of troopers. Their legs were spread, the knees slightly bent, and their arms were ready at their sides as if to draw.
The posture was straight out of Dodge City. Straight gunslinger. And just as compelling.
The tension ratcheted up. The eyes of every trooper were focused on their respective jumpmasters. Fitzduane could feel the adrenaline start to pump. Hands flashed up palms outward, opening and closing twice.
"TWENTY MINUTES!" roared the jumpmasters, voices and hand movements in perfect harmony.
"TWENTY MINUTES!" responded the combined voices of sixty-four paratroopers.
"They've secured Arkono, sir," said Colonel Dave Palmer, the divisional executive officer. "No opposition. The strip was abandoned. The Kiowas are being landed as we speak."
General Mike Gannon nodded. He was a great believer in the 82nd's Kiowa Warrior helicopters, but they had neither the range nor the air-to-air refueling capability to make the journey on their own. That meant flying them in C130s and landing them close enough to the target area to be unloaded and on station when the division went in.
The nearest airstrip of adequate size was Arkono – the same strip that Fitzduane's group had used for their escape. There had been a decided possibility that Arkono would be occupied this time, but a pathfinder team had shown it still to be deserted.
The terrorist were consolidating their manpower. The Devil's Footprint complex was going to be a hard nut to crack. Gannon had no doubt but that the 82 ^ nd would triumph, but the question of casualties was foremost in his mind.
An airborne assault accelerated the entire combat cycle. You could win your objective faster, but the price could be terrible. In the past, parachute assaults had cost as high as fifty percent casualties.
The figure should be nothing like that this time, if Carlson and his team had planned everything correctly.
But the wild card was the supergun.
The faintest hint of a smile on his lips, Lieutenant Colonel Zachariah Carlson sat with his eyes closed as if meditating.
Slap a saffron robe on him and give him a begging bowl, and he would do well as a Buddhist monk, Fitzduane reflected. He already damn near had the shaven head.
An aura of calm exuded from the paratrooper. Internally he was probably using "What the fuck am I doing here?" as a mantra, but externally he looked as if he had just had sex – and it had been good – and Nirvana was just coming up over the horizon.
No worries. Positive vibrations.
His example seemed to be infectious. Although the tension had definitely increased in the aircraft since the jumpmasters' initial warning call, there were few external signs of fear. Of course, packed that tightly together, you could not really do much to show what was churning away inside.
You couldn't prowl up and down. You couldn't shuffle your feet. You could not even shake with fear without alerting your entire row.
You certainly could not run away. All you could do was sweat, and laden with equipment and packed together as you were, you were doing that anyway.
You were committed.
In minutes you would be doing what you had been trained to do. You would be jumping into a hot zone where several thousand hostiles would be doing their best to kill you.
Unless you killed them first. Which was beginning to seem like an increasingly good idea. In fact, the only option.
Acceptance of that decision had a definite calming effect. Instead of focusing on what might happen, you zeroed in on what had to be done and the tools you had to do the job.
Mission focus. The best antidote to fear. Combat-proven since the first cave dweller had sallied out to kill something large and unfriendly for supper.