Read The Devil's Footprint Online
Authors: Victor O'Reilly
The Devil's Footprint (46 page)
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Fitzduane hit a computer key and leaned back in his chair.
The laser printer whirred quietly and a single sheet of paper
emerged.
The cycle was repeated until a
thin sheaf lay stacked in the tray.
He stapled the sheets together and tossed the document to Kilmara.
"That's it," he said.
"I've made the final selection of the team and most of the
preparations are completed.
War games in
the
"Regarding the supergun, we still don't know what the fuck to
do.
they've still got a few things to do.
Jaeger is going to catch up with us when we are tooling around in the
He
says it will save him commuting.
It's a
whole lot closer to
Kilmara read carefully through he lists before looking up.
"One Mexican name, I see?"
Fitzduane nodded.
"Ernesto
Robles of
Delta,
and as it happens, Mexican-born.
A
Good people.
None better.
As to how he feels,
he lost friends in the bombing in
He'd like to close the account."
"By invading
insisted Kilmara.
"He doesn't see it as invading
"This is a hostage-rescue mission which
just happens to be taking place in
If we succeed, we'll be doing the Mexicans a
service.
I'd be happier still if we had
some Mexican citizens along, but that is not politically possible.
So stop shit-stirring!"
Kilmara laughed.
"Just so
you've thought things through," he said.
He flicked through the report again.
"You've assembled quite some firepower for a force only fifteen
strong.
Frankly, I've never seen
anything like it.
You can handle most
anything from infantry to tanks on the ground, and now you've got good antiair
defense.
But you're duck soup if they
corner you and bring in artillery.
That's where the lack of heavy armor on the Guntracks will really show
up."
Fitzduane shrugged.
"We've
been through enough war games at this stage to be aware of what we can do and
what we can't do.
This mission is based
upon stealth and speed —and faith and firepower.
Nothing is perfect.
If we get cornered we'll need a little help
from above to get us out."
He
smiled.
"
Which, I
guess, brings us back to faith.
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"Talk to me about the team," said Kilmara.
"Five Guntracks each with a crew of three," said
Fitzduane.
"Shadow
One
is the command Guntrack.
That's
myself
, Steve Kent driving, and a rear
gunner still to be decided.
Probably
Calvin Welbourne when he isn't flying.
"Shadow Two consists of Al Lonsdale, Dana Felton, and Don Shanley.
Since that
up where they left off to make an exceptionally smooth team, and Dana is
airborne at its best.
Al is the mission
second in command.
If I go down, he
takes over."
"Al is not even a commissioned officer, let alone the most
senior," said Kilmara.
"Has
that created any waves?"
Fitzduane shook his head.
"You don't make command sergeant major in Delta by being a
lightweight.
Al knows what to do and how
to do it — and it shows.
The man has camouflaged
blood in his veins."
"Shadow Three?" said Kilmara.
"Chifune, Chuck Freeman, and Grady," said Fitzduane.
"All good shooters.
Freeman is another Delta sergeant and a
quiet, introspective type.
He's vastly
experienced and the sort of man who inspires confidence without having to say
anything.
Al suggested the
combination.
He knows Freeman of old and
said if you had a couple of unorthodox types and wanted to put a team together,
Freeman was the glue to use.
Seems he was right."
Kilmara checked the list and looked up again.
"I've got to ask," he said.
"What have you done with Lee
Cochrane?
I have never seen a man so
anxious to put himself in harm's way.
I
suspect he has the Stars and Stripes tattooed on his balls."
Fitzduane laughed.
"Ouch!" he said, "Shane, you might retract that statement
if someone showed you a mirror.
After
all, who is commanding the two C130s that are coming in to pick us up?"
"Hell, I wouldn't miss this if you paid me," said Kilmara.
"Lee is your 2I/Cochrane," said Fitzduane.
"You can't fly two aircraft at
once.
You get shot down, he takes
over.
One thing I can be sure of is that
Lee won't back off.
If it is humanly
possible, Lee Cochrane will come through — tattooed balls and all."
Kilmara beamed at him.
"Hugo,
you are a genius," he said, "and a diplomat."
"Only occasionally," said Fitzduane politely.
"Shadow Four?" said Kilmara.
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The venue for the latest Valiente Zarra presidential rally was a
bullring.
It was not the biggest bullring in the world, but it officially held
thirty thousand, and given the modest population of Gualara that seemed likely
to be more than enough.
It was not.
People poured in from the surrounding countryside, and several hours
before the rally was due to start, not only
was
the bullring
full to overflowing but the immediate area around the ring was jammed and
laughing, cheering crowds filled the nearby streets and squares.
There was but one topic — the imminent
victory of
Valiente Zarra — and despite his deep skepticism about effecting real change
in the Mexican political system, Dan Warner was beginning to believe it.
The PRI were going to be overturned and
to realize its potential.
The excitement
in the air was electric.
"Everywhere
there was the two-syllable chant “ZAR-RA!
ZAR-RA!
ZAR-RA!”
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The broadcast was coming in live from
Lee Cochrane had left the confines of the camp to watch the rally with
Grant Lamar in his house.
Dan Warner was very much on Cochrane's mind.
Dan liked his Washington comforts and
wheeling and dealing politically in Bullfeathers, but he had accepted the Zarra
assignment without any more than the normal quota of bitching, and when down in
Mexico had done — was doing — an outstanding job.
With Zarra elected, there would be genuine
dialog between
the
Protectionism would become a thing of the
past.
The two economies together would
really go places.
The country would begin to demonstrate its
enormous economic potential and the
genuinely strong ally.
Such an alliance
was sorely needed.
military force to be reckoned with, and
of being focused on its own regional objectives.
As for
that part of the world seemed tired and indecisive.
The camera panned around the building, showing endless excited brown
faces and waving Zarrista banners.
There was a decided carnival atmosphere.
There was going to be change, and it was going to be good change, and
they were part
of
it
.
Unlike so many previous regimes throughout
history, Valiente Zarra would not let them down.
Here was a man who could drag
feudal roots into the wealth and dynamism of the twenty-first century.
The Zarrista party was unstoppable.
Within ten years, twenty years at the most,
Countries in the Far East like
Why could not
closer, do it too?
All it would take was
shaking off the dead hand of the PRI and voting in a new progressive regime.
The camera zoomed in on the podium where Zarra and his immediate
entourage would stand.
The original plan
had been for the podium to be in the bullring itself.
For security reasons, Dan Warner had been uneasy at Zarra being totally
out in the open without a convenient exit, so, after his objections, the new
podium had been located on the side of the arena where the band normally was
located.
The
band were
now playing from some seats normally occupied by spectators.
The slight change from their normal location had not dampened their
ardor.
Assisted by loudspeakers, music
blasted out over the arena.
There was silence, then a single trumpet call followed by a huge shout
from the crowd.
The bandstand, empty up to now, began to fill up with Zarra's inner
group.
Then
came
his immediate advisors, including Warner.
Six bodyguards followed, surrounding Zarra himself.
The party moved to the front of the bandstand and then the bodyguards
moved to the sides, leaving Zarra, dressed in a white suit and shirt, in front
of a bank of microphones in the center.
He was wearing a tie, but it had been loosened and his top shirt button
was undone.
Zarra was correctly dressed
as befitted his status as a professor, but he was also informal and
approachable — a man of the people.
Zarra raised his arms above his head in a salute to the crowd.
People rose to their feet
as
one
and the air was filled with the
rhythmic chants of “VIVA ZARRA!
VIVA
ZARRA!”
Zarra put his arms down and was about to speak.
Suddenly he roared with laughter, and then,
still shaking with mirth, pointed down at the bullring below.
The cameras followed the direction he was indicating.
Down below in the ring
itself,
seated on more
comfortable chairs than the hard benches of the spectators, a group of
officials and leading dignitaries from the town and surrounding countryside had
been assembled to hear Zarra from this privileged location.
All were dressed in their best clothes, and
officials wore sashes of office.
They were running in every direction, tripping over fallen chairs and
diving headfirst over the wooden barriers at the ringside.
A clown's bull had been let loose in the ring.
His horns were padded and he was festooned
with streamers, but he was no joke to the people actually in his way.
He could not kill or seriously wound, but he
could butt and create chaos, and that he was certainly doing.