The Lotus Eaters cl-3

by Tom Kratman

  Isla Real, Balboa, Terra Nova

  "Ballsy. No doubt about it. I'm glad I tagged along when the Regiment left for here." Martinson, like many young men around the world, thought going to battle to be a fine idea.

  Ustinov swelled with pride; what troops felt for their colonel they felt for the Regiment. And so, in a way, they felt for him. "Oh, yes. It has been too long since last we did our jobs. This will be a good exercise. Now come on, boy. The company commander has rehearsals for us all night."

  * * *

  Two miles from Punta de Coco, on the Isla Real, the Balboan skipper of the S.S. Mare Superum cursed at his deck hands. "Come on, dammit, make the rope fast."

  Being part of the hidden reserve, every crewman aboard the Mare Superum was either an active duty sailor, as was the Captain, a reservist, or a militia member of the Legion. Of late, the ship had spent most of its time sailing the western coast of Santander.

  The small launch made fast, several Volgans scrambled up the rope ladder that was hung over the side. The senior Volgan reported "Major Shershavin, Captain."

  "Welcome aboard, Major. Take a few moments to store your gear. Then meet me on the bridge." The Captain pointed out the staircase that led upward. "My crew will see to your men."

  Beyond where Shershavin stood, the Captain saw another ten small boats crawling over the sea toward his ship. Beyond them, an approximately equal number closed on the S.S. Francisco Pizarro, anchored a mile away. The Pizarro was a research vessel reconfigured as a light troop carrier. Between the Mare Superum and the Pizarro were two more ships, one the Motor Yacht Phidippides, the other the 3000 ton bulk tanker Porfirio Porras, its helipad disassembled and stowed under tarps on the deck. The troopships would weigh anchor and sail at intervals, but before first light. Phidippides was the command ship for the exercise.

  As Shershavin's men climbed the ropes, a flotilla of four patrol boats sped by, heading south, their bows rising and slamming back to the foamy blue. The waves from the PTs' passage rocked the rubber boats, making the climb aboard more difficult for the Volgans.

  * * *

  Two IM-71s, the lead flown by Pritkin's XO, Tribune III Pavlov, lifted up from the island. The helicopters carried in their bellies a load of tiny toe-popping "butterfly" anti-personnel mines, mixed in with some larger ones. The toe-poppers were fairly harmless until sensitized by impact on the ground. There were more than ten thousand of each in the two choppers. For larger mines, each chopper carried a smaller number of magnetically fused anti-armor jobs. Per Carrera's specific instructions some of the mines had been painted with a red glow-in-the-dark paint. The idea was to dissuade people from trying to clear or run through the obstacles. They couldn't be dissuaded by what they couldn't see or didn't know about.

  This was a most critical part of the operation. Pavlov had been warned that he must succeed. The helos turned south to their rendezvous with the Porfirio Porras.

  * * *

  Carrera and Samsonov watched 12th Company and the Scout Platoon loading their eight helicopters. Carrera stood straight; he had had enough healing time by now to hide any vestige of his injured shoulder. Extras choppers stood by in case some of the primaries should fail.

  By 20:55 hours, with the sun long since set, it was time for Samsonov to board. He asked Carrera for a last time "Will you not please listen to reason, Duque. There is no need for you to go on this."

  "Yes there is, Legate," Carrera insisted. "Personal satisfaction."

  With a frustrated wave of his arms, Samsonov gave up. He signaled for Menshikov. In Volgan, he said, "Menshikov, stay with the Duque. Translate. Keep him from doing anything silly and getting hurt." Then, shaking his head at the silliness of a colonel-general equivalent going on a small unit raid, Samsonov boarded.

  * * *

  Menshikov said to Carrera, "Samsonov has assigned me as your translator. And guard."

  Carrera waved to the lead helicopter as it took off to follow the path to the Porfirio Porras.

  "Come on, then, Menshikov. Let's see to our own transportation." Together, they sprinted for the eight Nabakovs that would take Number 13 Company to its objective.

  Pushing their way past the camouflage-painted men of 13th Company's mortar platoon, waiting to board the last Nabakov, Carrera and Menshikov ran forward, avoiding the invisible propellers, to the second bird.

  The Commander of 13th Company saluted and said something to Carrera in Volgan.

  Menshikov translated "The company commander apologizes for his poor Spanish, says it's nice to see you again, and also says, 'Welcome aboard, sir.' He says, too, 'Today we get even for your soldier.' "

  Carrera almost exhausted his own Volgan in answering directly "Da!" Then, to himself, in English, he whispered, "For Mitchell and others as well."

  Chapayev, the commander of 13th Company saluted again and ran to board the first Nabakov in line. The commander had little idea of that airplane's specific history. It was the very same plane that had dropped Cazador Sergeant Robles and his team to their doom in Sumer, a decade before. In this case, it was being piloted by Miguel Lanza, himself.

  As Lanza had explained it to Carrera, "This is the longest, the toughest, the most problematic sub-mission we've got going. With all due respect, boss, you're nuts if you think I'm not flying lead bird."

  The Captain took his seat, the one by the door that would enable him to be first out of the plane.

  The roar of the twin engines increased. The Nabakov began to taxi down the runway. At ninety second intervals the remaining eight Nabakovs, one of them a gunship, sped down the strip and lifted off into the darkness. The last of them was gone by 21:15 hours, local.

  Belalcázar, Santander, Terra Nova

  Señor Estevez sat on an imported leather couch sipping brandy. A great fire raged in the grand marble fireplace opposite, a guard against the mountain's cool night air. Estevez stared into the flames and contemplated the future.

  I think it was a mistake to try to coerce the Balboans, a mistake to let my anger get the better of me. Oh, yes, we killed some police officers . . . and more civilians. All that has done is to make them tighten up their internal security laws. That, and give them more sources of intelligence on us.

  And now? Now I cannot even go outside my own estates. People who look and sound just like our own, waiting to kill us, using diplomatic access to get into Santander which we can't, usually, use to get people into Balboa. And they are at least as ruthless as we are . . . at least. Why, just last month they blew up Rodriguez' mistress and the two children. Before that, they found and kidnapped Chavez' uncle and sent him back in a dozen pieces. Now all of us are stuck behind walls, with everyone we care about stuck with us. And I am so tired of my wife and mistresses fighting with each other.

  Coco Point, Isla Real, Balboa, Terra Nova

  "Fuck it!" Samsonov's XO, Koniev, shouted into the microphone of the flight helmet he wore. So far the helicopters had performed well, lifting off with no problem, with none returning to base. Such fortune could not possibly last. This, the last lift of the mission, with ten helicopters, had a problem. Number Two bird, it seemed, had developed engine trouble.

  "Fuck it!" Koniev repeated. "Get the troops off and put them on Number One spare." The pilot of the XO's helicopter spoke briefly into his microphone. At one end of the Pickup Zone another chopper lifted into the air and moved to within one hundred meters of the defective IM-71. Troops, pushed and prodded by shouting NCOs and officers, began to debark from the bad helicopter and to run across the PZ to the newer arrival. The spare took off twelve minutes late and turned west toward La Palma province. Since it would refuel at La Palma, there was no problem with expending some extra fuel for the extra speed to catch up with the main group.

  Federated States Airborne Command and Control Ship (ACCS), 257 miles east of Santander, Terra Nova

  For many purposes, and especially in a highly permissive environment, an airship was superior for command and control and as a radar platf
orm to a heavier than air aircraft. It could linger, or loiter, could carry a much larger and heavier suite of sensors and defensive armaments, and was much, much cheaper to operate. Thus, it was an airship, operating far at sea where there was no possibility of an enemy fighter, which kept track of possible drug smuggling operations by air and sea.

  The command and control module for the ship, as opposed to the pilots' station, was more or less centrally located. Being well inside, the module was lit. Within, seated in front of banks of computer terminals, more than two dozen members of the Federated States Air Force tracked everything inside of five hundred miles, air, surface, or in space. While the ACCS couldn't track a submarine at depth, it was perfectly capable of picking up the just-under-the-water submersibles occasionally used by the narco-traffickers.

  A lieutenant at one of the radar terminals announced, "Sir, those radar sightings are still increasing."

  The chief of the C and C module, a colonel of the Federated States Air Force, stepped over to where he could see the radar screen. "Show me what you've got," he said.

  The lieutenant on duty used a plastic pointer to illustrate, tapping one icon on his screen after another. "Here, sir, we've got two groups heading west from this island north of Balboa City. It looks like there are eight or nine in the first group, maybe just one in the second. Speed says helicopters; they're flying low, almost skimming the waves. Then there's a string of nine flying generally north. They started off from the same place as the first group. Speed is one hundred eighty-five knots. Transports of some kind. Here, too" the lieutenant pointed to another group of glowing green fuzzballs on his screen, "we've got eight or nine, also flying low and slow. Helicopters heading north."

  "Any ID?"

  "No, sir. We queried. If those birds are carrying transponders they've got them turned off." A new dot appeared on screen over the Isla Real. It was quickly joined by another, and then two more. The lieutenant said "Those are faster. Maybe C-31s"

  The colonel pondered. He was a man who read the newspapers almost religiously, so he was aware that F.S. citizens had been killed in Balboa within the last few months. No ID, he thought. Good formations. One bird separated from the rest—that's a command and control bird. I think I'm seeing Schumann hitting back. But why weren't we notified, at least? Hmm. Fucking Drug Interdiction pukes. Fucking Spec Ops bastards.

  The senior put a hand on the junior's shoulder. "Son, you don't see anything. Understand?"

  The radar officer did not understand at first. His eyes looked for some kind of explanation in his colonel's face. All they found was a knowing smile. Gradually, a glow of comprehension spread across the lieutenant's face.

  The senior inclined his head, made an off-center nod, and grinned broadly. Who says lieutenants are stupid? He then winked and continued "You didn't see anything, but let's keep on watching whatever it is you don't see, shall we?"

  UEPF Spirit of Brotherhood, in orbit around Terra Nova

  The bridge crew, eyes fixed on their stations and their instruments, didn't see Battaglia, Duke of Pksoi, chewed on his right forefinger nervously.

  I should have been told already, the duke fretted, that Wallenstein's been spaced. There's been plenty of time for a court-martial by now. A messenger drone should have popped the rift and broadcast months ago. But . . . nothing. I suspect I'd better get used to the idea she's returning to command. Dammit.

  Seated to Battaglia's fore, the intelligence desk officer announced, "Captain, we've got some unusual activity around the Isthmus of Balboa and the Republic of Santander. A lot of troops moving by air. Some naval activity, too. The numbers aren't so unusual, sir, but they're crossing from Balboa into Santander and that is unusual."

  "We're not over Balboa," Battaglia said.

  "No, sir," agreed intel. "We're getting this from Spirit of Harmony, which is in orbit over that part of the world."

  "Identities of the parties?" the Duke of Pksoi asked.

  "No idea, captain. Harmony's too far out for image identification and there's nothing in the clear on the EM spectrum."

  "Have them send down a skimmer for a closer look," Battaglia said.

  "Aye, sir . . . sir, Harmony says it will be a while."

  S.S. Porfirio Porras, 120 miles east of Nuqui, Santander

  As they had rehearsed over a score of times in the last few weeks, the combined Volgan and Balboan crew erected the home-made wood and aluminum landing pad over the forward deck. At first there had been serious language problems. The captain of the ship had then decided to let the Balboans set the pad up on their own. This they had been able to do, but never quickly enough. So with hand signals and some translations, the refueling crews from Pritkin's squadron had been reintegrated into the helipad crew. It had taken many, many repetitions, but the combined crews had learned to set up the helipad at acceptable speed.

  "Pad's up, Skipper. Fuel lines are ready."

  The Captain consulted his watch. "Thirty minutes, First. No smoking anywhere aboard ship. Remove the central radar nets. Secure them well; we don't want a helicopter sucking one up into its engine. Put the guide on the pad and stand by."

  "Aye, sir."

  Jaquelina de Coco, La Palma, Balboa, Terra Nova

  "Only nine birds, sir." announced the platoon centurion leading the half of the refueling platoon that had come here by hovercraft.

  Terrence Johnson, acting as Carrera's eyes-on-the-ground for a critical juncture in the mission, looked across the river mouth through his night vision goggles. There's the last one. "There's another one coming, Centurion. No change to the plan."

  "Sir!"

  S.S. Porfirio Porras, 120 miles east of Nuqui, Santander

  The steady wop-wop-wop of the rotors and the whine of the jet engines carried far and well across the ocean surface. At the sound, a man standing above the deck on a wood and aluminum frame lit two infrared flashlights with conical projections. The helicopters split up. One came in low and slow, shifting to the hand signals of the guide. The others began to circle the Porras, keeping low and a good distance away.

  Six men, all carefully avoiding the tail rotor spinning invisibly in the darkness, clambered over the side of the helipad to tie down the chopper's landing wheels against the rocking of the ship. The guide crouched low as two more men, Volgans, dragged a nozzled fuel line across the pad to the waiting helicopter. After a time of steady glug-glug-glug the pilot signaled the chief of the "ground" crew that his bird was full. The wheels were untied and then the guide signaled the chopper to take off. Its engine whined as the wheels, now released, lifted from the pad. That helicopter slithered off to one side and headed away, barely missing the head of one of the fuel crew. It then assumed a slow, fuel conserving, course for Santander. Another one left off circling to line itself up for a landing. By 22:30 hours the second had departed and the next bird, of eight remaining, had taken up station to refuel for the rest of the journey.

  Federated States Airborne Command and Control Ship (ACCS), 225 miles east of Santander, Terra Nova

  The senior officer aboard returned to the working deck from using the toilet. His radar officer told him, "Sir, I've got a surface contact. Not large. It appeared about 15 minutes ago. Suddenly, like it rose from the sea."

  Oh, that makes sense. A submarine with a landing pad attached to refuel the helicopters. The modification must have taken a while. Then the Colonel realized it had been months since the President had sworn revenge. Bastard Schumann may get my vote after all.

  Altitude 4200 feet over the Isla Real, Balboa, Terra Nova

  Montoya, his course of fighter pilot instruction interrupted by the call for this mission, spoke briefly into his radio. Changing frequencies many thousands of times per second, the radios were almost undetectable and almost unjammable.

  Under the Turbo-Finches hung an assortment of two hundred and fifty and five hundred pound bombs, along with rocket pods on the wings, and two napalm canisters each. An auxiliary fuel tank hung directly undern
eath each airplane.

  Without verbally responding to Montoya, all four aircraft turned to the same heading and speed and headed generally north.

  S.S. Mare Superum, five miles northeast of Buenaventura, Santander, Terra Nova

  "All stop. Drop anchors," ordered the ship's captain. A few hundred meters behind, the Francisco Pizarro also slowed to halt. The captain turned to Shershavin. Pointing to the glow in the distance, he said "Major, there is the town. Begin landing your men.

  Shershavin saluted and left the bridge. At a gesture the men of Number 14 Company, minus its first platoon—even now awaiting the lift from La Palma, began to push rope nets and rubber boats with small muffled engines over the side of the ship away from the land. The troops lowered themselves down, hand over hand, into the rubber boats and then cast off. Small muffled engines went pfft-pfft-pfft behind them. In the lead boat Shershavin guided the rest around the ship's hull and toward the shore. As the major made the turn under the blunt bow, he turned his attention and his night vision goggles toward the Pizarro. There, too, small boats were moving to the land to join in the assault.

  La Palma, Balboa, Terra Nova

  "Move over, Tribune, I'm coming with you." Johnson tossed his load carrying equipment to the floor of the helicopter. Then he climbed in and took a seat on that floor. As the helicopter lifted into the air, causing the old familiar sensation of increased weight, Johnson thought, Damn I love this shit. All we need are Wagner and some loud speakers.