The Lotus Eaters (40 page)

Tall, rail thin, the aviator's cornflower-blue eyes looked out from underneath the stubby brim of his flight helmet to the little, jungle-shrouded, postage-stamp pickup zone, or PZ, where a company of paratroopers awaited him and the other five IM-71s of his flight.

Pushing left pedal and easing his stick forward, Pritkin did a single pass to the right of the PZ, glancing left to eyeball the length and breadth of the thing. One pass was enough. Pritkin pressed his throat mike and announced to the infantry waiting below, "No fucking way I'm getting six birds in there. Two is possible. You need to reconfigure to load two at a time."

The answer came back, "Fuck . . . roger . . . figures. Give us five minutes."

"We'll be around," Pritkin said. "Call when ready. Don't dawdle; we've enough fuel but hardly an abundance."

Under the noonday sun, in three hovercraft, half of Pritkin's refueling platoon, plus an MP platoon for security, prepared to land and set up their fuel point by the town's dirt-improved-with-perforated-steel-planking airstrip. They, like all the men of the task force, wore Federated States Army issue battle dress, or close copies thereto, and aramid fiber helmets.

Centurion Ricardo Cruz, returned, with his platoon, for a brief break from jungle patrols, watched the unloading and set up with considerable interest. In fact, he was interested enough to stop writing his letter home, and given how he felt about his wife, Cara, that was very interested indeed.

Odd
, Cruz thought.
Those are clearly
our
hovercraft. Just as clearly the uniforms, weapons, and accoutrements are
not
ours. And those troops? They're way too white. And . . . ah, there's one I recognize from my last trip through Fort Cameron. They're Volgans . . . and they look interestingly serious. But why dressed up like Federated States troops?

Castillo, the machine gunner, seated on the grass nearby, was watching even as Cruz was. "What the hell is all that, Centurion?" the gunner asked.

"None of our business, I suspect," Cruz answered. He pointed, "And neither are those half dozen jet fighters winging in from the east."

Language was the big, obvious problem. There were three in use in the force: Russian, Spanish, and, as a lingua franca, English. Among one group the languages were Spanish for boat crews, Volgan for the troops the boats carried. The commander of ground troops spoke English as did both the boat captains. The aircraft supporting spoke Spanish or Russian. Another group had Spanish and English speaking transport and gunship pilots and Volgan ground troops. For these a few translators were assigned. After weeks of work and practice the kinks had been worked out, mostly.

The date to launch had been fixed by the confluence of natural factors, tide, moons, and weather, plus the pattern of movements of the human targets. Beginning at midnight, two days prior, Fort Cameron had been disconnected from the rest of the world. MP's at all usual exits to the post had been doubled and roving patrols swept the perimeter roads. Samsonov's officers confiscated all cell phones and removed all telephone transmitters except for the main number which led to the Intelligence Officer's desk. Fortunately, of those troops fortunate to have had time to find romance with young Balboan women, most had settled down quickly into married life. Their women were on the friendly side of the wire and had been educated of late to keep quiet. Thus, the number of "Can I please speak to my boyfriend?" calls was minimal. For those there were, the regimental intelligence officer, the Ic, simply answered in Russian, rude sounding Russian at that, and then hung up.

Ordinarily, the closure of a post would be a noticeable event. Samsonov had foreseen this, and ordered the place sealed for a couple of days a week ever since receiving his orders from Carrera. Thus, it had become nothing too remarkable.

What was somewhat unusual were the nearly forty helicopters—enough to carry almost a thousand fully combat equipped men—lined up on the post parade field, all of them sporting auxiliary fuel tanks and many with machine gun and rocket pods attached. Equally odd, for sheer numbers, were the fifteen Nabakov turbo-prop transports and the dozen armed attack aircraft, all forming a fan of sorts at one end of the post's short airfield. As far as the bulk of the Volgan paratroopers knew, the assembly of aircraft was only to support another training mission. Nor should they have thought differently. They carried only blank ammunition in their magazine pouches, they'd been issued no grenades, of either the hand- or rocket-launched varieties.

Indeed, only company commanders and above knew of the real mission. What the soldiers might have guessed none but themselves knew.

* * *

"I'm tired of these silly training problems," said Sergeant Pavel Martinson, a dark skinned Kazakh of partially Nordic extraction. He pulled off his F.S. Army model aramid fiber helmet to rub at the sore spot on the top of his head formed by the pressure of the nylon ring that held the headstraps of his helmet together. "Three fucking opposing force rotations in as many months and still we train in between."

"Training mission, you silly twit?" answered his platoon leader, Praporschik—or Warrant Officer—Ustinov. "You weren't with us in Pashtia, were you?"

"No, I didn't come to the Regiment until two years ago."

"Hmmm. Not your fault. See the 'strong man' over there?" Ustinov used Samsonov's nickname. "See the look on his face? That semi-saintly glow that says, 'Urrah! Soon we get to go kill something!' This is no training mission. We're going to hit someone. Soon. And put your goddamned helmet back on."

Even as Ustinov and Martinson spoke, the first loaded helicopter made its appearance over the barracks that surrounded the parade field. Soon others began taking off and turning toward the sea and the airfield on the
Isla Real.
Then the first of the Nabakov transports gunned its dual engines and began to roll down the strip.

"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.

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.

"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.