The Lotus Eaters (47 page)

Fountains splashed peacefully into long reflecting pools framing the paved walkway from street to palace. The walkway led to a classical revival front, four sets of double Corinthian columns—though the leaves were styled after the native tranzitree, not the acanthus—holding up an entablature, itself surmounted by a low, triangular tympanum. Long wings led out to either side of the entrance. In one wing, in one room, slept the president of the Republic of Santander.

The aide hesitated before waking his sleeping chief. Still, the news was so frightful . . .

"
Señor Presidente
, please, you must rise."

The President of Santander rolled over and sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "What is it, Rivera?"

"Señor, our cities in the east are being attacked."

The president was wide awake instantly. "Who? What? Where? How many? Maracaibo? The FNLS?"

"No, Señor," Rivera answered, as his president pulled on shirt and trousers. "Not Maracaibo and certainly not the
Frente
. Beyond that, we don't know who, not for certain. We do know that four air attacks were launched against places in Belalcázar, and five more against Santiago. There are estates burning all over the suburbs. Buenaventura was hit with one or two; reports are confused. And Florencia, also. There are reports of attacks on the ground in some of the same places."

The President started added up two and two and came up with, "Those gringo bastards."

"Si, Señor, probably the gringos," Rivera agreed. "And probably going after the cartels.

"Bastards," the president repeated, then thought,
But what do I do? They are a friendly nation, sort of. And if they are going after the Cartels, as Rivera says, they are doing me a favor, in the short and medium term, at least.
He bent his head down over his desk, deeply worried.
In the immediate term, however, they have violated Santander's sovereignty, which I am sworn to uphold. In the long term, I can't just ignore this or come next election, I will pay for it.

"Rivera, get me the Chief of the Air Force."

There was a delay while the aide dialed the nearest air base, on the outskirts of Santa Fe, which was also the headquarters for the national air force. The Air Force Chief of Staff came on line, sounding half asleep.

"Villareal speaking."

"General, this is the President. I want you to get some fighters in the air and send them east. There are forces attacking several of our cities. I want you to force some of them, at least, to the ground where they can be arrested."

Villarreal's voice was replete with exasperation, but none of it seemed directed at the President. "
Señor Presidente
," he said, "I have just been made aware of this. These people have attacked the base and airport at Santiago, as well as others. The runway and taxiways are shut down with mines. The radar is out, all of it. We have no effective coverage of the eastern part of the country. I am trying now to get two fighters from here into the air. I have also tried to call the airship the Federated States keeps off our east coast. Maybe they'll tell our planes where to look once they in the air."

The President sighed. Soldiers could be so stupid sometimes. "Villareal, who do you think is attacking us? The trixies of the mountains? The UEPF? Balboa, perhaps?"

"Oh . . . I see,
Señor
. Well, then you must realize that any pilots I send up I am sending to their deaths. We have good boys, but we can't match the planes or the ordnance of the Federated States Air Force."

"I know, General. But we have to try, for dignity's sake, if nothing else."

"Yes,
señor
. I will have two fighters in the air within thirty minutes. They are fueled but they must be armed."

Captain Hartmann and Lieutenant San Martin shook hands and separated, each climbing the short ladders to their cockpits. Hartmann's grandparents had come to Santander from Sachsen after the Great Global War. They had done well in manufactures, being counted among Santander's legitimate rich before the 440s. San Martin's family was older money, landed gentry from the first wave of settlement from Old Earth. The two were, in fact, brothers in law, having married the younger sisters of their squadron commander.

San Martin waved to Hartmann as the former's canopy closed down. Hartmann returned the wave then added power to begin to taxi out towards the runway. By agreement, Hartmann was to sweep north, first to Florencia, then southeast toward Buenaventura. Meanwhile San Martin was to go east to Belalcázar, initially, then further east to the sea. The two pilots were agreed that they would force down one of the intruders or die trying.

Engines whining, San Martin followed Hartmann out onto the runway. With a roar his jets pushed him back into his seat as they pushed his Illusion jet fighter into the sky.

The defensive laser mounted on the airship cracked once, loudly, causing the weapons and radar officers to cheer. "That recon skimmer is toast, sir," Weapons announced.

The lieutenant on the radar frowned, checked, rechecked, and then said, "Sir, the Santanderns are sending up their air force . . . well . . . some of it."

When the senior officer aboard walked near to hunch over the radar screen the lieutenant pointed out two blips as they arose and then separated over Santa Fe. "It isn't much, sir," the lieutenant said, "but it could put a crimp in operations."

Oh, dear
. The colonel walked across the deck to communication station. He told the commo officer to set a radio for a broad spectrum transmission, without encryption. "OK, all you people out there. I know who you are, and you know who I am. What you probably don't know is that there are two bogies up looking for you." The colonel read off the course, altitude, and speed of the two Santandern craft. "Just trying to lend a helping hand. Good luck and Godspeed. Out."

Little by little the operation was winding down as the troops of the 22d finished up—rather finished
off
—the remainder of the opposition, reboarded helicopters and ships, and began to return home. The chief of operations watched the plotter move symbols across the map, marking the progress.

A radio operator reported, "Sir, two more Finches safely landed at Jaquelina de Coco. Refueling now to return to Cameron. The last four report across the border and twelve minutes out from Jaquelina. The Belalcázar force is boarded and in the air . . . they're a couple of minutes late."

Still watching the map, Samsonov's chief of ops dismissed the Turbo-Finches from his mind and returned his attention to the map. He concentrated on the twin lines being plotted from Santa Fe marking the progress of the Santandern fighters. Next to the lines times were written in based on the speed reported by the ACCS. The Santandern planes hadn't been spotted as of yet by any of the six Mosaic fighters in the air and under the regiment's control. He expected radar sightings from the Mosaics as the Santanderns crossed the
cordillera
that ran like a spine parallel to Santander's east coast. Ops was worried. The orders were to avoid engaging regular Santandern forces . . . unless they were effectively engaging an element of the assault force. The Santandern jets could do that.

"Move the Mosaics west to take positions closer to the coast."

"Sir, Santiago Force is in the air and heading home." The RTO held the headset tighter to his ear and listened closely. After a moment he announced "Sir, Santiago Two Bravo reports transmission trouble in its number two bird. They don't think they'll make it home on their own. Santiago Two Alfa has left them behind."

Again, the regimental operations officer consulted the map. He leafed through an annex to his copy of the operations order, then picked up a microphone. "Santiago Two Bravo, Santiago Two Bravo, this is Marathon, over."

Warbling and distorted as were all radio transmissions from helicopters, the response came back "Marathon, this is Santiago Two Bravo, over."

"Santiago, Marathon. You have two rafts aboard. I want you to head for Checkpoint Papa"—Ops referred to a spot in the ocean where the water was several thousand feet deep—"then ditch. Repeat, get the troops out and ditch your bird. I'm sending a boat for you. I'll also send two helicopters from the reserve." The ops officer looked up at a chart of call signs. "Your rescue birds will answer to Marathon Two Romeo, the boat is Shepherd . . . ah . . . three." Ops hesitated, then resumed. "Santiago, if you can't make it to Checkpoint Papa, you have got to get as far out over the water as you can. Remember, you've got a potential hostile coming in on your tail. Do not let him get you over land."

"Marathon, this is Santiago, Wilco, over."

Ops tapped his lips with his fingers for a moment before ordered, "Send two of the Mosaics to cover Santiago Two Bravo." Then, turning back to the map, he put a finger on Florencia and cursed silently.

Another moon had risen, adding a bit of light to the confusion at the mountain-carved airstrip. Under that light, Carrera found Lanza sitting cross legged and staring a corpse. It took a moment to realize the corpse had breasts. He sat down next to his air chief. "Are you all right, Miguel?" he asked.

Lanza nodded. "I didn't know it was a woman; I swear I didn't," he said. "I just saw someone with a bayoneted rifle and so I fired."

"If it's any consolation," Carrera said, "I had everyone down at the guerilla base shot, female or not."

"It isn't any," Lanza said. "It's different when you do it up close and personal."

"I suppose," Carrera conceded. "Are you okay to fly?"

Lanza nodded.

"Good. Then get back to your plane and get ready to fly us home."

* * *

Menshikov strained to help a medic lift the last non-ambulatory casualty onto the third Nabakov in line. Two others, also full of wounded men, seized documents, and captured computers had already taken off over the mountains, hugging the trees. The wounded Volgan moaned, then coughed. The stretcher disappeared into the door, scraping the soldier's arm as the stretcher was twisted and dragged. Carrera ran up to join Menshikov and said "I just talked to the gunship. We've got company coming. One jet, presumed a fighter, is about twelve minutes out."

Menshikov looked at the now closing door to the Nabakov. "If we don't head straight back to the medical facilities in Balboa we'll lose some of the wounded, sir."

That hurt. These men had fought for him and to let them just die . . .

Carrera pushed away the humanitarian thought. There was no room for such sentiments, under the circumstances. "I know," he said, "but most of the worst off are already gone." He pulled out his map. "If we head north and cross the Cajamarca border we can stick low to the ground. That pilot will lose us from his radar—might never even see us—if we stay low enough. We can then head out over water. The pilots tell me the fuel will last till we get back to Balboa, if barely."

"Yes, sir. I'll give the orders for the security team to pull back now, if you'll tell the gunship to cover us till we're gone."

"Right. . . . Tribune?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Good job."

Menshikov answered, "Thank you, sir." He thought about the dead and the wounded and asked, "Was it worth it, sir?"

Carrera chewed at his lip and said, "I think so."

* * *

Santander's
Illusion
fighters were less than state of the art. Where a more modern jet might have told Hartmann his location, in his plane Hartmann had to use a map and do some figuring. Ahead, his radar showed seven targets, then six, then five as the planes twisted around behind the mountain range where Santander's western
cordillera
split off from the central.

As more targets disappeared from his screen, Hartmann was faced with a decision; pursue or follow the plan and head to Santiago.
I can probably catch up to the targets ahead before they reach Cajamarca, but I might never see them in the trees and hills. Best to follow the plan and head to Santiago.

A few miles short of where the FNLS villa burned, Hartmann veered towards Santiago.

* * *

Carrera breathed a sigh of relief as he felt the Nabakov level out after its long descent down the mountainside. Menshikov and the surviving bodyguards had insisted that Carrera be on this airplane, to get him out of the country as quickly as possible.

This was a different airplane than he had boarded at Coco Point but it stank of vomit as much as Number Two had. To the vomit were added the coppery smell of blood and the stench from some poor trooper's ripped gut. Medics moved around, as best they could in the twisting, turning transport, to help the wounded. Some of the injured had been assessed as "expectant" by the Volgan field medics. That meant they were expected to die. The nylon benches and floor were therefore full of those too badly hurt to spend much effort on and those too lightly hurt to need much. Carrera, deprived of Menshikov's services as translator, went from troop to troop offering what comforting sounds he could.

One of the troopers, listed as "expectant" and deathly pale under the red interior light, spoke fair Spanish. As Carrera shook his hand and thanked him, the Volgan pulled his ear close and asked, "Got a drink, sir?"

"Gimme a second." Carrera caught a medic's attention, said a few words, and took the small bottle of vodka the medic passed over. He unscrewed the cap, leaned down, and said, "Soldiers first," as he handed the bottle over.

The Volgan paratrooper took the bottle, raised it to his lips and took a long pull before passing it back. Carrera likewise took a drink and then began to hand the bottle back to the Volgan. He stopped when he realized the soldier had stopped breathing.

Hartmann didn't need any highly advanced navigational gear to find Santiago. Standing high above the city's lights, up on the commanding mountains to the east, four huge bonfires sent smoke, sparks, and flames to the sky. Hartmann checked his radar as he circled the city. No targets, nothing flying at all. He straightened out from his turn and set course to fly to Buenaventura. As he departed the area he radioed to Santiago Air Force Base, thousands of feet below.