Carnifex

20/2/467 AC, Isla Santa Josefina, Balboa

Montoya loved flying. He'd hardly imagined, as not much more than a boy standing in a Legion enlistment line, the power and the freedom and the sheer joy of flight. Though he'd known then that the Legion had, or at least intended to have, aircraft, he'd never imagined himself actually conning one. What was he? Just a poor farm boy from the interior. Who was he to think he'd someday be a pilot?

But the Legion del Cid was an equal opportunity employer, he'd found. It was also a miserly employer of human talent. While he'd not shown any remarkable leadership ability at Cazador School, he had shown toughness, determination, and at least a modicum of brains. He could be taught. Moreover, when he'd been talked into volunteering for some hit missions by Cruz, he'd shown considerable personal courage and determination. There were places in the Legion for people like that. In Montoya's case, that place had eventually come to be in a cockpit. And he just loved it.

What he hated, though, were the carrier takeoffs and the landings. Those scared him silly. Every time.

No, not landings on the ground, even on pretty rough ground; he'd had lots of experience in those, flying a Cricket. His plane could take it, no problem. On the other hand, landing or taking off from a pitching, weaving, postage-stamp-on-the-ocean? Trying to catch the arrestor cables? Reversing thrust at the last minute so he didn't overshoot and end up crushed or drowned –most likely, both—under the prow? Trying to time his take off so that he hit the leading edge of the flight deck on an upswing? (The deck crew was becoming a big help there, though, he had to admit; especially as they gained experience.) That sinking feeling as the plane dropped almost like a rock as he left the flight deck behind? Gag . . . shiver . . . barf.

He shivered again, half at the memory of the last take off when his landing gear had plowed furrows in the ocean before pulling up and half at foreboding over the next landing.

It got progressively worse, too. It seemed like the skipper was actually looking for rough seas and bad weather to launch in. They'd lost one pilot already, and cracked up both that plane and a Yakamov-72 helicopter. At least the Yakamov crew had gotten out.

From this and other evils, deliver me, O Lord.

In some ways, Montoya wished he'd been picked to fly a Cricket, as he used to, rather than a Turbo-Finch Avenger, usually called a Finch. With the Dos Lindas facing into the wind, and even a mild headwind, the Crickets took off practically straight up. And for landing, their stall speed wasn't much above the carrier's cruise speed. Piece o' cake.

On the other hand, Crickets don't generally fight. I'd prefer to fight, even if getting to and from the fight soils my flight suit. And speaking of which . . .

The island—the Isla Santa Josefina—loomed out of the gloomy dusk ahead. Montoya adjusted his throttle to pick up speed, veered a little left, then right, and mentally reviewed his firing run. Trees began near the water's edge. A slight pull back on his stick, then an equally slight push forward, lifted the Finch and set it on a heading and altitude that would allow its fixed landing gear to just skim over the trees.

The central hill dominating the Isla Santa Josefina lay ahead. Again Montoya eased back on the stick, causing the plane to just miss the jungle below. He felt a pressure in the seat of his trousers. As soon as the plane cleared the summit, Montoya pushed forward to drop the nose, causing his stomach to lurch.

There's the target.

Ahead, in Montoya's view, three old, rusty armored vehicles sat in the open. As he aimed the plane by feel, his thumb flipped off the safety cover on the firing button over his stick and began to press. With each press of the thumb two rockets, one from under each wing, lanced out. As soon as he had bracketed the target Montoya pulled the stick to the right. The nimble Finch acted like the crop-duster it was and turned away athletically.

Damned good thing, too, thought Montoya. Looking to the left he saw the next bird in the training attack was firing almost before he had cleared away.

* * *

The Isla Santa Josefina had been purchased by the Legion as a range. No one actually lived there for the excellent reason that the Federated States had used it as a chemical warfare testing ground during the Great Global War and never spent a drachma or expended an ounce of sweat cleaning it up afterward. It had come to the Legion pretty cheaply.

The Legion hadn't spent much on it either. It had decontaminated a small landing area for boats and a couple of observation posts. Nearer the center of the island a few target spots in the impact area had been cleared. Cleared paths connected the landing, the OPs and the target spots. The rest was not only presumed to be at least somewhat chemically toxic, and much of that contamination being with very persistent nerve and blister agents, but had had an absolutely amazing amount of ordnance dumped on it over the last several years from the main island, the Isla Real, as well as three much smaller islands purchased to serve as firing positions for mortars and artillery. The new ordnance, too, had the effect of breaking open some of the three thousand dud chemical warheads believed to be still on Santa Josefina, either at the surface or just below it.

Even the few people, forward observers for the artillery the most part, that went there, went with full chemical protection—suits, rubber booties, gloves and masks.

It was not well know outside of Balboa, but the FSC had tried to use the islands, almost two decades before, as a dumping ground for economic migrants from the impoverished island of Ayiti. Both the government of Balboa and the then owners of the Isla Santa Josefina had objected, leaving the FS to drop the scheme. It would have been interesting, what the highly progressive First Landing Times would have said, if the Ayitians had been dumped there in guarded camps. The headline, "Federated States Exiles Poor Migrants To Nerve Gas-Poisoned Island," would have been the least of it. On the other hand, that headline, widely broadcast, might have served as a damper on the Ayitians' mass enthusiasm for emigrating to the Federated States. This may not have suited the FLT agenda.

* * *

The Dos Lindas couldn't see either island, not even from its own island on the starboard center of the flight deck. It could, however, see the mass confusion on the flight deck as the crew attempted to crowd twenty Cricket Bs and five of the Yakamovs in position to load troops and take off. It really shouldn't be as hard as they were making it look.

No matter, thought Fosa. Practice makes perfect and they'll practice until they puke and drop.

Though said to be "slightly modified" the B models were actually fairly substantial modifications to the basic Cricket. The cabin had been lengthened and widened to allow four (or if they were feeling really friendly, five) passengers. The wingspan had also been increased by about thirty centimeters a side. The single engine in the nose was taken out and replaced by two slightly smaller and individually less powerful ones on the wings. Also, and this was important given the mission, the two smaller engines were slightly quieter, together, than the original single was, alone. In the nose had been placed a fairly sophisticated thermal imager cum ground sensor for recon and for limited visibility landings. In addition, to either side of the engines were hardpoints, four in total, for rocket and machine gun pods. Underneath was a single hardpoint to which could be attached a light homing torpedo, just in case one of the Yakamov ASW helicopters happened to find a submarine where no submarine ought be.

Fosa and the commander of the Cazadors, Tribune Cherensa, had arranged for an opposing force at one of the training areas on the Isla Real. That was where the Crickets and Yakamovs were heading, once this batch of Cazadors was boarded. Twenty B models and five Yakamovs weren't quite enough to move the entire demi-battalion in one lift. A further three platoons and the unit's four Ferret light armored vehicles still waited below, assembled on the hangar deck.

The skipper looked out from the open bridge at the lead Cricket. He recognized Cherensa standing beside the plane. Cherensa saluted, which salute Fosa returned. Then the Cazador boarded his Cricket.

Picking up a radio microphone that looked more like an old-fashioned telephone receiver, Fosa gave Chirensa and the deck crew the time-honored command, "Land the landing force."