The Lotus Eaters

Fort Cameron, Balboa, Terra Nova

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.