The Lotus Eaters

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.