The Lotus Eaters

Various locations in Santander, Terra Nova

Johnson and a Volgan captain crouched just over the pilots of the lead helicopter of their flight. To either side of the line of birds, steep jungle-covered mountains reached for the sky. A large stream ran between the mountains. In the grainy green view of Johnson's goggles was the light of a town, Bordero, Santander, about ten miles ahead.

The nearby city of San Lorenzo was much too bright to look at directly with the goggles.

* * *

Seventy miles east of Johnson, the first of five Turbo-Finches crossed from the water to a hook shaped spit of land jutting out into the Mar Furioso from Santander. The lead pilot checked his GLS and the map strapped to his leg. Punta Martes. Right on time. The Finches changed course and began to pick up altitude to get over the mountains that shielded San Lorenzo.

* * *

"Santa Juanita River below, sir," said a helicopter pilot to Samsonov, standing just behind. Samsonov strained to make out the river through the little bit of clear view available to him. Satisfied that he had seen enough to be sure, he turned and walked back, using the troop seat frames as handholds against the bucking of the helicopter as it followed the contours of the jungle covered hills and valleys. Samsonov sat and leaned over to the next man in line. "Pass it down. Thirty minutes."

* * *

Miles to the south-southeast, Warrant Officer Montoya glanced out the left side of the plane at the sleepy fishing village of Baudo Arriba. Good. Right on time. Practice pays.

* * *

A light rain spattered the ocean surface. Engine shut off for the last few meters to reduce noise, a small rubber boat slowed as it neared the shore. Shershavin leapt out of the boat and into the shallow water. Two other men jumped from the same boat, grabbed the line and towed it to shore at as much of a run as they could manage in two feet of foaming surf. To either side other boats touched in and their occupants disembarked. Shershavin looked ahead at a small but steep hill on which stood a well-lighted mansion. He knew that the men of 15th Company were dismounting perhaps a mile away, on the other side of town. Their target was similar, but on a lower hill. The mortar platoon began to set up their guns on the shoreline, aiming stakes forward and left at twenty five meter intervals. Troops carrying silenced sub-machineguns in the lead, Number 14 Company went into the jungle and up the slope. Shershavin called on the radio for a check up from his two supporting Finches, now crossing a few miles west of Cabo Caminando. The difference in speeds between the amphibious force and its air support, as compared with the other three forces, had caused Samsonov to give Shershavin alone the right to use his radio with some freedom.

* * *

If Carrera wasn't airsick, it was only by the grace of God that he wasn't. After two trips up and down over two different mountain ranges, some of the boys aboard the Nabakov were not so lucky.

Shit, Carrera cursed, it always seems you miss something.

The somethings missing were sufficient air sickness bags. Having no choice but to puke on the floor, the sick soldiers had covered it with vile smelling vomit. Carrera forced himself to choke back a spurt of his own. Almost retching, he went forward to the flight deck for some minor relief. He saw the navigator cum copilot give a thumbs up signal to the pilot. The town of El Dorado, Santander, continued to sleep as a stream of aircraft flew by, low, overhead.