The Lotus Eaters

Buenaventura, Santander, Terra Nova

Hartmann didn't even bother to check his position as he passed over the town. He had a radar contact, moving maybe a hundred knots, dead ahead of him. He aimed his Illusion straight at the contact and closed. Hartmann never even noticed the two small ships, one sailing north, one sailing south, that he overflew on his way.

Missile range, thought Hartmann, when he'd closed some. Guns or missiles? The orders were to force them down to arrest them, not produce a railroad car full of bodies. Guns it is.

Hartmann heard his threat warning radar chiming out danger. He chose to ignore it. The target—it had to be a helicopter—was only miles away. And there was another one—no two!—closing on the first, moving faster and at higher altitude.

By the moonlight Hartmann saw his target. Yes, it was a helicopter. Lining his sights up ahead of the bird, he fired a short burst across its bow.

* * *

When the line of tracer fire shot past the front of the crippled HIP, the pilot had instinctively shied from it, veering sharply right. Men in the back of the helicopter shouted their alarm. Overhead and behind the flight position the transmission ground out a sound of gradually disintegrating metal gears.

The pilot told his copilot, "I'm going to hold her in this position as long as I can. Get back, dump the life rafts, and get the men out. Have them leave their equipment aboard. I'll exit before the bitch sinks." When the copilot hesitated the pilot shrieked "Go on, damn you! I'm a better swimmer than you are."

The copilot thought about continuing to protest. The look on the pilot's face made him think better of it. He unbuckled and crawled back to the troop compartment.

* * *

Out at sea, in the blue-green light of the Phidippides' operations center, the ops crew heard the radio blast out, "Marathon, this is Four! The bogie just fired at the helicopter!"

"Can you take him out, Four?"

"Roger!"

"Do it!"

* * *

Amid hellish confusion—though at least there was no screaming—the troops in the back of the helicopter stripped off their gear, dropped their weapons and radios and dived out the left side door to where, hopefully, two small rubber rafts floated. The copilot had been first out—someone had to insure the boats inflated. The crew chief pushed the others out one after another, then joined them in the darkness. When the pilot, head turned rearward, saw the crew chief go he pushed his stick over to get the HIP as far as possible from the struggling men. Sparks and smoke came from the engine compartment.

* * *

Hartmann forced his head back forward as he made a high "G" turn. He knew that there was another jet out there somewhere close. His radar warning buzzer told him so. Nonetheless, he lined up on the stricken HIP to fire again. If he couldn't force it back to shore, he'd give the sea plenty of bodies to eventually wash ashore for evidence.

Hartmann's thumb reached for the firing button. He flicked off the safety cover and began to press. Before the guns fired he felt something strike his aircraft and then the unmistakable feel of an airframe coming apart around him. What had hit him was a mere conjecture until he saw a second missile streak by.

"Chingada," Hartmann said as he released his stick and reached down for the ejection lever.

* * *

"Mosaic Four has fired, sir! Two missiles. She reports one hit. The bogie has lost its engine. . . . Four reports an ejection . . . he thinks.