The Lotus Eaters

Life Raft One, Santiago Two Bravo, Mar Furioso, Terra Nova

Clinging to the side of the raft, the copilot watched the helicopter turn over on one side and fall to the water. The spinning blades cut the water even as the increased resistance of the water tore the blades apart. He thought he saw, but couldn't be sure, his pilot trying to exit the side door as the helicopter took water and sank from sight.

Above him the copilot saw twin streaks and either a single or a double explosion; he couldn't be sure. The sonic boom he had heard as he had entered the water ended suddenly. From miles away came the sound of something hitting the waves, hard and fast.

The copilot scanned the skies around him. A different sounding sonic boom passed overhead, heading southeast. In the moonlight, the copilot thought he saw a parachute. This was confirmed when he did see the flashing of a strobe light, perhaps a mile away, or a bit less, the jet pilot's rescue beacon.

A few minutes after the last sonic boom had died away, the copilot heard the welcome sound of helicopter rotors, two he thought, rapidly nearing. He activated his own strobe.

* * *

"Marathon this is Two Romeo. We're on station and the other chopper is picking up the troops now. But Marathon, we've got a problem."

From many miles distant, Ops asked, "What?"

"The Santandern pilot," answered the rescue chopper's pilot. "He's in the water. I doubt they'll find him anytime soon, if at all."

Ops considered. Twin problems. We want to leave the Santanderns in doubt as to who is responsible and we want to keep their military and non-combatant—or at least non-Cartel—losses to a minimum.

"I admit to being a little stumped. Any suggestions, Two Romeo?"

"Nobody's going to mistake me for a Balboan. Not once they hear me speak Spanish. And my English isn't bad either. I can swim. While my copilot maintains a hover, I'll pull him out, cover his eyes, and give him a choice he can't refuse. Then we drop him off somewhere not too convenient. I'll be the only one he sees."

"Move out and draw fire, Romeo."

* * *

His automatically inflating life vest kept him afloat. The pilot's seat was sinking somewhere deep below him. Idly floating on his back, Hartmann wondered, Will the sharks get me first? There are megalodon in these waters. That would be quick if not exactly painless. Or will the vest leak so that I drown. Or maybe a storm comes up? Whatever it might be, there's essentially no chance that my own air-sea rescue will find me.

Oh, oh, what's this? Ah, the invaders. They'll just machine gun me from a distance, I think. Adios, Patria.

To the Santandern's surprise, the helicopter didn't go into a hover at a reasonable distance away, where reasonable was defined as "good to shoot fish in a barrel from." Instead, it kept coming closer until it was almost exactly overhead, at a distance of about twenty feet. He saw a shape emerge from the side of the chopped, then felt his body begin to rock as a great spout of water shot up beside him.

* * *

The Volgan pilot surfaced, moments later, near Hartmann. The Santandern waved. "Nice of you to drop in."

"You speak English?" the Volgan shouted to be heard over the chopper. It was few enough words that a foreigner was unlikely to pick up the Volgan accent.

"Flight school in the Federated States," answered Hartmann, succinctly.

"Good. But we can speak Spanish. Now, we can do this one of three ways. I can take you back with me and no one you know will see you any time in the next half century or so. Or, we can leave you here and maybe you'll be found and maybe you won't."

"You said three ways," Hartmann reminded. There was also a fourth way, as both men knew. The Volgan—or gringo, as Hartmann thought—had the good taste not to mention it.

"It's up to you. But we can take you back and drop you off."

"And the catch?"

"You've got to swear to me that you won't say who we are."

"Be serious. I've got to say something."

"Fine. Tell them we were men from outer space, Cajamarcans. Make something up."

Hartmann felt his arm. He was pretty sure it was broken. He knew he wouldn't last out here very long. Shock and exposure would get him if nothing else. And Santander's Air Rescue Service was next to non-existent. "I agree."

The Volgan waved to the helicopter to throw a rope. This he tied under Hartmann's arms. The rescue crew pulled him up by main strength, the helicopter having no winch attached. The rope was returned. Then the helicopter turned east towards Santander before heading for home.

* * *

San Martin had focused on Hartmann's radio beacon as it activated. He had had no luck chasing down any of his sightings. They had all either lost themselves in the trees and hills, or had crossed over into Balboa before he could intercept. He picked up a radar contact, a helicopter that seemed to be hovering over the approximate location of Hartmann's beacon. San Martin was about to use his IFF, Identification Friend of Foe, when the helicopter turned east toward Santander. Oh, its one of ours. San Martin told himself that he would never again have a bad word to say about Santander's helicopter units. San Martin turned back toward Santa Fe.