The Lotus Eaters (41 page)

For many purposes, and especially in a highly permissive environment, an airship was superior for command and control and as a radar platform to a heavier than air aircraft. It could linger, or loiter, could carry a much larger and heavier suite of sensors and defensive armaments, and was much, much cheaper to operate. Thus, it was an airship, operating far at sea where there was no possibility of an enemy fighter, which kept track of possible drug smuggling operations by air and sea.

The command and control module for the ship, as opposed to the pilots' station, was more or less centrally located. Being well inside, the module was lit. Within, seated in front of banks of computer terminals, more than two dozen members of the Federated States Air Force tracked everything inside of five hundred miles, air, surface, or in space. While the ACCS couldn't track a submarine at depth, it was perfectly capable of picking up the just-under-the-water submersibles occasionally used by the narco-traffickers.

A lieutenant at one of the radar terminals announced, "Sir, those radar sightings are still increasing."

The chief of the C and C module, a colonel of the Federated States Air Force, stepped over to where he could see the radar screen. "Show me what you've got," he said.

The lieutenant on duty used a plastic pointer to illustrate, tapping one icon on his screen after another. "Here, sir, we've got two groups heading west from this island north of Balboa City. It looks like there are eight or nine in the first group, maybe just one in the second. Speed says helicopters; they're flying low, almost skimming the waves. Then there's a string of nine flying generally north. They started off from the same place as the first group. Speed is one hundred eighty-five knots. Transports of some kind. Here, too" the lieutenant pointed to another group of glowing green fuzzballs on his screen, "we've got eight or nine, also flying low and slow. Helicopters heading north."

"Any ID?"

"No, sir. We queried. If those birds are carrying transponders they've got them turned off." A new dot appeared on screen over the
Isla Real
. It was quickly joined by another, and then two more. The lieutenant said "Those are faster. Maybe C-31s"

The colonel pondered. He was a man who read the newspapers almost religiously, so he was aware that F.S. citizens had been killed in Balboa within the last few months.
No ID,
he thought.
Good formations. One bird separated from the rest—that's a command and control bird. I think I'm seeing Schumann hitting back. But why weren't we notified, at least? Hmm. Fucking Drug Interdiction pukes. Fucking Spec Ops bastards.

The senior put a hand on the junior's shoulder. "Son, you don't see anything. Understand?"

The radar officer did not understand at first. His eyes looked for some kind of explanation in his colonel's face. All they found was a knowing smile. Gradually, a glow of comprehension spread across the lieutenant's face.

The senior inclined his head, made an off-center nod, and grinned broadly.
Who says lieutenants are stupid?
He then winked and continued "You didn't see anything, but let's keep on watching whatever it is you don't see, shall we?"

The bridge crew, eyes fixed on their stations and their instruments, didn't see Battaglia, Duke of Pksoi, chewed on his right forefinger nervously.

I should have been told already
, the duke fretted,
that Wallenstein's been spaced. There's been plenty of time for a court-martial by now. A messenger drone should have popped the rift and broadcast months ago. But . . . nothing. I suspect I'd better get used to the idea she's returning to command. Dammit.

Seated to Battaglia's fore, the intelligence desk officer announced, "Captain, we've got some unusual activity around the Isthmus of Balboa and the Republic of Santander. A lot of troops moving by air. Some naval activity, too. The numbers aren't so unusual, sir, but they're crossing from Balboa into Santander and that
is
unusual."

"We're not over Balboa," Battaglia said.

"No, sir," agreed intel. "We're getting this from
Spirit of Harmony
, which is in orbit over that part of the world."

"Identities of the parties?" the Duke of Pksoi asked.

"No idea, captain.
Harmony
's too far out for image identification and there's nothing in the clear on the EM spectrum."

"Have them send down a skimmer for a closer look," Battaglia said.

"Aye, sir . . . sir,
Harmony
says it will be a while."

As they had rehearsed over a score of times in the last few weeks, the combined Volgan and Balboan crew erected the home-made wood and aluminum landing pad over the forward deck. At first there had been serious language problems. The captain of the ship had then decided to let the Balboans set the pad up on their own. This they had been able to do, but never quickly enough. So with hand signals and some translations, the refueling crews from Pritkin's squadron had been reintegrated into the helipad crew. It had taken many,
many
repetitions, but the combined crews had learned to set up the helipad at acceptable speed.

"Pad's up, Skipper. Fuel lines are ready."

The Captain consulted his watch. "Thirty minutes, First. No smoking anywhere aboard ship. Remove the central radar nets. Secure them well; we don't want a helicopter sucking one up into its engine. Put the guide on the pad and stand by."

"Aye, sir."

"Only nine birds, sir." announced the platoon centurion leading the half of the refueling platoon that had come here by hovercraft.

Terrence Johnson, acting as Carrera's eyes-on-the-ground for a critical juncture in the mission, looked across the river mouth through his night vision goggles.
There's the last one
. "There's another one coming, Centurion. No change to the plan."

"Sir!"

The steady wop-wop-wop of the rotors and the whine of the jet engines carried far and well across the ocean surface. At the sound, a man standing above the deck on a wood and aluminum frame lit two infrared flashlights with conical projections. The helicopters split up. One came in low and slow, shifting to the hand signals of the guide. The others began to circle the
Porras
, keeping low and a good distance away.

Six men, all carefully avoiding the tail rotor spinning invisibly in the darkness, clambered over the side of the helipad to tie down the chopper's landing wheels against the rocking of the ship. The guide crouched low as two more men, Volgans, dragged a nozzled fuel line across the pad to the waiting helicopter. After a time of steady
glug-glug-glug
the pilot signaled the chief of the "ground" crew that his bird was full. The wheels were untied and then the guide signaled the chopper to take off. Its engine whined as the wheels, now released, lifted from the pad. That helicopter slithered off to one side and headed away, barely missing the head of one of the fuel crew. It then assumed a slow, fuel conserving, course for Santander. Another one left off circling to line itself up for a landing. By 22:30 hours the second had departed and the next bird, of eight remaining, had taken up station to refuel for the rest of the journey.

The senior officer aboard returned to the working deck from using the toilet. His radar officer told him, "Sir, I've got a surface contact. Not large. It appeared about 15 minutes ago. Suddenly, like it rose from the sea."

Oh, that makes sense. A submarine with a landing pad attached to refuel the helicopters. The modification must have taken a while.
Then the Colonel realized it
had
been months since the President had sworn revenge.
Bastard Schumann may get my vote after all.

Montoya, his course of fighter pilot instruction interrupted by the call for this mission, spoke briefly into his radio. Changing frequencies many thousands of times per second, the radios were almost undetectable and almost unjammable.

Under the Turbo-Finches hung an assortment of two hundred and fifty and five hundred pound bombs, along with rocket pods on the wings, and two napalm canisters each. An auxiliary fuel tank hung directly underneath each airplane.

Without verbally responding to Montoya, all four aircraft turned to the same heading and speed and headed generally north.

"All stop. Drop anchors," ordered the ship's captain. A few hundred meters behind, the
Francisco Pizarro
also slowed to halt. The captain turned to Shershavin. Pointing to the glow in the distance, he said "Major, there is the town. Begin landing your men.

Shershavin saluted and left the bridge. At a gesture the men of Number 14 Company, minus its first platoon—even now awaiting the lift from La Palma, began to push rope nets and rubber boats with small muffled engines over the side of the ship away from the land. The troops lowered themselves down, hand over hand, into the rubber boats and then cast off. Small muffled engines went
pfft-pfft-pfft
behind them. In the lead boat Shershavin guided the rest around the ship's hull and toward the shore. As the major made the turn under the blunt bow, he turned his attention and his night vision goggles toward the
Pizarro
. There, too, small boats were moving to the land to join in the assault.

"Move over, Tribune, I'm coming with you." Johnson tossed his load carrying equipment to the floor of the helicopter. Then he climbed in and took a seat on that floor. As the helicopter lifted into the air, causing the old familiar sensation of increased weight, Johnson thought,
Damn I love this shit. All we need are Wagner and some loud speakers
.

The radar officer tapped his screen to point at the various elements of the unfolding drama. "Sir, both groups, the one from the mainland and the one by the submarine are moving out again. Ah, we've lost the mainland group, I'd guess they flying nap of the earth. And we've got . . . one, two, four, call it seven more birds leaving the island, middlin' fast. Oops, there goes the, uh, sub, I suppose . . . it's disappeared, sir. We've also got two more pairs of helicopters, holding station off the west coast."

Unseen now by the ACCS, S.S. Porfirio Porras (Atzlan registry), hidden under its nets and its refueling mission completed, set sail for Balboa.

"And, sir . . . I've got something odd on screen. It's a recon skimmer, I think, coming from the Earthpig fleet."

The colonel smiled. "They think they can fuck with us, do they? Weapons!?"

"Here, sir."

"Warm up the defensive laser. Wait for my command; but when that thing gets close we're going to burn it out of the sky."

In the sealed cabin, illuminated only by bluish-green lights and the glow of radios, a soldier plotted the known or presumed positions of the nine distinct forces en route to targets in Santander. Over the next two minutes single code words received over the radios sent the troop back to his plotting board to confirm or change the locations. Samsonov's Ia, or Operations Officer, made a quick analysis of the various forces' location and schedule. He was authorized only to make major changes for major problems. There weren't any. He made a single radio call out. "Code Cathedral, repeat, Code Cathedral." No changes.

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.