The Lotus Eaters

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.

Belalcazar, Santander, Terra Nova

Senor Estevez sat on an imported leather couch sipping brandy. A great fire raged in the grand marble fireplace opposite, a guard against the mountain's cool night air. Estevez stared into the flames and contemplated the future.

I think it was a mistake to try to coerce the Balboans, a mistake to let my anger get the better of me. Oh, yes, we killed some police officers . . . and more civilians. All that has done is to make them tighten up their internal security laws. That, and give them more sources of intelligence on us.

And now? Now I cannot even go outside my own estates. People who look and sound just like our own, waiting to kill us, using diplomatic access to get into Santander which we can't, usually, use to get people into Balboa. And they are at least as ruthless as we are . . . at least. Why, just last month they blew up Rodriguez' mistress and the two children. Before that, they found and kidnapped Chavez' uncle and sent him back in a dozen pieces. Now all of us are stuck behind walls, with everyone we care about stuck with us. And I am so tired of my wife and mistresses fighting with each other.

Coco Point, Isla Real, Balboa, Terra Nova

'Fuck it!' Samsonov's XO, Koniev, shouted into the microphone of the flight helmet he wore. So far the helicopters had performed well, lifting off with no problem, with none returning to base. Such fortune could not possibly last. This, the last lift of the mission, with ten helicopters, had a problem. Number Two bird, it seemed, had developed engine trouble.

'Fuck it!' Koniev repeated. 'Get the troops off and put them on Number One spare.' The pilot of the XO's helicopter spoke briefly into his microphone. At one end of the Pickup Zone another chopper lifted into the air and moved to within one hundred meters of the defective IM-71. Troops, pushed and prodded by shouting NCOs and officers, began to debark from the bad helicopter and to run across the PZ to the newer arrival. The spare took off twelve minutes late and turned west toward La Palma province. Since it would refuel at La Palma, there was no problem with expending some extra fuel for the extra speed to catch up with the main group.

Federated States Airborne Command and Control Ship (ACCS), 257 miles east of Santander, Terra Nova

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.