months since the President had sworn revenge.
Altitude 4200 feet over the
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.
S.S.
'All stop. Drop anchors,' ordered the ship's captain. A few hundred meters behind, the
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
La Palma, Balboa, Terra Nova
'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,
Federated States Airborne Command and Control Ship (ACCS), 210 miles east of Santander, Terra Nova
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.'
MY Phidippides, 25 miles west of Punta Marielena, Santander, Terra Nova
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.
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.
* * *
