* * *
As two helicopters broke off from the main body to drop off the platoon that would seal off escape; the other four, landing on line, began to disgorge the rest of 12th Company across the lawn. Those armed with rockets and machine guns fired forward to cover the paratroops' exit.
'Look at that!' cried the copilot of the rightmost bird. The goggled pilot turned his head to see a Santandern struggling with a load on his shoulders across the ruins of a large wood building.
* * *
Dirt, dust, and splinters of wood kicked up around Francisco Estevez. Two projectiles, at least, found him, passing through his lower torso. Both hips smashed to red ruin, he was bowled over, his load flying. Francisco landed in agony, his blood staining the green grass beneath him.
For a few moments he lay there in shock. Then, dimly, he remember his brother who had to be somewhere nearby. Francisco forced his arms to lift his upper body from the ground. Dragging his useless legs behind him, he pulled himself on his hands and elbows to where his brother had been flung.
* * *
The tracer-caused flare in the night vision goggled lessened. 'One's still alive,' said the copilot. 'You know the orders.'
A second burst followed, longer than the first. The Estevez brothers, distant relatives of Senor Estevez, died side by side, Francisco's hands still trying to pull his elder brother to safety.
* * *
The helicopters had each a single side door, mounted on the left, and rear clamshells. With the chopper bucking from the rotor wash kicked up from the ground, the crew kicked open the clamshells even as Samsonov jumped out of the side door to the ground. Automatically, the legate of the 22nd rolled and came to a prone firing position, eyes searching frantically for threats and targets.
The more heavily laden radio telephone operator, or RTO, jumped after Samsonov. Because the helicopter was slowly moving forward, however, the RTO landed closer to the target than his commander had. He crawled back toward Samsonov, taking a position to the left rear of the legate. Samsonov shot an inquiring glance at the RTO, which was answered with a smile.
'Almost as much fun as Pashtia, sir,' said the RTO.
Samsonov raised an eyebrow. 'Boy,' he shouted, 'you're not old enough to have seen Pashtia.'
'True, sir,' the RTO agreed, unabashed. 'But every-fucking-body
Samsonov shook his head and shouted, 'This is all just a job boy, just a job.'
While Samsonov and the RTO exited the narrow side door, the bulk of the helicopter load had begun pouring in a double file out the back, through the clamshells. Warrant Officer Ustinov bent low, fearful of walking his head into the rotor spinning overhead. He was followed by Martinson.
Even before the platoon finished forming, Samsonov was the first to rise. RTO in tow, he began shouting into his microphone.
Someone was listening. Ustinov saw his company commander off to his left. The captain arose, blowing a whistle and hand signaling for his platoons to begin moving up. The captain had one arm curled overhead, the other pointing a rifle toward the hacienda. In the center of the 12th Company soldiers of the Weapons Platoon, serving as riflemen, did short rushes to form a rough line. Light fire, so far overhead it must have been unaimed, came from the direction of the target building. No Volgans were hit.
Ustinov and Martinson, still crouched low to avoid the helicopter's spinning rotor, moved up as well, pushing and prodding their platoon to get on line. The chopper gave off a differently pitched whine, lifted a few meters higher, and then, tail boom up and nose down, moved closer to the hacienda. At a certain point the chopper leveled off again. Its guns began firing steadily at the house. With troops behind it, rockets were, for the moment, right out.
To his right front Ustinov saw a line of tracers reach out twice toward the ruins of some large building, then return fire to the house. To Ustinov's left, far past the company commander, two more helicopters swung over after dropping off the platoon charged with sealing off the far side of the main building. They then added their fires at right angles to those of the helicopters that had dropped off the bulk of 12th Company.
Somewhere ahead someone was screaming. Whether it was a woman, which it sounded to be, or a man so badly hurt as to scream like a woman, none of the Volgans could tell. Martinson thought it was a man, and muttered, 'I wish someone would put that poor bastard out of his misery.'
Ustinov heard a siren wail coming above and to his front, and moving right to left. This was joined and then overwhelmed by a sound like a huge sail being ripped in half by a giant. That was the rattle of multiple, wing- mounted heavy machine guns, firing together. More tracers, red unlike the Volgan's green ones, spattered the area immediately around the house. The cacophony of screams, half pain and half terror, increased.
Turning briefly to look behind him, Ustinov saw Samsonov, now standing upright, calmly walking forward and still speaking into his radio.
The siren returned, this time moving left to right. Rockets exploded against the Hacienda walls, ripping off stucco and shattering glass. Ustinov listened to his radio for a moment, then shouted for his platoon to advance at a walk. Several score Volgan paratroopers stood up and began to trot forward, the steady crackle of their rifle fire preceding them, beating down any possible opposition. Helicopters pulled away and moved to a nearby landing area to await the recall. The Volgan advance slowed only once, to allow the men to fix bayonets.
When the company was about sixty-five or seventy meters from the
