The Lotus Eaters

out over the water as you can. Remember, you've got a potential hostile coming in on your tail. Do not let him get you over land.'

'Marathon, this is Santiago, Wilco, over.'

Ops tapped his lips with his fingers for a moment before ordered, 'Send two of the Mosaics to cover Santiago Two Bravo.' Then, turning back to the map, he put a finger on Florencia and cursed silently.

Florencia, Santander, Terra Nova

Another moon had risen, adding a bit of light to the confusion at the mountain-carved airstrip. Under that light, Carrera found Lanza sitting cross legged and staring a corpse. It took a moment to realize the corpse had breasts. He sat down next to his air chief. 'Are you all right, Miguel?' he asked.

Lanza nodded. 'I didn't know it was a woman; I swear I didn't,' he said. 'I just saw someone with a bayoneted rifle and so I fired.'

'If it's any consolation,' Carrera said, 'I had everyone down at the guerilla base shot, female or not.'

'It isn't any,' Lanza said. 'It's different when you do it up close and personal.'

'I suppose,' Carrera conceded. 'Are you okay to fly?'

Lanza nodded.

'Good. Then get back to your plane and get ready to fly us home.'

* * *

Menshikov strained to help a medic lift the last non-ambulatory casualty onto the third Nabakov in line. Two others, also full of wounded men, seized documents, and captured computers had already taken off over the mountains, hugging the trees. The wounded Volgan moaned, then coughed. The stretcher disappeared into the door, scraping the soldier's arm as the stretcher was twisted and dragged. Carrera ran up to join Menshikov and said 'I just talked to the gunship. We've got company coming. One jet, presumed a fighter, is about twelve minutes out.'

Menshikov looked at the now closing door to the Nabakov. 'If we don't head straight back to the medical facilities in Balboa we'll lose some of the wounded, sir.'

That hurt. These men had fought for him and to let them just die . . .

Carrera pushed away the humanitarian thought. There was no room for such sentiments, under the circumstances. 'I know,' he said, 'but most of the worst off are already gone.' He pulled out his map. 'If we head north and cross the Cajamarca border we can stick low to the ground. That pilot will lose us from his radar—might never even see us—if we stay low enough. We can then head out over water. The pilots tell me the fuel will last till we get back to Balboa, if barely.'

'Yes, sir. I'll give the orders for the security team to pull back now, if you'll tell the gunship to cover us till we're gone.'

'Right. . . . Tribune?'

'Yes, sir?'

'Good job.'

Menshikov answered, 'Thank you, sir.' He thought about the dead and the wounded and asked, 'Was it worth it, sir?'

Carrera chewed at his lip and said, 'I think so.'

* * *

Santander's Illusion fighters were less than state of the art. Where a more modern jet might have told Hartmann his location, in his plane Hartmann had to use a map and do some figuring. Ahead, his radar showed seven targets, then six, then five as the planes twisted around behind the mountain range where Santander's western cordillera split off from the central.

As more targets disappeared from his screen, Hartmann was faced with a decision; pursue or follow the plan and head to Santiago. I can probably catch up to the targets ahead before they reach Cajamarca, but I might never see them in the trees and hills. Best to follow the plan and head to Santiago.

A few miles short of where the FNLS villa burned, Hartmann veered towards Santiago.

* * *

Carrera breathed a sigh of relief as he felt the Nabakov level out after its long descent down the mountainside. Menshikov and the surviving bodyguards had insisted that Carrera be on this airplane, to get him out of the country as quickly as possible.

This was a different airplane than he had boarded at Coco Point but it stank of vomit as much as Number Two had. To the vomit were added the coppery smell of blood and the stench from some poor trooper's ripped gut. Medics moved around, as best they could in the twisting, turning transport, to help the wounded. Some of the injured had been assessed as 'expectant' by the Volgan field medics. That meant they were expected to die. The nylon benches and floor were therefore full of those too badly hurt to spend much effort on and those too lightly hurt to need much. Carrera, deprived of Menshikov's services as translator, went from troop to troop offering what comforting sounds he could.

One of the troopers, listed as 'expectant' and deathly pale under the red interior light, spoke fair Spanish. As Carrera shook his hand and thanked him, the Volgan pulled his ear close and asked, 'Got a drink, sir?'

'Gimme a second.' Carrera caught a medic's attention, said a few words, and took the small bottle of vodka the medic passed over. He unscrewed the cap, leaned down, and said, 'Soldiers first,' as he handed the bottle over.

The Volgan paratrooper took the bottle, raised it to his lips and took a long pull before passing it back. Carrera likewise took a drink and then began to hand the bottle back to the Volgan. He stopped when he realized the soldier