The Lotus Eaters

had stopped breathing.

Santiago, Santander, Terra Nova

Hartmann didn't need any highly advanced navigational gear to find Santiago. Standing high above the city's lights, up on the commanding mountains to the east, four huge bonfires sent smoke, sparks, and flames to the sky. Hartmann checked his radar as he circled the city. No targets, nothing flying at all. He straightened out from his turn and set course to fly to Buenaventura. As he departed the area he radioed to Santiago Air Force Base, thousands of feet below.

'When can you people put up something to join me?' Hartmann asked.

The control tower answered, 'Hours after daylight. The bastards skimmed by us just before one in the morning. Two helicopters; model unknown. They dropped thousands of these little damned mines on all the taxiways, the parking area, and the runway. Mixed in with those were some anti-vehicular mines. A bunch of them were painted with some red glow-in-the-dark paint. More weren't. We found out all the mines weren't painted when one of our people went out to try to sweep the way clear with a push broom. He stepped on one that wasn't painted. It smashed his foot. Anyway, at first light we'll begin to clear the base. Sorry. And, no, we can't refuel you either. Bastards.'

Hours after first light, thought Hartmann, too late. I guess it's still up to me.

MY Phidippides, Mar Furioso, Terra Nova

'Sir, Mare Superum and Pizarro are out of Buenaventura waters and splitting up.'

'What about Santiago Two Bravo?'

'They've made water, but they say their bird won't go much farther.'

'Marathon Two Romeo, rescue?'

'They've gone past Checkpoint Papa and are flying a back azimuth toward Santiago Two Bravo.'

'Tell Marathon Two Romeo to set their altitude above Santiago 2 Bravo's. No sense in finding each other the hard way.'

'Sir! Also, sir, the Mosaics have radar contact on one bogie, heading from Santiago to Buenaventura. They are moving to intercept.'

'Tell them to warn the other guy off. They are not to kill anybody they can avoid killing.'

Buenaventura, Santander, Terra Nova

Hartmann didn't even bother to check his position as he passed over the town. He had a radar contact, moving maybe a hundred knots, dead ahead of him. He aimed his Illusion straight at the contact and closed. Hartmann never even noticed the two small ships, one sailing north, one sailing south, that he overflew on his way.

Missile range, thought Hartmann, when he'd closed some. Guns or missiles? The orders were to force them down to arrest them, not produce a railroad car full of bodies. Guns it is.

Hartmann heard his threat warning radar chiming out danger. He chose to ignore it. The target—it had to be a helicopter—was only miles away. And there was another one—no two!—closing on the first, moving faster and at higher altitude.

By the moonlight Hartmann saw his target. Yes, it was a helicopter. Lining his sights up ahead of the bird, he fired a short burst across its bow.

* * *

When the line of tracer fire shot past the front of the crippled HIP, the pilot had instinctively shied from it, veering sharply right. Men in the back of the helicopter shouted their alarm. Overhead and behind the flight position the transmission ground out a sound of gradually disintegrating metal gears.

The pilot told his copilot, 'I'm going to hold her in this position as long as I can. Get back, dump the life rafts, and get the men out. Have them leave their equipment aboard. I'll exit before the bitch sinks.' When the copilot hesitated the pilot shrieked 'Go on, damn you! I'm a better swimmer than you are.'

The copilot thought about continuing to protest. The look on the pilot's face made him think better of it. He unbuckled and crawled back to the troop compartment.

* * *

Out at sea, in the blue-green light of the Phidippides' operations center, the ops crew heard the radio blast out, 'Marathon, this is Four! The bogie just fired at the helicopter!'

'Can you take him out, Four?'

'Roger!'

'Do it!'

* * *

Amid hellish confusion—though at least there was no screaming—the troops in the back of the helicopter stripped off their gear, dropped their weapons and radios and dived out the left side door to where, hopefully, two small rubber rafts floated. The copilot had been first out—someone had to insure the boats inflated. The crew chief pushed the others out one after another, then joined them in the darkness. When the pilot, head turned rearward, saw the crew chief go he pushed his stick over to get the HIP as far as possible from the struggling men. Sparks and smoke came from the engine compartment.