The Lotus Eaters

X-ray Five One. Fire Target Group Bravo.'

'Six Seven, Five One; roger, over . . . shot over . . . splash, over.'

Trees were instantly silhouetted as artillery simulators began whistled and exploding all over the hill, from military crest to reverse slope. There was fire, both rifle and machine gun, coming from the hill. Yet it only came from the quarter of the defending troops who were allowed to be fully alert, strung out mostly in observation and listening posts around Loma Boracho.

Jimenez saw another explosion flash through the trees, followed by what he thought were probably antaniae, winging it upwards to escape the blasting.

Nasty fucking moonbats, he thought.

'Breach One, clear,' said the radio. A second explosion followed. 'Breach Two, clear.'

Jimenez pulled his night vision goggles onto his face and looked northwest. This was the direction from which the 8th Tercio commander had briefed him that the breach team would blow through the wire. Sure enough, he saw twin files of armed men rising from the jungle floor to dash forward toward the breaches in the hill's perimeter wire.

A crump overhead and just past the position turned into a mortar illumination round. The casing whistled down to impact in the nearby bay. Cursing, 'Shit!' Jimenez removed the goggles as Loma Boracho lit up almost as brightly as day. Another crump from the same direction as the first told that the next round was on the way.

On cue—as if on cue, at any rate—evaluators redoubled their throwing artillery simulators, pyrotechnic devices that whistled for several seconds before exploding with a fairly realistic flash and bang. Machine gun fire—still blank, the only live ammunition being used were the mortar illumination rounds— erupted from outside the perimeter.

* * *

In the bunkers pandemonium erupted as half naked troops shook themselves out of sleep and struggled to find and free uniforms, boots, rifles and armor. Evaluators stood by the bunkers to ensure no troop left without being fully dressed and equipped. Men cursed as heads bumped and hands and feet were trod upon.

This was not to say that all the defenders left with their own gear. More than one soldier ended up in clothes too big or too small in the rush. By ones and twos, except where a leader had the presence of mind to organize before moving—the defenders began to filter to their perimeter through the trenches.

Under cover of the suppressive fire from the machine guns, and smoke from hand held smoke grenades, teams from the 8th Tercio were already through the wire and beginning to enter the trenches. Here and there evaluators tapped soldiers of the 8th, making them lie down as casualties. The cry 'medic' arose from half a dozen throats.

In their ones and twos the defenders tried to slow down the avalanche of combat power overwhelming their position. It was to no avail. Throwing grenade simulators ahead of them, 8th Tercio's storming party drove the headquarters troops back and further back.

Not all of the cries for medical support were simulated; the grenade simulators could cause nasty burns and mild concussions. As the evaluators had rehearsed, an evaluator accompanied the forward elements of both sides, both to assess casualties and to pull unwary soldiers out of the way of the simulators' explosions.

This is fucking great! thought Jimenez. He recollected something Carrera had said in the training brief: Many senior commanders don't enjoy training their soldiers unless they can maneuver their entire units. I have found that these men typically have fragile egos. The best trainer of combat troops is usually the one who can enjoy the fun his small units are having.

'Well, I'm having fun, anyway,' Jimenez muttered, as another series of explosions, more grenade simulators, moved a prong of 8th Tercio's attack closer to the center of the Loma Boracho position. Jimenez walked forward to oversee the final assault.

Military Academy Sargento Juan Malvegui, Puerto Lindo, Balboa, Terra Nova

Two white men, Volgans, in mufti, stood on a spit of land on the west side of the old town's roughly rectangular harbor. A centuries-old stone fort watched over the harbor's mouth, as it had for all those centuries. The fort's seaward gun ports were sighted to intersect and interlock with those of another fort across the water on the eastern side. At the bay's mouth was a tree-covered island. It seemed to float on the water. For that matter, people who had stared at the island long enough had been known to say the thing was moving.

Behind and around the two men, more or less surrounding the fort, arose the barracks and classrooms of the academy. Work still continued on some buildings, an irregular pounding of hammers interspersed with a drone of heavy machinery.

Sitnikov, leaning with one hand resting on a verdigris covered bronze cannon, asked, 'Well, Victor, what do you think?'

His companion, Victor Chapayev, nodded. 'It is adequate.'

Chapayev wore an air of inestimable sadness. Sitnikov knew as much of Chapayev's story as Samsonov had thought he needed to know. He could guess at the rest.

'If the duque is happy with it,' Chapayev amended, 'who am I to complain?'

'You were with Carrera in Santander, weren't you.'

Chapayev nodded.

'What did you think?'

'He seems decent enough. He's been decent to me. He might have saved my company down there, after I was hit. Probably did, in fact.'

'So he seems. Decent that is. Let me tell you something, though, Victor. Carrera will treat you well right up to the day you cross him. Then, he's no different from the Red Tsar. I've seen it. Boy, have I