The Lotus Eaters

Outside again in Balboa's thick, even stifling, air, Carrera did climb to the top of the earth-covered bunker. He lifted his night vision goggles to his face before turning them on, lest their green glow betray him to a possible sniper. He then scanned the sky through the grainy, green image.

Was that a flash? he wondered, looking toward the west. Maybe.

From this position he could even see part of the airstrip itself, one spot where an air defense gun's radar dish spun on its axis. Even if its radar picked up something, there was no one on board to see and report it.

Carrera's question of a moment before was answered. He saw the first impact of a homing missile— Radar Homing? Contrast Imaging? Terminally guided? Who knows?—as the SP air defense gun disappeared in a great flash. The echoes of other explosions told of similar bombs hitting elsewhere around the field. Each concussive blast was felt in the form of rippling internal organs at least as far away as the bunker.

Carrera hated that feeling. Even so, he looked up and smiled. If you were planning a long war, he mused, these bunkers would be the better target. But you're not; you're planning for a very short one. Amazing how often such plans fail to quite work out.

Overhead the screech and sonic crack of the jets was nearly loud enough to drown out rational thought. In Carrera's view, one of the barracks expanded and crumpled from a direct hit by an aerially delivered bomb. Vainly, a lone and very brave Balboan gunner fired his air defense gun into the sky. Carrera could see his tracers rising in the black night and then more as another gun joined him. He made a mental note to check the boys' names for later— Carrera assumed they would be posthumous—awards.

The Balboans' tracers didn't rise for long. What Carrera had almost seen a few moments before was the shadow of a Federated States of Columbia-built aerial side-firing gunship. This now poured down a stream of fire.

Like something from a science fiction movie, thought Carrera. The defenders' guns went silent, both of them. And gunships. Hmmm. So it'll be the Anglian paras, not the Gauls'. They're the only ones outside of the FSC that has gunships. That's a pity, he thought, and meant it. I'd hoped they'd stay out of this.

The air shook as more fighter-bombers raked over the legionary base. Down came regular unguided—dumb— bombs, twenty millimeter cannon shells, rockets, cluster bombs. Had there been any serious opposition on the ground around the airstrip these might well have broken it, even though well dug in troops were not terribly vulnerable to air attack.

Joining the air armada now came a flight of half a dozen helicopter gunships, presumably flying out of the Tauran-held Transitway Area, or perhaps even from something at sea.

Hmmm . . . more proof of Anglians.

The helicopter gunships didn't carry anything like the airplanes' firepower. They made up for that lack, however, in the attention to detail they could apply to a mission. By the glow of the burning buildings, Carrera could make out the gunships' track as they shot down legionaries attempting to flee from them.

Holding a fist in front of his chest, Carrera spoke out loud to himself. 'Now' he commanded to no one who could hear. 'Now! Report that the area is clear enough to jump.'

Carrera's order, or prayer, or wish, was quickly rewarded. Under the bright moonlight, he saw the outlines of the first of twenty-four medium and fourteen large cargo transports and troop carriers, approaching the Lago Sombrero airfield. Coming in low, Carrera thought maybe just over one hundred and twenty meters, these planes began disgorging their loads—over fifteen hundred Paras of the Royal Anglian Airborne Regiment. At that altitude the Paras didn't even bother with reserve chutes. If their main parachutes failed there wouldn't be time to open the reserves anyway.

I wonder what friends I have up there, jumping to their deaths.

The first of the medium transports made its pass over the airfield and surrounding cleared area in about forty seconds. Then, duty discharged, it turned to head for home. Others, in a long double trail behind it, were still dropping troops. Hundreds of these were already on the ground struggling to free themselves from their parachutes and harnesses. When Carrera was sure that enough had landed to guarantee the others would also land despite any danger he shouted down to Soult, 'Jamey, radio silence off. Get on the horn to fire the caltrops. Tell Rogachev to roll.'

The boys must have felt the shuddering bombs even deep down in their concrete hides. Carrera heard song, boyish voices supplemented by older ones, coming from the now opening vault doors:

'A young tribe stands up, ready to fight.

Raise the eagles higher, mis compadres.

We feel inside the time is right,

La epoca de los soldados jovenes.

High, from His Heaven, the God of battles calls us.

Ahead, in ranks, march the ghosts of our slain.

And in our hearts no fear of falling.

Legion, Patria, through the steel rain!'

Carrera looked skyward, past the incoming transports, and whispered, 'Enjoy the show, Marguerite.'

Appendix A: Glossary

AdC

Aide de Camp, an assistant to a senior officer

Ala Plural: Alae.