Oh, that makes sense. A submarine with a landing pad attached to refuel the helicopters. The modification must have taken a while. Then the Colonel realized it had been months since the President had sworn revenge. Bastard Schumann may get my vote after all.
Altitude 4200 feet over the Isla Real, Balboa, Terra Nova
Montoya, his course of fighter pilot instruction interrupted by the call for this mission, spoke briefly into his radio. Changing frequencies many thousands of times per second, the radios were almost undetectable and almost unjammable.
Under the Turbo-Finches hung an assortment of two hundred and fifty and five hundred pound bombs, along with rocket pods on the wings, and two napalm canisters each. An auxiliary fuel tank hung directly underneath each airplane.
Without verbally responding to Montoya, all four aircraft turned to the same heading and speed and headed generally north.
S.S. Mare Superum, five miles northeast of Buenaventura, Santander, Terra Nova
"All stop. Drop anchors," ordered the ship's captain. A few hundred meters behind, the Francisco Pizarro also slowed to halt. The captain turned to Shershavin. Pointing to the glow in the distance, he said "Major, there is the town. Begin landing your men.
Shershavin saluted and left the bridge. At a gesture the men of Number 14 Company, minus its first platoon—even now awaiting the lift from La Palma, began to push rope nets and rubber boats with small muffled engines over the side of the ship away from the land. The troops lowered themselves down, hand over hand, into the rubber boats and then cast off. Small muffled engines went pfft-pfft-pfft behind them. In the lead boat Shershavin guided the rest around the ship's hull and toward the shore. As the major made the turn under the blunt bow, he turned his attention and his night vision goggles toward the Pizarro. There, too, small boats were moving to the land to join in the assault.
La Palma, Balboa, Terra Nova
"Move over, Tribune, I'm coming with you." Johnson tossed his load carrying equipment to the floor of the helicopter. Then he climbed in and took a seat on that floor. As the helicopter lifted into the air, causing the old familiar sensation of increased weight, Johnson thought, Damn I love this shit. All we need are Wagner and some loud speakers.
Federated States Airborne Command and Control Ship (ACCS), 210 miles east of Santander, Terra Nova
The radar officer tapped his screen to point at the various elements of the unfolding drama. "Sir, both groups, the one from the mainland and the one by the submarine are moving out again. Ah, we've lost the mainland group, I'd guess they flying nap of the earth. And we've got . . . one, two, four, call it seven more birds leaving the island, middlin' fast. Oops, there goes the, uh, sub, I suppose . . . it's disappeared, sir. We've also got two more pairs of helicopters, holding station off the west coast."
Unseen now by the ACCS, S.S. Porfirio Porras (Atzlan registry), hidden under its nets and its refueling mission completed, set sail for Balboa.
"And, sir . . . I've got something odd on screen. It's a recon skimmer, I think, coming from the Earthpig fleet."
The colonel smiled. "They think they can fuck with us, do they? Weapons!?"
"Here, sir."
"Warm up the defensive laser. Wait for my command; but when that thing gets close we're going to burn it out of the sky."
MY Phidippides, 25 miles west of Punta Marielena, Santander, Terra Nova
In the sealed cabin, illuminated only by bluish-green lights and the glow of radios, a soldier plotted the known or presumed positions of the nine distinct forces en route to targets in Santander. Over the next two minutes single code words received over the radios sent the troop back to his plotting board to confirm or change the locations. Samsonov's Ia, or Operations Officer, made a quick analysis of the various forces' location and schedule. He was authorized only to make major changes for major problems. There weren't any. He made a single radio call out. "Code Cathedral, repeat, Code Cathedral." No changes.
Various locations in Santander, Terra Nova
Johnson and a Volgan captain crouched just over the pilots of the lead helicopter of their flight. To either side of the line of birds, steep jungle-covered mountains reached for the sky. A large stream ran between the mountains. In the grainy green view of Johnson's goggles was the light of a town, Bordero, Santander, about ten miles ahead.
The nearby city of San Lorenzo was much too bright to look at directly with the goggles.
* * *
Seventy miles east of Johnson, the first of five Turbo-Finches crossed from the water to a hook shaped spit of land jutting out into the Mar Furioso from Santander. The lead pilot checked his GLS and the map strapped to his leg. Punta Martes. Right on time. The Finches changed course and began to pick up altitude to get over the mountains that shielded San Lorenzo.
* * *
"Santa Juanita River below, sir," said a helicopter pilot to Samsonov, standing just behind. Samsonov strained to make out the river through the little bit of clear view available to him. Satisfied that he had seen enough to be sure, he turned and walked back, using the troop seat frames as handholds against the bucking of the helicopter as it followed the contours of the jungle covered hills and valleys. Samsonov sat and leaned over to the next man in line. "Pass it down. Thirty minutes."
* * *
Miles to the south-southeast, Warrant Officer Montoya glanced out the left side of the plane at the sleepy fishing village of Baudo Arriba. Good. Right on time. Practice pays.
* * *
A light rain spattered the ocean surface. Engine shut off for the last few meters to reduce noise, a small rubber boat slowed as it neared the shore. Shershavin leapt out of the boat and into the shallow water. Two other men jumped from the same boat, grabbed the line and towed it to shore at as much of a run as they could manage in two feet of foaming surf. To either side other boats touched in and their occupants disembarked. Shershavin looked ahead at a small but steep hill on which stood a well-lighted mansion. He knew that the men of 15th Company were dismounting perhaps a mile away, on the other side of town. Their target was similar, but on a lower hill. The mortar platoon began to set up their guns on the shoreline, aiming stakes forward and left at twenty five meter intervals. Troops carrying silenced sub-machineguns in the lead, Number 14 Company went into the jungle and up the slope. Shershavin called on the radio for a check up from his two supporting Finches, now crossing a few miles west of Cabo Caminando. The difference in speeds between the amphibious force and its air support, as compared with the other three forces, had caused Samsonov to give Shershavin alone the right to use his radio with some freedom.
* * *
If Carrera wasn't airsick, it was only by the grace of God that he wasn't. After two trips up and down over two different mountain ranges, some of the boys aboard the Nabakov were not so lucky.
Shit, Carrera cursed, it always seems you miss something.
The somethings missing were sufficient air sickness bags. Having no choice but to puke on the floor, the sick soldiers had covered it with vile smelling vomit. Carrera forced himself to choke back a spurt of his own. Almost retching, he went forward to the flight deck for some minor relief. He saw the navigator cum copilot give a thumbs up signal to the pilot. The town of El Dorado, Santander, continued to sleep as a stream of aircraft flew by, low, overhead.