The command and control module for the ship, as opposed to the pilots' station, was more or less centrally located. Being well inside, the module was lit. Within, seated in front of banks of computer terminals, more than two dozen members of the Federated States Air Force tracked everything inside of five hundred miles, air, surface, or in space. While the ACCS couldn't track a submarine at depth, it was perfectly capable of picking up the just-under-the-water submersibles occasionally used by the narco-traffickers.
A lieutenant at one of the radar terminals announced, "Sir, those radar sightings are still increasing."
The chief of the C and C module, a colonel of the Federated States Air Force, stepped over to where he could see the radar screen. "Show me what you've got," he said.
The lieutenant on duty used a plastic pointer to illustrate, tapping one icon on his screen after another. "Here, sir, we've got two groups heading west from this island north of Balboa City. It looks like there are eight or nine in the first group, maybe just one in the second. Speed says helicopters; they're flying low, almost skimming the waves. Then there's a string of nine flying generally north. They started off from the same place as the first group. Speed is one hundred eighty-five knots. Transports of some kind. Here, too" the lieutenant pointed to another group of glowing green fuzzballs on his screen, "we've got eight or nine, also flying low and slow. Helicopters heading north."
"Any ID?"
"No, sir. We queried. If those birds are carrying transponders they've got them turned off." A new dot appeared on screen over the Isla Real. It was quickly joined by another, and then two more. The lieutenant said "Those are faster. Maybe C-31s"
The colonel pondered. He was a man who read the newspapers almost religiously, so he was aware that F.S. citizens had been killed in Balboa within the last few months. No ID, he thought. Good formations. One bird separated from the rest—that's a command and control bird. I think I'm seeing Schumann hitting back. But why weren't we notified, at least? Hmm. Fucking Drug Interdiction pukes. Fucking Spec Ops bastards.
The senior put a hand on the junior's shoulder. "Son, you don't see anything. Understand?"
The radar officer did not understand at first. His eyes looked for some kind of explanation in his colonel's face. All they found was a knowing smile. Gradually, a glow of comprehension spread across the lieutenant's face.
The senior inclined his head, made an off-center nod, and grinned broadly. Who says lieutenants are stupid? He then winked and continued "You didn't see anything, but let's keep on watching whatever it is you don't see, shall we?"
UEPF Spirit of Brotherhood, in orbit around Terra Nova
The bridge crew, eyes fixed on their stations and their instruments, didn't see Battaglia, Duke of Pksoi, chewed on his right forefinger nervously.
I should have been told already, the duke fretted, that Wallenstein's been spaced. There's been plenty of time for a court-martial by now. A messenger drone should have popped the rift and broadcast months ago. But . . . nothing. I suspect I'd better get used to the idea she's returning to command. Dammit.
Seated to Battaglia's fore, the intelligence desk officer announced, "Captain, we've got some unusual activity around the Isthmus of Balboa and the Republic of Santander. A lot of troops moving by air. Some naval activity, too. The numbers aren't so unusual, sir, but they're crossing from Balboa into Santander and that is unusual."
"We're not over Balboa," Battaglia said.
"No, sir," agreed intel. "We're getting this from Spirit of Harmony, which is in orbit over that part of the world."
"Identities of the parties?" the Duke of Pksoi asked.
"No idea, captain. Harmony's too far out for image identification and there's nothing in the clear on the EM spectrum."
"Have them send down a skimmer for a closer look," Battaglia said.
"Aye, sir . . . sir, Harmony says it will be a while."
S.S. Porfirio Porras, 120 miles east of Nuqui, Santander
As they had rehearsed over a score of times in the last few weeks, the combined Volgan and Balboan crew erected the home-made wood and aluminum landing pad over the forward deck. At first there had been serious language problems. The captain of the ship had then decided to let the Balboans set the pad up on their own. This they had been able to do, but never quickly enough. So with hand signals and some translations, the refueling crews from Pritkin's squadron had been reintegrated into the helipad crew. It had taken many, many repetitions, but the combined crews had learned to set up the helipad at acceptable speed.
"Pad's up, Skipper. Fuel lines are ready."
The Captain consulted his watch. "Thirty minutes, First. No smoking anywhere aboard ship. Remove the central radar nets. Secure them well; we don't want a helicopter sucking one up into its engine. Put the guide on the pad and stand by."
"Aye, sir."
Jaquelina de Coco, La Palma, Balboa, Terra Nova
"Only nine birds, sir." announced the platoon centurion leading the half of the refueling platoon that had come here by hovercraft.
Terrence Johnson, acting as Carrera's eyes-on-the-ground for a critical juncture in the mission, looked across the river mouth through his night vision goggles. There's the last one. "There's another one coming, Centurion. No change to the plan."
"Sir!"
S.S. Porfirio Porras, 120 miles east of Nuqui, Santander
The steady wop-wop-wop of the rotors and the whine of the jet engines carried far and well across the ocean surface. At the sound, a man standing above the deck on a wood and aluminum frame lit two infrared flashlights with conical projections. The helicopters split up. One came in low and slow, shifting to the hand signals of the guide. The others began to circle the Porras, keeping low and a good distance away.
Six men, all carefully avoiding the tail rotor spinning invisibly in the darkness, clambered over the side of the helipad to tie down the chopper's landing wheels against the rocking of the ship. The guide crouched low as two more men, Volgans, dragged a nozzled fuel line across the pad to the waiting helicopter. After a time of steady glug-glug-glug the pilot signaled the chief of the "ground" crew that his bird was full. The wheels were untied and then the guide signaled the chopper to take off. Its engine whined as the wheels, now released, lifted from the pad. That helicopter slithered off to one side and headed away, barely missing the head of one of the fuel crew. It then assumed a slow, fuel conserving, course for Santander. Another one left off circling to line itself up for a landing. By 22:30 hours the second had departed and the next bird, of eight remaining, had taken up station to refuel for the rest of the journey.
Federated States Airborne Command and Control Ship (ACCS), 225 miles east of Santander, Terra Nova
The senior officer aboard returned to the working deck from using the toilet. His radar officer told him, "Sir, I've got a surface contact. Not large. It appeared about 15 minutes ago. Suddenly, like it rose from the sea."