Eight hundred miles west of Caracas, North American Naval Special Task Unit 34 sailed in the calm waters of the Pacific. TU-34 ran north in a zigzag pattern, all the while shadowing the Colombian Pacific coast. Among the flotilla of TU-34 was a Ticonderoga-class guided-missile cruiser, and two destroyers. Each had specific tasks: the cruiser provided a missile defense umbrella for the group while the destroyers ran outer picket.

There were reports of Sino stealth jets buzzing over ships before anyone knew they were there. Global-hawks had tracked their heat trails and origins -- sixth-generation jets out of Ecuador making high Mach sprints to probe the North American Navy, only to egress just as fast. At the behest of their Asian paramountcy, two Sino air-wings had been relocated outside Quito and were now playing peekaboo-I-see-you.

The escorts protected the fourth ship in the group, a sleek roll-on/roll-off support vessel -- USS Khe Sanh. The ideal SpecOps platform, Khe Sanh could launch and retrieve operatives anywhere in the world, or plant itself off the coast of a hot spot and wait. Today, many eyes were on her.

Within the dark Operations Room deep inside Khe Sanh, rows of technicians, many heavily stamped with cyberwares, were digitally fused with their cockpits of wrap-around holo screens and projectors.

A tall thin man in a plain gray-dot uniform stood front and center with his hands clasped behind his back. He wasn't military but his clout was so hush-hush it afforded him the same distinction as an admiral by the crew of Khe Sanh. Ian Moreau carried a pronounced jaw that rippled whenever displeased, and a penetrating scowl that singed the unprepared and uninformed. These traits reflected a practical personality steeped with blunt honesty, uncared for by friends and bristled by enemies.

The ship-board main viewer displayed a woman with the fading beauty of a former pageant queen, markedly lacking military demeanor. Her good looks remained, though warped by years of political friction, the muscle above her eyes frozen by injections, giving her a frigid detachment. As Defense Undersecretary of the North American Federation, Lisbeth Hunt had earned a reputation as an astute behind-the-scene listener. Lawyer, and a Fednik careerist, she remained an Unaffiliate when the cabinet was selected after TexPax's most recent Conclave victory. That was because appointed positions were held only by senior fief-Affiliates, people who once held top ranks from that paramountcy. She was an outsider, a commoner, a bitter fact she'd accepted.

"They've been buzzing around us, trying to figure out what we're doing here," Moreau said, his voice a tad edgy.

"I'm not surprised. We're picking up a lot of breadcrumbs traffic from Beijing's Third Department," Lisbeth informed, her profile massive from below. "Intel said 3 PLA has shifted its snooping mission to a proactive strike profile," Lisbeth's voice tinged through the micro-speakers only he could hear.

"The longer we're out here . . ." Moreau said.

"You'd better be twice as careful then."

"Believe me, Balkan's drummed it in our heads the past few days."

"His hair was on fire," she checked her voice and aped the Secretary: "Caracas cannot appear to lose control or we lose the oil. The President's made it clear. His PIP demands it. Orinoco must flow our way."

Her laughter warmed Moreau, in many ways. "I'm glad I'm just a technocrat. I don't worry about body counts -- that's your job."

"How macabre." She feigned to shiver on-screen. "I do no such thing."

"Between us." He paused, returning to seriousness. " I don't like the requirements."

"Cold feet, so soon?"

"Best case scenario, no one sees us. But if things go wrong . . ."

"You're concerned -- at the 11th hour?"

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"Cause I can't scratch this itch. I'd prefer a 500 pounder on the building -- damn cleaner. With a delay fuse, it could look like a car bomb in the garage. But no one listens to me."

"Cause a bomb is too final."

"But kill teams leave DNA behind. One drop of saliva or blood, and the cat's out."

"Don't get caught -- isn't that the only mantra these days?" Lisbeth smirked.

"I said before it's too much risk for a debut program like Carnivora to handle."

"Why? Team Cerberus came out on top in every scenario we ran. I'd say they're ready . . . Besides, he's got a hard-on for them."

"Oh, he's got a hard-on for just about anybody. For you too --” Too late to hold back the words. Moreau's chest tightened with the thought of her under the Secretary, literally.

"Tread lightly," Lisbeth warned, though not about herself. "It's Balkan's directive, and it's personal."

"That's what worries me."

"Best keep all our heads down."

"You too, Undersecretary," Moreau said. "Anyway, Redoubt expects a linkup at 1330 hours. Will POTUS sit in?"

"Balkan will quarterback this play," said Lisbeth. "New fathers want to show off their babies."

"I forgot the cigars."

"Cheer up. After this run, you can fund the Program for commercial expansion."

"Only if no one screws up," Moreau said, shaking his head.

"You handpicked them."

"Everyone."

"Then?"

"I'm confident they will wipe out every living thing in there. I'm not confident they will come out clean. No one could with absolute certainty."

"You want to make a bet?" Lisbeth said and grinned down at Moreau. "I win, dinner?"

His heart quickened. So, he wasn't wrong about her, she is interested. "It's a sucker’s bet. I lose either way."

“But you might get lucky.”

“Huh?”

Just as he found his tongue, the captain of Khe Sanh got their attention, "Comms are open with Porsche. She's in place."

"Showtime, Captain," Moreau said, then turned his attention to Lisbeth, "All right, pregame just started. I'll see you in five on the big screen."

* * *

Alone in the airless room, Porsche worked to set up the tripod. She assembled the stand in two clicks and three screw turns, while sweat streamed down her face in salty rivulets, wetting her lips. The temperature in this sweat-box extended well over a steamy hundred-five Fahrenheit.

Moving to the far side of the room, she aimed the scope through the cracked window shutters, just wide enough to have an unobstructed view. Power on. It hummed, ready for test fire. She opened a comm channel to Khe Sanh's CIC for a sit-rep.

"C2, Porsche. Acknowledge?"

"Go ahead, Porsche," the Khe Sanh comm officer patched in.

"Porsche in position. All system nominal."

"Porsche, C2, be informed -- Skyfish's picking up unusual low-f transmissions at Tango X-Ray. Requesting sweep of third floor." Skyfish was circling Tango X-Ray, the target location -- building 7711 Avenida 1.

"Copy that, C2. Standby," Porsche replied. "Beam on." She propped herself over a stack of rugs against the far wall and fired the Penetrator. The gun-like laser camera thrummed with power, opening its apertures toward the building. The newest generation optical technology was a quantum leap better -- it allowed spy cameras to pick up thermal radiation through solid objects using wider length infrared waves that piggybacked a penetrating X-ray micro-band.

Her signals flashed-burst, and bounced off a satellite down to Khe Sanh.

Real-time feedback came through her ear-piece at once from the ship's Imaging coordinator. "Five-by-five reception. Grid interface on-line. Overlay," a male voice read the telemetries to her. "Visuals . . . getting scatter. Go to four."

Porsche ran through the calibration with the tech.

"You're left of center, Porsche. Pan right, ten degrees."

"Roger . . ."

"Elevate five, one hundred feet . . ."

Porsche adjusted her depth of field.

"Go to five."

Aperture narrowed for a tight beam.

"Seven . . . We have touchdown. Good resolution," Imaging said. "Begin analysis."

As other wavelengths ran through filters, grainy orange blobs appeared. They looked like ghostly fireflies -- a magnitude dimmer than body heat, and they clustered behind walls.

"We're picking up multiple EM sources at the outer edges," the Imaging tech responded.

Porsche sensed concern at the other end. Whenever an electrical device carrying a semiconductor element became irradiated, it emitted a 'second harmonic' frequency as a reflection. Her beams had swept Building 7711 with charged particles that lit up these low-frequency electromagnetic echoes. Experts recognized the signatures at once as radio detonators.

"Be advised, multiple threat profiles at Tango X-Ray believed to be Mk79 wall mines."

The threat warnings went out wide, clear and ominous.

"Careful boys, this party's in your honor," Porsche muttered off-line.

Footsteps outside the door caught her attention.

Carlos came in, expectant, giving the skin-tight bodysuit a once over. "What news?"

"It's confirmed. Tango X-Ray is golden," Porsche said. She wanted to throw it back in his face: Your man Herrera sang like a drowned canary.

Carlos beamed. "Now?"

"We wait. Ain't no party without streamers and poppers."