Carnifex

25/9/469 AC, Punta Cocoli, Isla Real, Balboa

Though the sun was long set, still heat emanated in choking, stultifying waves from the tarmac of the airfield. Under a double-roofed hangar a Nabakov-21 transport waited for its load. With the Nabakov likewise waited a profusely sweating Omar Fernandez, along with a section of utterly reliable guards and a score of dripping men of the Tercio Jan Sobieski, seconded to Fernandez's department, who would be accompanying him on the upcoming flight.

Fernandez had reason to sweat, and it wasn't just the heat. What Patricio told me to do? My God, does he understand the risks? This is the genie in the bottle. That . . . or perhaps he is right and it is that cap that seals the genie into its bottle. Even so . . .

A three-ton tactical truck stopped behind the hangar and began disgorging troops who raced to surround the half of the hangar nearest the airfield. Two more trucks, hauling forty foot conexes, pulled up to the hangar on the side away from the airfield, the side toward which the Nabakov's loading ramp faced. The trucks' air brakes squealed loudly as they shuddered to a stop. A fourth truck stopped, this one, like the first, carrying security men. Those men took up positions around the far side of the hangar from the airfield, completing the circle. Inside that perimeter, the first of the heavier trucks began to back up to the Nabakov's ramp to transfer its cargo.

Fernandez watched the transfer closely. I hope dearly that Patricio is right and we can keep this part of the secret secret. Obras Zorilleras worked hard on these. And we will need them still to be a surprise if . . . no, not "if," when it comes to open war with Taurus.

Open war? I'm preparing for that well enough. Whoever is in charge—we can only hope it's that frog bastard, Janier—when the war starts he will be very surprised at the loyalty of some of the people working for him. That's for the future, though, and a lot may change. Be nice if we could ensure Muñoz-Infantes were in command on that day. We could just relax; war over and won. He won't be though. It'll be a Frog, Janier or some other one. I mean, it has to be a Frog or the mistress' quarters in Building 95 on Fort Muddville will be totally wasted.

Fernandez smiled at his own silent jest. It would never have done for him to make an open joke. And it was hard enough for him to smile at all. He pulled out his wallet and flipped it open to a small picture, that of his young daughter, murdered by Salafi terrorists years prior.

Baby, he thought to his daughter's image. Baby, by now you know everything your father has done and does. Do you still look up to me, even as you gaze down upon me? I can hope so. What I do, I do for la Patria. And I rarely take any joy in it.

The crew chief of the Nabakov found Fernandez deep in his reveries. "Legate," the chief said, "we're ready to board you now. The crews for the cargo are already loaded."