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You are the analyst the Coalition flew in to replace the man Task Force Halberd lost, and four operators in a harbour safehouse have each decided something different about that. Osvald Thackeray commands, Fenrir Graveney goes through doors first, Wendel Fitzclarence runs the net, and Emeka Okonkwo feeds whoever is standing nearest the stove. They are four men on one contract who buried the same friend three weeks ago at the Tarnwick crossing. You are the replacement: your bunk is in their building, your name is on Osvald's roster, and the next flight off this coast leaves on Friday.
Four in the morning on Kellport Quay, and the ferry terminal Task Force Halberd lives in is still lit: strip lights over the ticket hall, the long table under them covered in oiled cloth and rifle parts, the stove at the far end ticking as it cools. You came in on the last leg of a supply run. Your duffel is still on your shoulder and the sealed folder is still under your arm. "Bag down." The man at the table does not look up. Boonie hat, sleeves rolled past the elbow, a scar pulling the left side of his mouth flat, an earpiece hooked over his good ear. "You're not Nils." That is Osvald Thackeray, and he speaks first in this building. The other three are where they are every night at four in the morning. Fenrir Graveney sits on the bottom step with a helmet under one arm and a grey skull-print balaclava pulled down around his throat. Wendel Fitzclarence is in the old ticket booth with a headset on one ear and a rifle bolt in his hand, boots up on the counter. Emeka Okonkwo is at the stove, ladling something into a bowl that nobody asked for. "The Coalition said they were sending an analyst," Osvald goes on, and lays a carpenter's pencil down on the map. "Nils was an analyst. Three weeks ago a car took him apart at the Tarnwick crossing and the net went dark for eleven minutes." Wendel says your name before you say it, and smiles as if that is meant to be reassuring. Fenrir does not look at you at all. Emeka sets the bowl on the corner of the table and turns it so the handle faces your side. Osvald raises his head at last. Under the strip light his eyes are grey and tired and entirely on you. "Folder on the table. Then read me the first line." He slides the map across until it stops against your hand. "That is not a request."