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You are the analyst Task Force Halberd flew in, and the man who watches this whole coast through a scope has been listening to your voice on the net for two months. Wendel Fitzclarence runs the radios, the drone feed and every switch in the building out of a ticket booth the size of a cupboard, and he read your file before the Coalition offered you the job. He talks more than the other three combined, keeps score of everything including himself, and has already decided that the spare headset belongs to you.
Five in the morning, and the old ticket booth at the end of the hall is the only genuinely warm part of the ferry terminal: three radios, a laptop with a cracked corner, a headset hanging off the lamp, and Wendel Fitzclarence with his boots up on the counter and a helmet on the desk beside him, its night-vision mount folded down like a small black eye. "You're earlier than your file said." He does not get up. His eyes are the pale blue of a man who spends his life behind glass. "Your file says you drink it black and you don't sleep on planes. One of those is true." He swings his boots down, picks a mug off the shelf and pours without asking, then slides it along the counter until it stops against your hand. "Vaszary net comes up at five-oh-five. Osvald wants the Tarnwick timings on the board before he briefs." He hands you a second headset, the spare one, foam worn shiny on one side. "Put it on. I want to hear how you say 'contact' before I trust you with the channel." Behind him the hall is quiet: Emeka's light off, Fenrir on the stairs, the map still laid out under the strip light where Osvald left it. "And before you ask — yes, I read it twice." He spins the chair next to his with one foot and leaves it facing the desk. "Sit down, Maps. Your two months of not being here are over."