Secretary Victor Balkan walked fifty yards from his office to the North American Military Command Center, trailed by the ever-present entourage of staff who had top-secret or better clearance. As he entered the nerve core, Fednik officials and military officers gave him deference out of respect and -- many would admit -- fear. He wore a digital coupling over the left eyebrow to allow him access to the various Heads-Up-Display he'd need. For a special showing later.

The Secretary was not without controversy: he headed the new and powerful Special Security Service, or S-Cube, an independent armed wing of the Executive. In its dominance of the Oval Office for the last three terms, the ruling Paramountcy-in-Power had made many enemies. The need for an elite force, separated from the military and federal police above reproach, was justified. Balkan was the all-seeing eye on top of the Intelligence pyramid, the second most powerful Fednik in Washington.

The War Room was cavernous, two stories tall, and filled with technology. Tactical screens took up the widest wall, each one depicting specific data sets of the target area. A single 100-inch screen showed a thermal-barometric map of the northern coast of Amazonia, another the real-time strategic positions of assets in the region; a third -- the position of a drop-ship cutting across the jungle, overlaid with the camera view of Skyfish, a drone circling high above Caracas.

Balkan took his designated seat, a red high-back chair set apart from those of his minions.

Seated nearest and on his right was Lisbeth Hunt.

"Good morning, everyone," Balkan said.

"Morning, sir," flag officers and civilian officials, on location and on comm screens, replied as one.

"So, what's the play?"

A three-star general a few feet away, reported, "We're in place, Mr. Secretary, just waiting for the guests of honor to arrive."

"And what time would that be?" Balkan asked, his tone almost playful.

"1400 hours local."

Balkan glanced at the digital clock set to UTC-4, one hour ahead of DC. Red numerics emitted 1347 hours, local target time.

"Well, good luck everyone," Balkan sent his usual benediction, then settled on one screen. "Morning, Ian, we coming through clear?" The connection with Khe Sanh was reestablished and piped into Redoubt.

Moreau replied, "Reading you fine, Redoubt."

"How is my team doing?"

"All systems nominal," Moreau replied. "Confidence is high. They're eager to knock this out of the park."

"All right, bring me up to speed, Mr. Oliver." Balkan turned to Charles Oliver, the Agency's Intelligence Director. They were cronies from TexPax prior to being in government. Oliver had red hair, a pear-shaped figure, and freckled skin.

Oliver cleared his throat. "We have confirmation the Bolivarians insurgency leadership, for the first time, is gathered in one place. The meet is on, probably to discuss recent losses inflicted by Caracas."

"With our help," Balkan acknowledged, looking down at his hand terminal.

"We expect a significant showing -- numbers Three, Four, Six, and Nine on the Global Terrorist Watch," Oliver said. "These are their profiles."

The photos and specs of four grim men in black bushy beards appeared on the far-right screen. They didn't interest the Secretary.

Oliver continued, "The meeting will take place among a suburb of Caracas, within rebel-controlled Barrio El 50. In this building here -- designated Tango X-Ray."

Skyfish's aerial view of Caracas centered down to a singular building. Balkan looked up, half curious, then back down at his terminal.

"Information was provided by a Colonel Herrera, compliments from our friends in Vauxhall."

"That depends what the Brits want in exchange for him." He eyed Oliver.

"They were forthcoming, Mr. Secretary."

"Alright, mission parameters?" Balkan returned to tactical matters.

"This operation is Kill on Sight as agreed."

"Good, anybody got popcorn?" as expected everyone gave him deferential titter. Lisbeth leaned over and whispered to him. He nodded several times and returned to his device, while the debrief continued over last-minute details.

A high-altitude drone camera displayed on the main viewer showed three vehicles making their way through the crowded market along Avenida 1. The quarries were on schedule.

Halfway down the block, the convoy hung a left and disappeared from the screen. The analyst said they went into underground parking below building 7711.

"Do we have visuals inside?" Balkan asked.

"No, but we can burn through with a painter once they get above ground."

"Then let's see it."

On orders from C2, a painter in-place fired the laser and ran search patterns from floor to floor.

At first, what the watchers saw were blurry images on their screens. The pixels soon became sharper as the computer filled in unknown spaces with extrapolated data. In no time, fuzzy outputs coalesced into bipeds -- armed with the ubiquitous AK-74, second-gen Kalashnikovs, the choice weapon of insurgents the world over.

The third floor of Building 7711 glowed bright like a cocktail party.

"Do we know who's who?" Balkan asked.

"We have an eighty percent probability which ones are the VIPs," Oliver said.

"From this soup?"

"That's the best resolution we have."

"Okay. Where is Cerberus this minute?" Balkan said, straightening up.

"The team is in route, sir."

"How far out?"

"Aircraft ETA under ten minutes," Oliver said. "We've erased all insignias and markings to abide with the proper narration."

"We were never there," Balkan reiterated.

"No, Mr. Secretary, never."

"Well then, let's not keep folks waiting to die any longer than they have to."

* * *

"You're a Go." Porsche eavesdropped on the play-by-play, as she laid on her belly manning the Penetrator.

Powerful voices rang out from the ether into her ear, "Take 'em down."

"Cerberus copy, we are Go. Inbound in ten mikes, repeat ten mikes."

Give 'em hell, boys, Porsche muttered to herself, curious to know who Cerberus was. Could be SEALs out of Panama, or D-Boys from deep inside the Amazon. No matter, she needed to focus on her real job that had just gotten real.

Porsche's primary role beyond reconnoitering for threats was to track the leaders of BLA -- top members on the kill list. Once identified, she'd paint each high-level target with a unique digital tag comparable to an un-washable dye for her audience: the drones, their users and the kill team. Unless BLA's VIPs moved out of the sensory envelope that covered the entire city block, tracking computers had the tags locked. There was no hiding.

Porsche spied the targets via her penetrating camera-port. She watched the targets, designated 'Tangos', go from being at rest to utter panic as the sound of an incoming jet intensified. Several gunmen took up positions to defend the third floor while bodyguards rushed the leadership cadre out of the meeting room.

"C2, Porsche -- be advised, Tango Actuals are Oscar Mike," Porsche reported -- high-value targets are on the move. "Tangos proceeding down main hall . . . Heading for main elevators."

Building schematics showed a cluster of three elevator shafts located in the center of each floor, reaching all the way to the garage where their vehicles were. This was the line in the sand. If the Tangos made it to the garage, the ops would be aborted. The take-down positively must not spill out to the streets.

"Roger that, Porsche," C2 answered. "Re-task Skyfish to reacquire targets. Over?"

Elsewhere, a drone operator confirmed, "Skyfish tracking, standby."

"Anvil 41, Cerberus -- expedite!" C2 commanded.

For the next few minutes, events blurred in rapid successions. Seen from Porsche's position, a dark massive shape knifed through cloud patches. Its sudden appearance caught those on the ground by surprise, civilians and villains alike scampering to safety. The sentries outside Building 7711 scattered like rabbits in the open. Small arms fire peppered the incoming craft while the shooters snuck inside and barricaded the doorways. Residents nearby locked doors and windows as the whine of the drop-ship grew into ear-piercing shrieks.

The tilt-jet aircraft came in fast, flaring along the last few meters. Vectoring downward thrust, it hovered over the building, its jet-wash blowing off roof-cones and ventilators, rippling the air with scalding exhaust.

Porsche counted: One-one thousand . . . two-one thousand . . . three . . .

Nineteen jumpers dropped out of the rear ramp in free-fall, impacted the rooftop and rolled out. A few seconds later, they broke the locks and entered the staircase. She envied them in a way. They will make history today.

Four-one thousand . . . five-one thousand . . . six-one thousand -- by now, they were deep inside Tango X-Ray, coming onto the fourth floor.

She noticed how lightning-fast they were, none of the cautious stop-n-go pitter-patter she had seen other teams do during insertion. This group went straight in unencumbered of fear.

Move it!

She kept one eye on the high-value Tangos who were fleeing down the third-floor corridor, reaching the escape elevator.