Austin clicked his computer cursor on a blip. The camera seemed to rush at the target. Hundreds of flopping fish filled the screen. Then the camera pulled back to show a fish hold and a deck covered with the booms and winches of an oceangoing fishing boat.

“Impressive,” Austin said.

“Yeager used Max to pump some hormones into NUMASat’s normal search function. He says it can tell you the color of a sand flea’s eyes.”

Hiram Yeager was NUMA’s resident computer genius and director of the vast computer complex he called Max, which occupied the entire tenth floor of NUMA’s green-glass-faced tower overlooking the Potomac River.

“Their eyes are blue,” Austin said.

“Really?”

“Kidding. But the resolution is better than anything I’ve seen.”

“Before Yeager beefed up the system, the best we could get was one yard square in black and white and four yards in color. He’s got it down to one yard square in color,” Zavala said. “What you’re seeing on the screen has been enhanced by information coming in from other satellites and military and intelligence systems.”

“All done legally and according to Hoyle,” Austin said with a wry smile.

“Mostly. Yeager considers it tit-for-tat, because the military relies so heavily on NUMASat. They’ve worked out a deal to blank out images when military operations are under way. I told him I didn’t want to know, and he said that was fine with him.”

“We’re in no position to criticize,” Austin said. The Special Assignments Team sometimes operated under the radar of traditional government oversight. “Have you located our friendly ore carrier?” Austin said.

“Watch!” Zavala said.

The image slowly zoomed out. The ships again were displayed as specks. Zavala outlined a target within a rectangle. Austin clicked the computer mouse. The image of a huge ship filled the screen. Austin leaned forward.

“Definitely the ore carrier we saw from the chopper,” he said. “There’s that weird bull’s-head logo on the hull.”

“I ran a check on the ship. It belongs to an outfit named PeaceCo. Their website describes them as peace-and-stability consultants.”

Austin chuckled. “That’s the new jargon for mercenaries.”

“They’re up front about the ship’s conversion from an ore carrier. They advertise it as a mobile-force platform. They claim they can have airborne forces on the ground anywhere in the world within forty-eight hours. The ship is guaranteed to arrive with the full unit within twenty-one days.”

“Who’s behind PeaceCo?”

“Hard to tell. They’ve got a roster of retired American and British military people on their board. The ownership is hidden behind layers of shell corporations in several countries of registration. I’ve got Yeager working to unravel that mess too.”

“Sounds like a lead, but what we need is a smoking gun.”