two largish islands near it, a coastal defense line along their Mar Furioso coast, most of which was a Federated States relic, the ring around the port of Cristobal, much of which also was a Federated States relic, and this line”—the briefer bent to push a button, which caused the area just south of the Rio Gatun to illuminate on the Kurosawa in red—“which they apparently call the ‘Parilla Line’ and which makes no sense to us. But beyond that they’re doing an amazing amount of pick and shovel work. Fortification systems that were already powerful are becoming more so, right before our eyes.”
“Something else, too, High Admiral,” Khan, male, said. “While we can find all the old fortifications, we think, the new ones are being built under something that is scrambling our ability to see them. Their heat signature doesn’t make them show up as too very different. And they’re mostly under triple canopy jungle, so the skimmers can’t see much of anything. We’ve tried.”
“Lidar?” she asked.
“Limited use,” Khan answered. “Have to get really low for it to work against targets on the ground. And we’d have to fly around so much we’re bound to lose skimmers.”
“There is something, though,” added the briefer, “that we can see and that’s important.”
“What’s that?” asked Wallenstein,
The Kurosawa lit up a twenty or so kilometer wide area between the Parilla Line and Ciudad Balboa. “This we’ve taken to calling Logistics Base Alpha,’ High Admiral.”
“How do you know that’s what it is?”
“Containers, Ma’am. Thousands upon thousands of containers have been unloaded from ships, trucked or airlifted there, and dug in, in no particular pattern, though there have been some inexplicable gaps left.”
“That lack of pattern,” said Khan, “suggests to me more than anything that this was one area where the Balboans hadn’t finished their planning. I think they’re just dumping the containers and letting their logistic guys and gals figure out how to bring order from the chaos, which they don’t seem to have the wherewithal to do.”
“Why do you think so, Khan?” she asked.
“Couple of reasons, High Admiral,” Khan answered, “but for one . . . Close in on the log base,” he told the briefer, “and then illuminate the known medical detachments.”
Turning to Wallenstein, Khan explained, “While the Balboans are not above playing fast and loose with the laws of war even as they understand them, they take a fairly enlightened view of protecting at least their own wounded. Thus, they’ve marked all the field hospitals and aid stations they’ve set up clearly, over the trees, in such a way that the skimmers can see them and even the Taurans could if they ever resume overflights.”
Wallenstein looked at the map again, which now showed so many red crosses for field medical facilities that . . . “What the fuck does it mean?”
“We haven’t a clue,” Khan admitted. “We’ve run triangulation of those with known Balboan organizational structure and none of it, none of it, makes the slightest sense. We’ve had our own medical people look at it to see if there’s any conceivable pattern of casualty treatment and evacuation that fits that mish mash. Nothing quite does. We even ran a copy past the Tauran Defense Agency’s C2 bureau. They’re as clueless as we are but suggest very strongly that the Balboans are clueless there too, and did just what I said, dump supplies anywhere.”
“Are there any indicators that they’re trying to reorder those containers into some more sensible configuration?” the high admiral asked.
“Some,” Khan said. “There are some standardized configurations showing up, here and there.”
“Of what?” Wallenstein asked.
“Not a clue, High Admiral. We get only a tiny thermal signature, and that for nor more than a few days before they get the containers insulated and buried. At least I think that’s what
“Something else, too, High Admiral,” Khan, male, said. “While we can find all the old fortifications, we think, the new ones are being built under something that is scrambling our ability to see them. Their heat signature doesn’t make them show up as too very different. And they’re mostly under triple canopy jungle, so the skimmers can’t see much of anything. We’ve tried.”
“Lidar?” she asked.
“Limited use,” Khan answered. “Have to get really low for it to work against targets on the ground. And we’d have to fly around so much we’re bound to lose skimmers.”
“There is something, though,” added the briefer, “that we can see and that’s important.”
“What’s that?” asked Wallenstein,
The Kurosawa lit up a twenty or so kilometer wide area between the Parilla Line and Ciudad Balboa. “This we’ve taken to calling Logistics Base Alpha,’ High Admiral.”
“How do you know that’s what it is?”
“Containers, Ma’am. Thousands upon thousands of containers have been unloaded from ships, trucked or airlifted there, and dug in, in no particular pattern, though there have been some inexplicable gaps left.”
“That lack of pattern,” said Khan, “suggests to me more than anything that this was one area where the Balboans hadn’t finished their planning. I think they’re just dumping the containers and letting their logistic guys and gals figure out how to bring order from the chaos, which they don’t seem to have the wherewithal to do.”
“Why do you think so, Khan?” she asked.
“Couple of reasons, High Admiral,” Khan answered, “but for one . . . Close in on the log base,” he told the briefer, “and then illuminate the known medical detachments.”
Turning to Wallenstein, Khan explained, “While the Balboans are not above playing fast and loose with the laws of war even as they understand them, they take a fairly enlightened view of protecting at least their own wounded. Thus, they’ve marked all the field hospitals and aid stations they’ve set up clearly, over the trees, in such a way that the skimmers can see them and even the Taurans could if they ever resume overflights.”
Wallenstein looked at the map again, which now showed so many red crosses for field medical facilities that . . . “What the fuck does it mean?”
“We haven’t a clue,” Khan admitted. “We’ve run triangulation of those with known Balboan organizational structure and none of it, none of it, makes the slightest sense. We’ve had our own medical people look at it to see if there’s any conceivable pattern of casualty treatment and evacuation that fits that mish mash. Nothing quite does. We even ran a copy past the Tauran Defense Agency’s C2 bureau. They’re as clueless as we are but suggest very strongly that the Balboans are clueless there too, and did just what I said, dump supplies anywhere.”
“Are there any indicators that they’re trying to reorder those containers into some more sensible configuration?” the high admiral asked.
“Some,” Khan said. “There are some standardized configurations showing up, here and there.”
“Of what?” Wallenstein asked.
“Not a clue, High Admiral. We get only a tiny thermal signature, and that for nor more than a few days before they get the containers insulated and buried. At least I think that’s what
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