CHRISTINE VALE FELT a cold shiver travel down her spine as Riker began the tactical briefing. It wasn’t that his presentation was so inspiring; it was that the Tezwans’ sneak attack had damaged the Enterprise’s environmental systems, and in order to maintain full support in critical areas, compartments such as shuttle hangars and cargo bays had to make do with reduced ventilation and minimal thermal support.

She and most of the other strike-team personnel huddled together or wrapped their arms around themselves for warmth. An exception was Data, who, as usual, was unfazed by a situation that everyone around him found wholly irritating.

Riker stood in front of the group and pointed out their objectives on a large, slowly turning globe of Tezwa generated by a portable holographic emitter. “We’re going to separate into six teams,” he said. “Each team will consist of a leader, two engineers with demolition kits, and one security officer.” He paced back and forth once as he continued. “The mission profile is just as hard as it sounds: Free-fall insertion; jam the bases’ external communications; enter the bases; take control of their operations centers; isolate their personnel; disable the Tezwan fleet on Captain Picard’s command; sabotage the reactors, on five-minute delays; exit the bases; and leave the Tezwan troops a three-minute escape window.”

He tapped a key on his padd, and six red points of light appeared on the holographic sphere. “These are the six firebases we have to destroy,” he continued. “The first is near the planet’s arctic circle, on the Solasook Peninsula. Data, that one’s yours. You’ll be taking Obrecht, Heaton, and Parminder.”

Data nodded his acknowledgment to Riker. The two engineers, Obrecht and Heaton, gestured politely to Data, ostensibly to identify themselves. They must be new, Vale realized. They don’t know that Data memorizes every crew member’s name and face the day they come aboard. She was pleased to note that Security Officer Parminder, a petite and strikingly attractive woman with raven black hair, a medium-brown complexion, and a gentle London accent, did not see any need to remind Data of her identity.

The holographic globe rotated slightly, then paused.

“The second firebase,” Riker said, “is in the southern hemisphere, beneath the Kolidos Desert. Peart, you’ll take Scholz, Morello, and T’Sona.”

“Aye, sir,” Peart said.

Vale clenched her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering. She felt her skin turning to gooseflesh, starting with her legs and spreading upward. She noticed that, like Data, the first officer didn’t seem to mind the cold. Probably his Alaska upbringing, she decided.

“Vale, this one’s yours,” Riker said as he advanced the globe another one-sixth turn. “Firebase three straddles the equator. The catch is that it’s also nine-point-six kilometers underwater.” He gestured to four pressure suits that were set apart from the rest of the equipment. “We’ve modified your team’s gear for underwater operations. Just to confirm: Sakrysta, Spitale, Fillion—you’ve all passed deep-dive training, right?” The three officers all murmured their assent. “Okay, good,” Riker said. “Let’s move on.”

Underwater, Vale groused to herself. Great, just great.

“Target four is in the northern hemisphere, inside Mount Ranakar,” Riker continued. “The only vulnerable point is the entrance at the summit, but there’s no safe landing zone up there. Geordi, you and your team will have to land on the plateau just beneath the summit, scale the western face, and take the base in less than two hours.” Riker pointed at three personnel in succession. “T’Eama, Wathiongo, Braddock—you’ll be pulling Mr. La Forge up the mountain by his bootstraps,” he said, flashing a broad grin.

“That’s a long climb, Commander,” Braddock said. “Can’t we just use gravity boots?”

“No,” La Forge said, jumping in. “The tachyon spill from that base would make them inoperative.”

Braddock seemed to deflate. “Oh,” he said. “Right. Sorry.”

T’Eama raised her hand politely. “How far will we have to climb to reach the summit?”

“Roughly two hundred meters,” Riker said.

“Only two hundred meters?” La Forge joked. “Want us to build you anything while we’re there?”

Riker played along, apparently aware that he was asking everyone to accomplish absurdly difficult objectives with little planning, few resources, and no margin for error. “No,” he said. “Just scale a mountain, overpower a garrison ten times your size, and blow up the firebase.”

“Right,” La Forge said. “Got it.”

Wathiongo and Braddock chuckled nervously. Their Vulcan teammate T’Eama cast a disdainful look at the two human men, then returned her attention to Riker’s briefing.

The first officer turned to Lieutenant Taurik, the assistant chief engineer. Taurik was slender and sometimes projected a bookish persona, but Vale knew better than to underestimate the man. He had proved himself to be cool and competent under fire, and his ingenuity and courage had helped save La Forge’s life a few months ago, during a violent brush with a team of Satarran covert operatives.

“Firebase five is in the Linoka Forest, which covers more than half a continent in the southern hemisphere. You’ll be taking Rao, Mobe, and McEwan.” Taurik responded with a curt nod, and Riker moved on. “The last firebase is in the Mokana Basin, about a hundred kilometers south of the equator. Tierney, Barnes, Razka—you’re with me on this one.”

Vale envied Riker’s choice of security officer. Razka was one of the most experienced personnel in her department. Reviewing his records after his transfer to the Enterprise last month, Vale had been surprised to learn the Saurian was 148 years old. The reptilian male had spent nearly his entire life as a Starfleet noncommissioned officer; he’d fought the Klingons in the twenty-third century, battled the Tzenkethi and the Cardassians in the middle decades of the twenty-fourth century, and over the past decade had faced both the Borg and the Jem’Hadar in combat. In addition, he was likely to feel very much at home in the sultry jungle environment on Tezwa.

“Timing will be critical on this mission,” Riker said. “From initial insertion, to coordinating our attacks, to destroying the firebases, we have two hours and fifteen minutes, and we have to stay in synch. If we fail to capture all the bases, the free ones can take over control of the others’ guns.” He looked at Vale. “Lieutenant, do you have anything to add?”

Vale stepped forward, then turned to face the group. “One thing working to our advantage is Tezwa’s lighter gravity,” she said. “It’s about eighty percent of what we’re used to on most Federation starships. Geordi, that should help your team when you’re climbing that cliff face. For the rest of you, if you get into a hand-to-hand combat situation, remember that even though the Tezwans are tall, they’ll probably weigh a lot less than you do.”

Security Officer Braddock raised his hand. Vale pointed to him. “Lieutenant,” the young man said, “is it safe to assume the Tezwans will be shooting to kill?”

“Yes,” Vale said. “But standard rules of engagement still apply. Our weapons stay on heavy stun.”

“But sir, they outnumber us ten to one, or more,” Braddock said. “If they’re using lethal force—”

“Brute force won’t get this job done,” Vale said. “We need to rely on stealth, diversions, and traps. And remember, we’re looking to destroy equipment and facilities—not people. Keep casualties to a minimum. That’s an order.”

“Yes, sir,” Braddock said, clearly disgruntled about going into action with most of his options unavailable.

Spitale was the next to lift her hand. “Lieutenant, if we’re using subspace signal jammers, how will we get our orders from Captain Picard? Or stay in contact with each other?”

Taurik piped up with the answer. “We encoded a harmonic subcarrier into the jamming pulse that will let us communicate with one another and the Enterprise on a special frequency. It will also protect our tricorders.”

Spitale nodded at the Vulcan engineer. “Okay,” she said, and let the matter drop.

Picard’s voice echoed from the com speakers high above on the hangar ceiling. “Bridge to Commander Riker. We’re ready to proceed.”

“Acknowledged,” Riker said. “We’ll let you know as soon as we’re ready to deploy. Riker out.” The first officer regarded the strike teams with a resolute expression. “Any more questions before we board the Taj?”

For the sake of morale, Vale decided not to ask him if it was too late to request a transfer.

A few seconds later, no further questions having been raised, Riker ended the briefing. “Suit up. Team leaders, check your team’s suits. Security personnel, check your team leaders’ suits. Make sure the implanted transponders are working. They’ll help you find each other if you get separated and keep you from hitting each other with friendly fire.”

The group moved in an orderly fashion to don their gear and begin the premission check of their weapons and equipment. Vale led her trio of specialists to their pressure suits, which had been modified with extra air supplies. In addition, grafted onto the matte black outer skins of the suits were webs of jury-rigged coils that she recognized from the Starfleet Survival Guide as an improvised structural-integrity field system.

Spitale held her suit at arm’s length and eyed it suspiciously. “Will these work at ten kilometers?”

Lieutenant Fillion looked at the athletic young blonde and shrugged. “You’re the engineer,” he said. “You tell me.”

“Relax,” Vale said, pulling off her uniform jacket. “It’ll work. It’s a marvel of modern engineering.”

“Wow, a marvel,” Fillion said, sounding unconvinced. “Imagine what we could do with two hours’ notice.”

Vale had to give the man credit: He’d developed a healthy cynicism for the logistical prowess of Starfleet. “Just suit up,” she said, shimmying out of her trousers and grabbing her pressure suit. “If you don’t like it, you can exchange it.”

“For what?” he said.

“A court-martial,” Vale said.

As Fillion scrambled out of his uniform and into his pressure suit, Vale concealed her amusement: Never in a million years would she have thought she would need to resort to the threat of a court-martial to get a man out of his clothes.