A cool, early morning breeze gently caressed the earthen 
surface of a rather remote Coloradan airstrip.  Below the 
horizon, the sun lingered as if trying to decide whether showing 
its face this morning would be at all prudent, casting a faint 
but pleasant halo around the mountains in the distance.
   
   William Keith watched the growing dawn as the decrepid-looking 
cargo plane behind him roared to life, its engines coughing black 
plumes like an emphysemic smoker.  His orders were vague at best; 
most orders are when one is rousted from bed at 4 AM, but these 
consisted only of "be geared up and be at the airstrip by 0530." 
What came after apparently wasn't information that he was privy 
to - a fairly rare occurrence these days.  He mused briefly that 
it would have been distinctly helpful to know what to gear up 
*for*...
   
   His attention was drawn by the barely audible sound of 
vehicles making their way to the gate across the airstrip, where 
a number of TRES-marked Hummers appeared and made a rather hasty 
beeline for the aircraft.  Skidding to a halt, the vehicles 
unloaded a number of soldiers, dressed in full combat gear and 
armed with X-Rifles; a pair of them ascended the rear ramp of the 
plane, and reappeared a moment later after securing the bay to 
give the apparent squad leader a nod of approval.  The leader 
lifted a radio to his mouth, muttering something inaudible over 
the din of the plane's engines as they finally choked up to 
speed.  All attention turned to the gate, and Will looked on with 
anticipation.
   
   It was a U-Haul.
   
   The dulled orange and white truck slowly crept up the ramp of 
the aircraft, disappearing into the belly where the TRES troops 
secured it into position.  Admiral Felton slid from the passenger 
seat of the truck and descended the cargo plane's gantry, clad in 
his civilian garb, though the single-diamond pip of his office on 
the lapel of his coat glinted dully in the scarce light.  "Mister 
Keith," he said, striding over to Chi Squad's CO.  "We're on a 
tight timetable.  Get yer gear stowed aboard an' buckle in.  
Th'ride in this old crate is gonna be anythin' but smooth."