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Grinder waved a hand to get his attention. Kell moved over to him, still unsteady from sleepiness, and drank more of the poisonous caf.

“I have something for you,” Grinder said. He was staring intently at the oversized screen on his datapad.

Kell moved to loom over him. “Show me.”

On the screen was a panoramic camera view of the front of the bunker. Kell knew it had been taken through the fisheye camera rig in Face’s hat. With the touch of a button, Grinder set the view into motion; the heavily armored door into the bunker slid open, the planet’s governor and some of his cronies moved ahead of the camera view into the small vehicle hangar beyond, and Face’s point-of-view followed.

One of the governor’s men pointed, drawing Face’s attention toward a long, open vehicle, which Kell recognized as an Ubrikkian cargo skiff. This one was different from the standard model; at the rear was a small passenger bay enclosed in a globular transparisteel canopy. Inside was a reclining couch large enough for two. The governor’s man wore an expression Kell interpreted as amused, and the camera vibrated a little, possibly from Face laughing.

“Here,” Grinder said, and paused the image. He tapped the lower-left corner of the display. It showed a man holding a comlink, but not orienting it toward his mouth. Grinder started the image in motion again. The man pressed a button on the comlink. Behind him, in the corner of the display, the bunker door began to close. “What does that suggest to you?”

“The door closed on a signal instead of a wall switch or a timer,” Kell said. “And possibly the governor’s man drew Face’s attention away to keep him from seeing it; that whole scene in the corner would have been behind him as he looked at the skiff. That suggests a security measure. Maybe an alarm on timer; if they don’t switch it off with the comlink within the appointed time, the alarm goes off.”

“That’s my guess, Demolition Boy.”

“I’m leader here; call me Demolition Boy Sir. Uh, roll that sequence back to the point at which he hit the button on the comlink.”

Grinder did.

Kell consulted the numbers on the text screen of the datapad. “Jesmin, how long have you been recording?”

The Mon Calamari stood at attention. “Since we came on station, Demolition Boy Sir.”

Kell gave her a look suggesting she had just betrayed him to the Imperials. “That’s an awful lot of time to record, isn’t it?”

“Not really. My gear records everything off the airwaves, but analyzes it as it goes, and only commits discrete strong signals or repeating patterns to its memory. So after hours of recording I have perhaps an hour recorded.”

“Did you record a transmission at two hundred oh eight oh three?”

She picked up her heavy communications gear pack and opened the flap giving her access to the main control screen. After a few moments, she said, “Something within eight seconds of that time, sir. Acceptable within normal variations on individual chronos. The transmission was fairly complex but lasted less than half a second.”

“Make sure that eight seconds is the interval between your gear and Grinder’s datapad.” Kell frowned at the Bothan. “Didn’t I tell you to synchronize the chronos between everyone’s datapads?”

Grinder looked abashed. “I have no excuse, sir.”

“Oh, so when you’re in trouble, I stop being Demolition Boy?”

Grinder grinned.

“That’s the interval,” Jesmin said.

“All right. Note that transmission and be prepared to broadcast it, in the frequency it came in on, at my command.”

There was a faint rustle in the trees between them and the landing pad. Wedge, Kell, and Tyria had blasters in their hands within a split second and had them trained on the intruder before he, Donos, emerged from the trees.

Donos blinked at them. “The suns are down and the last of the worker transports is gone.”

“Good,” Kell said. “People, remember: Once we reach the bunker, always use your numbers. Never your names.

“Here are the final orders … until circumstances and screwups dictate that we alter them. Ten, break trail, with One as your backup.