The rain came hard on the third night.
Not enough to flood the trails, but enough to turn the dust to red clay, enough to ground Esteve's planes and silence the engines of the PAP recon bikes.
In the tented field HQ west of Lécera
Moreau stared at a messagee coming in.
"We intercepted four bursts," the officer said.
"French cadence. PAP encryption. Zone markings match our standard."
Renaud bent over the decoded lines.
"Three teams, all east of Zaragoza. Reporting Nationalist troop movements. Two requests for artillery support."
Moreau's eyes narrowed. "We don't have teams in any of those zones."
Everyone fell quiet.
Moreau picked up the receiver and spoke into it slowly.
"This is Commander Moreau. Identify your commanding officer. Authentication alpha-nine."
No answer.
Then a response calm, professional.
"Captain Laurent, PAP-Five. Sir, I've got targets marked on ridge forty-two. Please confirm drop vector...."
Moreau killed the signal.
