Becka Trinity squinted at the engine as the flatbed truck pulled clear of the unloading site and disappeared around a cluster of prefab buildings. They'd have been dull and gray and identical in their monotony had it not been for the desert and scrub camouflage netting that covered most of them. To Chase, Becka seemed pretty much the same as the buildings. Superficially, there was little to distinguish her from dozens, no hundreds, of other Amerindian women he'd seen. The same long jet-black hair, the same round face and small eyes that threatened to be swallowed completely in the folds of her weathered skin when she smiled. She'd have looked the same, except that he knew her. She dressed and talked like a veteran of one of the corporate or national Desert Wars teams, and she loved the overpowering roar of a jet engine at full thrust.