One huge landing ship was nosed right up to the shore, and from it rolled tons of heavy equipment. From an attack transport, the equipment's operators, a U. S. Naval Construction Battalion—Seabees—were disembarking by the hundreds.
Scotty asked, "How many different kinds of flags can you see? I've counted six so far. U. S., British, Dutch, Venezuelan, Colombian, and Panamanian."
"It's an international job, all right," Rick agreed. "And when the UN observers arrive tonight you can run up a few more flags, too."
"Reminds me of the amphibious exercises we used to have in the Marines," Scotty commented to Rick.
Nearby, Hartson Brant and the other scientists were deep in conversation with a group of civilians and Navy officers. The officers were the engineers, from the Naval Construction Battalion. Last night had been spent in working with them on the details of the problem. It would be their job to drive the big hole down into the earth below El Viejo, working against time to intercept the rising magma.
Scientists had arrived, too, and they were taking over much of the detail of keeping track of the magma. Each scientist had his own special field of interest, but all were anxious to have the data from tracings. There were geophysicists, including volcanologists and seismologists; mineralogists and more geologists.
"Nothing much left for us to do," Rick said, a little sadly.
"Except watch," Scotty corrected. "That's enough! Great crumbling craters, what do you want? A mystery every day?"
Rick had to grin. "I guess this is enough. But one thing I want to do is go over to the volcanic pipe and see how Guevara and Connel are making out."
"You will have an escort," a voice said from behind them. They turned to greet Ricardo Montoya. "Now that we can turn our attention to that pair, I think we should have a talk with them. To make the talk easier, we will put bars between us."