"Oh, yeah. That's the easy part."

"What do you mean?"

"Maybe she won't be able to find the truck. Maybe she..."

"Maybe anything. We'll see what happens."

The truck bumped to a stop. Jumping down to the sand, Lyons saw that they had come to a small waterfall. He heard the stream trickling down the face of the head-high wall of rock.

Gadgets took a case of electronic gear — the mini-mike receiver, an autoreverse cassette tape recorder — into the brush. There, the hidden receiver would monitor and record Desmarais and Illovich until they walked out of range.

The others assembled for the cross-country march to the airstrip. Soldiers applied face blacking and adjusted their web gear. No one smoked. No one talked. Then the voice of Desmarais broke the quiet.

"You stole it, American! I looked everywhere and I cannot find the notebook — and the photos. I know. Do not lie. I would not tell you so you stole what you wanted."

"Me? Maybe you lost your notebook."

Lyons rushed to them and hissed, "Shut up!"

"He stole my photos. I would not..."

The slap sounded like a shot. Desmarais fell into the sand. Lyons crouched over her and muttered, "You keep your mouth shut. You're only here because of him, you understand? He says the word, and you stay here with Illovich."

"The Russian is here?" Now she whispered. "Why is he here?"

Lyons laughed quietly. "We've got plans for him."

"What are you talking about?"

"Hey, reporter. You're here with him..." Lyons pointed to Powell. "I don't tell you anything. Now shut up and hike. Keep up this shit and we'll work you into the plans."

As Lyons left Desmarais, Blancanales approached Lyons. He asked in a deliberately loud voice, "What about sentries?"

"Forget it. We need every man when we hit the Iranians."

"No sentries?" Blancanales repeated for the Canadian to hear. "No one to watch the truck?"

"You worried about a coyote eating Illovich? Who cares?"

The driver of the truck would be their guide to the airstrip. Born in the area, he had worked on the ranchosas a cowboy until enlisting in the army. He spoke no English. With a penlight, he indicated their route into the foothills on a map.

The streambed continued several kilometers through the hills to the ranch taken over by the Iranians. The ex-cowboy pointed to a road that ran north of the ranch. The army waited there. Able Team and the group of soldiers would infiltrate from the south. Any Iranians who escaped their attack would be captured by the army.

Lyons noted a bend in the stream. The topographical whorls indicated a low hill paralleling the airstrip. His finger traced the ridgeline for his partners. "That is a great position for the M-60. Could sweep the strip, the buildings, anything that moved."

Blancanales nodded. He pointed to where the streambed met the ranch. "But we'll need a blocking force here. That will drive them into the army. Does that make sense to you, Captain? Fire from the ridge, then a blocking force?"

"We'll panic them," Lyons added. "Kill all we can, then maybe they'll break and run into your soldiers."

"My commander told me," Soto emphasized, "that the terrorists are prepared to go north. Their trucks are ready. He told me not to expect a fighting force, but instead for you North Americans to take the prisoners you want, the leaders, then to drive all the other terrorists into his line. That will satisfy both our governments."

Lyons laughed softly. "He doesn't think there'll be a fight? I am not making that assumption."

The line of soldiers moved into the moonlit darkness. Led by the ex-cowboy, they zigzagged up the stone face to the next level. The streambed stretched before them, as wide as a street. Desmarais stumbled every few steps. But the others walked quietly, the only sound the squeaking of their boots in the sand.

After a half hour of fast walking, they came to the intersecting ridge. Captain Soto signaled for a rest. Lyons took the captain aside. "Here's where we split. Your man with the M-60 comes with us. I'll carry his ammo. Give him a walkie-talkie. And the woman..." Lyons glanced around. Desmarais sat at the other end of the line. "Don't watch her."

"I know."

"See you later."

Lyons walked back to Powell and Akbar, who were both checking their FN FAL rifles. Lyons motioned them forward. Blancanales led the group up the hill. Following the Mexican soldier who carried the M-60 machine gun, Lyons went last. He carried five hundred rounds of 7.62 NATO.

In the moonlight, Blancanales found a cattle path and followed it, moving quickly uphill. One hundred meters short of the crest, he cut parallel, staying below the ridgeline. At the end of the line, Lyons sweated to maintain the pace.

At a fold in the hillside, Blancanales stopped. He waited for the others to close up the line, then motioned for them to wait. He went alone to the ridgeline.

Lyons found a space between two bushes and squatted, concealed in shadows. He scanned the moonlit hillsides for movement, but saw nothing. The curve of the hillsides blocked his view of the streambed.

His hand radio clicked. Blancanales reported to his partners, "No one up here."

"What do you see down there?" Lyons asked.

"An airstrip. Looks like a cargo plane. And trucks."

"Be there quick," Gadgets told him.

The line moved uphill. Sand and loose stone slowed the machine gunner and Lyons, and they reached the top minutes after the others.

"Hey, Ironman," Gadgets taunted. "Getting old? I know you're getting slow."

Ignoring his partner, Lyons studied the ranch and airstrip below the hill. He heard the continuous popping of a generator motor providing power to the electric lights illuminating areas around several old buildings. The buildings had been the house and barn and equipment sheds of a ranch. Plastic tarps replaced the collapsed roofs.

A recently improved road led to the ranch. Two hundred meters below Lyons, a long stretch of flat-land had been scraped bare of brush and rocks. A four-engine prop plane — painted black, devoid of markings — sat on the airstrip. Men moved between the cargo plane and three tractor-trailer trucks. Other men ran hoses from a gasoline truck to the wing tanks of the plane. Off to one side stood a Soviet-made multiple rocket launcher. Lyons could see the dark outline of the steel rack that housed the rockets mounted on the flatbed of the truck. The rack was angled at forty-five degrees, ready for firing. The Ironman shrugged. Maybe the rig was for defence, or perhaps the enemy was planning a few test firings; either way, the launcher had to go.

Lyons hissed to the Mexican machine gunner and pointed at the gas truck. In the moonlight, the young man's smile glowed as he extended the bipod legs of the M-60. Lyons moved over and positioned himself to feed belts of ammunition to the weapon.

Distant autofire came in a long tearing blast, and Lyons looked toward the streambed. He saw nothing. Scrambling along the ridge, he heard Blancanales calling the Mexicans.

"Captain Soto! Captain!" Blancanales whispered urgently into the Mexican army walkie-talkie.

An answer came. Autofire continued, the hammering almost overwhelming Soto's desperate voice.

"Ambush!"