There was waist-high grass on either side of the threshold. The area leading up to the threshold was paved with macadam for about a hundred yards. It would be easier, and faster, to run down the macadam and enter the grass where it ended. On the other hand, they would almost certainly be seen if they ran down the macadam.

They would probably be seen if they ran through the grass-they couldn't run bent over far enough to get beneath the top of the grass-but if they crawled through it so they would be concealed by the grass, crawling through it would crush the grass, leaving a visible path. Running through the grass, if they were lucky, would push the grass aside only momentarily and it would spring back in place, leaving little evidence that someone or something had passed through it.

"I think we better go through the grass," Castillo said. Colonel Torine nodded. Sergeant Sherman gave Castillo a thumbs-up.

"Fernando, turn it so the door is away from the tower," Castillo ordered. "As soon as you stop, we'll open the door and go. You'll have to come back here and close it."

"Now?" Fernando asked.

"Now, please."

"God be with all of you," Fernando announced as the Lear started to turn.

The grass was thicker than it looked and harder to push aside. The ground was very damp, not quite mud but slippery.

There was a handle on the bottom of Sergeant Sherman's hard-sided suitcase-Castillo idly wondered whether it had come that way or if the bottom handle was a Gray Fox modification-which permitted Sherman and Castillo to carry it between them.

But it was a heavy sonofabitch even without the weight of the two CAR-4 rifles and the bandolier of magazines Sherman had taken out of it and hung around Colonel Torine's shoulders.

The midday tropical heat did not help. Charley felt sweat break out before he was ten yards into the grass and he and Sherman were soon breathing very heavily. They had to stop four times and quickly swap sides as the strength of their hands on the handles gave out. The last time, when Charley scurried to get to the other side of the suitcase, his foot slipped, he fell flat onto his face through the grass onto the ground, where his knee encountered what was probably the only rock within five hundred yards.

Castillo was beginning to plan for what to do when, inevitably, the knee and/or his breath gave out and he would not be able to hold up his end of the suitcase anymore when the ground beneath his feet suddenly disappeared, he lost his footing, and started to slide downward.

There was about a fifty-foot difference between the ground-the original terrain-and the airport buildup. Castillo, Sherman and the hard-sided suitcase were about halfway down it before they could stop their slide. They had just done so, and exchanged glances, when Colonel Torine burst through the thick grass on his way down the steep incline. He was moving headfirst on his stomach, wildly flailing his arms in an attempt to stop himself.

Sherman started to giggle, and then both he and Castillo were laughing, although, as out of breath as they were, the laughing was quite painful.

Still smiling and chuckling, they pushed the hard-sided suitcase the rest of the way down the steep incline until they reached level ground.

"Fuck it, far enough," Castillo said, stopped pushing, rolled onto his back, and put his arm over his eyes against the bright sunlight.

A moment later, as he was still taking breaths in deep heaves, he felt a nudge against his side. From under his arm, without moving, he saw an old, battered military-looking boot.

Oh, shit! If Torine or Sherman wanted my attention, they wouldn't nudge me with a boot. They aren't even wearing boots.

He took his arm off his eyes.

There was a man standing over him, his face covered with green, brown, and black grease stripes.

"I understand that old Air Force fart wheezing like a rode-hard racehorse," Lieutenant General Bruce J. McNab said, "but you and Sherman? By God, what are people going to think?"

Castillo didn't reply. He forced himself into a sitting position. His arm was nudged, and, when he looked, McNab was holding out a plastic quart bottle of 7UP to him.

Castillo took it wordlessly, opened it, and drank from it.

"For your general information, the Air Force survived his crash landing," McNab said. "His dignity, unfortunately, took a beating."

"How long have you been here?" Castillo asked, finally getting his breath.

"Long enough, were I a wagering man, to lay heavy odds the 727 is here. I got a guy out there now taking a real close look."

"I'm pretty sure it's the one we're looking for," Charley said. "We taxied past it. It's got freshly painted registration numbers, and the red, white, and blue stripes on the vertical stabilizer Pevsner's guy saw on it in Venezuela."

Colonel Torine and Sergeant Sherman walked up.

"You all right, Jake? Nothing broken?"

"I'm fine."

"You okay, Charley?" Torine asked.

Castillo nodded.

"How is it that you're here, sir?" Torine asked McNab.

"McFadden and Naylor got me on the radio and said they'd found a sandy beach not far from here. Some CIA guy had done compression tests and, theoretically, it would take a C-17. With the fingers of both hands crossed, I decided to give it a shot."

"Obviously, it took the 17."

"More or less. We got down all right. But stopped for more than a couple of minutes, the Globemaster starts to sink in the sand. It was a hell of a job getting the Little Birds off; we had to keep the airplane moving all the time we were unloading. It looked like a Chinese fire drill."

"But you're unloaded."

"There's two gunships and four troop carriers about five miles away. Did I mention that the C-17 is taxiing up and down the beach, back and forth, back and forth? I don't know how long that's going to work. Nor do I know whether or not we can get it back in the air."

"Empty, you probably can," Torine said. "There's an awesome amount of thrust on a 17."

"Empty? What am I supposed to do with the Little Birds? Torch them?"

A tall, blond sergeant first class, dressed as was General McNab in a jungle camouflage uniform, came up. He had a CAR-4 hanging from his shoulder and was carrying what looked like a laptop computer in his hands like a tray. It was open.

"Stedder's in place, General," he said and started to hand the laptop to McNab.

"Will you hold it, please, Sergeant Orson?" McNab said.

Castillo got quickly up.

"Careful with that 7UP, Charley," McNab said. "This is the only one of these we have."

"Stedder reports the Lear has taken off, sir," Sergeant Orson said.

"Where's he going, Charley?" McNab asked.

"Nicaragua, to report where we are and that we think we've found the 727."

McNab grunted and looked at the laptop computer. It displayed an image of the 727 from the side.

Whoever's taking these must be on the roof of that building, CENTRAL AMERICAN FREIGHT FORWARDING, whatever.

The image also showed some movement. There were a half-dozen security guards in military-looking uniforms on the tarmac. When they moved, it was as if they did so in slow motion.

"Can he give us a close-up of the front door?" Castillo asked.

McNab typed rapidly on the laptop's keyboard.

The screen went dark, then lit up with an out-of-focus view of the forward part of the aircraft, which then came into focus.

All that could be seen was the top of the movable stairway. The open door was clearly visible but nothing was visible inside the aircraft.

"I don't suppose we'd see a hell of a lot more up the rear stairway," Castillo said.