"No, sir! They went into the mountains. There is no hope for them."

"And you saw no parachutes?"

"No, sir!"

"And no radio calls, no distress calls?"

"They had no time for that. One moment they were flying, and the next moment they fell from the sky. They died alone and lost. Perhaps they will never be found. Planes disappear in those mountains."

The colonel laughed, the sound electronic and strange. "We will find them. Or what remains of them. We will burn what is left and bury the ashes. Then they will truly be the lost, the disappeared."

Fuselage shuddering, an out-of-balance turbine disintegrating in a continuous screaming, shattering roar, the Lear lost altitude. Automatic alarms whined from the instrument panel. Davis struggled with the yoke in one hand while he threw switches in a desperate effort to somehow compensate and maintain control for a few more seconds. The sky disappeared, a rocky mountainside loomed ahead. Lyons turned in the copilot's seat to shout back to his partners, "Strap yourselves in! We're going down!"

"No shit!" Gadgets shouted back. "Glad you told me! Put out a Mayday! A Mayday!"

As Lyons fastened his own safety harness, the disintegrating turbine died. The drone of the other engine continued, but with the damaged engine shut down, the plane seemed suddenly quiet. Lyons heard wind rushing through the plane. He felt the descent slow.

"Where's the radio?"

Davis didn't answer, didn't take his eyes from the desert and mountains. The mountainside went horizontal as Davis managed to bank the jet through a slow left turn. He jerked an emergency lever and leaned against the windshield to look back. Lyons looked back and saw jet fuel stream from a wing, the fuel instantly becoming a mist, then vaporizing.

Flipping a switch, Davis jerked the microphone from the instrument panel and passed it to Lyons.

"Just say 'Mayday, one hundred miles east of Obregon.' Keep repeating until we hit."

The plane maintained a slow controlled descent parallel to the mountain. They flashed over a ridge-line and Lyons saw the mountain curving away into the distance. Ahead lay a wide, flat plateau covered with mesquite and yucca and dry brush.

But beyond the plateau a range of cliffs and steep mountainsides walled the horizon. The plane did not have the power to gain altitude. They had only a few more seconds of flight.

Lyons chanted into the microphone, "Mayday, one hundred miles east of Obregon. DEA plane going down one hundred miles east of Obregon. We were hit by rockets fired by the Mexican army. One hundred miles east of Obregon. Repeat, we were shot down by Mexican army. Repeat, Mexican army."

In a gorge below, centuries of flash floods raging down from the mountains had formed an alluvial fan of sand and tangled brush. Davis eased the yoke slightly to his left, aiming the nose of the jet for a flat expanse of sand. To the right, a gully cut straight down from the gorge to the desert floor.

"This is it!"

"DEA plane going down one hundred miles east of Obregon. Shot down by Mexican army using SAM-7 missiles. We're going down..."

Davis reversed the power of the remaining engine, jamming the throttle past maximum. The plane lurched and shuddered with the deceleration. The sand and mesquite of the alluvial flat became a blur.

Metal shrieked. Lyons saw mesquite branches flashing past the nose of the jet at a hundred miles an hour and then he pulled his legs up and shielded his head in his arms. The plane jumped and slammed over the flat for an eternity of noise and shocks.

Finally it ground to a halt. Silence.

"Move it!" Davis shouted. "Get everyone out. We've still got fuel in the tanks. Get out!"

Lyons saw swirling dust beyond the spider-webbed windshield. He took a deep calming breath and checked himself for injuries. No blood, no broken bones. His joints moved. He found hair and bits of bloody skin under his fingernails. His own.

Davis crowded past him. Lyons unbuckled his straps and followed the pilot into the passenger cabin. Davis leaned over Gadgets and helped him with his seat belt. The Able Team communications and high-tech specialist had blood on his face.

"I'm okay, I can do it. Why didn't you radio those army guys that we were good guys?"

"He did," Lyons told his partner. "They knew this was an American DEA plane. They were waiting with SAM-7s. It was an ambush."

"What a world. Where's my gear?"

"Don't worry about it!" Davis shoved him toward the door. "Get out of this plane before it burns."

"Don't panic!" Gadgets said, trying to calm the pilot. "You did great. You're an ace. We lived through it. Now get all the gear out."

Blancanales and Coral struggled with the door release. Blancanales jerked the handle around, then Coral kicked the door until it swung open. Dust swirled into the cabin. Coral stepped out.

"No hay fuego!" the Mexican called in to Blancanales. "Alli esta la gasolina pero no prende."

"Bring everything to me," Blancanales called out to his partners. He passed one of the shipping cases to Coral outside. "Pilot. You go out there. Help Miguel get the equipment away from the plane."

Working together, Able Team emptied the plane of their gear in less than a minute. Davis shouted from outside, "The wing's leaking fuel! Get out of there! You could burn any second!"

Gadgets, his face caked with blood and dust, slipped on his aviator-style sunglasses and stepped out into the desert brilliance. He snapped a salute to Davis.

"Be cool, Mr. Wizard's on the scene."

Blancanales, then Lyons followed their partner out. They ran with their cases through the tangles of mesquite and desert weeds. Stepping into the gully, they slid down the sand walls and assembled at the bottom.

"Shot down by the damn Mexican army!" Lyons cursed. The ex-cop turned to Miguel Coral. "Pardon me for what I said to you. I think I just got my first lesson in Mexican reality."

"Shades of gray," Blancanales told Lyons. Then he spoke with Coral in Spanish.

Gadgets joked with Davis. "See, man? In moments of crisis, you got to keep your cool. Did you see any smoke? Did you see any fire? Save your adrenaline for when things get serious."

"Serious? Those wings've got two-hundred-plus gallons of jet fuel in their tanks. One short, one spark and it could've been instant cremation."

"Pol, you got that map?" Lyons asked, cutting the argument. "Looks like it's time to hike."

"With all that crap?" Davis pointed to the shipping cases they sat on. "You won't get a mile. While you're dragging your precious luggage through the desert, those Mexicans will be looking for the plane. And all we've got to defend ourselves with is my .38."

Gadgets exchanged glances with his partners. Lyons gave a quick cynical laugh. Blancanales pulled the wadded navigation chart from his sports coat. As Coral and the ex-Green Beret searched for the correct sector of the chart, Blancanales suggested, "Give our pilot friend a demonstration."

"Observe, my friend, and you will learn the way of the Wizard."

Throwing open the lid of the trunk, Gadgets revealed several plastic boxes. He took out box after box, stacking them on the gravel of the dry stream-bed. A step away, Lyons emptied his trunk. Through the thin translucent plastic, the pilot saw tools and equipment in some boxes, cartridge magazines in another, clothing in one. Stenciled words identified the contents: Electronic, Survival, 5.56MM/9MM/EXP, Armr, Socks and Underwear, Money, Junk Food. The last box had a red cross and First Aid stenciled on the lid.

Gadgets pushed up the sleeves of his bloody sports coat and showed the pilot his empty hands. Then he reached to the bottom of the trunk. He pulled out an OD internal-frame backpack, complete with shoulder and hip straps, compression straps and Velcro seals. Gadgets zipped open the compartments. He pulled out green-and-black splotched camo fatigues. Then he slipped the plastic boxes inside the pack. Each plastic box fit perfectly.