As a member of Able Team he had demonstrated on occasion a volcanic nature that made his two colleagues shake their heads. Now he struggled to relax and empty his mind in a land far from home where once again he had acted like a raging storm.

One battle was over. But the battle within him would never be done.

The military jet warmed up outside the hangar as the Americans shook hands with a small group of people.

Leo Turrin, his head wrapped in bandages again to conceal his identity during the drive from London, looked forward to the bandages' removal on the plane, though they would have to go back on before he disembarked.

"Right to the last you fed lies to Shillelagh, Mr. Sticker!" Lieutenant Colonel Carlton shouted above the whine of the aircraft's turbines. "You held out. You're a tough bugger! I have a souvenir for you, my friend."

Leo accepted the odd device from the colonel. It looked like one-half of a telephone receiver. "What the hell is this?"

"Turn on the switch, hold the large part to your throat, and whisper."

"Like this? Oh, shit!" he exclaimed, in the distorted electronic voice that had tormented him in that room.

"It's used by people who have lost the use of their own voice," the colonel said. "That's how she managed to protect her identity for so long — she dealt with most of her contacts over the telephone."

Minutes later, the Americans gave a final wave to their British colleagues and boarded the waiting aircraft.

The Air Force jet hammered through clouds. The green checkerboard grid of the British countryside had ended abruptly as a meandering white ribbon of foam marked the start of the English Channel.

The plane streaked on a course due southeast.

Only two men on the aircraft knew their destination: the pilot and Leo Turrin.

Turrin had just finished his report on the Windsor Castle hit to Stony Man Farm. Now he pondered the information given in exchange.

The destination data he had passed on to the pilot. Behind him he heard the lighthearted banter of the men of Able Team.

He understood the relief the warriors felt at wrapping up this foreign mission successfully. He wondered if the men could stand the strain of their next ordeal. Turrin did not envy the trio as he thought of the hostile terrain of the Hindu Kush.

Who in hell was The Dragon?

White House liaison Hal Brognola, usually an eloquent man, had begun hedging and stuttering as he gave Turrin the mission data from the Farm. He had sounded preoccupied. Turrin was especially puzzled when the head Fed said Stony Man was having a bit of trouble.

Leo was certain it was nothing that the gang at Stony Man Farm could not handle.

At their first refueling stop in Rome, Turrin would inform the men of Hal's phone call. Then he'd switch to a commercial jet for Washington.

The three Stony specialists would continue to New Delhi. There they'd meet with the contact man for a briefing on this next hit. Brognola's words rang in Turrin's ears: "Leo, I'm sorry to put Able Team on the spot, but we're after a man called The Dragon who runs a show from a fortress in the Hindu Kush. If Carl and the guys can stop him, then we'll cut off the arms supply to nearly every terrorist group there is. That's all I can say for now, except that I trust your discretion about when you choose to tell them."

"Hey, Leo, get your head out of the clouds and c'mon over here!" Turrin twisted in his seat to see Gadgets Schwarz waving him over.

The men were crowded around a tired Carl Lyons. The tall blond man, fatigue showing on his face, held a rectangular box.

"Okay, let's see what she gave us," Schwarz said.

"She? Who?" asked Leo.

"She sent us this," Lyons said, lifting the box.

"For cryin' out loud, Carl, who?" grated Leo. "What's in it? Open it up."

Lyons spoke as he removed the box top and revealed tissue paper within. "The queen got them from the estate of the old Earl of Kintail — you remember that kid? Well, his father was a pilot during the Battle of Britain. It was a custom. The aces collected these from their dead comrades and treasured them. A way of honoring their courage, I guess."

"So what's in the damn box?" Leo seethed.

Lyons opened the tissue paper. He held up four silk scarves.

"For a queen," Lyons said, looking around at his friends, "that woman is a real prince."

Mack Bolan was tired.

It had been one hell of a night.

He and Sniper Team Able had penetrated deep into Vietcong-held territory. The mission had been a success. Two VC chieftains and two string pullers from up north had gone down. The kills had been quick, four head shots as the targets stood around a fire. Then Bolan and the team had begun their withdrawal.

There was a skirmish with another band of VC coming in from patrol. But Sniper Team Able came through all right.

Long months in Vietnam had honed their survival instincts. They had even begun to think like the Vietcong.

Now five men trudged wearily into the Special Forces base camp at Cam Lo.

Zitka and Bloodbrother, the scouts; Gadgets Schwarz and Rosario Blancanales, the flank men, and Bolan.

Sergeant Mack Bolan.

The leader of Sniper Team Able.

Zitka and Bloodbrother gave Bolan the thumbs-up sign and joined Gadgets and Pol on their way to some much-needed sack time.

Bolan was covered in sweat even though it was a relatively clear, cool night. This was rice country and the paddies were almost dry. They were like mud flats. The combination of the boot-sucking terrain and the dikes sapped their strength, making each forward movement laborious. All this, compounded by the tension inherent in a mission behind enemy lines, had made for an exhausting trek.

The CO's orderly spotted Bolan from across the compound and hurried over, his face anxious.

"Sarge, Lieutenant Colonel Crawford wants to see you. Right away."

Bolan nodded. "I was headed that way, Corporal."

So the old man was waiting for him. That was no surprise. The colonel always waited up, like a father worried about a son who stayed out late.

The young "penetration specialist" smiled at the thought. The colonel could never take the place of Sam Bolan, back in the States. But Crawford had been observing Bolan's progress and had taken Bolan as a green recruit and taught him what he needed to know to survive in this damn war. Not only to survive, but to give his best.

Bolan walked by a private with an M-16 pulling guard duty at the door of the HQ Quonset, and went inside.

A thin-faced E-3 sat at a desk in the outer office pushing papers.

Bolan nodded to him and raised an eyebrow, jerking a thumb at the closed door of the colonel's office.

The sergeant shook his head and started to say something.

Before he could get a word out, the door burst open.

The prettiest whirlwind Bolan had ever seen exploded out of the colonel's office and ran smack into him.

The woman looked about twenty-three with a shock of chestnut hair and a face that was startlingly attractive. She wore fatigues and from her shoulder hung a camera and a compact tape recorder. Piercingly blue eyes stared in anger at Bolan, then dropped to the black lettering on an O.D. green name tag on his tiger-striped camou fatigues.

"Sergeant Mack Bolan?"

"That's right."

"The one they've started to call the Executioner?"

Scorn dripped from her words.

Bolan shrugged, suddenly wary.

"I've been called that."

Colonel Crawford appeared in the doorway of his office at that moment. He ignored the woman and returned Bolan's salute.