Blancanales slipped out his Beretta. As he clicked off the safety to give the prisoners the mercy of a quick death…

Nate looped the rope over a jutting rock and kicked the Nazis off the ledge. In the unnatural quiet of the volcanic chambers, they heard the Nazis' arms pop backward out of their shoulder sockets when the rope snapped taut.

They heard the guttural choking and thrashing of the gagged Nazis. Nate shouted down to them.

"It will take a week for you to die. When your arms rot off, you fall."

"Oh, wow," Gadgets sighed. "That one's straight out of a nightmare. Think they'll live a week?"

Lyons and Blancanales said nothing as Nate assembled his equipment. Below, the choking and thrashing continued. Finally, Lyons went to Nate.

He spoke softly as he slipped out a knife. "We're not like them. No matter what they do, we're not them."

"That is how they killed Xagil's father. The husband of my wife's sister. For them to suffer is justice."

"No, it's only revenge. And if we stop to avenge every murder, every atrocity, they will take the world. It is not victory to torture the torturers."

Lyons cut the rope. A moment later, the Nazis smashed on the rocks.

None of them spoke. Nate turned away. Able Team followed him through the maze of the mountain's interior.

Two hours later, they returned to the sanctuary of the cave overlooking the valley. Nate dispatched Xagil to gather the men from hidden farms scattered throughout the mountains.

"I told him to run," Nate reported to Able Team, "but it will be hours before they all come. Now we plan the attack."

Drawing with charcoal on the wood of his handmade table, the expatriate Nam vet sketched the complex of barracks and equipment yards. A tiny helicopter indicated the scale of the vast cavern of Unomundo.

"It faces east." Nate pointed to each position. "Here, they have three levels of pre-fab bunkhouses. Here and here, where the ceiling is high, they put down the helicopters."

Lyons interrupted. "And that's where Unomundo lands his helicopter?"

"Always."

"Does he have bodyguards?"

"Always. His soldiers. Traitors from the Guatemalan army."

"Does he have his own helicopter? Or just one of their gray Hueys?"

"It is blue and white. Like a company helicopter."

"We can't do anything unless we're sure he's in the cave," Lyons told his partners. "If we kill only his people, he can buy more. I'm asking about the bodyguards and helicopter because I want to hit him first. We've got to get him if..."

Blancanales stopped Lyons. "Let's get the details. Nate, please continue."

"They park heavy equipment and trucks on the north side. The passage to the cave where they store the munitions goes through the north side.

"In the west end of the cave, there is a mess hall and rec area. The propane is behind the mess hall. Once we get to the tank, no one will see us. No one can see it where it is. But there will be many guards. You know how a propane bomb works?"

"Oh, yeah," Gadgets told him. "In Nam, they'd use it to neutralize landing zones. Drop a fifty-gallon tank of it into the jungle, give the stuff time to spread out, then a time-delay fuse sets it off. Just like det-cord and napalm wrapped around a thousand trees going off all at once. Turned jungles into parking lots. Except if we had wind, that would..."

Nate nodded. "But there won't be wind tonight from midnight until dawn."

"Are you positive?" Lyons demanded.

"I live here. I know the weather. I have planned this for months. I am positive. What we must do is get in there quiet, close the main valve, wait, then hacksaw the line. After that we try to get out. We cannot shoot on the way out..."

"If we want to live through it," Gadgets concluded for him.

"Why close the valve first?" Lyons asked.

Gadgets filled in some technical details. "Like a pilot light on a kitchen stove. If the gas only goes a small distance before it catches, no blast. Just a fire. We want the gas everywhere in the cave before it goes. This man's given us a great way to fix those Nazis. Short of zipping a missile in there, this is it."

"What about cigarettes?" Blancanales asked. "Someone in the cave or bunkhouse is going to be smoking."

"A cigarette won't ignite propane," Gadgets continued. "Has to be a flame. Or C-4..."

Nate pointed to the sketch. "The bunkhouses are raised up from the rock. Three feet, some places six feet."

"Liquid petroleum gas isn't like natural gas." With enthusiasm, Gadgets took over Nate's plan. "Natural gas is lighter than air. Propane is heavier than air, and it'll be cold. It'll stay down for a few minutes, then start to dissipate. We'll put two doses of C-4 plastic on the tank, with radio-triggers. A main charge and a backup."

"My friends will be outside," Nate continued. "It would be a miracle if the blast killed every Nazi."

"Right," Lyons agreed. "We'll throw a circle of rifles around the loading area. Plus we've got that rifle with the Starlite scope..."

"My Heckler & Koch," Gadgets interrupted. "I've carried it long enough. Time to use it again."

"And the Walther?" Lyons meant the Walther .300 Magnum sniping rifle captured from the Nazi assassins.

"No," Blancanales shook his head. "If you're going into the cave, we'll be carrying your equipment. Your armor, bandoliers, grenades. Can't carry that weapon."

"But for any of them that get out of the cave…" Lyons suggested. "We'll need to knock them down with rifle fire."

"At that distance," Blancanales answered, "the M-16s will do it. That Walther, the range increments start at three hundred yards."

"Yeah, you're right."

Gadgets jived him. "Don't cry, Ironman. Take the space gun home as a souvenir."

Nate stopped their laughter. "Here is a problem. Other than us four, I have only two men who can hit a running target. All my friends are brave, and they have served in the Civil Guard, but they don't have enough training."

As the hours passed in discussion of small details and contingencies, the men from the village and farms joined them, arriving one and two at a time. Every man carried an M-16 and a machete. Like Nate, they carried their grenades and spare magazines in hand-knitted bags. Instead of captured fatigues, they wore traditional clothes: embroidered peasant pants, bright colored shirts, coats of black wool, all hand-woven and embroidered.

Lyons stopped the planning. "Nate, those men need uniforms."

"We know what to wear," Nate told him. "You think we should all wear Unomundo's uniforms? You want us to face our god wearing rags stolen from Nazi soldiers?"

"This isn't some kind of religious expedition," Lyons protested. "We're going into a night attack. And you, you're talking about going into the complex."

"Okay, I'll be wearing the gray uniform. But they wear what they want."

Nate's Mayan wife bathed his wound. After Blancanales applied a sterile dressing, Marylena bound the dressing with a length of hand-embroidered cloth. She helped him slip a gray shirt over the cloth.

"Dig it, Ironman," Gadgets commented. "The cloth is magic. Like genipap and jockstraps..."

Flipping open his wallet, Gadgets took out a dogeared snapshot taken in the Bolivian Amazon. He gave it to Nate.

"That's the Ironman wearing his magic."

Nate looked at the photo, then at the blond ex-cop across the table. The snapshot showed Lyons wearing only a loincloth, a pistol belt, and bandoliers. Sandals protected his feet. His hair had been cut into a bowl. Blacking covered his entire body except at the shoulders, where two patches of red paint added brilliant color.

Laughing, Nate passed the snapshot to his wife. She stared. She looked at Lyons. Her sister leaned over her shoulder. They both laughed. Xagil took the photo and laughed. He ran across the cave to the knot of Indian men. In seconds, everyone in the cave laughed.