"We'll be jumping at the crack of dawn," Young began.

"Wouldn't it be safer if we hit them in the dark?" one of the men said.

"No," Young replied. "We'll be going down while it's still dark, but it'll be easier if we have just enough light to tell friend from enemy. Don't forget there's three of our men in that camp. We want to get them, and only them, out alive. We have to wait until the desert is as cool as it's going to get in order to pinpoint the hidden camp with the infrared scanner.

"Now, pay attention," Young continued. "We want a complete wipeout of the blacks and the Klansmen. But we've got to keep those dune buggies in shape because that's how we're getting out of there."

"I'd rather be using a good machine pistol or a sawed-off shotgun than these M-16s," another club member complained.

Young turned and looked straight into the eyes of the speaker, giving the man a gaze so cold it forced him to shiver.

"You'll use only the assigned arms. You'll be inspected before boarding the DC-3. No one carries a favorite weapon. You have the same weapons that are issued to the U.S. Marines. One of the armed forces is going to be blamed for this massacre. It's going to look as if the United States fumbled again in trying to free the hostages. They'll deny it, but who will believe them? No one. So, taking anything into the battle zone that isn't consistent with that story will get you killed — by me. Is that clear enough?"

All agreed. It was crystal clear.

Klaus Boering was within sight of Edwards Air Force Base. He constantly kept watch in his rear-view mirror, checking for possible tails.

Helen, a cynic and the only female athlete in the limousine, questioned the driver.

"Boering," she said, "what the hell's coming down? We're heading toward Death Valley. You're supposed to be taking us out of the country, not deeper into it."

"I'm taking you to a temporary camp until I can get a helicopter to pick you up later tonight," the mole answered.

"Terrific," Helen said, not sounding convinced.

Gadgets, Pol, Babette and two bodyguards sat in the trailer/office listening to Lyons squawk at them through the small radio speaker.

"How do we get to where the action is?" Pol asked Lyons.

"I'll have the base send another chopper. You may as well stand by until we see where our bird's going to nest. By the way, Gadgets, he must have done a second scan for bugs. All transmission stopped for twelve minutes."

Gadgets laughed. "I told you, nothing's more reliable than a simple on/off switch. We'll watch for the chopper and one of us will stand by the radio. How's your fuel?"

"This is a long-distance mother. Pilot tells me we have four hours left. We're less than half an hour from bases we can use."

"Okay. If the car doesn't stop in two hours, I'll take out the chopper you're sending and you can nurse the radio," Gadgets answered.

"Right. Sign off."

Gadgets turned his attention to Babette. "You'd better get some sleep. This could go on all night."

"You look like you need rest more than I do," she countered.

"Yeah," Gadgets admitted, stifling a yawn. "It's been a helluva long day."

"Why don't you take Babette home?" Pol suggested. "Then find a place to crash. Take your communicator and I'll buzz you when something happens."

"What about you?" Gadgets asked.

"I caught some sleep before this came down. You're the one who spent half the night screwing around with those electronic thingeys."

"Thingeys," Gadgets repeated, laughing.

"I don't know what they're called," Pol said in mock anger, not in the least apologetic about his ignorance of electronics.

"You sure don't," Gadgets replied. Then he got up. "Come on, Babette. I'll take you home."

When she rose to go to the door, two newly assigned bodyguards also stood up.

"Wait a moment,'' one said. "I'll check outside.''

Gadgets picked up the gym bag he had been using and rechecked its contents. He had added a few items. He slung the strap over his left shoulder. He left the zipper open.

"Coast is clear," the bodyguard said.

The other guard opened his suit jacket and checked the spring clip on the Ingram that rode harnessed to his left side. He then went out, glanced about and nodded to Babette to follow.

The trailer was in the parking lot on the west side of the women's gymnasium. The trailer door faced west. As they stepped out, the low sun shone in their eyes. The two guards were standing at the foot of the metal steps.

"Let's walk," Babette suggested.

"Okay," Gadgets said. Although his guts told him it was a bad move, his heart told him that the gutsy woman needed to go on with her life — not be caged in by fear of bullets.

One bodyguard hastened to move to point, the other paused to fall in behind. They started to move around the trailer and head east. As soon as they were facing that way, two hollow gunshots sounded behind them.

Gadgets shoved Babette forward with his right hand. With his left he yanked the Ingram from the bag.

"Cover her," he commanded.

With the Ingram questing a target, he ran back toward the few remaining parked cars. He ran directly into a blinding flash of light.

"Don't shoot, for chrissakes," a voice bellowed at the top of its female lungs. "You'll kill me."

Gadgets pulled himself short and went into a combat crouch, waiting for his vision to clear. As the black spots shrank he could make out the woman who owned the voice.

It was Petra Dix.

An electronic flash unit softly recycled. Lying on the roof of the car was a starter's pistol, which Dix had used to get Gadgets to face her camera lens.

The camera flashed again.

Gadgets let out an angry roar and leaped to the hood of the car, swinging his gun barrel at the offending camera. But Dix was expecting the attack. She snatched the camera out of his reach. She turned and ran toward a car farther down the row. The door was open and the motor running.

Gadgets moved from car hood to car hood, hoping to cut her off. When Dix reached her car, the door was slammed in front of her. Babette stood by the door. Her two bodyguards, faces flushed from trying to keep up, were behind her.

Babette plucked the camera from Dix's hand, using her quick reflexes. The gymnastics coach placed the camera on the roof of the car and began advancing on the reporter, who was backing away.

"You can't do this. It's harassment. I'm the press," Petra puffed.

"Harassment," Babette scoffed. "You've been trailing this man like a regular tracker and I want to know why."

"He's in a public place. I have a right to photograph..."

"Of course you do," Babette interrupted. "But with someone shooting at us — and you in the cross fire — your camera might have been hit or you could have dropped it."

"I wouldn't have dropped the camera," Dix shouted. "There was no shooting."

"No shooting," Babette mocked. "I could have sworn I heard shots."

"I just wanted a picture," the newswoman growled. "This man is part of some hit squad working for the government. The people have a right..."

While Babette was talking, Gadgets was bringing the Ingram up. His first burst shut the woman up and knocked her camera to the ground. The next burst cut the lens from the mount. The burst that followed swept the pieces across the parking lot.

"Looks like your camera got caught in the cross fire," Gadgets said. "Hate to have to tell you what I think about your hunch about some sort of government hit squad."

Dix looked at the camera then at the stony faces around her. In a fury she climbed into her car and burned rubber out of the parking lot.

One of the bodyguards spoke up. "Uhh, maybe we could take a car."