Babette took a seat. Gadgets went to the weapons boxes. He pulled off the gaudy sport shirt, electing — like his teammates — to wear a more neutrally colored flak jacket for nighttime desert fighting. He packed both hot and cold thermal packs and crisscrossed two bandoliers over his shoulders, filling the pouches with spare clips and grenades. Then he began the task of setting aside the M-16/M-79 over-and-under hybrid for Lyons. By the time he had added belts of grenades for the launcher and plenty of 5.56mm ammo for the assault rifle part, there was a mound of equipment and a web that weighed close to sixty pounds.

"What's all that for?" Babette shouted over the whine of the two Allison turboshaft engines.

"For Lyons," he replied. "He needs a lot of weight to keep his feet on the ground."

"What are you taking?" Babette asked.

"Ingram, Beretta," he answered. "Same as Pol."

They were already away from the city, surging forward at 150 knots. In an hour and twenty minutes they settled in a swirl of sand beside an identical chopper.

Lyons was in the door as soon as Blancanales opened it.

"Radio off," Lyons commanded the pilot, "unless you're wearing headphones. I don't know if the bastards are doing a radio monitor, but sound carries like crazy in the desert. Observe radio silence and noise discipline."

Lyons then looked in the back.

"What's she doing here?"

Babette came forward carrying Lyons's gear.

"I belong here," she answered, handing the Able Team warrior his tools. "They tried to kill me. They killed Tracy. Now they've got Kelly. If they had Pol or Gadgets, would you let yourself be cut out of the action?"

"I know you did a helluva job in that parking complex," Lyons said, "but our job is to keep you alive, not put you into a fire zone."

"Would you let yourself be cut out of the action?" she asked again.

"No," Lyons snapped.

"Listen," Babette said, a firmness in her voice. "I don't expect to lead the charge over the hill, but I can't be left behind either. I've got a big stake in this."

"Okay," he growled. "But your head ain't gonna be on my head. You've been warned."

Babette smiled. Gadgets and Pol shot her the thumbs-up sign.

Lyons finished arming himself to the teeth.

"Stovepipe Wells, next stop," Sam Jackson announced to the others in the limousine.

"Afraid not," Boering said. He pulled the long car off the road and, for the first time, turned on the car's CB radio.

"This is Swimmer on the beach," he said. "This is Swimmer on the beach." His voice took on a clipped quality. He called about once a minute. After the third call he was greeted by a reply.

"Swimmer, this is Lifeguard," came a voice with a Georgian drawl. "Swimmer, this is Lifeguard. What's the trouble?"

"I've got five survivors. Send the lifeboats."

"This was not part of the plan," the man at the other end crackled. Anger gripped the voice.

"Just send the lifeboats. Argue later."

"Ten four," came the acknowledgment.

Lightning Sam Jackson looked at his watch. It was just past 11:30 P.M. At 11:43 he heard the roar of dune buggies over the desert. Suddenly he saw them sweeping over the nearest dune. Three had extra motors and propellers on the back. They looked like something out of a science-fiction movie.

The athletes rumbled.

"What the hell's going on?" Zak Wilson asked. "Where you taking us?"

But their fears were quickly quelled by the smooth-talking Boering, who assured them that he was just taking another necessary step to get them out of the country.

On the trip to the dunes, the three props brought up the rear, the prop wash obliterating all signs of a trail. The buggies arrived at a camp in the dunes. Camouflage netting covered sand buggies and nearly buried tents. Jackson pulled something from his pocket, fiddled with it, then tossed it into the sand.

As they climbed from the buggies they were met by a tough-looking blond man. The man looked at Boering and then at the athletes.

"They're not in handcuffs," he stated.

"Put them somewhere for now," Boering said. "We can't talk here."

The leader whistled and four older men materialized, pointing guns at the athletes.

"Put them in with the other guests," the leader ordered.

"Hey! Why the guns?" Helen demanded. "We're here voluntarily. We're not your prisoners."

One of the guards tapped her on the head with the barrel of his automatic.

"Shut up, nigger," he said.

"No need for that," Boering snapped. He turned to the U.S. athletes. "It's just a security precaution. Please go along with it. We'll be here just a very short time."

The athletes looked at one another, but said nothing. They were herded into a large tent that was almost buried in sand.

Boering and the blond leader went over by the vehicles where they could talk in private.

"What the hell are you trying to pull?" the man said.

"Easy, Ditch. We have our black defectors. Everything is going well. The problem is that they insisted on leaving before the Games, not after. What could I do?"

"Don't you ever call me Hitch," the man replied. "I've been Bill Frazer for nine years. I'll remain Bill Frazer until I return to the homeland."

"Touchy," Boering noted aloud.

"You know stage two of this operation. What good will a bunch of dead American athletes do us?''

"None," Boering said. "They must be evacuated before blood time."

"And how are you going to accomplish that miracle?"

"It won't be hard, Bill. We have a ship standing by just outside territorial waters. There's a copter aboard, of course. I ordered it to arrive here at three. Load the Americans onto it and they'll be out of your hair."

"But they now know about the Zambians."

"So? When they read in the papers about the way the Americans came in here and shot up everybody, we'll have them hating their homeland. They will be much more verbal against America. It will be better than we could hope."

"I don't like it," the leader muttered. "Do you realize that if anyone was searching for the Zambians, or following the Americans, you will have led them right here?"

"I covered my steps and took all possible precautions. No one followed us here. If they find us, it'll be too late. We will have left by the time they track us down."

"Be damn careful what you say in front of the Klansmen," the leader warned. "If they find out these athletes are Americans leaving the U.S., we'll have nothing more than dead black meat to send on to Mother Russia."

"I'll watch my tongue, but you make sure nothing like that happens. That would sink this operation.''

The blond-haired mole nodded. He did not need to be reminded that a sunk operation usually ended with a bullet to the head.

"I'm going back to Los Angeles now," Boering said. "I wouldn't want anyone to miss me. Just get those Americans on that copter when it lands. It will need instructions. You have the frequency?"

Ilitch nodded.

It was dark inside the tent. The American athletes could not make out the new surroundings they had been placed in. They took small, tentative steps and encountered bodies stretched out on all sides. They were barely in the tent, but could find no space to move.

"Anyone alive in here?" Sam Jackson asked, almost afraid of the answer.

"That you, Sam?" a tentative female voice answered.

"Kelly?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, it's me," she replied.

"Who's with you?" asked a rumbling voice from close to Kelly.

"A few buddies," Sam said. "No gunmen, relax. Is that you, Mustav?"

"Got that one right, little man."

"Make room for these people," Mustav ordered. "And let's sing a hymn of rejoicing for our brothers — sing it just loud enough that those outside cannot hear our conversation."