"They're not tough to look at," Gadgets commented.

"Wait'll you see them move," Lyons snapped.

"How the hell did an athlete have a telephone number for Stony Man?" Blancanales asked. "Someone hand out Stony Man business cards?"

Lyons grinned in spite of himself. "Pavlovski wrote a letter to Sergeant Grendal, care of the Director of Central Intelligence. Grendal was the only name she knew Mack by. In the letter she said there's a lot of pressure being placed on black American athletes to head to Communist countries after the Games. Brognola talked to her, gave her the Stony Man number, then talked to the FBI to make sure things were handled right. Pavlovski must have passed the number to King.

"Brognola's in some sort of deep shit right now, so he called me, briefed me, and here I am delivering this fucking masterful briefing to you clowns. The FBI's going to meet us at LAX and give us any more intel they may have stumbled upon."

Politician shook his head. "The FBI's officially in charge of Olympic security — they've probably got an army of Feds. And LAPD's probably got its finest out there. So why us?"

"Three reasons," Lyons said. "First, the President is afraid this is a major terrorist offensive. Second, there's a lot of political fighting going on between LAPD, the FBI and the sheriff's office over control of Olympic security — the prez wants some outsiders to coordinate things. And third, the U.S. has a lot at stake. Pavlovski is a defector. She was supposed to be protected. We don't know why her security failed, but if the KGB — that's who they figure's after her — can bump off defectors on U.S. soil, there isn't a country around that's going to take us seriously. And, while we can't stop people from leaving this free country of ours, we can stop people from pressuring them to leave.

"Ellie King will be with the FBI agent at the airport," Carl continued. "We'll get filled in on the way to UCLA. Then we'll grab Pavlovski, discover what sort of tactics the KGB's using to pressure the blacks and wrap it up in time for lunch."

"Miracles," Gadgets said, rolling his eyes heavenward.

Lyons got up and heaved two heavy wooden cases and one suitcase onto the table. He dumped out the contents of the suitcase.

"Special underwear from NASA to you," Lyons said, holding up what looked like long Johns with no sleeves and short legs. Heavy plates could be seen through the material.

"Just what we need in the heat of L.A.," Pol said, "long underwear. I'd rather get shot than sweat to death."

Lyons ignored the complaints. "Pay attention. I'm only going over this once. These are Kevlar on the outside. The Velcro-fastened pockets hold ceramic trauma plates. The inside is what NASA invented — it's full of micro tubing. The fluid is pumped by a miniature motor that'll keep going on three nine-volt alkaline batteries for twenty-four hours.

"This pouch is the fluid reservoir. You put the small chempacs in there and they'll supply either three hours of heating or cooling depending on which pack you use. It's sweltering in L.A. now, but we're going to be three very cool dudes."

The trio stripped down and donned their outer-space gear. Complaints were tossed about. "We look ridiculous... stupid..." But behind the complaints was the knowledge that the outfits could be lifesavers.

Lyons dipped into one of the cases and produced three breakaway shoulder rigs and three silenced Beretta93-Rs.

"These go on next," he said. "You'll find pockets on the sides of your vests with extra clips provided."

"You're using a 93-R?" Gadgets questioned. "You prefer a Python."

"Python's a helluva lot better than these popguns, but everything in this mission's been designed to limit any problems during crowd action. You guys also get Ingrams."

"Suppose you're packing a 40mm cannon," Pol said to Lyons.

"Damn right," he said, holding up an M-203 with an M-16 barrel and an M-79 grenade launcher in an over/under configuration. "We've got smokes, tear gas, HE and puke gas to use."

Politician, rifling through the cases, came up with some new death distributors. "Nice stuff," he said. "Damn nice stuff."

"They're custom made," Lyons said. "Take .458 Winchester Magnums. If we're forced to snipe, I doubt we could find a better piece to use. The sport shirts are to conceal this armor."

"Not a bad fit," Gadgets declared as he slipped the shirt on.

"We land in twenty minutes," Lyons announced.

Lyons, Schwarz and Blancanales stretched as they made their way off the jet at LAX. Bright sunshine greeted their eyes as they stepped down the ladder. A man and a woman stood waiting for them beside a station wagon.

"Nice," Lyons crooned, looking at the female half of the duo.

"Lacks meat," Gadgets said, not bothering to suppress a monster yawn. "I like my women with a little something you can hold on to."

The man stood surveying Able Team. He was a Caucasian with a slightly rounded face and a fit body wrapped in a lightweight gray suit. He looked like an accountant. He was a field agent. His short-fingered blunt hand reached out as Able Team came near.

"Identification please."

"Want a look at a mole on my ass?" Lyons asked.

The agent fell short of being amused. "ID please."

Lyons pulled a wallet from his hip pocket and produced a wrinkled envelope, which he handed to the agent. The man in gray extracted a single page, then read it.

"Okay," the agent said, obviously impressed with the President's signature anchoring the page. "What's next, sir?"

"First," Lyons informed him. "Cut the 'sir' crap. Call me Carl, or Lyons."

"Sheldon Archer, L.A. Bureau Chief," the agent said.

"My partners, Gadgets and Politician," Lyons said, introducing Schwarz and Blancanales.

Archer turned to the black woman standing behind him and introduced her. "This is Miss King."

Kelly said hello to the man, then informed them that she was at the airport to meet another plane. "It's been in for ten minutes. I want to talk to one of the passengers — a man I met at an international meet in Montreal." Her voice was heavy. She was still shaken over the loss of her teammate.

"Let's go," Lyons said as the men of Able Team tossed their wooden cases and suitcases into the back of the wagon and then climbed in. Archer drove them to the upper-level roadway and to the west end of the complex where the new international terminal was located.

"Look at all the reporters," Pol said as they approached an old school bus that was being loaded with young black athletes. "Whenever athletes arrive in this country the news hounds are there."

"The athletes are already boarding the bus," Kelly said. "Let me out."

Archer pulled up in front of the bus and King scrambled out. The four men followed her.

A tall blond man in a suit confronted Archer.

"You can't park here," he barked. "Move that heap."

A television reporter, sensing some drama in this small confrontation, zeroed in on the blond man, jerking her cameraman along.

"That's Petra Dix," Politician said. "She does the night news on one of the networks."

Archer moved in front of the station wagon to meet the shouting man. Dix closed in on the controversy.

In a breath, the members of Able Team sensed something was wrong. The big blond man moved too smoothly. The scene was all wrong.

They scanned the area. American guides outnumbered athletes. The guides were all burly white males, with muscles attached to muscles. Three of the heavies held members of the press away from the athletes while others corralled the Africans onto the bus.

Ellie King sized up the situation. She ran around in back of the bus, avoided two guides and slipped onto the vehicle with the other blacks.