Gadgets Schwarz would have run right into the guard if the goon hadn't fired the cigarette. But the sentry had given away his position with the flick of a match, and Gadgets, who had one ear wired into the directional finder as he homed in on the squealers, backed off. The guard was only ten feet away.

Moving away from the guard, Gadgets went back to his teammates. The three men of Able Team and Babette Pavlovski flopped into the sand and wormed their way back over the nearest dune.

"See anything besides the sentry?" Blancanales asked.

"Barbed wire and camouflage netting," Gadgets answered.

"We'll have to go in soft at first," Pol stated.

"You know what I think about going in soft," Lyons muttered. The warrior was aching for action. "I'll go in," he volunteered.

"Take Babette with you," Politician directed. "She's the one all the athletes will recognize. Gadgets can monitor the radio and I'll take the combo, in case we hit heavy action.''

All agreed. Lyons shucked most of his heavy gear and began to crawl over the dune. Gadgets put a hand on Babette's arm before she could follow.

"Take a knife," he said.

She shook her head and whispered. "Where I was brought up, young girls are all taught to wear this." She guided his hand to her forearm. Strapped in a leather sheath was an old-fashioned ice pick. "It's the only way to say no to a Russian soldier."

She gave him a quick peck on the cheek and was gone.

Lyons crawled rapidly toward the glow of the cigarette. He paused under an accordion roll of barbed wire, trusting its lines to break his outline against the sand. A light tap on his boot told him where Babette was.

Lyons and Babette began a slow circling of the enclosure. Iron posts, driven deep into the sand, supported both the overhead netting and the rolls of razor-sharp wire. The rolls had been laid into a trench and the sand had been allowed to drift back in to cover the bottom foot of the rolls. It was not much of an anchor, but enough to slow someone making a run for it from inside.

The dune buggies, parked closely together, did not provide a sheltered spot for entry. They were not up to the wire, and a sentry patrolled the area between the buggies and the wire. The gate had a guard seated on each end. It was festooned with wire, but made to swing clear of the sand. Like the rest of the perimeter it was designed only to slow people down if they tried to escape — not to protect against outer attack. The gate was about four feet high, eight feet wide.

Lyons crawled straight back from the gate until he was behind a dune. Babette soon slid behind him.

"I don't see any damn way in there that is quiet," he whispered.

Sam Jackson crawled partway through the door of the tent. As soon as he saw the guard facing him, he knew what Kelly had meant by the young men who did not fit the KKK mold. This sentry was alert, hard, a lot like the man who had met them when they entered the camp.

"You want something, boy?" the guard asked, his voice thick with contempt.

"Gotta piss, man," Jackson replied in a similar tone.

"Baker," the guard called. Another man materialized from the darkness. He was about forty-five, supporting a beer-and-pizza potbelly, and displaying none of the military alertness shown by the younger man.

"This nigger's gotta piss. Hold his hand."

Baker gestured for Jackson to move toward the farthest end of the compound. The boxer walked ahead of the guard, then slowed down. From the distance behind them, a gruff voice called, "And, Baker, make sure that's all you hold." The comment was followed by a vicious laugh.

"Asshole," Baker muttered under his breath.

When Jackson and Baker were far enough away from the other sentry, Jackson made his pitch. "Why you guys want to do this to American athletes just before the Games? You don't give a shit for the flag?"

"Don't bullshit me, Zambian."

"Zambian? I was with the last group. American, man. And we're being blackmailed into leaving so Russia can win the Games, and so Russia can spit on America."

"Boy," Baker said. "If you gotta piss, go over to that pit. If you wanna talk, talk to your nigger friends."

"Thought a man like you'd be a boxing fan."

"I like the fights," Baker answered. "What about it?"

"Thought you'd recognize the U.S. amateur champion."

"Sam Jackson? Lightning Sam Jackson?"

"You're looking at him."

The guard looked confused. He stared at Jackson, trying to get a good look at his face in the poor light. Recognition flickered in his eyes, but he did not admit it.

"You, ahh, are kinda big. And you do... Shit. Lotta people look like other people."

"Believe what you want then, man," Jackson said as he finished relieving himself. "I just know who I am and I sure as hell don't want to go to Russia. But if you want to send me..."

"Shut up," the guard said as he started to move back toward the tent. Jackson knew he had planted the seed.

When he pulled beside the young guard at the door of the tent, Jackson whirled. "Hey," he said in a loud voice, "I saw you and that Communist swim coach talking a couple weeks back. You work for the Commies."

The guard's M-16 swung at Sam's head. The boxer ducked. "He's trying to kill me," he said.

While checking the swing of the assault rifle, the guard shot his right foot in a lashing karate kick at Jackson's crotch. The fighter barely had time to turn and take the kick on the hip. The blow was strong enough to send him staggering. This gave the guard time to sweep the rifle back to target on Jackson.

The powerful black boxer saw the M-16 barrel coming. He knew he had to make a larger scene if anyone was going to escape under the tent. He also knew he was toying with his life.

"Help!" he screamed. At the same moment he took a long dive, out of the line of the swinging barrel. He tucked and rolled at the end of his dive, stopping against a pair of boots. The owner of those boots held a knife to his throat. It was Bill Frazer, the guncock who had met Boering when the American athletes were brought to the camp.

Sam Jackson lay still. "I'll go with you. I'll leave America," he said. "Just don't kill me. Don't use the knife."

The boxer believed his performance was strong enough to make the KKK men realize he was American, not Zambian. He also believed he had made a fatal mistake. He saw the knifeholder's jaw snap shut. He knew the goon would now kill him for spilling the truth. Jackson wrenched his body to one side as the knife plunged into the sand where his throat had been just a second before.

The instant Jackson had said: "Hey, I saw you..." both Babette and Lyons had stuck their heads over the top of the dune. Babette thrust her Ingram at Lyons and took off running down the side of the dune by the gate. Lyons watched the woman, who seemed to have suicidal tendencies. He slid the silenced 93-R from leather and took a steady two-handed grip, resting his arms on the top of the dune. Then he waited, his face a grim mask of concentration.

The guard at the hinge end of the gate was slim, the one at the latch end was grossly overweight. The fat slob advanced a few steps when he heard the sound of footsteps. In an easy dive, Babette slammed into the thin guard. Before he could react, an ice pick was sliding between his ribs; it stopped upon impact with the heart. A small but firm hand remained over the guard's mouth until the violent thrashing slowly died.

When Sam Jackson yelled for help, the Beretta coughed. The pudgy guard dropped onto his face. Warm blood filtered into the fine sand. The slob died with grit covering his eyes, nose and mouth. He let out no sound.

Babette dragged the thin guard over to the dune buggies and stuffed him under the nearest vehicle. By the time she was finished, Lyons had let himself into the compound and was using the rope that had held the gate to tie the other guard to an iron post near the gate. He tied the man in an on-duty standing position. Lyons turned to hand Babette her gun, but she had remained by the buggies. Her head was cocked as she listened intently. The Able Team warrior went over to her.