"Someone called Mustav. Someone called Kelly," a southern voice drawled. "Sam Jackson wants you."

The flashlights began to play over the bodies on the crowded sand floor. Athletes immediately scrambled to their feet, trying to keep the light from reaching the evidence of their digging, trying to distract the flashlight carriers. The huge Zambian and Kelly quickly stepped forward.

"Mustav and Kelly," the weight lifter said to the white man.

"Jackson said you'd be the biggest man here. Move ahead of us."

The two captors took a step to each side to let the two athletes past.

"One question," Mustav rumbled. "What in hell's going on?"

"Jackson says the last group delivered here are Americans being blackmailed to leave America. We say he's a lying shit. We don't believe him. He says you can convince us. We'll give you one chance, nigger."

When they had left, Lyons whispered to Babette. "Make your way back to Pol and Gadgets. The three of you then come in by the gate. We're going to have to risk commando tactics."

Babette left the tent. Lyons instructed the others.

"Wait here until weapons start being delivered. Keep three armed fighters inside to guard the rest. After that, every time someone is armed, he should get out to join the fight. Use our people on guard duty to connect with our people outside. And listen, I know most of you have never fired a gun. Christ, most of you've never held a gun. One thing you've gotta remember — a gun can talk without being fired. At least if you're holding a gun you've got a hope."

Lyons ducked out of the tent. He raised his head slowly on the outside. It would be dawn soon and the action had to go down before then. Any moment they might change the guard, or inspect it.

Moving low but fast, Lyons caught sight of the four Klansman hauling Kelly and Mustav away. When they had disappeared into another buried tent, he noted their position, then doubled back. He was close to the captives' tent when he saw something move. He watched for a second before realizing it was a guard, following Babette.

Babette moved forward, the guard followed and Lyons followed the guard, trying to gain some precious ground before the bastard had a chance to ambush the woman. Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, Lyons saw another sentry zeroing in on Babette. Lyons had to slow down to allow the man to close the gap between himself and Babette. The Able Team warrior moved in behind him.

Lyons pulled a garrote from one of the pockets in his flak jacket. As the figure moved unsuspectingly along, Lyons caught him from behind. He crossed his wrists as he wrapped the garrote around the man's neck. The wire loop began its brutal, cutting justice. The ambusher, with his final burst of energy, wildly swung his arm back. Lyons moved to one side but not before a knife sliced through his thigh.

A breath escaped from a hole Lyons had produced in the man's throat. He squeezed until the cold clutch of the garrote tore the life from the goon.

Lyons let the man drop. In that instant he felt the barrel of a cocked revolver touching his temple. It was one of the athletes. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that Babette was safe. An athlete posing as a guard was lifting the barbed wire with his assault rifle so that the gymnastics coach could crawl under. A felled gunman was by the foot of the athlete.

"Okay," the athlete whispered when he got close enough to identify Lyons. He let his gun arm drop. Lyons liked his style.

"Take care of him," Lyons ordered.

The athlete carefully stripped the body of weapons and ammunition. While the man delivered the weapons to the tent, Lyons dropped his pants to assess damage. The cut was about six inches long but not deep enough to have done any permanent muscle damage. He pulled his pants back up and blocked out the pain. He'd lived with deeper wounds; he'd fought with deeper wounds.

The athlete came back and hid the body. Lyons tested his leg, tentatively at first, then with all his power. The leg held up. He headed for the tent where Jackson, Mustav and Kelly were being questioned.

En route he thought about Able Team's biggest problem. Taking the camp normally would have been easy. Defensively, the place was a joke. Christ, Lyons thought, it was as if the place had been designed to be taken. The problem was how to do it without getting the athletes killed.

Lyons was within twenty feet of the tent when a four-man squad moved silently in front of him. He crouched low as the men moved past him toward the tent. The Able Team member faded back a few steps.

The four men surrounded the tent. The man who was leading the squad stood in front of the tent flaps. Lyons figured out what was coming down. He waited.

"Who's in there?" the head man called.

The muttering inside the tent died.

"Is that you out there, Bill?" a voice called back. "Come on in. Me and Terry just questioning some niggers."

"It is me, Baker. But I ain't coming in, you're coming out. All of you with your hands above your heads."

"Hey, Bill. Jesus. What's got the burr in your saddle?" Baker called out. "We're not doing anything to them. Look out for yourself."

"If you're not out in five seconds, we'll fire through the tent. One... two... three..."

Lyons took three steps forward, the silenced Beretta in his fist. He folded down the second handgrip and hooked his thumb through the front of the trigger guard. With a two-handed grip — crouching for maximum steadiness — he fired three shots.

Three of the guncocks went down. The fourth, known as Bill Frazer, had homed in on the barely audible sound. His Colt New Service M1917 swung to bear on the source.

Lyons swung the 93-R, targeting on his fourth hit. The last casing had stovepiped. In the darkness he could not see the frontsight for the shell stuck between the breech and the receiver. He squeezed the trigger, letting instinct aim, then flung himself to one side.

The Colt barked three times, its death messengers driving into sand, almost catching up with the diving Lyons. The Beretta had probably picked up sand, Lyons thought as his body crashed to the dirt. He bounced slightly, hoping he could stay clear of the incoming .45s until he could clear the jam.

The three unmuffled shots had roused the entire camp.

Lyons figured he had only seconds before the camp was transformed into a shooting gallery, using athletes as targets.

Lyons figured his own chances for survival were slim.

Colonel Frank Follet figured he had the world exactly where he wanted it. He would achieve two victories at once. He bent again to examine the blips on the radar screen. He would prove his genius for command and take care of that interfering goon from Washington all in one shot — and he'd do so now.

The radio operator was speaking. "We have you on the screen, interceptor two. Stand by for orders."

Follet took the microphone from the operator and directed the interceptor pilot. "Keep the helicopter in sight. Let it get over land and away from the city, then force it down. Do you read that. Force it down."

"I read," the pilot answered.

Follet turned to the other radio operator. "Take an immediate message to all area commanders."

"Yes, sir."

"An enemy aircraft has breached U.S. airspace. Further report on the aircraft will follow."

"Is that it, sir?"

"That's it. Sign it Acting Commander F. Follet. And get it out now.''

"Yes, sir."

Follet turned his attention to the first radio tech. "Get those two Sikorskys back here. I don't care who this Lyons has backing him. I've got an enemy craft breaching U.S. airspace. I'm in command."

The operator tried to reach the helicopters. Follet stood behind him, smiling, dreaming dreams of being made a general.