When the Americans had questioned him, he answered their questions. He drew the map of the Rancho. He had even revealed details about the operations of the International in the United States. The answers had gained time.

Time for thought. Time for cunning.

And if, in ignorance or overconfidence, the North Americans attempted to use Gunther or his information in their assault against the International...

Then he would reverse this defeat. He would regain his freedom.

And they would die.

Below them, the shadow of the troopship skipped over hills and desert, the silhouette of the fuselage circled by the shadow of the spinning rotors. The shadow flashed over pale, windblown sand and colorless earth. Sometimes the shadow disappeared when the helicopter passed over canyons, the shadow lost within shadows for an instant. Once they passed over a road, but they saw no trucks, no farms, no villages.

Four Yaquis — Vato, Ixto, Jacom and Kino — sat in the doors, their feet dangling into space, a rope across the door serving as a safety restraint. They pointed out landmarks to one another as they passed over the familiar territory. Behind them, Able Team struggled to read a map as the slipwind from the open doors flapped and tore the map. Colonel Gunther — tied, blindfolded, wads of rags taped over his ears — sat in a doorgunner's seat, the safety harness buckled around him.

Blancanales held a compass out at arm's distance, away from the metal of the bulkheads. He watched the needle, then looked down to the shadow of the helicopter to confirm the bearing. He shouted to his partners.

"Davis is taking us due south. Wasn't the plan to stay away from the coast?"

"That's where the army is." Lyons spoke into the intercom microphone. "Davis, where you going?"

"I'm paralleling the mountains."

"Our compass tells us you're going straight south."

"Got to, for a while."

"Got to, nothing! You run us into the army, we'll never make it to Mexico City."

"Hey, specialist, I'm the pilot. You see those mountains to the east? The charts say those mountains go up to eleven and twelve thousand feet. If this aircraft were empty, I couldn't get in higher than ten thousand feet. And we're overweight. That means we stay low in the foothills."

"Yeah? If the Mexicans pick us up on radar, they're going to wonder who we are. And that could lead to very serious problems."

"Don't worry about the radar," Davis countered. "Worry about the questions when we refuel. A gang of Indians and gringos shows up in an army of Mexico helicopter and asks for a fill-up?"

"They're all in Mexican uniforms."

"What about you?"

"No problem. We're tourists. The army's taking us sight-seeing."

"Uh-huh."

Lyons turned to his partners and shouted, "He says we're overloaded and he can't get the altitude to stay in the mountains."

Blancanales spoke into the intercom. "Any way we can lighten the helicopter?"

"Throw out the prisoner," Davis answered.

"We need him..."

"Then jump out yourself.''

"No, thanks."

"Then instead of asking me questions, do something. Try unbolting the cargo doors and dropping them."

"That'll have to wait until we land."

"Then get together with all those passengers back there and work out a way we can onload two hundred gallons of filtered, unadulterated Jet A kerosene without any questions asked."

"Avidn!" Jacom yelled.

"Dande?" Coral yelled back.

The Yaquis in the right-hand door pointed to a glint of light in the west. Lyons scanned the sky with his binoculars and pointed to another speck.

"A light plane and a helicopter," he said.

Blancanales relayed the information to Davis. "We got a helicopter and a spotter plane to the west-southwest."

The troopship dropped. Lyons and Blancanales grabbed the safety rope across the door as Davis took the troopship down. The skids seemed to touch the ridge lines.

Davis shouted through the intercom, "Get on their frequencies. Listen for an alert..."

Gadgets interrupted. "Already on it, fly-boy. Me and Seflor Coral have been on it nonstop, all day long."

"What're they saying now?" Davis asked.

Gadgets laughed. "What they've been saying all day. 'Colonel Gonzalez, where are you?' The helicopter and plane are on the way to look for their little lost colonel."

Lyons took the intercom microphone. "Just make distance, Davis. Get us out of here before they get serious."

As Sergeant Castillo banked the Piper in a slow circle of the destroyed helicopters, Lieutenant Lopez focused his binoculars on the scene. He saw the ashes and blackened metal that had been four helicopters. Knots of vultures fought over the corpses of dead soldiers.

The lieutenant spoke into the radio. "We are above the hill. I count four helicopters. They are burned, nothing left. There is no one alive down there."

After a moment, questions came from the radio. "This is Colonel Alvarez. You see only four helicopters?"

Lieutenant Colonel Alvarez, the International Group's second-in-command, directed the search for the missing Colonel Gonzalez from the safety of the communications office of Rancho Cortez.

"Only four."

"Is there evidence of fighting?"

The lieutenant exchanged glances with the sergeant. The sergeant shook his head at the question. Suppressing a laugh, the lieutenant answered, "Yes."

"Continue searching. We must determine the whereabouts of the other helicopters and the bomber plane."

The sergeant pointed to a scorched hillside. Straightening the Piper's flight path, he crossed the narrow canyon, then circled again. Below them, they saw a tangle of heat-distorted scrap metal. Burning fuel had denuded the hillside, leaving only ashes and black rocks. A rotor blade identified the wreck as that of a helicopter.

On a hilltop above the wreck, vultures fed on the bodies of soldiers in gray uniforms. Two corpses lay on the top of the hill. Others sprawled in the brush on the steep hillside. Vultures had found them all.

Studying the hilltop through the binoculars, the lieutenant saw no weapons. He reported his observations to Colonel Alvarez.

"We see another helicopter. And the bodies of the advisers from Mexico City. All dead. And their rifles and equipment are gone."

"They are dead? Incredible. I cannot believe they fell into a trap also."

"It is very strange. It is as if they were ambushed. But they died on a hilltop. Ambush would have been impossible."

"They are highly trained, veterans of many wars."

"But someone killed them all."

"Find the others," commanded the voice from the radio. "Perhaps Colonel Gonzalez escaped somehow. Perhaps the pilot of the plane survived. We must learn exactly what happened. Has the helicopter carrying the soldiers arrived yet?"

"In a few minutes, Colonel."

"They will search the area. Assist them."

The lieutenant switched off the microphone. He said to the sergeant, "We will assist them. We will tell them to stay away from this cursed place. And perhaps they will live."

Landing in an arroyo outside Culiacan, Davis switched off the turbine. He turned to his passengers.

"We still got some fuel, but not much," he said. "How about if we get volunteers to hitchhike over to the airport? There's a dirt road a couple hundred yards that way..."

Davis pointed to the south. In the afternoon glare, the men of Able Team saw only heat-shimmering desert.

"How far to Culiacan?" Lyons asked.

"I guess we're about five miles outside city limits," Davis replied. "You can catch a bus on the highway."

"I have friends in the city," Miguel Coral told the North Americans. "I will go. Who will go with me?"