That was the final exam, people, he told the squad. Get a good days sleep. We go in tonight.

I dont believe it, Cortez said. Hed hopped the first flight from Dulles to Atlanta. There he met an associate in a rented car, and now they discussed their information in the total anonymity of an automobile driving at the posted limit on the Atlanta beltway.

Call it psychological warfare, the man answered. No plea-bargain, no nothing. Its being handled as a straight murder trial. Ramn and Jesus will not get any consideration.

Cortez looked at the passing traffic. He didnt give a damn about the two sicarios, who were as expendable as any other terrorists and who didnt know the reason for the killings. What he was considering now was a series of seemingly disjointed and unconnected bits of information on American interdiction operations. An unusual number of courier aircraft were disappearing. The Americans were treating this legal case in an unusual way. The Director of the FBI was doing something that he didnt like, and that his personal secretary didnt know about yet. The rules are changing. That could mean anything at all.

Something fundamental. It had to be. But what?

There were a number of well-paid and highly reliable informants throughout the American government, in Customs, DEA, the Coast Guard, none of whom had reported a single thing. The law-enforcement community was in the darkexcept for the FBI Director, who didnt like it, but would soon go to Colombia. . . .

Some sort of intelligence operation wasno. Active Measures? The phrase came from KGB, and could mean any of several things, from feeding disinformation to reporters to wet work. Would the Americans do anything like that? They never had. He glowered at the passing scenery. He was an experienced intelligence officer, and his profession was to determine what people were doing from bits and pieces of random data. That he was working for someone he detested was beside the point. This was a matter of pride and besides, he detested the Americans even more.

What were they doing now?

Cortez had to admit to himself that he didnt know, but in one hour hed board a plane, and in six hours hed have to tell his employer that he didnt know. That did not appeal to him.

Something fundamental. The rules are changing. The FBI Director didnt like it. His secretary didnt know. The trip to Colombia was clandestine.

Cortez relaxed. Whatever it was, it was not an immediate threat. The Cartel was too secure. There would be time to analyze and respond. There were many people in the smuggling chain who could be sacrificed, who would fight for the chance, in fact. And after a time, the Cartel would adapt its operations to the changing conditions as it always had. All he had to do was convince his employer of that simple fact. What did el jefe really care about Ramn and Jesus or any of the underlings who ran the drugs and did the killings that became necessary? It was continuing the supply of drugs to the consumers that mattered.

His mind came back to the vanishing airplanes. Historically, the Americans had managed to intercept one or two per month, that small a number despite all their radars and aircraft. But recentlyfour in the last two weeks, wasnt it?had disappeared. What did that mean? Unknown to the Americans, there had always been operational losses, a military term that meant nothing more mysterious than flying accidents. One of the reasons that his boss had taken Carlos Larson on was to mitigate that wastage of resources, and it had, initially, shown promiseuntil very recently. Why the sudden jump in losses? If the Americans had somehow intercepted them, the air crews would have shown up in courtrooms and jails, wouldnt they? Cortez had to dismiss that thought.

Sabotage, perhaps? What if someone were placing explosives in the aircraft, like the Arab terrorists did . . . ? Unlikely . . . or was it? Did anyone check for that? It wouldnt take much. Even minor damage to a low-flying aircraft could face the pilot with a problem whose solution required more time than he had in altitude. Even a single blasting cap could do it, not even a cubic centimeter . . . hed have to check that out. But, then, who would be doing it? The Americans? But what if it became known that the Americans were placing bombs on aircraft? Would they take that political risk? Probably not. Who else, then? The Colombians might. Some senior Colombian military officer, operating entirely on his own . . . or in the pay of the yanquis? That was possible. It couldnt be a government operation, Cortez was sure. There were too many informants there, too.

Would it have to be a bomb? Why not contaminated gasoline? Why not minor tampering with an engine, a frayed control cable . . . or a flight instrument. What was it that Larson had said about having to watch instruments at low level? What if some mechanic had altered the setting on the artificial horizon . . .? Or merely arranged for it to stop working . . . something in the electrical system, perhaps? How hard was it to make a small airplane stop flying? Whom to ask? Larson?

Cortez grumbled to himself. This was undirected speculation, decidedly unprofessional. There were countless possibilities. He knew that something was probably happening, but not what it was. And only probably, he admitted to himself. The unusually large number of missing aircraft could merely be a statistical anomalyhe didnt believe that, but forced himself to consider the possibility. A series of coincidencesthere was not an intelligence academy in the world that encouraged its students to believe in coincidences, and yet how many strange coincidences had he encountered in his professional career?

The rules are changing, he muttered to himself.

What? the driver asked.

Back to the airport. My Caracas flight leaves in less than an hour.

S, jefe.

Cortez lifted off on time. He had to travel to Venezuela first for the obvious reasons. Moira might get curious, might want to see his ticket, might ask his flight number, and besides, American agents would be less interested in people who flew there than those who flew directly to Bogot. Four hours later he made his Avianca connection to El Dorado International Airport, where he met a private plane for the last hop over the mountains.

Equipment was issued as always, with a single exception. Chavez noted that nobody was signing for anything. That was a real break from routine. The Army always had people sign for their gear. If you broke it or lost it, well, though they might not make you pay for it, you had to account for it in one way or another.

But not now.

The load-outs differed slightly from one man to the next. Chavez, the squad scout, got the lightest load, while Julio Vega, one of the machine-gunners, got the heaviest. Ding got eleven magazines for his MP-5 submachine gun, a total of 330 rounds. The M-203 grenade launchers that two squad members had attached to their rifles were the only heavy firepower theyd be carrying in.

His uniform was not the usual stripe-and-splotch Army fatigue pattern, but rather rip-stop khaki because they werent supposed to look like Americans to the casual observer, if any. Khaki clothing was not the least unusual in Colombia. Jungle fatigues were. A floppy green hat instead of a helmet, and a scarf to tie over his hair. A small can of green spray paint and two sticks of facial camouflage makeup. A waterproof map case with several maps; Captain Ramirez got one also. Twelve feet of rope and a snaplink, issued to everyone. A short-range FM radio of an expensive commercial type that was nonetheless better and cheaper than the one the Army used. Seven-power compact binoculars, Japanese. American-style web gear of the type used by every Army in the world, actually made in Spain. Two one-quart canteens to hang on the web belt, and a third two-quart water bottle for his rucksack, American, commercial. A large supply of water-purification tabletstheyd resupply their own water, which wasnt a surprise.

Ding got a strobe light with an infrared cover lens because one of his jobs would be to select and mark helicopter landing zones, plus a VS-17 panel for the same purpose. A signaling mirror for times when a radio might not be appropriate (steel mirrors, moreover, do not break). A small flashlight; and a butane cigarette lighter, which was far better than carrying matches. A large bottle of extra-strength Tylenol, also known as light-fighter candy. A bottle of prescription cough medicine, heavily laced with codeine. A small bottle of Vaseline petroleum jelly. A small squeeze bottle of concentrated CS tear gas. A weapons-cleaning kit, which included a toothbrush. Spare batteries for everything. A gas mask.

Chavez would travel light with but four hand grenadesDutch NR-20 Cl typeand two smokes, also of Dutch manufacture. The rest of the squad got the Dutch frags, and some CS tear-gas grenades, also Dutch. In fact, all of the weapons carried by the squad and all of their ammunition had been purchased at Colon, Panama, in what was fast becoming the hemispheres most convenient arms market. For anyone with cash there were weapons to be had.

Rations were the normal MREs. Water was the main hygienic concern, but theyd already been fully briefed about using their water-purification tablets. Whoever forgot had a supply of antidiarrhea pills that would follow a serious chewing from Captain Ramirez. Every man had gotten a new series of booster shots while still in Colorado against the spectrum of tropical diseases endemic to the area, and all carried an odorless insect repellent made for the military by the same company that produced the commercial product called Off. The squad medic carried a full medical kit, and each rifleman had his own morphine Syrette and a plastic bottle of IV fluids for use as a blood-expander.

Chavez had a razor-sharp machete, a four-inch folding knife, and, of course, his three nonregulation throwing stars that Captain Ramirez didnt know about. With other sundry items, Chavez would be carrying a load of exactly fifty-eight pounds. That made his load the lightest in the squad. Vega and the other SAW gunner had the heaviest, with seventy-one pounds. Ding jostled the load around on his shoulders to get a feel for it, then adjusted the straps on his ruck to make it as comfortable as possible. It was a futile exercise. He was packing a third of his body weight, which is about as much as a man can carry for any length of time without risking a physical breakdown. His boots were well broken-in, and he had extra pairs of dry socks.

Ding, could you give me a hand with this? Vega asked.

Sure, Julio. Chavez took some slack in on one of the machine gunners shoulder straps. Hows that?

Just right, mano. Jeez, carrying the biggest gun do have a price.

Roger that, Oso. Julio, whod demonstrated the ability to pack more than anyone in the squad, had a new nickname, Oso: Bear.

Captain Ramirez came down the line, walking around each man to check the loads. He adjusted a few straps, bounced a few rucks, and generally made sure that every man was properly loaded, and that all weapons were clean. When he was finished, Ding checked the captains load, and Ramirez took his place in front of the squad.

Okayanybody got aches, pains, or blisters?

No, sir! the squad replied.

We ready to go do it? Ramirez asked with a wide grin that belied the fact that he was as nervous as everyone else in the squad bay.

Yes, sir!

One more thing left to do. Ramirez walked down the line and collected dog tags from each man. Each set went into a clear plastic bag along with wallets and all other forms of identification. Finished, he removed his own, counted the bags a last time, and left them on the table in the squad bay. Outside, each squad boarded a separate five-ton truck. Few waves were exchanged. Though friendships had sprouted up in training, they were mainly limited within the structure of the squads. Each eleven-man unit was a self-contained community. Every member knew every other, knew all there was to know, from stories of sexual performance to marksmanship skills. Some solid friendships had blossomed, and some even more valuable rivalries. They were, in fact, already closer than friends could ever be. Each man knew that his life would depend on the skill of his fellows, and none of them wished to appear weak before his comrades. Argue as they might among themselves, they were now a team; though they might trade barbed comments, over the past weeks they had been forged into a single complex organism with Ramirez as their brain, Chavez as their eyes, Julio Vega and the other machine-gunner as their fists, and all the others as equally vital components. They were as ready for their mission as any soldiers had ever been.

The trucks arrived together behind the helicopter and the troops boarded by squads. The first thing Chavez noticed was the 7.62mm minigun on the right side of the aircraft. There was an Air Force sergeant standing next to it, his green coveralls topped by a camouflage-painted flight helmet, and a massive feed line of shells leading to an even larger hopper. Ding had no particular love for the Air Forcea bunch of pansy truck drivers, hed thought until nowbut the man on that gun looked serious and competent as hell. Another such gun was unmanned on the opposite side of the aircraft, and there was a spot for another at the rear. The flight engineerhis name tag said ZIMMERmoved them all into their places and made sure that each soldier was properly strapped down to his particular piece of floor. Chavez didnt trade words with him, but sensed that this man had been around the block a few times. It was, he belatedly realized, the biggest goddamned helicopter hed ever seen.

The flight engineer made one final check before going forward and plugging his helmet into the intercom system. A moment later came the whine from the helicopters twin turbine engines.

Looking good, PJ observed over the headset. The engines had been pre-warmed and the fuel tanks topped off. Zimmer had repaired a minor hydraulic problem, and the Pave Low III was as ready as his skilled men could make it. Colonel Johns keyed his radio.

Tower, this is Night Hawk Two-Five requesting permission to taxi. Over.

Two-Five, tower, permission granted. Winds are one-zero-niner at six knots.

Roger. Two-Five is rolling. Out.

Johns twisted the throttle grip on his collective control and eased the cyclic stick forward. Due to the size and engine power of the big Sikorsky, it was customary to taxi the aircraft toward the runway apron before actually lifting off. Captain Willis swiveled his neck around, checking for other ground traffic, but there was none this late at night. One ground crewman walked backward in front of them as a further safety measure, waving for them to follow with lighted wands. Five minutes later they were at the apron. The wands came together and pointed to the right. Johns gave the man a last look, returning the ceremonial salute.

Okay, lets get this show on the road. PJ brought the throttle to full power, making a last check of his engine instruments as he did so. Everything looked fine. The helicopter lifted at the nose a few feet, then dipped forward as it began to move forward. Next it started to climb, leaving behind a small tornado of dust, visible only in the blue runway perimeter lights.

Captain Willis put the navigations systems on line, adjusting the electronic terrain display. There was a moving map display not unlike that used by James Bond in Goldfinger. Pave Low could navigate from a Doppler-radar system that interrogated the ground, from an inertial system using laser-gyroscopes, or from navigational satellites. The helicopter initially flew straight down the Canals length, simulating the regular security patrol. They unknowingly flew within a mile of the SHOWBOATs communications nexus at Corezal.

Lot of pick-and-shovel work down there, Willis observed.

Ever been here before?

No, sir, first time. Quite a job for eighty-ninety years ago, he said as they flew over a large container ship. They caught a little buffet from the hot stack-gas of the ship. PJ came to the right to get out of it. It would be a two-hour flight, and there was no sense in jostling the passengers any more than necessary. In an hour their MC-130E tanker would lift off to refuel them for the return leg.

Lot of dirt to move, Colonel Johns agreed after a moment. He moved a little in his seat. Twenty minutes later they went feet wet, passing over the Caribbean Sea for the longest portion of the flight on a course of zero-nine-zero, due east.

Look at that, Willis said half an hour later. On their night-vision sets, they spotted a twin-engine aircraft on a northerly heading, perhaps six miles away. They spotted it from the infrared glow of the two piston engines.

No lights, PJ agreed.

I wonder what hes carrying?

Sure as hell isnt Federal Express. More to the point, he cant see us unless hes wearing the same goggles we got.

We could pull up alongside and take the miniguns Not tonight. Too bad. I wouldnt especially mind. . . .

What do you suppose our passengers If we were supposed to know, Captain, they would have told us, Johns replied. He was wondering, too, of course. Christ, but theyre loaded for bear, the colonel thought. Not wearing standard-issue uniforms . . . obviously a covert insertionhell, Ive known that part of the mission for weeksbut they were clearly planning to stay awhile. Johns hadnt heard that the government had ever done that. He wondered if the Colombians were playing ball . . . probably not. And were staying down here for at least a month, so theyre planning for us to support them, maybe extract them if things get a little hot . . . Christ, its Laos all over again, he concluded. Good thing I brought Buck along. Were the only real vets left. Colonel Johns shook his head. Where had his youth gone?

You spent it with a helicopter strapped to your back, doing all sorts of screwy things.

I got a ship target on the horizon at about eleven oclock, the captain said, and altered course a few degrees to the right. The mission brief had been clear on that. Nobody was supposed to see or hear them. That meant avoiding ships, fishing boats, and inquisitive dolphins, staying well off the coast, no more than a thousand feet up, and keeping their anticollision lights off. The mission profile was precisely what theyd fly in wartime, with some flight-safety rules set aside. Even in the special-operations business, that last fact was somewhat out of the ordinary, Johns reminded himself. Hot guns and all.

They made the Colombian coast without further incident. As soon as it was in view, Johns alerted his crew. Sergeants Zimmer and Bean powered up their electrically driven miniguns and slid open the doors next to them.

Well, we just invaded a friendly foreign country, Willis noted as they went feet dry north of Tol. They used their low-light instruments to search for vehicular traffic, which they were also supposed to avoid. Their course track was plotted to avoid areas of habitation. The six-bladed rotor didnt make the fluttering whops associated with smaller helicopters. Its sound, at a distance, wasnt terribly different from turbopowered aircraft; it was also directionally deceptiveeven if you heard the noise, it was hard to figure where it came from. Once past the Pan American Highway, they curved north, passing east of Plato.

Zimmer, LZ One in five minutes.

Right, PJ, the flight engineer replied. It had been decided to leave Bean and Childs on the guns, while Zimmer handled the dropoff.

It must be a combat mission. Johns smiled to himself. Buck only calls me that when he expects to get shot at.

Aft, Sergeant Zimmer walked down the center of the aircraft, telling the first two squads to unbuckle their safety belts and holding up his hand to show how many more minutes there were. Both captains nodded.

LZ One in sight, Willis said soon thereafter.

Ill take her.

Pilots airplane.

Colonel Johns orbited the area, spiraling into the clearing selected from satellite photos. Willis scanned the ground for the least sign of life, but there was none.

Looks clear to me, Colonel.

Going in now, Johns said into the intercom.

Get ready! Zimmer shouted as the helicopters nose came up.

Chavez stood up with the rest of his squad, facing aft to the opening cargo door. His knees buckled slightly as the Sikorsky touched down.

Go! Zimmer waved them out, patting each man on the shoulder to keep a proper count.

Chavez went out behind his captain, turning left to avoid the tail rotor as soon as his feet were on the dirt. He went ten steps and dropped to his face. Above his head, the rotor was still turning at full power, holding the lethal blades a safe fifteen feet off the ground.

Clear, clear, clear! Zimmer said when hed seen them all off.

Roger, Johns replied, twisting the throttle again to lift off.

Chavez turned his head as the whine of the engines increased. The blacked-out helicopter was barely visible, but he saw the spectral outline lift off and felt the dirt stinging his face as the hundred-knot downwash from the rotor subsided, and stopped. It was gone.

He ought to have expected it, but the feeling came to Chavez as a surprise. He was in enemy territory. It was real, not an exercise. The only way he had outhad just flown away, already invisible. Despite the fact that there were ten men around him, he was momentarily awash in a sense of loneliness. But he was a trained man, a professional soldier. Chavez grasped his loaded weapon and took strength from it. He wasnt quite alone.

Move out, Captain Ramirez told him quietly.

Chavez moved toward the treeline in the knowledge that behind him the squad would follow.

In-Country.

THREE HUNDRED MILES away from SSG Ding Chavez, Colonel Flix Cortez, formerly of the Cuban DGI, sat dozing in el jefes office. El jefe, hed been told on his arrival several hours before, was occupied at presentprobably entertaining a mistress. Maybe even his wife, Cortez thought; unlikely but possible. Hed drunk two cups of the fine local coffeepreviously Colombias most valuable export cropbut it hadnt helped. He was tired from the previous nights exertions, from the travel, and now from readjusting yet again to the high altitude of the region. Cortez was ready for sleep, but had to stay awake to debrief his boss. Inconsiderate bastard. At least in the DGI he could have submitted a hastily written report and taken a few hours to freshen up before normal office hours began. But the DGI was composed of professionals, and hed chosen to work for an amateur.

Just after 1:30 in the morning he heard feet coming down the corridor. Cortez stood and shook off the sleep. The door opened, and there was el jefe, his visage placid and happy. One of his mistresses.

What have you learned? Escobedo asked without preamble.

Nothing specific as of yet, Cortez replied with a yawn. He proceeded to speak for about five minutes, going over what things he had discovered.

I pay you for results, Colonel, Escobedo pointed out.

That is true, but at high levels such results require time. Under the methods for gathering information which you had in place before I arrived, you would still know nothing other than the fact that some aircraft are missing, and that two of your couriers have been apprehended by the yanquis.

Their story about the interrogation aboard the ship?

Most unusual, perhaps all a fabrication on their part. Cortez settled into his chair, wishing for another cup of coffee. Or perhaps true, though I doubt it. I do not know either man and cannot evaluate the reliability of their claims.

Two men from Medellin. Ramns older brother served me well. He was killed in the battles with M-19. He died bravely. Ramn has also served me. I had to give him a chance, Escobedo said. It was a matter of honor. He is not very intelligent, but he is faithful.

And his death is not overly troublesome?

Escobedo shook his head without a moments pause. No. He knew what the chances were. He did not know why it was necessary to kill the American. He can tell them nothing about that. As for the Americanhe was a thief, and a foolish thief. He thought that we would not discover his thievery. He was mistaken. So we eliminated him.

And his family, Cortez noted. Killing people was one thing. Raping children . . . that was something else. But such things were not his concern.

You are sure that they cannot tell the Americans They were told to get aboard the yacht, using the money as their bona fides and concealing their cache of drugs. Once the killings were accomplished, they were instructed to go to the Bahamas, turn the money over to one of my bankers, destroy the yacht discreetly, and then smuggle the drugs in normally, into Philadelphia. They knew that the American had displeased me, but not how he had done so.

They must know that he was laundering money, and they must have told the Americans this, Cortez pointed out patiently.

S. Fortunately, however, the American was very clever in how he did this. We were careful, Colonel. Beforehand we made sure that no one could learn exactly what the thief had done. Escobedo smiled, still in the afterglow of Pintas services. He was so very clever, that American.

What if he left behind a record?