Chavez had both hands back on his submachine gun, and swiveled it around on the double-looped sling, delivering a single round under the mans chin that exploded out the top of his head. Guerra turned and brought his machete around, and just like in the movies, the whole head came off. Both he and Chavez leaped to catch both victims before they made too much noise.

Shit! Ding thought. Now theyd know that somebody was here. There wasnt time to remove the bodies to a hiding placethey might bump into someone else. If that was true, he reasoned, better to get full value from the kills. He found the loose head and set it on the chest of Guerras victim, held in both lifeless hands. The message was a clear one: Dont fuck with us!

Guerra nodded approval and Ding led off again. It took ten more minutes before they heard a spitting sound just to the right.

I been watchin ya half of forever, Oso said.

You okay? Ramirez whispered.

Met two guys. Theyre dead, Guerra said.

Lets get moving before they find em.

That was not to be. A moment later they heard the thud of a falling body, followed by a shout, followed by a scream, followed by a wild burst of AK-47 fire. It went in the wrong direction, but it sufficed to awaken any sleeping soul within a couple of klicks. The squad members activated their low-light gear, the better to pick their way through the cover as quickly as possible while the camp behind them exploded with noise and shouts and curses aimed in all directions. They didnt stop for two hours. It was as official as orders off their satellite net: they were now the hunted.

It had happened with unaccustomed rapidity, one hundred miles from the Cape Verde Islands. The satellite cameras had been watching for some days now, scanning the storm on several different light frequencies. The photos were downlinked to anyone with the right equipment, and already ships were altering course to get clear of it. Very hot, dry air had spilled off the West African desert in what was already a near-record summer and, driven by the easterly trade winds, combined with moist ocean air to form towering thunderheads, hundreds of them that had begun to merge. The clouds reached down into the warm surface water, drawing additional heat upward into the air to add that energy to what the clouds already contained. When some critical mass of heat and rain and cloud was reached, the storm began to organize itself. The people at the National Hurricane Center still didnt understand why it happenedor why, given the circumstances, it happened so seldombut it was happening now. The chief scientist manipulated his computer controls to fast-forward the satellite photos, rewind, and fast-forward again. He could see it clearly. The clouds had begun their counterclockwise orbit around a single point in space. It was becoming an organized storm, using its circular motion to increase its own coherence and power as though it knew that such activity would give it life. It wasnt the earliest that such a storm had begun, but conditions were unusually good this year for their formation. How lovely they appeared on the satellite photographs, like some kind of modern art, feathery pinwheels of gossamer cloud. Or, the chief scientist thought, thats how they would look if they didnt kill so many people. When you got down to it, the reason they gave the storms names was that it was unseemly for hundreds or thousands of human lives to be ended by a number. This one would be such a storm, the meteorologist thought. For the moment theyd call it a tropical depression, but if it kept growing in size and power, it would change to a tropical storm. At that point theyd start calling it Adele.

About the only thing that the movies got right, Clark thought, was that they often had spies meeting in bars. Bars were useful things in civilized countries. They were places for men to go and have a few, and meet other men, and strike up casual conversations in dimly lit, anonymous rooms, usually with the din of bad music to mute out their words beyond a certain, small radius. Larson arrived a minute late, sliding up to Clarks spot. This cantina didnt have stools, just a real brass bar on which to rest ones foot. Larson ordered a beer, a local one, which was something the Colombians were good at. They were good at a lot of things, Clark thought. Except for the drug problem this country could really be going places. This country was sufferingas much as? No, more than his own. Colombias government was having to face the fact that it had fought a war against the druggies and was losing . . . unlike America? the CIA officer wondered. Unlike America, the Colombian government was threatened? Yeah, sure, he told himself, were so much better off than this place.

Well? he asked when the owner moved to the other end of the bar.

Larson spoke quietly, in Spanish. Its definite. The number of troops the big shots have out on the street has dropped way the hell off.

Gone where?

A guy told me southwest. They were talking about a hunting expedition in the hills.

Oh, Christ, Clark muttered in English.

What gives?

Well, theres about forty light-infantry soldiers . . . he explained on for several minutes.

Weve invaded? Larson looked down at the bar. Jesus Christ, what lunatic came up with that idea?

We both work for himfor them, I suppose.

Goddammit, there is one thing we cannot do to these people, and thats fucking it!

Fine. You fly back to D.C. and tell the DDO. If Ritter still has a brain, hell pull them out quick, before anybody really gets hurt. Clark turned. He was thinking very hard at the moment, and didnt like some of the ideas he was getting. He remembered a mission in Eye Corps, when . . . How about you and me take a look down that way tomorrow?

You really want me to blow my cover, dont you? Larson observed.

You got a bolt-hole? Clark meant what every field officer sets up when he goes covert, a safe place to run to and hide in if it becomes necessary.

Larson snorted. Is the Pope Polish?

What about your lady friend?

We dont take care of her, too, and Im history with this outfit. The Agency encouraged loyalty to ones agents, even when one didnt sleep with them, and Larson was a man with the normal affection for his year-long lovers.

Well try to cover it like a prospecting trip, but after this one, on my authorization, your cover is officially blown, and you will return to D.C. for reassignment. Her, too. Thats an official order.

I didnt know you had Clark smiled. Officially I dont, but youll soon discover that Mr. Ritter and I have an understanding. I do the field work and he doesnt second-guess me.

Nobody has that much juice. All Larson got for a reply was a raised eyebrow and a look into eyes that appeared far more dangerous than he had ever appreciated.

Cortez sat in the one decent room in the house. It was the kitchen, a large one by local standards, and he had a table on which to set his radios and his maps, and a ledger sheet on which he kept a running tally. So far he had lost eleven men in short, violent, and for the most part noiseless encountersand gotten nothing in return. The soldiers he had in the field were still too angry to be afraid, but that wholly suited his purpose. There was a clear acetate cover on the main tactical map, and he used a red grease pencil to mark areas of activity. He had made contact with twomaybe threeof the American teams. He determined contact, of course, by the fact that he had lost eleven men. He chose to believe that hed lost eleven stupid ones. That was a relative measure, of course, since luck was always a factor on the battlefield, but by and large history taught that the dumb ones die off first, that there was a Darwinian selection process on the field of combat. He planned to lose another fifty or so men before doing anything different. At that point hed call for reinforcements, further stripping the lords of their retainers. Then he would call his boss and say that hed identified two or three fellow lords whose men were behaving rather oddly in the fieldhe already knew whom he would accuse, of courseand the next day he would warn one of thosealso preselectedthat his own boss was behaving rather oddly, and that hisCortezsloyalty was to the organization as a whole which paid him, not to single personalities. His plan was for Escobedo to be killed off. It was necessary, and not especially regrettable. The Americans had already killed off two of the really smart members, and he would help to eliminate the remaining two intellects. The surviving lords would need Cortez, and would know that they needed him. His position as chief of security and intelligence would be upgraded to a seat around the table while the rest of the Cartel was restructured in accordance with his ideas for a streamlined and more secure organization. Within a year hed be first among equals; another year and hed merely be first. He wouldnt even have to kill the rest off. Escobedo was one of the smart ones, and hed proven so easy to manipulate. The rest would be as children, more interested in their money and their expensive toys than with what the organization could really accomplish. His ideas in that area were vague. Cortez was not one to think ten steps ahead. Four or five were enough.

He reexamined the maps. Soon the Americans would become alert to the danger of his operation and would react. He opened his briefcase and compared aerial photographs with the maps. He now knew that the Americans had been brought in and were supported probably by a single helicopter. That was so daring as to be foolish. Hadnt the Americans learned about helicopters on the plains of Iran? He had to identify likely landing zones . . . or did he?

Cortez closed his eyes and commanded himself to return to first principles. That was the real danger in operations like this. One got so caught up in what was going on that one lost sight of the overall situation. Perhaps there was another way. The Americans had already helped him. Perhaps they might help him again. How might he bring that about? What could he do to and for them? What might they do for him? It gave him something to ponder for the rest of the sleepless night.

Bad weather had prevented them from testing out the new engine the previous night, and for the same reason they had to wait until 0300 local time to try this night. The Pave Low was not allowed to show itself by day under any circumstances, without a direct order from on high.

A cart pulled the chopper out of the hangar, and the rotor was unfolded and locked into place before the engines were started. PJ and Captain Willis applied power, with Sergeant Zimmer at his engineers console. They taxied normally to the runway and started their takeoff in the way of helicopters, with an uneven lurch as the reluctant tons of metal and fuel climbed into the air like a child on his first ladder.

It was hard to say what happened first. A terrible screech reached the pilots ears, coming through the protective foam of his Darth Vader helmet. At the same time, perhaps a millisecond earlier, Zimmer shouted a warning too loudly over the intercom circuit. Whatever happened first, Colonel Johns eyes flicked down to his instrument panel and saw that his Number One engine dials were all wrong. Willis and Zimmer both killed the engine while PJ slewed the chopper around, thankful that he was only fifty feet off the pavement. In less than three seconds, he was back on the ground, powering his single working engine down to idle.

Well?

The new engine, sir. It just came apart on uslooks like a total compressor failure. Sounds worse. Im going to have to give it a look to see if it damaged anything else, Zimmer reported.

Did you have any problem putting it in?

Negative. It went just like the book says, sir. Thats the second time with this lot of engines, sir. The contractors fucking up somewhere with those new composite turbine blades. Thats going to down-check the whole engine run until we identify the problem, ground every bird thats using them, us, the Navy, Army, everybody. The new engine design used turbine-compressor blades made from ceramic instead of steel. It was lighteryou could carry a little more gasand cheaperyou could buy a few more enginesthan the old way, and contractor tests had shown the new version to be just as reliableuntil they had reached line service, that is. The first failure had been blamed on an ingested bird, but two Navy choppers using this engine had gone down at sea without a trace. Zimmer was right. Every aircraft with this engine installed would be grounded until the problem was understood and fixed.

Oh, thats just great, Buck, Johns said. The other spare we brought down?

Take a guess, sir, Zimmer suggested. I can have em send us an old rebuilt one down.

Tell me what you think.

I think we go for a rebuilt, or maybe yank one from another bird back at Hurlburt.

Get on the horn as soon as I cool her down, the colonel ordered. I want two good engines down here ASAP.

Yes, sir. The crewmen shared looks on the other issue. What about the people they were supposed to support?

His name was Esteves, and he, too, was a staff sergeants, Eleven-Bravo, U.S. Army. Before all this had started, hed also been part of the recon unit of the 5th Battalion, 14th Infantry Regiment, First Brigade of the 25th Tropical Lightning Infantry Division (Light), based at Schofield Barracks, Hawaii. Young, tough, and proud like every other SHOWBOAT soldier, he was also tired and frustrated. And at the moment, sick. Something hed eaten, or maybe drunk. When the time came, hed check in with the squad medic and get some pills to handle it, but right now his bowels rumbled and his arms felt weaker than he would have liked. Theyd been in the field exactly twenty-seven minutes less than Team KNIFE, but they hadnt made any contact at all since trashing that little airfield. Theyd found six processing sites, four of them very recently used, but all of them devoid of people. Esteves wanted to get on the scoreboard, as he was sure the other squads were doing. Like Chavez hed grown up in a gang area, and unlike him had been deeply involved with one until fate had shaken him loose long enough to join the Army. Also unlike Chavez, hed once used drugs, until his sister had ODd on a needle of overrich heroin. Hed been there, seen her life just stop as though someone had pulled the plug from a wall socket. Hed found that dealer the next night, and joined the Army to escape the murder rap, not ever thinking that hed become a professional soldier, never dreaming that there were opportunities in life beyond car washes and family-assistance checks. Hed leapt at this chance to get even with the scum who had killed his sister and enslaved his people. But he hadnt yet killed one, hadnt yet gotten on the scoreboard. Fatigue and frustration were a deadly combination in the face of the enemy.

Finally, he thought. He saw the glow of the fire from half a klick away. He did what he was supposed to do, calling his sighting into his captain, waiting for the squad to form up in two teams, then moving in to take out the ten or so men who were doing their idiot dance in acid. Tired and eager though he was, discipline was still the central fact of his life. He led his section of two other men to a good fire-support position while the captain took charge of the assault element. The very moment he was certain that tonight would be different, it became so.

There was no bathtub, no backpacks full of leaves, but there were fifteen men with weapons. He tapped the danger signal on his radio but got no reply. Though he didnt know it, a branch had broken the antenna off his radio ten minutes earlier. He stood, trying to decide what to do, looking around for some sign, some clue, while the two soldiers at his side wondered what the hell was the matter. Then his stomach cramped up on him again. Esteves doubled over, tripped on a root, and dropped his weapon. It didnt go off, but the buttstock hit the ground hard enough that the bolt jerked back and forth one time with a metallic clack. That was when he discovered that twenty feet away was another man whose presence he hadnt yet detected.

This man was awake, massaging his aching calves so that he could get some sleep. He was startled by the noise. A man who liked to hunt, his first reaction was disbelief. How could anyone be out there? Hed made sure that none of his fellows had gone beyond his lookout position, but that sound was man-made and could have come only from a weapon of some sort. His team had already been warned of some brushes withwhoever the hell they were, they had killed the people who were supposed to kill them, which surprised and worried this one. The sudden noise had startled him at first, but that emotion was immediately followed by fright. He moved his rifle to his left and fired off a whole magazine. Four rounds hit Esteves, who died slowly enough to scream a curse at destiny. His two teammates hosed down the area from which the fire had come, killing the man loudly and messily, but by that time the others around the fire were up and running, and the assault element wasnt yet in place. The captains reaction to the noise was the logical one. His support team had been ambushed, and he had to get in to the objective to take the heat off of them. The fire-support element shifted fire to the encampment, and soon learned that there were other men about. Most of them ran away from the fire and blundered into the assault element, which was racing in the opposite direction.

Had there been a proper after-action report, the first comment would have been that control was lost on both sides. The captain leading the squad had reacted precipitously, and, leading from the front instead of laying back to think about it, he was one of the first men killed. The rest of the squad was now leaderless but didnt know it. The prowess of the individual soldiers was undiminished, of course, but soldiers are first, last, always, members of teams, each a living, thinking organism whose total strength is far greater than the sum of its parts. Without leadership to direct them, they fell back on training, but that was confused by the sound and the dark. Both groups of men were now intermixed, and the Colombians lack of training and leadership was less important now as the battle was fought by individuals on one side, and by mutually supporting pairs on the other. It lasted under five confused and bloody minutes. The pairs won. They killed with abandon and efficiency, then crawled away, eventually rising to race to their rally point while those enemies left alive continued to shoot, mostly at each other. Only five made it to the rally point, three from the assault element and Esteves two from the support element. Half of the squad was dead, including the captain, the medic, and the radioman. The soldiers still didnt know what theyd run intothrough a communications foul-up they hadnt been warned of the Cartels operations against them. What they did know was bad enough. They headed back to their base camp, collected their packs, and moved out.

The Colombians knew less and more. They knew that they had killed five Americansthey hadnt found Esteves yetand that they had lost twenty-six, some of them probably to their own fire. They didnt know if any had gotten away, didnt know the strength of the unit that had attacked them, didnt even know that they had in fact been attacked by Americans at allthe weapons they recovered were mainly American, but the M-16 was popular throughout South America. They, like the men theyd chased away, knew that something terrible had happened. Mainly they grouped together and sat down and threw up and experienced postcombat shock, having learned for the first time that the mere possession of an automatic weapon didnt make one into a god. Shock was gradually replaced by rage as they collected their dead.

Team BANNERwhat was left of itdidnt have that luxury. They didnt have time to think about who had won and who had lost. Each of them had learned a shocking lesson about combat. Someone with a better education might have pointed out that the world was not deterministic, but each of the five men from BANNER consoled himself with the bleakest of soldierly observations: Shit happens.

Ground Rules CLARK AND LARSON started off well before dawn, heading south again in their borrowed Subaru four-wheel-drive wagon. In the front was a briefcase. In the back were a few boxes of rocks, under which were two Beretta automatics whose muzzles were threaded for silencers. It was a pity to abuse the guns by placing all those rocks in the same box, but neither man figured to take the weapons home after the job was completed, and both fervently hoped that they wouldnt be needed in any way.

What exactly are we looking for? Larson asked after an hour or so of silence.

I was kind of hoping that youd know. Something unusual.

Seeing people walk around with guns down here isnt terribly unusual, in case you havent noticed.

Organized activity?

That, too, but it does give us something to think about. We wont be seeing much military activity, Larson said.

Why?

Guerrillas raided a small army post again last nightheard it on the radio this morning. Either M-19 or FARC is getting frisky.

Cortez, Clark said at once.

Yeah, that makes sense. Pull all the official heat in a different direction.

Im going to have to meet that boy, Mr. Clark told the passing scenery.

And? Larson asked.

And what do you think? The bastard was part of a plot to kill one of our ambassadors, the Director of the FBI, and the Administrator of DEA, plus a driver and assorted bodyguards. Hes a terrorist.

Take him back?

Do I look like a cop? Clark responded.

Look, man, we dont I do. By the way, have you forgotten those two bombs? I believe you were there.

That was Different? Clark chuckled. Thats what they always say, But thats different. Larson, I didnt go to Dartmouth like you did, and maybe the difference is lost on me.

This isnt the fucking movies! Larson said angrily.

Carlos, if this was the movies, youd be a blond with big tits and a loose blouse. You know, Ive been in this business since you were driving cars made by Matchbox, and Ive never got laid on the job. Never. Not once. Hardly seems fair. He might have added that he was married and took it seriously, but why confuse the lad? He had accomplished what hed intended. Larson smiled. The tension was broken.

I guess maybe I got you there, Mr. Clark.

Where is she?

Gone till the end of the weekEuropean run. I left a message in three placesI mean, the message for her to bug out. Soon as she gets back, she hops the next bird for Miami.

Good. This one is complicated enough. When its all over, marry the girl, settle down, raise a family.

Ive thought about that. What aboutI mean, is it fair to The job youre in is less dangerous statistically than running a liquor store in a big city. They all raise families. What holds you together on a big job in a faraway place is the knowledge that there is somebody to come back to. You can trust me on that one, son.

But for the moment were in the area you want to look at. Now what do we do?

Start prowling the side roads. Dont go too fast. Clark cranked down his window and started smelling the air. Next he opened his briefcase and pulled out a topographical map. He grew quiet for several minutes, getting his brain in synch with the situation. There were soldiers up there, trained men in Indian country, being hunted and trying to evade contact. He had to get himself in the proper frame of mind, alternately looking at the terrain and the map. God, Id kill for the right kind of radio right now. Your fault, Johnny, Clark told himself. You should have demanded it. You should have told Ritter that there had to be someone on the ground to liaise with the soldiers instead of trying to run it through a satellite link like it was a goddamned staff study.

Just to talk to them?

Look, kid, how much security you seen so far?

Why, none.

Right. With a radio I could call them down out of the hills and we could pick them up, clean them up, and drive em to the fucking airport for the flight home, Clark said, the frustration manifest in his voice.

Thats crazJesus, youre right. This situation really is crazy. The realization dawned on Larson, and he was amazed that hed misinterpreted the situation so completely.

Make a notethis is what happens when you run an op out of D.C. instead of running it from the field. Remember that. You might be a supervisor someday. Ritter thinks like a spymaster instead of a line-animal like me, and hes been out of the field too long. Thats the biggest problem at Langley: the guys who run the show have forgotten what its like out here, and the rules have changed a lot since they serviced all their dead-drops in Budapest. Moreover, this is a very different situation from what they think it is. This isnt intelligence-gathering. Its lowintensity warfare. You gotta know when not to be covert, too. This sort of thing is a whole new ball game.

They didnt cover this sort of thing at The Farm.

Thats no surprise. Most of the instructors there are a bunch of old Clark stopped. Slow down some.

What is it?

Stop the car.

Larson did as he was told, pulling off the gravel surface. Clark jumped out with his briefcase, which seemed very strange indeed, and took the ignition keys as he did so. His next move was open the back, then to toss the keys back to Larson. Clark dug into one of the boxes, past the samples of gold-bearing rock, and came out with his Beretta and silencer. He was wearing a bush jacket, and the gun disappeared nicely in the small of his back, silencer and all. Then he waved to Larson to stay put and follow him slowly in the car. Clark started walking with his map and a photograph in his hands. There was a bend in the road; just around it was a truck. Near the truck were some armed men. He was looking at his map when they shouted, and his head came up in obvious surprise. A man jerked his AK in a way that required no words: Come here at once or be shot.

Larson was overcome with the urge to wet his pants, but Clark waved for him to follow and walked confidently to the truck. Its loadbed was covered with a tarp, but Clark already knew what was under it. Hed smelled it. That was why hed stopped around the bend.

Good day, he said to the nearest one with a rifle.

You have picked a bad day to be on the road, my friend.

He told me you would be out here. I have permission, Clark replied.

What? Permission? Whose permission?

Seor Escobedo, of course, Larson heard him say.

Jesus, this isnt happening, please tell me this isnt happening!

Who are you? the man said with a mixture of anger and wariness.

I am a prospector. I am looking for gold. Here, Clark said, turning his photo around. This area I have marked, I think there is gold here. Of course I would not come here without permission of Seor Escobedo, and he told me to tell those I met that I am here under his protection.

Goldyou look for gold? another man said as he came up. The first one deferred to him, and Clark figured he was talking to the boss now.

S. Come, I will show you. Clark led them to the back of the Subaru and pulled two rocks from the cardboard box. My driver there is Seor Larson. He introduced me to Seor Escobedo. If you know Seor Escobedoyou must know him, no?