You tell me, Arthur.

How many more people are we going to kill, Bob? Moore asked. His greatest fear now was of mirrors, looking into them and seeing something less than the image he wanted to be there.

You do understand the consequences?

Fuck the consequences, snorted the former chief judge of the Texas Court of Appeals.

Ritter nodded and punched a button on his phone. When he spoke, it was in his accustomed, decisive voice of command. I need everything CAPER has developed in the last two days. Another button. I want chief of Station Panama to call me in thirty minutes. Tell him to clear decks for the dayhes going to be busy. Ritter replaced the phone receiver in its cradle. Theyd have to wait for a few minutes, but it wasnt the sort of occasion to wait in silence.

Thank God, Ritter said after a moment.

Moore smiled for the first time this day. Me, too, Robert. Nice to be a man again, isnt it?

The security police brought him in at gunpoint, the man in the tan suit. He said his name was Luna, and the briefcase he carried had already been searched for weapons. Clark recognized him.

What the hell are you doing here, Tony?

Whos this? Ryan asked.

Station chief for Panama, Clark answered. Tony, I hope you have a very good reason.

I have a telex for Dr. Ryan from Judge Moore.

What?

Clark took Lunas arm and guided him into the office. He didnt have much time. He and Larson were to take off within minutes.

This better not be some fucking joke, Clark announced.

Hey, Im delivering the mail, okay? Luna said. Now stop playing the macho game. Im the spic here, remember? He handed Jack the first sheet.

TOP SECRETEYES ONLY DDI IMPOSSIBLE TO REESTABLISH UPLINK TO SHOWBOAT TEAMS. TAKE WHATEVER ACTION YOU DEEM APPROPRIATE TO RETRIEVE ASSETS IN COUNTRY. TELL CLARK TO BE CAREFUL. THE ENCLOSED MIGHT BE OF HELP. C DOESNT KNOW. GOOD LUCK. M/R.

Nobody ever said they were stupid, Jack breathed as he handed the sheet to Clark. The heading was meant as a separate message in and of itself, one that had nothing to do with distribution or security. But does this mean what I think it does?

One less REMF to worry about. Make that two, Clark observed. He started flipping through the faxes. Holy shit! He set the pile down on the desk and paced a bit, staring out of the windows at the aircraft sitting in the hangar. Okay, he said to himself. Clark had never been one to dally over making plans. He spoke to Ryan for several minutes. Then, to Larson: Lets move ass, kid. We got a job to do.

Spare radios? Colonel Johns asked him as he left.

Two spares, new batteries in all of em, and extra batteries, Clark replied.

Nice to work with somebodys been around the block, PJ said. Check-six, Mr. Clark.

Always, Colonel Johns, Clark said as he headed to the door. See you in a few hours.

The hangar doors opened. A small cart pulled the Beechcraft out into the sun, and the hangar doors closed. Ryan listened to the engines start up, and the sound diminished as the aircraft taxied away.

What about us? he asked Colonel Johns.

Captain Frances Montaigne came in. She looked as French as her ancestry, short, with raven-black hair. Not especially pretty, but Ryans first impression was that she was a handful in bedwhich stopped his thought processes cold as he wondered why that had occurred to him. It seemed odder still that she was a command pilot in a special-ops outfit.

Weathers going dogshit on us, Colonel, she announced at once. Adele is heading west again, doing twenty-five knots.

Cant help the weather. Getting down and doing the snatch oughtnt to be too bad.

Getting back might be kinda exciting, PJ, Montaigne observed darkly.

One thing at a time, Francie. And we do have that alternate place to land.

Colonel, even you arent that crazy.

PJ turned to Ryan and shook his head. Junior officers arent what they used to be.

They stayed over water for most of the way down. Larson was as steady and confident as ever at the controls, but his eyes kept turning northeast. There was no mistaking it, the high, thin clouds that were the perennial harbinger of an approaching hurricane. Behind them was Adele, and she had already made another chapter in history. Born off the Cape Verdes, shed streaked across the Atlantic at an average speed of seventeen knots, then stopped as soon as shed entered the eastern Caribbean, lost power, gained it back, jinked north, west, even east once. There hadnt been one this crazy since Joan, years before. Small as hurricanes went, and nowhere near the brutal power of a Camille, Adele was still a dangerous storm with seventy-five-knot winds. The only people who flew near tropical cyclones were dedicated hurricane-hunter aircraft flown by people for whom merely mortal danger was boring. It was not a place for a twin-engine Beechcraft, even with Chuck Yeager at the controls. Larson was already making plans. In case the mission didnt go right, or the storm changed course yet again, he started picking fields to put down on, to refuel and head southeast around the gray maelstrom that was marching toward them. The air was smooth and still, deceptively so. The pilot wondered how many hours until it changed to something very different. And that was only one of the dangers hed face.

Clark sat quietly in the right seat, staring forward, his face composed and inhumanly serene while his mind turned over faster than the Beechs twin props. In front of the windshield he kept seeing faces, some living, some dead. He remembered past combat actions, past dangers, past fears, past escapes in which those faces had played their parts. Most of all he remembered the lessons, some learned in classrooms and lectures, but the important ones had come from his own experience. John Terence Clark was not a man who forgot things. Gradually he refreshed his memory on all the important lessons for this day, the ones about being alone in unfriendly territory. Then came the faces whod play their part today. He looked at them, a few feet before his eyes, saw the expressions he expected them to wear, measuring the faces to understand the people who wore them. Finally came the plan of the day. He contemplated what he wanted to do and balanced that against the probable objectives of the opposition. He considered alternative plans and things that might go awry. When all that was done, he made himself stop. You could quickly get to the point that imagination became an enemy. Each segment of the operation was locked into its own little box which hed open one at a time. Hed trust to his experience and instinct. But part of him wondered ifwhenthose qualities would fail him.

Sooner or later, Clark admitted to himself. But not today.

He always told himself that.

PJs mission briefing took two hours. He, Captain Willis, and Captain Montaigne worked out every detailwhere theyd refuel, where the aircraft would orbit if something went wrong. Which routes to take if things went badly. Each crew member got full information. It was more than necessary; it was a moral obligation to the crew. They were risking their lives tonight. They had to know why. As always, Sergeant Zimmer had a few questions, and one important suggestion that was immediately incorporated in the plan. Then it was time to preflight the aircraft. Every system aboard each aircraft was fully checked out in a procedure that would last hours. Part of that was training for the new crewmen.

What do you know about guns? Zimmer asked Ryan.

Never fired one of these babies. Ryans hand stroked the handles of the minigun. A scaled-down version of the 20mm Vulcan cannon, it had a gang of six .30-caliber barrels that rotated clockwise under the power of an electrical motor, drawing shells from an enormous hopper to the left of the mount. It had two speed settings, 4,000 and 6,000 rounds per minute66 or 100 rounds per second. The bullets were almost half tracers. The reason for that was psychological. The fire from the weapon looked like a laser beam from a science-fiction movie, the very embodiment of death. It also made a fine way to aim the weapon, since Zimmer assured him that the muzzle blast would be the most blinding thing short of staring into a noon sun. He checked Ryan out on the whole system: where the switches were, how to stand, how to aim.

What do you know about combat, sir?

Depends on what you mean, Ryan replied.

Combat is when people with guns are trying to kill you, Zimmer explained patiently. Its dangerous.

I know. Ive been there a few times. Lets not dwell on that, okay? Im already scared. Ryan looked over his gun, out the door of the aircraft, wondering why hed been such a damned fool to volunteer for this. But what choice did he have? Could he just send these men off to danger? If he did, how did that make him different from Cutter? Jack looked around the interior of the aircraft. It seemed so large and strong and safe, sitting here on the concrete floor of the hangar. But it was an aircraft designed for life in the troubled air of an unfriendly sky. It was a helicopter: Ryan especially hated helicopters.

The funny thing is, probably no sweat on the mission, Zimmer said after a moment. Sir, we do our job right, its just a flight in and a flight back out.

Thats what Im scared of, Sarge, Ryan said, laughing mostly at himself.

They landed at Santagueda. Larson knew the man who ran the local flying service and talked him out of his Volkswagen Microvan. The two CIA officers drove north, and an hour later passed through the village of Anserma. They dallied here for half an hour, driving around until they found what they wanted to find: a few trucks heading in and out of a private dirt road and one expensive-looking car. CAPER had called it right, Clark saw, and it was the place he thought it was from the flight in. Having confirmed that, they moved out, heading north again for another hour and taking a side road into the mountains just outside of Vegas del Rio. Clark had his nose buried in a map, and Larson found a hilltop switchback at which to stop. Thats where the radio came out.

KNIFE, this is VARIABLE, over. Nothing, despite five minutes of trying. Larson drove farther west, horsing the Microvan around cow paths as he struggled to find another high spot for Clark to try again. It was three in the afternoon, and their fifth attempt until they got a reply.

KNIFE here. Over.

Chavez, this is Clark. Where the hell are you? Clark asked, in Spanish, of course.

Lets talk awhile first.

Youre good, kid. We really could have used you in 3rd SOG.

Why should I trust you? Somebody cut us off, man. Somebody decided to leave us here.

It wasnt me.

Glad to hear it, came the skeptical, bitter reply.

Chavez, youre talking over a radio net that might be compromised. If you got a map, were at the following set of coordinates, Clark told him. Theres two of us in a blue Volkswagen van. Check us out, take all the time you want.

I already have! the radio told him.

Clarks head spun around to see a man with an AK-47 twenty feet away.

Lets be real cool, people, Sergeant Vega said. Three more men emerged from the treeline. One of them had a bloody bandage on his thigh. Chavez, too, had an AK slung over his shoulder, but he had held on to his silenced MP-5. He walked straight up to the van.

Not bad, kid, Clark told him. Howd you know?

UHF radio. You had to transmit from a high spot, right? The map says theres six of them. I heard you one other time, too, and I spotted you heading this way half an hour ago. Now what the fuck is going on?

First thing, lets get that casualty treated. Clark stepped out and handed Chavez his pistol, butt first. I got a first-aid kit in the back.

The wounded man was Sergeant Juardo, a rifleman from the 10th Mountain at Fort Drum. Clark opened the back of the van and helped load him aboard, then uncovered the wound.

You know what youre doing? Vega asked.

I used to be a SEAL, Clark replied, holding up his arm so that they could see the tattoo. Third Special Operations Group. Spent a lot of time in Nam, doing stuff that never made the TV news.

What were you?

Came out a chief bosuns mate, E-7 to you. Clark examined the wound. It was bad to look at, but not life-threatening as long as the man didnt bleed out, which hed managed not to do yet. So far it seemed that the infantrymen had done most of the right things. Clark ripped open an envelope and redusted the wound with sulfa. You have any blood-expanders?

Here. Sergeant Len passed over an IV bag. None of us knows how to start one.

Its not hard. Watch how I do it. Clark grabbed Juardos upper arm hard and told him to make a fist. Then he stabbed the IV needle into the big vein inside the elbow. See? Okay, I cheat. My wifes a nurse, and sometimes I get to practice at her hospital, Clark admitted. Hows it feel, kid? he asked the patient.

Nice to be sitting down, Juardo admitted.

I dont want to give you a pain shot. We might need you awake. Think you can hack it?

You say so, man. Hey, Ding, you got any candy?

Chavez tossed over his Tylenol bottle. Last ones, Pablo. Make em last, man.

Thanks, Ding.

We have some sandwiches in the front, Larson said.

Food! Vega darted that way at once. A minute later the four soldiers were wolfing it down, along with a six-pack of Cokes that Larson had picked up on the way.

Whered you pick up the weapons?

Bad guys. We were just about out of ammo for our -16s, and I figured we might as well try to fit in, like.

Youre thinking good, kid, Clark told him.

Okay, whats the plan? Chavez asked.

Its your call, Clark replied. One of two things. We can drive you back to the airport and fly you out, take about three hours to get there, another three hours in the airplane, and its over, youre back on U.S. territory.

What else?

Chavez, howd you like to get the fucker who did this to you? Clark knew the answer before hed asked the question.

Admiral Cutter was leaning back in his chair when the phone buzzed. He knew who it was from the line that was blinking. Yes, Mr. President?

Come in here.

On the way, sir.

Summer is as slow a season for the White House as for most government agencies. The Presidents calendar was fuller than usual with the ceremonial stuff that the politician in him loved and the executive in him abhorred. Shaking hands with Miss Whole Milk, as he referred to the steady stream of visitorsthough, he occasionally wondered to himself if hed ever meet a Miss Condom, what with the way sexual mores were changing of late. The burden was larger than most imagine. For each such visitor there was a sheet of paper, a few paragraphs of information so that the person would leave thinking that, gee, the President really knows what Im all about. Hes really interested! Pressing flesh and talking to ordinary people was an important and usually pleasurable part of the job, but not now, a week short of the convention, still behind in the goddamned polls, as every news network announced at least twice a week.

What about Colombia? the President asked as soon as the door was closed.

Sir, you told me to shut it down. Its being shut down.

Any problems with the Agency?

No, Mr. President.

How exactly Sir, you told me you didnt want to know that.

Youre telling me its something I shouldnt know?

Im telling you, sir, that I am carrying out your instructions. The orders were given, and the orders are being complied with. I dont think you will object to the consequences.

Really?

Cutter relaxed a bit. Sir, in a very real sense, the operation was a success. Drug shipments are down and will drop further in the next few months. I would suggest, sir, that you let the press talk about that for the moment. You can always point to it later. Weve hurt them. With Operation TARPON we have something we can point to all we wish. With CAPER we have a way of continuing to gather intelligence information. We will have some dramatic arrests in a few months as well.

And how do you know that?

Ive made those arrangements myself, sir.

And just how did you do that? the President asked, and stopped. Something else I dont want to know?

Cutter nodded.

I assume that everything youve done is within the law, the President said for the benefit of the tape recorder he had running.