Sir, in Special Operations, we Is this a fucking Boy Scout camp or a military organization? the Admiral shouted.

Sir, this is a military organization, the major replied. Colonel Johns is off TDY. I am under orders, sir, not to discuss his mission or his location with anyone without proper authority, and you are not on the list, sir. Those are my orders, Admiral.

Cutter was amazed and only got angrier. Do you know what my job is and who I work for? He hadnt had a junior officer talk to him like this in over a decade. And hed broken that ones career like a matchstick.

Sir, I have written orders on this matter. The President aint on the list either, sir, the major said from the position of attention. Fucking squid, calling the United States Air Force a Boy Scout camp! Well, fuck you and the horse you rode in onAdmiral, sir, his face managed to communicate quite clearly.

Cutter had to soften his voice, had to regain control of his emotions. He could take care of this insolent punk at leisure. But for now he needed that information. He started, therefore, with an apology, man to man, as it were. Major, youll have to excuse me. This is a most important matter, and I cant explain to you why it is important or the issues involved here. I can say that this is a real life-or-death situation. Your Colonel Johns may be in a place where he needs help. The operation may be coming apart around him, and I really need to know. Your loyalty to your commander is laudable, and your devotion to duty is exemplary, but officers are supposed to exercise judgment. You have to do that now, Major. I am telling you that I need that informationand I need it now.

Reason succeeded where bluster had failed. Admiral, the colonel went back down to Panama along with one of our MC-130s. I do not know why, and I dont know what theyre doing. That is normal in a special-ops wing, sir. Practically everything we do is compartmented, and this one is tighter than most. What I just told you is everything I know, sir.

Exactly where?

Howard, sir.

Very well. How can I get in touch with them?

Sir, theyre out of the net. I do not have that information. They can contact us but we cant contact them.

Thats crazy, Cutter objected.

Not so, Admiral. We do that sort of thing all the time. With the MC-130 along, theyre a self-contained unit. The Herky-bird takes maintenance and support personnel to sustain the operation, and unless they call us for something, theyre completely independent of this base. In the event of a family emergency or something like that, we can try to contact them through Howards base ops office, but we havent had to do so in this case. I can try to open that channel now for you, if you wish, sir, but it might take a few hours.

Thanks, but I can be there in a few hours.

Weathers breaking down around that area, sir, the major warned him.

Thats okay. Cutter left the room and walked back to his car. His plane had already been refueled, and ten minutes later it was lifting off for Panama.

Johns was on an easier flight profile now, heading northeast down the great Andean valley that forms the spine of Colombia. The flight was smooth, but he had three concerns. First, he didnt have the necessary power to climb over the mountains to his west at his present aircraft weight. Second, hed have to refuel in less than an hour. Third, the weather ahead was getting worse by the minute.

CAESAR, this is CLAW, over.

Roger, CLAW.

When are we going to tank, sir? Captain Montaigne asked.

I want to get closer to the coast first, and maybe if we burn some more off I can head west some more to do it.

Roger, but be advised that were starting to get radar emissions, and somebody might just detect us. Theyre air-traffic radars, but this Herky-bird is big enough to give one a skin-paint, sir.

Damn! Somehow Johns had allowed himself to forget that.

We got a problem here, PJ told Willis.

Yeah. Theres a pass about twenty minutes ahead that we might be able to climb over.

How much?

Says eighty-one hundred on the charts. Drops down a lot lower farther up, but with the detection problem . . . and the weather. I dont know, Colonel.

Lets find out how high we can take her, Johns said. Hed tried to go easy on the engines for the last half hour. Not now. He had to find out what he could do. PJ twisted the throttle control on the collective arm to full power, watching the gauge for Number Two as he did so. The needle didnt even reach 70 percent this time.

The P3 leak is getting worse, boss, Willis told him.

I see it. They worked to get maximum lift off the rotor, but though they didnt know it, that, too, had taken damage and was not delivering as much lift as it was supposed to. The Pave Low labored upward, reaching seventy-seven hundred feet, but that was where it stopped, and then it started descending, fighting every foot but gradually losing altitude.

As we burn off more gas . . . Willis said hopefully.

Dont bet on it. PJ keyed his radio. CLAW, CAESAR, we cant make it over the hills.

Then well come to you.

Negative, too soon. We have to tank closer to the coast.

CAESAR, this is LITTLE EYES. I copy your problem. What sort of fuel you need for that monster? Larson asked. Hed been pacing the helicopter since the pickup, in accordance with the plan.

Son, right now Id burn piss if I had enough.

Can you make the coast?

Thats affirmative. Close, but we ought to be able to make it.

I can pick you an airfield one-zero-zero miles short of the coast that has all the avgas you need. I am also carrying a casualty whos bleeding and needs some medical help.

Johns and Willis looked at each other. Where is it?

At current speed, about forty minutes. El Pindo. Its a little place for private birds. Ought to be deserted this time of night. They have ten-kay gallons of underground storage. Its a Shell concession and Ive been in and out of there a bunch of times.

Altitude?

Under five hundred. Nice, thick air for that rotor, Colonel.

Lets do it, Willis said.

CLAW, did you copy that? Johns asked.

Thats affirm.

Thats what were going to try. Break west. Stay close enough to maintain radio contact, but you are free to evade radar coverage.

Roger, heading west, Montaigne replied.

In back, Ryan was sitting by his gun. There were eight wounded men in the helicopter, but two medics were working on them and Ryan was unable to offer any help better than that. Clark rejoined him.

Okay, what are we going to do with Cortez and Escobedo?

Cortez we want, the other one, hell, I dont know. How do we explain kidnapping him?

What do you think were going to do, put him on trial? Clark asked over the din of the engines and the wind.

Anything else is cold-blooded murder. Hes a prisoner now, and killing prisoners is murder, remember?

Youre getting legal on me, Clark thought, but he knew that Ryan was right. Killing prisoners was contrary to the code.

So we take him back?

That blows the operation, Ryan said. He knew he was talking too loudly for the subject. He was supposed to be quiet and thoughtful now, but the environment and the events of the evening defeated that. Christ, I dont know what to do.

Where are we goingI mean, wheres this chopper going?

I dont know. Ryan keyed his intercom to ask. He was surprised by the answer and communicated it to Clark.

Look, let me handle it. I got an idea. Ill take him out of here when we land. Larson and I will tidy that part of it up. I think I know whatll work.

But You dont really want to know, do you?

You cant murder him! Jack insisted.

I wont, Clark said. Ryan didnt know how to read that answer. But it did offer a way out, and he took it.

Larson got there first. The airfield was poorly lit, only a few glow lights showing under the low ceiling, but he managed to get his aircraft down, and with his anticollision lights blinking, he guided the way to the fuel-service area. Hed barely stopped when the helicopter landed fifty yards away.

Larson was amazed. In the dim blue lights he could see numerous holes in the aircraft. A man in a flight suit ran out toward him. Larson met him and led him to the fuel hose. It was a long one, about an inch in diameter, used to fuel private aircraft. The power to the pumps was off, but Larson knew where the switch was, and he shot the door lock. Hed never done that before, but just like in the movies, five rounds removed the brass mechanism from the wooden frame of the door. A minute later, Sergeant Bean had the nozzle into one of the outrigger tanks. That was when Clark and Escobedo appeared. A soldier held a rifle to the latters head while the CIA officers conferred.

Were going back, Clark told the pilot.

What? Larson turned to see two soldiers taking Juardo out of the Beech and toward the helicopter.

Were taking our friend here back home to Medellin. Couple of things we have to do first, though . . .

Oh, great. Larson walked back to his aircraft and climbed up on the wing to open his fuel caps. He had to wait fifteen minutes. The helicopter usually drank fuel through a far larger hose. When the crewman took the hose back, the choppers rotor started turning again. Soon after that, it lifted off into the night. There was lightning ahead to the north, and Larson was just as happy that he wasnt flying there. He let Clark handle the fueling while he went inside to make a telephone call. The funny part was that hed even make money off the deal. Except that there was nothing funny about anything that had happened during the preceding month.

Okay, PJ said into the intercom. Thats the last pit stop, and were heading for home.

Engine temps arent all that great, Willis said. The T-64-GE-7 engines were designed to burn aviation kerosene, not the more volatile and dangerous high-octane gas used by private planes. The manufacturers warranty said that you could use that fuel for thirty hours before the burner cans were crisped down to ashes, but the warranty didnt say anything about bad valve springs and P3 loss.

Looks like were going to cool em down just fine, the colonel said, nodding at the weather ahead.

Thinking positive again, are we, Colonel? Willis said as coolly as he could manage. It wasnt just a thunderstorm there, it was a hurricane that stood between them and Panama. On the whole, it was something scarier than being shot at. You couldnt shoot back at a storm.

CLAW, this is CAESAR, over, Johns called on his radio.

I read you, CAESAR.

Hows the weather ahead look?

Bad, sir. Recommend that you head west, find a spot to climb over, and try to approach from the Pacific side.

Willis scanned the navigational display. Uh-uh.

CLAW, we just gained about five-kay pounds in weight. We, uh, looks like we need another way.

Sir, the storm is moving west at fifteen knots, and your course to Panama takes you into the lower-right quadrant.

Headwinds all the way, PJ told himself.

Give me a number.

Estimated peak winds on your course home are seven-zero knots.

Great! Willis observed. That makes us marginal for Panama, sir. Very damned marginal.

Johns nodded. The winds were bad enough. The rain that came with them would greatly reduce engine efficiency. His flight range might be less than half of what it should be . . . no way he could tank in the storm . . . the smart move would be to find a place to land and stay there, but he couldnt do that either. . . . Johns keyed his radio yet again.

CLAW, this is CAESAR. We are heading for Alternate One.

Are you out of your skull? Francie Montaigne replied.

I dont like it, sir, Willis said.

Fine. You can testify to that effect someday. Its only a hundred miles off the coast, and if it doesnt work, well use the winds to slingshot us around. CLAW, I need a position check on Alternate One.

You crazy fucker, Montaigne breathed. To her communications people: Call up Alternate One. I need a position check and I need it now.

Murray was not having any fun at all. Though Adele wasnt really a major hurricane, Wegener had told him, it was more than he had ever expected to see. The seas had been forty feet, and though once Panache had looked like a white steel cliff alongside the dock, she now rode like a childs toy in a bathtub. The FBI agent had a scopolamine patch stuck to his head below and behind his ear to combat motion-sickness, but it wasnt fighting hard enough at the moment. But Wegener was just sitting in his bridge chair, smoking his pipe like the Old Man of the Sea while Murray held on to the grab-bar over his head, feeling like the man on the flying trapeze.

They were not in their programmed position. Wegener had explained to his visitor that there was only one place they could be. It moved, but thats where they had to be, and Murray was distantly thankful that the seas werent quite as bad as they had been. He worked his way over to the door and looked out at the towering cylinder of cloud.

Panache, this is CLAW, over, the speaker said. Wegener rose to take the mike.

CLAW, this is Panache. Your signal is weak but readable, over.

Position check, over.

Wegener gave it to the pilot, who sounded like a girl, he thought. Christ, they were everywhere now.

CAESAR is inbound yours.

Roger. Please advise CAESAR that conditions are below margins. I say again, it is not good down here at the moment.

Roger, copy. Stand by. The voice came back two minutes later. Panache, this is CLAW. CAESAR says he wants to try it. If he cant do it, he plans to HIFR. Can you handle that, over.

Thats affirmative, we can sure as hell try. Give me an ETA, over.

Estimate six-zero minutes.

Roger, well be ready. Keep us posted. Out. Wegener looked across his bridge. Miss Walters, I have the conn. I want chiefs Oreza and Riley on the bridge, now.