The DC- 7B rolled to a stop at the end of the runway. As it halted, a number of lights came on. A jeep rolled to within fifty yards of the aircraft's nose. On the back of the jeep was an M-2.50-caliber machine gun, on the left side of which hung a large box of ammunition. The gun was pointed right at the cockpit.

"Out of the fuckin" airplane, amigo! " an angry voice commanded over some loudspeakers.

The forward door opened on the left side of the aircraft. The man who looked down was white and in his forties. Blinded by the lights that were aimed at his face, he was still disoriented. Which was part of the plan, of course.

"Down on the pavement, amigo ," a voice said from behind a light.

"What's gives? I -"

" Down on the fuckin' pavement - right the fuck now! "

There were no stairs. The pilot was joined by another man, and one at a time they sat down on the doorsill, and stretched down to hang from their hands, then dropped the four feet or so to the cracked concrete. They were met by strong arms in rolled-up camouflage fatigues.

" Face on the cement, you fuckin' commie spy! " a young voice screamed at them.

"Hot diggity damn, we finally bagged one!" another voice called. "We got us a fuckin' Cuban spy plane!"

"What the hell -" one of the men on the cement started to say. He stopped talking when the three-pronged flash suppressor on an M-16 rifle came to rest on the back of his neck. Then he felt a hot breath on the side of his face.

"I want any shit out of you, amigo , I'll fuckin' blow it outa ya!" said the other voice. It sounded older than the first one. "Anybody else on the airplane, amigo ?"

"No. Look, we're -"

"Check it out! And watch your ass!" the gunnery sergeant added.

"Aye aye, Gunny," answered the Marine corporal. "Give me some cover on the door."

"You got a name?" the gunnery sergeant asked. He punctuated the question by pressing his muzzle into the pilot's neck.

"Bert Russo. I'm -"

"You picked a bad time to spy on the exercise, Ro berto . We was ready for y'all this time, boy! I wonder if Fidel'll want your ass back...?"

"He don't look Cuban to me, Gunny," a young voice observed. "You s'pose he's a Russian?"

"Hey, I don't know what you're talking about," Russo objected.

"Sure, Ro berto . I - over here, Cap'n!" Footsteps approached. And a new voice started talking.

"Sorry I'm late, Gunny Black."

"We got it under control, sir. Putting people into the plane now. Finally bagged that Cuban snooper, we did. This here's Ro berto . Ain't talked to the other one yet."

"Roll him over."

A rough hand flipped the pilot faceup like a rag doll, and he saw what the hot breath came from. The biggest German Shepherd dog he'd ever seen in his life was staring at him from a distance of three inches. When he looked at it, it started growling.

"Don't you go scarin' my dog, Roberto," Gunnery Sergeant Black warned him unnecessarily.

"You have a name?"

Bert Russo couldn't see any faces. Everyone was backlit by the perimeter lights. He could see the guns, and the dogs, one of which stood next to his copilot. When he started to speak, the dog over his face moved, and that froze the breath in his throat.

"You Cubans ought to know better. We warned you not to come snooping into our exercise last time, but you had to come bother us again, didn't you?" the captain observed.

"I'm not a Cuban - I'm an American. And I don't know what you're talking about," the pilot finally managed to say.

"You got some ID?" the captain asked.

Bert Russo started moving his hand toward his wallet, but then the dog really let loose a snarl.

"Don't scare the dog," the captain warned. "They're a little high-strung, y'know?"

"Fuckin' Cuban spies," Gunny Black observed. "We could just waste them, sir. I mean, who really gives a damn?"

"Hey, Gunny!" a voice called from the airplane. "This ain't no spy-bird. It's full of drugs! We got us a drug runner!"

"Son of a bitch!" The gunny sounded disappointed for a moment. "Fuckin' druggie is all? Shit!"

The captain just laughed. "Mister, you really picked the wrong place to drive that airplane tonight. How much, Corp?"

"A whole goddamned pisspot full, sir. Grass and coke both. Plane's like full of it, sir."

"Fuckin' druggie," the gunny observed. He was quiet for a moment. "Cap'n?"

"Yeah?"

"Sir, all the time, sir, these planes land, and the crew just bugs the hell out, and nobody ever finds 'em, sir."

As though on cue, they all heard a guttural sound from the swamp that surrounded the old airstrip. Albert Russo came from Florida and knew what the sound was.

"I mean, sir, who'd ever know the difference? Plane landed, and the crew ran off 'fore we could catch up, and they got into the swamp over yonder, and like we heard some screams, y'know...?" A pause. "I mean, they're just druggies. Who's really gonna care, sir? Make the world a better place, y'know? Hell, it even feeds them 'gators. They sound right hungry to me, sir."

"No evidence..." the captain mused.

"Ain't nobody gonna give a good goddamn, sir," the sergeant persisted. "Just us be out here, sir."

" No! " the copilot screamed, speaking for the first time and startling the dog at the back of his neck.

"Y'all be quiet now, we be talking business here," the gunny observed.

"Gentlemen, I find that the sergeant makes a pretty good case," the captain said after a moment's contemplation. "And the 'gators do sound hungry. Kill 'em first, Sergeant. No sense being cruel about it, and the 'gators don't care one way or the other. Be sure you take all their IDs, though."

"Aye aye, skipper," the gunnery sergeant replied. He and the remainder of the duty section - there were only eight of them - came from the Special Operations Center at MacDill. They were Recon Marines, for whom unusual activities were the rule rather than the exception. Their helicopter was half a mile away.

"Okay, sport," Black said as he bent down. He hoisted Russo to his feet with one brutal jerk. "You sure did pick the wrong time to run drugs, boy."

"Wait a minute!" the other one screamed. "We didn't - I mean, we can tell you -"

"You talk all you want, boy. I got my orders. Come on, now. Y'all want to pray or something, now be the time."

"We came in from Colombia -"

"That's a real surprise, ain't it?" Black observed as he frogmarched the man toward the trees. "You best be doing your talking to the Lord, boy. He might listen. Then again, He might not..."

"I can tell you everything," Russo said.

"I ain't int'rested! "

"But you can't -"

"Sure I can. What do you think I do for a livin', boy?" Black said with amusement. "Don't worry. It'll be quick and clean. I don't make people suffer like your kind does with drugs. I just do it."

"I have a family..." Russo was whimpering now.

"Most people do," Black agreed. "They'll get along. You got insurance, I 'spect. Lookie there!"

Another Marine pointed his flashlight into the bushes. It was as large an alligator as Russo had ever seen, over twelve feet long. The large eyes blazed yellow in the darkness, while the rest of the reptile's body looked like a green log. With a mouth.

"This is far enough," Black judged. "Keep them dogs back, goddammit!"

The alligator - they called him Nicodemus - opened his mouth and hissed. It was a thoroughly evil sound.

"Please..." Russo said.

"I can tell you everything!" the copilot offered again.

"Like what?" the captain asked disgustedly. Why can't you just die like a man? he seemed to ask instead .

"Where we came from. Who gave us the load. Where we're going. Radio codes. Who's supposed to meet us. Everything!"