The only fence is up here along the street. It's hurricane fencing, eight feet high, and ends at the hedges at either side. The stone gateway stands open; there isn't even a gate. It's wide enough to take two cars. The hedges running along the north and south boundaries look very thick—and they are, except right along the ground. It should be easy enough to penetrate, if we decide to go that route. This is not a 'hard' house. It is soft, very soft, entirely vulnerable, easily reached and breached. DiGeorge obviously feels secure and respectable enough to have not bothered with fortifications."

Bolan paused to light a cigarette. "For that very reason," he continued, exhaling as he spoke, "I have an idea that his troops might break and run when the shooting starts. If they do, well give hot chase. They just might lead us to their "hard' house. I feel certain they have one, somewhere in the area."

Zitka spoke up. "You get any feeling for the interior layout of the house?"

Bolan wagged his head. "No, and I doubt that we'll need it. The way it looked to Brother and me, they're going to hold their council outside, on the patio. They were setting up the bars and stocking them when we were out there."

"Italianos like a bit of beef and beverage with their business meetings," Andromede commented with a smile.

Fontenelli shifted about restlessly. "I been wondering when the Italiano bit would start," he muttered.

"Hell, I didn't mean anything like that," Andromede replied quickly. "Some of my best friends are Italianos."

Deadeye Washington guffawed loudly. "Where've I heard that line before?" he howled.

"Sometimes I wonder if I'm on the wrong side," Fontenelli grumbled.

"Okay, knock it off," Bolan commanded in a mild voice. "This's no race war, and it sure as hell is no vendetta against the Italian people."

"What the hell you think the Mafia is?" Andromede said, grinning.

"It's Dago Power, man," Washington said gleefully.

Everyone except Fontenelli laughed. "Mafia don't mean the same thing as Italian," he said stiffly. "Who the hell you think was catching all the hell from the Maffianos back inna old days, back inna old country? Italianos got no love for those bastards. I never even knew anybody in the Mafia, in my whole life."

"Hey, kid, cool it," Andromede said. "We're just having fun."

"I got a better reason than anybody here to hate them bastards," Fontenelli persisted. "They give the whole Italian race a bad name."

"Shit, I love the goddamn Italianos!" Andromede declared emotionally. "Especially the women! Oooo, them goddamn lovin' women! Didn't I tell you I was going back to Jersey with you someday? Didn't I?"

"Okay, so I'm oversensitive," Fontenelli said grudgingly. He glanced at Washington and smiled.

Washington winked at him. "They let black people in that Mafia?"

Fontenelli chuckled. "Well, they used to call it The Black Hand."

"Oooo-eee! They gonna have to integrate all of me, man, not just my black hands."

Bolan was glad for the brief personal exchange. It had released some tensions. But time was growing short. "Okay, back to the war," he said. "And back to Zitter's question. I doubt that we'll need to worry about the interior of DiGeorge's house. If they retreat into the house, we will not go in after them. We'll just strafe hell out of it and then abort the mission. Can't take the risk of trying to smoke them out, because the cops will be on the scene damn quick—I feel sure of that. So..."

Gunsmoke Harrington said, "You're basing our strategy, then, on them breaking and running right after we make contact."

Bolan nodded. "Or soon after. There's a ... well, here's my reasoning. The word is out, see. These people know that the police are planning a rousting operation, to begin tomorrow morning. Now. What's the purpose of this council tonight? First, I figure, is to set the strategy for a counteroffensive against us. The second item of business will undoubtedly have to do with the police threat. I just can't believe that they will want to go on home and wait for the cops to begin the harassment. A lot of these people are living highly respectable roles, and they don't like their names in the police news any more than any other respectable citizen would.

"So here's what I think they'll decide to do. I think they will decide to join forces against us. I think they will decide to leave home for a while. The best possible place for them to achieve both objectives at the same time is at their hard site. I know damn well they have one somewhere in the area. In three different recorded conversations today, Varone mentioned 'the family home.' They have one—and we want to help them decide to go there. Okay?"

"Sounds reasonable," Zitka commented.

"Okay." Bolan stepped over to a portable blackboard, on which was drawn a rough sketch of the DiGeorge neighborhood. "First I want to set the positions. Then we'll run through the individual missions. Deadeye and I will be on this hillside to the west, with the long pieces. Bloodbrother is above us, on the rim of the hill, eagling. Chopper and Gunsmoke at the rear, here . . . and here . . . flanking with the automatics. Zitter and Boom on tracking stations, here ... and here ... I may have to call you in if things go sour, so be ready for a fire mission. Flower Child on the south flank, rear. Get your grenade launcher, Flower, and stake out a good spot to fly from."

Andromede grinned and wet his lips.

"Chopper will cover you when you begin your grenade assault. Now—Gadgets will be inside the horse, Politician driving. Keep that big mother moving, Pol, and don't get in too close. Gadgets will be monitoring the police radio nets and keeping us posted on their activities. I want every man In radio harness and his ears open. This could be..."

"I've been doing some thinking about this," Gadgets Schwarz said, interrupting Bolan. "And I'm worried."

"What's worrying you, Gadgets?"

"I've been wondering if these cops have the ability to ECM us. If they do, that van could become a Trojan horse in reverse."

"What is ECM?"

"Electronic counter measures. Electronic spying, in other words. Like on our spy ships and spy planes. Remember the Pueblo? Well..."

"Are you talking about radar?" Zitka asked. "How the hell could radar do them any good in a crowded area like this?"

"Naw, hell," Schwarz said disgustedly. "I mean..."

"Radio direction finders," Bolan muttered.

Schwarz nodded. "Yeah, the same principle, only they got some mighty damn sophisticated stuff out now. They can scan-through and lock onto another transmitter in nothing flat."

"How do they do that," Bolan asked musingly, If they don't know what frequencies are being transmitted on?"

"I said they scan-through," Schwarz replied. They don't need to know your frequency. They find your frequency with a scanner. Then, just like a computer, they lock on a couple of peripheral stations and get an automatic triangulation on you."

"Suppose you're moving? Damn fast?"

"Then they ECM you every time you transmit, and they track you. They plot a course, speed, the whole bit. Just like radar from that point on, except they're depending on your transmissions to trigger their equipment."

"It's pretty sophisticated stuff, Gadgets?"

"Yeah. Damn sophisticated. I don't guess these cops would have anything like that. Wouldn't have that much use for it."

"Suppose they did," Bolan said. "Could we counteract it?"

Schwarz shook his head. "Not with the stuff we have. Our only defense would be to keep quiet as much as possible. Keep transmissions brief."

"How brief?"

"Three or four seconds at a time. That brief."

"All right," Bolan said. "We'll play it that way. The radios will be used only when absolutely necessary. We will not acknowledge each other's transmissions. Rely on code words as much as possible. Don't say anything that may give away your position or route. Okay." Bolan had drawn on a troubled frown. "I want every man in nightsuits, blackface, and as light as possible. You flankers will provide covering and diverting fire only. Trackers, I want you to..."