7

"Welcome to my office," Carl Lyons said, laughing as his Able Team partners examined the trailer on campus.

"It's more spacious than Brognola's," Blancanales said. "How'd you swing this?"

"I phoned Archer, told him I wanted one of those portable offices used by construction companies and he got it. Magic."

"Presto. This is a bit better than the huts we're used to using in the jungles," Gadgets noted.

"How's the arm?" Politician asked Lyons.

The blond warrior looked surprised. "I'd forgotten about it," he said with a shrug. Lyons never gave small pain anything more than small consideration.

The trio settled down on some heavy, scarred chairs.

"How long do you figure it'll take Babette to round up the black athletes?" Gadgets asked.

"They've got to come from other areas where they're staying," Pol said. "Unfortunately they're not all together. Doesn't really matter, though. We need the time for planning.''

The three men outlined a plan, each pitching in with suggestions, questions, until one solid block of strategy had been mapped out.

"I'm going to need squealers — miniature transmitters that send a constant signal — and tracking gear," Gadgets interjected at one point in the session.

"FBI or cops have them?" Lyons asked.

"Not exactly what I want," he replied, "but something close enough. I can modify them. I'll need some tuning crystals, too."

Lyons went to make a phone call. When he returned he told Schwarz, "They'll have what you need in a half hour. Be delivered here."

The discussion continued until there was a knock at the door of the trailer office. Babette Pavlovski let herself in. She was followed by eight blacks.

"That was quick," Gadgets said.

"We're quick," one of the athletes informed him.

The only athlete the members of Able Team recognized was Sam Jackson, the U.S. amateur heavyweight boxing champion. Jackson was a huge man with huge fists. The fists hung at his sides, lightly closed. Over the past few years he had earned the nickname "Lightning" for the fast way those fists burned, punished opponents.

"So you're Lighting Sam Jackson," Pol said. "You're supposed to have the quickest hands in boxing."

"What do you mean, 'supposed to'?"

Jackson moved close to Blancanales, shadow boxing, his fists a blur. The Able Team warriors were more than impressed.

"Yeah," fired Lyons to Pol. "What do you mean, 'supposed to'?"

Everyone sat down. Silence filled the room.

Lyons, not wanting to waste valuable time, broke the quiet.

"Babette tells us Old Lady Russia would embrace you people with open arms. What's the draw?"

"Babette should mind her own business," one of the athletes piped in.

"American athletes are my business," Babette said. "Since I defected — something that had nothing whatsoever to do with the Soviet Union — I have been hounded by Soviet scum. They feel my defection is a taint on communism."

Lyons broke in to repeat his question. "What's the draw?"

"There's no discrimination over there," a female athlete said.

"We'd be supported by the state," another said.

"We'd get better training," said another.

"Bullshit," said Lyons. "They're not luring you over there with a nickel-and-dime draw of no discrimination, state support, better training. Don't feed me that shit. I just ate. What's the draw?"

Again silence filled the room. The athletes looked at one another. Tension hung heavy. No one wanted to be the first to speak. Finally, Lightning Sam Jackson opened up.

"Draw's different for each of us," he said.

"What's being offered to Sam Jackson?" Blancanales asked.

Jackson looked pained. He was a man clearly more confident dodging punches than questions.

"Money, man. What else? Old Boering told me they'd get me money and I could keep my amateur status."

Once Jackson had opened up, the rest began to spill their stories, reluctantly at first, freely later.

When they seemed to have run out of steam, Pol told them about the kidnapping. He passed around the note he had found in the blond man's pocket. He urged them to keep the situation to themselves.

"Maybe Russia would be better," one athlete, shocked at the news of the kidnapping, said.

"That is Russia," Pol told them. "Those were Russian agents we killed at the airport. That's your sample of Russia. Kill, capture..."

"No way,'' Jackson said as he finished reading the letter. "The Klan hates Commies. There's no way those bigoted bastards would help the Russians.''

"They'd help the South Africans, though," Pol reminded him. "And how hard would it be to set them up for this? The South Africans could really benefit from recognition by the Olympic Committee, but not enough to make it worth the Klan's while to get involved this deep. More than the Klan's involved."

"What was the shooting around here all about?" Jackson asked.

Lyons gave it to them straight. "This morning three dudes from a local motorcycle gang walked into the women's gymnasium and shot at Babette. They killed Tracy Shaw."

That news brought the first strong emotional reaction from the group. That news hit home.

"We're telling the press that the gang members were shooting at each other and that a stray bullet caught Tracy," Lyons said. "I'll tell you that the gunmen were using weapons that are manufactured in East Germany and don't often reach the West. We're also telling the press that the same motorcycle gang, the Riding Devils, came here to finish the war that started this morning."

"And what are you telling us?" another athlete asked. "The truth, I hope."

"The entire gang rounded up any weapons it could find and came to finish the job on Babette. The FBI had planned to get a substitute Babette over here, but the real one arrived first. The bikers attacked her but they didn't succeed with anything other than getting themselves wiped out."

There were a few weak smiles around the room. Babette was well liked and highly respected among the athletes. When she had selected the ones she wanted present at the meeting, she had picked athletes who were leaders, who could sway other athletes' opinions if unity among the blacks was needed.

Knuckles rapped on the door. Two men carrying three attache cases entered the room.

"Lyons?" one asked.

Lyons nodded.

The men placed the attache cases on an empty desk. Lyons was required to sign a form, and then the men left.

Gadgets got up and seated himself at the desk. He opened the attache cases. One case held tools, a second had two directional receivers, the third a large assortment of the squealers he had requested along with a batch of spare parts carefully mounted in foam rubber.

The Able Team wizard began dismantling the first small broadcasting unit.

"Any more questions?" Lyons asked the group.

"Yeah," one replied. "Why are you telling us all this?"

"I want something."

"That much we figured, but I'm beginning to suspect it's more than an oath of allegiance."

Lyons told them what he wanted. It took some time and discussion. While they batted ideas back and forth, clarifying points, Babette went over to help Gadgets.

One by one the black athletes agreed to the plan and left the stuffy trailer to walk in the late-afternoon sun.

When the last athlete was gone, Gadgets wiped the perspiration from his face and turned to Babette. "Where did you learn to solder like that?"

Sadness gripped her tone. "In Czechoslovakia, an athlete must start gymnastics so young. When I was nine I objected to such a strenuous life. I was always practicing or doing schoolwork. I never had time to play. I became bitter, and my performance dropped. Czech authorities knew I might act this way and they had a cure — putting me to work in a factory, twelve hours a day, six days a week. In the factory I soldered small electronic components. In the factory I learned to love the athletic life.