20

Jack Grimaldi had landed in Tegucigalpa in the darkness and wind-driven rain of the storm from the Pacific. After a leisurely meal of reheated Air Force lasagna and stale white bread, downed with a six-pack of Honduran beer, he borrowed a raincoat and went to examine the men and aircraft available for his latest Stony Man assignment.

Sometime in the next three to seven days, Able Team would radio him for a lift out of El Salvador. Maybe they would radio from an airfield. Maybe they would radio from a clearing in the mountains. He needed mechanically dependable aircraft available twenty-four hours a day, with standby personnel to service the aircraft and man the flights.

At the military end of the airfield, the Central Intelligence Agency maintained a secret air force. An officer in the Agency's Langley offices had agreed over the phone to furnish a helicopter or plane for the Able Team mission. But an Agency promise in Washington, D.C., did not mean a plane and crew in Tegucigalpa.

Interdepartmental rivalries! Grimaldi walked through the rain cursing the problems created by petty bureaucratic egotism. Army Intelligence won't help Navy Intelligence. The Air Force won't help the NSA. The State Department wages paper wars with the National Security Council. Fight the Reds, fight terrorism, fight Libya, maybe the Frenchies, too. But first, we fight each other.

Likely as not, they'll tell me to type up an official request and send it to my congressman.

Continuing to the lighted window of a hangar's office, Grimaldi tried the door. Locked. He knocked. No answer. He knocked on the window. Condensation on the glass allowed him only a fuzzy view of the interior. After he pounded on the sheet-steel door with his fist, a face appeared at the window.

"Who's that out there?" a voice shouted.

"The name's Jack Eagle. You got a cable about me."

The door opened. A tall, bearded man with T-shirt bulging over a beer belly motioned him inside. "Been waiting all day for you, Jack. They buzzed us from up north that you'd be doing some taxi work."

"Here's my identification." Grimaldi displayed authorization papers complete with signatures and carbon copies.

"Well, yeah. Those look good. Got the right John Hancock down there. Recognize the name. Not that papers mean shit. You can call me Tennessee, Jack."

"Thanks for the cooperation, Tennessee. I need to take a trip into the mountains."

The other man laughed. "Yeah, that's what we do here. In fact, that's all we do. Question is, fixed wing or rotor?"

"Both, whatever..."

"We don't have any of those!" Laughing again, Tennessee led him through the office and into the hangar. "Least, not this week."

"I mean, I won't know until I get the signal. I'll need a standby helicopter and a standby plane. And personnel."

"Daylight or night pickup?"

In the dark interior of the hangar, Grimaldi saw a war-surplus Huey painted with midnight-blue enamel and corporate logos. Bullet holes pocked the panels. Beyond that helicopter, other Hueys waited in various stages of maintenance. Masking tape and gray primer paint covered the side of one helicopter.

"Twenty-four-hour standby," Grimaldi said.

"Hot or cold?"

Grimaldi glanced at the maintenance logs on the midnight-blue "corporate shuttle" helicopter. He compared the air hours to the dates of the service. "What do you mean?"

"The LZ."

"Won't know until I get the signal. In fact, it could change by the time I get to the landing zone."

"How many passengers returning? And what's the approximate weight of returning equipment?"

"Three for sure. Maybe two others. And hand luggage."

"Those numbers are subject to cancellation, right? We get calls to take out ten passengers. We show up, and three and four have been 'canceled' by the time we get there."

"No cancellations possible. I hope."

"We don't deal in hopes. We deal in lift weight. But if you're talking helicopters, five men or one man, it don't make that much difference. All we got is Hueys. But in planes, it means something."

The maintenance records of the blue Huey indicated the mechanics had dedicated themselves to keeping the helicopter airborne. Routine work exceeded requirements. When one hydraulic hose showed a crack, the mechanics replaced all the hoses and refilled the system with new fluid. Mechanics replaced control cables before even one strand frayed.

"I want this one," Grimaldi told Tennessee.

"Don't you want to wait on the bodywork?" Tennessee pointed to the bullet holes. "Isn't it amazing what birds can do to aluminum? Fly into an aircraft, punch their little beaks through the sheet metal. Sure messed up the company paint job. You'd think it was deliberate."

The Stony Man flier put the tip of his finger into one dent. "Seven-point-six-two-millimeter beaks. The birds must be Kalashnikov snow storks. Didn't think their migratory patterns took them through Central America."

The Agency man laughed. "Pesky critters. Flying around everywhere these days."

"The birds get to any of the workings?"

"No mechanical damage whatsoever, sir. No, sir. Would've fixed that first. We worry about sheet metal and paint last around here. But while you're waiting for your passenger signal, we'll do the touch-ups."

"And what other equipment can I requisition? Like some guns for the doors. To keep those snow storks back."

"M-60s do? Got mini-Gatlings. Or 40mm machine guns. Those Gatlings put down a flock at a time."

"Interesting. What happens if I need additional equipment and aircraft? Maybe my people will need some kind of backup."

"Whatever you want, Mister Eagle. We got it all. Personnel on one-hour call. Give us a ring, we wake them up."

The pager at Grimaldi's belt buzzed. The signal meant the ultra-high-frequency radio in his plane had received a burst transmission. The transmission meant something had gone wrong.

Fifteen minutes later, Grimaldi piloted the midnight-blue Huey into the storm.

21

All the Democratic Front fighters volunteered to join in the assault on the fascist stronghold in the Honduran mountains. But the Huey could carry only the weight of fourteen men and their weapons. The former Salvadoran army officers and soldiers drew lots to determine who would accompany the North Americans across the Honduran border.

A plastic tarp sheltering them from the drizzling rain, Able Team went through all their weapons and equipment by the light of an electric lantern. The three North Americans took only what they needed for the assault. Their suitcases, backpacks, rations and field equipment would remain with the Democratic Front fighters who stayed behind.

"You know what happens if the politicians ever find out about this?" Gadgets asked his partners. "Foreign policy nightmare."

"About what?" Lyons asked. "Us killing fascists? You got it. Hope it starts an international fad."

"No! This stuff. We're giving it to guerrillas. Even if they aren't Commies, they're antigovernment."

"We need their help," Lyons said. "If Quesada ran off to someplace safe, I figure that place will have more defenses than his plantation did."

"Elementary, my dear Ironman. They teach you to think like that in college?" Gadgets countered. "But think about this. We're donating this gear to the guerrillas. The guerrillas are fighting the government of El Salvador. The government of El Salvador is a regional ally of the United States..."

"No ally of mine! How many U.S. citizens have the Salvos murdered so far? Nuns, social workers, lawyers, reporters, tourists! All the killers were army or national guard. Any of those goons go to trial? Captain Lizco says his men specialize in wiping out death squads. I don't mind helping his people, not at all. Wish I could donate a ton of ammunition."