His fingers traced the upper edge of the claymore. A length of det-cord entered the detonator well. Tape secured the det-cord and a pull-firing striker to the rock.

The safety pin hung by a length of cord. Touching the striker assembly with the small finger of his right hand to maintain the position of his hand, he searched for the safety pin's hole. The tip of the pin scratched on the firing device's tube, then slipped home.

Taking a moment to breathe, Blancanales calmed his mind, then pushed the pin through the striker housing.

He put his left index finger through the pull ring and held the spring-driven striker shaft. Then he pulled the monofilament, releasing the striker shaft, and eased the striker down. It stopped against the safety pin.

Blancanales did not cut the monofilament. If the' soldier who placed the mine specialized in anti-infiltration devices, there would be a second claymore at the opposite end of the line. If intruders stumbled into the trip line, the double explosion would rake the kill zone with thousands of high-velocity steel balls from both sides.

But the second claymore mine would have a release-type striker. A release firing device detonated a mine when the trip line went slack. If an intruder spotted the trip line and cut the taut line, the release of the tension allowed the second striker to fall, detonating the claymore.

The Special Forces instructors at Fort Bragg had taught Blancanales to never underestimate the intelligence and professionalism of his enemy. He had survived Vietnam, Laos, Los Angeles, New York, and a hundred other hellgrounds because he remembered his training.

Wiping sweat off his face, Blancanales left the darkness and crawled through the dry weeds. Now he would check for that second claymore.

A sudden explosion shattered the night. Autorifles fired wild. Looking up to the ridgeline where the helicopters were parked, Blancanales saw dust and smoke billowing upward. Tracers streaked in all directions. In the pueblo, he heard shouts and men running.

The group infiltrating the helicopters had tripped a mine.

Disregarding the risk, Blancanales put his hand radio to his lips.

"Lyons! Lyons!" he hissed.

No answer came.

16

A storm of high-velocity bullets shrieked over Lyons. Flat in the shallow gully, he kept his face down and waited, hoping none of the unaimed, undisciplined fire killed him. The boots of running soldiers thudded across the ridgeline. He heard a grenade pop somewhere down the mountainside.

Behind Lyons, Vato and the other Yaquis watched. When Lyons did not reach for the automatic shotgun strapped across his back, they did not move to unsling the rifles they carried. Staying low, not daring to look above the sides of the erosion ditch, they listened to the chaos all around them and waited.

The shooting continued as officers shouted again and again, "Alto dejen de disparar alla afuera no hay nadie. Paren o los mato a todos."

The firing finally died away. Soldiers laughed. Others shouted to their officers.

"Juan Cordova se golpeo. Mierda!"

"Aqui! Hay una pierna... "

"Como sabes esto, Cordova?"

"Yo vi lo que paso. El fue a orinar y se perdiera."

Now the Yaquis knew what had happened. Lyons had seen the drunken soldier urinating outside the perimeter. The soldier had wandered into a claymore mine's trip line.

Shooting continued in the canyon. Lyons whispered into his hand radio, "Wizard, Political. You okay?"

"No problem here," Blancanales answered. "What happened up there?"

Gadgets clicked his code. An almost inaudible whisper came through Lyons's earphone. "We're cool... laying low..."

"These clowns," Lyons whispered in the ditch. "They're up here drunk. One of them wandered into a booby trap."

Lyons chanced a look at the soldiers. He saw a young girl fall from a troopship door. Clutching a rag around her nakedness, she stared into the night, stunned. Lyons saw no one else at the helicopters. He scanned the open area. Around the bonfire, he saw the packs and rifles of the airborne soldiers.

A crowd of soldiers gathered a hundred meters away. Most of them carried flashlights instead of rifles. Soldiers searched through the brush, waving their lights everywhere. Two men pointed flashlights at something on the dirt.

"Fue Cordova."

"Aqui esta su cabeza... El fue una estupida mierda!"

"Asquad of goons are running up the trail to the hill!" Gadgets whispered.

"This is it!" Lyons told his partners. "We're going in."

Returning his hand radio to his web belt, Lyons slipped out his silenced Colt Government Model.

He confirmed the safety, then turned to the Yaquis. He saw them unsheathing their knives.

"Vamos," Lyons whispered.

Lyons crawled for a few more meters, scrambling through the sand and rocks, feeling the hard packed clay and stones scraping his arms, gouging his thighs and knees. He looked up, saw the bonfire blocking the view of the crowd of soldiers.

Sprinting from the ditch, he raced for the nearest helicopter, the second Huey troopship in the line of three. The girl stood in his way, her eyes unseeing, blood flowing from cuts on her face. Lyons couldn't stop to help her or drag her out of the line of fire. He straight-armed her with his left hand, sending her sprawling in the dirt. He hoped she stayed down during the firefight.

Two more steps took him to the Huey and he jumped inside. A soldier in camo green looked at him. Lyons jammed the Colt's silencer into the man's left eye and fired once, the 185-grain hollow-point exploding through the eye and the skull and brain to spray gore on the Plexiglas of the other door. Lyons searched the interior in one sweeping glance, then looked forward. No one.

Through the windshield, he saw a Yaqui throw a dead soldier from the first helicopter. Another Yaqui rushed a soldier from behind. One slash of his knife sliced open the Mexican's throat. The soldier died on his feet, his mouth moving, but the silent red scream spraying out of the yawning wound.

Lyons ran to the last helicopter. He saw the gray fatigue pants of someone sitting at the door. A blond man wearing the gray uniform of the Fascist International watched as the crowd of soldiers reassembled the corpse of the drunk.

The Fascist officer turned as Lyons brought down the heavy Colt autopistol like an ax on the Nazi's skull.

In seconds the loops of plastic handcuffs secured the Nazi's wrists and ankles. Tape covered his mouth and eyes.

Lyons kept moving. Voices came from the trail leading up from the pueblo. With a hand signal, Lyons directed a Yaqui to accompany him. They went to the head of the trail. Throwing themselves flat on the hard earth, they waited. Lyons pointed to the silenced Colt autopistol he held, then pointed to the knife in the hand of the Yaqui. The Yaqui nodded his understanding.

Tailored fatigues and a holstered pistol identified the officer. In the moonlight, Lyons also saw silver insignia of rank flashing from the officer's collar. The officer carried a walkie-talkie. His soldiers carried flashlights and rifles.

Several of the newcomers ran ahead to the crowd on the far side of the ridgeline. Two soldiers remained beside their officer. They lit the path with flashlights. Striding as if on parade, his beret cocked at the perfect angle on his head, the officer maintained his military decorum.

Lyons waited until the officer and soldiers passed. Rising from the ground, he rushed up behind the three men and braced the silenced Colt as he fired once into the head of each soldier. He didn't pause in his rush.

The bodies of the soldiers fell as if their legs had been cut out from under them. The officer stood motionless for a moment of shock as the spray of brains and blood hung in the moonlight. Lyons smashed him in the back of the head.