One by one they ducked under the rushing black water. Lyons held the fence until the others had gone under, then dropped. The two lookouts went last.
Between the stream and the barracks were parked trucks and stacks of crated cargo. Grinning, Lyons passed the heavy pack of claymores to Gadgets. Then he tightly cinched the sling of his Konzak, binding the assault shotgun against his body, and slipped out his modified-for-silence Colt. Blancanales and Gadgets worked the actions of their silenced Beretta 93-R auto-pistols.
Lyons, followed by a contrawith a machete, dashed to a truck's trailer and went flat beside the wheels. Rainwater streaming from the truck's plastic-covered cargo poured over their muddy blacksuits. Lyons motioned for the contrato wait, then snaked toward the barracks. He crept across an open stretch of mud and hid behind another parked truck.
Looking across a two-lane asphalt road illuminated by mercury-arc lamps, he saw garages and workshops. Another asphalt lane separated the utility buildings from the barracks.
Where the road met the dock, a group of soldiers stood at a sandbagged machine-gun position. In the opposite direction, toward the gate of the complex, two soldiers paced the fence.
Lyons took the hand-radio from his belt, clicked down the transmit, and whispered, "We can't cross the road."
"Look for another way," Blancanales told him.
"There isn't... unless... Standby."
Staying flat in the mud, Lyons crawled alongside two heavy diesel trucks, a tractor, an ancient Chevrolet pickup and a ComBloc flatbed truck. Then he approached an old Dodge panel truck. He scanned the vehicles around him, scanned the road. He saw no one. Rising, he tried the door.
The foul scent of alcohol filled his nostrils. As his eyes adjusted to the dark interior, he heard snoring come from the back. Seeing a man curled on the floor, Lyons holstered his modified Colt.
He pushed the seat forward and lunged inside. He tore away the man's shirt, jammed it into his mouth and threw the suddenly awakened drunk onto his face. Lyons took plastic riot handcuffs from his web belt and secured the man's hands. An oily rag went around the drunk's head as a blindfold. Finding the keys to the Dodge in the drunk's pocket, he clicked on his hand-radio.
"I got transportation."
Minutes later, as the others crowded into the truck, Blancanales put the prisoner's jacket over his blacksuit. Then he drove directly to the building where the Iranian allegedly slept.
The Nicaraguan Communists had provided first-class quarters for their visiting comrades. Unlike the technicians and shipping crews who stayed in the barracks, the ComBloc officers enjoyed private suites and conference rooms. Their one-story bungalows boasted patios and landscaping.
Able Team knew the numbers of the rooms occupied by the Iranian and his group. Blancanales stopped the truck at the Iranian's bungalow. As the contraschecked their weapons, Lyons said to Blancanales, "Remind them that our targets are the Soviets and Iranians. They don't get paid extra for killing Nicaraguans."
Gadgets laughed softly. "Mercy for the Sandinistas? That don't sound like the blood-lusting, Commie-hating Ironman we know and love."
"What? I just don't want them wasting time making numbers for a body count. We're here for information."
"Oh. Ironman the efficient."
As Blancanales spoke to the Miskito contrasin idiomatic Spanish, Gadgets prepared claymores for placement. Lyons glanced to the shadowed doors of the bungalows. He screwed valved hearing protectors into his ears.
In a split second, Lyons, Blancanales and four contraswere out of the Dodge. In pairs, they went to three doors. Three kicks sounded and three doors sprang open simultaneously.
Behind them, Gadgets moved silently through the rain, placing claymores. He made no effort at concealment. In a few seconds, the alarms would sound.
Rushing through a bungalow, the modified-for-silence Colt in his hands, Lyons heard glass shatter. He kicked open the bedroom door and spun to one side as a pistol fired wild. He called out, "White light! Luce bianco..."
The contrapitched in a stun-shock grenade. Designed for antiterrorist confrontations, the grenade had no shrapnel. It exploded with a deafening blast and a blinding flash.
In the other rooms, stun-shocks boomed. A pistol fired, then two more grenades exploded.
Not moving, a dark-haired, narrow-faced Semitic man groaned in bed, his eyes fluttering. Then he collapsed onto the sheets. Lyons cinched plastic handcuffs around his wrists and ankles while the contrateenager gathered his papers. Lyons buckled a nylon harness around the prisoner's shoulders, waist and feet. The harness had loops providing handholds for carrying.
The papers in his wallet provided an identity: Ahmed Choufi, a Syrian with an international import-export company.
Jerking Choufi off the bed, Lyons dragged him through the broken glass. In the other rooms, autofire hammered.
Returning to consciousness, Choufi pleaded for his life, first in French and Arabic, then English. "I am no one, only a businessman... Why do you do this?"
"Shut up or you get a bullet," Lyons ordered.
"But I am no one political."
Dragging his prisoner into the rain, Lyons kneed him in the gut. Gasping, choking, the Syrian struggled to breathe. An AK-47 flashed from the end of the lane, slugs slamming into the bungalow. Lyons saw Gadgets brace his silent Beretta 93-R with both hands. The pistol recoiled once. Someone in the darkness cried out. The rifleman didn't fire again.
Blancanales, emerging from the bungalows alone, whispered to Lyons, "He wasn't there! No clothes, no luggage, nothing!"
Lifting his prisoner's head by an ear, Lyons demanded, "Where's Dastgerdi? Where is he?"
"Who?"
Lyons aimed his silenced Colt at the Syrian's left foot.
Choufi begged, "No more! Have mercy! I know nothing of the colonel's affairs."
"Where is he?"
"He returned to Syria today."
"If he's here, you live. If not, you die. Where is he?"
"Have mercy!" Choufi lapsed into Arabic.
The two contrasfrom the third bungalow rushed to Blancanales and spoke rapidly in Spanish, handing him a folder of identification papers. Blancanales nodded and sent the men to the truck.
Several Sandinista militiamen ran to the bungalows. One staggered as a silent 9mm slug punched into his chest; then bursts from the contras'M-16 rifles dropped the others.
"Christ, it's gone wrong!" the Puerto Rican cursed. "They had an accident. Their man opened up on them and they killed him, blew off his head..."
Lyons thought fast. "Wizard! Here, fast! Bring a radio-pop. And one of those dead men. A skinny one. We got to improvise."
"What?" Blancanales asked.
"It's a sixty-six percent failure so far. Let's make it one hundred percent."
"What are you talking about?"
Snapping open Choufi's briefcase, Lyons removed the Syrian's identification. Gadgets and a contracarried a thin, bloody, dead militiaman.
"I don't even want to know what you're doing with that," Gadgets jived.
"Get that radio-pop ready." Lyons glanced at the dead man: a bearded, hard-muscled, middle-aged soldier, punctured by a crescent of 5.56mm slugs. His height and weight approximated the Syrian's. Lyons jerked the corpse off the walkway, dragged it into the bungalow and threw it onto the bed.
"Cut off his gear and uniform and boots. Put the claymore on his head."
"What?"