"Why the airport?" Blancanales asked. "He's got the place radar tight, nothing can come in."
"It gives the Feds and the LAPD an option. If we don't make it, they could land assault squads if things got desperate..."
"If we took out the radar!" Gadgets pointed to Mount Black Jack on Blancanales' map. "Right there. The radar station's in town, but the actual scanning equipment's up on top of this mountain. We hit that equipment, he's blind."
"Can't do it." Lyons shook his head. "Assault units would be a desperate, last-chance gamble. And hitting the radar wouldn't help. He'd pull in his men, kill the hostages before the assault teams got into town.
"And another problem. We are not making informed decisions. We won't be able to devise a real plan until we know what's out there. Time to move."
"Time to forward all this information to Brognola," Gadgets added. "Maybe Stonyman and the LAPD can work out a plan."
Lyons paced the dirt road while Gadgets prepared his transmission. Dictating into the recorder, Gadgets detailed what Able Team had seen and heard. He summarized their discussion on a possible coordinated assault. Then, plugging in the scrambler module and speeding up the tape to ten times normal, he transmitted the information. Anyone intercepting Gadgets' transmission would hear only a shriek of electronic noise. Finally Gadgets packed his equipment: "Ready to go."
Blancanales gave the captured G-3 a last wipe, snapped in a magazine. "Loaded."
Lyons stared out at the dry hills rolling west to the Pacific. Steadily, a wide grin grew on his face: "Gentlemen, I have the perfect plan. Simple, straightforward, very effective."
"What's that?" Gadgets asked.
"We kill them all."
8
Crowning the mountainous interior of Catalina, the Airport in the Sky equalled its name. The engineers who had created this marvel of beauty and utility leveled the peaks of a mountain range to sculpt an artificial plateau high above the island. The airfield viewed the surrounding island, the vast Pacific to the west, the San Pedro Channel to the east, and when the winds blew away the smog of Los Angeles, the hundred miles of coast where the metropolis met the ocean.
Resident commuters, regardless of how often they flew in and out, enjoyed every flight. To the islanders returning from the concrete and glass maze of Los Angeles, the landing field seemed to be a platform floating between the blue-domed heaven of the sky and the primitive paradise of their isolated home. To the uninitiated tourist arriving from the mainland, their flight's descent to the field provided the first thrilling vision of an island wonderland known for its unique natural beauty.
Even those tourists who come to the island by boat often included the Airport in the Sky in their schedule, leaving the island's only town in buses and rented cars and following the winding, back-switching road through canyons and hills to the high airfield.
Able Team followed the same road, but did not continue to the man-made plateau of the airport. They stopped short. After studying their topographical maps of the island, they concealed their commandeered motorcycles and hiked up a steep gorge to the flat mountain crest.
At the top, on their bellies in the dry brush, they saw the Early California-style airport facilities two hundred yards to the north. They scanned the exteriors and the windows and doorways of the buildings with binoculars and the eight-power scope of the Mannlicher sniper rifle.
They saw silhouetted movements within the glass-walled controller's booth in the three-story tower.
"Three bikes outside," Lyons told the others. He raised the Mannlicher slightly. "Only two Outlaws in the tower."
"Outlaw number three," Gadgets said, "is in the chair on the restaurant patio."
Lyons scanned the parking lot, the restaurant, the control tower. "I say we go straight through the front door."
"Second the motion," Blancanales agreed. He chambered a round in the Beretta.
Staying below the edge of the plateau, they followed the contour of the mountain until they were downslope from the parking lot. Staying flat as they crawled up, they peered through the decorative bushes and flowers of the landscaping. Unlike the mountainsides, the restaurant landscaping was watered and tended through all the seasons, and it stayed spring green. The lush growth provided cover.
The sentry, his walkie-talkie on the patio bricks beside him, sat only a hundred feet away. Lyons pointed to himself and Gadgets, then pointed to the airport buildings. He pointed to Blancanales, then pointed to the sentry and pulled an imaginary trigger. Blancanales nodded.
Holding the Beretta in both hands, Blancanales extended the pistol in front of him at arm's length, resting both his elbows and the butt of the pistol on the ground. He sighted on the biker's chest as Lyons and Gadgets pushed up into sprinter's starting stance.
A voice cracked from the walkie-talkie. As Blancanales fired, the sentry leaned down to pick up the hand-radio. The sub-sonic 9mm slug slapped into his jacket sleeve. Forgetting the radio, he looked at the small hole, watched blood run from his arm. Then he saw Lyons and Gadgets charging at him.
He reached through scorching pain for the pistol at his belt, then he jerked back in the chair, a three-round burst punching a pattern into his chest. But he still moved, half rising from the chair as he groped for his pistol with his left hand. A final silent bullet hit him in the forehead. He sat back, his face slack, his three eyes open. The radio squawked again:
"Hey, goofball. Answer the radio. This is Eagle."
Lyons picked up the hand-radio and pressed the talk button. "Yeah?"
Gadgets pressed himself against the restaurant's stucco wall, looked for Lyons, saw him listening to the hand-radio as he rearranged the dead biker's body. He was positioning the dead man to look like he had fallen asleep, his face resting on his shoulder.
"I want you down where you can watch that road, you hear me?" the radio voice continued. "I don't want you in the restaurant drinking the beer, I don't want you wandering around smoking dope, I want you watching that road. Horse said..."
"Horse said shit," Lyons sneered into the radio. He saw Gadgets watching wide-eyed. Lyons grinned. "You don't tell me nothing."
"What? What did you say? You want me to come down there and kick your ass right off this island?"
"Waiting for you."
"You piece of..." The voice cut off.
Lyons left the radio in the dead man's hands, then ran over to the stucco wall. He stood on the other side of the restaurant's door from Gadgets. Gadgets grinned, shook his head. Lyons waved his arms to get Blancanales' attention, then pointed at the restaurant door. They waited.
Thirty seconds later, the plate glass door flew open, slamming into Lyons where he stood against the wall. His Ingram banged the glass.
Looking at the biker who stomped out, they knew why he was called Eagle. His nose stuck out two inches from his face, the bridge of it almost perpendicular to his forehead, the end hooking down. And like an eagle, people looked up to him. He stood six-foot-eight.
Hearing the metallic clang of Lyons' Ingram on the plate glass, he glanced behind the door. For a big man, he moved fast, whipping the door aside, then driving a kick at Lyons' groin.
Both hands braced on the small weapon, Lyons blocked the kick with his Ingram. The kick bounced him off the wall. Eagle lunged for him.
A slug zipped past Eagle and smashed the glass door. Lyons' throat in one hand, his fist drawn back to smash this blond stranger in an Outlaws jacket, Eagle saw Gadgets bringing up his Uzi.
Eagle bashed Gadgets with Lyons. Gadgets sprawled on the bricks, the Uzi flying from his hand. Still holding Lyons by the throat, Eagle whipped an eighteen-inch machete from his belt.