"Then go. When they come, I shoot."
"No way, kiddo." Paxton looked down at his short leg. Shards of plastic and bent aluminum hung out of his ragged pant leg. "My phony leg's all shot to shit and I don't have a crutch. I need you for the three-legged race."
"What is a three-leg race?"
"A joke, kid. A joke." Paxton looked outside, saw soldiers in khaki— and rust-camouflaged fatigues approaching. A voice bellowed: "Take them alive! Alive, you hear me, jack-offs!" Paxton recognized the voice. He turned to his wounded friend. "Hold on. I think I can work something out." Then he shouted out the window: "Hey! Pardee! Guess who you just shot down?"
* * *
Wrapping duct tape around his shattered plastic leg, Paxton watched Pardee leaf through his notes and photos on the three federal agents. Pardee studied an eight-by-ten blow-up of the three men with Hal Brognola.
"This fourth guy is a federal? You positive?"
"Go back a few pictures — that one. That one was taken in Washington, D.C. Look on the other side, there's a photo cut out of the Washington Post. Read the caption. Compare the names and faces. You tell me if he's official."
"Oh, man. Have we been had."
"They infiltrated your operation?"
"Worse. The commander's covering for one of them. Don't know why, but he is."
"The commander? Who is he?"
"A candy ass named Furst. You wouldn't know him. He's never worked Latin America. Playboy warrior."
A soldier rushed into the room with a sheet of paper. He went to Paxton. "Good news, sir. Your man's going to be okay. They got him to a hospital in Madera. The doctor said he'll live through the gut wound. And the leg wound's a simple through and through. No breaks or compounds. Here's the address of the hospital and the name of the doctor."
"Thank you..."
"Now get out," Pardee sneered at the soldier.
Paxton laughed. "Same old Pardee."
Leaving the photos, Pardee went to the broken window viewing the airstrip. "Who knows what those federals are doing up there? I can't risk flying back until after dark. And I can't risk the radio. If Furst is in it with them... well, thanks a lot, Paxton. I'm up shit-creek. But at least I know it now."
"Hang it up," Paxton suggested. "Take your men and helicopters south. I got a job for you. Thousand a week in El Salvador, popping college students who think they're revolutionaries. Easy money."
Pardee grinned, all the scars on his face standing out. "Thanks for the offer. But tonight, I give myself a promotion. Commander of the Texas Irregulars. Thousand a day, and a million-dollar bonus if I make my kill. And I always make my kill."
* * *
Even as the Mexican plane passed over the base, Gadgets finished the last of the transmitters. Each the size of a credit card, Furst studied them, held them up to the light to peer at their tiny components. He closed his hand around all five.
"I could have made them smaller," Gadgets told him. "But I just don't have the equipment here."
"Perfectly all right. You will be monitoring these until I return?"
"Yes, sir. I'll make tapes."
"Good. I have to greet our distinguished guests."
Furst gave him a quick salute, started out the door, stopped. "We are on the same team, are we not?"
"Yes, sir. Of course, sir."
"I mean, now I'm with you and Marchardo and Lyons."
"Lyons? Who is Lyons?"
Furst laughed, rushed down the steps to his Mercedes. Gadgets bolted into action. All day he had raced against the clock to finish the transmitters that Furst had requested. Now Furst had his transmitters. But Gadgets had not had the time to make the receivers. He rushed through the assembly, glancing at his watch from time to time. He needed the first receiver in only minutes, so that he could monitor Furst's conversations with the others from the first word.
Ten minutes later, he had the first unit. He slipped on his headphones and listened. He heard noises and muffled voices. "Idiot!" Gadgets muttered. "Take it out of your pocket!"
But then he realized the voices were distant to the "bug." He heard a car door slam, heard greetings in English and Spanish. Frantic, Gadgets searched through the clutter of his worktable and found a jack-cord. He tore open the package of new tape cassette recorder and jammed in some batteries. He set the cassette machine to record the conversations as he assembled other receivers, one for each miniature transmitter.
The conversations continued, in English and Spanish. They talked of "the revolution," of "freedom from socialism." They discussed careers, experiences. When one man spoke, all the others went quiet. Gadgets guessed him to be the leader of the Mexicans as the others deferred to him and called him "El Rojo."
"Presidente."
"Jefe." He told them that his first duty upon arriving at Mr. Monroe's home was to "console his distressed sister." She had radioed to his plane, asked him to put her ahead of the affairs of state. And after all, he will be too busy the next day to visit with her. So if the gentlemen will excuse him...
Gadgets listened to the sounds of the group arriving at the Monroe estate. As they left the limousine, he heard the voice of the young Dr. Nathan:
"... forgive Mr. Monroe for not greeting you personally, but his pulse developed an irregularity earlier. So I gave him a sedative. A full night's sleep should restore him. He will greet you gentlemen tomorrow morning."
They entered the house. Availa Monroe met her brother with tears and joy and Spanish too quick for Gadgets to understand. El Rojo excused himself. His voice and his sister's faded away.
Switching on his other receivers, Gadgets heard their voices in the study. He started another cassette machine to record their Spanish. From the near-hysterical tone of Availa Monroe's voice, Gadgets thought there must be a serious problem. He heard sobbing, muffled words, and El Rojo's calm and consoling tone. Then silence.
He turned up the volume of the receiver. He strained to hear wood knock on wood, something clatter, then footsteps crossing the room. The two transmitters captured every small sound. Then he heard what he guessed to be a door bolt locking.
Continuing work on the last receiver, he listened for further conversation. There was none. But what he did hear made his hands stop their frantic work.
He heard gasping, frenzied breathing, small cries. The sounds of passionate, even violent sex.
17
Parting the plastic slats of the office's Venetian blinds, Gadgets looked across the base street to his workshop. No one moved on the street. He raised the hand-radio he had purchased that afternoon, keyed the "transmit" button once, paused, then three times again quickly. It was their code for "Lyons, Gadgets calling." The hand-radio looked exactly like those issued to the sentries and platoon leaders. Gadgets had modified the three new radios to not only transmit and receive on the frequency of the mercenary radios, but also on a far-distant frequency for Able Team. Unless examined closely, the modification would not be detected. Gadgets repeated the click code.
"Holy Mother of..." Blancanales swore. Leaning over the office desk, he rewound the cassette for an instant, listened to a section again.
"They can't be brother and sister," Gadgets commented, watching the street.
"Who cares. You didn't understand any of this talk? Nothing?"
"They talked too fast for me."
"Here comes a translation," Blancanales told him He alternated between the cassette machine's Play and Pause button, translating: "...the old man can't make love like a man... what he makes her do is disgusting...
"Then El Rojo talks. Her sacrifice will soon be rewarded... the assassination of the President of Mexico by gringos will enrage the people of Mexico... there will be war, there will be rebellion in the barrios of the United States... the fascist gringos can't use their atomic weapons against their own cities, against a country so close to their own... in one stroke, we will create a People's Republic of Mexico and regain the territories stolen from our forefathers...