Dick Stivers - Into the Maze

As Gadgets surrendered to the first aid, Blancanales stripped off his partner's ammunition and grenades. Gadgets tried to sit up.

Lyons pushed him back. "Take a break. I'll call you if we need you."

"Get the number-one man!"

"That's the plan..."

Lyons and Blancanales rushed into the corridor.

Two Mexican commandos followed the North Americans. Firing continued at the stairwells. Bypassing the offices, the group went to the next corridor. Lyons dropped flat and looked around the corner.

In one instant of sight, as boots ran toward him, Lyons saw the elevator lobby. A group of International soldiers in uniforms and casual styles defended the stairs, spraying autofire up at the attacking Mexican commandos, then closing the door as the Mexicans returned the fire. Across the lobby, other gunmen shoved personnel — men, women, wounded — into the elevators.

Then a boot kicked Lyons as a soldier tripped over him. Blancanales brought down the butt of his M-16/M-203 on the back of the fascist soldier's head. The first blow of the plastic stock did not calm the struggling soldier. Blancanales slammed him twice again before he went slack.

The Mexican commandos dragged the unconscious man off Lyons. The soldier, wearing green fatigues bearing the emblem of the International Group of the army of Mexico, wore a vest of Uzi mags and a canvas bag of fragmentation grenades. Blancanales appropriated the weapon and the bag of grenades. He pointed to the sound of the fighting.

Lyons nodded. "Teamwork. You pull, I throw."

Pulling safety pins, Blancanales passed the grenades to Lyons, who let the levers flip before he pitched the grenades into the lobby. He threw three grenades before anyone noticed the olive-green spheres bouncing over the carpet.

One fascist shouted, then a blast slammed him against a wall. Blasts came fast and continuously as Lyons threw. He tossed all the eight grenades that the bag contained.

"Time to clean it up."

The North American and Mexican commandos rushed into the screams and swirling smoke. Wounded men and women raised pistols and shotguns. Others clawed the carpet to reach rifles. With an autoweapon in each hand, Blancanales killed everyone he saw, firing ambidextrous bursts from the M-16/M-203 and the Uzi.

Lyons kicked open the stairwell door. A bloody gunman pulled the pin from a grenade and swung back his arm. Lyons fired once, the point-blank blast tearing away the man's ribs and spinning him against the wall. Lyons closed the door. The steel fragments splintered the fire door with dozens of ragged holes.

A flash-shock boomed on the other side. The noise made Lyons stagger back. His body ached from the shock wave. Throwing the door open, he shouted, " No mas ! We are here! Tenemos los fascistos! Alto !"

One soldier peered down. He saw Lyons and motioned to the others. A line of soldiers ran down the stairs. The lieutenant viewed the carnage in the elevator lobby. "Have you found the general?"

"No. But we only searched one office."

A fury of autofire broke out somewhere on the floor. The lieutenant shouted orders to his platoon. The young commandos went through the offices, searching methodically.

"There is still fighting below. My sergeant reports a unit of federal agents attempted to come to the rescue of the fascists."

"Then we'll search through the building until we find him. Him and Gunther..."

"No, American. You must leave. This will be trouble to explain. It is impossible for you to stay."

"We won't go until we find Gunther and the general..."

Blancanales interrupted. "You heard him, Ironman. It's his country. We'll go now."

"It's our war! We got to track down all these Nazis and stomp them out."

"I thank you for your help," the Lieutenant repeated. "But now I must ask you to go."

Vato and the three Yaqui teenagers rushed around a corner. Their Mexican army uniforms splotched with blood, they reloaded their shotguns and rifles on the move. When they saw Lyons and Lieutenant Soto, they blinked as if in shock. Ixto collapsed against a wall, blood pouring from fragment slashes on his left arm. Jacom and Kino sat beside him. They tore off a dead man's shirt and used the shirt to make a compress. Vato joined Lyons and the Mexican officer.

"Have we cut off the head?" Lyons asked the Yaqui.

Vato pointed at the offices. "This head. But there are more. I know there must be more. This Trans-Americas sociedad andnima is everywhere. The offices have maps of all the countries. The war on my people in Sonora is only one of many."

"The lieutenant tells us to go..."

"I thank you for your courage," Lieutenant Soto interrupted, "but this problem, this syndicate is Mexican. You have done what you can."

"Now it is a political problem." Vato nodded, agreeing with Lieutenant Soto.

"No!" Lyons countered. "It is criminal. These Nazis, the Communists, terrorists — they're only gangs of murderers. I refuse to call it political. It's not Mexican, it's not..."

"American," the lieutenant said, "it doesn't matter what you call it. It is what the politicos call it. But you and I know the truth. There is no disagreement between us. Now go. Take all your friends and go. The helicopter waits."

With a salute, Lieutenant Soto left the Yaqui and North Americans.

Lyons shouted to him, "But I'll come back! You understand?"

"Next time you come," the lieutenant answered, "call me first. It will prevent misunderstandings! Adios!"

Lyons and Vato gathered their partners. Minutes later, they flew from Mexico City in the captured troopship.

They had won a victory in Mexico.

But they had far from defeated the Fascist International.

In an inner office of the Soviet Embassy, Jon Gunther briefed the First Secretary on the attack against the International. Like Gunther, the First Secretary served the KGB. "We lost most of those Mexicans, but it is not a total disaster. One of the Americans wants our gold. He will sell himself to us."

"Which one?"

"The blond one. I don't know his name. I will review our files."

"Then why this massacre? If he..."

"He followed my instructions. He attempted to release me. But the other one, the Mexican criminal, he took me to his gang. The American followed instructions. I told him not to betray himself. And he did not. So he killed a few Mexicans? Now we have a man in the most secret of the American special units. I will contact him. I will pay him the gold I promised and much more. And in time, he will earn his money. Tonight was not a defeat. It was another step to victory..."

Able Team author Dick Stivers has just returned from Colombo, Sri Lanka, and sends us this report:

What a beautiful country. How terrible and shameful this war.

My first week here I played tourist. I took the train from Colombo, a city on the tropical west coast, to Kandy, a city high in the mountains. I held on to the handrails at the steps into the cars and watched the landscape streak past. Waved at the farmers. Looked straight down into the canyons at orchards and rice paddies. Saw young women bathing in their sarongs, standing in mountain pools, pouring water over themselves, their glistening hair like night as it flowed over their shoulders.

I've been here a month now, interviewing people, taking hundreds of photos, listening to the official announcements. Some nights I lie awake and stare at the ceiling fan, thinking over what people have told me, comparing stories, cross-checking details: what streets looted and burned; how many families hacked to death, children burned alive, young men shot by the army or police, women mutilated; how many army trucks loading loot on what streets on what night.