"Davis is taking us due south. Wasn't the plan to stay away from the coast?"

"That's where the army is." Lyons spoke into the intercom microphone. "Davis, where you going?"

"I'm paralleling the mountains."

"Our compass tells us you're going straight south."

"Got to, for a while."

"Got to, nothing! You run us into the army, we'll never make it to Mexico City."

"Hey, specialist, I'm the pilot. You see those mountains to the east? The charts say those mountains go up to eleven and twelve thousand feet. If this aircraft were empty, I couldn't get in higher than ten thousand feet. And we're overweight. That means we stay low in the foothills."

"Yeah? If the Mexicans pick us up on radar, they're going to wonder who we are. And that could lead to very serious problems."

"Don't worry about the radar," Davis countered. "Worry about the questions when we refuel. A gang of Indians and gringos shows up in an army of Mexico helicopter and asks for a fill-up?"

"They're all in Mexican uniforms."

"What about you?"

"No problem. We're tourists. The army's taking us sight-seeing."

"Uh-huh."

Lyons turned to his partners and shouted, "He says we're overloaded and he can't get the altitude to stay in the mountains."

Blancanales spoke into the intercom. "Any way we can lighten the helicopter?"

"Throw out the prisoner," Davis answered.

"We need him..."

"Then jump out yourself.''

"No, thanks."

"Then instead of asking me questions, do something. Try unbolting the cargo doors and dropping them."

"That'll have to wait until we land."

"Then get together with all those passengers back there and work out a way we can onload two hundred gallons of filtered, unadulterated Jet A kerosene without any questions asked."