"How many left in your pack?" Lyons whispered to him.

"Down to three."

"Then take some of mine."

"No way. Those are for down there." Gadgets pointed to the harbor complex. "Couldn't sort them out in the dark."

"What're you talking about? Just take five of them."

"And scramble the sequence? Forget it! You don't want to mess with the sequence."

Blancanales motioned Lyons forward. The Puerto Rican, a veteran of twenty years of war, pointed to a ridge less than a hundred meters from the fence. "I'm leaving one of our friends on that hillside there with this rifle and Starlite." He tapped the M-16/M-203 he carried.

"And two men at the fence?"

"No. He can cover us. The other goes with us."

Lyons nodded. One at a time, the men went downhill through the flowing mud as the rain splashed down. They reached the flooding stream minutes later.

Stripping off his bandolier of 5.56mm magazines and six 40mm grenades, Blancanales passed his M-16/M-203 to one of the contras. The teenager took it and climbed the hill to a point where he could cover their entry and exit.

They continued to the fence in single file, fighting the current and drifting debris. Where the stream passed under the fence was a tangle of branches and litter. The force of the surging water had bent the chain-link fence. Though the security lights illuminated the area, no one inside the complex or patrolling the perimeter could see the infiltrators in the stream.

Blancanales directed two of the young contrasto the banks, one to each side: they crawled to the top and watched for patrols. Then Lyons and the contrasripped into the tangle, pulling fronds aside, dragging branches clear. Lyons found a piece of lumber jammed in the streambed. He stood on the board and gripped the chain link.