His hand traced a line leading west.

"This all-weather highway carries weapons, munitions and heavy vehicles, such as tanks and armored cars, to the interior. As far as we have been able to determine, the government of Nicaragua established this harbor solely for the offloading of Soviet weapons."

George pointed to a long white strip south of the bay.

"You will go ashore on this beach. Here, in this lighthouse, is a bunker guarding the entrance to the harbor. Sandinista regulars — repeat, regular forces, not the militia of teenage draftees — patrol the beach, the hills and the village on foot and in vehicles. There are also patrols in boats and sometimes in light aircraft. After landing, you will cross this stretch of flat ground and go over this ridge. Here..." the bureaucrat pointed to the winding stream passing through the southern end of the compound "...is a culvert. Our people report that storms have washed out the alarms. This will be your point of entry."

"And what if it isn't the way you say?" Lyons asked.

"It will be."

"Who will be our liaison?" Blancanales asked.

"A group of Miskito Indians. Members of a force that mounts frequent incursions into the region's coastal facilities."

Lyons pressed his question. "What happens if it isn't like you say?"

"I suggest you closely study the information the Agency prepared. You will see you have considerable resources with which to counter any contingency."

"Like what?"

"Oh, wow!" Gadgets exclaimed, looking up from the photocopied pages in his folder. "A multiband coded frequency-impulse transmitter. Far fucking out! Forget you, Ironman. I don't need you this time. I'll take my magic box in all by myself."