"Ixnay," Gadgets snapped. "He looks like he's been working."

Blancanales seconded the question. "I believe my partner has a valid point. When the Agency learned that we had failed to complete our mission, why weren't we immediately dispatched to hit the real threat?"

"Any project of this kind requires intensive consultation and coordination between offices. Matters of international policy and diplomacy..."

Lyons cut him off with a sneer. "Talk or take a walk, Mr. George the Clerk. I asked a question. Answer it."

"Do you believe," George answered, his face suddenly red with anger, "that you make this government's international policy?"

"Forget the foreign-policy jive. We know what goes on. And we know what we've got to do."

"Do you believe that you... cowboy mercenaries can continue improvising your way through one adventure after another, destroying years of subtle diplomacy for the sadistic thrills of your death-squad antics? I will tell you this. The value of your team is under debate. And actions such as your complete disregard of the order to arrest Powell in Beirut do not enhance your prospects for continued employment."

"So that's what took so long," Lyons said, nodding. "That's what took you clerks weeks. You knew about the rockets. But you had to debate whether to send us."

"Your team is wildly erratic in the performance of your assignments."

"We get the job done. We do what's necessary. Now, you..." Lyons left his seat and advanced on the middle-aged bureaucrat. Blancanales grabbed Lyons's arm.

"Calm down."

"You will get out of my sight. Because my instincts are telling me..."

"Be cool!" Gadgets shouted at Lyons. "You throw him out, it'll depressurize the cabin and my orange pop here will most definitely lose its fizz. So be cool!"

George retreated into the pilot's cabin. Seconds later, Grimaldi stepped out. He scanned the seats. The three men of Able Team were reading the prepared materials.