Kuhl remained motionless.

"Losses must be expected," he said tonelessly.

Then he sliced his hand in the air and the jeep started to move again, the others following in close procession. The first thing Ed Graham thought when he spotted the jeeps from his Skyhawk chopper was that the sight reminded him of his many years as an LAPD pilot. His second thought was that the first thought was an odd and scary comment on modem American society, given how once upon a time it would have been the Hollywood sign and Mann's Chinese Theater that were symbolic of Los Angeles, not maybe twenty men riding around in full combat gear.

His third thought, which followed within a heartbeat, was that he had better stop thinking and start acting toot-sweet, because he was right now looking down at a major shitload of trouble.

"Christ, we got us a helluva situation," said the man seated at his right, almost yelling to be heard above the loud whop of the rotors. He reached for his communications handset. "Better radio for an assist and then shine the welcome light on our guests."

Ed nodded, his hands working the sticks. Mitch Winter was the best copilot on the installation. They thought alike and got along well, which made partnering together easy.

He took the bird down lower as Mitch sent his message out to base and the rest of their fleet. A hundred feet beneath them, the jeeps had come to an abrupt halt, their drivers and passengers craning their heads back, staring directly up at the Skyhawk.

Peering out his bubble window, Ed briefly released the cyclic and hit the chopper's Starburst SX-5 searchlight. At the same time Mitch touched a button on his comm unit to shift from radio to public-address mode.

The searchlight's 15-million candlepower beam washed over the men in the convoy, its stark illumination transfixing them, turning night into brilliant noonday.

Ed glanced at Mitch. "Okay, all yours."

Mitch nodded and raised the control mike to his lips. "Stay where you are and--"

"--drop your weapons!"

Bathed in merciless light from above, Kuhl thrust his head out his open window and looked back down his row of jeeps, shielding his eyes with one hand. The command booming from the helicopter's PA had been unequivocal. His response would be equally straightforward.

"Open fire," he shouted. "Ahora!"

The four members of Yellow Team had approached to within a few yards of the building, darting from one position of concealment to the next like specters in the night. Their probings had led them to conclude that their primary objective was too heavily guarded to be achieved, but they had been prepared with flexible alternatives and the one ahead of them looked much more vulnerable.

Pausing behind a maintenance shed to check their weapons, they heard the burp of automatic gunfire from off near the west gate, and then the overlying sounds of cars and helicopters converging on the area.

It might for all intents and purposes have been a prearranged cue.