The Eurocopter sank into the forest. No one except Ben would have been surprised to hear the rotors shred themselves in an unequal match with the sturdy tree trunks. But the only sound was a crackle and snap of thin branches and the soft thump of the skids hitting the around. Ben's sharp eyes had seen what the others had not, that what appeared to be thick forest was in reality a cleared area overgrown with heavy underbrush. The SeaCobra dropped down a short dis- tance away.

Austin let out the breath he had been holding and jumped from the chopper with Zavala and the Aguirrez brothers right behind him. They ducked into a combat crouch with guns at the ready, de- spite the infrared sweep. As the rotors spun to a stop, a silence so com- plete that it seemed to have substance settled on them. Ben climbed out of the chopper and glanced at the upheld machine rifles.

“You won't find anyone here,” he said. “This place hasn't been used since I was a kid. There's a river over there through the trees.” He pointed to some ramshackle buildings that were barely visible in the dusky light. “That's the bunkhouse and the sawmill. It's a bad- luck place. My father said they had lots of accidents. They built a new camp downriver where they could float the logs to market quicker.”

Austin had more temporal things on his mind. “The light's fad- ing. We'd better get moving.”

They rounded up their rucksacks and broke into two groups. The NUMA men, Nighthawk and the Aguirrez brothers would be the assault group. The muscular Basques moved with an air of assurance that suggested they were no strangers to clandestine missions.

The two pilots, who were also heavily armed, would wait for a call to provide backup. Ben led the way into the forest, and they went from dusk to darkness the second they were under the trees. Each man except the last in line carried a small halogen flashlight, which they held beam-pointed-down as they followed Ben, who moved through the woods as silently and as swiftly as a woodland wraith. They traveled between a walk and a trot for several miles, making good time on the soft carpet of pine needles, until Ben finally called a halt. They stood in the piney darkness, panting with exertion, sweat pouring down their faces.

Ben cocked his ear, listening. After a moment, he said, “We're less than a mile away.”

Zavala slipped the shotgun off his shoulder. “Time to make sure our powder is dry.”

“Don't worry about the guards,” Ben said. “They're all on the lakeside. Nobody would expect us to come in this way.”

“Why not?” Zavala replied.