She was black haired and beautiful and she lay on a big white bed. She smiled, and Pedro moved toward her.

She said something but her words were lost in the scream of a klaxon horn. As it sounded, the dream changed.

The young and beautiful woman became old and worn, and the white bed turned into the broken side of a stick-and-mud hut. With horror Pedro again saw his mother pinned and dying under the rock that had rolled through his father's home. Again, he heard her screams.

The klaxon sounded again and someone shouted. A hand shook Pedro's shoulder.

"Ramirez! Get up! Red alert!"

The barracks lights were on as he opened his eyes and red lights flashed on the walls. John Dunn, the new man who slept in the upper bunk, was shaking his shoulder. In the doorway stood a man in fluorescent scarlet coveralls with the white crest of a centurion on his chest.

"Tropics! We load in five minutes!" The centurion glared down the length of the barracks for a moment then, leaving the door open, turned and marched out into the night.

Dunn straightened as Pedro opened his eyes.

"You were dreaming," he said.

"I know."

"A bad one?"

"Sort of. Don't worry about it."

"He always dreams when the horn sounds." MacKenzie stepped into his scarlet coveralls as he spoke.

"Oh." Dunn looked embarrassed as he turned to reach for his own coveralls at the head of the bunk.

Still groggy, Pedro pushed the blanket aside and swung his feet to the floor, then wiped the sleep from his eyes before he stood and stretched. Around him, ninety nine other men hurriedly struggled into coveralls and jump boots.

Pedro was shorter and lighter than most of them, but smooth-muscled and strong. His tan was deep, his cheekbones high and his hair straight and very black. He listened to the chatter of the barracks as he dressed.

"What's the time, anyway?" A voice from somewhere.

"About 2:30."

"I bet Johnston had a half-hour to get dressed." Carter buckled a utility belt around his waist as he spoke. "He's not supposed to get any more warning than we do."

"He doesn't, but he doesn't sleep." Chan spoke precisely as he clipped pouches to his belt. "Johnston stands to at a loading door all night, in full kit. When he's tired, he digs ditches."

From outside came the scream of jet engines starting. Coveralls not zipped, boots not buckled, Pedro grabbed his parachute and his jump-bag -- the one with the green stripe, which contained his tropical kit -- and joined the others as they filed out of the building.

One of the five Manitou transport planes assigned to Red One rolled onto the loading pad in front of the barracks as the century formed in the glare of the floodlights, and the others were on the taxi way. Pedro and several others finished dressing as they stood for roll-call, then a whistle blew and five hundred corpsmen filed into the waiting planes.

Six thousand kilometers to the south Centurion John Forsythe drummed his fingers on a steel desk in the radio room of the Canadian embassy in Hidalgo, San Cristobal. At the control board nearby a corpsman flicked switches, read meters, then flicked more switches. The corpsman started as the phone rang, then turned to watch as Forsythe grabbed it.

"Radio room."

"Thompson here. Just got back from a reception. Corpsman on duty says you were looking for me."

"Yes sir. I was."

"What's the problem?"

"Probably nothing serious, sir, but the seismograph shows a bad tremor in the hills above Corunda. I have no indication of damage, but it was eight Richter.

"Yes?"

"When we couldn't reach you I sent a red alert to Ottawa. That's what the book says for anything over five, sir."

"That's right. When was this?"

The Centurion looked at his watch. "About twenty minutes ago."

"I was in the car then -- I guess that's why I didn't feel it. Anything on the monitors?"

"Nothing yet, sir. Power lines are operational, phone lines are good and all the radio stations are broadcasting with no emergency bulletins. Looks like there's nothing to worry about, and I'm ready to cancel when you give the word."

"Eight, you say?"

"Yes sir."

"Have we any projections for that?"

"No sir, not in that area. The only earthquake we've simulated here is under the dam at Rio Blanco, and the engineers say it would take twelve Richter with the epicenter right under the dam to be serious. This one probably didn't do anything but shake a few trees. Might have been minor damage in Corunda, but probably nothing in Rio Blanco. I wouldn't have noticed it here if the alarm hadn't sounded."

"How long have the planes been up?"

"They should have taken off about five minutes ago, sir."

Thompson thought for a moment.

"They can't land for an hour anyway unless they dump fuel. Give them another half hour, then call it off if nothing shows. I'm going to bed now -- it will take me about a half hour to get ready, I guess. Call me if anything happens."

Standing by his desk, Thompson laid the phone down. He glanced again at the messages that awaited him and decided they could wait for morning.

He turned to the door where Dorothy Thompson stood with two cocktail glasses in her hand.

"Well?" She offered him a glass. "Can we relax, or are you still working?"

"We relax." Thompson accepted the glass and slumped onto a sofa. Swirled the drink and looked into it as his wife sat beside him.

"At last," he said. "Parties every night, and I can never relax 'till they're over!" He lifted the glass and took a sip.

"Are you still working? The corpsman seemed to think that call was important."

"It might be, but it's not my problem. The spooks have picked something up on their seismograph, and they've called a red alert."

"Spooks. "Dorothy Thompson made a wry face."I wish you wouldn't call them that. It sounds as though the embassy was full of spies or something."

"It is! We have more electronic gear down there than the Americans and the Russians put together! We know more about San Cristobal than its own government does!"

"But Colonel Amez knows we have it -- you even showed it to him -- and he doesn't seem to mind. It's not as though we were gathering military intelligence."

"No, but I still don't have to like it." Thompson finished his cocktail and set the glass on a coffee table, then leaned back into the couch.

"And now Forsythe has called a red alert," he continued. "He had to do it, but it still means god knows how many forms for me to fill out!"

"You have secretaries for that, dear." Dorothy Thompson finished her own drink and set the glass down, then stood. Lifted her eyebrows as she looked down at him.

"Yes dear." Thompson rose to his feet and followed his wife toward the bedroom.

He was brushing his teeth when the Centurion called again, and he ignored the gentle tinkle of his bedside phone. Then the Centurion used his emergency circuit and the call sounded in every room of the embassy.

"Mr. Ambassador. Radio room."

Thompson spat toothpaste into the sink and rinsed his mouth before he strode to the bedroom to pick up his phone.

"Thompson."

"Forsythe sir. We've had more shocks and something's up. Corunda is not drawing power, the telephones are out and all radio stations are off the air. It looks like the whole town has disappeared!"

"Any bulletins?"

"No sir. Nothing. It's just gone."

"Right. Confirm the red and get Major Morenos on the line. Call the kitchen too, and get someone to bring me a coffee. I guess I won't get to sleep for a while."

"I had Carruthers check the palace sir. Major Morenos is at his hacienda and he's not on the regular telephones. The only way to reach him now is through army headquarters."

"And it will take half the night to reach Colonel Amez. Okay -- start looking for him then, and get me that coffee. I'll call Ottawa after I've spoken to Amez." Thompson hung up his phone and, with an apologetic shrug to his wife, who watched from their bed, he picked up the shirt he had just taken off.

The five Manitous of Red One held a loose vee formation as they flew south from Gander at more than 800 kilometers an hour. In each plane 100 men sat on four rows of bench seats running the length of the fuselage, their gear stacked in the aisle between them.

Pedro sat in the third plane, between Jeffers and Smithers. The familiar smells of men and oil, of rubberized equipment and the metal of the plane, filled his nose and the whine of jet engines rang in his ears.

He braced his feet against the pile of jump bags in the aisle and leaned back, tipped his helmet forward to shade his eyes, and went to sleep.

He twitched and moaned a bit as the dream began but the men beside him were used to that. He always did when they were on a job.

In his dream he was six years old and he was thirsty. More thirsty than he had ever been in his life before. He wondered, vaguely, whether he could die of thirst when he was already dead.

His leg hurt too but that was different. His leg had hurt ever since the end of the world, three days before, and it hurt because the ridge pole of his father's house was lying on it. The house had fallen down when the world ended.

Pedro had been coming back from the creek with a bucket of water for his mother when it happened. Lugging the full pail with both hands he had just entered the clearing around the house when the ground began to shake.

Frightened, he ran for the safety of the house. He had almost reached it when a boulder, shaken loose from the mountainside above, smashed it from behind. The house fell toward him and the heavy ridge pole knocked him over before it came to rest on his leg and trapped him. Other boulders shook loose and rolled down the hill, crashing through the trees on either side of where the house had been.

Pedro's father had been at the edge of the clearing, carving a new wooden bowl for his mother. Pedro could not see him now but he knew where he was because he had heard screams and moans from among the fallen trees, and then the horrible rattling sound men make when they die. Later he had seen vultures land there, and had seen strips of flesh dangling from their beaks as they flapped away.

His sister had been shelling corn on the front porch and she had stopped work and run into the house when the ground started to shake. Now Pedro could see her arm, sticking out from under one corner of the boulder that had rolled through the house. A vulture had pecked at the arm for a while but it had not been hungry, and Pedro had been able to scare it off.

His mother lay almost within reach, one arm and her shoulder trapped under a corner of the rock that had killed his sister. She had a big cut near the top of her leg.

Blood had run out of the cut for a long time and she had screamed, but the blood dried and her screams stopped before nightfall. Next morning her leg was red and swollen, and she was moaning. Feebly, she tried to brush away the flies that crawled in the pus that dripped down the side of her leg, and now and then she cried for help.

She was angry with him, Pedro knew, because he did not help her.

She had called for Pedro's father first, but then she saw Pedro and she turned to him. Asked for help, then demanded it. Then she begged and finally she cursed him, in her pain, because he did not help her.

Pedro tried to tell her about the log that pinned him. Tried to explain that he was trapped too and that he could not move, but she did not hear him. She cursed him.

He didn't like her curses and he was glad when they stopped -- when she died -- sometime before dawn of the third day.

The flies bothered him now but the thirst was worse. It had begun during the first night.

The water from the bucket he had been carrying had collected in a little puddle where Pedro could just reach it if he stretched until it hurt, and he had drunk some of it the first afternoon.

Then a passing dog stopped and drank. Pedro waved a stick but the dog snarled and dipped its head to drink again. The puddle had been very small, and it was gone now. Pedro had licked the wet mud -- even eaten some of it -- but it did not slake his thirst. The sun was very hot.

And now the devils were coming to get him. They had come into the valley in the morning of the third day in airplanes -- the biggest airplanes he had ever seen. They were red, bright red, like the flames of hell.

And devils had jumped out of them as they flew by. Not the first time they passed but the second, and the third and the fourth.

Three big red airplanes flew low and slow up the valley first, as though they were looking for something. They circled over the village, more than an hour's walk down the hillside from his father's house, that Pedro could see from where he lay.

Four hundred people lived in the village and to a six-year old boy from a small farm on the mountain it was a metropolis. Most of the houses around the outskirts were built of sticks and mud, like the house Pedro's lived in, but his house had a roof of thatched palm and the village houses were roofed with corrugated metal. Some of the big houses near the center of the village were built of adobe brick, with roofs of red tile.

The church in the central square was of stone and the government office facing it was two stories high and built of concrete block. Stores and cantinas around the square were of sawed lumber, and most were painted in bright colors.

Pedro knew the village because he went to the market there every week with his parents, but it looked different now. Some houses had fallen into the river when the world ended, and most of what remained had burned in the fire that followed. Pedro knew that some people had been trapped in the burning houses -- as he was trapped in the remains of his father's house -- and he imagined he could hear their screams of pain as they burned.

Some of the houses were still smoking when the devils came and the devils went to them first, after they jumped out of the airplanes and floated down on their huge red wings.

Steam rose from the houses as the devils approached, and the smoke stopped soon afterward.

The sky was full of devils for a while, and more and more airplanes came up the valley to drop more devils and huge bundles that grew wings and floated slowly down to earth. In the field beside the village -- the one where the policemen used to keep their horses before the world ended -- the devils built a huge red house and now they brought people from the village into it. Some of the people could walk, but the devils carried most of them.

The red house was the biggest Pedro had ever seen, but it was a devil house so of course it was big. He knew it was a devil house because of the bright red color, and because of the way it moved in the wind. The devils had built it in less time than it took Pedro's mother to weave a basket, and Pedro decided it wouldn't be too bad to be a devil if they could build such a big house so quickly.

But Pedro would never be a devil. If he was still alive when the devils found him -- if he was still alive now -- they would eat him. He knew that from talking to Garcia and Diego, his friends in the village. They went to Sunday school, where they learned how devils eat little boys.

Pedro wondered what it was like to be eaten by devils, and whether it would hurt very much. He hoped the devils would keep him for a little while -- perhaps even give him some food and water to fatten him up -- before they ate him.

If they were going to sell him they might. Pedro knew that farmers gave pigs food and water before they took them to market.

He was very hungry and very thirsty, and his leg hurt very much.

That afternoon two large airplanes landed on the campo and the devils dragged big boxes out of them. From the boxes they brought out silver sticks and bright colored cloth and other things. Working in groups of three the devils put the sticks and the cloth and other things together to make -- airplanes! Little ones, smaller than any Pedro had seen before.

But they worked. As each tiny plane was assembled two men climbed into it and -- with motor sputtering like the motorcycle one of the shopkeepers in the village owned -- it lifted into the air. Each plane circled the village after it lifted, then followed one of the trails leading into the hills.

One followed the trail that led past his father's house! They would find him!

Desperately, Pedro looked around for something to cover himself with. There was nothing -- he could not even squirm into the shadow of the beam that pinned him. He lay very still and hoped the devils would not notice him.

They might have missed the boy but they could not miss the wreckage of the house, or the gash of torn earth and shattered trees around it. One little airplane came and circled very low -- it would have been lower than the top of the big tree beside the house if the tree were still there. Lifting his head, Pedro could see the two devils as they gazed down at him.

One of them waved. A friendly wave of the hand -- not like a devil at all.

Then the little airplane climbed higher into the sky and flew down the hill, and Pedro thought the devils might leave him alone. He was almost sorry about that -- better perhaps to be caught and eaten by devils now than to lie in the sun forever.

But something must be wrong with the little airplane. It's engine became quiet and it spiralled down toward the creek below him. Watching, Pedro saw it disappear below the treetops, near the field where the trail crossed the creek.

Other little planes still circled and flew up and down both sides of the valley. One flew over to where the plane that spotted Pedro had gone down, then came to circle above the house.

Now the boy could see shiny red helmets and bright red clothes as two devils slowly climbed the path toward him. They looked like men except that their faces were white -- whiter than the faces of the government officials he sometimes saw in the village. As they climbed, they spoke to each other in a strange tongue.

Pedro watched with rising panic as they approached. He tried to sink into the ground so they would not see him. He closed his eyes as they climbed level with him.

Then one of the devils spoke and he heard both of them moving toward him. He could not understand the words but the tone did not sound like a devil at all. He opened his eyes in wonder.

One of the devils knelt and gently offered him water from a red bottle. Pedro drank and passed out before the second devil began to pry up the roof beam that trapped his leg.

He knew, briefly, that he had been lying on the ground outside the remains of his father's house and that he had seen his mother and his sister lying there too. Knew that he had watched his family die. Heard their screams of agony, their cries for help.

Had heard his mother curse him because he could not help her.

Now he rode down the side of the mountain on a funny little truck that ran on two wheels, like a motorcycle, and he was taken inside the big red devil house beside the village.

The devils inside the house wore white and there were she-devils as well as he-devils there. The devil who carried him laid him on a table and a she-devil leaned over and pushed something into his arm, and that was the last he remembered of the village.

The boy recovered from the physical effects of his experience in a few weeks but he never forgot the pain or the terror. Any disturbance while he slept might set off the dream in which he was again trapped with the sound of his mother's curses, and he again watched the devils jump from airplanes.

He remembered them in his waking moments too, but that was different. When he was awake he knew that the jumpers were men, not devils. They were Canadians.

But still the red uniforms filled him with awe. He would stare at the men and women who wore them around the field hospital where he was treated after the earthquake, and in the resettlement camp where he spent the next two months. Even in Santa Clara, where he was sent to an orphanage.

Most of the red uniforms left after a few months but some stayed on, at the Canadian embassy in Santa Clara. Saturdays Pedro would sit in the park across from the embassy and watch for them, and sometimes he day-dreamed about what might have been if they had come sooner. Before his mother died. Before she lost her mind and cursed him.

Sometimes he saw himself in a red uniform with a shiny red helmet. A man in red who was not afraid to jump from a huge airplane.

He would land in the open space beside the house and with one hand he would pick up the rock that had pinned his mother. Would throw aside the tree that had killed his father and, with the medicines all corpsmen carried in their belt pouches, would bring them both back to life. He would save his sister.

In his mind he knew the corpsmen were just men but he never quite lost the feeling that they were more than human. He would always feel a thrill when he saw a red uniform or a red-and-white flag.

Few people in Costa Grande had even heard of Canada before the earthquake -- but that was before. Now everybody knew about the huge country far to the north, Costa Grande's best friend.

And while he was in high school Pedro learned that he might be able to go to Canada. He might wear a red uniform and a shiny red helmet himself! Fly to the rescue of people who needed him! Jump from a huge red plane to save people who were dying!

Canada was a huge country but they did not have many people so they allowed some foreigners to wear the red uniform.

If Pedro were accepted he could join the corps for three years. Then he could go on to university or trade school in Canada if he wanted to, and it wouldn't cost him any money. The Canadians would pay him money, and he could come back to Costa Grande with training that would get him a good job in the government or with enough money to start a business.

When he was eighteen years old Pedro and a half-dozen others from his school sent a letter to the Canadian embassy, and three weeks later a corpsman came to speak to them.

There were many more applicants from Costa Grande than the corps could accept but few were as well-prepared as Pedro. He spoke fluent English and French, he had read everything he could find about Canada and, by the time he applied for admission to the corps, he knew more about Canada than most Canadians would ever learn. His experience as a victim of a disaster counted in his favor too.

When he was nineteen years old he was accepted into the corps' elite Parachute Rescue Brigade.

In his three months of basic training he learned more about the history of the corps. It had begun after changes in the world's weather pattern dried up huge areas of Canadian forests and fires became raging infernos that burned over thousands of square miles. As provincial resources were exhausted the federal government began to help and, as the fires continued, the federal fire brigades developed into the biggest and best-equipped fire-fighting force in the world.

And as the problem spread to other countries the Canadians -- backed by a world that saw the trees that supplied its oxygen being burned -- offered help. When huge fires threatened to sweep the Amazon basin Canadians formed the core of the UN task force that helped the Brazilian army fight them.

The Amazon fires were under control and the Canadians were packed and ready to go home when one of the most destructive earthquakes in world history wiped out the city of La Paz, in Bolivia. The thousand smoke-jumpers who landed in the ruins the next morning were credited with saving thousands of lives and, when a landslide wiped out three towns in Colombia a year later, the Colombian government asked for Canadian help. The Federal Fire Brigade units that responded to that call later became the core of the new Canadian Rescue Corps.

Pedro had been sucking at his mother's breast when that happened and his mother never heard of the new Corps. It was barely established when she died in the ruins of her home.

But the corps had grown steadily, partly under pressure from other nations, partly under pressure within Canada. Gradually, it replaced most of the Canadian armed forces -- taking over and enlarging the medical corps, air transport command, the engineers and the signal corps. They were "borrowed," one unit at a time for different jobs as the corps grew, and world opinion demanded that they be kept as part of the new unarmed forces.

The military fought hard but they were doomed in an unequal battle. It was obvious that Canada had no geographic reason to fear invasion from anybody but the U.S., and it was equally obvious that if the Americans did invade, the Canadian Armed Forces could not hope to resist them.

Within a few years the armed forces had shrunk to one brigade of military policemen, maintained only for loan to United Nations peace-keeping operations.

There was resistance to the change within NATO, but not much because it had long been obvious that Canada's military contribution to NATO was negligible, and that a neutral Canada could contribute more to world peace with a large and effective rescue corps than could a partisan Canada with small and obsolete armed forces.

Russia and the U.S. had formed their own rescue corps by then but the idea didn't work well for them because their rescue corps were associated with their armies.

The American corps was nearly disbanded after their aid was refused by Nicaragua, but they changed it instead. The U.S. had the men and the machines and the resources -- as Canada had not -- to plan and launch a long-term assault on world famine, and the American Rescue Corps became the American Development Corps.

The Russian army still maintained a small rescue corps but they were not welcome in many countries and the main Russian effort now followed the American lead. After Libya offered land and support for a huge American base for the Sahara Desert Reclamation Project, ten thousand Peace Troopers landed in Ethiopia to attack the desert from the other side.

Both countries now put more effort into "the battle of the deserts" than they did into the space race, and both accepted foreigners into in their ranks with free technical or university education offered after three years' service.

And the whole world supported the Canadian corps, now so big that even with conscription there were not enough Canadians to man it. After Russia and the U.S. opened the ranks of the Peace Troopers and the Development Corps to third world students, with free education as a bonus, the Rescue Corps followed their lead.

But like the U.S. and Russia Canada also refused to allow foreigners who came to serve in the corps or to study in Canada to stay as immigrants. Canadians realized now that by accepting the best educated and the best qualified citizens of the third world as immigrants Canada had robbed the third world of the people who could help it develop, stolen most of the benefits of the poor countries investments in education and helped keep millions of people in poverty.

As a foreigner Pedro could enlist in the Rescue Corps for one three-year hitch, but no more. Three years' service in the corps entitled him -- as it entitled Canadians -- to three years advanced education in the school of his choice but then he must leave the country and he would not be allowed to return as an immigrant for at least ten years.

He woke with a start when the public address system cleared its electronic throat. Seconds later he heard the voice of Group Leader Martin, commander of Red One.

"This," it said, "is a training exercise."

"We're flying to Hidalgo in San Cristobal. The red alert has been confirmed.

"There's been an earthquake in the hills behind the city of Corunda -- about three hundred kilometers south of Hidalgo. We have no reports direct from Corunda but the information we have indicates that damage may be heavy.

"If we're called in this will be a land job but there's a lake so there may be some flooding. There's a good airport but we don't know what shape it's in. If we have to drop you we'll probably land the planes at Rio Blanco -- about 160 kilometers west of Corunda at the other end of the lake.

"ETA is about nine hours from now, after a one-hour stop for fuel at Key West, and breakfast will be at 0600. Centurions, we'll have a staff conference in fifteen minutes."

The PA system shut down with an audible click.

"I guess this is probably your last flight, Pedro." Smithers, the decade leader, was tall and thin with a long freckled face and a shock of red hair. Two years older than Pedro he was now serving his second enlistment and planned to make the service his career. As he spoke he pulled out a packet of chewing gum and offered Pedro a stick.

Pedro glanced at it, then turned dull eyes back to the floor. "Ten days," he said. "Then I'm out on my ass."

Jeffers looked at him. "No luck with the appeal, eh?"

"No. The regs say I can't serve more than one hitch, and Cunningham says he can't change them."

"Shit man, you can have my time." Dunn, two weeks out of basic training, sat beside Jeffers. "I'm just here for the education anyway," he said.

He spoke with a smile as though it were a joke but the smile disappeared when Smithers leaned forward and looked at him. Embarrassed, the young corpsman turned away.

Pedro raised his head and looked around. "Most of you guys don't even want to be here," he said. "I do, and they won't let me stay! It's stupid!"

Smithers pulled a stick of gum from the packet and unwrapped it. "That's the way it is," he said. "I told you what Cunningham would say." He put the gum in his mouth and chewed slowly.

"He said the corps needs young men, but I'm only twenty one for Christ sake." Pedro reached for the package Smithers was about to put back in his shirt pocket, and took a stick of gum from it. He handed the package back, then tore the stick in half and slipped half into his pocket. He unwrapped the other half and put it in his mouth, then leaned back into his seat as the decade leader continued.

"You're young now, but you'd stay in for the rest of your life if you could -- and you can't do this kind of work forever."

"Cunningham is still doing it, and he's an old man."

"He's a brigade leader. He doesn't jump any more, and he doesn't get into any rough stuff."

"What about Johnston? He gets into everything and god knows how old he is!"

"He's thirty five, and he's an officer."

"I could be an officer."

"You hate the work and you have nightmares when we're on a job."

"I do it, and I want to keep on doing it."

"But you can't." Smithers turned to Pedro again.

"What about school? The corps owes you three years' tuition."

"No way. I had all the school I want in Costa Grande. Pedro shook his head slowly.

"I just want to be a corpsman. To help people."

"There are a lot of ways you could help Costa Grande with the right training." Smithers put his hands on his knees and leaned forward.

"You could help Costa Grande with the training you have right now."

"I don't want to help Costa Grande. I want to help the world."

"Then you'll have to find your own way to do it." Smithers rose to his feet.

"Got to check with Johnston now. See you." Working his way past the jump bags and parachutes that jammed the aisle, stepping over the legs of men who slumped in their seats, he moved toward the front of the plane.

In the command plane, assistant group leader Saunders watched a map of San Cristobal spool out of the printer as Martin finished his speech.

"Corunda. That's a fantastic place -- I was there for a weekend once. Don't recall much that could be damaged by an earthquake though -- it's mostly a vacation town with no tall buildings that I remember. But Rio Blanco has a lot of industry -- there could be a lot of damage there if they caught it."

Martin drew coffee from a dispenser and settled back at his desk.

"Maybe. I wouldn't bet on anything in this business. From the report it sounds like Corunda doesn't exist any more, and Rio Blanco doesn't even know there's been an earthquake.

"And this is just a training exercise anyway, unless San Cristobal asks for help."

Rio Blanco was the first Spanish settlement in San Cristobal and one of the first anywhere on the Pacific side of the Americas. Eighty kilometers from the coast on the river it was named for, it guarded the mouth of the Canyon Blanco where the river broke through the last range of hills on its way to the sea. The town marked the limit of navigation on the river and, in the days of conquest and settlement, it was the meeting place for river boats, ocean-going caravels and mule trains.

There was a mission first, to open the gates of heaven to the Indians it saved. Then an army camp, to open the gates of hell to the Indians who were sent -- after they were saved, of course -- as slaves to the gold mines of the interior.

Those were days of glory for a city of priests and soldiers, traders and slaves. The priests served a god of their own devising, the soldiers served the king of Spain and the traders paid lip service to both but gave their real devotion to profits.

Slaves died in the service of all -- most of them in the gold mines of the interior. Others died building churches for the glory of God, palaces for the glory of Spain and warehouses for the profits of the traders.

The good times might have lasted longer had the Spaniards been less greedy but the mines gave out after forty years and the Indians native to the area -- who knew where there was more gold and who might have been induced to tell with the proper persuasion -- had long since been worked to death.

The Spaniards guessed there was more gold somewhere and several expeditions set out to find it. They never came back because the jungle was not kind to Spaniards and the few Indians who had escaped the priests and the army were even less kind. Eventually, most of the traders and the soldiers went away.

But Rio Blanco survived, because some of the priests really did care for the souls of the Indians and they kept the mission open for more than a hundred years after the soldiers left. Then the city began to grow again, because there was good land along the coast and the settlers who came to farm needed a supply base. At the beginning of the 20th century it was the port and the market town for hundreds of coffee plantations in the hills, and by mid century it served the same function for the banana plantations of the coastal area.

The banana plantations contributed more or less to the city, depending on one's point of view, because Rio Blanco also served as the joy town for thousands of plantation workers who came twice a month to spend two weeks' pay in a single weekend.

It was a bawdy town in those days -- a brawling, gambling, drinking and whoring center by night and a port and railway center by day. The country's aristocracy lived in the beautiful and temperate inland city of Hidalgo, 300 kilometers to the north, but they made their money in Rio Blanco.

And then came Major Morenos -- an army officer turned politician and dreamer. With the world turning away from both fossil fuels and nuclear power he recognized the Rio Blanco's potential for a hydro-electric project, and the rest is history.

A dam more than 250 meters high now blocked the mouth of the Canyon Blanco and the lake behind it stretched more than two hundred kilometers upstream. The town of Corunda at the head of the lake had become a world-famous resort and Japanese, German and Italian businessmen poured billions into the development of new industry to take advantage of the cheap power. Rio Blanco still had a few red light districts, but no more than could be expected in a city of a million people.

It was near the end of the rainy season and the lake was full to the brim when the earthquake struck. The tremor measured eight on the Richter scale but it was centered under the coffee plantations and the rain-soaked hills didn't transmit shock very well. People in Rio Blanco didn't even notice it.

They did feel it in Corunda but it did no serious damage. Then came the second and third shocks and there was some damage but most people still had no idea what was happening. They felt the ground shiver, then heard a groaning sound. Along the waterfront it seemed as though the level of the lake was rising.

But it wasn't the lake that was moving, it was the town. Billions of tons of mud slid smoothly down the mountain, and into the end of Lago Blanco.

The lake was about twenty five kilometers wide at Corunda and about fifty meters deep. The town and the mountain on which it stood moved slowly as landslides go -- not much more than walking speed -- but their mass and volume were enormous.

They pushed a wave more than a hundred meters high ahead of them as they entered the lake. An hour and a half later it washed the exclusive resort town of Bahia from the opposite shore. Then it fell back and it turned most of the end of the lake into a churning sea of white water and red-brown mud before it began to roll toward the dam.

Fifty kilometers from Bahia Reynaldo Diaz and his new secretary shared a bed on his motor cruiser anchored off the honky-tonk town of Buenos Aires. Reynaldo woke to the sound of his dragging anchor and looked out the window. His gasp of surprise brought Felicia to her feet and to his side.

The lake had risen over the Calle del Lago along the waterfront and shouts of surprise, fear and anger came from some of the late-night waterfront bars. As Reynaldo and Felicia watched, people ran from the buildings and sloshed through the rising water. Some ran for side-streets that led up the side of the mountain.

A police car with its engine roaring, lights flashing and siren screaming, sped down a side street toward the Calle del Lago. A half block from the corner it ran into the water and stalled in a cloud of spray, its lights still flashing.

Felicia took Reynaldo's arm but he brushed her away. He burst out of the cabin and sprinted to the bow of the boat where he bent over the winch that would raise the anchor. He cursed as he fumbled in the dark for the controls.

But he paused at Felicia's gasp of fear and looked up the lake where she pointed. Then they both stood in stunned amazement.

The wave that rolled toward them was so high it masked the mountains behind it. As Reynaldo and Felicia watched, it actually blotted out the rising moon!

But it rolled down the center of the lake in eerie silence and it passed them by. Reynaldo relaxed, glanced at Felicia and smiled. Again he became conscious of sounds ashore, where the water was still rising.

Sitting on the edge of the cabin roof they watched one building near the edge of town crumble.

It made little noise at first -- a sound not unlike the breaking of a wave. But the sound became louder as more of the building fell, and it became louder still as the building disappeared. With a start, Reynaldo realized that it came from behind him -- not from the shore.

He turned just in time to see the white-topped wall of black water that approached. To the side he could see where the edge of the wave was breaking on shore -- and wiping out everything in its path -- kilometers behind the main wave that still rushed down the center of the lake.

Now he could only watch as the huge mass of angry water towered over him. White-faced, Felicia grabbed his arm again but this time he didn't even feel the pressure of her hand.

The speed of a wave is governed by the depth of water under it -- the deeper the water the faster the wave -- and the wave that started at Corunda gained speed as it rushed down the lake. It moved only about 15 kilometers an hour at first but it went faster as the water became deeper. With nearly 300 meters of water at the dam, the center of the wave would reach a speed of about 150 kilometers an hour at the far end of the lake.

But not along the edges where the water was shallow and where the wave -- growing in height as it sped down the ever-narrowing lake -- now washed the shore more than a hundred meters above the normal high-water mark. Here the bottom of the wave was slowed by the land over which it rushed and the top -- unhampered -- cascaded forward in a foaming waterfall.

Fernando Sanchez was leaving Rio Blanco as Reynaldo and Felicia died. Every night he loaded his truck with fresh fish, vegetables and other supplies and drove four-and-a-half hours to deliver his load to the kitchens of the finest hotels in Bahia at about five o'clock.

The trip was slow but most of it was pleasant. Not the first part -- that was a laborious grind back and forth through switchbacks up the mountainside to the top of the dam.

But then came a half kilometer drive across the top of the dam, with the city lights spread out below, and a stop for coffee with his older brother Carlos -- a night operator at the power plant and half owner of the truck.

Fernando pulled into the parking bay above the powerhouse where a service elevator climbed the sloped face of the dam. Climbing down from the truck and crossing the road he leaned over the reservoir and dropped a three-pronged fishhook on a line into the water just above the water-level sensor Carlos had showed him.

Jigging with the hook he caught the sensor and lifted. A red light flashed and a buzzer sounded on the main control board in the powerhouse below.

At the board Carlos flipped a switch to cancel the alarm. He glanced at his shift manager, then poured two cups of coffee and headed for the service elevator. Above, Fernando crossed the road, un-zipped his fly and pissed over the side of the dam. Then he straddled the guard-rail and watched the elevator climb the curving wall of concrete.

Carlos waved out the window as the elevator rose and he stepped out, paper cups in hand, as it stopped. Together the brothers sat on the guard rail, drank coffee and looked out over the city below.

In a house on the outskirts of Hidalgo an army sergeant tapped gently on a door, waited thirty seconds then tapped again. He waited another minute before he opened the door and walked to the bed.

"Coronel!" He gently touched the man's shoulder. "Coronel."

Carmelita Amez woke first. She looked across her husband at the orderly who stood by the bed.

"Is it important, Juan?"

"Very important, senora." From habit the sergeant whispered in the presence of his sleeping colonel, even though he had come to wake him.

"Then I'll do it." Carmelita reached over and shook her husband's shoulder.

"Eduardo! Eduardo!" Her voice was soft but insistent.

"Umm?" Colonel Eduardo Amez, commander of San Cristobal's army, opened one eye and looked at his wife.

"Coronel!" The sergeant spoke normally now.

"Huh?" The colonel rolled over, then sat up as he recognized his orderly.

"Juan! What is it?"

"Senor Thompson, sir. The Canadian ambassador. He insists on speaking to Major Morenos!"

"Well he won't. Not this weekend." The colonel smiled apologetically at his wife, then turned back to the sergeant. "Did he say what it was about?"

"He said there has been an earthquake sir. Near Corunda. He says there is much damage."

"And did you check? Do our people know anything about it?"

"I tried to phone the police station at Corunda, sir, but I couldn't get through. I think the lines must be down."

"And army headquarters?"

"They couldn't get through by phone either sir. They're trying the radio now."

"Well...." The colonel considered. "I guess I'd better speak to the ambassador anyway. Is he still on the line?"

"No sir. I told him you'd call back."

"Okay. I'll do it from the study."

Amez swung his legs over the side of the bed while his orderly reached for the robe that lay draped over a chair. He stood and spoke to his wife as the orderly held a robe for him.

"This won't take long, dear. I'll be back in a few minutes."

Fernando's truck rolled easily on the well-paved highway. There was little traffic at this time of night -- Fernando would probably meet no more than two or three other vehicles on his way to Bahia -- and there was a full moon.

The road followed the shoreline in gentle curves with few hills. To Fernando's left the lake shone silver in the moonlight; to his right the hills were covered with grass and grazed by cattle during the day. Both were beautiful.

The road was nearly twenty meters above water level and Fernando could see both sides of the lake -- only a couple of kilometers wide here. He could see the lights of a boat on the lake nearly ten kilometers ahead.

Fernando knew the boat and he watched it as he drove. They called it the love boat and it carried about fifty people at a time on four-day cruises from a dock near the top of the dam to Corunda and back. It was a slow way to travel the route Fernando covered five times a week but people said it was a wonderful trip, and Fernando had promised his wife Maria they would take to together some day. This year, perhaps.

But there was something strange about the lights! The boat moved on the flat surface of the water, but the lights were rising. The road was high above the surface of the lake but the lights seemed to be on almost the same level as the truck.

No -- he was looking up at them! Looking up at a boat?

Fernando lifted his foot off the accelerator and allowed the truck to coast to a stop. He looked again at the lights -- and now they were definitely higher than the road.

They could not be on a boat! Fernando had heard of flying saucers -- visitors from outer space, some said. Was this one of them?

Then the lights winked out and Fernando saw something else in the moonlight -- something that looked like a huge wave. Looking down, he saw that the water was rising steadily along the shoreline beside him.

From ahead came the roar of an engine and the screech of tires. Around the curve came a car, skidding nearly sideways. It straightened out -- just barely -- and roared down the straightaway. It's lights flicked up and down and it's horn blared as it rushed past.

Startled, Fernando looked after it in his mirror. He watched it disappear around another bend before he turned his eyes again to the lake. Then he gasped in astonishment.

A mountain of water higher than the road swept toward him! There was no chance to save the truck but he might save himself. Fernando jumped out of his cab and scrambled up the hillside.

He was more than twenty meters above the road when the wave passed down the center of the lake in eerie silence. Fernando had paused for breath and he watched in wonder as it passed him by.

There had been no danger after all! Breathing a sigh of relief, he began to climb back down to his truck.

He had almost reached it when he heard the roar and he turned just in time to see the shore-wave burst over the crest of the hill above him.

In the power house Carlos had finished his rounds and come back in the control room when the buzzer sounded and the red light started to flash. Felipe Carillo, the shift manager, looked at him.

"How many brothers do you have, Sanchez?"

"Just one, and he's half-way to Bahia by now."

Carillo walked over the to control panel and tapped the water level indicator.

"Maybe so, but there's something wrong up there. Could the float be stuck?"

"I don't see how."

"Better take a look -- I'll go with you. I never did like you two using that float for a signal -- if you've damaged it we'll have to figure out a story for the day shift. Bring your tool kit and a life-jacket, it might be something we can fix tonight."

They were half-way up the elevator when Carlos saw water running down the face of the dam.

"Look at that!"

Carillo looked. "Guess the float isn't stuck -- but what could cause that? Was the water high when you went to see your brother?"

"I didn't look -- but it seemed normal to me."

"It's not now." The flow of water over the dam became heavier as the elevator rose.

"Something's wrong here!" Carrillo pushed the stop button, but the car kept rising. He pushed the down button, but the car kept rising.

"Water must have got to the controls."

The flow down the face of the dam became a cascade as the fifteen-kilometer-long forward slope of the wave approached at nearly 150 kilometers an hour. Slowed by the pressure of falling water, the elevator ground to a stop about fifty meters below the top of the dam.

The crest of the wave was nearly two hundred meters above normal water level now and its weight was distributed evenly across the bed of the lake. It was transmitted to the dam too and the top of the dam, wide enough to carry a highway but designed and built to withstand the pressure of only a few meters of water, was subjected to the pressure of 200 meters of water -- more than 200,000 kilograms per square meter.

Carlos and Carillo got a close-up view as it started to crack, minutes before the crest of the wave reached it.

Then the crest came. Millions of tonnes of water swept over the top of the crumbling dam to crash down on the city of Rio Blanco nearly 300 meters below, leaving a ragged channel where the waterfront and downtown areas had once been. Only the edges of the city, ten and fifteen kilometers from the river, escaped serious damage.

The phone lines failed as Coronel Amez spoke with the duty officer at South Sector headquarters in Rio Blanco. He rattled the cradle of his phone in irritation and angrily ordered the operator to re-connect him.

Furious when the man could not do it, the colonel ordered his car.

Now he paced the floor of Hidalgo message center while six privates -- five of them rushed to duty a few moments before -- manned switchboards. They soon learned that the colonel didn't want to hear about lines they found out of order. He was interested only in speaking to people -- any people -- they could reach in the southern section of the country. So far they had reached only a police post that overlooked the city from the hills to the north, and the colonel sincerely hoped the man there was drunk.

Civilian airports in San Cristobal were closed at night but a military plane from Hidalgo was on its way to Rio Blanco now, and would be over the city in about half an hour. A naval gunboat, based at Rio Blanco but now on patrol up the coast, had been alerted and was now heading for the city but it would take 'till morning to reach the mouth of the river and several hours more to reach the city. Army patrols now on the road carried radio equipment and would set up communications when they reached Rio Blanco -- or if they didn't reach the city -- in about four hours.

For most of the 500 men of Red One there was nothing to do but wait as the planes bored on through the night.

The flight of Red One was still called a training mission and it still might be no more than that. If the alert proved to be a false alarm or if the government of San Cristobal did not ask for help they might fly for hours and then turn around and fly back to Gander. Most of them slumped into their seats to catch up on interrupted sleep while others settled down to card games or conversation.

At the Canadian embassy in Hidalgo,Frank Thompson was asleep when Rio Blanco disappeared. He was roused by a worried corpsman and he hurried to the radio room to find the embassy's full complement of eight corpsmen on duty.

There were no telephone lines to the villages south of Rio Blanco now, but two men at the controls of the embassy's two high frequency radio transmitters tried to call plantations whose frequencies were known. Another spoke by phone to San Cristobal army command.

Forsythe, the centurion, had Ottawa on the satellite phone. He offered the ambassador the handset.

"I've told them the situation sir, but I can't order a full-corps response myself. They're on yellow now, but they won't go red until you ask for it.

"You haven't told me yet -- what is the situation?" Thompson accepted the hand-set as he spoke.

"Rio Blanco, sir. It just disappeared." Forsythe glanced at the clock. "About fifteen minutes ago."

"Disappeared? Just like that?"

"Like that, sir. Like you switched off a light."

"All at once?"

"Everything sir. No sign of trouble, then no sign of the city!"

"Seismograph?"

"Nothing sir. No more shocks."

"What happened?"

"I asked Ottawa for a computer simulation sir. They say it might have been a wave."

"How do they figure that?"

"The time, sir. Corunda went, then Rio Blanco went -- and the time interval is just about right for a wave to get from one to the other."

"But how?"

"It's happened before, sir. In Italy in 1963, an earthquake slid part of a mountain into Lake Como. That started a huge wave that burst a power dam, and it wiped out everything for more than 100 kilometers to the sea."

"You think that could have happened here?"

"I don't know sir." The Centurion looked the ambassador in the eye.

"But I know Corunda isn't there any more, and neither is Rio Blanco." He looked down at the telephone handset Thompson held in his hand.

Thompson looked at it too. Lifted it and was about to speak. Then he hesitated, covered the mouthpiece with his hand and turned his eyes to the Centurion again.

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure, sir."

Thompson lifted his hand from the mouthpiece and spoke.

Yellow lights flashed red in the ready-rooms of CRC bases at Gander, Trenton, Gimli, Edmonton and Comox. Horns sounded, and were drowned by the screams of jet engines. Within minutes, more than 200 Manitou transport planes rolled down taxi ways to load the men who double-timed out of their barracks.

But the woman beside him woke. When the phone chimed a third time she raised herself on one elbow and turned on a light.

As it chimed a fourth time she put her hand on Morenos' shoulder and shook it gently.

"Oscar. Wake up. The telephone."

The president of San Cristobal stirred. Rolled over and lay face up.

"Oscar! The telephone!"

Slowly, he opened his eyes. Looked at the ceiling for a moment, then at the woman.

"The telephone," she said again. She picked up the handset and handed it to him.

He looked at it curiously, then at the clock on his dresser. Five o'clock! Reluctantly, he took the handset and nestled it into his shoulder.

"Holla?"

"Good morning, Excellency. You have an urgent telephone call from Coronel Amez. Coffee is ready -- shall I send some up?"

"What does he want?"

"I don't know Excellency, but he said it was urgent. He demanded that I put the call through."

"Put him on then, and send up a coffee." He looked at the woman. "Two coffees." From outside came the sound of an approaching helicopter. Morenos turned his eyes to the window, then back to the phone as it made a clicking sound.

"Excellency?"

"It's me, Eduardo. Don't tell me -- the Cubans have invaded. Or you have invaded them. It had better be one or the other!"

The helicopter hovered outside the window now. Lights flared as it began to settle toward the landing pad.

"Neither, Excellency, but something very serious. We seem to have lost Corunda and Rio Blanco!"

Morenos sat upright. "Lost? What do you mean?"

"I'm not sure, Excellency. The Canadian ambassador called me about an earthquake near Corunda. He said they detected it at the embassy, and that there was considerable damage. I checked with my own staff and we couldn't get through to Corunda, so I came in. We've tried for more than an hour to get news, but we can't. The duty officer here says the telephone lines are down.

"And now we can't reach Rio Blanco. No telephone, no radio contact -- nothing. There are no radio stations broadcasting -- it's as though the whole city had disappeared!"

"Impossible!"

"I know that, Excellency, but it seems to have happened. I've mobilized the army and I have a plane heading down that way now -- and I've sent your helicopter for you. I thought you would want to come in."

"I will." Morenos swung his legs over the side of the bed as he spoke. Hung up the phone, stood and reached for his pants. There was a knock on the door."

"Yes?"

"Coffee, Excellency."

"Not here. Take it to the helicopter!"

"Si, Excellency."

Morenos pulled up his pants and fastened his belt. The woman watched in alarm as he pushed one arm into his shirt and fumbled for the other as he ran toward the door.

"I go, Mother." Domec held his battered straw hat at his chest and nodded his head.

"Take care, my son." The Mother-of-all raised her hand and closed her eyes a moment. "There is danger on the river."

"I know the river, Mother. I know it's dangers."

"Perhaps, my son. Perhaps not. Take care, and think of me."

"Always, Mother." Domec nodded his head again as he backed out of the stick-and-wattle hut. Outside, he stopped on the platform of poles that supported the hut on the roots of a huge mangrove tree and looked about. Several other huts, also woven of small sticks and roofed with palm thatch, occupied the roots of other trees in the surrounding swamp. Poles, lashed together to form bridges, joined some of them.

A bridge of poles sloped down from the platform where Domec stood to a raft where several dugout canoes and one aluminum outboard motorboat, barely visible through the water-level mist, were moored. The boat was loaded nearly to the gunwales with bundles of herbs, of leaves and of bark.

On the raft stood a woman, wearing only a short skirt of reeds, and a naked boy.

Domec wore faded jeans and a ragged tee shirt. He put his hat on his head as he walked down the bridge and knelt in front of the boy. Placed his hands on the boy's shoulders and looked him in the face. Somber, the six-year-old looked back.

"I go to the city again, Mayno," Domec said. "I will not return tonight. I will return tomorrow, before the sun sinks into the sea."

Calm, serious, the boy nodded and watched as his father reached to the side and cast off the mooring line of the aluminum boat. Standing, Domec pulled the boat closer to the platform and stepped over the bow. He clambered over baled cargo to the stern and tipped the motor up out of the water. Then he picked up an oar and pushed off from the landing.

As the boat drifted backward into the mist, Domec nodded good-bye to his wife, and waved to his son.

He used the oar as a pole to push the boat around the roots of a big mangrove, and to stop and turn it as it reached a channel, then as a paddle to move past a couple of other crude landing stages and three huts built on the spreading roots of mangrove trees. He kept a stern eye on two boys who watched -- with possible mischief in mind -- from a platform of sticks in the branches of a tree overhanging the channel, then spoke to a lone man who stood, bow and two-meter arrow ready, in a canoe that drifted near the mouth of the channel.

"Good fishing, Hayma."

"Good travelling, Domec. Good trading."

As the boat entered the river Domec set the oar on top of his load, then paused as he heard the roar of engines. Turning, he saw the gray naval patrol boat, spray flying from it's bows, sweep round the end of the island. Domec had seen the boat before -- at Rio Blanco and on the river -- and he knew it was a naval patrol boat but he never realized how fast it could go. If it kept up that speed all the way, he knew, it would reach Rio Blanco before the sun rose half-way in the sky.

And it's wake would disturb all traffic on the river. Domec squatted in the stern of his boat and tipped the motor into the water. He primed the carburetor, started the motor, shifted into gear, and turned the bows of his outboard to face the waves that approached. Turning his head he saw that Hayma had laid down his bow and now used a paddle to turn the canoe beside him. Domec watched as the canoe rocked in the waves, then with a wave to Hayma he eased the throttle open and headed the boat up-river.

In the village the Mother-of-all paused and closed her eyes as she heard the roar of the patrol boat. Her face relaxed for a moment, then tightened as though she saw something she didn't like. She beckoned to the young man who squatted by the door.

"Call Yama and Mayno, Hotan," she said. "They will spend the day with me."

A tear trickled down her cheek.

Ten kilometers out at sea Manuel Ortega leaned back against the weight of the net, his bare fingers hooked into the mesh as he hauled it aboard his small red boat. A short, powerful man with black hair, skin burned a deep bronze by the sun and face accented by a bristly black moustache, he wore an old straw hat, faded blue denim pants and a denim shirt but no shoes.

Most times Manuel was a happy man, but he was not happy now. He knew from the weight of the net that his catch would not repay his efforts, and he needed a good one today.

His one rich haul of the past month had been two weeks ago when the net had been so full he could not haul it himself. It would have been easy enough with a helper but he had let his helper go three months before when it became a question of paying a helper or paying the bank.

The bank owned the boat, if he did not pay the bank he would have no need for a helper.

But for lack of a helper he had lost the big catch. Unable to haul the net by hand he had jerry-rigged it to a block and tackle. Old and overloaded, the mesh had not stood the strain. Manuel felt his heart burst along with the net as he watched a cascade of valuable Sierra Mackerel -- enough to pay his bills for a month and more -- spill back into the sea.

The net would not burst this time but this catch would not pay his bills for a month. It would not pay for the hours he had spent finding what he hoped was a good spot and setting the net. Would not pay for the fuel he burned in his outboard motor, or for the wear and tear on his boat and his net.

It would not pay the bank interest on the loan that had bought the boat and motor two years before.

He had been proud then. A man with his own boat and a man to be reckoned with.

It was not a new boat and not a large one. Manuel's boat was nine meters long, powered by a 55 horsepower outboard motor. Boat and motor were both a few years old but the motor ran well and the boat was solid and strong -- built of welded steel by the government boat works in Rio Blanco. A good boat for one or two men to work the inshore waters, and a good start for a man of only 25 years with a wife and a small child to support.

Manuel had been proud of the boat, and proud of his new status as a man with his own boat. As his own boss he could sell his catch to the wholesalers who came to San Felipe every day.

He had money in his pocket to buy drinks and his wife had new clothes. When the catch was good he bought a new radio, traded his bicycle for a motorcycle and began to live as he knew he deserved to live.

He was prudent too -- his wife saw to that. Carmine demanded that he save enough money every month to pay the bank for their loan, and enough to buy the gas and oil he would need for another month of fishing. So many men, she said, bought their own boats and then thought they were rich. They spent their money as it came in, and they lost their boats because they did not keep enough aside to keep the boat going.

There was no need to tell Manuel that. The previous owner of the boat had lost it because he was unable to keep up the payments.

It was a piece of rope that caused the trouble, three months ago. Ten meters of that damned plastic rope that floats -- the kind rich people use on their expensive yachts.

Manuel had been coming home and the rope must have been floating across his course. The first thing Manuel knew about it was a horrible clatter from his motor, followed by a ripple of water as the boat slowed to a stop.

He had run over the rope and it had wound round his propeller. Even that should have done no damage -- there was a clutch in the motor to protect it against just such dangers -- but for some reason the clutch did not release this time. Gears had stripped, leaving Manuel helpless in his boat five kilometers offshore.

That was not serious -- he had only wait for an hour or so to hail another fisherman and get a tow to San Felipe -- but his helplessness in the repair shop was another matter. Manuel did not know enough about engines to repair the damage himself and had not the right tools anyway, and the cost of the repair was as much as two of his monthly payments to the bank. Since the bank wanted its money too that meant he had to raise the usual monthly payment twice in a month when he could not even go out for two weeks.

He could not do it. Even after he sold his motorcycle he had to ask the bank for another loan. Since then he had continual minor problems -- nets and equipment broke down, his propeller was chipped and had to be replaced, and his extra fuel tank disappeared one night. Such things happened to other boats too, but the owners of the other boats were not behind in their payments to the bank and they had money for emergencies.

Manuel would have money too except for the way the interest payments backed up. The bank called it "compound interest" and they said it was the usual way of business, but Manuel did not consider it fair. He had had one little piece of bad luck -- not even his fault -- and now it looked as though he might never recover from it. He might even lose the boat.

Now the bottom of the net broke the surface with a few small fish in it. One last heave brought it over the side and Manuel dumped it into the bottom of the boat without bothering to shake the fish out of it. He kicked it in disgust, then stepped to the back of the boat where he reached into his bag for one of the sandwiches Carmine had made for him and for the bottle of water she had filled at the spring on the hillside.

Slumped on the seat he chewed thoughtfully on the sandwich as he scanned the horizon for birds. There were several, but no flocks that might indicate a school of fish that would be worth going after. One spot was probably as good as another now, and none of them much good.

Perhaps his luck would be better another day -- but would there be another day? Manuel had left San Felipe with just enough gas to get to the fishing ground and back and a little to spare. He had no money for more gas, and the store would not sell it to him on credit. He must have a catch this trip.

Perhaps farther out, where the bigger boats fished? Small boats usually stayed close to shore because hand nets could not hold the bigger fish that lived farther out, but one could sometimes have luck with hook and line. A single giant sea-bass might weigh more than a hundred kilograms -- and sell for enough to pay for several days' fishing.

Wearily, Manuel laid the half-eaten sandwich on the seat beside him. Turned, and pulled the starting rope of the motor. He set the motor to half throttle and turned the boat out to sea.

Domec tried to relax as the boat cut through the water, its wake gently moving the bushes that overhung the near bank. The river was half a kilometer wide but Domec stayed close to shore, passing within hailing distance of several villages and dozens of farms and plantations and within sight of cars, trucks and busses that travelled the road beside the river.

At some points the river passed through virgin jungle where huge trees grew right up to the bank and the smell of rotting vegetation hung in the air. Often Domec heard the screams of birds, and once he passed within range of a troop of monkeys that threw sticks, nuts and fruit at him.

Everything seemed right but the Mother's warning disturbed him. She had chosen him to run the boat two years before -- chosen him for his knowledge of the river and of boats as much as for his skill at trading -- and she had never before showed concern when he set out.

Why now? The boat was safe, he knew. The motor was a good one and there would be no serious danger even if it stopped. He would simply drift back down the river until he passed a village, then use the oars to row ashore.

What danger then? The Mother-of-all did not know or she would have told him. Her warnings had saved the lives of several men of her tribe.

There were alligators in the river but they were no danger to a grown man in a boat. No dangerous fish lived in the Rio Blanco.

The most likely danger was from other boats. The naval patrol boat or one of huge ocean-going freighters that sailed up to Rio Blanco could run a small boat down, or swamp it with their wake. But they were dangerous only if the pilot of the small boat was careless, and Domec was not careless. He travelled in shallow water, close to shore, and a ship would run aground long before it could run him down.

The sound of an engine came from up-river. A speedboat swept around the bend ahead and roared down the middle of the channel. In the cockpit, three people waved violently as it swept past.

Domec considered. Could that be the danger? A small boat like that one might travel in the shallows where Domec travelled, and it would wreck Domec's boat if it hit it. And those people acted as though they were drunk. Domec resolved to keep a special watch for speedboats this trip, and to stay well clear of them.

He was nearly 60 kilometers from the village and less than 40 from Rio Blanco when he noticed the rise of the water level and the increase in the current.

He watched and wondered for a few moments, then saw that the banks of the river were no longer slipping by so quickly.

He steered toward shore and rammed the bow of the boat into the overhanging bushes. Then he crawled forward through them to tie up to a solid-looking tree root.

He crawled back under the bushes to the stern just in time to see the foaming wave of the flood bear down on him, and the patrol boat that tumbled over and over in it.

Domec closed his eyes and thought of the Mother-of-all.

In the village the old woman raised her hand and closed her eyes. The hut fell silent.

Hotan, entering with a fresh cup of matte for the Mother, froze in mid-step. Felt a chill as, for the first time in his life, he saw fear on the Mother-of-all's face.

The Mother-of-all lowered her hand. Opened her eyes. Thought for a moment, then spoke.

"Hotan. Tell all my children to prepare the canoes. We must take food and all the water we can carry. Tools and weapons. We will travel on the big water."

She turned to the young woman who knelt to one side of the hut, chopping and mixing pieces of bark and leaves in a large wooden bowl. She had stopped when the mother raised her hand and now she watched.

"Yama." The old woman spoke gently. "We will leave on our journey before Domec returns. You and Mayna will come with me, in my canoe."

The young woman set the chopper down. Worry showed in her face.

"Will Domec find us, Mother? Will he know where we have gone? The motor boat goes very quickly -- he will be able to catch up with us?"

Tears ran down the Mother-of-all's cheeks as she answered.

"There is no motor boat, my daughter. There is no Domec."

Major Morenos' face turned gray as the pilot's voice on the radio described the scene at Rio Blanco. Sitting across the desk from him, Colonel Amez was already on the phone ordering every military unit he had into the stricken area. He hung up, then turned to the major.

"And you, Excellency. Will you call the Canadian ambassador?" He pushed the phone across the desk.

Morenos glanced at his watch as he reached for it.

"I will -- but it will be late afternoon before they can help us."

Amez' lips turned up in a wry smile as he spoke.

"The first planes will be here in two hours, Excellency."

Morenos looked up in surprise as Amez continued.

"Five Canadian aircraft have called the airport to arrange fuel and a stop-over. They say they're on a training mission.

"Training?"

"They call it that. I told you about the seismograph and the electronic instruments in their embassy."

"Yes."

"They have them in all their embassies and somehow, every time there's a major disaster, they have several hundred fully equipped Rescue Corpsmen flying into the area on what they call a training exercise. I would guess this one began before Mr. Thompson called me."

Major Morenos nodded slowly. He picked up the phone and asked the operator to call the embassy.

Red One was approaching the coast of San Cristobal and Pedro was playing poker with Peters and Jeffers when the plane banked into a turn. Jeffers stopped in mid deal and looked at the others. He was about to speak when the PA system crackled into life.

"Attention Red One," Martin's voice said. "The training exercise is terminated. The government of San Cristobal has asked for our help, and we are now on a mission.

"The earthquake near Corunda seems to have dumped the town right into Lago Blanco. That started a huge wave that took the top off the dam at Rio Blanco, and it wiped out the city.

"Now the wave and half the water from the lake is spreading out over the coastal plain and it's taking everything with it.

"The full corps has been called out, but we're here first and it's our job for now. Other units should get here by early afternoon.

"The local army is moving into Rio Blanco now so we'll start on the rest of the country. Planes one and two will run up the shores of the lake and drop decades wherever they can help. Planes three four and five will follow the flood down the valley.

"There won't be anything left in the main channel so we'll forget that and drop along the edges.

"Centurions, use your own judgment to place your men. Corpsmen, first decades will probably jump in about an hour."

The PA system clicked off and Pedro, with the other corpsmen, stood and began to worm into his parachute harness. He was clipping his jump-bag to the rings when he felt Smithers' hand on his arm.

"Not you, Pedro." "You're not jumping this trip. Report to Johnston."

"Not jumping?" Pedro's face and voice showed his surprise. "What do you mean?

"Sorry -- Johnston's orders. He says you're too close to discharge to jump on something like this."

"But they need me down there!"

"Tell it to Johnston." Smithers glanced toward the front of the plane, then back to Pedro.

"You stay with him today as translator, and you'll be assigned to headquarters tomorrow."

"But ... " Pedro was about to argue when he caught Smithers' warning glance. He looked to the front of the plane where the Centurion, legs spread and fists planted on his hips, watched.

Smithers' face softened.

"Sorry, Pedro. But I can't argue with him any more than you can." Smithers reached for his own parachute and began to strap it on as Pedro watched.

Forward to book two of Rescue Trooper

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