By Order of the President (Presidential Agent 1)

“When you pin the star on,” Naylor said, “you’ll find that it’s anything but heaven.”

“I told Powell I would just as soon stay where I was, thank you just the same. He talked me into it, saying it was the price I had to pay for being right again.”

He means that. I am in the presence of the only colonel in the U.S. Army who would tell the chairman of the Joint Chiefs he didn’t want to be a general.

“Right about what?”

“Who do you think won this war, Freddy Franks and his tanks? Chuck Horner and his airplanes?”

“I think they had a lot to do with it.”

“I am a profound admirer of Generals Franks and Horner and you know it, but Special Ops won this war. We took out the Iraqi radar and communications. The only airplanes— with a couple of exceptions—Chuck Horner lost were due to pilot error or aircraft failure and he admits it. The greatest loss of life was caused by that one Scud we didn’t take out and that hit the barracks in Saudi Arabia. By the time Freddy drove across the berms, the Iraqis had no communications worth mentioning and thus no command and control.”

“The one Scud you didn’t take out?”

“Or render inoperable. Or bring back with us. I understand the Air Force was really disappointed to learn how primitive those things are.”

“What decoration did you get?”

McNab reached in his jacket pocket, rooted down beside the Uzi magazine, came out with a Distinguished Service Medal, and dangled it back and forth for a moment.

I can’t imagine Schwarzkopf pinning the DSM on that khaki jacket, but obviously that’s exactly what just happened.

“I gather the presentation ceremony was rather informal,” Naylor said. Then he asked, “You do have some reason for being dressed like that?”

“Aside from I like it, you mean?”

Naylor nodded. “You want some coffee, Scotty?”

“I’ve got a footlocker full of booze on my dune buggy outside,” McNab said. “Formerly the property of the U.S. embassy in Kuwait City. I thought you might like a drink.”

“Against the rules.”

“You haven’t changed, have you?”

“If I drink, other people will want to and think they can.”

“They don’t have to know. You don’t have to stand in your door and shout, ‘Hey, everybody. Fuck the Arabs, I’m going to have a snort.’ ”

“And you haven’t changed, either, I see,” Naylor said.

“You wouldn’t love me, Allan, if I did,” McNab said.

“I wouldn’t love you no matter what you did,” Naylor said.

“You just want to see me cry,” McNab said.

“Now, that’s a thought,” Naylor said.

McNab smiled at him.

“You know where you’re going when you get the star?” Naylor asked.

“Bragg. Deputy commander, or some such, of the Special Warfare Center. What I’m going to be doing is writing up what we did right in this war so we can do it right when we have to do it again.”

“You think we’re going to have to do it again?”

“Yeah, of course we are. MacArthur was right when he said, ‘There is no substitute for victory,’ and so was whoever said, ‘Those who don’t read history are doomed to repeat it.’ ”