By Order of the President (Presidential Agent 1)

“This way, I received the impact recommendation and wondered how this young officer could be flying an Apache six months out of West Point, drew the same conclusions you did, went to H. Normal, got his permission to fix it, and am doing so.”

“I owe you a big one, Oz,” Naylor said.

“Don’t worry. I’ll get it back,” General Young said.

[EIGHT]

Office of the Assistant Chief of Staff, J-3 United States Central Command Ministry of Defense and Aviation Air Force Base Riyadh, Saudi Arabia 1530 1 March 1991

“Sir,” Master Sergeant Jack Dunham said, a strange look on his face, “there’s an officer out there . . .”—he gestured toward the closed door—“. . . who said, and I quote, sir, ‘Be a good fellow, Sergeant, present the compliments of Colonel Bruce J. McNab to the general and ask the general if I might have a few moments of his valuable time.’ ”

Major General Allan Naylor replied, “Why do I have the feeling, Jack, that you think Colonel McNab could not melt inconspicuously into a group of, say, a dozen other colonels? ”

“I’ve got twenty-four years’ service, General, and I never saw . . .”

Naylor chuckled and smiled.

“My compliments to Colonel McNab, Sergeant, and inform him that I would be delighted to see him at his convenience. ”

“Yes, sir,” Dunham said, then went to the door and opened it and said, “General Naylor will see you, Colonel.”

“Good show!” a voice boomed in an English accent, and through the door came a small, muscular, ruddy-faced man sporting a flowing red mustache. He was wearing aviator sunglasses. His chest, thickly coated with red hair, was visible through a mostly unbuttoned khaki jacket, the sleeves of which were rolled up. General Naylor was sure the khaki “African Hunter’s Safari Jacket” had not passed through the U.S. Army Quartermaster Corps, and neither had Colonel McNab’s khaki shorts, knee-length brown stockings, or hunting boots.

On McNab’s head was an Arabian headdress, circled with two gold cords, which Naylor had recently learned indicated the wearer was an Arabian nobleman. The white cape of whatever the headdress was called hung to McNab’s shoulders. In the center of it, barely visible between the two gold cords, was the silver eagle of a colonel. An Uzi 9mm submachine gun hung from leather straps around his neck. A spare magazine for the Uzi protruded from an upper pocket of the shooting jacket and the outlines of fragmentation grenades bulged both lower pockets.

He saluted.

“Thank you ever so much, General, for granting me your valuable time.”

Naylor returned the salute.

“Close the door, please, Colonel,” Naylor said.

“Yes, of course, sir. Forgive me,” Colonel McNab said and went and closed the door. Then he turned and smiled at Naylor. “I was hoping that you would not be overwhelmed to see me. But for old times’ sake, you may kiss me. Chastely, of course.”

Despite himself, Naylor laughed and smiled.

“It’s good to see you, Scotty,” he said and came around his desk and offered his hand. McNab wrapped his arms around him in a bear hug.

“How the hell did you get into the building dressed like that?”

“Easily. For one, I was on the list of those summoned to the Schwarzkopf throne room.

For another—perhaps as important —to whom do you think Stormin’ Normal’s bodyguards owe their primary allegiance?”

“I wondered where they came from,” Naylor admitted.

“Nurtured to greatness by my own capable hands. You’ve noticed, I’m sure, that he’s still walking around? Despite the many people—most of them on his staff—who would love to kill him?”

“What did General Schwarzkopf want? Did someone tell him about your uniform? Using the term loosely.”

“To answer that, I have to overcome my well-known modesty,” McNab said. “I got another medal, and General Schwarzkopf wanted to tell me himself that, terribly belatedly, the powers that be have recognized my potential and sent it to that collection of clowns on Capitol Hill known as the Senate, seeking their acquiescence in my becoming a brigadier general.”

“It’s overdue, Scotty,” Naylor said.

“There are those, Allan my boy, who are going to beat their breasts and gnash their teeth while shrieking ‘the injustice of it all.’ Infidels are not supposed to get into heaven.”

Naylor thought: He’s right. A whole hell of a lot of colonels who have spent their careers getting their tickets punched and never making waves are going to shit a brick when they hear Scotty McNab got his star.