By Order of the President (Presidential Agent 1)

“So, five minutes after we touched down, thanks to Charley, I knew who was going with us and who we were leaving behind. We brought out one Iraqi general, one Russian general, one Russian colonel, and three of the technicians, who were probably ex-East Germans who moved to Russia. We weren’t there long enough to find out for sure.”

“And the Scud, of course,” Naylor said.

“Yeah, and the Scud. One of the Black Hawks just picked it up and flew off with it.”

“Well, a Black Hawk can carry a 105mm howitzer, its crew, and thirty rounds,” Naylor began, then paused and added, “The story that went around here was that half a dozen Iraqi helicopters had defected.”

“That happened because we came here, because of the prisoners, not where we were supposed to go, and got picked up on radar. And somebody with a big mouth here let the press know six choppers were approaching the border but were not to be shot at. We had to give some explanation.”

“If you can’t tell me, don’t. But what happened to the prisoners?”

“We turned the Iraqi over to the Saudis and then we flew the officers and the technicians to Vienna on Royal Air Arabia and put them on an Aeroflot flight to Moscow. Still wearing the clothes they were wearing when we grabbed them. And with copies of the pictures we took of them at the site . . .”—McNab smiled—“. . . including some of them with my guys’ arms around their shoulders, apparently having a hell of a time.”

“What was that all about? Sending them to Moscow?”

“That came from either the agency or the State Department. I don’t think—at least, I never heard—that anything was ever done officially, a complaint to the UN or something, that Russians were servicing the Scuds. But they couldn’t deny the whole thing. We had the pictures, and somehow they lost their identification papers and we found them.”

“That’s a hell of story,” Naylor said.

“Which I will deny ever telling you, of course, should someone ask. The point of me telling you this war story was so I could explain why, before we got back here, I could see a hundred places where Charley would be useful with his languages, and then when we took the Russians to Vienna and I saw him working with them I decided I wanted him. Had to have him.”

“What he should be doing is time with troops, now that this war is over,” Naylor said. “You did it, and I did it, when we were second lieutenants, and he should, too.”

“I thought it was a waste of my time when I did it,” McNab said. “I knew I wasn’t going to spend thirty years of my life with cannons going off in my ears. And you know as well as I do if Charley goes back to Aviation they’ll pull this ‘like father, like son’ bullshit all over again. He’ll spend his time giving speeches to Rotary Clubs and you know it. And I’m not kidding about needing him. If I had to come up with the two most important skills for an aide to a Special Forces general, they would be: fly a helicopter and speak as many languages other than English as possible.”

“And what if I say no, Scotty? What if I say, ‘This young officer has done too many unusual things already in his brief career and now it’s time that he had a large dose of normal.’ ”

“I hope you don’t, Allan. I would hate to remember this so far heartwarming reunion of ours with rancor.”

As if on cue, Master Sergeant Dunham put his head in the door.

“Sir, Second Lieutenant Castillo wonders if you can spare him a moment?”

Naylor made a send-him-in gesture with his hands.

Except that he wasn’t wearing an Arabian headdress, Castillo was dressed very much like Colonel McNab. The buttons of his khaki African Hunter’s Safari Jacket were closed, but he was wearing shorts and knee-high stockings. A CAR-16, the “carbine” version of the standard M-16 rifle, was slung from his shoulder.

Naylor didn’t see any grenade outlines.

But he saw enough to realize that the young lieutenant had fallen under the spell of—as he thought of it, had been corrupted by—Scotty McNab and there was no way he would be happy doing what he really should be doing.

Castillo saluted and then saw Colonel McNab.

“I didn’t expect to see you here, sir.”

“You can hug that ugly old man, Charley,” McNab said. “I did.”

“God, it’s good to see you, Charley,” Naylor said and spread his arms.

“It’s good to see you, sir.”

They embraced.

“I just told Colonel McNab, feeling like a father selling his daughter to a brothel keeper, that if you’re insane enough to want to get involved with Special Forces I will give you my very reluctant blessing.”

“I really would like to go, sir.”

“It’s done, then,” Naylor said. “Colonel McNab, why don’t you kill, say, thirty minutes—go slit a few throats; blow something up—and give Charley and me a few minutes alone?”