young, even the things best forgotten, in his case. Memories were a double-edged sword.
“Hey, Mr. C.,” said a familiar voice at the front door. “Hell of a day out, isn’t it?”
“Ding, we talked about this,” John said without turning.
“Sorry . . . John.”
It had taken John Clark years to get Chavez, colleague and son-in-law, to call him by his first name, and even now Ding was having trouble with it.
“Ready if somebody tries to hijack the flight?”
“Mr. Beretta is in his usual place,” Ding responded. They were among the handful of people in Britain who got to carry firearms, and such privileges were not lightly set aside.
“How are Johnny and Patsy?”
“The little guy is pretty excited about going home. We have a plan after we get there?”
“Not really. Tomorrow morning we make a courtesy call at Langley. I might want to drive over and see Jack in a day or two.”
“See if he’s leaving footprints on the ceiling?” Ding asked with a chuckle.
“More likely claw marks, if I know Jack.”
“Retirement ain’t fun, I suppose.” Chavez didn’t push it further. That was a touchy subject for his father-in law. Time passed, no matter how much you wished it wouldn’t.
“How’s Price handling it?”
“Eddie? He takes an even strain with life—that’s how you sailors say it, right?”
“Close enough for a doggie.”
“Hey, man, I said ‘sailor,’ not ‘squid.’”
“Duly noted, Domingo. I beg your pardon, Colonel.”
Chavez enjoyed the next laugh. “Yeah, I’m gonna miss that.”
“How’s Patsy?”
“Better than the last pregnancy. Looks great. Feels great—least she says she does. Not a big complainer, Patsy. She’s a good girl, John—but then again, I ain’t telling you anything you didn’t already know, am I?”
“Nope, but it’s always nice to hear it.”
“Well, I have no complaints.” And if he did, he’d have to approach the subject with great diplomacy. But he didn’t. “The chopper is waiting, boss,” he added.
“Damn.” A sad whisper.
Sergeant Ivor Rogers had the luggage well in hand, loaded in a green British Army truck for the drive to the helipad, and he was waiting outside for his personal Brigadier, which was John’s virtual rank. The Brits were unusually conscious of rank and ceremony, and he saw more of that when he got outside. He’d hoped to have a low-profile departure, but the locals weren’t thinking that way. As they rolled onto the helipad, there was the entire Rainbow force, the shooters, the Intel support, even the team armorers—Rainbow had the best three gunsmiths in all of Britain—formed up—the local term was “paraded”—in whatever uniforms they were authorized to wear. There was even a squad from the SAS. Stone-faced, they collectively snapped to Present Arms, in the elegant three-count movement the British Army had adopted several centuries earlier. Tradition could be a beautiful thing.
“Damn,” Clark muttered, getting out of the truck. He’d come pretty far for an old Navy chief bosun’s mate, but he’d taken a lot of strange steps along the way. Not knowing quite what to do, he figured he had to review the troops, as it were, and shake hands with all of them on the way to the MH-60K helicopter.
It took more time than he’d expected. Nearly every person there got a word or two with the handshake. They all deserved it. His mind went back to 3rd SOG, a lifetime before. These were as good as those, hard to believe though that might be. He’d been young, proud, and immortal back then. And remarkably, he hadn’t died of being immortal, as so many good men had. Why? Luck, maybe. No other likely explanation. He’d learned caution, mostly in Vietnam. Learned from seeing men who’d not been lucky go down hard from making some dumb mistake, often as simple as not paying attention. Some chances you had to take, but you tried to run them through your mind first and take only the necessary chances. Those
“Hey, Mr. C.,” said a familiar voice at the front door. “Hell of a day out, isn’t it?”
“Ding, we talked about this,” John said without turning.
“Sorry . . . John.”
It had taken John Clark years to get Chavez, colleague and son-in-law, to call him by his first name, and even now Ding was having trouble with it.
“Ready if somebody tries to hijack the flight?”
“Mr. Beretta is in his usual place,” Ding responded. They were among the handful of people in Britain who got to carry firearms, and such privileges were not lightly set aside.
“How are Johnny and Patsy?”
“The little guy is pretty excited about going home. We have a plan after we get there?”
“Not really. Tomorrow morning we make a courtesy call at Langley. I might want to drive over and see Jack in a day or two.”
“See if he’s leaving footprints on the ceiling?” Ding asked with a chuckle.
“More likely claw marks, if I know Jack.”
“Retirement ain’t fun, I suppose.” Chavez didn’t push it further. That was a touchy subject for his father-in law. Time passed, no matter how much you wished it wouldn’t.
“How’s Price handling it?”
“Eddie? He takes an even strain with life—that’s how you sailors say it, right?”
“Close enough for a doggie.”
“Hey, man, I said ‘sailor,’ not ‘squid.’”
“Duly noted, Domingo. I beg your pardon, Colonel.”
Chavez enjoyed the next laugh. “Yeah, I’m gonna miss that.”
“How’s Patsy?”
“Better than the last pregnancy. Looks great. Feels great—least she says she does. Not a big complainer, Patsy. She’s a good girl, John—but then again, I ain’t telling you anything you didn’t already know, am I?”
“Nope, but it’s always nice to hear it.”
“Well, I have no complaints.” And if he did, he’d have to approach the subject with great diplomacy. But he didn’t. “The chopper is waiting, boss,” he added.
“Damn.” A sad whisper.
Sergeant Ivor Rogers had the luggage well in hand, loaded in a green British Army truck for the drive to the helipad, and he was waiting outside for his personal Brigadier, which was John’s virtual rank. The Brits were unusually conscious of rank and ceremony, and he saw more of that when he got outside. He’d hoped to have a low-profile departure, but the locals weren’t thinking that way. As they rolled onto the helipad, there was the entire Rainbow force, the shooters, the Intel support, even the team armorers—Rainbow had the best three gunsmiths in all of Britain—formed up—the local term was “paraded”—in whatever uniforms they were authorized to wear. There was even a squad from the SAS. Stone-faced, they collectively snapped to Present Arms, in the elegant three-count movement the British Army had adopted several centuries earlier. Tradition could be a beautiful thing.
“Damn,” Clark muttered, getting out of the truck. He’d come pretty far for an old Navy chief bosun’s mate, but he’d taken a lot of strange steps along the way. Not knowing quite what to do, he figured he had to review the troops, as it were, and shake hands with all of them on the way to the MH-60K helicopter.
It took more time than he’d expected. Nearly every person there got a word or two with the handshake. They all deserved it. His mind went back to 3rd SOG, a lifetime before. These were as good as those, hard to believe though that might be. He’d been young, proud, and immortal back then. And remarkably, he hadn’t died of being immortal, as so many good men had. Why? Luck, maybe. No other likely explanation. He’d learned caution, mostly in Vietnam. Learned from seeing men who’d not been lucky go down hard from making some dumb mistake, often as simple as not paying attention. Some chances you had to take, but you tried to run them through your mind first and take only the necessary chances. Those
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