One of the singular things about Colombia was that the country actually allowed people to bring firearms in with very little in the way of hassle. Clark had not bothered this time. He wondered if the next time might be a little different. He knew that he couldnt work through the chief of station for that. After all, the chief of station didnt even know that he was here. Clark wondered why, but shrugged it off. That didnt concern him. The mission did.

The United States Army had reinstituted the idea of the Infantry Division (Light) only a few years before. The units had not been all that hard to make. It was simply a matter of selecting an Infantry Division (Mechanized) and removing all of its (Mechanized) equipment. What then remained behind was an organization of roughly 10,500 people whose TOE (Table of Organization and Equipment) was even lighter than that of an airborne division, traditionally the lightest of them all, and therefore able to be air-transported by a mere five hundred flights of the Air Forces Military Airlift Command. But the light infantry divisions, or LIDs as they came to be known, were not as useless as the casual observer might imagine, however. Far from it.

In creating the light-fighters, the Army had decided to return to the timeless basics of history. Any thinking warrior will testify that there are two kinds of fighters: the infantry, and those who in one way or another support the infantry. More than anything else, the LIDs were postgraduate institutions for advanced infantry skills. Here was where the Army grew its sergeants the old-fashioned way. In recognizing this, the Army had carefully assigned some of its best officers to command them. The colonels commanding the brigades, and the generals commanding the divisions, were veterans of Vietnam whose memories of that bitter conflict included admiration for their enemiesmost especially the way in which the Viet Cong and NVA had converted their lack of equipment and firepower into an asset. There was no reason, the Armys thinkers decided, that American soldiers should not have the same degree of skill in fieldcraft that Vo Nguyen Giaps soldiers had developed; better still that those skills should be mated to Americas traditional fascination with equipment and firepower. What had resulted were four elite divisions, the 7th in the green hills of Fort Ord, California, the 10th Mountain at Fort Drum, New York, the 25th at Schofield Barracks, Hawaii, and the 6th at Fort Wainwright, Alaska. Perversely, each had problems holding on to its sergeants and company-grade officers, but that was part of the overall plan. Light-fighters live a strenuous life, and on reaching thirty even the best of them would think longingly of being able to ride to battle in a helicopter or an armored personnel carrier, and maybe being able to spend a reasonable amount of time with their young wives and children instead of climbing hills. Thus the best of them, the ones that stayed and completed the difficult NCO schools that each division ran, having learned that sergeants must occasionally act without their lieutenants direction, then joined the heavy formations that comprised the rest of the Army, bringing with them skills that theyd never quite forget. The LIDs were, in short, factory institutions, where the Army built sergeants with exceptional leadership ability and mastery of the unchanging truths of warfareit always came down to a few people with muddy boots and smelly uniforms who could use the land and the night as allies to visit death on their fellowmen.

Staff Sergeant Domingo Chavez was one of these. Known as Ding by his squad, he was twenty-six. Already a nine-year veteranhed begun as a gang kid in Los Angeles whose basic common sense had overcome his ineffectual educationhed decided that there was no future in the Bandidos when a close friend had died in a drive-by shooting whose purpose hed never quite figured out. The following Monday morning hed taken the bus to the nearest Army Recruiting Office after the Marines had turned him down. Despite his near illiteracy, the recruiting sergeant had signed him up in a momenthis quota had been short, and the kid had expressed a willingness to go infantry, thus fulfilling two blank spots on the sergeants monthly reporting sheet. Most of all, the youngster wanted to go right in. It could not have been better for the recruiter.

Chavez hadnt had many ideas what military service would be like, and most of those had turned out to be wrong. After losing his hair and a rat-faced beard, hed learned that toughness is worthless without discipline, and that the Army doesnt tolerate insolence. That lesson had come behind a white-painted barracks at the hands of a drill sergeant whose face was as black as a jungle night. But Chavezs life had never known an easy lesson; as a result he hadnt learned to resent the hard ones. Having discovered that the Army was also a hierarchy with strict hierarchical rules, he stayed within them and gradually turned into an above-average recruit. Former gang kid that he was, hed already known about camaraderie and teamwork, and redirecting these traits into positive directions had come easily enough. By the time basic training had ended, his small frame was as lean and taut as a steel cable, his physical appearance was something in which he took inordinate pride, and he was already well on his way to mastering every weapon that an infantryman can carry. Where else, he asked himself once a day, do they give you a machine gun and pay you to shoot it?

But soldiers are grown, not born. Chavezs first posting was to Korea, where he learned about hills, and just how deadly enemy gangs could be, since duty on the DMZ has never been anything that one might call safe. Discipline, he learned there once and for all, had a real purpose. It kept you alive. A small team of North Korean infiltrators had picked a rainy night to go through his units piece of the line for purposes known only to their commanders. On the way theyd stumbled on an unmarked listening post whose two American occupants had decided to sleep through the night, and never awoke. ROK units had later intercepted and killed the invaders, but Chavez was the one whod discovered the men from his own platoon, throats cut in the same way hed seen in his own neighborhood. Soldiering, hed decided then and there, was a serious business, and one which he wanted to master. The platoon sergeant noticed first, then the lieutenant. Chavez paid attention to lectures, even trying to take notes. On realizing his inability to read and write beyond things hed carefully memorized in advance, the platoon leader had gotten the young PFC help. Working hard on his own time, before the end of the year Chavez had passed a high-school equivalency teston his first try! he told everyone who would listen that nightand made Specialist Fourth Class, which earned him an extra $58.50 per month. His lieutenant didnt fully understand, though the platoon sergeant did, that Domingo Chavez had been forever changed by that combination of events. Though hed always had the Latinos deep pride, part of the eighteen-year-old soldier now understood that he had truly done something to be proud about. For this he deemed himself to be in the Armys debt, and with the deep sense of personal honor which was also part of his cultural heritage, it was a debt that he would forever after work to repay.

Some things never left. He cultivated physical toughness. Part of that came from his small sizejust five-eightbut he also came to understand that the real world was not a football field: the tough ones who made the long haul were most often the compact, lean fighters. Chavez came to love running, and enjoyed a good sweat. Because of this, assignment to the 7th Infantry Division (Light) was almost inevitable. Though based at Fort Ord, near Monterey on the California coast, the 7th trains farther down the coast at Hunter-Liggett Military Reservation, once the sprawling rancho of the Hearst family. A place of magnificent green hills in the moist winters, Hunter-Liggett becomes a blistering moonscape in the California summer, a place of steep, topless hills, gnarled, shapeless trees, and grass that crumbles to dust under ones boots. For Chavez it was home. He arrived as a brand-new buck sergeant E-5, and was immediately sent to the divisions two-week Combat Leaders Course, a prep school for squad sergeants that also paved the way for his entry into Ranger School at Fort Benning, Georgia. On his return from that most rigorous of Army training courses, Chavez was leaner and more confident than ever. His return to Fort Ord coincided with the arrival of a new cohort of recruits for his battalion. Ding Chavez was assigned to command a squad of slick-sleeved privates fresh from Advanced Infantry Training. It was the first payback time for the young sergeant. The Army had invested considerable time and training in him, and now it was time for him to pass it along to nine raw recruitsand also time for the Army to see if Chavez had the stuff that leaders are made of. He took command of his squad as a stepfather of a large and unruly family faces his newly acquired children. He wanted them to turn out properly because they were his, and because they were his, he was damned sure going to see that they did.

At Fort Ord, hed also learned the real art of soldiering, for infantry tactics are precisely that for the light-fightersan art form. Assigned to Bravo Company, 3rd Battalion of the 17th Infantry Regiment, whose somewhat ambitious motto was Ninja! We Own the Night! Chavez went into the field with his face coated in camouflage paintin the 7th LID even the helicopter pilots wear camouflage paintand learned his profession in full even while he taught his men. Most of all, he came to love the night. Chavez learned to move himself and his squad through cover as quietly as a whispering breeze. The objective of such missions was generally the same. Unable to match a heavy formation force-on-force, Chavez trained to do the close, nasty work that has always characterized light infantrymen: raids and ambushes, infiltration and intelligence gathering. Stealth was their means, and surprise was their tool, to appear where least expected, to strike with close-quarter ferocity, then to escape into the darkness before the other side could react. Such things had been tried on Americans once, and it was only fair that Americans should learn to return the favor. All in all, SSG Domingo Chavez was a man whom the Apaches or the Viet Cong would have recognized as one of their ownor one of their most dangerous enemies.

Hey, Ding! the platoon sergeant called. The ell-tee wants you.

It had been a long one at Hunter-Liggett, ending at the dawn now two hours old. The exercise had lasted nearly nine days, and even Chavez was feeling it. He wasnt seventeen anymore, his legs were telling him with some amusement. At least it was his last such job with the Ninjas. He was rotating out, and his next assignment was to be a drill sergeant with the Armys basic-training school at Fort Benning, Georgia. Chavez was immensely proud of that. The Army thought enough of him that he would now be an example to young recruits. The sergeant got to his feet, but before walking over to where the lieutenant was, he reached into his pocket and took out a throwing star. Ever since the colonel had taken to calling his men Ninjas, the nasty little steel projectiles had become derigueur to the mensomewhat to the concern of the powers-that-were. But there was always a little slack cut for the good ones, and Chavez was one of these. He flipped the star with a deceptively powerful flick of the wrist and buried it an inch deep in a tree fifteen feet away. He collected it on the way to see the boss.

Yes, sir! Chavez said, standing at attention.

At ease, Sergeant, Lieutenant Jackson said. He was sitting against a tree to take the strain off his blistered feet. A West Point graduate and only twenty-three, he was learning how hard it could be to keep up with the soldiers he was supposed to lead. Got a call. They need you back at headquarters. Something to do with the paperwork on your transfer. You can go in on a resupply flight out of battalion trains. The chopperll be down there in an hour. Nice work last night, by the way. Im going to be sorry to lose you, Ding.

Thank you, sir. Jackson wasnt bad for a young officer, Chavez thought. Green, of course, but he tried pretty hard and learned fast. He saluted the younger man snappily.

You take care of yourself, Sergeant. Jackson rose to return it properly.

We own the night, sir! Chavez replied in the manner of the Ninjas, 3rd Battalion, 17th Infantry. Twenty-five minutes later he climbed aboard a Sikorsky UH-60A Blackhawk helicopter for the fifty-minute ride back to Ord. The battalion sergeant-major handed him a message as he got aboard. Chavez had an hour to get cleaned up before appearing at the divisional G-1 or personnel office. It took a long shower to erase the salt and war paint, but he managed to arrive early in his best set of BDU camouflage fatigues.

Hey, Ding, said another staff sergeant, who was working in G-1 while his broken leg healed. The mans waiting for you in the conference room, end of the hall on the second floor.

Whats it all about, Charlie?

Damned if I know. Some colonel asked to see you is all.

DamnI need a haircut, too, Chavez muttered as he trotted up the wooden stairs. His boots could have used a little more work also. Hell of a way to appear before some friggin colonel, but then Chavez was entitled to a little more warning than hed been given. That was one of the nice things about the Army, the sergeant thought. The rules applied to everyone. He knocked on the proper door, too tired to be worried. He wouldnt be around much longer, after all. His orders for Fort Benning were already cut, and he was wondering what the loose womenfolk in Georgia were like. Hed just broken up with a steady girlfriend. Maybe the more stable life-style that went with a drill sergeant would allow him to Come! a voice boomed in reply to his knock.

The colonel was sitting behind a cheap wooden desk. He was dressed in a black sweater over a lime-green shirt, and had a name tag that said SMITH. Ding came to attention.

Staff Sergeant Domingo Chavez reporting as ordered, sir.

Okay, relax and sit down, Sergeant. I know youve been on the go for a while. Theres coffee in the corner if you want.

No, thank you, sir. Chavez sat down and almost relaxed a bit until he saw his personnel jacket lying on the desk. Colonel Smith picked it up and flipped it open. Having someone rip through your personnel file was usually worrisome, but the colonel looked up with a relaxed smile. Chavez noticed that Colonel Smith had no unit crest above his name tag, not even the hourglass-bayonet symbol of the 7th LID. Where did he come from? Who was this guy?

This looks pretty damned good, Sergeant. Id say youre a good bet for E-7 in two or three years. Youve been down south, too, I see. Three times, is it?

Yes, sir. We been to Honduras twice and Panama once.

Did well all three times. It says here your Spanish is excellent.

Its what I was raised with, sir. As his accent told everyone he met. He wanted to know what this was all about, but staff sergeants do not ask such questions of bird-colonels. He got his wish in any case.

Sergeant, were putting a special group together, and we want you to be part of it.

Sir, I got new orders, and I know that. Were looking for people with a combination of good language skills andhell, were looking for the best light-fighters we can find. Everything I see about you says youre one of the best in the division. There were other criteria that Colonel Smith did not go into. Chavez was unmarried. His parents were both dead. He had no close family members, or at least was not known to write or call anyone with great frequency. He didnt fit the profile perfectlythere were some other things that they wished he hadbut everything they saw looked good. Its a special job. It might be a little dangerous, but probably not. Were not sure yet. Itll last a couple of months, six at the most. At the end, you make E-7 and have your choice of assignments.

Whats this special job all about, sir? Chavez asked brightly. The chance of making E-7 a year or two early got his full and immediate attention.

That I cant say, Sergeant. I dont like recruiting people blind, Colonel Smith lied, but I have my orders, too. I can say that youll be sent somewhere east of here for intensive training. Maybe itll stop there, maybe not. If it does stop there, the deal holds on the promotion and the assignment. If it goes farther, you will probably be sent somewhere to exercise your special kind of skills. Okay, I can say that were talking some covert intelligence-gathering. Were not sending you to Nicaragua or anything like that. Youre not being sent off to fight a secret war. That statement was technically not a lie. Smith didnt know exactly what the job was all about, and he wasnt being encouraged to speculate. Hed been given the mission requirements, and his nearly completed job was to find people who could do itwhatever the hell it was.

Anyway, thats all I can say. What we have discussed to this point does not leave the roommeaning that you do not discuss it with anybody without my authorization, understood? the man said forcefully.

Understood, sir!

Sergeant, weve invested a lot of time and money in you. Its payback time. The country needs you. We need what you know. We need what you know how to do.

Put that way, Chavez knew he had little choice. Smith knew that, too. The young man waited about five seconds before answering, which was less than expected.

When do I leave, sir?

Smith was all business now. He pulled a large manila envelope from the desks center drawer. CHAVEZ was scrawled on it in Magic Marker. Sergeant, Ive taken the liberty of doing a few things for you. In here are your medical and finance records. Ive already arranged to clear you through most of the post agencies. Ive also scratched in a limited power of attorney form so that you can have somebody ship your personal effectswhere to shows on the form.

Chavez nodded, though his head swam slightly. Whoever this Colonel Smith was, he had some serious horsepower to run paperwork through the Armys legendary bureaucracy so quickly. Clearing post ordinarily took five days of sitting and waiting. He took the envelope from the colonels hand.

Pack your gear and be back here at eighteen hundred. Dont bother getting a haircut or anything. Youre going to let it grow for a while. Ill handle things with the people downstairs. And remember: you do not discuss this with anybody. If someone asks, you got orders to report to Fort Benning a little early. Thats your story, and I expect you to stick to it. Colonel Smith stood and extended his hand while he told another lie, mixed with some truth. You did the right thing. I knew we could count on you, Chavez.

We own the night, sir!

Dismissed.

Colonel Smith replaced the personnel folder in his briefcase. That was that. Most of the men were already on their way to Colorado. Chavez was one of the last. Smith wondered how things would work out. His real name was Edgar Jeffries, and he had once been an Army officer, long since seconded to, then hired by, the Central Intelligence Agency. He found himself hoping that things would go as planned, but hed been with the Agency too long to place much store in that train of thought. This wasnt his first recruiting job. Not all of them had gone well, and fewer still had gone as planned. On the other hand, Chavez and all the rest had volunteered to join the countrys military service, had voluntarily re-enlisted, and had voluntarily decided to accept his invitation to do something new and different. The world was a dangerous place, and these forty men had made an informed decision to join one of its more dangerous professions. It was some consolation to him, and because Edgar Jeffries still had a conscience, he needed the consolation.

Good luck, Sarge, he said quietly to himself.

Chavez had a busy day. First changing into civilian clothes, he washed his field uniform and gear, then assembled all of the equipment which hed be leaving behind. He had to clean the equipment also, because you were supposed to give it back better than you got it, as Sergeant First Class Mitchell expected. By the time the rest of the platoon arrived from Hunter-Liggett at 1300, his tasks were well underway. The activity was noted by the returning NCOs, and soon the platoon sergeant appeared.

Why you packed up, Ding? Mitchell asked.

They need me at Benning earlythats, uh, thats why they flew me back this morning.

The lieutenant know?

They musta told himwell, they musta told the company clerk, right? Chavez was a little embarrassed. Lying to his platoon sergeant bothered him. Bob Mitchell had been a friend and a teacher for his nearly four years at Fort Ord. But his orders came from a colonel.

Ding, one thing you still have to learn about is paperwork. Come on, son. The ell-tees in his office.

Lieutenant Timothy Washington Jackson, Infantry, hadnt cleaned up yet, but was almost ready to leave for his place in the bachelor officers quarters, called the BOQ, or merely The Q. He looked up to see two of his senior NCOs.

Lieutenant, Chavez heres got orders to skip off to Fort Benning PDQ. Theyre picking him up this evening.

So I hear. I just got a call from the battalion sergeant major. What the hell gives? We dont do things this way, Jackson growled. How long?

Eighteen hundred, sir.

Super. I gotta go and get cleaned up before I see the S-3. Sergeant Mitchell, can you handle the equipment records?

Yes, sir.

Okay, Ill be back at seventeen hundred to finish things up. Chavez, dont leave before I get back.

The rest of the afternoon passed quickly. Mitchell was willing to handle shippingthere wasnt that much to shipand squared the younger man away, with a few lessons tossed in on the better ways to expedite paperwork. Lieutenant Jackson was back on time, and brought both men into his office. It was quiet. Most of the platoon was already gone for a well-deserved night on the town.

Ding, I aint ready to lose you yet. We havent decided who takes the squad over. You were talking about Ozkanian, Sergeant Mitchell?

Thats right, sir. What dyou think, Chavez?

Hes about ready, Ding judged.

Okay, well give Corporal Ozkanian a shot at it. Youre lucky, Chavez, Lieutenant Jackson said next. I got caught up on all my paperwork right before we went into the field. You want me to go over your evaluation with you?

Just the high spotsll be fine, sir. Chavez grinned. The lieutenant liked him, and Chavez knew it.

Okay, I say youre damned good, which you are. Sorry to lose you this quick. You going to need a lift? Jackson asked.

No problem, sir. I was planning to walk over.

Crap. We all did enough walking last night. Load your stuff into my car. The lieutenant tossed him the keys. Anything else, Sergeant Mitchell?

Nothin that cant wait until Monday, sir. I figure we earned ourselves a nice restful weekend.

As always, your judgment is impeccable. My brothers in town, and Im gone till 0600 Monday morning.

Roger that. Have a good one, sir.

Chavez didnt have much in the way of personal gear, and, unusually, didnt even have a car. In fact he was saving his money to buy a Chevy Corvette, the car that had fascinated him since boyhood, and was within five thousand dollars of being able to pay cash for one. His baggage was already loaded into the back of Jacksons Honda CVCC when the lieutenant emerged from the barracks. Chavez tossed him the keys back.

Where they picking you up?

Division G-1 is what the man said, sir.

Why there? Why not Martinez Hall? Jackson asked as he started up. Martinez was the customary processing facility.

Lieutenant, I just go where they tell me.

Jackson laughed at that. Dont we all?

It only took a couple of minutes. Jackson dropped Chavez off with a handshake. There were five other soldiers there, the lieutenant noted briefly. All sergeants, which was something of a surprise. All looked Hispanic, too. He knew two of them. Len was in Ben Tuckers platoon, 4th of the 17th, and Muoz was with divisional recon. Those were two good ones, too. Lieutenant Jackson shrugged it off as he drove away.

The Panache Procedure.

WEGENERS INSPECTION CAME before lunch instead of after. There wasnt much to complain about. Chief Riley had been there first. Except for some paint cans and brushes that were actually in usepainting a ship is something that never begins or ends; it just isthere was no loose gear in view. The ships gun was properly trained in and secured, as were the anchor chains. Lifelines were taut, and hatches dogged down tight in anticipation of the evening storm. A few off-duty sailors lounged here and there, reading or sunning themselves. These leapt to their feet at Rileys rumbling Attention on deck! One third-class was reading a Playboy. Wegener informed him good-naturedly that hed have to watch out for that on the next cruise, as three female crewmen were scheduled to join the ship in less than two weeks time, and it wouldnt do to offend their sensibilities. That Panache had none aboard at the moment was a statistical anomaly, and the change didnt trouble the captain greatly, though his senior chiefs were skeptical to say the least. There was also the problem of who got to use the plumbing when, since female crewmen had not been anticipated by the cutters designers. It was the first time today that Red Wegener had had something to smile about. The problems of taking women to sea . . . and the smile died again as the images from the videotape came back to him. Those two womenno, a woman and a little girlhad gone to sea, too, hadnt they . . .?

It just wouldnt go away.

Wegener looked around and saw the questions forming on the faces of the men around him. The skipper was pissed about something. They didnt know what it was, but knew that you dont want to be around the captain when he was mad about something. Then they saw his face change. The captain had just asked himself a question, they thought.

Looks all right to me, people. Lets make sure we keep it that way. He nodded and walked forward to his stateroom. Once there he summoned Chief Oreza.

The quartermaster arrived within a minute. Panache wasnt big enough to allow a longer walk than that. You called, Captain?

Close the door, Portagee, and grab a seat.

The master chief quartermaster was of Portuguese extraction, but his accent was New England. Like Bob Riley he was a consummate seaman, and like his captain he was also a gifted instructor. A whole generation of Coast Guard officers had learned the use of the sextant from this swarthy, overweight professional. It was men like Manuel Oreza who really ran the Coast Guard, and Wegener occasionally regretted leaving their ranks for officer status. But he hadnt left them entirely, and in private Wegener and Oreza still communicated on a first-name basis.

I saw the tape of the boarding, Red, Oreza said, reading his captains mind. You shoulda let Riley snap the little fucker in half.

Thats not the way were supposed to do things, Wegener said somewhat lamely.

Piracy, murder, and rapetoss in the drugs for fun. The quartermaster shrugged his shoulders. I know what we oughta do with people like that. Problem is, nobody ever does.

Wegener knew what he meant. Although there was a new federal death-penalty law to deal with drug-related murders, it had only rarely been invoked. The problem was simply that every drug dealer arrested knew someone bigger who was even more desirable a targetthe really big ones never placed themselves in a position where the supposed long arm of the law could reach. Federal law-enforcement agencies might have been omnipotent within U.S. borders, and the Coast Guard might have plenipotentiary powers at seaeven to the point where they were allowed to board and search numerous foreign-flag ships at willbut there were always limits. There had to be. The enemy knew what those limits were, and it was really a simple thing to adapt to them. This was a game whose fixed rules applied only to one side; the other was free to redefine its own rules at will. It was simple for the big boys in the drug trade to keep clear, and there were always plenty of smaller fry to take their chances on the dangerous partsespecially since their pay exceeded that of any army in history. These foot soldiers were dangerous and clever enough to make the contest difficultbut even when you caught them, they were always able to trade their knowledge for partial immunity.

The result was that nobody ever seemed to pay in full. Except the victims, of course. Wegeners train of thought was interrupted by something even worse.

You know, Red, these two might get off entirely.

Hold it, Portagee, I cant My oldest girl is in law school, skipper. You want to know the really bad news? the chief asked darkly.

Go on.

We get these characters to portwell, the helo brings them in tomorrowand they ask for a lawyer, right? Anybody who watches American TV knows that much. Lets say that they keep their mouths shut till then. Then their lawyer says that his clients saw a drifting yacht yesterday morning and boarded it. The boat they were on headed back to wherever it came from, and they decide to take it to port to claim the salvage rights. They didnt use the radio because they didnt know how to work ityou see that on the tape? It was one of those gollywog computer-driven scanners with the hundred-page manualand our friends dont reada da Eenglish so good. Somebody on the fishing boat will corroborate part of the story. Its all a horrible misunderstanding, see? So the U.S. Attorney in Mobile decides that he might not have a good-enough case, and our friends cop to a lesser charge. Thats how it works. He paused.

Thats hard to believe.

We got no bodies. We got no witnesses. We have weapons aboard, but who can say who fired them? Its all circumstantial evidence. Oreza smiled for a grim moment. My daughter gave me a good brief last month on how all this stuff works. They whistle up someone to back up their version of how they got aboardsomebody clean, no criminal recordand all of a sudden the only real witnesses are on the other side, and we got shit, Red. They cop to some little piddly-ass charge, and thats it.

But if theyre innocent, why dont they Talk very much? Oh, hell, thats the easy part. A foreign-flag warship pulls up alongside and puts an armed boarding party aboard. The boarding party points a bunch of guns at them, roughs them up a bit, and theyre so scared that they didnt say anythingthats what the lawyerll say. Bet on it. Oh, they probly wont walk, but the prosecutor will be so afraid of losing the case that hell look for an easy way out. Our friends will get a year or two in the can, then they get a free plane ticket home.

But theyre murderers.

Sure as hell, Portagee agreed. To get off, all they have to be is smart murderers. And there might even be some other things they can say. What my girl taught me, Red, is that its never as simple as it looks. Like I said, you shoulda let Bob handle it. The kids would have backed you up, Captain. You oughta hear what theyre saying about this thing.

Captain Wegener was quiet for a moment. That made sense, didnt it? Sailors didnt change much over the years, did they? On the beach theyd work mightily to get into every pair of female pants in sight, but on the question of murder and rape, the kids felt the same way the old-timers did. Times hadnt changed all that much after all. Men were still men. They knew what justice was, courts and lawyers to the contrary.