"You, too," General Hanrahan said.

Salutes were exchanged, and then General Hollostone marched back inside the Base Ops building trailed by his aide-de -camp.

He returned to his office and got there in time to see-through the mostly closed venetian blinds of his window-the Learjet taxi up to the tarmac in front of Base Ops and stop.

The fuselage door opened and two people got out. One of them was a skinny black man in a white linen suit that looked five sizes too big for him. The other man was white, and wearing a strange, none-too-clean parachutist's uniform. After a moment, General Hollostone recognized it to be that of the Belgian Paracommando Regiment. The Belgian paratrooper had a bandaged nose.

The door of the Learjet closed and the plane immediately began to taxi off. General Hanrahan made a signal with his hand, and a Chevrolet staff car appeared around the corner of the Base Ops building.

It was not flying the checked flag required of all vehicles driving on the flight line.

It's a clear violation of safety regulations. And that goddamned Hanrahan, who knows better, should have his ass burned.

But if I personally report him, he will think I'm chickenshit. And who do I report him to? He's not under the command of the commanding general of Fort Bragg. He gets his orders directly from the chief of staff of the Army.

I am not about to call the chief of staff of the U.S. Army and announce that I am an Air Force brigadier onto whose tarmac Red goddamn Hanrahan drove his staff car without flying a checkered flag.

And who was the black guy in the white suit? Probably the same Congolese, with something to do with Operation Dragon Rouge.

It has to be something like that.

The black guy in the white suit meets the chief of staff of the Army at a cocktail party, says he'd like to see Green Beret training, and the chief says, "My pleasure, Mr. Prime Minister/Your Excellency/Mr. Secretary./Whatever the hell. I will call the Special Missions Squadron of the Air Force and see if they won't give you a Learjet to fly you down there."

It has to be something like that. You don't get to ride in a Learjet unless you are unquestionably a VIP. Or a four-star.

Brigadier General Hanrahan turned from the front passenger seat of the Chevrolet staff car to the black gentleman in the far-too -large-for-him white suit.

"Father," he said. "You look like death warmed over."

"Flattery will get you everywhere, mon general," mon general," Captain George Washington Lunsford said. Only close friends and commanding generals got to call him by his nickname, a shorthand for "Father of His Country," derived from the obvious source. Captain George Washington Lunsford said. Only close friends and commanding generals got to call him by his nickname, a shorthand for "Father of His Country," derived from the obvious source.

"Have you been drinking, Father?" Hanrahan asked.

"I cannot, mon general, mon general, in the noble tradition of my namesake, tell a lie. Yes, I have. And, if this could be arranged, I would be ever so grateful for a little belt right now." in the noble tradition of my namesake, tell a lie. Yes, I have. And, if this could be arranged, I would be ever so grateful for a little belt right now."

"Not right now, I don't think, Captain Lunsford," Hanrahan said. "I think what you need right now is a cup of black coffee."

In the interests of good military order and discipline, General Hanrahan decided it would be far better if, when the word got around that Father Lunsford had returned alive from a really hairy assignment, it was not gleefully bandied about that he had returned in a white suit that didn't fit, and as drunk as an owl.

He touched his driver, a nice-looking young Green Beret sergeant, on his sleeve.

"You better take us to the house, Tony."

"Yes, sir."

"First things first," General Hanrahan said as he walked into the sun porch of Quarters 107, a two-story brick home that had been built in 1938 as quarters suitable for a captain. "Your coffee, Captain Lunsford."

Lunsford, who was slumped in a wicker armchair, reached for it.

My God, he really looks awful.

"Merci, mon general."

"Where'd you get the suit?"

"It belongs to Jack's father. It was in his apartment in the Immoquateur-that's the apartment building in Stanleyville?"

Hanrahan nodded his understanding.

"When the C130s started dropping the Belgians, I was wearing my Simba uniform, and I knew that the first Belgian to see me would take a shot at me, so I borrowed it from Jack's stepmother, " Lunsford explained.

"Tony," Hanrahan said to his driver. "Go find the sergeant major. Tell him Captain Lunsford needs a clean uniform. There's a duplicate key to the captain's locker in my safe."

"Yes, sir."

"And, Sergeant, on your way back, stop by Class VI and pick up a bottle of scotch, will you?" Captain Lunsford said.

Hanrahan looked closely at Lunsford.

"You need a drink that bad, do you?"

"I really would like a little taste, General."

"I'll give you a drink," Hanrahan said. "Tony, get him his uniform. "

"Yes, sir," the sergeant said.

Hanrahan poured scotch into three glasses, handed one to Lunsford and the other to Jack Portet, and then raised his own.

"Welcome home, the both of you," he said.

Portet took a sip of the straight scotch. Lunsford downed all of his at once.

When he sensed Hanrahan's eyes on him, Lunsford said: "It tranquilizes my worm, sir."

"What?"

"My tapeworm, sir. I have a world-class tapeworm."

I will deal with that later.

"What happened to your nose, Portet?" General Hanrahan asked. "And what's with the Belgian uniform?"

"Mon general," Captain Lunsford said. "Sergeant Portet has asked that I serve as his legal counsel. As such, Sergeant Portet, I advise you to claim your rights under the 31st Article of War and respectfully decline to answer the general's question-at least until you get your medals-on the grounds it may tend to incriminate you." Captain Lunsford said. "Sergeant Portet has asked that I serve as his legal counsel. As such, Sergeant Portet, I advise you to claim your rights under the 31st Article of War and respectfully decline to answer the general's question-at least until you get your medals-on the grounds it may tend to incriminate you."

"What medals?"

"I have it on the best authority, mon general, mon general, that this splendid young noncommissioned officer is to be decorated by both the Belgian and Congolese governments for his heroic participation in Operation Dragon Rouge." that this splendid young noncommissioned officer is to be decorated by both the Belgian and Congolese governments for his heroic participation in Operation Dragon Rouge."

" 'Heroic'?" Hanrahan parroted. "What he was supposed to do was brief the Air Force about the airfield, and see if he knew anything about Stanleyville the Belgians didn't already know."

"Actually, sir, Sergeant Portet's contribution to Operation Dragon Rouge went a little beyond that."

"For example?"

"He jumped on Stanleyville with the Belgians, sir," Lunsford said. "That's where he got that uniform. And the busted nose. He fell out of a truck in Stanleyville."

"He was not supposed to jump anywhere," Hanrahan said. "And I specifically ordered Foster to make sure he didn't."

He looked at Portet, who looked very uncomfortable.

"Sir, Lieutenant Foster made it very clear that I was not to go with the Belgians."

"And you figured, fuck you, and jumped anyway?"

Hanrahan heard the angry tone in his voice and vowed to keep his temper.

"General, his family was in Stanleyville," Lunsford said.

"I know that," Hanrahan snapped, and then asked, more kindly, "Are they all right, Portet?"

"When I got to the Immoquateur, sir, Captain Lunsford was there. He protected them. They're fine. They're on their way to the States, via Germany."

"Geoff Craig's wife and baby, too?"

"Yes, sir. Thanks to Captain Lunsford."

"Well, thank God for that," Hanrahan said.

"How'd you come back?" Hanrahan asked.

"With Fath . . . Captain Lunsford, on the Special Missions jet."

If my family had been in Stanleyville, I would have jumped on, too.

"The shit's going to hit the fan, you understand, when it gets out that you jumped with the Belgians," Hanrahan said.

"That's why I got him the medals, sir," Lunsford said. "I figured, what the hell, with the Belgians and the Congolese calling him a hero . . ."

"You got him the medals?"

"Colonel Van de Waele, the Belgian leading-"

"I know who he is," Hanrahan interrupted.

"Came to Kamina just before we left. I explained the situation-"

"The military situation, or Portet's?" Hanrahan interrupted again.

"Both, actually," Lunsford said.

"Sir, what Colonel Van de Waele really came to Kamina to do-"

"I don't recall having given you permission to speak, Sergeant," Lunsford said. "Shut your mouth."

"You were saying, Sergeant?" Hanrahan said.

"The King sent him," Portet said. "With orders to give Captain Lunsford the Grand Order of Leopold, First Class," Portet said.

Whatever medal the King of the Belgians gave him, he deserved.

"Did he?" Hanrahan said.

"Well, since the subject of medals had come up," Lunsford said, "I told Van de Waele about how Portet had come into the Immoquateur like John Wayne, his weapon blazing, dropping bad guys all over. . . ."

"And?"

"Van de Waele said he was pretty sure he could get Jack a medal, Second Class, and then some Congo colonel got in the act and said he was sure General Mobutu, the Congolese chief of staff, would want to decorate the both of us-"

"Was this before or after you mentioned Jack wasn't supposed to be in Stanleyville in the first place?"

"Now that you mention it, that may have come up in the conversation. " Lunsford paused, and met Hanrahan's eyes. "It wasn't all bullshit, what I told Van de Waele about Jack. He's one hell of a soldier, General."

"Who, by his own admission, disobeyed a direct order to jump on Stanleyville."

Lunsford shrugged, and then he began to cough. His body shook with the effort, and when he finally stopped, his face was sweat-soaked.

"Why aren't you in Walter Reed?" Hanrahan asked. "For that matter, why aren't you in the 97th General Hospital in Frankfurt?"

"Now that you mention it, mon general, mon general, it might be a good idea to call Walter Reed and tell them where I am. I think they might be wondering where I am about now." it might be a good idea to call Walter Reed and tell them where I am. I think they might be wondering where I am about now."

"Goddamn it, Father! You're AWOL from Walter Reed, aren't you?"

"In a manner of speaking, sir."

"Why the hell did you come here?"

"When I looked out of the window of the Immoquateur and saw John Wayne here leading the cavalry to the rescue, I figured I really owed that guy, whoever he was. Then I found out who he was and what he had done, and I figured I owed it to him to do what I could to get him off the hook. So I came here."

"Did you see Colonel Felter over there, Father?"

"Yes, sir, he was at Kamina."

"So he knows about Portet?"

"Yes, sir."

"And?"