"The lieutenant on the phone just now said Oh, that's the wise-ass who put his sergeant in the hospital with a broken jaw.""

"If that's the case," Porter Craig said loyally, "he must have had his reasons."

"I'm sure he thinks he does," Lowell said. "But what I'm afraid of is that his reasons won't wash. The only excuse that counts is self-defense." He walked out of the room and into the office, returning a minute or so later with a briefcase.

"Here's the fiscal 65 projections, Bill," he said, handing them to Roberts.

"What am I supposed to do with them?"

"You don't really want this grounded eagle to answer that, General, do you?" Lowell replied. "If I did, Bellmon would have me in the stockade with Cousin Geoff."

Jeanne Roberts tittered. Barbara BeIlmon chuckled. Their husbands glowered at them.

Porter Craig looked confused.

Barbara Bellmon walked to the buffet and picked up the magnum of champagne. "Champagne, anyone?" she cheerfully inquired.

Near Durham, North Carolina 0415 Hours, 1 1 December 1961 The farmer who owned the field they were standing and waiting in offered Lieutenant Tom Ellis a quart mason jar containing a clear liquid. The farmer had served with the 325th Glider Infantry Regiment of the Eighty-second Airborne Division during War II. He now was sixty pounds heavier than he had been in 1945, and much balder.

"Clears the sinuses," he said. "Made it myself."

"Thank you," Lieutenant Ellis said politely, and took a swallow, prepared for a burning sensation.

It was not nearly as bad as he expected. His experience with "white lightning" was limited, and what he'd had before had seared his throat and seized his brain like the punishment of the damned. This was pretty good stuff, and he said so.

"You can make better than you can buy," the farmer told him. "The secret is cleanliness. Stainless-steel retort, copper pipes, and cleanliness. And then you have to age it. That's more than a year old."

"Very good," Lieutenant Ellis said.

They were standing next to Lieutenant Ellis's automobile. It was a Jaguar XK-120, which five days before had been the property of a captain of the 505th Parachute Infantry who had placed entirely too much faith in three queens. Lieutenant Ellis held a king-high straight.

Ellis had, as a gentleman, given the captain three days to come up with the thousand dollars the captain had used as a symbol of his faith in three queens (pledging equity in the Jaguar in lieu of cash); and when the cash itself turned out to not be forthcoming, the captain and Ellis had gone to the Fort Bragg branch of the First National Bank of Fayetteville and sorted the situation out. The captain then drove away from the bank at the wheel of what until then had been Lieutenant Ellis's car, an MG TD. And Lieutenant Ellis and the bank now owned just about equal parts of the Jaguar XK-120.

The drive from Fort Bragg to Durham the previous afternoon had been very pleasant in the Jaguar, although it drank considerably more high-test gasoline than the MG consumed of regular. Since his mission to Durham was official, a jeep had been reserved for his use. But he had two missions in Durham, one official and one personal, and he needed for that one personal wheels, so the jeep sat in the motor pool at Bragg.

On his arrival, per his instructions, he had made contact with "the host" the farmer and the host had insisted that he come for dinner. The host had a large family, but two of his sons were put together, so that Lieutenant Ellis could sleep in their bed.

There were large lithographs of Jesus Christ hung on various walls in the farmhouse, and a lengthy grace was offered before an enormous meal. After dinner a scrapbook was brought out, and the host traced his World War II service with the Eightysecond from North Africa to Berlin. The first Kodak Baby Brownie photographs were sort of fuzzy, but in North Africa the host had liberated a Leica camera, and thereafter they were actually of high technical and gradually improving artistic quality.

At 0345 the next morning, Lieutenant Ellis was awakened by the Host's dog, a large short-haired brown and black animal that enthusiastically licked Ellis's face.

"Half an hour until they drop em," the Host announced happily from the door a few seconds later.

Ellis quickly showered and shaved and dressed in fatigues. He would dearly have liked a cup of coffee, but the Host announced they would have breakfast after the drop.

In the field the host handed the quart of white lightning back to Ellis, who politely took another swallow.

"I put a couple of quarts in the trunk," the Host said. "You can take it with you."

"You don't have to do that," Ellis said.

"Hell, I want to," the Host said.

Faintly, far off, Ellis heard the sound of an aircraft engine. "Hell, that ain't them," the Host announced. "That's a pair of little bitty one-engine airplanes."

Ellis urgently searched the sky for the aircraft the Host had found so quickly. He found them finally, approaching from the Southeast. Two Beavers. It was them.

"They're Beavers," Ellis explained to the Host. "One engine, but they carry five people."

"In those litUe bitty airplanes?"

"They're bigger than they look," Ellis said.

"I'll be damned," the Host said. He took another pull at the white lightning and handed it to Ellis.

"I really don't need any more of this," Ellis said "Hell, boy, my motto is Get all you can while you can Ellis was aware that a warm glow in his stomach was spreading throughout his body. And he was aware that it was getting pretty close to the time for the drop.

He opened the door and reached into the back of the Jaguar. The Host's dog, which was sitting upright there, felt like licking his face. Ellis pushed the dog out of the way and picked up an Angry Nine, more formally known as the Army-Navy Ground Radio Communications Set, Model 9, or ANIGRC-9.

He pulled out of the car, leaned against the hood, turned the radio on, and put the headset to his ear.

Just in time.

"If you're down there and awake, Ellis, they just went out the door!" the voice of one of the pilots came metallically over the radio.

"Roger," Ellis said to the microphone, and then pointed up at the aircraft. The Host let his dog out of the car. The dog immediately raised his leg and decorated the Jaguar's lovely yellow lacquer near the rear right wheel.

"I don't see anything," the Host said. But then: "I'll be damned, there they are!"

A line of parachutes had opened in the early-morning sky. Ellis counted them. Eleven. Nine personnel chutes and two small cargo chutes.

"Now we sit here and hope nobody goes into the trees and breaks his leg," Ellis said. He devoutly hoped that would not happen. If somebody got hurt, it would be necessary to arrange for an ambulance, and then to accompany him to a local hospital, to notify Bragg, and to fill out a voluminous report. That would take most of the day, and he had something more important to do.

He waited impatiently and with growing concern for several minutes until the Angry Nine finally spoke: "Mother Hen, Mother Hen, this is Chick Leader. Over."

"Go ahead, Chick Leader, this is Mother Hen," Ellis said to the handset.

"Chick Team on the ground, intact, at 0418 hours."

"Roger Chick Leader, try to stay out of jail. Mother Hen out."

He turned off the Angry Nine, bent the antenna under its fasteners, and put it in the back of the Jaguar.

If there was an emergency from now on, if some member of the team was injured, or if someone went to jail arrest by diligent and curious civilian law-enforcement authorities was entirely possible each member of the team had a telephone number to call at Bragg. Ellis, meanwhile, would furnish the training coordinator at Bragg with a number where he could be reached. If there was trouble, Bragg would call that number, and he would do whatever had to be done.

With that exception, there would be no fwiher communication between him and the team until their little exercise was over. Which meant that he would have all day, all night, all day tomorrow, and all of tomorrow night more or less to himself.

"You want another little taste of this?" the Host asked as he climbed into the Jaguar.

"If I had another little taste of that," Ellis said, "you would have to get back to your house by yourself."

The Host chuckled and took a healthy swallow.

When they got to the farmhouse, the Host's wife was putting breakfast on the table. Ellis ate everything put in front of him: pancakes, sausage, eggs, and a large slice of ham swimming in salty gravy. He washed all this down with tomato juice and three cups of coffee.

"If you don't have anything to do until they finish running around in the boonies," the Host said, "you're welcome to stick around here."

"I've got to go into Durham," Ellis said. "Thanks anyway."

"Then you're welcome to come back anytime, on duty or off," the Host said. "It's been real nice having you here, Lieutenant."

"That's nice of you," Ellis said. He reached in his pocket and came out with a small box wrapped in white paper.

"Colonel Hanrahan asked me to give you this, Mr. Ford," Ellissaid, and handed it to him.

"I told you, my name is Les," the Host said. He tore open the paper and opened the box. "Well, I'll be damned" he beamed "ain't that something!"

The box contained a Zippo lighter. It was engraved on one side with glider parachutist wings (a representation of a glider superimposed on standard parachutist's wings) and the legend Lester H. Ford, TISgt." 32Sth Glider Infantry 1942 4S, and on the other with the Special Forces insignia (two arrows crossing a vertical commando knife, and the legend De Oppresso Liber) and the words From His Friends in Special Forces, 1961.

The lighter had cost $1.25, and the engraving another three dollars. Lester Ellis held it in his hands like the Koh-i-floor diamond.

"I'll be damned," he said again, and handed it to his wife. "That's real nice," she said. "And you put it someplace where you won't lose it."

She handed it to one of her sons.

"And Colonel Hanrahan said to be sure to tell you that whenever you can find the time to come to Bragg, he'd like to show you what we've got there."

"I just might do that," Lester Ford said. "By God, I will do it, first chance I get."

His third son handed the Zippo back to him. There was a thumb smudge on the shiny chrome. He polished it away with a paper napkin.

"You thank your colonel for me," he said. "And tell him anytime I can help, just say how."

"We appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Ford."

"Les, damn it! Anytime. What the hell, once a paratrooper, always a paratrooper. And it's no trouble having them use this place as a drop zone. Hell, I like to watch em jump."

(Three) Office of the Professor of Military Science Department of Military Science Duke University Durham, North Carolina 082S Hours, 11 December 1961 The professor of military science was listed in the Duke catalog as Colonel G. F. Wells, Artillery, B.S." USMA; MS., Cal Tech; Ph.D." University of California. He was a large florid-faced man who wore his hair closely cropped. His tunic bore ribbons signifying World War II service in Europe as well as service in Korea, and the insignia indicating two or more years of service on the army general staff was pinned to his tunic pocket.

He was annoyed when he looked up from his desk and saw the young man in the tweed sport coat, open-collared white shirt, and gray flannel slacks standing at his open door. It meant that his secretary, again, had not shown up for work on time, and it meant that he was going to have to counsel another young man about how it was in his own interests to remain in the Reserve Officer Training Corps program. He was sure that's what the young man wanted. Everybody in the program was supposed to be in uniform at the gym, and this young buck was in civilian clothes. And you couldn't drop out of ROTC unless you had an "interview" with the PMS&T.

Colonel Wells was tempted to run the little bastard off until tomorrow, when he wouldn't be as busy as he was now; but he knew that was not the way to deal with young men who wished to drop out of the ROTC program because it interfered with their social life He fixed a smile on his face.

"Come on in, son," he said. "You wanted to see me'?"

"Yes, sir."

"How come you're not in uniform?" Colonel Wells asked as he offered his hand and waved the young man into the chair beside his desk.

"I thought it would be better if I wore civvies, sir," the young man said. "I'd be less conspicuous."

Wha the hell kind of an answer is that?

"We don't often have a chance for training like this," Colonel Wells said. "I sort of like to see everybody participate."

"I'm glad to hear that, sir," the young man said. "I hope we can make it worth your effort."

Colonel Wells was baffled by that response too.

"I'm afraid I've forgotten your name, son."

"I'm Lieutenant Ellis, sir," Ellis said, and when he saw the look of confusion on the colonel's face, added: "From the Special Warfare School at Bragg, sir?"

"Jesus, I thought you were one of my ROTC kids," Colonel Wells thought aloud, and then added: "The reason for my confusion, Lieutenant, is when we set this exercise up with your Colonel MacMillan, he told me that the training officer he was sending was a real fireball who had taken one of your teams into Cuba."

Ellis looked uncomfortable.

"No offenie intended, Lieutenant. We're glad to have you. It's just that I expected someone a little older."

"I took an A Team into Cuba, Colonel," Ellis said.

Now Colonel Wells looked uncomfortable. He decided to get off the subject.

"I've scheduled a meeting for my officers for half past eight," he said. "They're probably waiting for us. It's right down the hall."

"Yes, sir," Ellis said.

Some one called "Attention" when Colonel Wells entered the room, and he immediately responded: "Keep your seats."

There was a large library table, around which sat half a dozen officers. Two movable cork boards were set up at the front. On one a scale map on the Duke campus was thumbtacked, and a map of the surrounding area on another. Little flags were stuck at various points on both maps.

"Gentlemen," Colonel Wells said, "this is Lieutenant Ellis of the Special Warfare School. He is wearing civilian clothing to avoid calling attention to himself."

Ellis had the feeling that none of the officers in the room was very impressed with him. He didn't think much of them, either, he realized.

"Lieutenant, would you give us your game plan?" Colonel Wells said, and sat down.

Ellis went to the map of the surrounding area and looked for a pointer. When he couldn't find one, he used his finger.

"At 0415 an A Team was dropped here," he said. "The team consists of a captain, a lieutenant, three master sergeants, one sergeant first class, two staff sergeants, and one buck sergeant. They have their small arms, a combat load of blanks for the small arms, one mortar, one machine gun, one rocket launcher with blank and/or inert ammo for them three days' rations, three Angry Nine radios, six hundred pounds of simulated Composition Two explosive in one-pound blocks, two detonating devices, and one hundred inert fuses. They were searched before they left Bragg, and they have neither identification nor money. Their mission is to come here and blow up your water tower, your power generating plant, these two bridges, and this building. Your mission, as I understand it, is to stop them."

"Lieutenant, did you say six hundred pounds of phony C-2?" a major asked.

"Yes, sir."

"That's seventy-five pounds a man, plus their other gear," the major said.

"Yes, sir."