“You must like the place you sign up for a week.”

Nolen Tyner opened his eyes behind the aviator sunglasses, startled, about to rise, then relaxing again as he saw Moran extending the beer.

“Cold one for you,” Moran said. “Yours must be pretty warm by now.” Four empty cans stood upright on the ground next to the lounge chair with two full ones still in the cardboard casing.

“That’s very kind of you,” Nolen said. He jerked the backrest of the chair up a notch and reached for the can of beer that was beaded with drops of ice water. His sleeve rode up to reveal a bluish tattoo on his right forearm, a two-inch eagle with its wings raised.

While on Moran’s left forearm, also extended, was his faded blue Marine Corps insignia.

They looked at each other. Nolen said, “From the halls of Montezuma, huh?” Smiling, popping open the can of beer.

“And I take it you were airborne,” Moran said. “Not by any chance the Eighty-second?”

“That’s the one.”

“Second or Third Brigade maybe?”

“Third. You’re leading up to something, aren’t you?”

“As a matter of fact,” Moran said. “I wonder if you were in Santo Domingo sixteen years ago. Sitting on the bank of the Ozama River by any chance?”

“Sitting high on the east bank, up on the grain elevators,” Nolen said, smiling some more. “You don’t mean to tell me you were there?”

Moran pulled a recliner over with his foot and sat down, straddling the leg rest, now eye to eye with Nolan. “You had a weapons squad up there, didn’t you? Up on the silos, or whatever they were. With a one-oh-six recoiless rifle?”

“We had a bunch of ’em up there.”