The Marines gave him a company. But when he approached the captain in command of the unit, the captain just nodded to a tarpaulin-covered pile on which two Marines sat, their M-l's cradled in their arms.

"What's that?" MacCleary asked.

"Your records," the captain said casually. He was a small, thin man who managed to keep his uniform pressed even in combat conditions.

"But the assault? You weren't supposed to start it before I got here."

"We didn't need you," the captain said. "Take your records and get your ass out of here. We've done our job."

MacCleary started to say something, then turned and walked to the tarpaulin. After 20 minutes of leafing through heavy parchments with Chinese lettering, MacCleary smiled and nodded his respects to the Marine captain.

"I will make a report expressing CIA gratitude," he said.

"You do that," the captain said sullenly.

MacCleary glanced at the farmhouse. Its dried mud walls were free of bullet pockmarks.

"How'd you go in? With bayonets?"

The captain pushed up his helmet with his right hand and scratched the hair over his temple. "Yes and no."

"What do you mean?"

"We got this guy. He does these things."

"What things?"

"Like this farmhouse deal. He does them."

"What?"

"He goes in and he kills the people. We use him for single-man assaults on positions, night-time work. He, uh, just produces, that's all. It's a lot easier than running up casually lists."

"How does he do it?"

The captain shrugged. "I don't know. I never asked him. He just does it."

"I think he should get the Congressional Medal of Honor for this," MacCleary said.

"For what?" the captain asked. He looked confused.