A full, awkward thirty seconds passed before he nervously tapped his leg. “My name’s Chuck Wilson. I, uh, I’ve been told to pick you up and escort you to Seoul.”

“Hey, that’s great, Chuck. Why?”

“Huh?”

“Why are you taking me to Seoul? Why am I in Korea in the first place?”

An exquisitely befuddled look popped onto his face. “I got no idea, sir. Why are you here?”

The stream of urine flooding out of my body had not abated one bit. I got worried. Has anybody ever pissed himself to death?

I didn’t ask him that, though. I said, “If I knew that, why the hell would I be asking you?”

He glanced down at his watch and said, “You okay, Major? It’s been over a minute.”

“No, I’m not okay,” I complained. “My hand’s tired. This damn thing’s so big and heavy. Can you come over here and hold it for me?”

We both chuckled a little too emphatically, like real men do whenever any topic arises even remotely touching on homosexuality.

“Sheeit,” he drawled in a deep, manly way, “some things a man’s gotta do hisself.”

“Damn right,” I firmly pronounced.

He averted his eyes while I gave Ol’ Humungo a manly shake, reholstered, and got my zipper back up. “Okay,” I said, moving to the sinks and splashing some water on my hands and face, “let’s find my bags and get outta here.”

“Forget the bags,” he said. “My driver’s getting ’em.”

We went out, and a husky young corporal named Vasquez was standing proudly beside a spanking-new black Kia sedan with lots of gleaming chrome. I made him open the trunk so I could peek in, and sure enough there sat my duffel bag and oversize lawyer’s briefcase. Then Wilson and I climbed into the backseat.

“Well, ain’t this the plush life,” I remarked, running an admiring hand across the leather upholstery. “I figured you’d get me in a nasty old humvee.”

“Not unless I got an armed escort.”

“Armed escort?”