Even this was no obstacle. Jeeps come with a spare tire; the driver’s rucksack was hanging from it, containing tools to handle just such an eventuality. But when his driver confessed that he had neglected to pack those self-same tools, Lieutenant Colonel Horner instantly smiled. It was a very Russian smile; it did not reach the eyes.

“No tools?” asked the colonel tightly.

“No, sir.” The specialist swallowed, his prominent Adam’s-apple bobbing up and down.

“No jack.”

“No, sir.”

“Sarn’t Major?” snapped the colonel.

The sergeant major, not having anywhere he was supposed to be and snug in his camouflage Gortex rain-suit, was deriving some humor from the situation. “Shall I draw and quarter him, sir?” he asked, tucking his hands into his armpits and preparing for a long wait in the sleet. He hoped like hell it would start to snow; there would be less of a chance of hypothermia.

“Actually, I’m prepared to entertain suggestions,” said the colonel, holding on to his temper by a thread.

“Other than the obvious, sir, call the CONTAC team?” A grin split his ebony face at the commander’s discomfiture. Jack was the best battalion commander he had ever met, but it was always fun to watch him handle minor problems. The colonel hated dealing with little shit like this. It was like he was born a general and was just waiting until he had an aide-de-camp to handle drivers and their failings.

“Other than getting on the net and admitting that my driver is an idiot by calling a recovery team for a simple flat. Reynolds,” he said, turning to the specialist fourth class, standing at attention in the drizzling sleet, “I would love to know what the hell you were thinking.”