“Craftsman,” he said, relaxing and letting the rest of the breath out slowly, “when you care enough to use the very best.” He spit another bit of dip out, deftly spun the nut loose and started on the next.

The colonel scowled, but there was a twinkle in his normally cold azure eyes. He turned to be unobserved and gave the sergeant major a wink. They had found their new driver.

“Howarya, Mike?” General Horner asked, as the approaching figure brought him back from memory lane. He extended his hand.

Mike shifted the cedar box under his arm and took the outstretched hand. “Fine, sir, fine. How are the wife and kids?”

“Fine, just fine. You wouldn’t believe how the kids have grown. How’re Sharon and the girls?” he asked. He noticed in passing that the former soldier had lost none of his musculature. The handshake was like shaking a well-adjusted industrial vise. If anything the former NCO had put on bulk; he moved like a miniature tank. Horner wondered if the soldier would be able to retain that level of physique given the demands that would shortly be placed upon him.

“Well, the girls are okay,” said O’Neal, then grimaced. “Sharon’s not particularly happy.”

“I knew this would be hard on both of you,” said the general, smiling slightly, “and I thought about it before I called you. If it wasn’t important I wouldn’t have asked.”

“I thought generals had aides to meet low-level flunkies like me,” said Mike, deliberately changing the subject.

“Generals have aides to meet much higher level flunkies than you.” Jack frowned, taking the opportunity to leave it behind.

“Well the heck with you then.” Mike laughed, handing the officer the box of cigars. “See if I cough up any more Ramars.”

Even while on active duty, Specialist O’Neal and then-Lieutenant Colonel Horner had developed a close relationship.