“Lieutenant general?” asked Mike in surprise. The morning sun glittered on the five-pointed stars of the new rank. The last Mike had heard, Horner was on the list for major general. Three-star rank should not have come for another few years.

“Well, ‘when you care enough…’ ”

O’Neal smiled at the reference. “What?” He retorted. “Given your well-known resemblance to Friedrich von Paulus, they decided major general wasn’t good enough for you?”

“I was a major general until four days ago, Chief of Staff at the Eighteenth Airborne Corps—”

“ADC-O. Congratulations.”

“ — when I got yanked out for this.”

“Isn’t that kind of fast to get ‘the advice and consent of the Senate’?”

“It’s a brevet rank,” said the officer, impatiently, “but I have it on excellent authority it will be confirmed.” He frowned at some private joke.

“I didn’t think you could frock—” Mike started to say.

“That’ll have to wait, Mike.” The general cut him off, smiling slightly. “We have to get you briefed in and that will take a secure room.”

Mike suddenly saw a familiar face that made him sure the conference was about science fiction. Across the lawn, surrounded by a sea of Navy black, was a prominent writer who specialized in naval combat.

“Can you give me just a minute, sir? I want to talk to David,” he said pointing.

General Horner looked over his shoulder, then turned back. “They’re probably taking him in for the same conversation; you two can talk after the meeting. We have a lot of ground to cover before then and it starts at nine.” He put an arm around Mike’s shoulders. “Come on, Mighty Mite, time to face the cannon.”

The secure conference room was windowless but it was probably on the exterior of the building; there was noticeable heat radiating from one wall. Another wall sported a painting of an Abrams tank cresting a berm, cannon spouting fire; the title was “Seventy-Three Easting.” Other than that the room was unadorned: not a plant, not a painting, not a scrap of paper.