“Is this about that again? I—” Mike leaned back and almost started to rise. The statement could not have been more inflammatory given their previous arguments.

“Hear me out, dammit. You can come back, now, as an officer, and make a difference working with me or in a few months you’ll be called back anyway as just another mortar sergeant.” The general extracted his own Honduran from the box and lit it expertly, in direct defiance of the building’s no-smoking regulation. They had both learned the hard way, and in many ways together, when to pay attention to the niceties and when the little stuff went out the window.

“Jesus, sir, you just sprang this on me.” Mike’s normal frown had deepened to the point it seemed it would split his face as his jaw muscles clenched and released. “I’ve got a life, you know? What about my family, my wife? Sharon is going to go absolutely ballistic!”

“I checked. Sharon’s a former naval officer, she’ll get called up, too.” The silver-haired officer leaned back and watched his former and hopefully future subordinate’s reaction through the fragrant smoke.

“Jesus Christ on a crutch, Jack!” Mike shouted, throwing up his hands in frustration. “What about Michelle and Cally? Who takes care of them?”

“That is what one of the teams at this conference will be working on,” said Horner, waiting for the inevitable reaction to subside.

“Can Sharon and I get stationed together?” asked Mike. He motioned for and caught the tossed lighter and relit the Ramar. For the first time in three years he took a deep draw on a cigar and let the nicotine bleed some of the tension off. Then he blew out an angry stream of smoke.

“Probably not… I don’t know. None of that has been worked out, yet. Everything is on its ear right now and that’s what this conference is about: straightening everything out.” Horner looked around for a moment then made an ashtray out of a sheet of paper. He flicked his developing ash into it and set it in the middle of the conference table.