He had an open face and smiled easily, although the mouth and eyes didn't seem in perfect sync with one another. The eyes tended to dart, as though Allstrong was assessing his surroundings at all times. Which, now that Evan thought of it, probably made sense after a lifetime in theaters of war. Allstrong wore what he'd been wearing when they'd met outside-combat boots, camo pants, a black turtleneck. He free-poured a stiff shot into a clear plastic cup, handed it over to Evan, and splashed a couple of inches into a cup of his own. Pulling another director's chair over, he sat down. "Don't bullshit a bullshitter," he said.

"It's not bullshit," Evan said. "They weren't expecting us."

"Two hundred and ninety-seven men and they didn't know you were coming?"

"That's correct."

"So what did you do? What did they do?"

"They had us camp just about on the tarmac at a holding station in Kuwait. We had all our gear with us. They put us on the ground until they figured out what we were here for."

Allstrong shook his head, either in admiration or disbelief. "I love this glorious Army," he said. "Who's the commander down there? Still Bingham?"

"That was the name."

"So you're telling me they had you weekend warriors running your asses off stateside-hustling you out of your day jobs, rushing you through training-then packed you up in a 737, flew nonstop for twenty-two hours, Travis to Kuwait-and it's all hurry up! move it! we need you over here!-and you get here and nobody knows you're coming?"

"That's right."

"So what'd they do?"

"You know Camp Victory?" This was a sand-swept safe zone five miles north of Kuwait City where the Army had erected five enormous tents to hold overflow troops.

" Camp Victory!" Allstrong barked a laugh. "That kills me!" He drank off some scotch, coughed, shook his head. "And I thought I'd heard it all. How long before they found out who you were?"