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nature. He was outgoing, out-spoken, a kidder, and quick to make friends. But that was before he became “Boss.” Now he felt the weighty mantle of leadership. He might have to order the two men walking his way to take action certain to leave them dead. He had no problem hearing and obeying those orders, but giving them was something very different. He was also insecure that one of the men carried the same rank and more seniority. The Army “frocked” him, giving him a higher rank and authority, but somehow it didn’t seem the same.
    “You must be our welcoming party,” the Samoan said.
    J. J. grinned. “I’m afraid it’s just a party of one for now.” He held out his hand. “J. J. Bartley, team leader.”
    The Samoan cocked his head an inch as if he hadn’t heard correctly, then took the offered hand. “Aliki Urale. A pleasure.”
    J. J. turned to the Japanese-American. “Mike Nagano. Thanks for inviting us to the lodge.”
    For a moment J. J. was stunned not to hear an Asian accent, then reminded himself again: the man was a third-generation American, born and reared in San Francisco. “You’ll have to thank Colonel Mac for that. He did the selecting, but judging by your jackets, he made good choices. How was the flight?”
    “Dreamy, but the stewardess was really ugly,” Aliki said.
    Nagano shook his head. “Dude, that was no stewardess, that was the flight mechanic.” He spoke loudly and only after Aliki turned his way.
    “That explains the five o’clock shadow.”
    “Okay, gentlemen, now you’re just grossing me out. Let’s get back into military country.” He motioned to a Humvee waiting a short distance away.
    The driver pulled from the tarmac and slowly moved along the road by the staging area where the Air Force parked a few billion dollars of aircraft. Kyrgyzstan and Russian commercial aircraft were kept in a separate area.
    A few minutes later they were at Manas Air Base. Officially, the site bore the name of international airport but that was for PR reasons. Everyone on base used the older title. The old-timers sometimes called it Ganci Air Base, a name meant to honor New York Fire Chief Peter J. Ganci who died on September 11, 2001. Unfortunately, the U.S. Air Force had an “instruction” on the books forbiding the naming of any out-of-country air base after an American citizen.
    “We’ll be meeting in the admin building.” J. J. gave them the room number. “You guys need to hit the latrine or grab a bite?”
    Nagano answered. “I could use a few minutes.”
    “Very good. Let’s meet in thirty.”
    “Will do,” Nagano said. Aliki didn’t respond.
    The conference room was small, able to seat only ten people, fifteen if they really liked each other. A conference table that looked like it saw action in WWII dominated the middle of the room. Padded folding chairs circled the piece of furniture. J. J. found the team waiting for him when he stepped through the door. They were laughing when he entered.
    “Hey, Boss,” Pete Rasor said. “I see you got our newbies.”
    “They’re not newbies, Pete. They have as much field time as we do. . . . Hey, what do you mean you see I got the newbies.”
    Pete looked at the table. “Um, nothing, Boss. Just, um, a figure of speech. Yeah, that’s it, a figure of speech.”
    “You know you blush when you lie, don’t you.” J. J. stepped to the head of the table. “Come clean.” Everyone looked at Crispin Collins, the junior member of the team and the surveillance man. “Don’t tell me.”
    “I’m sorry, Boss, but some jet jockey bet me I couldn’t follow a man without being noticed.” A small control with a tiny video screen rested on the table.
    “He recorded it too,” Pete said.
    “Hey, shut up. I’m in deep here.”
    Pete shrugged. “I told you not to do it.”
    Crispin’s face drained. “No you didn’t. You jumped on the bet.”
    Pete shrugged. “I think you misunderstood me.”
    “You said you’d back me up if I