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“I went to Quantico and talked to the jarheads about the people they’re starting to send here. The master gunnery sergeant of Force Recon there—an Irishman named MacNamara—was a pretty good guy. We hit it off. We had a couple of tastes together. And while we were talking, I asked him if he had any influence on who they were sending here. He said he did. So I asked him as a favor if he could send us at least one who wasn’t all muscles, especially between the ears, and could read and write.”
He stopped when he saw the look on McNab’s face.
“General,” he went on, “they send all their Force Recon guys through the SEAL course on the West Coast. They run them up and down the beach in the sand carrying telephone poles over their heads. By the time they finish, they all look like Arnold Schwarzenegger. They’re more into that physical crap than even the goddamned Rangers.”
“And?” McNab asked.
“So I forgot about it,” Davidson said. “I’d pulled MacNamara’s chain a little and I was satisfied. And then Bradley appeared.”
“And?” McNab pursued.
“Well, not only can he read and write—he talks like a college professor, never using a small word when a big one will do—and not only is he not all muscle, he’s no muscle at all. And he’s eighteen, nineteen years old and looks fifteen. I have to hand it to Master Gunnery Sergeant MacNamara. He had to look all over the Marine Corps to find this guy.”
“And where is this stalwart Marine warrior?”
“In the office. I’ve got him typing. He
didn’t even—I forgot to mention this—have orders. What I’m doing now is hoping that MacNamara’s going to call me and go, ‘Ha-ha! Got you good, my doggie friend. Now you can send him back.’”
“I think that’s unlikely, Jack,” General McNab said and walked toward the small frame building, where he pushed open the door.
A voice inside, in a loud but some what less than commanding voice, cried, “Attention on deck!”
Mr. D’Allessando and Sergeant Major Davidson followed General McNab into the building.
Corporal Bradley was standing at rigid attention behind a field desk holding a notebook computer.
General McNab turned and looked at Sergeant Major Davidson.
“Never judge a book by its cover,” he said. “You might want to write that down, Jack.”
Then he looked at Corporal Bradley.
“At ease,” he said, softly.
Bradley shifted from his rigid position of attention to an equally rigid position, with his hands in the small of his back, his legs slightly spread.
“Unless I’m mistaken, son,” General McNab said, “you are now standing at parade rest.”
“Sir, the corporal begs the general’s pardon. The general is correct, sir,” Bradley said, let his body relax, and took his hands from the small of his back.
“So you’re the sniper, are you, son?” McNab asked.
“Sir, I was a designated marksman on the march to Baghdad.”
“Thank you for the clarification.”
“With all respect, sir, my pleasure, sir.”
“Tell me, son, how would you describe your role in the assault on that wonderfully named Estancia Shangri-La?”
“With all respect, sir, I am under orders not to discuss that mission with anyone.”
“Can you tell me why not?”
“Sir, the mission is classified Top Secret Presidential.”
General McNab looked at Sergeant Major Davidson but didn’t say anything.
