change the name of the island.
The strange thing was, only stuff relating to the upcoming operation seemed to have a hard time squeezing itself through the supply pipeline. Espresso for the restaurant, fresh steaks for chow, tapes for everyone's VCRs—all these things he could get, via the twice-weekly visits by CIA-contracted cargo planes. But trying to secure the correct-size computer disk for the Tin Can's hard drive had taken three weeks. Getting the two tapes he'd shown at the recently completed briefing had taken nearly as long. These selective delays were stupid and weird, like just about everything associated with the project. Yet every time he cabled Stone to ask why it seemed some things were being held up intentionally, he never received an adequate reply.
It was like fighting a losing battle from the start.
Smitz put his last dry towel under his head now, took off his glasses, and tried to rest his tired eyes. This operation was the biggest and most complex he'd ever been assigned. He was, after all, still a junior officer in the CIA's Special Foreign Operations Section. His job for the past two years had been essentially carrying spears for the section's bigger operatives. Cleaning up their dirty work, getting funds to them if they were offshore, writing their reports if they were not. The solo projects he'd handled had been appropriately unimportant. Meeting with Cuban dissidents, interviewing fake Russian nuclear scientists, telling half-truths to disaffected mullahs. Kid stuff . . .
Why then had Jacobs given him this assignment literally from his deathbed? Had it been a vote of confidence from the old dog to a young wolf making his way up the ranks? Or had it been just the opposite—a chance for him to fail and get weeded out to some real crappy CIA desk job, like the Agricultural Intelligence Section. Was that the reason Stone was squeezing his balls so hard on this one? Smitz didn't know. He was the first to admit that the project was a little over his head. The question was, could he still rise above the waves and see it through?
He rolled over on his bunk and stared at the dripping-wet wall. He suddenly wished that he smoked cigarettes or drank liquor. He suddenly wished he had a vice . He wasn't sure why. It was a strange thought. But it seemed if he did have some nasty habit to fall back on, it might make what he had to do go a little easier.
But alas, he had none of these things.
He wasn't that lucky.
*****
He somehow drifted off to sleep in his messy wet little room. His dream began again. He's playing first base in the sixth game of the 1986 World Series. Two outs in the tenth. The crowd is roaring. He's tapping his mitt. Voices are whispering in his ear. But this time, before the ball is even hit to him—the one that would go through his legs and cost him the world championship—the rain pelting his window started up again. He awoke with a start and saw a red light flashing in his face. It was his scramble-fax's remote beeper. There was a message coming in for him from the Office.
He reached over and activated the remote-control device, then plugged it into his laptop, praying that his stuff would work after getting seriously drenched. He was heartened to see the laptop's little green light pop on. He hit the enter button, and the message began scrolling across his laptop screen.
"Situation fluid. Further materiel arriving your location within the half hour," was all it said.
Half hour? Smitz sat straight up on his bed.
He couldn't possibly clean up his room in that short a time!
*****
The wind was howling and the rain coming down even harder when Smitz reached Hangar 2.
It was now almost 0100 hours and he was awaiting the "further materiel" as the scrambled message had told him to do.
But what was he waiting for exactly?
He didn't know. But he had a good idea.
Rooney drove up in one of the pink jeeps. He had had the sense to wear a rain slicker. The storm
The strange thing was, only stuff relating to the upcoming operation seemed to have a hard time squeezing itself through the supply pipeline. Espresso for the restaurant, fresh steaks for chow, tapes for everyone's VCRs—all these things he could get, via the twice-weekly visits by CIA-contracted cargo planes. But trying to secure the correct-size computer disk for the Tin Can's hard drive had taken three weeks. Getting the two tapes he'd shown at the recently completed briefing had taken nearly as long. These selective delays were stupid and weird, like just about everything associated with the project. Yet every time he cabled Stone to ask why it seemed some things were being held up intentionally, he never received an adequate reply.
It was like fighting a losing battle from the start.
Smitz put his last dry towel under his head now, took off his glasses, and tried to rest his tired eyes. This operation was the biggest and most complex he'd ever been assigned. He was, after all, still a junior officer in the CIA's Special Foreign Operations Section. His job for the past two years had been essentially carrying spears for the section's bigger operatives. Cleaning up their dirty work, getting funds to them if they were offshore, writing their reports if they were not. The solo projects he'd handled had been appropriately unimportant. Meeting with Cuban dissidents, interviewing fake Russian nuclear scientists, telling half-truths to disaffected mullahs. Kid stuff . . .
Why then had Jacobs given him this assignment literally from his deathbed? Had it been a vote of confidence from the old dog to a young wolf making his way up the ranks? Or had it been just the opposite—a chance for him to fail and get weeded out to some real crappy CIA desk job, like the Agricultural Intelligence Section. Was that the reason Stone was squeezing his balls so hard on this one? Smitz didn't know. He was the first to admit that the project was a little over his head. The question was, could he still rise above the waves and see it through?
He rolled over on his bunk and stared at the dripping-wet wall. He suddenly wished that he smoked cigarettes or drank liquor. He suddenly wished he had a vice . He wasn't sure why. It was a strange thought. But it seemed if he did have some nasty habit to fall back on, it might make what he had to do go a little easier.
But alas, he had none of these things.
He wasn't that lucky.
*****
He somehow drifted off to sleep in his messy wet little room. His dream began again. He's playing first base in the sixth game of the 1986 World Series. Two outs in the tenth. The crowd is roaring. He's tapping his mitt. Voices are whispering in his ear. But this time, before the ball is even hit to him—the one that would go through his legs and cost him the world championship—the rain pelting his window started up again. He awoke with a start and saw a red light flashing in his face. It was his scramble-fax's remote beeper. There was a message coming in for him from the Office.
He reached over and activated the remote-control device, then plugged it into his laptop, praying that his stuff would work after getting seriously drenched. He was heartened to see the laptop's little green light pop on. He hit the enter button, and the message began scrolling across his laptop screen.
"Situation fluid. Further materiel arriving your location within the half hour," was all it said.
Half hour? Smitz sat straight up on his bed.
He couldn't possibly clean up his room in that short a time!
*****
The wind was howling and the rain coming down even harder when Smitz reached Hangar 2.
It was now almost 0100 hours and he was awaiting the "further materiel" as the scrambled message had told him to do.
But what was he waiting for exactly?
He didn't know. But he had a good idea.
Rooney drove up in one of the pink jeeps. He had had the sense to wear a rain slicker. The storm
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