“Ballantyne? Where’s Captain Earnshaw?”
“He asked me—”
“Not now.” The O.C. turned to a tall, lean figure standing nearby and frowning alternately at a sheaf of papers and a map board. This other man had pushed his helmet liner up from his high Gary Cooper forehead. A long green scarf was wrapped several times around his neck and the ends dangled down in front of his camouflage jacket almost to his knees.
“Well, Major,” he said at last, “if you’re a spy you’re the oldest one since Mata Hari. Don’t take offense. I’m the oldest general since Custer. I honest to God can’t figure what either of us is doing here.”
“I have no trouble in that regard, sir.”
“Oh, for God’s sake don’t get shirty. I won’t insult you by asking who is Shirley Temple or where’s the capital of Wisconsin. Who was Blac
