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work.
    The setup was complicated and Wilson didn't appreciate having inadequate time to get everything going. He glanced at Meng hunched over his tables. Wilson considered Meng a weird genius. There was no doubting the man's ability at programming. He could accurately portray a mission from start to finish to the strategic mission commander and staff in the Tunnel, using the oplans, simulated mission, and feedback from the employed element. But the man had the personality of a rock. He wasn't friendly with anyone on the staff and usually ran the actual Strams exercise by himself once it started, sleeping in his office in the Tunnel for the duration of the mission. It irritated Wilson to have Meng hanging around looking over his shoulder during his shift. Meng slept less than four hours out of every twenty-four, which meant that he was constantly around. Wilson wasn't sure whether it was because Meng didn't trust anyone or simply because he had nothing else to do. An aging photo of a young Chinese woman and a small boy sat on Meng's desk, but Wilson had never heard him make any reference to a family. He wished that the old man had someone waiting at home.
    Wilson gathered up the mass of papers and stuffed them into his carrying case to lock in the safe. He didn't have any more time to ponder the idiosyncrasies of Doctor Meng. He wanted to go home and relax for a little while before having to start split shift again.
    Yongsan, Seoul, Republic of Korea Thursday, 1 June, 2230 Zulu Friday, 2 June, 7:30 a.m. Local
    Captain Mitchell slammed down the phone. "Goddamn support pukes." Sergeant Major Hooker looked up from his desk. "What's the matter, sir?"
    Mitchell pointed at the phone. "I hate those damn things. All I ever get is bad news over them. First the helicopter pilots decide not to fly, and now the transportation battalion tells me that the backup truck didn't go out to the ground pickup point this morning. The driver didn't get up on time."
    The sergeant major picked up his phone. "Let me handle this, sir." He punched in a few numbers and waited while the traditionally faulty phone service tried to figure out where the connection was to be made. Mitchell got up from his desk and wandered over to the sergeant major's to listen in. Mitchell enjoyed watching Hooker in action.
    Hooker stood only five feet two inches tall. Mitchell had always meant to look in the regulations to see if Special Forces had a height requirement, but he had never gotten around to it. Hooker was well known throughout the Pacific special operations community. When Mitchell first arrived in this assignment more than eighteen months ago, he had been told many stories about the diminutive DET-K sergeant major. Since moving up to the headquarters shed to be the DET-K operations officer, Mitchell had grown to really enjoy working with Hooker. He'd also started to believe many of the stories he'd been told about the man.
    Hooker didn't tell war stories like a lot of the older NCOs did. When the sergeant major talked about his experiences, it was usually for the purpose of making a point or educating those around him. He had a lot of stories. Hooker had been around Special Forces for twenty-eight years, twenty-three of them in the Far East.
    Mitchell was a contrast physically to the squat sergeant major. Eight inches taller and fair haired, Mitchell had the build of a lean, longdistance runner. This was his first tour of duty in this part of the world. He had nine years in the army, the first three with the 1st Infantry Division at Fort Riley, Kansas. Mitchell had then volunteered for Special Forces training. He'd wanted more challenge than riding around in the back of an armored personnel carrier through the Kansas countryside. Special Forces had given him that. The six-month Special Forces Qualification Course (Q course) had introduced him to a new type of warfare and a new type of soldier. The NCOs who taught the Q course had impressed Mitchell from the