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down his suitcase and pushed his sunglasses back on his forehead. The man picked up the piece of luggage and did not shake Hujr’s hand.
    “We have you on the next flight to El Paso. From there, you will connect to Washington, D.C., through Reagan National Airport. Du’Ali will pick you up.”
    Hujr pulled down his sunglasses and glared. He spoke in a low tone, barely audible to the man. “Do not mention that name.”
    Silence, then the man lowered his eyes. “I understand.”
    Hujr pushed the glasses back on. “You have the passport?”
    The man withdrew an envelope from his pocket with his free hand. Passersby ignored the two and scurried to the growing line in front of customs. “I have included an identification card and Citibank checks you can cash once you’re in the United States. The signature is matched to your handwriting, and the plane tickets are with the checks. You will not be contacted again until you reach Russia.”
    “When does the plane get to Washington?”
    “Three-thirty in the afternoon.”
    Hujr nodded. “That leaves me plenty of time to start working tonight. Very well.…get us through customs.”
    The man did not answer but instead led the way to the side of the customs counter. Reaching the bored police officer at the front of the line, he flashed a wallet and spoke in Spanish. “I am escorting Mr. Resavoo on to the embassy—I have his diplomatic pouch.”
    The customs officer glanced at the wallet ID. The Do’brainese chargé d’affaires’ picture was intimidating. The official wondered little about political maneuvering but knew very well about the bribes that accompanied expedition of certain individuals through customs. Especially those associated with Do’brainese diplomatic passports. The customs official looked the other way and waved them through.
    Once Hujr and his escort were away from the customs area they changed direction and looped back toward a sign that pointed toward outgoing flights. They arrived at the United Airlines desk; the Do’brai chargé d’affaires obtained Hujr’s boarding pass and delivered it to Hujr, who was standing away from the main crowd. Although the air conditioning was cranked up to high, the room was almost unbearably muggy and hot. Short sleeves and casual clothing marked most of the travelers.
    Hujr wordlessly accepted the boarding pass and didn’t say goodbye when the Do’brainese official left. When the flight was called, Hujr inconspicuously boarded without looking around.
    Camp Pendleton, California
    “Pick up your feet, you lardasses! Do you want to get your pecker shot off? If you keep moving the way you’re going, I’ll have to wrap it up and send it home to your sweetie—then what is she gonna do?” Gunnery Sergeant Balcalski bawled at the men in front of him.
    The 37th Marines jumped out of the mock-up TAV and rolled to the rapidly sliding runway, keeping their rifles close to their bodies. As they hit they popped up and sprinted to the side, off the slidewalk, and sprawled on the ground before advancing.
    The slidewalk rumbled past the opening, causing some of the marines to stumble as they jumped from the hatch. Most of the men made the six-foot jump without any difficulty, but there were a few who’d forgotten their PLFs—or who’d grown sloppy, thinking that the Parachute Landing Fall was only for “Legs.” The PLF was designed specially so the men would land on the fleshy part of their bodies—the calf, thigh, buttocks, and back—so they would absorb the force of the fall and not hurt themselves.
    Balcalski moved closer to the mock plane’s hatch and waved his right arm. “Speed out, men! You’ve got fifteen more seconds to get out of there or you’re dead. Go, go, go! ”
    The last few men exited the craft nearly on top of one another. The last marine leapt from the hatch and with a smack dropped his rifle as he hit the man below him. The chattering and yells from the background—words of encouragement