New York
City when he somehow wound up on a television
talk show panel discussing “women in the modern
military.” After thirty minutes of weathering abuse
from a prominent feminist fanatic who shared the
panel with him, Dalworth lost his temper. His parting
shot at her had been, “Oh, Spiro Agnew.”
Three days later someone told the female
warrior that the former vice president’s name was an
anagram for “grow a pem.”
She charged into the navy’s cubbyhole office in the
Manhattan federal building with a television
reporter and cameraman in tow and proceeded
to assault Dalworth with an umbrella while she
hurled invective. After she shouted herself out and
departed, a stunned Dalworth told the re porter
that the feminist had a brain like a prune and a body
to match.
The episode was marvelous television.
Alas, Dalworth’s new status as a media
celebrity interfered with his work and embarrassed the
navy, still reeling from the 1991 Tailhook Convention
scandal, so now he was a very junior naval attached
at the American embassy in Moscow, eight time
zones away from the nearest militant feminist armed
with a television camera and umbrella.
“That whole thing was almost eight months ago,”
Dalworth Muttered, “You’d think people would at least
start to forget.” He was a rangy Young man, several
inches over six feet, with wide shoulders and bulging
biceps. At some point in his athletic past his
nose had been slightly rearranged, and the effect was
a memorable face. Not hand.
some, but unique.
“What an honor, SP-IRO! I sure am
pleased to meetcha,” Toad enthused. He
playfully tapped Dalworth on the shoulder.
“Did you have a good flight?” Dalworth asked.
“Terrific. Filet mignon over the North
Pole and all the free champagne we could drink.”
“The cold chicken box lunch, huh?”
“Yeah. You wonder what the air force does to the
chicken to make it taste so bad.”
“Ever been to Moscow before?”
“Neither one of us,” Toad said.
“Sleepy?”
After a glance at Grafton, Toad told him,
“Not too.”…Drive you around the downtown a little before
we go to Fort Apache. was Fort Apache, Jake
knew, was the complex behind the embassy where the
residents lived, a tag that came straight from the
movie Fort Apache, The Bronx.
“Give You the hundred-ruble tour.”
The endless rows of concrete apartment buildings were
soon in view. Nine and a half million people,
Jake knew, lived in Moscow, most of them stuffed
into tiny apartments in these crumbling mausoleums.
Yet on a sunny June day they didn’t took
bad. Almost as if he could read Jake’s thoughts,
Daiworth said, “Place looks a lot different
in the winter.
Then it’s the devil’s own refrigerator, gray
and terminally dismal.”
Soon the car was bucketing down a broad
boulevard q POW toward the center of the city, a
chip afloat in a stream of little sedans and huge
trucks, all emitting a noxious miasma that
stung the eyes and throat.
“Bad pollution, about like Delhi,
India. Sorta like Seoul without the
kimchi.dalworth piloted them into the center of the
city. Soon they were circling the brick walls and
onion-topped towers of the Kremlin.
Jake’s eye was caught by the cars on the side
of the road with their hoods up and people bending over the
engines. Someone seemed to be broken down in very
block.
Dalworth pointed out the naked pedestals where
once statues stood. “See those? They even tore
down the statue of Felix Dzerzhinsky in front
of KGB Headquarters, presumably while the
KGB types watched out the windows.
Now I’ll show you my favorite place in
Moscow. I found this the other day when I was out
walking.”
After three more stoplights, he turned and crossed
the Moskva River and went down one of the side
streets. In one of the river channels a cruise
ship sat listing in the mud, gutted and abandoned.
Ahead across the sidewalk was a park. A dirt
road for park maintenance vehicles was blocked
by steel crowd-control
City when he somehow wound up on a television
talk show panel discussing “women in the modern
military.” After thirty minutes of weathering abuse
from a prominent feminist fanatic who shared the
panel with him, Dalworth lost his temper. His parting
shot at her had been, “Oh, Spiro Agnew.”
Three days later someone told the female
warrior that the former vice president’s name was an
anagram for “grow a pem.”
She charged into the navy’s cubbyhole office in the
Manhattan federal building with a television
reporter and cameraman in tow and proceeded
to assault Dalworth with an umbrella while she
hurled invective. After she shouted herself out and
departed, a stunned Dalworth told the re porter
that the feminist had a brain like a prune and a body
to match.
The episode was marvelous television.
Alas, Dalworth’s new status as a media
celebrity interfered with his work and embarrassed the
navy, still reeling from the 1991 Tailhook Convention
scandal, so now he was a very junior naval attached
at the American embassy in Moscow, eight time
zones away from the nearest militant feminist armed
with a television camera and umbrella.
“That whole thing was almost eight months ago,”
Dalworth Muttered, “You’d think people would at least
start to forget.” He was a rangy Young man, several
inches over six feet, with wide shoulders and bulging
biceps. At some point in his athletic past his
nose had been slightly rearranged, and the effect was
a memorable face. Not hand.
some, but unique.
“What an honor, SP-IRO! I sure am
pleased to meetcha,” Toad enthused. He
playfully tapped Dalworth on the shoulder.
“Did you have a good flight?” Dalworth asked.
“Terrific. Filet mignon over the North
Pole and all the free champagne we could drink.”
“The cold chicken box lunch, huh?”
“Yeah. You wonder what the air force does to the
chicken to make it taste so bad.”
“Ever been to Moscow before?”
“Neither one of us,” Toad said.
“Sleepy?”
After a glance at Grafton, Toad told him,
“Not too.”…Drive you around the downtown a little before
we go to Fort Apache. was Fort Apache, Jake
knew, was the complex behind the embassy where the
residents lived, a tag that came straight from the
movie Fort Apache, The Bronx.
“Give You the hundred-ruble tour.”
The endless rows of concrete apartment buildings were
soon in view. Nine and a half million people,
Jake knew, lived in Moscow, most of them stuffed
into tiny apartments in these crumbling mausoleums.
Yet on a sunny June day they didn’t took
bad. Almost as if he could read Jake’s thoughts,
Daiworth said, “Place looks a lot different
in the winter.
Then it’s the devil’s own refrigerator, gray
and terminally dismal.”
Soon the car was bucketing down a broad
boulevard q POW toward the center of the city, a
chip afloat in a stream of little sedans and huge
trucks, all emitting a noxious miasma that
stung the eyes and throat.
“Bad pollution, about like Delhi,
India. Sorta like Seoul without the
kimchi.dalworth piloted them into the center of the
city. Soon they were circling the brick walls and
onion-topped towers of the Kremlin.
Jake’s eye was caught by the cars on the side
of the road with their hoods up and people bending over the
engines. Someone seemed to be broken down in very
block.
Dalworth pointed out the naked pedestals where
once statues stood. “See those? They even tore
down the statue of Felix Dzerzhinsky in front
of KGB Headquarters, presumably while the
KGB types watched out the windows.
Now I’ll show you my favorite place in
Moscow. I found this the other day when I was out
walking.”
After three more stoplights, he turned and crossed
the Moskva River and went down one of the side
streets. In one of the river channels a cruise
ship sat listing in the mud, gutted and abandoned.
Ahead across the sidewalk was a park. A dirt
road for park maintenance vehicles was blocked
by steel crowd-control
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