Slater respected the caution it inspired to this day. “If you come, I’ll want you to start on an antiviral regimen right now, the same one everyone else on the team will be on—myself included.”
“And you will send me the names of these drugs?”
“I’ll do better. I’ll have them hand-delivered to you in Irkutsk.”
Vassily grunted, still thinking things over, as Slater explained someof the clearances that Vassily would have to get both from the Academy of Sciences on the Russian end, and the National Security Council, the AFIP, and maybe even the FBI on the other. And when he was done, he said, “I rest my case,” and waited for the verdict.
“I think maybe,” the professor said, “I have done enough in Irkutsk.”
Slater smiled and clenched his fist in triumph.
“And it would be a good thing, yes, to work with you again. Maybe we can make some history.”
Although history was the one thing Slater hoped they would
not
be making—his most fervent wish was that the mission would prove in the end to have been utterly unnecessary—he would take his victories any way he got them.
Now, only one big piece of the team was still lacking, and that afternoon Slater had driven over to the base at Fort McNair. The adjutant told him where to find Sergeant Groves, and he’d entered the gym as inconspicuously as possible. He hung out by the back, watching the bout, and even though Groves and his opponent were wearing padded gloves and helmets, every blow echoed with a thud.
The other soldiers had abruptly curtailed their workouts, dropping their jump ropes, giving the punching bags a rest, holding the dumbbells down by their sides. This was simply too good a match to ignore.
For somebody built like a bulldog, Groves was surprisingly nimble on his feet, bobbing and weaving his way around the ring. The other fighter was a white guy with a longer reach, though, and a couple of inches on him. A few times he let loose with a long, looping punch that caught the sergeant on his shoulder or the side of his head. Once, Groves was even rocked back on his heels by a powerful shot to the ribs.
But each time he was hit, he put his head down lower and came in again, like Mike Tyson minus the Maori tattoos.
A bell went off, and the two fighters immediately let their arms fall and retired to their respective stools. Groves had his head down, and was sipping water through a straw.
“The sergeant can really kick ass,” a soldier in a West Point T-shirt observed.
“You better believe it,” Slater replied.
“I hear he’s done three tours over there.”
“Four.”
The soldier glanced at Slater, who was unfamiliar and looked out of place in his civilian clothes—jeans and a white shirt, under an overcoat—and no doubt wondered how he knew. There was the staccato rattle of a punching bag being put back to use.
The bell rang again, and the two fighters got up and started circling the center of the ring. Groves was gleaming with sweat, but otherwise looked like he was raring to go. The other guy, however, was holding his hands a little lower, his shoulders were sagging, and halfway through the round he was throwing wild punches that failed to connect with anything.
“Oh yeah, Groves is gonna take him out,” the West Pointer said.
And true to the prediction, Groves waited no more than thirty seconds before moving in like a locomotive and unleashing a sudden volley of blows that sent his opponent not only against the ropes, but unexpectedly through them. The guy landed on the mat, spitting out his mouth guard and huffing for breath, while a pal helped him off with his helmet.
“Jesus, Groves,” the guy said, “take it easy.” He took another breath. “It’s not like there’s a purse.”
Groves spat out his own mouthpiece, and said, “Gotta fight like there is, Lieutenant. You always gotta fight like there is.”
Groves separated the ropes and stepped down from the ring. He was sitting on the bench, putting
“And you will send me the names of these drugs?”
“I’ll do better. I’ll have them hand-delivered to you in Irkutsk.”
Vassily grunted, still thinking things over, as Slater explained someof the clearances that Vassily would have to get both from the Academy of Sciences on the Russian end, and the National Security Council, the AFIP, and maybe even the FBI on the other. And when he was done, he said, “I rest my case,” and waited for the verdict.
“I think maybe,” the professor said, “I have done enough in Irkutsk.”
Slater smiled and clenched his fist in triumph.
“And it would be a good thing, yes, to work with you again. Maybe we can make some history.”
Although history was the one thing Slater hoped they would
not
be making—his most fervent wish was that the mission would prove in the end to have been utterly unnecessary—he would take his victories any way he got them.
Now, only one big piece of the team was still lacking, and that afternoon Slater had driven over to the base at Fort McNair. The adjutant told him where to find Sergeant Groves, and he’d entered the gym as inconspicuously as possible. He hung out by the back, watching the bout, and even though Groves and his opponent were wearing padded gloves and helmets, every blow echoed with a thud.
The other soldiers had abruptly curtailed their workouts, dropping their jump ropes, giving the punching bags a rest, holding the dumbbells down by their sides. This was simply too good a match to ignore.
For somebody built like a bulldog, Groves was surprisingly nimble on his feet, bobbing and weaving his way around the ring. The other fighter was a white guy with a longer reach, though, and a couple of inches on him. A few times he let loose with a long, looping punch that caught the sergeant on his shoulder or the side of his head. Once, Groves was even rocked back on his heels by a powerful shot to the ribs.
But each time he was hit, he put his head down lower and came in again, like Mike Tyson minus the Maori tattoos.
A bell went off, and the two fighters immediately let their arms fall and retired to their respective stools. Groves had his head down, and was sipping water through a straw.
“The sergeant can really kick ass,” a soldier in a West Point T-shirt observed.
“You better believe it,” Slater replied.
“I hear he’s done three tours over there.”
“Four.”
The soldier glanced at Slater, who was unfamiliar and looked out of place in his civilian clothes—jeans and a white shirt, under an overcoat—and no doubt wondered how he knew. There was the staccato rattle of a punching bag being put back to use.
The bell rang again, and the two fighters got up and started circling the center of the ring. Groves was gleaming with sweat, but otherwise looked like he was raring to go. The other guy, however, was holding his hands a little lower, his shoulders were sagging, and halfway through the round he was throwing wild punches that failed to connect with anything.
“Oh yeah, Groves is gonna take him out,” the West Pointer said.
And true to the prediction, Groves waited no more than thirty seconds before moving in like a locomotive and unleashing a sudden volley of blows that sent his opponent not only against the ropes, but unexpectedly through them. The guy landed on the mat, spitting out his mouth guard and huffing for breath, while a pal helped him off with his helmet.
“Jesus, Groves,” the guy said, “take it easy.” He took another breath. “It’s not like there’s a purse.”
Groves spat out his own mouthpiece, and said, “Gotta fight like there is, Lieutenant. You always gotta fight like there is.”
Groves separated the ropes and stepped down from the ring. He was sitting on the bench, putting
Similar Books
