"The job will require three men."

"Understood. I will contact you once I've assembled my team."

"Time is a factor."

"Yes, sir. I will contact the first man tonight."

***

Earl hunched over his work table, peering down through a swivel-mounted magnifying lens at the fly he was holding with tweezers. The ether was wearing off, and the insect was becoming agitated.

"Stay still, Captain Sato, you Jap bastard," he muttered, yanking its sixth and final leg off with a second pair of tweezers. "You're almost ready for your big debut."

Taking care to avoid damaging its wings, he turned the fly over and applied a bead of glue to its abdomen. That done, he reached behind him and retrieved a tiny balsa wood replica of a 747 from a shelf. To be precise, the inch-and-a-half-long plane looked exactly like a commercial JAL airliner, right down to the red crane logo on its rudder fin. Earl pressed the crippled insect onto the top of the plane and held it there with the tweezers, waiting for the glue to dry. His phone rang, startling him. He retrieved the cell phone from its holster on his belt with his free hand, and thumbed the send button.

"This better be good."

"Do you know who this is?" came the neutral reply.

"You're the only one who knows this number, far as I know," he said.

"You got a job for me?"

"Direct as always, Earl," the voice said. "Yes, I have need of your talents."

"What kind of job?"

"Not on the phone. I'm setting up a meet tomorrow at ten at the site of our last meeting."

"Who all's involved?" he asked, inspecting the fly. Its wings fluttered drunkenly.

"No one you've worked with before."

He sighed angrily. "Shit. So we're using names?"

"Of course. You will be Mr. GRAY, EARL."

"That supposed to be some kind of tea reference?" he snarled.

"G-R-A-Y," said the voice, emphasizing the vowel. "Not E. As in the color."

"You know," he began, "before that prick Tarantino came along, we used to use Smith or Jones. Nothing wrong with using real fake names instead of colors."

"Be thankful I don't call you Mr. HELIOTROPE."

He frowned. "Huh? Isn't that a bush or some such shit?"

"It's also a color. Reddish purple."

"Smartass." He examined his handiwork once more, then placed a coffee mug over the tiny airplane and its captive pilot. He stood up, his joints popping like exploding knots in a campfire, and approached the detailed scale model of Washington D.C. covering every square inch of his Ping-Pong table. He stroked his whiskers, saying, "You given any thought to taking out Clancy, yet?"

There was a pause on the other end. "No, Earl, my employer has no wish to assassinate best-selling author Tom Clancy."

"Guy's a goddamn national threat, I'm tellin' you!"

"The man is a writer. Nothing more."

Ironically, Earl's cheeks suddenly flared with a color closely approximating heliotrope. "What kind of American are you, anyway?" he shouted, as flecks of spittle sprayed from his lips--conveniently landing in the Washington Monument's reflecting pool. "And what kind of goddamn American is he?! Writing novels where our country is under constant attack by terrorists and inferior governments! He's giving them ideas! Did you read what he did to the city of Denver? He nuked it! During the Super Bowl, no less!"

"Fiction, Earl," the voice reminded him.

"No, goddamnit!" he bellowed. "What about his non-fiction books where he spills all the secrets of our military's greatest weapons for any card-carrying Communist to see? Would you mind telling me what the fuck is up with that?"

The voice didn't answer, realizing the futility of argument.

"Well, I'll show him." He grinned, and his dangerous smile bisected his face. His bloodshot eyes surveyed the miniature landscape of Washington, and he fought the overwhelming urge to urinate in excitement. He lost by a drop. Positioned around the table were seven Sony handycams, blue light emanating from their viewfinders.

"Oh, believe you me, I'll show them all."

"Yes, well, good night, Mr. Gray."

"Once I've filmed my own alternate ending to Debt of Honor, I'll pirate-broadcast it during the next State of the Union address and show the world how it should've ended!" There was a click from the phone as the caller hung up. Earl absently holstered it, muttering to himself. Then he retrieved a remote control from the breast pocket of his military jumpsuit, pressed the record button, and aimed it at all seven cameras in turn. Seven red lights blinked to life.

"Rolling!" he cried, dashing to his work table and lifting the coffee mug.

The fly immediately took off, slowly lifting the tiny plane with it. It weaved awkwardly through the air at first, but quickly gained some semblance of control over its new prosthetic.

It headed directly for the lights strung over Washington.

"Jinkies!" Earl shrieked, sounding eerily like Velma from "Scooby Doo".

"Goddamn Jap kamikaze bastard!"

He bolted across the room toward his laser-sighted, tripod-mounted BB gun, and prepared to defend the sugar-coated Capitol building.