Deep inside a US warship cruising the Pacific, two men listened a male voice issuing from a bank of equipment against one wall. The tender endearments sounded incongruous, given the gun-metal grey environment but neither man was embarrassed. In fact, both were frowning.
Eventually one spoke.
"I told you he was too young for this, Max," the general said. "Fresh out of Quantico — "
"He had to be young or he wouldn't have been hired," the other replied, holding a hand up for silence.
The general's frown deepened. He listened for a moment longer then shook his head. "The kid's got his brains in his dick. He's going bad."
"I'm his control," the other man argued. "Unless they burn him, he stays in."
"And what if he goes over?"
"He won't."
"Jesus, Max. It's his first field assignment. You would've had trouble picking a pro for this. The place is fantasy, fucking island. It's covered in pussy. He'll never get past it."
"Yes he will. And the longer he's there, the better our chances of closing this deal."
The general shook his head and stood, shoving his chair back with a jarring scrape. "If they burn him, you'll never get another one in," he warned.
"I know. Don't worry, he'll nail it."
"He better," came the gruff reply, then the door slammed and Max Sark was alone. He slumped in his chair and stared at the speaker.
The kid was still sprouting mush interspersed with silences that reeked of sex, but Sark had no complaint with that. Sex was part of the job. It was the emotional gush that worried him. He knew the kid wasn't that good an actor.
He shook his head, too despondent even to be angry. The general had been right, of course. The kid was too young. But they'd had no other choice.
Damn. He closed his eyes. They'd waited so long for this one. They were so close.
"Come on, kid," he whispered, wishing their communication could be two-way. "You're not a Champion. You're a spook. Fuck the girl and get on with the job."
But would he? Realistically?
Sark covered his eyes with a deceptively steady hand. He suddenly felt old, a hundred years older than this kid who was about to blow five years of painstaking preparatory work on an emotion Sark didn't believed existed.
"Fuck," he said again.
From this point on, all they could hope was that training and duty would ultimately over-ride libido. Because if it didn't, Sark knew as sure as the general liked a little poon-tang on the side, that this kid's life wouldn't be worth the price of a bullet.
On either side of the fence.