Elizabeth Wiley: ... As Drew mauled all of this over, Joyce took Linda's hand and whispered, "Here we go."

Squaring his shoulders and sucking in a deep breath, Drew followed and stepped over the threshold.

Time for man-to-man introductions. Drew trooped toward the NCOs encircling his dad, but he stopped when he overheard them discussing Francis Gary Powers, the American U-2 pilot who'd been shot down by the Russians while taking photos of them. Drew knew better than to interrupt serious shoptalk.

"Think he'll hold up under questioning?" One of the men asked.

"He better."

"How much has this increased tensions here in Berlin?" Drew's dad asked.

"All lot."

"Khrushchev sure is making hay of capturing one of our guys. Got to be a dream come true for that KGB bastard."

"Yeah, he's supposed to address the United Nations this fall. Would it be tragic if one of those crazy New York cabbies hit him?"

The men laughed.

"Drew!" His dad spotted him and waved him over.

As Drew approached the group, he caught a low wolf whistle coming from down the hall. A-hole, six o'clock. A tall teen Hercules with a fresh buzz cut had just come out of the bathroom and stopped mid-zip, eyeing Joyce.

Lately, more and more idiots like this guy were ogling his sister. With a pixie cut and enormous blue eyes, she was a red-headed lookalike of Leslie Caron in An American in Paris and seemed to make teenage boys' knees knock. Drew bristled.

"Drew, say hello to our host." Drew's dad demanded his attention. He'd deal with the a-hole later. With a made-to-order smile, he greeted Sergeant Jones. "Hello, sir," Drew said, shaking the man's hand. "Andrew McMahon."

"Hear you've got a hell of a pitching arms, son," the sergeant replied.

"Yes, sir." Damn straight, Drew wanted to shout. His high school coach in Virginia had promised he'd start in the lineup this year, even though he was just a sophomore on a state championship team.

"He's a southpaw, too," said Drew's dad.

"Excellent!" Sergeant Jones clapped Drew on the back so hard Drew staggered forward. "We're in need of an ace. Our Little League team just went to the world championships, but the high school-aged players act like chickens in a rainstorm."

Traded from state champions to a dodo roster. Great. Drew simmered. He just loved the army life.

"Have you met my boy?" Sergeant Jones asked.

"No, sir."

"Bob!" The Sergeant roared.

Of course, it was the wolf-whistling jerk. He took his sweet time sauntering over.

"Glad to meet you." Bob friendly punched Drew's chest. Well, sort of friendly. It actually hurt. Drew felt his freckles roasting again.

"Paperweight boxing champion Youth Club," his father bragged. "Box any, Andrew?"

"No way," Drew's dad answered for him. "Protecting that pitching arm."

"Right. Well, Bob going to explain what's happening during the match tonight. One of our own, Eddie Crook, is taking on a guy from Poland. Eddie's an all-around all-American. He even played quarterback for the Berlin Bears when he was stationed here. So the brigade's juiced that the Olympics are being broadcast. There is no way we all could have made it to Rome to see him."

With that, the boys were dismissed. They went straight for the Fritos.

Don't worry about having a babysit me during the match, by the way," said Drew. "I'll just listen to the commentary."

"Speak German?" Bob asked through a mouthful of corn chips.

"A little. My mom's fluent. Why?"

"Because the match will be broadcast in German. We've got a whopping two channels here, and everything's in German."

"All in German? Even Gunsmoke and Alfred Hitchcock Presents?"

Bob snorted. "Who said we got those? Get used to listening to the radio for stuff like that. AFN is pretty swell, though. They broadcast Fibber McGee. What's My Line?, and Johnny Dollar. Great jazz programs, too. So good, East Berliners tune in all the time, drives the commies in charge over there crazy."

Joyce would be glad to hear about the jazz, but the fact that there was no American TV was annoying news. Drew loved Alfred Hitchcock. And Linda lived by Lassie.

Where was Linda, anyway? Drew did a sweep of the room and found her in a corner, her face covered by an outstretched London Times Sunday magazine-