I TAPED THE bit a few days after talking to Ken, reporting at 0600 to what looked like an abandoned warehouse building in northeastern Virginia. I took two of my a.s.sociates with me-Trace Dahlgren and Matthew "Junior" Loring. Junior"s one of our technical experts, and was along to help me pick out some gear from a vendor we use who happens to be located a few miles from the taping site. Trace was along allegedly to help make sure we got the right stuff, but really to make faces at me while I was taping.
We were met at the door by a little old gray-haired man wearing a barber"s smock. He smiled when he saw me, nodded to himself, then led me across the dimly lit foyer to a thick steel door. Beyond the door was a studio that would make the folks at the Today show jealous. The dressing room was twice the size of my office, with thick wood paneling, a pair of overstuffed leather couches, another half-dozen chairs of various but expensive description, and-especially important to Junior and Trace-a table laden with a variety of breakfast goodies.
"What, no omelet station?" snarked Trace.
"Scrambled eggs here," said the barber, showing her the tray. "If that"s not all right-"
"It"s more than all right," I said. "Pay no attention to her. She has PNS."
(No, it"s not a typo-Permanent Nasty Syndrome.) Trace gave me a scowl, then started force-feeding Junior donuts in an attempt to add a little weight to his scarecrowlike frame. I left them to divvy up the goodies while I donned a slightly wrinkled set of green army fatigues for my star turn. After that, the barber took me next door to a room that looked like a 1950s version of the perfect barbershop. A makeup artist-thirty-something, blond neck with the scent of ripe strawberries-stood next to a counter that looked to contain every cosmetic product known to woman.
"Sit, sit," the barber told me. "You are a very good likeness. You"re not related, no?"
"To Fidel?"
"A good thing." The barber flipped on the television on the counter. Fidel"s face filled the screen. I studied his mannerisms, watching the way he furled his eyebrows and puffed out his cheeks as he ranted about bourgeoisie yankees trying to impose democracy on the world.
Meanwhile, the barber went to work, tr.i.m.m.i.n.g my hair and dying it gray. One thing Ken hadn"t made clear: I had to give my ponytail for my country. Seeing as how I"ve sacrificed just about every other part of my body, I suppose losing a little hair was no big deal.
When the barber was done, the makeup artist daubed a little bit of makeup around my eyes, adding some aging lines and liver spots. She worked for about fifteen minutes, fussing like Michelangelo finishing the Sistine Chapel.
When I looked over at the barber, he was frowning. "You look too much like him, senor." He glanced at his razor on the counter. "If I did not know any better, I would take the razor and . . ."
1 See: "What I did on my summer vacation," aka Rogue Warrior: Dictator"s Ransom, available at finer bookstores and p.a.w.nshops across the land.
Also by Richard Marcinko.
FICTION.
Violence of Action.
With John Weisman.
Red Cell.
Green Team.
Task Force Blue
Designation Gold.
Seal Force Alpha.
Option Delta
The Real Team
Echo Platoon.
Detachment Bravo.
With Jim DeFelice.
Vengeance.
Holy Terror.
Rogue Warrior: Seize the Day.
NONFICTION.
Rogue Warrior (with John Weisman).
Leadership Secrets of the Rogue Warrior:.
A Commando"s Guide to Success.
The Rogue Warrior"s Strategy for Success.