He did have a pass to shop for food at the Army– Air Force Exchange Service-otherwise known as the PX at nearby Greenham Commons Air Base-so at least they’d have proper hot dogs, and brands that resembled the ones he bought at the Giant at home in Maryland. Evidently, the “mad dogs and Englishmen” ditty was a thing of the past.īut it could have been worse. It wasn’t the hottest of climates: The locals started dropping dead in the street when the mercury topped 75. There was no air-conditioning, though that probably wasn’t necessary here. The house didn’t have central heating, despite the princely price he’d paid for it. The left lane was the slow lane on the interstates- motorways, he corrected himself. A right turn crossed oncoming traffic, not a left turn. He’d have to remember all that: The “right” side of the road was the left. At least he hadn’t climbed into the passenger seat by mistake and really made an ass of himself. The dealer hadn’t laughed at him, but Ryan was sure he’d wanted to. He’d already bought a Jaguar-pronounced jag-you-ah over here, he’d have to remember-but both times he’d walked to it at the dealership, he’d gone to the leftfront door instead of the right. The scary part, Jack decided, was going to be driving. By Tom Clancy Putnam Pub Group Copyright © 2002 Rubicon, Inc.
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