A Circle of Friends Story

Drilled Weekend

By E. E. Nalley

 

Miranda and Harrison Kitteridge copyright Bek. D. Corbin, Charlotte Turner Copyright Starwolf. Lucia Barrington copyright Maggie Finson. All copyrighted characters appear with the consent of the copyright holders. All other characters copyright E. E. Nalley.

 

Thursday 1500hrs (3:00pm)

Headquarters, The Stars and Stripes, Washington, D. C.

“Careful, Mark, the Old Man’s in rare form today,” warned Sandy Lincoln from her cluttered desk. The man she addressed, a California Beach Demi-God, smiled his most charming smile as he closed the door to the outer office and hitched one taunt cheek onto the only open corner of the assistant’s desk.

“Now, Sandy, why would the Old Man ever give me grief? I get the story and he looks good. What we have here is a very mutually beneficial arraignment.”

“Didn’t you say something like that right before he shipped you off to Somalia?” Sandy wanted to know. Mark’s tanned face split once more into his perfect smile.

“Yes, but I still got keep my tan up, now didn’t I?” Mark Cogsley was newly thirty four, though the shape he kept himself in kept most people wondering if he was lying when he finally coped to it. To say he was fit was to say the Roman’s were ok builders. A perpetual tan flowed over rippling muscles under sun bleached blonde hair that was only just regulation. Sandy worked to remember her own husband, knowing Mark had been known to use his ample charms to get what he wanted. Or so the office rumors went.

“Best not to keep him waiting,” she cautioned, and was rewarded with his third smile in as many minutes as he nodded and ambled into the inner office. “How did Moneypenny do it?” Sandy asked herself as she tried not to listen in on the conversation behind her.

“Staff Sergeant Mark Cogsley, reports as ordered, sir,” Mark told the balding, over weight Major behind the desk. They were as opposite as night and day, with as much love between them.

“Mark,” drawled Major Westin in his irritating nasal tenor. “I’ve just gotten a tough new assignment down from our Commander In Chief and it has you all over it. At ease,” the bureaucrat finally ordered. Mark relaxed into the ordered position, one portion of his mind slowly chanting Zen meditation to keep his temper, the rest focused on the unpleasantness at hand.

“I’m grateful my efforts have been noticed, sir,” he said, his tone carefully neutral. It still rankled that Major Clark Westin was listed as a technical advisor to Blackhawk Down without so much as setting foot on the set. But six months in the desert working 12 hour days for that production would, Mark would have thought, merited at least a place in the credits. Best stay here and now, he told himself.

“Yes,” Westin continued. “Big story here, just what you need to make a real name for yourself.” The Major slid a manila folder across the desk. Mark picked it up and flipped it open to see a fairly standard service photograph of a lovely young woman, blonde, with piercing green eyes and a smile that for some reason spoke to Mark of a sardonic wit. He found himself liking this…Captain Constance Mitchell pretty much on sight.

“What’s this?” he asked softly.

“That is Constance Mitchell, Troop G Commander, 104thCavalry Regiment, and our Nation’s newest Silver Star recipient. I want a four column story about her on my desk next Friday. You’ll find your train tickets there as well. She has drill this weekend, so you’ll be contacting her Regimental Commanding Officer, Brigadier Masters at 17:00 tomorrow. Oh, your train leaves in an hour. Is that enough time?” sneered the Major. Mark only smiled, thanking himself for keeping a kit bag ready for just such an emergency.

“Yes sir. If there’s nothing else, I’m on my way.”

“Dismissed,” snarled the Major.

Great, PR Fluff. This will make my name all right, Mark thought to himself as he made his way to the desk he shared with three other reporters. “Jim!” he called out, catching sight of his favorite photographer.

“S’up Marky Mark?” asked Jim as he turned, affecting gangland poses that seemed out of place on his large, Middle America frame.

“You busy this weekend? I need a shooter.”

“Oh?” the man asked, tease gone from his voice. “Another grudge match from the Old Man?”

“PR Fluff, Female Silver Star winner. Train leaves in an hour.”

Jim snatched up the multiple bags that held his cameras and the other impedia of the photographer. “Life with you is never dull, son.”

Friday: 10:00hrs

Troop G National Guard Armory, 104thCavalry Regiment

“Morning Skipper!” greeted the perpetually cheerful Specialist Watkins as he emerged from the backroom. His grin was wide, generous and a fixture on the young man’s face. He’d responded quickly to the bell Connie had rung to summon him from whatever he’d been doing. Watkins was twenty one, just barely, and took his charge of the Troops weapons custodian quite seriously. Quite an accomplishment as it was the only thing he took without injecting his playful nature.

“Good Morning, Lefty,” greeted Connie around the smile that had already spread from his face to hers. Connie made a point of knowing everyone in her command. It made her a popular commander, but more importantly, it let the men and women under her know that they had her respect. Which had the added bonus of generally awarding their respect to her. “You’re in for Drill early, as usual.”

The young man grinned and shrugged. “Well, the BK Steakhouse can get along without one more guy asking, ‘You want fries with that?’ for one extra day. Besides, I had a project for school I needed to finish up and taking today gave me last night off too to finish it.”

“How is your school work going? I haven’t forgotten about my order and you’d best not either, Lefty. Ten push ups for every point less than one hundred.” Lefty made a mockery of standing to attention and saluting.

“I haven’t forgotten, Ma’am. You’ll have a report card with a one and two zeros after it. After all, I get my buck sergeant stripes out of it. You can bet I won’t forget.” Connie smiled. In actuality she’d already put the lad in for his promotion, but if pretending to hold it over his head would encourage his scholastic achievements, that was only good for him. Lefty became a bit more serious. “You’re in early for Drill too, aren’t you ma’am? What can I do for you?”

“I’m not here yet,” laughed Connie. “I’m a figment of your over active imagination. Just here to check out the twins for some last minute practice before we qualify Sunday.”

“Oh, I see,” commented Lefty with great dignity. “So, does this figment of my imagination have her weapons card?”

Connie fished the two laminated bits of plastic from her purse, the one thing about her that wasn’t subconsciously organized. These, she handed to the young Specialist.

“Just a sec,” he said, retreating back to the strong room where the rifles and pistols were kept. While she waited, Connie looked about the waiting area of the drab building. It was built of stacked cinderblocks in the late sixties in a style that could only be called Uncle Sam Cheap Modern. It was an ugly, lifeless building, which, it could be argued, fitted its purpose as a repository for weapons.

The enlisted personnel who worked here had taken to trying to spruce the place up, with photographs of the history of the unit, one a promising artist in his own right, had started a painting series of the great battles the unit had taken part in. The series started with the most recent engagement in Afghanistan where Connie had had her crash.

It was a painting that Connie could not look at without wincing. Sergeant Loftin was gifted. She could taste the dust from the tanks in her mouth again from the bitter retreat from the larger force. The only thing Connie had hated about the painting was her own helicopter hovering above the column of tanks, launching rockets like an Avenging Angel, its registry numbers prominently displayed.

One should never have their personal problems turned into art.

After a moment of Connie pointedly ignoring the painting, Lefty returned, weighed down by the rifle, the butt of her pistol protruding from a pocket and a pair of ammo cans. “Alright ma’am, rifle, M-16, one each.” He inspected the weapon for live rounds, presented it to her and then waited as she copied his check. “Pistol, M-38, one each.” And again the weapon was twice checked before being stowed in its holster on her belt.

Lefty opened up the first ammo can. “Six thirty round magazines for your M-16 and five hundred 5.56 millimeter rounds. And I made sure to get you six from the new batch we just got so they shouldn’t miss feed or jam.”

“You’re the best, Lefty,” replied Mitch as she closed the can and watched him open the second.

“Five hundred .38 caliber rounds. Sign here, please ma’am, and here.” Once the paperwork had been properly filed, Lefty’s grin returned. “You want a hand with this out to your car?”

Connie preformed a delicate balancing act between her purse on one shoulder, the M-16 on its sling over the other and two handfuls of ammo cans. “No, thanks, Lefty, I think I can manage. Say, do you need these back? I could use a couple of cans and these are in good shape.”

The boy grinned. “Cans, skipper? Don’t know anything about it. Good luck Sunday.”

“Luck, will, hopefully, have nothing to do with it. See you then and thanks.”

“Anytime, skipper.” Connie made her way to her Mustang, nodding a response to the salute of a pair of passing sergeants. As was typical of the morning as she was wrestling her keys for the car’s remote control, her cell phone started ringing. The trunk dutifully swung open, allowing her to free her hands to answer the phone.

“Pegasus Air Taxi, this is Connie, how may I help you?”

“You’re late,” came Lucia’s voice. “I thought one of the main tenants of being a good soldier was timeliness?”

Mitchell’s chuckle was genuine. “The primary tenants of soldiering are the ability to move, fire and communicate, not necessarily in that order. And I’m not late; I’m not due to be at your place until 11.”

“Yes,” Lucia admitted. “But depending on your location my statement could still be true, now couldn’t it?”

“I’m at the Grant Avenue Armory if you must know. I just checked out my weapons. Are you ready with that some assembly required piece of yours?”

“Don’t disrespect the Contender,” she said quickly, but without venom. “I can outshoot that miss-feeding menace of yours every day of the week.”

“Well, we’re going to find out, aren’t we?” laughed Connie. I should be over to your place on time. As far as a range goes, you want to try mine this time? Static shooting is all very nice, but I’m going to need something a bit more dynamic for a true practice to qualify.”

“Will they let me on base or post or whatever they call it?” Connie sighed.

“No, but that’s not what I was talking about.”

Lucia’s tone did her questioning for her. “So, what are you talking about?”

“I come from a rich military family, remember? There’s a range on my parents place out in Rushland. It abuts Tyler State park so it’s fairly rural.”

Lucia couldn’t keep a chuckle from escaping her lips.

“Why am I not surprised your parents live in Rushland?”

Connie gave a sigh of long suffering. “First, you should know meeting my folks will be stressful to say the least. Say no now if you’re not up to it. Second, my family has been hard line conservatives since way before Mr. Limbaugh was an itch in his daddy’s pants.”

“Well, with an invitation like that, how can I refuse?”

Friday 1300hrs

The Mitchell Estate, Rushland

Connie’s Mustang pulled to a stop at the gate of the mansion she had grown up in. Lucia’s appreciative whistle drowned out the hum of the power window coming down to give Connie access to the call box. “Nice,” murmured Lucia. “I thought my great grandpa the robber baron did well for us. I didn’t know you had such blue blood in those lovely veins of yours, Connie.”

Mitchell smirked back at her friend, flashing her trademark half smile of amusement. “If you’re into such things, I could go on and on. For instance, it’s no coincidence my folks live here in Rushland.”

“And that would be…?” prompted Lucia. Connie sighed.

“My Great to something like the fourteenth Uncle was Benjamin Rush, for whom this town is named. One of Uncle Ben’s sons married Aunt Marjorie. Uncle Ben was one of the Pennsylvania signers of the Declaration of Independence. So yeah, we’re what they call Old Money around here.” Connie then turned and pressed the call button on the box, thoughtfully placed at Chauffer level. After a moment, a cultured tenor drifted from the box.

“Welcome to the Mitchell Estate. How may I help you?”

“Hello Williams, its Connie. Would you be so kind as to buzz us in, please?”

“Us, Miss Constance?”

“I have a friend with me. We’d like to use the range.”

“Very good, Miss Constance. Shall I inform your mother you are here?”

Connie winced. She had been hoping she’d catch the estate with just the staff at home. “Sure, but we’ll be heading straight out there.”

“I shall do so at once. In perhaps half an hour, lemonade and cucumber sandwiches will be served. Enjoy your stay.” There was a loud, electronic buzz to which the gate dutifully began to swing open.

“Is this a house or a hotel?” chuckled Lucia.

“Think of it as a four star barracks,” was Mitchell’s reply as she drove down the miles of carefully manicured lawn, turning off at a sign that indicated the main house in one direction, and the service area in another. “The scenery is nice and the towels are always fluffy, but you can’t wait to get out.”

“Oh,” was Lucia’s comment.

After perhaps five minutes, the mustang pulled to a stop before a small, squat building that overlooked three clearings between obviously, though nicely done, artificial hills. The left most was a static range that had been provisioned to work with skeet shooting and sporting clays as well as more traditional forms of target shooting. The middle range was an odd collection of burms spaced somewhat haphazardly down to the far side of the range.

The right hand range was the most interesting. It was actually a representation of a short city block, complete with buildings and, while there were doors and windows to the buildings, none of them had glass or any other aesthetic features.

“What is that?” demanded Lucia as the two women got out of the car.

“What?” asked Mitchell as she followed her friend’s gaze. “Oh, Dad went to the FBI Urban Combat Simulator a bunch of years back. Liked it so much he built his own. There are targets that pop up in the windows so you can train for Urban Warfare, hostage retrieval, that kind of thing.”

“That’s just a bitbeyond the pale, don’t you think?”

“Can you honestly say you don’t have something off the wall about your family were I to pay a visit?” demanded Connie, a bit defensively. “All families are weird in their own way. Mine is just into training for war. It’s kind of the family business so to speak.”

“Ok, I guess I deserved that,” admitted Lucia. She indicated the middle clearing with a wave. “And those?”

“Pop up targets that are controlled by a computer in the building here. For my qualify test, the range will be very similar to that. I get two twenty round magazines and thirty targets will pop up in a random sequence. I have to hit eighteen to pass.”

“Ok, G. I. Joe Average has to do that. How many do you really have to hit?”

 

“Currently, I’m ranked as an expert, which means I have to hit at least twenty eight to stay that way.”

Lucia smiled. “That’s what I thought. Shall we?”

The weapons were removed from the trunk of the Mustang and with little effort placed on the bench of the static range. As Lucia began the somewhat involved process of changing the barrel of her Thompson Center Fire Contender, Connie began stuffing magazines with bullets. As she was finishing, she caught sight of a golf cart approaching and groaned.

Not only was the primly attired Williams driving it, her mother was waving animatedly from the passenger’s seat. “Brace for impact,” she told Lucia in a furtive whisper.

Beatrice Mitchell was fifty five and relentlessly in shape. She wore her graying, natural blonde hair re-bleached every few days in a halo about her head. Her wide, expressive face held the lovely smile that must have attracted General Mitchell, but there was an air about her that was just a touch dangerous. Not so much in a physical danger sense, as the far graver social danger. Here was one of the great players in the social jungle of Eastern Pennsylvania. Caution was advised.

“Hello!” called Mrs. Mitchell as she breezed up, planting a kiss on the cheek of her daughter as she did so. “Constance!” she declared, “While it is wonderful to see you after such an extended absence, must you insist on that ridiculous uniform?” Connie looked down at the mottled greens and browns of her woodland camouflage BDUs.

“I sort of have to be in uniform to check the weapons out, Mother. It’s the reason I’m here, after all.”

Beatrice’s lips made a thin line. “Must you have a reason to come home?” demanded the Mitchell Matriarch loftily.

“Where shall I set up the luncheon, Madam?” interrupted Williams, smoothly defusing the mounting tension between mother and erstwhile daughter.

“Oh, back under the awning will be splendid, William.”

“Very good, Madam. Miss Constance, it is indeed a great joy to have you home once again.”

“Thank you, Williams,” Connie replied before indicating Lucia. “Mother, may I present Miss Lucia Barrington of Philadelphia? Lucia, my mother, Beatrice Mitchell.”

The social butterfly in Lucia blossomed. “It’s wonderful to finally meet you, Mrs. Mitchell. Connie has just gone on and on about you so I feel a part of the family.”

“That’s just a bit premature, isn’t it, Miss Barrington?” was Beatrice’s greeting as she took Lucia’s extended hand as though it would bite her. “The two of you aren’t in some homosexual orgy are you?” she demanded.

“Mother!” snapped Connie, as Lucia successfully kept her chuckle to herself.

“Well, one never knows these days, does one? After this crazy scheme of yours to change your life on its ear, there’s just no telling what kind of friends you’ve made.”

“I didn’t scheme anything, Mother,” said Connie crossly, “I had a crash that almost killed me.”

“Don’t take that tone with me, girl,” warned Beatrice. “As for you, Miss Barrington, I am pleased to make your acquaintance. It is nice that my Constance has at least one normal friend.”

“What one might consider normal is a subject of some debate, these days, Mrs. Mitchell,” Lucia opined, somehow managing to keep a straight face. “Do you shoot?”

“Nothing as vulgar as these toys my husband and my youngest daughter are so enamored with. Williams! Be a lad and fetch my twelve gauge, won’t you?” The man servant left his smooth preparations of the luncheon and picked up the aforementioned shot gun from where he had deposited it before preparing the meal.

With a smooth, practiced motion, William opened the action and brought it forward open. “If you’ll forgive my boldness, Madam, I had anticipated your desire of the twelve gauge and fetched it along.”

“You’re an absolute marvel, Williams,” blushed Beatrice as she placed the weapon in the crook of her arm as if it had been there since she was born. “Do you sporting clay, Miss Barrington? My youngest daughter shares my husband and son’s obsession with shooting people I’m afraid.”

“How terrible for you, Mrs. Mitchell. But, I think I can detect some of your fine craftsmanship coming out in our Constance as I’ve known her. Cheer up; I’m quite sure she’ll be around to your way of thinking before too long.”

“You are a bright optimist, my girl. You are in need of husband to show you just how gone the world is. Constance, put that silly thing down and come to lunch. Williams’ lemonade is getting warm.”

With a ragged sigh, Connie returned her M-16 to the bench and dutifully marched over to the state dinner masquerading as a picnic lunch that Williams had prepared. As the party settled at the table, Lucia’s eyes filled with a devilish gleam as she turned from Connie to the Mitchell Matriarch. “Speaking of wanting a husband, Mrs. Mitchell, how is it your Constance hasn’t played the blushing bride as yet?”

The look Connie speared Lucia with would have killed a lesser woman. “To say that my youngest daughter is a tom boy is an understatement of colossal proportions, my dear,” said Beatrice wearily. “Still, I do have hopes of some display of adult responsibility from her before I shuffle off this mortal coil.”

Warming to her topic now, Lucia calmly said, “I should think that motherhood would be just the thing to steady her down.”

Despite her love of embarrassing her daughter, Beatrice instantly became aware that the family secret was in danger of being out which caused her some concern. She blushed and quickly said, “Oh, unfortunately Constance’s accident has left her unable to have children.”

Lucia couldn’t resist twisting the knife a bit. She painted her face in an overly dramatic expression of sympathy. “How terrible. And Connie, you haven’t breathed a word about this…!”

“It’s not something she goes about with on her sleeve I should hope!” exclaimed Beatrice. Connie could only mutter about rather eating with the Viet Cong as she poked at her salad. Feeing a bit defensive, Beatrice leaned forward and asked, “And what of your own affairs, Miss Barrington? A girl your age should be married by now.”

Lucia was taken a bit aback at this sudden reversal of the conversation. “Oh, well, I’m currently seeing a gentleman at my office…” she started, but trailed off at the look of abject horror on Beatrice’s face.

“Really, my dear!” she exclaimed. “I should have thought better of the Barringtons! Where is your sense of self decorum? A work place romance is the most tawdry of scandals! Why, I shall have to have dinner with your mother this very night and put a stop to this! Williams, would you be so kind as to make the arrangements?”

The man servant nodded thoughtfully. “Yes madam. If I might be so bold, there were a number of highly eligible gentlemen at your Cotillion just last week. Shall I invite some of them as well?”

A feral smile spread across Connie’s face. “Sure, Williams! Be sure to invite Jack Kessel, he’d be just the gentleman for our Lucia.”

“Now, just a minute,” sputtered Lucia.

“Not another word!” ordered Beatrice. “It’s all settled. Constance, make sure you wear something decent to smooth over the disaster from my Cotillion.”

Connie shook her head with a deep grin. “Gosh, Mother, I’d love to be there, but I have Drill this weekend.”

“Can’t you call them or something?” demanded Beatrice.

“I’m the Unit Commander, Mother. What kind of example would I be setting?”

“Mrs. Allison Barrington, madam,” interrupted Williams as he handed Beatrice the cell phone he kept in his waist coat. Beatrice took the phone and began chatting animatedly as with an old friend.

“I’m going to kill you,” hissed Lucia to Connie.

“Enjoy the party, Lucia. I certainly wish I could come along to meet some of these fine, upstanding gentlemen Mother is so eager for you to meet.”

Friday 1700hrs

The Kitteridge Home

Lucia blew past Miranda, her snit having not abated a bit in the two hours that it had taken them to drive from Rushland back to Philly. “So, I went to La Petit Boulangerie© instead of Marchand’s for croissants! So sue me!” Miranda yelled at her back.

Lucia spun around on her heels. “Do you know what THAT-” She pointed at Connie as she stood in the doorway, an amused smile playing on her lips, “did to me? I have just come from spending Two Hours, not shooting my Thompson Center Fire Contender, as promised, but being torn in twain- on the Phone yet!- by her mother and mine! My Mother! The woman, who, the second that she accepted in her heart that I would never be the Perfect Son that she wanted, decided to mold me into the Perfect Daughter!”

“‘Torn in Twain’?” Miranda said around a mouth that was endeavoring mightily to smirk. “If you write like that, maybe it’s for the best that they keep you on the Society Page!”

“Don’t start with me, Kitteridge.” Lucia glowered, “I have just come from a two-hour session of matchmaking. Time that would have been better and more pleasurably spent in a dentist’s chair.” Lucia blinked. “Did you say--- La Petit Boulangerie©?”

“Kidding! Just kidding! Marchand’s, fresh from the oven, not an hour ago!”

Lucia went over to the sideboard and helped herself to a croissant. “Good.” She said around a mouthful. “Because I have been through too much to endure eating flaky cardboard.”

Miranda crossed her arms and turned to Connie. “You sicced your mother on Lucia?”

“I swear, it was self-defense! Little Miss Stiletto-Heels over there was cracking foxy with the Mater about ‘marriage settling her down’ and things!” Connie started to come through the doorway, but Miranda blocked her with an imperious hand.

“Sorry, soldier, but the Third Amendment specifically states: ‘No soldier shall, in time of peace be quartered in any house, without the consent of the owner, nor in time of war, but in a manner to be prescribed by law’.”

“Hunh?”

“You’re not coming into my house dressed like that.”

“But I didn’t have time to change to my informal dress uniform! Annie Oakley over there couldn’t get out fast enough!”

“Two _Hours_ of matchmaking, Mitchell!” Lucia retorted.

“Do you have your informal dress uniform?” Miranda asked over-rationally.

“Well-- yeah-- .”

“Well then- go get it! You can dress up in Harrison’s and my bedroom. There’s a full-length mirror, and everything.”

“Yeah!” Lucia said through still more croissant. “And get down here pronto! I want to get crumbs all over your uniform!”

“Oh!” Miranda’s eyes suddenly went wide. “I just remembered! Holly and Neal are here!”

“Holly and Neal?” Connie asked, rather perplexed. “And they are…?”

“Harrison’s daughter and son, from his first marriage to Rebecca, remember?”

“Oh! Right, right!”

“I just want you to keep that in mind, and watch what you say. Neal might not understand, but Holly might, and she’d take it straight to her mother.” Miranda paused. “Come to think of it, she’d take it to her mother, even if she didn’tunderstand anything, just on general principle!”

Grumbling good naturedly about the quirks of her hostess, Connie returned to her mustang and retrieved the garment bag that held the Class C uniform. It was a bit frustrating that it was just back from the dry cleaners so all of the metal had been stripped off the uniform and would need to be returned to their collective places. These were in a plastic bag she’d remembered to toss in the armrest of the car, along with a small ruler that would also be needed.

Having collected her necessities, she returned to the house and was left alone quickly in the rather nice bedroom Miranda and her husband shared. The room seemed deliberately neat, but cluttered. As if one spouse or the other were trying to put their own stamp on the room, a ward against the other. Connie was a great proponent of the idea you could learn a lot about a person by where they slept.

Harrison’s closet stood open, everything neatly ordered and arranged by shade, cut and formality. He had excellent taste in clothes she noted as she laid out the garment bag on the bed and opened it. Opposite it were Miranda’s closets, just as organized, but subset first by formality, then color. Her shoe collection would rival Emelda Marcoss’. The makeup table was where the organization broke down a bit. There was still the breakdown of each cosmetic, but it looked like someone had been trying to find something recently and unsuccessful at it.

Making a point to stay clear of it, Connie dumped out the bag of accessories for the uniform and, carefully measuring with ruler began to apply them. As she held the small collection of her awards before applying it to the uniform, her nostrils were filled for a moment with the smell of burning aviation fuel and melting plastic. The red white and blue stripes that told the world she’d been awarded the Silver Star stared back at her from its place on the top of the awards.

“It’s just thread,” she whispered to herself as she applied it to her left breast and made sure the stiffener board behind it would keep them stable. The top restored to its former glory, she stripped off the BDUs she was wearing and carefully pulled on the pale green blouse and its darker green matching skirt. As was usual, a few minor adjustments were needed, but at last the uniform hung right.

That done, she pulled her hair into a somewhat sever bun at the nape of her neck and began the fight with the midnight black beret to sit right. Once that battle was won, the only skirmish left was the panty hose and the pumps that went with the uniform. A final check in the mirror told her she was victorious once more.

“Who are you?” demanded a small voice behind her. Connie spun to be confronted by a sturdy shock of a lad with sandy brown hair staring up at her.

“You must be Neal,” Connie labeled with a slight smile and offering of her hand. “I’m Connie, your stepmother’s friend.” The boy accepted her hand with a surprisingly firm grip.

“I’m Neal Kitterridge. Pleased to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” replied the soldier drolly. “Do you often let yourself into your parent’s rooms without knocking?”

“Only when I know they’re not here and I hear someone in them. You could have been a robber or something,” the boy responded seriously.

“How do you know I’m not a robber?”

“Because you’re a soldier. Everybody knows soldiers are the good guys. It’s all over the news.”

I wish that were so, thought Connie to herself. Out loud, she asked, “Your parents let you watch the news?” Neal nodded thoughtfully as he inched his way closer to the BDUs on the bed.

“My dad says everyone should watch the news. That information is power.”

“Sounds like good advice,” admitted Connie. Neal spun suddenly and pointed at the awards she had just gotten to sit right. “What do those mean?”

Sigh. Connie pointed to the top with it’s two blue squares, framing another pair of white squares and it’s lonely single square of blue. “This means I was awarded a Silver Star.”

“What’s that?”

“A medal. Someone thought I was very brave.”

“Were you?” fired Neal.

“I don’t think so, but what I thought didn’t matter.” Her finger moved to the left side of the lower rack to a ribbon of deep purple. “This is for my Purple Heart. That means I was hurt while I was being brave. This one is the Air Combat Medal. I fly helicopters and there were times I was in combat, so.” Finally her finger moved to the least of the awards, ironically colored in a manner that put her in mind of the gay, lesbian and transgender unity flag. “This means I’ve been in the Army for more than six months.”

Neal seemed very thoughtful for five seconds, an eternity for a boy his age. “I bet you’ve done all kinds of fun things in the Army. I don’t get to do anything fun.”

“I find that a bit hard to believe,” replied Connie as she placed the BDUs in the garment bag. “I’d be willing to bet you’ve got a closet full of toys in your room.”

“Yeah,” admitted Neal. “But you get to play with all that cool Army stuff. Camp out all the time. I can’t even have a BB gun.”

“Guns aren’t toys, Neal,” said Connie firmly.

“I know that,” the youngster defended himself. “But dad’s always too busy to go camping. And my mom doesn’t like the woods and she’s always listening to my whiny sister.”

“You know, I thought my sister was whiny when I was your age. But I got hurt and found out she was really my best friend.”

“Lucky you,” groused Neal. Her items stowed once more, Connie led the youth downstairs. “I’d give anything to get to go see some of the stuff you get to do.”

“I see Neal found you,” smiled Miranda from her coffee.

“It was a classic blind side ambush, expertly deployed, I must say,” chuckled Connie as she helped herself to a croissant and sat studiously out of Lucia’s reach.

“Neal, my friends and I would like to have a private conversation now. Why don’t you watch some television?”

“Could I go see Connie do her Army stuff?”

“Her what?” demanded Miranda with a glance at the soldier. Connie quickly cleared her mouth.

“Neal and I have had a very interesting conversation on career paths and whiny sisters.”

“My home is not a recruitment station…!” declared Miranda with much affected dismay.

“Neal’s a bit young just yet,” soothed Connie with a chuckle. “But there’s nothing saying the two of you couldn’t stop by the post tomorrow for Drill. Assuming you don’t have anything else going on?”

A demonic fire lit in Neal’s eyes. “Could we? Please? Please?”

Friday 2100hrs

Ft. Eisenhower, Headquarters, Troop G, 104thCavalry Regiment

Connie couldn’t keep a smile off her face as she returned the salutes of the soldiers she passed on her way to General Masters’s office. Being on Post was always a catharsis for her. There was a great deal to love about the military lifestyle and now that her gender was in line with her self image, Connie found herself looking forward to those weekends where she could be the leader she had been brought up to be.

That she was also one up on Lucia didn’t hurt either.

General Masters kept a small office in the Post’s Main Administration building; a brick and clapboard affair that had been put together more for expediency than aesthetics in the early seventies. This being a fairly new Post, it had the virtue of Central Air Conditioning, which lessened the legendary swelter of the mid Spring Pennsylvania morning. Mitchell checked her watch and wished she had time for a visit to the Ladies’ Room to freshen up a bit. It was always a good idea to be at one’s best when seeing the Regimental Commander. Unfortunately, the Philly rush hour had made sure she only had just enough time to get to the office.

Best foots would have to wait.

She did make sure her black Army beret was correct in a passing window before entering the outer office and announcing herself to the General’s Secretary. Mitchell was led in at once.

To her surprise, there was a Staff Sergeant in the room as well and she could only just keep in a gasp at his incredible good looks. With regret, she took her eyes off him and came to attention. “Captain Mitchell, reports as ordered, sir.”

Brigadier Marvin ‘The Martian’ Masters was forty something, six two and had a body mass index of something like a four. In non-military terms, he was a major hunk. He wore his slate gray hair close and shorter than the regulations required, which both served to make him more and less approachable, depending entirely on whether or not he was wearing his congenial smile. Fortunately, he was as he stood and extended his massive hand. “At ease, Mitch,” he rumbled in his pleasant baritone. “Before you get comfy, let me introduce Staff Sergeant Mark Cogsley with the Stars and Stripes.”

Connie gladly took the opportunity to shake hands with Mark, hoping her own hand wasn’t sweating. Wow, she thought to herself, what a Stud Muffin!

Mark’s smile caused the room to dim slightly and worries that he would pitch a tent as he took the Captain’s hand crossed his mind. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, ma’am.”

“Me?” she gasped, hoping her grin didn’t appear goofy. “What could possibly be so exciting about meeting me?” As soon as the words left her mouth, Connie regretted them. Way to go, Mitchell, lay on the dumb blonde act.

“It’s not everyday someone meets a Silver Star recipient,” bragged Masters as he waved the two to his comfortable over stuffed chairs. As Connie sat down, her brain got over the over whelming masculinity of Sergeant Cogsley and began to process the facts before her. An icy dread filled her heart as she did so. “Sergeant Cogsley is here to get the facts about your story, Mitch,” the General went on. “They’re doing a big spread on you to help the war effort and all that.”

“Oh,” breathed Connie as her worst fears were confirmed. “Well, I made a stupid mistake, nearly got myself and my gunner killed and they gave me a medal for it,” she said straightforwardly. “That about sums it up.”

Mark chuckled to break the tension he felt fall on the room. There was an obvious sore spot here, his instincts told him. Maybe this wasn’t the PR Fluff story he’d thought at first. As his laugh had brought both officers attention, he cleared his throat and chose his words carefully. “I don’t mean to be dense, Captain, General, but I would kind of like to get just a bit more detail than that. See, the summery sounds like every other Silver Star Winner’s. It helps to get some details to figure out who is who.”

Mark had kept his attention focused on Connie, more for the pleasant scenery than any reporter’s instinct and was pleased he did. He saw a desire to laugh at his joke war with what looked like worry on her face before that carefully schooled West Point Neutrality settled back. There was something deeper here. Maybe, and don’t get your hopes up Cogsley,the story.

“You have to understand, Sergeant,” the General was saying. “Captain Mitchell is understandably modest about the circumstances of her rescue of me and my boys. I trust this will be a tasteful story?”

“That’s the only kind the Stripes publishes, sir,” he replied, never taking his eyes off Connie. “Perhaps the Captain would be my guest for dinner so I can, hopefully, allay her concerns?”

Mark saw her blush and realized she was at least as interested in him as he was in her. Things were definitely looking up. “I don’t think dinner would be too terrible a breech of protocol, do you sir?” she asked the General. Masters chuckled.

“What two citizens of the United States do Off Post is none of my business,” he said with a grin.

Mark stood as quickly as he dared. “Let me just go get my car then, with your permission, sir?”

“Dismissed.”

Connie watched the Adonis leave, then her worry about the situation threatened to overwhelm her. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

“Out with it, Mitch.”

“General, do you know what will happen to me if he finds out I’m a transsexual?”

Masters rolled his eyes. “Calm down, Mitch. It’s the Stars and Stripes for God’s sake, not the New York Times. This is a PR piece not some investigative exposé. Just be careful what you say, let his photographer take the boring pictures these stories always have, and don’t worry! That’s an Order, Captain!”

“Photographer?” Connie squeaked.

“I said don’t worry, Mitch.”

“But, he could compare that with my West Point photos. Jesus! He’ll find out Conrad Mitchell graduated West Point, not Constance! He…!”

“At ease!” bellowed the General, instantly silencing Connie’s panic. Marvin straightened his uniform slightly to calm down. “Now then, didn’t I tell you I’d take care of this?” The General reached into his desk drawer and withdrew a photo he passed to her.

What she saw amazed her. The photo was her graduating class picture from West Point. What she discovered, however, as her eyes were instantly drawn to it, was that she was not in the place she’d been standing in when the photo had been taken. After a moment of searching, Connie discovered herself, as she appeared now, standing with the other female cadets in the segregated picture. “How?” she mumbled, causing the General to laugh.

“Amazing what you can do with computers these days, isn’t it?” he asked. “I’ve got a buddy I made with the F/X guys when I helped out with We Were Soldiers. He cooked that up for me. I have several copies in case the good Sergeant needs one. That one, you can hang in your office, Mitch.”

Connie felt her panic subside as the warmth of the older man’s thoughtfulness spread through her. “Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t sweat it. In case you’re worried, both the Personnel guys here and at the Point have the weekend off, thanks to some strategic misplacements of certain vital records. So relax and make us look good, Captain. We could use a little boost in our budget.”

“Roger that, sir,” replied Connie with a grin.

“Carry on, Mitch. He’s probably waiting by now.”

Connie stood and smiled, touched by his efforts. “You and Cindy have a free ride where ever if you need it, Marvin. Just let me know and you’re there.”

“I have some well earned R & R coming,” Masters said. “I’ll do that.” Mitchell nodded and left, wondering what the rest of the evening had in store.

While the Maitré D of Le Poulet Et Vin wasn’t a military man himself, he did know anyone wearing stripes was low on the totem pole for one and unlikely to be able to afford his restaurant for another. Which put him in something of a quandary, for the couple waiting to be seated were military. What was worse, the gentleman was wearing stripes. Normally, the Maitré D would automatically address the man in a couple, but this was a tricky situation. It seemed apparent that she outranked him. Diplomacy was called for; not to mention quietly letting them know they couldn’t afford to dine here, without causing a scene.

“Welcome to Philadelphia’s most exclusive restaurant,” he said, carefully speaking between the couple. “How may I assist you?” The woman chuckled as she removed her beret; much to the Maitré D’s dismay of recognition.

“My usual table will be fine, Robert,” Constance said evenly, and then turned sharply to the gentleman. “Oh, I’m sorry, I smoke so I sit in smoking, is that alright?”

“I’ve been known to work a hurt on a stogie or two,” Mark admitted with a grin. “More to the point, a gentleman would never disagree with a lady of such refinement.” Turning to the Maitré D, Mark schooled his handsome face to a carefully neutral expression. “Parlez-vous français?”

“Oui,” was Robert’s guarded answer.

“En tant que journaliste, je peux pardonner votre condescendance insultante seulement avec une bouteille de votre vin plus fin.” Robert paled slightly before nodding and gesturing for them to accompany him. As Connie fell in beside Mark she leaned slightly closer and whispered,

“A goodly number of people speak French, you know. It’s not like you had to twist him for a bottle of wine because he didn’t think you could pay. Charming, but unnecessary.” Mark smiled his dazzling smile once more, much to Connie’s delight.

“The defense of a lady acquits any measure. Besides, everything sounds sexier in French,” he chuckled. As they arrived at the table, Mark quickly made it known he would assist Connie with her chair before he sat, pointedly ignoring the discreet, if disdainful glances of their fellow dinners. “Now, my good man,” he said, “I think I shall have a cup of coffee while we peruse the menu. Would you care for some, Captain?”

“I realize we’re in uniform, but I don’t think discipline will slip toomuch if you call me Constance while we’re here,” she said. “And I think a cup of coffee would be lovely, Robert.”

“Of course,” the Maitré D replied quickly as he presented both with the menus and withdrew.

“Well, Constance, I’m Mark, whether we’re in uniform or not. It is a great pleasure to make your acquaintance. As you’re something of a regular here, or so I gather, what’s good?”

“Well, I’m a great fan of their Andouillettes au vin blanc.”

He thought about it for a moment, and then shook his head. “No, I had that for lunch,” he said around a laugh. “Alright, I’ll depend on your experience. Andouillettes au vin blancit is. “

Connie only smiled at his gregarious banter as she fished her pack of Virginia Slims from her purse. As she dug around for her lighter, she was a bit startled as he produced a Zippo and held it close for her. Working one of the long cigarettes out, she lit it with a nod and inhaled deeply in a vain attempt to calm her racing heart. It was an odd feeling to be so drawn to such a dangerous threat to her ‘cover’ she contemplated behind the vale of smoke as he made a production of removing a cigar, cutting it and getting it lit.

Their coffee arrived, giving Connie another excuse to avoid his gaze as she prepared it as he ordered for them both. That he was handsome was undeniable. The fact that he was a serious threat to her standing in the Army was unavoidable. As she considered these divergent facts, Connie became aware he’d asked a question and was waiting for an answer. “I’m sorry,” she managed around a blush. “What did you say?”

His grin went a ways to altering embarrassment to another emotion. “I asked where you’re from and how you got into West Point,” he chuckled.

“Well, I’m actually from a little town north of here called Rushland. The Point is the family Alma matter as it were. My dad and my older brother are alums. I was our Senator’s appointment that year.”

“Your dad?” he asked. Connie nodded.

“Major General Buford Mitchell.” Mark seemed impressed with this as he took a sip of his own coffee. Connie was only glad he wasn’t taking notes.

“Those are some mighty deep shadows to over come,” he said softly.

“I’m not in the Army to cast a shadow,” she said with some annoyance. “I owe the Army for the education I received and I’m happy to do so. I’m just here to do my job. Truth be told, I don’t want either the Silver Star or this PR crap.”

“Why not?”

Connie forced herself to take another drag of the cigarette to slow her mouth down. There was something about him that made her want to babble. This was a very bad thing. “I was going through some personal problems when we were in Afghanistan. My mind wasn’t on what I was doing, so we took a round. It’s only through the grace of God I’m sitting here talking to you. I don’t think it deserved anything but a reprimand. Instead, I get a medal. This is hardly going to help the ‘war effort’ so, while I don’t regret our time together, I think you’re wasting your time.” He shrugged and effortlessly blew a smoke ring.

“It’s mine to waste. You’ll forgive me if I feel having dinner in the swankiest place in Philly with a beautiful woman is hardly wasting it.”

“Yellow light, sergeant,” she said softly. It had never occurred to Connie that she’d ever make use of the Armed Services code words for potentially offensive comments.

“Sorry,” he said quickly with genuine regret. “Look, Constance, I can tell you have some real doubts about this story. But, we’re both just following orders. I’d like to think I can write a story that neither smoothes over what happened, or is a hatchet job. You strike me as a very real person. People don’t hear enough about soldiers like you. Let me tell them.”

“I am nobody,” she said softly. “Just an idiot who got lucky.”

“I wish I had a dollar for every time I’d heard that,” he chuckled. Her quizzical look caused him to elaborate. “For what it’s worth, I know what you’ve been through. I got in for Desert Storm One and I’ve been just about in every other place you can go in the Army and get shot at. I’ve written a lot of stories about people like you; decorated vets, hell, honest to God heroes. None of them thought they disserved it.”

“You’ll forgive me if I feel my situation is just a bit different.”

He made a placating gesture as he set the cigar in the ash tray. The wine bottle had arrived and he was making a great fuss of inspecting it. There was a rather animated conversation in French with the wine steward who had brought it out which Connie had a bit of trouble following. While she was fluent in the language, it was apparent his grasp was down to the colloquial level. Finally satisfied, he poured with great expertise. “What shall we drink to?” he asked, lifting his own glass.

“How about anonymity?” she asked with a grin.

“My momma told me not to drink with strangers,” he countered. “How about beginnings?”

“Alright,” she acquiesced. “Beginnings.”

Their glasses met with a soft chime. Even to her somewhat jaded pallet, she could tell Robert had pulled out all the stops to make amends. This was one of the finest wines she’d ever had.

Connie was still working out how to steer the conversation away from herself when Mark’s watch started beeping. He shut it off with a sheepish grin. “I’m sorry; I’ve got a call I’ve got to make. Would you please excuse me?”

“There’s a group of pay phones in the bar by the restrooms,” she said with a smile and contented herself with watching him go. He had a physique even BDU’s couldn’t conceal. Mark made his way to the phones with little effort and was pleased to find they were old fashioned booths with privacy. He slid into one while fishing his calling card from his wallet. After what seemed an endless sequence of numbers were fed into the phone he was rewarded with his favorite voice in the world.

“Hi Daddy!”

“Hello Tiffany, how are you, sweet heart?”

“I painted a giraffe in school today!” the nine year old proclaimed with great enthusiasm. “When will you get to come see it?” Mark felt a pang of regret that always clouded his time with his young daughter. The story teller in him felt anew the irony of the situation. He’d spent his entire professional life in extremely dangerous places, but his wife could be killed by a drunk in Kentucky.

“Well,” he said forcing cheerfulness into his tone, “I’m not sure, sweet heart. Daddy’s traveling for work.”

“You’re always at work,” she pouted. “When do I get to be work?”

“Oh, Princess, you know I’d give anything to be there more often. Daddy’s working hard to find the job where I can be. Can I speak with Grandma or Grandpa?”

“They’re sleeping on the couch.” Mark suppressed a chuckle. While it was a great help that his parents had volunteered to take his daughter in, it was becoming more and more obvious they just weren’t up to raising children anymore.

“Alright, Princess, I want you to go straight to bed when you hang up the phone. Can you do that for me?”

“Ok.”

“What do you want for your birthday?”

“I want a mommy,” she said, blissfully unaware of the hurt she caused him. “Then we can be a family again.”

Mark felt his eyes drawn in the direction of Constance before he forced himself back to the here and now. “Well, I don’t know about that, Princess, but Daddy will do everything he can. Alright?”

“Ok! Good night!”

The line clicked and buzzed in his ear as he tried to come to grips with his wild fantasies. Sure, Cogsley, Miss West Point is going to toss her career away to play mommy for you.

“I can dream, can’t I?” he mumbled to himself as he left the booth to make his way back to the table.

“I had a wonderful time,” Connie said with great effort as they stood outside the Bachelor Officer’s Quarters where she would be staying for the weekend.

His eyes seemed full of concern. “So, you’ll let me print the story? We’re a nation of firsts, you know. There is something to be said for it.”

“I really don’t want that place in the history books, thank you. I may not have planned the situation I find myself in, but I am enjoying it. Being known as the first Transsexual Army Officer would tend to spoil that.”

He gently took her hands. A part of her warned about the inappropriateness of the contact. “How about if I come in and give you the best sex you’ve ever had?” he asked before drawing her into a searing kiss of unbridled passion that stole her breath.

“Ok,” she whispered as they parted. He scooped her effortlessly off her feet and carried her inside to a fanfare of violin music.

 

Saturday 10:00hrs

Ft. Eisenhower Unassigned Company Day Room

Connie couldn’t help her thoughts turning back to her embarrassingly vivid dreams of a passion filled night with Mark. Indeed, this morning it was difficult to meet the reporter’s eyes, so vivid were some of the images still in her mind.

Besides, she told herself, nobody isthat limber.

She waved her command back to their seats as she entered the Day Room that had been given over to them for the pre-exercise briefing. Connie was glad to have something to force her thoughts from her dream life to reality. This was entirely too embarrassing. “As you were,” she ordered as she reached the podium. “Good morning boys and girls, hope everybody got a good night’s sleep. For the purpose of this exercise, folks, we’ve just come off a strike sortie in which one of our flight went down. A rescue must be set up as we are the nearest medievac force.”

A chorus of groans filled the room.

“Settle down,” ordered Connie with a smile to soften the bad news. It was tough to keep morale up in a group high spirited as this. The scenario before them would be the third time this year it had been assigned. Like her people, Connie longed for some change of pace, but orders were orders. “Alright, pilots front and center. You know the drill; short straw is the downed bird.”

As the pilots gathered around the Troops file clerk, Mark noticed that Connie herself drew along with her pilots and made a note. “Picture,” he muttered to Jim as she reached for it.

“Do I suggest words to you?’ asked the older man over the whine of his shutter motor.

“Sorry,” muttered Mark. “Did you get the picture her CO sent from West Point?” Jim lowered both his camera and his voice as he turned to his young friend.

“Yeah, and it doesn’t make sense.”

“What’s to make sense?” asked Mark as there was a bit of grousing from the line of pilots up front. A female lieutenant, the only other female pilot besides Connie had drawn the short straw and was bristling under the barbs about her flying she was getting because of it.

“It’s fake.”

That brought Mark from suppressing a smile at the scene up front, a frown on his face. “What?” he hissed.

“It’s fake,” affirmed Jim. “Doctored, bogus, a red herring, you know? Fake?”

“It’s a class photo from West Point,” said Mark slowly. “Who would want to fake that?”

“Why don’t you ask her?” was Jim’s reply as he went back to snapping photos. “She’s what’s fake.” Mark’s gaze did his questioning for him. Jim sighed as he realized the silence at his side wasn’t going to go away on its own. “The figure identified to me as the Captain there, was digitally inserted into the frame. Under magnification you can see both the pixilation as well as a few cross shadows who ever did it forgot to correct. She may be in that photo, but the girl they say is her wasn’t standing there when it was taken. The…”

“Silver halides don’t lie, yes I know,” he interrupted. Jim’s motto could get old quickly. “Get on the phone to PERCOM and see if we can get an original of that photo.”

“What about you?”

“I’m going to see what I can find out here. There’s something going on, Jim, and I mean to find it out.”

“Watch your back,” the older man cautioned as he discreetly made his exit.

“Alright,” Connie told them from the podium. “Same safety rules as last month. White flare for an unsafe condition, red flare for real world injury/stop training. Any questions?”

“What was the target we were attacking?” asked a voice from the back.

“How is thatrelevant?” someone else demanded.

Connie could only smile as she checked her notes. “Good question, actually Lefty,” she said to quiet them down. “An armored column that took place about five miles from the crash site.”

“What are the odds we’re going to be repelling a push from that column while we’re trying to medievac?”

“Safety first, boys and girls. Turning over at 1300. Dismissed.”

Mark made his way through the press of soldiers trying to leave as quickly as he could and cornered the young specialist who had made such a pointed observation. “Specialist, how are you?” he greeted jovially. The boy quickly came to parade rest, but what worried Mark most was the cornered look in his eyes. Mark filed that away for figure out later. “As you were, uh, Watkins.”

“I gotta help arm the birds, Staff Sergeant,” he began, trying to make his escape. Mark carefully maneuvered into his way.

“You’ve got a few minutes to answer a question or two, don’t you?”

“I suppose,” Lefty temporized.

“That was a pretty good question, Lefty, isn’t it?” He nodded. “You let everybody know this wasn’t just a snatch and grab. That was good thinking.”

“Just doing my job, Staff Sergeant.”

“It’s Mark, Lefty. Say, how long have you been with the unit now? Two, three years?”

“Almost four,” he said, a note of pride working into his tone.

“And you’re not a sergeant yourself yet?” Mark asked casually.

“I’m up for it. Skipper is pushing things through once I get my report card from college. Just got it back yesterday. One hundred!”

“Congratulations. So, I imagine then, sergeant you were over in Afghanistan with the Captain, right?”

“Sure, went out as a door gunner a couple of times when the skipper was flying Black Hawks.” The boy became a bit cross. “How about you? You ever seen the real deal?”

“More than my share,” Mark laughed. “Desert Storm One, Bosnia, Somalia and one or two other less known little camping trips. So, the skipper’s pretty versatile then? Apaches and Black Hawks?”

“If flies, Skipper can fly it. Hell, she’s got her own air taxi service on the side. Flew me and my girl up to the Catskills for a weekend.”

“Bet that did the trick, huh?” Mark asked, his tone dripping innuendo. The boys grin did his answering. “So, I’ll tell you, Lefty, the Skipper’s too modest. She doesn’t want to talk about what happened over there. Makes my job pretty hard, if you know what I mean? Think you can hook me up? One Sergeant to another, right?”

“I have to be getting the birds ready, Staff Sergeant,” was the boys answer, his tone quite final. There wasn’t any use pushing the boy any further. Mark nodded and stepped out of his way. After watching him go, Mark looked at his notes and wrote What is going on here?

Saturday 1100hrs

Office, (apartment), Charlotte Turner Private Investigator andAttorney at Law, Philadelphia, PA.

It had been a boring day so far. Not that I have anything against boring, it does give me a chance to catch up on my paperwork. But after that is done, there’s very little to bother with until the next assignment or case. Such is the glamorous life of the freelance PI and bounty hunter. If it isn’t absolute chaos it’s absolute boredom, and you spend almost all your time complaining about one or the other.

Even though it was still only about eleven o’clock, I had just about decided to call it a day and turn on the answering machine when a call came in. Talk about being careful what you wish for.

“Turner Special Investigations, how can I help you?”

“Uh... Hello. My name is Mark Cogsley and I’m... Well, I’m trying to gather some information on someone. I was wondering if you could help me?”

One of the hardest parts of any investigation is trying to get the correct and necessary information from your client. They’re almost always afraid that someone will find out that they had gone to a private investigator and that no one would ever trust them again. Or, they want you to do something illegal for them and think that PI’s don’t care about anything except the money. I prefer to be right up front with them and weed out a few of the worst ones right off. Even boredom is better than the messes you can get into being careless.

“That depends.”

“Oh? On what?”

“Is the information your want me to collect for you going to be collected or used illegally? Please keep in mind that I am taping all of this and I will go to the police with it if I feel that you are trying to do anything that might be construed as illegal.”

At this point many of them simply hang up and I’m left wondering if I should report this to the police anyway. In this case, after a small hesitation, he came right back with his offer.

“No. None of what I want you to collect is illegal in nature and you won’t have to break any laws to get it. I just don’t have the time to do this myself and my expense account can handle hiring you to do it for me.”

“That’s a good start. Except I don’t do billing if I can help it. I’ll expect my money up front. I will accept a check if you’re willing to wait for it to clear or I can also accept MasterCard or Visa. I’m afraid I don’t accept any other forms of payment.”

“You don’t accept cash?”

“Only with three forms of picture ID and a deposit equal to three times the value of the cash received.”

This was another test. If the client can’t show a sense of humor I’ll almost always find a way to get rid of them. Unlike all the detectives you see in the movies, I actually do okay for myself and fell no real need to take anything that comes my way. In this case, he paused for a moment and then started laughing.

“You don’t accept legal tender?”

“If you can call it legal. I always take my funny money with a bit of salt.”

“Well, I’ll bring the salt if that makes you feel better. How much will I need?”

“How much do you have?”

“Enough.”

“Then bring it to Nick’s Roastbeef of Old Philly and enough extra to foot the bill and you can give me the details.”

“You don’t want me to fax it over?”

“No. I still have some reservations and I want to meet you before I agree to accept your money. The meal will be on you still, even if I don’t accept the job, okay?”

“Okayyy. I can accept that. Where is this Nick’s?”

“It’s at 16 South Second Street. Will you need more than that?”

“No, I can find it. When should we meet?”

“How soon can you get there?”

“About two hours. Will that be okay?”

“Yeah. That will work just fine. They know me there. Just ask for me and they’ll get you right over to me. Will that work for you?”

“Yes. I’ll see you in about two hours then?”

“See you there.”

Now the hard part. What to wear? As long as I didn’t dress up too much I would fit right in at Nick’s. I didn’t want to dress down too far either. This sounded more like a paper chase. Dressing in my arson kit wouldn’t give a good impression I was sure. In the end I decided on a Men in Black approach. Basic black suit and white shirt. With my hair pulled back into a bun I would be businesslike but not too shabby either. And it is a good way to carry concealed. I don’t like to advertise that I’m carrying, but I don’t feel right leaving my pistol at home either. Besides, I’d EARNED the right to carry it and I exercised that right all I could. Then it was just a matter of driving downtown and finding a secure place to park.

Saturday 1230hrs

Ft. Eisenhower Rotor Park 2

The strains of Jimmy Buffet’s Son of son of a sailor were blaring from the PA system of the main hanger as G Troop was turned out to ready their Blackhawks for the day’s activities. The officers, easy to pick out in their large brimmed, black Cavalry hats that clashed rather garishly with the flight suits they wore, wondered from one problem to another, offering a spare hand when needed and keeping a watchful eye on the safety concerns of the day.

Towards the far end of the flight line, a Chinookcargo helicopter was picking up the wreck of an Apache attack helicopter. Connie couldn’t help but stopping to watch the mortal remains of 52178 being lifted to play it’s role as the crashed bird they were flying to rescue.

She had been flying that helicopter when her name had been Conrad. It was her fault the bird would never fly on its own again. The Chinook nosed down under its load and flew off to the training range. “Skipper!” hollered Lefty’s voice in her ear over the noise of the fading Chinook’s motor and the strains of island bumming.

Connie turned towards the young man. “What’s up, Lefty?” The young man pointed towards a Humvee at the edge of the flight line. Connie followed his arm to take in a primly dressed young woman holding the hand of a young boy who was doing his best to look everywhere at once.

They were the last people in the world Connie expected to see. “A couple of civilians are asking for you!” the lad shouted. “They said something about you invited them to witness the Drill?”

“It’s all good, Lefty,” she hollered back. “I’ll take care of it. Give Sergeant Wilks a hand with the MILES receiver, would you?”

“Roger that, Ma’am.”

Connie’s face broke into a grin as she ambled over to Miranda and her young stepson, Neal, who was making a fair effort at growing a half dozen pairs of eyes. “Well, Mrs. Kitteridge, this is an unexpected pleasure,” she greeted.

“You ok here, Ma’am?” asked the MP in the Humvee.

“We’re fine, Specialist. Thanks for lifting them out here.” He nodded as the vehicle rumbled off to Miranda’s raised eyebrow.

“Isn’t he supposed to curtsey or something?”

“Salute, and no, he’s an MP, they don’t have to salute officers. I didn’t think I’d see you here.”

“You did invite us, in his earshot,” she reminded Connie with a smile. “Besides, I suppose I ought to see how my hard earned tax dollars are being spent.” She cocked her head to take in the opening strains of Margaritaville from the PA system. “How many months pay did Dear Old Uncle Sam lift from me so you could listen to bad music while you do this?”

“That would be zero,” replied Connie with a laugh. “I paid for the stereo and one of the boys wired it into the PA system. I had no idea you were such a Marilyn Monroe fan, though?”

“What?” demanded Miranda.

“Helicopters generate a lot of wind, Miranda. And you’re wearing a skirt. It’s a nice skirt, I must say, but it’s still a skirt. I’m not wearing this outfit over a warped sense of fashion,” she said with a gesture at the green, Nomex flight suit she wore. Miranda looked down at her wardrobe and back, a bit of concern on her face.

“Rebecca always takes him fun places and I really wanted to do something special for him,” she said. “Tell me I didn’t spoil it without thinking?” Connie chuckled.

“We’re about the same size, and these suits adjust a fair bit. Come on, I’ll loan you one of my spares. Neal’s in jeans so he’s ok. Also, you need to remove any jewelry you’re wearing.”

“Why?”

“Static electricity. Choppers make a lot of that too. Any metal you’re wearing could arc. They generate enough voltage to kill you if you’re not careful.”

“We get to go flying?!” demanded Neal in an ecstatic tone, for the first time locking his attention with laser like intensity on Connie. The soldier squatted to be at eyelevel with the young man.

“Well, your step mom has to change, but sure, we’re going to,” she told him with a grin.

“Come on, Mom! Let’s go!” he said, dragging both women towards the hanger.

“That’s the first time he’s called me that,” whispered Miranda with a touched smile.

Saturday 1300hrs

Nick’s Roastbeef of Old Philly, Philadelphia, PA.

I got there with plenty of time to spare and went in to find a seat where I could watch the door as I waited. At about the right time, a man walked in who reminded me a bit of California. You could see these guys all the time there. Tall, blonde, and well built. A closer look made me reassess my first impression. First, he scoped the place when he came in. And not just looking for me either. There was something more real about him too. His good condition was for a reason, and it didn’t involve just attracting girls either. This guy looked solid.

For a moment I considered trying to get to know him better. But this was business and I DON’T mix that kind of stuff with business. Besides, I still missed Charlotte, didn’t I? I still had our ring on. It just wouldn’t be right. With an old sigh, I went back to work.

I deliberately don’t describe myself in these situations. I like to see how they act first before they know who I am. What I could see told me a great deal about him. One, for all his being in civilian clothing, there is a way soldiers handle themselves that says that they are soldiers. Next, he wasn’t an officer. Or new to the service. That made him an NCO most likely.

At this point I was starting to think I was going to turn him down. There is no joy in telling some soldier that his wife is fooling around or that his girlfriend he wants to marry is really a prostitute leading him on for all he’s worth.

He politely approached one of the waitresses and that spoke a lot for him in my eyes. Someone who looks down on or abuses the hired help can just kiss off. I don’t care to have anything to do with someone without a reasonable amount of human decency and respect. She directed him to me and we locked eyes for a moment. He seemed a little surprised at first. After assessing each other we politely broke that and he came over and identified himself.

“Hello. I’m Mark Cogsley. You must be C. Turner?”

“Charlotte Turner, yes. Please be seated. Do you want to order something first?”

“I’m afraid that I was expecting someone else.”

“A man? I do sound like one on the phone. Or, at least that’s what they tell me. I hope that won’t affect our relationship?”

“No. I don’t see why it should. I am getting a little hungry. Do you recommend anything?”

“The sandwiches are excellent and not too expensive. I myself like the salads and soups. If you want to we can order now.”

He decided to try one of their roast beef sandwiches and I ordered a small bowl of chili and a salad. I had milk with mine and he had a beer. So he must be off duty or not expecting to have to answer for it anyway. We traded a little small talk and I realized that he was paying a lot of attention to my left side. Not my breasts either. He was observant also.

“Are you interested in firearms Mr. Cogsley?”

“Are you a police officer?”

“I’m a member of the inactive reserve police if that is what you mean. Many PI’s are.”

“It’s unusual to see someone carrying concealed. After our original talk I was moderately certain that you have a good respect for the law.”

So he was aware of how hard it is to get a permit to carry concealed.

“If you’re worried, I can show you my permit. I’m not one of those who feel that the law doesn’t apply to them.”

“No. Thank you. That sets my mind at ease. Have you decided to accept my case?”

Very observant this one. He knew I was sizing him up.

“Conditionally. I take it you only want a background check?”

“Yes. There are some things about what I know about her that don’t exactly fit with what I have been told. I want to clear a few of these things up before I print something that could be considered incorrect.”

“Print?”

“I’m a reporter for The Stars and Stripes. I’m doing a story for the paper about some of the soldiers stationed here. I need some background information so I don’t make a fool of myself when it goes to print.”

“Your own records can’t give you this?”

“Sometimes, as much as we try to not admit it, our records really suck. I prefer to get my information from at least two separate sources before I put it down in writing.”

Professional too. I like that.

“Okay, I think I can take this one. I figure five days at $150.00 a day. Possibly more days, but I’d tell you as soon as I know that and give you my reasons for extending it then. If it requires me to travel to get the information then I would submit the receipts for reimbursement. I expect payment in advance for the five days. I’ll refund anything I don’t use. It’s one of the reasons I like to use cards. It’s easier all the way around.”

“Right. You accept VISA?”

Hmmm... Not even a peep of an argument over the price? Maybe I should have asked for more? It must be a good account to take that kind of beating with out a whimper or scream. Well, too late for that.

“Yes.”

He pulled out a VISA and I pulled out my briefcase with my card reader and ran his card through the device. I hooked that to my track phone and dialed it in. I also asked for some picture ID and verified that it was his card. It was authenticated and my reader printed out a receipt and copy for him to sign. After this was taken care of and put away I asked for the details that he could give me.

I should have known it was going too smoothly. Mr. Murphy chose that moment to make an appearance. If only I’d asked before the payment was made. Now I couldn’t back out without giving too much away. He would know that I knew a Captain Constance Mitchell, US Army, better than I probably should. I hoped I was able to keep a professional calm through the rest of the interview.

He gave me a rundown on what he was looking to find while I numbly took it in and tried to think of a way out of this dilemma I’d found myself in. Eventually he paid the tab and left while I sat there and considered options.

In the end I decided I would have to consult the others on this. I made a phone call to Lucia and asked her to look up a little on this guy. I didn’t tell her why, that would be unethical, but I needed to know more about him. I also called Miranda and let her know that there was a problem and ask if she might ask Harrison about options we might have. I should’ve known they’d compare notes and come to their own conclusions.

Saturday 1330hrs

Ft Eisenhower, Maneuver Range One

“How do you sit comfortably in this thing?” demanded Miranda’s voice, distorted by the intercom from her place in the door gunner’s place, studiously ignoring seventy thousand dollars of General Electric Minigun in front of her. “I won’t ever lose the feeling of the wedgie I’m getting!”

Over Neal’s giggle, Connie successfully fought a smile, just glad that Miranda was seated directly behind her and unable to see her face. She shared a wink with Neal to her right in the co-pilot’s place and could see the itch in his palms to touch the controls he was admirably fighting. “You get used to it,” she finally responded. “Feel sorry for the crew chief and the other boys. Imagine how they feel.”

“I can, thank you, and I’d rather not,” was her prim retort. This time, Connie couldn’t quite suppress the giggle. “I hear you over this thing, you know.”

“I know. One minute, boys,” Connie told the squad leader who was also patched into the intercom. Miranda craned her neck to watch the sergeant pass the information along to his men, feeling a bit less secure as they collectively turned off the safeties on their rifles. Miranda was feeling her stint in the Air Force come back to her and they weren’t entirely pleasant memories. Then Connie’s voice interrupted her reminiscing. “Bill, get a defensive parameter set up to cover the medics and stay alert.”

“Roger that, ma’am,” was Bill’s response.

“Tango One, this Tango Seven, I’ve got dust trails at Eleven O’clock. Enemy Armor on approach,” called an unknown voice.

“Tango One to Tango Flight,” responded Connie. “Live and free, I say again, live and free. Uniform Flight, commence your orbit and stand by for close contact.

The Crew Chief’s voice cut into the circuit. “Smoke at Two O’clock low, skipper. Crash site Two O’clock low.”

“Ropes!” shouted Bill, causing the men closest to the disturbingly open doors to toss coils of rope out the sides of the doors.

Connie brought the Blackhawk into a hover on the side of the clearing where a disturbingly realistic looking crash seemed to have taken place. The ground was scorched, a number of small fires were burning and the visibility wasn’t helped by the red smoke of pouring up from near the crash site. From here, Miranda could see a young woman waving her free hand, a wicked looking submachine gun in the other.

She reacted to a sound Miranda couldn’t hear, ducking down behind the wreck to begin shooting into the tree line behind her. “Connie, shots fired!” she couldn’t keep herself from saying.

“Tango One, shots fired, infantry in the tree line,” responded Connie as she kept the helicopter stable. “Bill you guys getting out or what?”

“Go!” shouted the sergeant, causing his men to file out with surprising speed.

“This is so cool!” came Neal’s excited voice, his face plastered against the door.

“No, it’s not,” whispered Miranda as she saw the older sergeant shouting at his men then jerk from surprise, then lay down.

“Infantry underneath us, skipper!” shouted the crew chief. “They’re on Mrs. Kitteridge’s side, I got no shot!”

The Blackhawk spun suddenly, lurching to a stop with Miranda facing into the crash site now, as the battle played out before her. “Ask and you shall receive, Tom,” called Connie’s voice.

The minigun Miranda could hear, even over the noise of the engines and the blades of the rotors through the air. The two Apaches were circling the crash site, pausing every now and then to spit simulated death at people Miranda couldn’t see.

A pair of medics had reached the crash site and were calmly treating the companion of the other woman who was still shooting into the trees. Then Miranda saw a sight that made her heart leap up into her mouth.

An Abrams Main Battle Tank burst into the clearing, mowing down a handful of trees as it did so, two men dressed in white and black striped referee like uniforms walking around behind it.

A young man broke from the cover near the downed helicopter, struggling with an impressively large tube as he weaved his way through what would have been an impressive hail of machinegun fire from one of the men perched on the top of the tank.

“Tank!” the voices in her ears were shouting as Miranda watched the youth with amazement get to the rear of the death machine, near one of the referees, raise the tube to his shoulder and fire it.

An impressive explosion of smoke and sparks leapt from the back of the tank even as the referee tapped the boy on the shoulder and made him lie down.

“Tango One this is Romeo Six, we’re inbound.”

“Hot LZ, Romeo Six,” responded Connie. “Two One, this is Tango One, what’s your status there?”

“Tango One Two One, we’re ready for evac,” called a new voice, Miranda presumed was from the Medic’s on the ground.

“Romeo One, you’re go for inbound,” stated Connie. An older helicopter flew into the clearing to land near the crash, covered in Red Cross logos. The medics picked up the one they’d moved to a stretcher while helping the woman to the helicopter. It took off nearly before they were all aboard to a cloud of dust and debris.

“Tango Flight, let’s get our boys and get out of here,” called Connie’s voice in Miranda’s ear. To Miranda’s eyes, the clearing was just big enough for two helicopters but all six Blackhawks squeezed themselves into it.

Then men were clamoring aboard, struggling with the weight of the sergeant who wasn’t helping them at all.

Saturday 1620hrs

Bachelor Non-Commissioned Officers Quarters, Ft Eisenhower

As Mark sat at his desk, flipping through one unhelpful page after another of the Department of Defense’s online data base, he worked hard at not getting frustrated. The white box that sadly told him the record he wanted was missing was beginning to cause real concern. It was becoming apparent that Constance Mitchell didn’t exist until about two years ago.

He got out a cigar and got it going to steel his resolve. Desperate times called for desperate measures. He got out his cell phone and called the last person in the world he wanted to call. After a moment, the line was picked up and a somewhat dusky female voice announced, “USMA West Point Central Records, this is Sergeant Tillman, how may I help you Sir or Ma’am?”

“Hello Sandy,” said Mark, forcing as much cheerfulness as he could into his tone.

“Well, well,” Sandy purred, her tone no longer professional. “If it isn’t Mark Cogsley? Let’s see, the last time you called, you swore up and down you’d call more, then you went and married that skinny bitch. What’s her name?”

“One, Sandy, yellow light. Two, you’re talking about the mother of my kid, who, I might add, is dead.”

Her tone changed at once. “Oh, Mark, I’m sorry. I didn’t know! I was just trying to give you some grief, that’s all.”

A ragged sigh cleared his lungs of the cigar smoke. “It’s ok, I guess, Sandy. I’m over it, mostly. I wouldn’t be calling and opening up old wounds if I could get the info I needed off your damned web site.”

Her tone became a bit angry. “What’s wrong with my site?”

“How about I can’t find shit on the class of ’99?”

“Oh, that,” she muttered. “Yeah, my CO is on this huge kick to revamp the site and he decided to start with that year. All the files are all over ever where. What did you need?”

“Just the service file on Constance Mitchell.”

“One sec, hon.” He listened to her put the phone down and pull out a file cabinet. After a moment there was a chorus of explosive profanity that he knew well from memory. Sandy was never one to hold back. “Mark? The asshole must have that one. All I got is one for Conrad Mitchell.”

Mark opened his mouth to thank her and slowly closed it. “Where is Conrad from?” he whispered.

“Um, Rushland, Pennsylvania. Senator appointment. Dad is fairly high on the totem pole too. A two star named Buford.”

“Oh my God,” he breathed. “Can you zap me his service photo?”

“Yeah, hang on. What’s with the sudden interest on this yahoo? Just another Ring Knocker.”

“Just following a reporter’s hunch. What else can you tell me?”

“Is this an official request for information?” she purred, playfulness once more in her voice. Mark sighed again.

“What do you want?”

“I don’t think dinner at a four star in D. C. is too much to ask for such a big favor, do you?”

“You’re not in D. C.”

“Well, you’re the one with the big expense account, now aren’t ya? It’s on the way. You want any more details on this Knocker?”

“Yeah, whatever you can give me since I’m paying for it,” he said, calling up his email and starting the download of the sizable image file.

“Don’t be that way,” she pouted. “Can’t two good friends have dinner and relive old times?”

“If only one is paying it’s a date, not two friends,” he responded jocularly.

“A date?” she asked with deeply fake surprise. “Well, what ever shall I wear? Anyway, let’s see, Connie here is in the top fourth graduating, aviation specialty. Certified in Black Hawks and Apaches. Expert rifle and pistol, what a little brown nose.”

The picture opened causing Mark to nearly drop his cigar as Sandy continued making her dislike of officers apparent. The ultra short cadet hair cut did not conceal the features that had taken up such a prominent place in his dream life of late. He would know those green eyes anywhere.

It was her. Except it was him.

The door opened behind him as he continued to stare. “Oh my God,” breathed Jim.

“I gotta go, Sandy. Thanks.” Mark tonelessly told the phone as he hung up and stared at his partner. “Jim, I think we just hit pay dirt.”

“Son, we just hit something, but it ain’t dirt.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded.

“Two words, Buford Mitchell. If sonny boy there is now a she and she’s still in the only way that happens is if men with stars say so. We’re in deep, son and that’s a fact.”

“When?” Mark demanded still in a queasy daze. “How?”

“Must have been after that crash. I wouldn’t know as nobody wants to say a goddamn word about it.”

“Jim, this is it! You know AP will pick up a story like this! We’re made, Jim.”

“Son, I’m a little over a year from the big two zero. I’m almost retired. What you’re talking about there,” and he gestured at the picture staring out at them. “You’re talking about a fire storm. I’ve got too much invested and too much to lose. You can use my pictures if you want, but I want no part of this.”

“Jim,” started Mark, but was cut off by the older man’s sharp gesture.

“No, Mark. That’s my final answer.”

Saturday 1630hrs

Unassigned Company Day Room, Ft. Eisenhower

“As you were,” ordered Connie as she made her way to the podium. Her eyes found Mark, conspicuous in his Class A uniform and caused her a moment of pause. Now why would he be wearing that? She asked herself before remembering there was a review she was supposed to be giving. “First off, good job, people. I think everyone did a great job of thinking on their feet and responding to the situation well. There were some of us who didn’t think quite as well as others, however. Anyone judged a kill, stand up.”

Mark was a bit surprised only three men stood. He knew that the rescue party had been facing an under strength battalion of armor and infantry. This was impressive to say the least.

“Bill,” Connie said to the oldest of the standing men. “What happened?”

The older man chuckled as he ran his hand through his graying hair. “Well, I zigged when I should have zagged, Skipper. Got so wrapped up getting the boys in position I didn’t notice that platoon coming up.”

“What would you have done differently?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Looking back, ma’am, I think I can honestly say nothing. If this was the real thing, I would have been more worried about placement of the defensive line. We need some movement and placement drills.”

“Fair enough. Sam?”

“I should have suppressed the advance of the platoon before leaving my position to check on Bill, ma’am. It won’t happen again.”

“It sure wouldn’t if this were real, Sam. Just keep that in mind. George?”

“The blast radius of an AT-4 is seventy eight feet, ma’am,” the youngster said sheepishly to a chorus of laughter from the company.

“Won’t forget that, will you?” she asked with a smile. “Good movement to get behind the tank, however. In future, let him go a little further before you crank that round off.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Out of curiosity, just how close wereyou to that tank when the judge killed you?”

The boy blushed. “Twenty two feet, ma’am.” The room exploded into good natured jabs at the boy who sheepishly replied, “It works on the Play Station!” That only made things worse.

“Knock it off,” yelled Connie over the cat calls as she waved her fatalities back to their seats. “Alright, well done everyone. I have a phone call from the Regimental Commander, who evidently called me before George gave him a rocket enema to pass along his congratulations on how well the exercise went. Also,” and she paused for dramatic effect. “Also, I am to let you know that we did so well, there’s a three day pass good for next months drill, so after we qualify tomorrow, I’ll see you all in two months.”

A chorus of cheers filled the room.

Saturday 1700hrs

Parking Lot of the Unassigned Company Day Room, Ft. Eisenhower

Mark didn’t linger for the rest of the After Action Review. He’d sat through far too many of them for his own tastes and they all seemed the same. So, he’d wandered outside of the building to have a cigar and try to work through the conversation he couldn’t put off much longer. As he cut the cigar and got it lit, the story he saw taking shape in his mind still boggled him.

This was a story, not only with legs, but had movie deal written all over it.

Heroic young West Point cadet from the uptight military family, tragically injured in a horrific crash, bravely soldiers on, overcoming both the prejudice of the Service and the day to day crisis of being a new gender? Oh yeah, that had Oscar nomination all over it. Our troubles are over Princess, he told him self as he blew a celebratory smoke right. Daddy is coming home.

“I want a mommy,” her voice rung in his mind.

That memory brought him up short. None of this was worth a wet fart if he couldn’t get her behind it. Oh, he could publish the story; there was nothing she could do about that. The traditions of the brass taking a hands off view of the Stars and Stripes went back to the Civil War.

Didn’t you promise somebody this wouldn’t be a hatchet job?

“Shut up,” he growled at himself.

A howl of pain reaching up into the falsetto range drifted on the spring breeze from the open window of the day room. Mark chuckled. From the sound of things, Buck Sergeant Lefty had just gotten tagged. The memory of the tradition of each non-commissioned officer striking the new pin, minus its back clasps, made his own collar ache anew.

“Is this a private smoking lounge?” her voice asked as he turned and saluted. Once more her fetching smile made his heart race, even as he worked out his Zippo to light the ridiculously long cigarette she held.

“No, ma’am. I don’t think anyone will notice you slumming with the hired help.” She chuckled around her first drag, one ear cocked back into the antics in the day room. “They won’t bruise him too bad, ma’am,” he told her.

“There are times I don’t understand the traditions of this Service,” she said. “What brings you out here?”

He held up the cigar. “Well, and I was trying to work out in my mind how I was going to work in some new information to the story. It’ll all stop running around in my head if you’d just give me an hour or so of straight answers to straight questions, ma’am.”

“New information?” she asked, something of an edge still in her tone she couldn’t quite hide. Mark noticed it at once, as well as the fact her smoking had picked up.

“Yes, it’s still pretty confusing. You know, it’s funny, I’ll be the first to admit DOD record keeping is a joke, but you’d think something as simple as transcripts wouldn’t be so hard to come by, would you?”

“It really depends, I suppose,” she hedged.

“Are we going to trade innuendo all evening, ma’am?”

“What are you getting at, Sergeant?” she demanded, an icy dread starting to fill her.

“I have an ex-girl friend over at the Point,” he said, drawing things out slowly to gauge her reactions. “She works in Central Records, you might even know her, Conrad.”

The West Point cool settled over her like a vise. “Her name is Conrad?” she asked, eyes narrow and voice low. “Can’t say as I do.”

“No, it’s Tillman, Sandy Tillman. But we both know whose name was Conrad, don’t we, Ma’am?”

The cool broke into something of a look of shock. “You? And Beach Head? Did she rapeyou?” Mark couldn’t stop the laugh from escaping his lips, but he saw her ploy for what it was.

“It did feel like that every now and then,” he shrugged. “But you’re dodging the real issue, here, Constance. I…”

“Sergeant, you will address me as ma’am or by my rank.”

“Yes ma’am and I meant no disrespect. Whether you like it or not, Captain, I know. How this story is spun from here is entirely up to you.”

“Are you blackmailing me, sergeant?”

“No ma’am, I’m attempting to be a gentleman while requesting the input from a superior officer that her superior officer practically ordered her to give me. I told you this wouldn’t be a hatch job and I meant it. But, ma’am, this story is getting told. How it gets told is entirely up to you.”

“You’re going to ruin my life and my career over a piece of goddamn PR Fluff?” she hissed.

“That wouldn’t be my first choice, no, ma’am. But like you, I’ve got a career and a life too.”

“You son of a bitch!” she hissed, her arm up to slap him before she regained her self control.

“If I have offended, ma’am, I’m deeply sorry,” he said before saluting her and walking to his car.

That went well.

Connie watched him depart, her emotions running the gauntlet from fear, to sadness, to rage and back. She felt a crying jag try to worm its way up and forced it down with all her might. She couldn’t lose control. Not here, not in front of the men. “Wendy!” she called back into the building, forcing as much calm into her voice as she could.

Lieutenant Wendy Hartlet broke away from her amused watching of the spectacle in front of her at her commander’s voice and wandered out side to find her good friend on the edge of some kind of break down. “Mitch?” she asked, immediately filled with concern.

“Take over for me here, would you? I’ve got an emergency,” Connie told her. She nodded and from the look on her face wanted to say more. “It’s ok,” she lied. “I just need to take care of this, k? I have to go make a phone call.”

“Ok, Mitch.”

Saturday 1730hrs

The Office of Charlotte Turner P. I. and Attorney at Law

Eventually I got a call from Connie.

“Charlie. I need your help! Someone on the base has found out about me and is threatening to expose my past in the Stars and Stripes! I need you to check up on him and see if there’s anything we can use to shut him up.”

“Uh... Connie? He wouldn’t be Staff Sergeant Mark Cogsley by any chance would he?”

“How did you know!? Your not becoming psychic are you?”

“Nooo. Not psychic. It’s just that he hired me earlier today to do a background check on you.”

“You didn’t tell him about me did you?”

Now that hurt.

“NO! I’d never do something like that! He must have continued to look into his own records and found it on his own. I really shouldn’t be telling you this either. It’s against my ethics but you already seem to know about this anyway.”

“Well? What are you going to do about it?”

“I’m afraid I can’t do anything about it. I’m WAY to close to everyone involved right now. I think I’m going to have to pull myself off the case completely and stay out of it.”

“How can you say that? I thought we were friends! You can’t back out now. I need your help with this!”

“I’m sorry Connie! But I can’t do that! BECAUSE we’re friends. It... It would be like you having to discipline someone who everyone knew was a good friend of yours. You’d HAVE to bow out if there was someone else available to do it because anything you did would be wrong! One way or the other. Can’t you see that? It’s a professional thing. I CAN’T be involved.”

“You accepted the job from him. Why not me?”

“I accepted the job before I knew it was you. Since then I’ve been trying to find the best way to solve the problem, for all of us. Like I said. The first thing I’ll have to do will be distance myself from the whole thing and then maybe I can do something. But until that’s cleared up my hands are tied.”

“Well, thanks for nothing!”

Click!

“Connie? Ahhh Crap!”

After agonizing over it some more I finally decided there was only one way to handle this. I called Mark at the number he said I could always reach him.

“Hello, this is Staff Sergeant Mark Cogsley. To whom am I speaking?”

“Mr. Cogsley? This is Charlotte Turner. I think we have to speak on the matter we discussed earlier.”

“Do you have something already?”

“No. But I need to refund you your money. It seems that there is a conflict of interest here and I can’t in good conscience accept your job offer.”

“A conflict of interest? What could that be?”

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss it. Let’s just say that I’m too close to the subject to be able to carry out the assignment properly. It isn’t fair to any of us to try. Please meet me at the same place. I’ll refund your money and the cost of the meals. I’m sorry I couldn’t do more.”

“When can we meet?”

“Would seven be good?”

“I can make it at seven. See you there.”

“Thank you. I’ll see you then.”

I hung up and considered my next options. Then I called Miranda.

“Hi Miranda, it’s me, Charlie.”

“Charlie, did Connie get hold of you?”

“Yeah. I’m afraid she isn’t too happy with me.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t help her the way she wants me to. It’s a professional thing. I’m refunding Mr. Cogsley’s money and refusing to do the job, but I can’t get more involved yet until that is cleared up. I only hope this won’t cause more trouble later.”

“I understand. I’m sure your doing the best you can and that Connie will get over it. She’s a bit upset about it is all.”

“Yeah. I would be too. Have you had a chance to talk to Harrison?”

“Yes. He says to not worry about it.”

“He ALWAYS says that! And the worst part of that is he’s always right. How can you stand it?”

“It’s a burden I have to bear. At least there is some compensation for all that.”

“Rub it in why don’t you!”

She giggled.

“You’ll find the right man someday dear. Of course, with your way of going about it you’ll probably end up clubbing him over the head and handcuffing him or some such thing. By the way, Lucia seems to think that this young Mr. Cogsley is an okay person, but that he works for some people who are not. You might look for some information on a Major Westin. I don’t think that would be a professional problem for you.”

“Thanks Luce! Maybe Mr. Cogsley can give me some help there.”

“You’re going to see him again?”

“Yeah, I’ve got to give him his money back. Maybe I can pump him for some info on this Westin Weenie while I’m at it.”

“Well, good luck dear. I’m sure you’ll find a way to help.”

“Thanks! I needed that vote of confidence.”

“Bye!”

“Bye!”

Now to prepare for the next meeting. This time I’d go in my work clothes. Khaki shirt and slacks and my utility belt with the various tools of my trade. I’d get some attention carrying my pistol in, but they knew me well enough that I could get away with it and it might intimidate Mr. Cogsley a bit. Enough to get some more information out of him anyway. I decided to forgo doing anything with my hair except brush it out and leave it free.

Saturday 1800hrs

The Kitteridge Home

Lucia calls Miranda with her info. Miranda and Harrison talk.

Saturday 1900hrs

Nick’s Roastbeef of Old Philly, Philadelphia, PA.

I drove downtown again and found a secure place to park. I had to walk a little to get to Nick’s but no one seemed inclined to bother the girl with the gun. Most probably assumed I was a police officer anyway.

I didn’t have to wait long before Mark showed up. This time he was in uniform. A class A gabardine suit. I could see that he had some campaign ribbons that indicated that he had actually seen real action. For a moment he didn’t seem to recognize me. After he did, he quickly came over to my table.

“Can you explain why you can’t do this?”

“I told you. It’s a professional thing. I’m too close to the situation. I can’t do this in good conscience. I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”

“Too close to it? How can you be too close to it? I already know about what happened after the crash. She used to be a he. How could you be too close to it?”

I didn’t like where this was going, but not saying anything could be worse.

“She’s my friend and I don’t want to see her hurt. Got that?”

“Your friend? Why didn’t you say so at first?”

“Because I hadn’t decided what would be the best way to do this. It was such a surprise when I learned who you wanted me to check up on that I had to think it through before I made some mistakes I’d regret for the rest of my life. That’s why. As soon as I figured that the best way to handle this was to return your money and get clear of it I called you.”

“You thought that you could mislead me maybe? How ethical is that?”

“I’ll admit the thought crossed my mind, but it wouldn’t have been right. You may not believe this, but I have a very strong sense for what is right and I wouldn’t be able to sleep nights if I did that. Besides, you found out on your own. It’s not like the facts are a total secret. They’re just not obvious.”

“How do you know what I found out?”

“Connie called me. She let me know what it was that you were doing. I won’t be a part of any such thing. And you talk to me of ethics.”

“What’s wrong with what I do?”

“It’s not what you do. It’s what you do with it.”

“The people deserve to know the truth.”

“Nicely said, and in some ways I agree with you. But when they refuse to accept it, then what? Is it worth the ruined lives?”

“You sound almost like you’ve been there. How is it that you two are friends?”

“We’ve known each other for a few years. We go to the same doctor.”

It wouldn’t take much to find that out so I didn’t see much use in trying to conceal it.

“Oh? And what do you need to go to the doctor for?”

Sometimes the truth can add to misdirection. It was worth a try.

“Grief therapy and post traumatic stress disorder.”

“And what does she go to him for?”

“The same thing. In case you wondered, being in a crash like that can leave scars on more than the body. Killing people can do things too. They all leave scars.”

Hopefully he wouldn’t make too many associations.

“And because of the similarities in your problems you became friends?”

“Something like that. At least we have some idea of what the other has gone through and can accept that. It’s more than most others seem to be capable of.”

He just stood there looking at me. I decided to try and get some information from him.

“What do you plan to do with what you found out?”

“It’s a great story. It could go a long way to improving my chances of getting a good job when I’m out.”

“Is that all you can think of? Yourself? Do you have any idea what something like that could do to Connie’s career? Her life?”

“Do you?”

I had to answer this one carefully.

“I’ve seen what happens to those who get outed like that. It’s not pretty, and I don’t want my friend to go through that if I can help it.”

“You’re not afraid?”

“Not for myself. Just for my friend.”

We spent the next few moments staring each other in the eye. Eventually he looked away. “You’re not making this easy for me.”

“I should hope not. We’re talking about peoples lives here. You should be very careful when you’re messing around with things like that. You talk about it being the right thing to do. Let me tell you, even when it’s the right thing to do, the nightmares don’t just go away.”

He looked back at me. Then he shook his head.

“Something makes me think I’m looking for the wrong story.”

“Believe me. The one your thinking about now needs to stay buried.”

“You know the one I’m thinking of?”

“It doesn’t take a genius. Tell you what though; if you can prove to me that you're man enough to do the right thing I may even tell you that story.”

“Prove?”

“Yeah. I’ll need to see if you have the brains and guts to do the right thing, even if it doesn’t benefit you in any way. Speaking of that, here is your receipt for the $750.00. And here’s $40.00 in cash for the meals.”

“So you can’t do that to your friend but would you do it to me?”

“No.”

“Why not? I’d think you would want to help your friend.”

“The best way I can help her is to stay out of it. I’m too close. Anything I could find for her would be suspect and not helpful because of that. Besides, I figured you to be a pretty decent guy before this got out of hand. I don’t think I’m that bad a judge of character.”

“So you’re putting it on my shoulders? What if I just turned it over to my boss and let him decide?”

“It’s still your decision. You’re the one who has to take the responsibility for it. From what I hear your Major Weston is a weenie and shouldn’t be trusted with a decision like that. I think you’re a better man than to try and pass the blame on to someone else too.”

He shook his head again.

“You’re really making this harder. And how did you learn about Major Weston?”

“Good. Stick around a little longer and I’ll make it harder still. As for Major Weenie, I AM an investigator. A pretty good one too. I might let you in on some of what I’ve found if you want to stick around and give me some more hints to follow up on.”

He chuckled a bit after I mispronounced the Majors name. I got the impression that there was little love lost between the two.

“Can’t do that. Have things to do, but I promise to think this through and get back to you.”

“That’s all I can ask. I’ve got to go now too.”

I got up. As I started to walk away he suddenly started to take a lot more interest in me. A moment ago he had been deep in thought, now he seemed wide awake.

“Wait a moment, what’s that?”

He was pointing at my waist. Then I realized he was pointing at something specific.

“That? It’s my pistol. I’m actually pretty good with it. You should join me and the rest of our group on the ranges sometime. If you’re into that kind of thing it can be loads of fun and relaxing at the same time.”

“Some people might think that’s a threat. But I was asking about what that is on the grip.”

I looked down and realized he was looking at the notch. I looked up again and looked him in the eyes.

“Like I said before. If your man enough I just might tell you the story. Until then you’ll just have to wonder won’t you?”

“You’re still not making this any easier.”

“No. I’m not. Woman’s prerogative and all that. Maybe I’ll see you later.”

“Is that a threat?”

I grinned.

“We’ll have to see won’t we? I wish you the best Mr. Cogsley and I’m sorry if I have caused you any distress. But please think about what it is your doing. Good evening.”

“Will you need an escort home?”

“No. I don’t think so. Do you?”

“No. Thank you anyway. Do you do bodyguard work?”

“I’ve been known to. Do you need one?”

“I might, depending on how this plays out.”

“I can recommend some better ones if you’re serious.”

“I’ll call if I need to.”

“Good evening to you then.”

“Goodbye.”

I left him standing there as I walked to my car. I was worried how this might come out and not for the first time I wished I wasn’t so caught up in being so professional. Having scruples could be such a pain at times. But I had to walk away from this one or only bad things would come of it. I hoped Connie was handling this well.

Saturday 2100hrs

Bachelor Officers Quarters, Ft. Eisenhower

Connie woodenly went through the motions of her nightly rituals before bed. Normally, she would note with some pride how well she was filling out the blue silk slip she wore to bed, but pride was an emotion that wouldn’t hold just then. As she spat out the tooth paste and rinsed out her mouth, she caught her own gaze in the mirror.

“Well,” she told herself, her voice full of emotion, “it was fun while it lasted.”

Her mind’s eye turned her reflection into the bald, bull necked image of her father, his face set in disapproval. “You can’t even manage being a fairy right, can you?” the phantom demanded in his sandpaper baritone.

“Dad, it not like that,” she started, but his glare always sapped away what strength she could muster up.

“Where’s the Mitchell Fight?’ the image demanded. “Where’s our Press On will to overcome? Would your grandfather have just rolled over against the Nazi’s?”

“I didn’t ask for this,” she whispered, no longer able to meet her imagination in the eye.

“No excuses, Conrad! That’s not the Mitchell way.”

“I’m tired of being your little tin soldier!” she shouted at the sink. “I just want to live my life!”

“You think you’ll be able to do that once this story is out?” he sneered. “Oh, the phone to your little hobby will ring off the hook, but none of it will be business. You can either buck up and be a real soldier and fight this. Or, you can roll over and prove me right to your mother once again. You were a disappointing son and it looks like that’s how you’ll be as a daughter.”

“You self righteous son of a bitch!” she yelled at her own reflection, one hand back to destroy the mirror. A single tear flowed down her mirrored cheek which opened a flood gate as the long delayed crying jag over took her.

Her knees gave out as the sobs racked her body on the bathroom floor. The perversity of her subconscious recalled her dreams of passion with her tormentor which tore a wail of despair from her throat.

Connie didn’t even flinch as Wendy, drawn by the sound of her cries, knelt down the bathroom floor their rooms shared and hugged her with all of her might. Connie clung to her friend as though a drowning man to life ring. As Wendy tried to sooth her, she asked softly, “Connie, what’s wrong?”

A mighty sniff gave her a moment of respite from the sobs so should choke out, “He knows, Wendy!” before the despair wracked her with sobs once more. That explained everything to Wendy. She’d seen the looks Connie had been giving the reporter. More importantly, she’d seen the answering gazes he’d been throwing her way.

“Welcome to the club, sister,” Wendy whispered to her as she helped Connie to her feet and back to her bed. Hartlet felt a stab of regret she couldn’t do more except hold her friend as she cried herself to sleep.

Sunday 0900hrs

Marchand’s Bistro and Bakery, Philadelphia PA

Mark had opted for a pair of kaki shorts and a Hawaiian shirt to meet the mysterious caller who had invited him for breakfast the night before. He was worried anew that something even more sinister was going on now that he had figured out the first mystery, but like a moth to the flame, he couldn’t resist the caller’s veiled hints of some deeper insight. The clothes made him feel more at home and, he hoped, would offset the sleepless night he’d had arguing with himself over his current situation.

Every time he had almost convinced himself to publish everything and to hell with the consequences, some new image of her destroyed life would rise up and fill him guilt.

There was also the nagging realization that, despite her past, he was deeply attracted to her.

That was also troubling. Being raised in California had given Mark a fairly free spirited view of life and love, but he wouldn’t describe himself as even bisexual. A part of him wondered deeply just how much of a woman Connie was.

Jim had left the night before, again cautioning his friend against making waves. “Is this what I’ve become?” he asked himself in his rear view mirror before he got out of the car. “A two bit muck raker?” He made sure of the Colt Government Model, cleverly concealed between his shorts and his skin. He might not have a permit, like Ms. Turner, but there was no way he was going to risk this meeting unarmed.

A man in a hunter green polo and chinos that spoke of a large bank account caught his eye and waved from one of the open air tables. Mark returned it as he left the car and ambled cautiously over. The man at the table was older than him, by perhaps ten years or so and was a good looking fellow. He was in shape, but not rough, merely a gym haunter who was worried about looking good in his Armani suits.

“You’re just full of snap judgments lately,” he muttered angrily to himself as he arrived at the table, subconsciously making sure of all of the exits around. “You would be Harrison?” he asked, extending his hand.

The older gentleman as he offered a firm handshake and a wave to one of the empty chairs. “That’s right, Mr. Cogsley. Won’t you sit down?”

“You have me at a disadvantage, sir,” Mark said as he sat anyway. The older man dismissed the politeness with a wave.

“Who I am, beyond Harrison, isn’t important Mr. Cogsley. My message, however, is. If it will make you more comfortable, I can call you Mark.”

“I’m not normally comfortable with mysterious strangers, Harrison, but whatever makes you happy.”

“Please, order whatever you’d like,” he said, ignoring the others intimidating directness. “My wife is addicted to their croissants and their coffee is Jamaican Blue Mountain.”

“Look, Harrison, I’m not…”

The older man chuckled. “Forgive me a bit of cloak and dagger here, Mark. I know you’re trying to work out what’s going on, but please just relax and let me have a bit of fun for a moment. I think you’ll find this quite enlightening. Coffee?”

“Why not?” he answered, turning over his cup so the man could fill it before pointedly refreshing his own, even though it didn’t need it. At least poison was out.

Once the ordering was out of the way, Mark was glad he’d partaken. The coffee was excellent. Harrison stirred his own cup as he sized up the younger man across from him. His intuition made a judgment and he decided to run with it.

“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” Harrison asked around a sigh. “Spring time always makes me a bit romantic, I’m afraid. Young hearts seeking each other out and finding happiness, know what I mean?”

Mark snorted. “I met my wife in the dead of winter. But, I’ve read enough poetry to know what you’re talking about.”

“Let me offer my condolences on your loss,” he said, sending a chill down Mark’s spine. The Colt was a comforting weight on his waist.

“Who, the hell, are you?” he hissed.

“I’m not your enemy, or anyone who means you ill. Think of me, perhaps, as your conscience given voice.”

“Exactly how are you involved with Captain Mitchell?” he demanded.

“She and my wife are friends. She’s over at my house once or twice a week. I’m not some kind of hit man and I only rarely work for the Mob.”

Mark snorted. “Oh, I see. A Lawyer.”

Harrison smiled at Mark’s intuition and nodded. “You know, Connie is a wonderful young woman. You should take the time to get to know her. She’s gone though quite a lot to get where she is.”

“I don’t think she wants to get to know me,” Mark muttered.

“Can you blame her? Would you want to get to know someone capable of destroying your life after going through hell? How would you feel if someone threatened young Tiffany?”

It was only with a super human effort of will that Mark didn’t draw the weapon. “Harrison, if you are vaguely threatening my daughter I’ll very happily kill you right here in front of God and everyone else,” he whispered hoarsely.

Harrison immediately became contrite. “I’m sorry; I don’t want to give you the wrong idea at all. I feel the same way about my own children. I only brought up Tiffany to try to help you to realize what Connie must be going through. I’m not a threat to you or your family, Mark. Well, not physically, anyway. You certainly wouldn’t want to be served with papers bearing my name, but that’s just my ego talking.”

“Are you threatening me, Harrison?”

“Not in the least, my boy. Indeed, I’m actually trying to be your friend. And, as a friend, give you some good advice.”

“And what might that be?” demanded Cogsley.

“Drop Connie’s past from your story. It’s not worth the loss you’ll feel of your own self respect, and certainly isn’t worth the destruction of her life. More to the point, from what I’ve heard, you’ll be closing a door on what could be the most significant friendship you could have.”

“How is that?”

“Well, I don’t have to be gay to realize you’re a, well I think they’re calling it a ‘hunk’ these days. I’d be willing to stake my Bar membership on Connie being attracted to you.”

Mark frowned. “You seem to be very well informed about the Captain’s tastes, Harrison. How is that?”

“I did tell you she and my wife are friends. Honestly, when the hens get together you could cut the estrogen with a knife. They’re quite vocal about what they like and what they don’t. More to the point, aside from a point of history, I’d wager you’re fairly attracted to her, am I right?”

“I’m not gay,” said Mark flatly.

“Neither am I,” responded Harrison around a gulp of coffee.

“What has that got to do with it?”

“If you can’t figure that out for yourself, you’re not as smart as I gave you credit for.”

“Your last name wouldn’t be Turner, by chance?” Harrison barked out a laugh.

“No, but my wife is friendly with Mrs. Turner as well.”

Mark shook his head around a chuckle. “What have I stumbled into? The Transsexual Glee Club?”

Harrison couldn’t quite suppress a laugh at Mark’s joke. “I believe Connie refers to their little clique as the Transgendered Resistance.”

“And you’re married to one?” Harrison nodded. “How do you have kids?” he demanded.

“Previous marriage. No, they haven’t figured out how to do that yet, but I imagine when they do, I’ll be taking out a loan for the procedure.”

Mark shook his head. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a bit curious about what that must be like.”

“You have no idea,” responded Harrison with a somewhat lecherous wink. “Most New Girls are fairly traditionally minded when it come to femininity and gender roles. My wife is obsessed with being the perfect spouse, and I don’t think I could ask for a better step mother to my kids. Oh, and the sex is spectacular too.”

“Yes, I suppose they’d know exactly how, wouldn’t they?” agreed Mark around a bite of the croissant. He had to admit, he could understand the addictive nature they had. There was nothing like bread fresh from the oven. “Did Connie put you up to this?” he asked. Harrison shook his head.

“She has no idea we’re meeting. And, if you don’t mind, I’d like to keep things that way. She’s a fine, young woman, but she’s a bit head strong. Likes to do things herself. But, I’d be remiss as her friend if I didn’t help out where I could. Speaking of that,” he said, bringing up his attaché case from beside his chair to the table and opening it. From the case, he removed a manila folder and slid it across the table. “I think you’ll find everything you need as far as the details of Captain Mitchell’s Silver Star.”

“Do I want to know how you got this?”

“I asked,” Harrison answered. “Marvin is in my golf club. I did take the liberty of including some additional information you might find interesting.”

Mark took the folder and opened it. The first page was a letter from the Department of Defense to Jerry Bruckheimer Productions, threatening a withdrawal of support of Black Hawk Downif any credit what so ever was given for the technical advice by one Staff Sergeant Mark Cogsley. It was signed by Major Clark Westin. Below that was a letter from JBP offering a formal apology to Mark for the slight as well as a glowing letter of gratitude for his tireless efforts on the shoot.

“I know it’s not much, but better late than never,” Harrison said. “Further, if you’re interested, Jerry tells me he could use a man of your creative talents on his staff.”

“I’m guessing that would be provisional on my printing the story the way everyone seems to want?”

“If you open one door, another always closes.”

“So what makes you think that rich Captain Mitchell wants to have anything to do with a practically broke camera jockey like me?”

“My romantic nature,” Harrison smiled.

Sunday 1200hrs

Rifle Range Two, Ft. Eisenhower

“Is there anyone down range?” boomed the Tower Speakers. “Is there anyone down range? Rifle Range Two is about to conduct a live fire exercise. If there is anyone down range, notify the tower by sight, sound or signal.”

Connie tried her best to clear her mind for the task at hand as she seated the magazine into her M-16’s receiver and rammed it home. With a snap the bolt rode forward, seating the first round. Now was not the time to be having a personal crisis. She brought the weapon into place and got into her position, bracing against the concrete fox hole.

The range spread down below her in the gently rolling Pennsylvania hill side, it’s beauty marred by the little brumes every fifty meters or so that concealed the machinery that worked the pop up targets. In the back of her mind, she was still worrying about the future, distracting her. “Stock tight into the shoulder,” she whispered to herself. “Target out of focus, front sight in focus.”

“Shooters, rotate your selector switch to semi. Exercise to start in ten seconds. Fire at will,” boomed the tower.

“Just breathe, Mitch,” cautioned Marvin from behind and above her. “No fear.”

The first target popped up into view, fifty meters away to her right, a hard plastic shell shaped roughly like a man wearing a Soviet Uniform all in Olive Drab. Connie’s imagination painted Mark’s face on the target before the weapon jerked slightly in her hand.

The target continued to stare at her. A clean miss.

Growling to herself, she took the rifle tighter into her shoulder and fired again. The green man fell. “Good one, Mitch. Stay cool now,” the General chanted behind her. Connie would have given anything to be able to turn around and tell him to shut up.

She reached into herself and called up the words to a tune that had been playing around the rotor park as she was prepping her bird for launch. It was a forgettable song by a forgettable artist, but it’s rhythm was hypnotic. As the tune fell from her lips, she used it’s cadence to order her breathing and focus on releasing the rounds from the weapon.

The targets joined her dance of death as the cares and worries of the future fell away into a timeless space of drawing lines with five and a half millimeters of lead.

By the time the song had reached it’s solo between the second and third verses, it was only the clang of the empty magazine striking the concrete floor as the second was seated. None of her dancers below her missed a step.

One of the two three hundred meter targets rose up to dance, but she ignored it. She was already short one round and knew she hadn’t the calmness of mind to attempt to turn his steps.

Then the song was over and her dance card was empty. She removed the magazine from the weapon before removing the last round from the chamber. This she returned to the magazine with the other left over and sighed. “You know, I never knew you had such a lovely singing voice,” commented Marvin as he crouched above her.

“Well, I knocked them dead out there,” she said drolly with a wave down the range. “How many did I miss?”

“Only the ones you didn’t shoot at,” he responded. “You get to keep your expert badge for another year, Mitch.”

Connie removed the ear plugs that hadn’t been much of a help from her ears. “Hurrah, I’ll look good at my court martial.”

“Unless you slept with him, Mitch, you haven’t committed a court martial offense,” the General responded.

“No fear, sir.”

He looked behind her at the tables behind the firing line. “Speak of the devil.” Connie followed his gaze and felt her stomach fall into her feet. Mark was watching from there, his eyes on hers having singled her out. “Come on, Mitch, no sense putting it off.”

Connie sighed as she took up the rifle and pushed the rear most retention pin through the upper receiver and free into her palm. The upper, still attached to the barrel rotated around the front pin, exposing the guts of the trigger assembly like a macabre breech loading shotgun. Once that was done, she clamored out of the fox hole, collected her magazines along with the rifle she carried open to the Center Line Safety who shoved a rod down the barrel to make sure it was free of live ammo before she could leave the firing line.

Then there was no putting things off any further.

She walked to where he stood, noting the General seemed to have remembered a pressing appointment elsewhere. Connie set the rifle down before defiantly meeting his gaze. “Come to gloat, Sergeant?” she demanded.

“No ma’am, to apologize.”

“Oh?” she asked, on guard of being hurt once more.

“I’ve been a cad, ma’am, and I’m deeply sorry that my actions may have caused you any distress. I came here to write a story about a heroine who saved her unit. That’s all my story will be, you have my word. Beyond that, it will be my last story for the Stripes.”

It took Connie a moment to work through this many prayers being answered all at once. Finally, she found her tongue once more. “Why is that? What changed your mind?”

“What changed my mind was the fact what I was doing was wrong. As for leaving the service, there’s a couple of reasons. I’ve been somewhat inundated with job offers today. First from Jerry Bruckheimer Productions and another from the Philly Tribune. Either one pays better than Uncle Sam and, that will most importantly let me get my daughter from my parents so we can be something like a family again.”

“My congratulations,” she said, feeling the first smile tug at the corners of her mouth for what seemed like weeks.

“Thanks. I haven’t really made up my mind which offer to take yet. Which brings me to the second reason I’m leaving the service.”

“What might that be?” she asked, her mind going a mile a minute over the possibilities.

“Well, ma’am, it’s kind of illegal for me to ask a superior officer out on a real date. Connie, I know I don’t disserve it, but I’d be greatly honored if you’d give me another chance to get to know you. I’m actually an ok kind of guy once you get past my thick skull.”

“Well, Mark, you know, you’re flirting with a lot of danger here. Beyond the UCMJ violations, I’m not exactly the cotillion and upper crust refined lady my polished exterior might lead you to believe.” He grinned his perfect grin and sent shivers down her spine.

“Danger is my racket, ma’am. I’ve made a career of it.”

“So I see,” she murmured, noticing suddenly there were mere inches between them. She cleared her throat and stepped back, noticing her troopers were pointedly not seeing anything. “How long does a discharge take these days?” she whispered.

“About a month,” was his response. “Dinner that night?”

“You’re on.”

“In the meantime, would it be too bold of me to perhaps, call you from time to time? Or if we just happened to bump into each other…”

Oh be still my beating heart. With deep regret, Connie whispered, “Yellow light, sergeant.”

“Well, I still have to interview you for this story,” he offered.

“That’s very true,” she said. “And, unavoidable contact in the normal course of doing one’s duty is not something any one could hold against any one, now could they?”

“I’m kind of hungry as well.”

“I’ll just put this away and get my things,” she said, snatching up the rifle.

“I’ll help.”

Monday 02:00hrs

Apartment of Charlotte Turner, Philadelphia, PA.

Eventually I got to bed. Sometime around two o’clock I had that dream again. The one where I’ve just shot the Liberty Viper. He goes down, but he gets up again. And again. And again. His pistol never empties and neither does mine. I knock him down and he keeps coming up firing. But I know, sooner or later he’ll either hit me or I’ll run out of bullets.

After about the umpteenth time I finally woke up in a cold drenched sweat. After gasping for a few moments my heart finally slowed down. I got out of bed, put on my housecoat, pulled my pistol from under my pillow, and headed for my bathroom. After that I went into the kitchen and made myself some cocoa. I’d hoped that I wouldn’t have this one again, but stress seems to bring it back. I must be more worried about this than I thought.

After thinking about the situation and deciding that I couldn’t do anything about it for now I finally decided to go back to bed. I slipped the pistol back under my head pillow and pulled the long body pillow up close and eventually drifted back to sleep. I wasn’t too worried about the dream coming back. It rarely occurred twice in a night. Tomorrow I’d have to see what I could do about this problem.

 

* finis *