(One)
08 January 2065
Even given seven days' notice, it had been an exercise in frustration for
McQueen to arrive on time, appropriately attired. Traveling from
Massachusetts to Maine - from Maine to Alabama - from Alabama to DC - he had
been left to wonder again about just where his belongings from the Saratoga
were. Just where were they floating around? On which transport? Where in the
galaxy? His medals and sword were no problem. They really had no place in
space - he had left them in storage at Loxley. It was his "party clothes"
that presented the difficulty. There was an older set of his dress blues that
would serve. They were in decent shape and they fit. His Evening Dress did
not - not well - not the way he liked it to fit. McQueen had last worn it -
what was it now? Three years ago? Surprisingly, the trousers needed to be
taken in. It was just something else that had taken time and energy, and that
seemed to serve no real purpose. It had been a pain in the rear end, but at
least McQueen was on time and squared away.
The Marine Barracks at Eighth and I had always been the Headquarters of The
Marine Corps. Depending on who you talk to, Quantico may or may not be the
brains of the outfit, but it is generally agreed that Eighth and I has always
been its heart and soul.
McQueen had not been told why he was to report to DC. A smart Marine did not
question legal orders - and he was a smart Marine. He presented himself at
the appropriate time, in the appropriate uniform, and with the appropriate
gear: 0700 - Dress A with medals - sword.
It wasn't as if he was clueless. McQueen had a good idea now of why he was to
report, between what Kylen had told him about her invitation and what, as a
very smart Marine, he could put together on his own. He just didn't know the
particulars.
After he had presented himself and his orders at the appointed time and
place, McQueen met with a captain from human resources.
It was not, as he had hoped, a meeting to pass along his new assignment.
Captain Angela Armstrong gave him a cup of coffee and a copy of his one-page
official bio, which he was to read and correct. "In red ink, please,
Colonel," she said, handing him the pen. The captain was from the protocol
office. She was a rather officious little geek, obviously present only to run
him through a review of paperwork and protocol. She loved her job just a
little too much for McQueen's taste. Armstrong left him alone and returned
after precisely fifteen minutes.
"Is Ms. Celina with you, Sir?"
"I didn't know that Ms. Celina was considered part of my 'gear.' If the Corps
had issued me a survivor I would have shown up with one," he snapped.
McQueen's sarcasm floated over the Captain's head. She had too many things on
her mind - too many things to put together in too little time. Two major
events to stage manage. Two events that each generally took a month to plan
and she was trying to put them together in less than two weeks. She was a
busy woman.
"I had hoped to have a chance to review some of tomorrow's activities and
protocol with her," the captain almost blurted. But she was efficient, able
to think on her feet and to handle rapidly shifting priorities. An important
skill for the person charged with protocol - it was how she had achieved her
billet. Armstrong turned her thoughts back to the Colonel, who she found
rather abrupt, but who looked the perfect picture of a decorated Marine
officer. That's a relief.
"This ceremony was all laid on pretty quickly. I'm trying to tie up all the
loose ends," she muttered rather distracted.
"And I'm a loose end" he asked wryly.
"You, Sir? No. But there are a few surrounding you." The captain finally
stopped shuffling her paperwork and actually made eye contact. She paused and
then smiled. "Colonel, do you understand why you are here?"
McQueen returned her look with what could best be called his 'command gaze,'
giving her the once over. *"Look, little Captain, I don't have time to play
games with boot licking Command Staff REMFs. I'm a busy man,"* he thought,
but was immediately forced to reconsider. *"Unfortunately, I'm NOT a busy
man. I have nothing to do and nothing BUT time."*
"Not precisely. No," he answered.
"Well, Sir, the President of the United States and the Senate are tired of
Her Excellency, Secretary General Diane Hayden, and the rest of the powers
that be at the United Nations dragging their feet on this issue. We are due
over at the Big House at ten-hundred hours and I'm to review the agenda with
you."
Members of the military were strictly forbidden to express political
opinions when on duty or in uniform: Such had been the case for almost three
hundred years. The captain's tone of voice when referring to Diane Hayden
skirted the boundaries of neutrality. McQueen found himself beginning to like
this little protocol ramrod. In the back of his mind he wondered how she had
made the height and weight requirements necessary for entry into the Corps.
He turned his full attention to what the she had to say.
(Two)
08 January, 2065
The president of The United States takes pride in presenting the Medal of
Honor posthumously to Lieutenant Paul Wang United States
Marine Corps for service set forth in the following
CITATION:
For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and
beyond the call of duty as First Lieutenant serving with the Fifty-eighth
Squadron, Fifth Marine Expeditionary Unit, in action against the enemy alien
forces in the Ceres Region, 27 October 2064. Ordered to retrieve civilian
hostages from the hands of the enemy after the failed Saratoga Peace Talks,
Lieutenant Paul Wang shrewdly gauged the tactical situation when the enemy
attacked and disabled the InterSolarSystem Armored Personnel Carrier carrying
the hostages. After laying down ferocious cover-fire Lieutenant Wang
voluntarily detached his carrier from the flight wing of the ISSAPC, freeing
said wing to dock with the free floating hostage carrier. Alone and drifting
without power, he unhesitatingly braved the increasing fusillades of enemy
fighter cannon, returning fire and drawing off large numbers of enemy craft,
allowing the hostage carrier to dock with the flight wing. Coolly
disregarding his personal peril he continued to fire upon the enemy while the
remaining members of his squadron achieved the objective of removing the
hostages to safety. Stouthearted and indomitable, Lieutenant Wang shot down
two enemy aircraft before being killed when shrapnel careened into his
vessel. By his great personal valor, daring tactics and tenacious
perseverance in the face of extreme peril, he had contributed materially to
the fulfillment of his squadron's mission. His outstanding heroism,
unwavering devotion to duty, and gallant conduct throughout reflect the
highest credit to himself and enhance and sustain the highest traditions of
the United States Naval Service.
(Three)
O8 January 2065
The Big House was not the Commandant's home - it was the President's. The
reception and ceremony took place in the East Room. It had all the trappings
one would imagine of The White House, but the event would be described in the
press as a personal gathering: The President, First Lady, selected members
of Congress and involved members of the diplomatic community hosted a small
reception for the multinational Vesta and Tellus survivors. Twenty-seven of
the group had accepted the invitation, each bringing up to four family
members. Kylen had accepted and was accompanied by her father, Allston and
Bridee. Eithne had declined to attend.
Senators and Congressmen had jockeyed for position, and foreign ambassadors
had responded with RSVPs in almost unseeming haste. The French Ambassador had
gone so far as to accept by making a personal phone call. It was too
delicious an insult to 'Dear Diane.' The President of the United States had
performed a dangerous political highwire act and had succeeded brilliantly.
Public opinion - the polls - had pointed to the fact that the public felt
strongly that 'something' should be done for the survivors. The United
Nations - specifically the Secretary General of the United Nations - had been
remarkably closedmouthed about the issue. A single three-sentence press
release a week after the return of the hostages was all that the UN had
offered. The White House affair was a virtual slap in the face to Diane
Hayden, but couched as it was under the guise of "personal reception" there
was little she could do. Any retaliation, public or private, would call into
focus both her lack of action and her ties to Aerotech, which she wished to
avoid at all cost. She hated being finessed - hated being outmaneuvered. But
Diane Hayden was nothing if not practical. While revenge might be a dish best
served cold, it was a meal she would have to forego. It was in her own best
interests to ignore the whole thing.
A healthy cadre of high ranking Marine Corps officers had been invited. As
far as the spin-doctors had been concerned, this event could serve a variety
of purposes, one of which was to pour more oil on the troubled InVitro Rights
waters. This InVitro, Colonel McQueen, was now on Earth. He had been the C.O.
of the Fifty-eighth Squadron, which had saved the hostages. There was good
press in that, and it tied things together quite nicely. Within the
Fifty-eighth Squadron there was an MOH winner - unfortunately a posthumous
award. It would have made even better press if the guy had lived, but there
you have it. Evidently this 'Tank' Colonel had managed to cover himself with
glory in the last year, and the Board of Awards had recommended said officer
for at least two new decorations plus a fourth Purple Heart and additions to
his flight medal.
This personal reception - for approximately one hundred and eighty people all
told - would be a perfect venue. The President could recognize the
achievements of an individual InVitro and not address the issue directly.
Everybody could read what they wanted into this Colonel's award ceremony. The
InVitro Rights people would feel vindicated that one of their own had been
received with honor by the head of state, and the Anti-InVitro Rights people
could feel equally vindicated that, while this one InVitro might be in The
White House, he was the exception, proving the rule that the majority of
Tanks didn't have what it takes to get the job done. It was rare that such
an ambiguous, and therefore satisfying, opportunity presented itself.
A clutch of three spin-doctors stood to the side ready to step in. Ready to
move things along in the direction of their choosing. The White House
photographers were busy. It had been decided that pictures should be taken in
the receiving line before the event. The President was a busy man. Shutters
snapped and people were shown to their seats. A dicey moment occurred when
the French Ambassador, Claire Montresant, greeted the InVitro Colonel. A
lackey was immediately dispatched to show the Ambassador to her place in the
front row.
"What happened?" he was quizzed upon his return to the 'clutch' of his three
bosses.
"Nothing really. Just a how-do-you-do evidently. Until we were walking away,
and then good old Claire made some comment about how he carried himself well
for a tank."
"Oh great. Trust Claire."
"Did he hear her?"
"She said it in French."
"He speaks French."
"You're kidding. No way."
"I don't think he heard. The Ambassador did give him a note from Chaput,
though."
"From Chaput? Good Lord, I hope he doesn't open it 'til after the ceremony."
"Chaput? Now what is THAT all about?"
"I would love to know."
"Nothing we can do about it now."
"Do you think the InVitro understands the politics of all of this?" the
lackey asked his betters.
"No way. Do YOU even understand the politics of all of this?"
"But I think that he knows quicksand when he sees it," chimed in another one
of the bosses.
"You think?"
"Oh yes."
"In any case, he has better manners than our 'dear' French Ambassador."
"He does, doesn't he?"
When everyone was seated, the Ambassador from Finland, as a guest of the
country, was introduced first, and presented Colonel T.C. McQueen with the
Order of the White Rose of Finland. "For valor during action against the
enemy while serving with a joint task force with members of the Finnish
Defense Forces." McQueen spoke a few words of appreciation to the Ambassador
- in Finnish - and the spin-doctors beamed at their impossible good fortune.
The lackey immediately peeled off to find a translator. The press would want
it in English.
The Colonel then received the Purple Heart, Naval Commendation Medal (his
second) and additions to his flight medal (both individual and group flights)
from the hand of The Commandant of The Marine Corps.
The President of the United States then awarded the Presidential Unit
Citation to the Fifty-eighth Squadron, Marine Corps Cavalry, for actions
against the enemy, culminating on the planet Kazbek. Colonel T.C. McQueen
received the Distinguished Flying Cross and the Silver Star from the hands of
the President himself. The citations for these medals - as read publicly -
said only: " For unspecified action against enemy forces." Only the dullest
knife in the drawer wouldn't realize that this signified actions still
considered to be classified, but the Anti IV Rights people could, if put in
the position of debate, use this against the Pro IV Rights faction.
Politically it neutered the public debate over the medals, and effectively it
also removed the Colonel as a rallying point. And finally, as the piece de
resistance, the parents of the late First Lieutenant Paul Wang received his
Medal of Honor.
The lackey returned with news. "The scary guy with the blue eyes quoted
something from some big deal Finnish epic poem."
"What did he say?"
"What does it mean?"
"Don't know yet," the lackey responded.
"Who cares. Epic poem is good enough." The spin-doctors were beside
themselves and felt flush with success.
It was truly fitting that Paul Wang's family should receive his medal in this
company. A number of the hostages, immediately upon arrival at the
Greenbrier, had begun to lobby their congressman to honor Paul's
self-sacrifice. The event itself was more emotional than most had
anticipated, and all of the survivors were moved to tears during the reading
of the citation. Kylen was unable to bring herself to look at McQueen, afraid
that seeing his reaction would rob her of her tenuous self-control. She now
felt that she knew Paul, knew him through Nathan's and McQueen's eyes. Kylen
was afraid she would lose it completely.
After the ceremony photographs were again taken: McQueen standing with the
Ambassador and the President, with just the Ambassador, with just the
President. A few congressmen got into the act, but it was over fairly
quickly. McQueen moved to the side of the room, unaware that the lackey had
been given orders: "Don't take your eyes off of him. And don't let Montresant
near him."
Kylen was somewhat distressed to see that the political hot-dogs were
surrounding the Wang family. They were all eager to have their pictures taken
to demonstrate to their constituency just how involved they were in the War
effort. The Wangs looked increasingly bewildered. Kylen was relieved to see,
and to join in with, a group of survivors who moved forward and effectively
blocked some of the political bootlickers from reaching the Wangs. This was,
after all, supposed to be a reception for the survivors and to honor the man
who had died to bring them home. The former hostages all instinctively dealt
with the Wangs on a quiet and personal level - comforting and accepting them
now as part of the group of survivors. The atmosphere of the event changed
and became more soothing and intimate. Paul's parents and little brother had
a chance to see the gratitude and feel the affection of the group. Their
son's bravery was given a human face - in fact, the faces of the twenty-seven
humans present that day and the others who did not or could not attend. They
could touch the life within these people. Forty people, eighty, one hundred
and sixty - generations on and on ... All of these people would be a
testament to their son.
McQueen observed the interaction for several minutes. A young Marine wearing
the braid and badge of White House service appeared at his side.
"Excuse me, Colonel," she said softly. "The First Lady is ready to host the
luncheon. I'm sorry to break this up, but if you will assist, Sir, and escort
Mrs. Wang into the State Dining Room. You will be seated to her right. I'll
make the announcement and escort Mr. Wang. I believe, Sir, that with you
taking the lead, we can accomplish the move without insulting the moment and
the memory of Lieutenant Wang."
McQueen paused for a few seconds. It was a shame to break up the moment, but
this was the White House. People here had jobs to do. The aide had offered a
good solution.
"I would be honored," he said, and moved out with the aide de camp, crossing
the width of the East Room to the Wangs. The lackey relaxed. The tank was
somebody else's problem now.
(Four)
O8 January 2065
While he waited to take his seat, McQueen noted the fact that, the President
having returned to the Oval Office, most of the diplomats and the political
bigwigs had disappeared. They had chosen to decline an invitation to lunch
and a private tour of the White House. The moment has passed - there is no
more political currency to be gained by eating lunch. They obviously have
things they need to do, he thought. Or perhaps they weren't invited.
Aerotech certainly wasn't. That gave him a certain amount of personal
satisfaction. Or maybe this all really was a gesture of kindness on the
part of the First Lady.
McQueen watched with a certain level of understanding as a number of the
former hostages surreptitiously moved their placecards so that they could be
seated facing exits. Where is she? He looked for Kylen's table, but was
too late to see if she had moved her card. He would not have been in the
least surprised if she had done so. If the fact that people had switched
seats upset any of the valets or waiters, then they didn't show it.
The Colonel was seated between The First Lady and Mrs. Wang. Classes taken
during Officer's Candidate School had taught him the appropriate nuts and
bolts for such an occasion, and during their time together Amy had imparted a
good deal of knowledge and a subsequent level of polish. Unfortunately, small
talk had never been and probably would never be his forte.
It didn't take long for the President's wife to realized that no one at her
table had a hidden agenda. No one wanted anything from her or had an ax to
grind. It was rare and it was refreshing, but she found that she had to use a
different part of her brain. The guests at her table were not particularly
comfortable with each other, and she had to cast around to find a method of
easing the tension. Thankfully, the First Lady was a skilled
conversationalist and had received a good briefing from her staff. The
people at her table were rather charming, each in his or her own way, even
the taciturn Marine. It would take some work, but she was confident that she
could find a way to relax the atmosphere.
Kylen had indeed moved her placecard. She still never liked to sit with her
back to a door, still feeling the need to gauge potential escape routes.
Kylen was surprised when she looked up from her little bit of slight-of-hand.
McQueen was watching her. I wonder if he saw? she thought. He was all
'Door Number Two' at this point - the military commander. She therefore found
it more difficult to read his reaction. He finally gave her the briefest of
half smiles.
Kylen was delighted to see that Martin was seated with her family. Martin
Aalto Guilio was the lone surviving InVitro Colonist. With the receiving line
and photographs earlier, Kylen had not been able to really speak with him.
The otherworldly young man who could make the Sewell fuel - The Pink -
vibrate by singing was accompanied by a middle-aged Native American woman.
Six weeks ago Martin had been offered the hospitality of a Navajo reservation
in Arizona, courtesy of General Radford. Kylen had only spoken with Martin
long enough to learn that he was doing fairly well and that the woman was
Radford's sister.
During lunch Kylen's family became increasingly involved in a conversation
with Martin and Dawn Radford Chee. Though Martin was biologically almost six
years older than Allston, they were a good fit. Each had found a needed buddy
in this formal atmosphere. Martin said something about Colonel McQueen, and
Kylen half heard Allston telling the young InVitro that Colonel McQueen was a
'friend of the family.' Kylen shook her head indulgently. She knew that
Allston, Sky King, was a bit intimidated by McQueen, and now he spoke of him
as if they were old buddies.
General Radford's sister's full name, it turned out, was Dawntreader, and
Bridee was fascinated with her squash-blossom jewelry. Frank was interested
in life and conditions on the reservation. It seemed to Kylen that they all
were having a pleasant time.
The First Lady had finally decided to try to get her guests to talk about
Paul Wang. A bit risky - true - and it could result in tears, but Mr. and
Mrs. Wang seemed to light up when their son was mentioned. They quickly
opened up. The Colonel was obviously interested, but still did not take an
active role in the conversation.
They talk about him as if he was still a little kid. I don't know who they
are talking about. ... And I don't imagine that they want to hear my stories
- not really. McQueen thought. This was something new to him - new since
meeting West's parents. West's mother had clutched a picture of Neil - at
about the age of ten - to her chest while she had blasted him with her
grievances against the war and the Marine Corps. The picture of Neil wearing
the Marine uniform was high up on the shelf - ignored - as if the fighting
man had never existed. Not for the first time McQueen wondered: Is this how
all natural-borns see their children? As always being children?
McQueen unexpectedly knew that he had just been given an insight into the
workings of 'Naturals' - something he may have thought that he had
understood, but really hadn't until that moment. Twenty-three years out of
the tank and there were still some subtleties of natural-born behaviors that
McQueen couldn't quite get his mind around. The first funeral he had ever
attended was when he was eight years out of the tank. There were no services
for the dead on Omicron Draconis. There had been no memorials - no rituals -
unless you wanted to consider taking boots off of dead bodies a ritual. Boots
were hard to come by. The overseers had, for the most part, kept each 'crop'
of InVitros separate. Older tanks were known to breed discontent in the
younger ones. Best to keep them apart. Keep them isolated. Get a new batch
when about half of the old one had died off. Consequently McQueen had spent
the first five years of his life with only his own history and what habits
his group came up with. He really hadn't spent any time with older tanks
until the InVitro platoons - it was here that he had gotten his first real
taste of the broader InVitro subculture. And, despite the discrimination, it
was here that he had gotten his first taste of tradition: He had fallen on it
like a starving man.
The only religion in the mines had been to avoid pain, eat as much as you
could and sleep whenever possible. Hell, I didn't know anything about
organized religions 'til basic training. Sitting in the State Dining Room
of the White House, surround by the crystal and china - the servants and the
ceremony - McQueen had an uncanny experience. A vision of the formidable
Sergeant Menendez appeared in his mind - voice like a gravel crusher. You
had best get your pagan ass to chapel every Sunday without fail, Maggot.
McQueen hadn't been sure what the word 'pagan' meant at the time, but he had
dragged his butt to chapel every Sunday morning. To hear the singing alone
was worth it - especially if the southern guys got rolling - swaying,
clapping their hands, and giving the 'call and return' of gospel music.
McQueen had watched in silent amazement. That was when he had started to
study the life and death rituals of Natural-borns. He had studied them, but
he knew that he was still learning to understand them.
His first several years in the service, the funerals and the memorial
services that McQueen had attended were all for people his own age, or there
about, and he had hung with the Marines and avoided the families at all cost.
He had carried caskets and folded flags, and had tried with varying degrees
of success to maintain his emotional distance. But McQueen had known these
young Marines as just that - Marines - and Marines died. During the last
decade, McQueen had written his share of letters to grieving parents, but had
never dealt with them face to face - until recently. There had been five
years of peace. Only since the start of this war had he officiated over the
ceremonies for someone noticeably younger than himself. McQueen realized that
part of him would always remember his Kids at the age they were when he first
saw them. Not children perhaps, but almost unbelievably young.
The Wangs continued to tell stories about this guy named Paul. It did not
make McQueen particularly uncomfortable, although he felt unable to join the
conversation. He was not involved - McQueen had never met the guy they were
talking about. As long as he didn't recognize the person they were speaking
about, McQueen didn't have to worry about his feelings. Their conversation
did not affect him. He could remained detached.
McQueen tuned back into the conversation. Mrs. Wang was speaking. The
mothers. Is it always the mothers? McQueen asked himself.
"Remember the Halloween when Paul was about ten? He went out trick or
treating and brought home a full bag. But he wanted more, so he changed his
costume - dressing up like a bum - and went out again to the same houses.
People must have known, but he came home with a second bag chock full of
candy."
McQueen felt his heart catch. This was the young marine that he knew. The kid
who loved to gossip, the wiseacre - The Joker.
"Now that sounds like Wang," he said before he could censor himself.
"It does, doesn't it? It sort of says it all," Mr. Wang said, and then
chuckled.
"The sod from Wrigley field was still growing when I left the Saratoga,"
McQueen offered. "Wang watered it and trimmed it with scissors." The entire
Wang family put down their forks and stared at the Colonel. The quiet was
ominous. He had touched a nerve. Oh, hell.
The First Lady sensed that the mood had shifted dangerously. "You actually
sent Paul sod from Wrigley Field? How did you ever get it? Oh, tell me this
story." The moment was broken. The tears so close to the surface retreated,
and the Wang's told the tale.
While Kylen's family was opening up and becoming more sociable, she was
withdrawing further and further into herself. She found that she was
watching people and listening to their conversations as if she was not
involved - as if she was watching a movie. Detached. Separated.
Dessert and coffee were now finished and people were beginning to mill about,
waiting to be led off in small groups for private guided tours of the White
House. A large number of people drifted over to Kylen's table - they wanted
to see Martin again. Kylen and Martin stood together making small talk and
introductions, but she was still distracted.
It was so strange seeing these people again. They shared a bond. A bond that
should not be broken - they needed each other on an elemental level. But as
Kylen mouthed words that she couldn't remember as soon as she said them, she
realized something else on an elemental level. She knew these people. Knew
them too well. Their strengths and weaknesses. Their foibles. Their
pettiness. Things that they did when they thought no one was watching. The
survivors knew each other too well. Knew each other in ways that no one
should be able to know anyone else. Totally stripped of any and all pretense
or protection. That's who you really are. What you do in the dark when you
think no one is watching, she thought. And these people know the same
about me.
Kylen knew a truth. I never wanted to see any of these people ever again.
Ever. She shuddered.
"What's the matter?" Martin whispered.
Kylen spoke her new truth before she thought better of it.
"I never want to see these people again in my life," she whispered through
her teeth, still smiling a 'receiving line' smile.
"I was thinking the same thing, ... Well, sort of," he whispered.
They looked at each other. Each mildly shocked.
Martin spoke tentatively. "If one of them called and needed to talk to me ...
Well, I'd talk to that person - any one of them. I wouldn't turn any of them
away. But you and I are different somehow. We are friends somehow. At least
I thought we were. You were there ... with me. You felt it, Kylen. You felt
the stone singing back."
"Oh yes, Martin. I did feel it." Kylen threw her arms around the young
InVitro's neck and hugged him tightly. She remembered the almost painful
beauty of the moment Martin had discovered that The Pink could vibrate. "And
yes, we are friends," she whispered in his ear. It was another truth. She
wanted to keep track of Martin.
He returned her hug. "Do you think that other people feel the same way?
That they never want to see us again?" he asked.
"I'd be surprised if a lot of them didn't feel that way," she said. "But it
isn't personal. It's just ... what it is."
"But it is sort of frightening. Like being cast adrift," Martin whispered.
"I know, Martin. I feel it too," Kylen admitted.
Martin squeezed her hand. One of the guides came to their table and they
moved off to begin their tour. Martin and Kylen were still holding hands.
They were like little children on a school outing - holding hands so no one
gets lost.
08 January 2065
The afternoon McQueen had spent with General Wierick and his staff. He was to
see them again tomorrow. Captain Armstrong had stopped by briefly in the
evening. McQueen was beat. It is amazing how a mental workout can be as
tiring as a physical workout. Curiosity finally got to Ty and he opened the
note that the French Ambassador had passed into his hand almost twelve hours
earlier. "From Chaput," she had said.
My Dear Colonel,
Bonne Chance, Mon ami
Colonel McQueen tore the United Nations stationery into little pieces and
flushed the bits down the toilet. He pushed the lever a second time in
disgust before hitting the rack.
Next : Holding Up The Sky Book Two Pt 5-7
Previous : Holding Up The Sky Book One Pt 5-8
Back : General Fiction
Marine Corps Barracks, Eighth and I
Washington DC, USA
0700 AM
The White House
Washington, DC, USA
The White House
Washington, DC, USA.
1000 hours
The White House
Washington, DC, USA.
1130 hours
BOQ, Henderson Hall
Arlington, Virginia
2230
I understand that you now know the heavy burden of the truth that I have
carried for months. Things better left unsaid - at least for now.
I was truly glad that you managed to keep your head. Watch out for Madam
le Guillotine - you confound her again and she will not look kindly upon you.
Congratulations. I will continue to follow your career with interest. I
will always know where to look for the winds of change. They swirl around you.
N.C.