09 January 2065
"You look terrific, Kylen. That color suits you," Major Howard remarked.
"Your toast struck just the right note. You impressed a lot of people."
I wasn't trying to impress anyone, she thought rather viciously, but
after all those months in the dirt and grime it did feel nice to be
complimented on her appearance. Amy had been right. In Washington even nice
parties had agendas. Kylen surveyed the room. If there are people here
gunning for Six - people who would love to see him fail - then there are
probably people here that wouldn't mind watching me go down in flames as
well, she thought to herself. But I can't be that important, can I? Not
important enough for people to waste that kind of energy on me.
"Thank you, Major. Well, since I'm here at your behest, who haven't I met yet
that you want me to get to know?" she asked, smiling warmly, but Major Howard
did note a touch of irritation in her voice.
Now just what has Becca Boyington been telling you, I wonder? he thought.
General Green was known to stir the pot, and Howard really had hoped to add
Kylen into the mix without too much agitation. It was often best to keep the
small fish out of the same waters as the big predators - and Kylen was a
small fish. Howard had been against inviting Kylen to the dinner, but Radford
had liked the idea. "Introduce her around when people will be focused on
something else." It had made a certain amount of sense, so here she was.
McQueen had kicked things up a notch with his toast, and now Kylen was an
afterthought rather than the center of attention. Radford had been right. It
had been a good idea.
"Let me introduce you to General J.G. Ramirez. He's the C.O. at Quantico, and
you will be spending time down there. And over there is Colonel Charlotte
Westin: She's the ranking Marine up at DamNeck. You'll need to know her as
well," Howard explained.
"DamNeck?" Kylen asked.
"North of here - Naval Intelligence. You'll get up close and personal."
Well, the best defense is a good offense, Kylen thought. "Let's go," she
said. Howard offered his arm and they moved out.
The bar was actually an alcove off of the main reception area. General Green
led McQueen to a corner table. They were seated out of the way, but could
still view most of the reception room. An aide appeared with a glass of wine
for the General and a healthy dram of scotch for the Colonel. Green's staff
had done their homework.
Leaning back in her chair, Green gave her charge the once-over. "Well,
Colonel McQueen, what do you think we should do with the 5-8 now?"
McQueen paused to consider before answering her. Just yesterday the
squadron was given a Presidential Unit Citation. It's been all over the
press. Papers are running the bios of all of the kids - even Hawkes. If the
Top Brass was still gunning for them after the events on Anvil - the
misguided act of compassion - they have kind of lost the edge. No, there is
now too much evidence that the Alien Intelligence Unit has withheld vital
information from Combat Command. The kids should have some breathing room -
but only some.
"Leave them where they are, Ma'am," he answered.
"Your squadron has had spectacular success, but they have also taken some
pretty heavy hits. The 5-8 is at the critical level. We have to decide
whether to send in replacements - to reinforce - or to disband the unit and
parcel them all out. Spread around that experience and success."
"Reinforce. Get the Squadron fully operational and then .... Then start to
rotate the most senior team out. One or two at a time."
"Why not just do it now?"
The discussion was becoming uncomfortable - if not downright painful - for
McQueen, but it was one of those things that as an officer he had come to
expect. I just hadn't ... Hadn't what? ... Hadn't expected them to get
transferred? It's not like I didn't know it would happen. All I can do is try
to get them ready. Marines get rotated out.
"Ma'am, there are pros and cons either way," he admitted.
"Yes, that is always the issue. Do we always leave our most experienced men
and women out in the field? Or do we bring them in and let them start to
train the next wave? There is precedent for both schools of thought. The
Germans lost the airwar over Europe not because they didn't have planes.
Hell, they were up to their armpits in aircraft. They didn't have enough
trained pilots. We have to balance our actions as long as we can." General
Green could not tell if McQueen was getting the message. The man's face
gives nothing away. He couldn't possibly need a bigger hint.
She spoke again. "And the fact that they will hate being split up ... well,
they have to learn to expect it. Besides, you've been around long enough to
know that billets are frequently not what you expected. Are they? Look at you
- X.O. of the Angry Angels. Next in line for command. And you got a command,
didn't you? You got thrown a bunch of wet-behind-the-ears new kids straight
out of Loxley. Not what you had in mind, was it?
McQueen gave a small smile. The General knows her stuff. I had wanted my
own command. I had wanted - had earned - the 127th.
The General interrupted his thoughts. "You could have inherited the Angels -
an enviable position. But people would have said just that: 'He inherited the
best squadron in the Corps.' But today the 5-8 is one of our most prized -
and you built it. No matter where you are or what you do - it will always be
yours."
McQueen had thought about that. He had been dissatisfied when the Brass had
given him the Fifty-eighth. He had thought it was a form of punishment after
the 127 had been wiped out. Of all the assignments he had received since
becoming an officer, the Fifty-eighth the one he had wanted the least. It
had turned out to be probably the best gig he had ever had.
"Your key people, Colonel. Where would you counsel them to go next? What
should they put in for?" She was able to keep a conversational tone to her
voice - but only with real effort. "Your executive officer, for example."
"Vansen. She needs a few more months as an X.O," he said.
"What's her problem? Still having trouble taking the larger view?"
McQueen shook his head 'no.' "Paperwork," he said. "She will be ready soon.
Sooner if she can get a good X.O. of her own."
"You've been grooming her?"
"It's an officer's job to groom his replacement," he responded. No more
information was forthcoming.
Come on, man. Work with me here, the General thought.
The orchestra struck up a tango. It was unusual enough to attract the
General's attention. She needed a break anyway - a moment to collect her
thoughts. She needed to come up with a different tack. The man was giving her
precious little to work with.
The Colonel also turned to look out into the reception area. Kylen was
dancing. Shortly after their arrival McQueen had slotted her into a niche at
the outer edges of his mind. She had offered her toast and Green had called
them over together, but McQueen had decided to let her ride it out on her
own. Now there she was being taught how to tango by no less than the Finnish
Ambassador. The C.O. of the Finnish squadron on the Saratoga had told McQueen
that the tango was a passion for many Finns - a national pastime. McQueen had
thought the guy was joking. Great. Now I'll be expected to ask the man's
wife to dance. Thanks a lot, Small Change. Make my night.
Sweet little metaphor, thought Green. We could dance around like this
all night. It's time for the 'resolucion' - time to start the second part of
the dance. Green refocused on McQueen.
"I'll cut to the chase, Colonel. What would you like to do now?
"I serve at the pleasure of the Corps and the President of the United States,
Ma'am. I'll go where ordered."
"That's what is called 'answering-by-the-book,' my friend. I can look that
one up all by myself, but then again, I have aides to look it up for me. We
can do this the long way or the short way. I don't know about you, Colonel
McQueen, but I don't have lots of time here"
Taking a deep breath to center himself, McQueen answered: "General Green, I
seem to have nothing but time lately."
"Well, I hope that you have managed to enjoy some of it, Colonel, because it
ain't gonna' last. Now, once again - What would you like to do now? Bearing
in mind that I may, in fact, be the very goddess of Marine Corps aviation,
and even I don't get everything I ask for. "
Never in his entire career had anyone asked McQueen what he wanted. It was a
bit disorienting. He knew that he wanted to be back on the Saratoga. He also
knew that more than likely it was out of the question. Truth be told, as much
as he would like to, McQueen would have to think long and hard before he
would reassign himself back to the Wildcards now. Damn, Green makes
sense, he thought.
The General was growing impatient, and she didn't wait for him to speak. "OK,
so by the book, Colonel, tell me what is your weakest area," she said,
adopting the tried and true interviewer's format.
McQueen always hated these questions. As far as he could tell they did
nothing but tell you how much the interviewee squirmed when asked
discomforting questions. He did not answer her - a least not in words.
Instead he gestured to the room at large.
"Ah, interpersonal skills," the General remarked. "Luckily the Corps not only
builds character - it loves characters. You will never be
'Hail-fellow-well-met McQueen,' but your leadership skills are just fine. We
can work of the social skills. You know my next question."
The General wanted McQueen's self-assessment of his own strong points.
"I'm a good tactician," was all he could bring himself to say.
"Finally," Green said, throwing her hands into the air. "Finally an honest
answer. That damn lamp gets heavy after a while.
"Lamp?" he asked
"I was beginning to feel like that eccentric old man - the one with the lamp?
The one looking for an honest man."
"Diogenes." McQueen filled in the blank. "I know the feeling. I've been
looking for most of my life," he muttered under his breath.
Green had heard him, however. Then you have been looking in the wrong
places, Green thought. Ever tried a mirror? T.C. McQueen, I do believe
you are my honest man.
She spoke. "Compared to Diogenes, you are a master of social graces. He was
allegedly an incredibly unpleasant individual. You don't sleep in a bathtub,
do you? Or have any other strange habits I should know about?" Green asked.
"Ma'am?"
Becca Green looked him over again, and then chuckled. "Did you know that this
unpleasant little old philosopher with the strange habits and a penchant for
lighting fixtures was sold into slavery?" she asked rhetorically. "Let that
be a lesson to all truth seekers, I guess. And do you know what Diogenes said
in the slave market when the auctioneer asked him what it was that he did -
what his skill was? He said: 'I can govern men, therefore sell me to someone
who needs a master.' " McQueen would never say it out loud in a million
years, but I'd love to hear those words come out of his mouth.
She looked him straight in the eyes, and said softly: "They wanted to build
warriors, but I don't think the IVA counted on anyone like you." Green gave
him an almost motherly smile. Rather than feeling an insult, McQueen felt
himself beginning to blush. He turned his face toward the reception area -
toward the dance. Green followed his gaze, and watched Kylen for a while.
"She is an interesting young woman," Green remarked almost casually. Almost,
but not quite.
"That's one way to put it," McQueen replied, almost, but not quite, as
casually. "Did she tell you a story?"
Green was momentarily stunned. How did he know? How well does he know
her? Kylen had told her a story. It hadn't been the words themselves, but
the way Kylen said them. Clear and striking pictures had appeared in the
General's imagination. A sense of time and place. A feeling.
"Kylen tells stories?" General Green asked. The tenor of the question was not
so subtly veiled. She was asking if Kylen lied.
Kylen had told McQueen that she had learned how to lie during her
imprisonment. But she had never lied to him. She had in fact extracted from
McQueen a promise: He would never lie to her. He was unshakable and correct
in his belief - Kylen had made the same, if unspoken, promise to him. McQueen
doubted that at this stage of the game Kylen would lie to General Green. Not
at this stage. He gave the General a bland 'don't-kid-a-kidder' type of look.
She was forced to smile.
"So ... she has told you a story," he stated. "She must like you."
So, he knows her *very* well. Her talents, and how she reacts to people.
Even, perhaps, who she will like and who she won't.
They watched Kylen move around the floor, the Ambassador teaching her the
dance. She was a quick study and was moving fairly well. She was smiling and
enjoying herself, occasionally giving a little laugh at her own expense. The
Ambassador's wife was attempting to teach Major Howard with less success. In
his case, it was the teacher who occasionally laughed. It was all basically
good-natured and fun. They were all concentrating, but not with the total
seriousness - and certainly not with the passion usually equated with the
tango.
"The tango is a good metaphor, don't you think?" Green asked.
"For Kylen's situation? Yes, I suppose it is." McQueen gave a little hurrumph
of amusement. "She will do well," he asserted.
"Yes, I think that she just may," Green responded, chuckling as well. After
all, Kylen has just been able to get information out of me against my better
judgment. "An interesting young woman. You know, I didn't think that I
would like her."
"Neither did I," McQueen admitted.
Green let his remark float in the air for a few seconds before she filed it
away for further analysis. "She could be an asset to an officer." Green spoke
with a quiet consideration. "Today there are only four 4-star generals in The
Corps, and three of them call her by her first name. Look, they've changed
partners. Did you ever think you would see our Commandant learning to dance
the tango? And with a twenty-three year old in a long blue dress? And
apparently enjoying himself in the process?"
The Commandant was indeed dancing with Kylen. The Ambassador moved along
beside them, coaching them in the posture and attitude of the dance.
"Yes, she would be a help to almost any career officer," Becca mused out
loud.
"It doesn't matter," McQueen said.
Becca gave him a questioning look of such intensity that is almost burned.
"It doesn't matter," he reiterated. "Her fiance is in for the duration, but I
don't see West as a thirty-year Marine." McQueen paused momentarily, thinking
of Nathan West. "No, I think that he'll be on the first bus off the base."
"Oh. But where should West go now if we split up your Squadron?"
"West? ... West will bloom wherever he is planted. He is almost ready to be
someone's 'Exec.' He'll be better at the paperwork.
"And how does he feel about this?" Green asked as she gestured vaguely to the
room, but it was clear to McQueen that she was referring to Kylen and The
Corps.
"No one is thrilled, but we accept her decision." McQueen was immediately
conscious of the fact that he had used the inclusive term 'we' - that he had
included himself in the circle of family and friends. Green was a good
interrogator.
"You know her family?" Green asked the question to which she already had the
answer.
Green was a good interrogator, but not as good as McQueen ... or she was out
of practice ... or she was playing with him. He caught her drift like a
bugle call, and was on the alert. She had caught him once. She wouldn't catch
him again.
McQueen now looked Green straight in the eyes. "I'm acquainted with her fa
mily. All of her brothers and sisters. Her father has invited me to their
farm." He emphasized the word 'father' ever so slightly.
"Ah well, there you have it," she said. Green turned back to watch the dance.
Colonel McQueen could not afford - And General Green did not want to see -
any scandal surrounding his career. There had been rumors. The Colonel - who
was not known to have any personal attachments - seemed very close to this
rather attractive and certainly charming young woman. An involvement with a
subordinate's significant other would be not only a scandal: It would be a
real career burner. It was obvious that the two people were close. And Green
could, in all honesty, give a list of reasons why they had probably become
friends. Yet and still it was a strange relationship with no easy definition.
Green considered what he had just told her. McQueen was her one honest man.
He had told her what she needed to know. Those who wished to discredit him
could dig all they wanted - but while the friendship was perhaps a bit
unseemly, the detractors would come up empty-handed. It would be almost worth
it to let the buggers try to find something. It would tie them up for weeks -
if not months. It could serve my purposes nicely if played well, but I
don't have that luxury. No, best to get him out of town and let him do what
he does best. You win, Brad, but you knew that you would. You just let me run
the exercise for practice, didn't you? Well, the old broad still has a few
moves. Tomorrow we get down to the horse trading.
General Green had been looking forward to her retirement. She had hoped for
several good years of spoiling her grandchildren and indulging in her
hobbies. Until this evening she had thought that her last duty to Corps and
Country had been to postpone her retirement - to see the War through to the
end. Now Becca felt that she had a little something extra to throw in. Icing
on the cake. It would be her very last gift to Corps and Country. He will
probably give me some real headaches over this. He is not going to like a few
of my maneuvers, and I'll have to hear his particular brand of bitching and
moaning. He will try me and test me, I'm sure. And I'll do more that that to
him. But no good thing comes without some work. A good officer grooms her
replacement. I can get the wheels in motion. Green laughed to herself.
It looks as if I've just acquired a new hobby. Before I leave The Corps I
will see at least one star on T.C. McQueen's shoulders.
The tango ended, and there was more than polite applause. Kylen spoke briefly
with the Commandant and the Ambassador, who asked after Colonel McQueen.
After a few moments Kylen excused herself to fetch McQueen. She was feeling
in fine fettle. If there had been an underlying purpose in inviting her this
evening - she would forgive it. Kylen felt great. She had been complimented,
petted and praised. She had been treated graciously. She had been treated
like a lady.
She spotted McQueen and the General seated at a table in the bar, and began
to cross the reception area toward them. Kylen was momentarily absorbed in
self-awareness. If she turned her head she could catch the slightest scent of
the perfume she had purchased that morning. She could feel the weight of the
necklace around her throat, and feel the sweep of her dress against her legs.
The hint of friction as the silk of her sleeves brushed against the silk of
the dress. The whisper of sound that it made. She could hear the little tap
of her new shoes against the floor, and could feel the way her hips moved
forward as she walked, accepting her weight with each step. Even the air
against her face as she moved forward through it: It all belonged to her. She
felt at that moment as if she could walk through walls - that the waves would
part before her. For the first time since the attack of the Tellus vessel -
even in this room and city filled with people who had agendas - Kylen felt in
control.
General Green assessed the young woman as she crossed the room. Of all the
things that Green might or might not be - she was still a woman - and she now
saw Kylen with an older, more experienced woman's eye. There was an
unconscious sense of power radiating from the young woman who was moving
toward them - an aura that Green had not sensed before. A few good men in
Evening Dress can do a girl wonders, can't they, Kylen,? she thought. Two
months ago she was a POW, and tonight ...? 'I danced with the man, who danced
with the girl, who danced with the King of Spain.' How delightful for her.
She smiled warmly. "Ah, here she is," Green said.
Without turning around, McQueen stood. He had learned the social graces well.
It was after all, what an officer did on such formal occasions. Stand when a
woman came to the table. He turned toward Kylen.
McQueen did not consciously recognize a change in his friend, but he did
react instinctively to her demeanor. When he saw her he checked his posture.
He stood taller and gave his jacket a tug - squaring himself away. It was an
unconscious action on his part.
Kylen was acutely aware that he had stood for her - that he had paid her the
courtesy - that he was treating her differently. She enjoyed the moment, and
did not wave him back into his seat. It had been ages since anyone had stood
for her. Just a few seconds - besides, the Ambassador wants him, she
thought.
"So you liked the tango?" General Green asked.
"Yes. Yes, I did." Kylen gave the General a smile, but her voice and phrasing
made it seem as if she was talking to herself.
Earth to Cinderella. Enjoy the feeling, Child, but not too much, thought
Green. Kylen seemed to snap out of it a bit and focused on the General.
"It is precise ... very precise. The Ambassador says that it is really a
dance about stillness, not movement." She paused and looked at McQueen. "You
might like this dance," she said with consideration. Kylen abruptly
remembered the reason she had been looking for the Colonel. "The Ambassador
wants to speak with you, by the way."
"It's either talk to Virtinen or dance the tango with his wife," Green
wisecracked. "We are done for now. I'll expect you in my office at 1300
tomorrow. Bring my cigar. Go."
McQueen inclined his head to the General, and started to leave. He had taken
only a few steps when he overheard Kylen ask Becca Green: "General, what is
the High-Risk Personnel Program?" It stopped him dead in his tracks.
"Major Howard told me that the first thing I needed to do was go through the
High-Risk Personnel Program," Kylen continued. Her attention was on the
General, and she did not see McQueen's reaction.
Doing an about-face, McQueen made to return to the conversation. This he did
not like. Not at all. Green, however, saw his maneuver and waved him away
with an 'off-you-go' gesture. When she was sure he was well on his way to the
Ambassador, Green turned her attention back to Kylen.
"It is a school down at Quantico. Primarily for diplomatic personnel, but for
anyone whose job might put them at risk. Defensive techniques mostly."
Kylen felt that she should feel some alarm - but strangely, she did not. She
was supposed to analyze information. She would learn how to take care of
herself, something she wanted desperately to learn.
"Do you know the tango, General?" she asked.
McQueen scouted the room. The Finnish Ambassador was at the back of his mind
- on hold for the moment. There was something he had to take care of first.
McQueen had just found Kylen to be a little more confusing than usual. He
felt again like he had missed something. But she had handled herself well so
far. And Green was correct: Kylen walked in the full favor of the biggest of
the big boys. This was probably the one place in the universe that Kylen was
completely safe. And now - NOW, when I'm just beginning to read General
Green - NOW Kylen shows up, interrupts and is acting just a bit strange. The
High-Risk Personnel Program? An analyst sits in an office somewhere just
outside the Beltway - Quantico, Langley, DamNeck - maybe the Pentagon. Why
does an analyst need the skills taught down at HRPP? No, they have something
in mind for Kylen. Something she knows nothing about. He spied Major
Howard taking the stairway up to the second floor. McQueen followed him.
Howard was looking for an out-of-the-way place to make a call. There was no
ulterior motive - no juicy bit of intelligence to pass along. Howard wanted
to call his wife in New Jersey just to say goodnight. He entered a small
anteroom. A waiting room - with two armchairs - lit by a small lamp on a
table. McQueen followed Howard into the room, sat in one of the chairs, and
gestured for the Major to do the same.
"Colonel," Howard greeted McQueen cautiously. There was no answer for several
seconds.
"Tell me - just what is your plan for Miss Celina, Major Howard?" McQueen
asked quietly - on the edge.
Barton Howard did not immediately respond to the Colonel's question. He had
never really totally understood the bond between these two survivors, and was
a bit surprised that McQueen would track him down. Especially in this
setting. Howard was surprised by the Colonel's insistence.
"Colonel McQueen, I have no plans for Ms. Celina. She will be on General
Radford's staff - his aide, technically."
"And technically, Major Howard, you and I are just two Marine officers
discussing personnel assignments," McQueen said, leaning forward in his
chair. "Cut the crap. What is going on here?"
"With all due respect, Colonel McQueen, it is 'Need-to-Know,'" Howard replied
carefully.
"And how well do you know Ms. Celina, Major?"
"I admire her, Sir. Her resilience and strength of character. Her
intelligence. But you are correct, Sir. I don't know her well personally."
Howard said. He was becoming uncomfortable. He, Howard, was a member of
Marine Corps Intelligence, and McQueen was starting to rattle his cage.
McQueen stood and crossed to the Major. "Let's talk 'Need-to-Know' for a
moment." He placed his hands on the arms of Howard's chair and leaned down
until he was eye to eye. Getting into the man's face - effectively pinning
the man to the chair. McQueen's expression was impassive; his voice quiet,
but tense.
"I'll tell you what you need to know about Ms. Celina, Major. If - when - she
finds out that you have been manipulating her - using her - you're liable to
wake up one night with her fangs in your throat. And I will not do anything
to stop her. Hell, I'll hand her the knife so she can finish the job without
breaking a sweat."
McQueen left the room without waiting for a response from the stunned Major.
Downstairs the orchestra had started to play the tango again. Damn, he
thought. There was no way now that he could get out of asking the
Ambassador's wife to dance. It had been almost worth it to put it to Major
Howard. McQueen did not trust the man, and had wanted to do that for months.
09 January 2065
McQueen and Kylen sat together in the back seat of the staff car. A sheet of
Plexiglas separated them from the driver - a corporal. Kylen now recognized
the sleeve patches for that rank. There really was no need for the extra
privacy. They were both tired and silent. Kylen leaned back into the seat
and closed her eyes.
McQueen found her to be distant. Not disconnected - she was right there with
him - not lost and shaken by something. She just seemed distracted. She was
so calm. It was unusual. He decided that as long as when he looked into her
eyes she was in there looking back at him he would let it ride. He looked
over at her, thinking: She'll be asleep before we even reach Capitol Hill.
I'll have to wake her up when we get to the hotel.
McQueen looked out of the window to his left. He took in a deep breath and
then let it out slowly. He did it again .... And again .... And then he began
the exercise.
1862: Mackie, he thought to himself.
"You look like you are so far away," Kylen whispered, so softly that McQueen
was not sure if she had actually spoken or if he had imagined it.
"I am," he murmured. "You too."
It was enough for Kylen at the moment. His tone made it clear that he was not
angry or displeased with her. He was just being private. Kylen was used to it
and left him alone. She was content.
McQueen went back to his exercise.
1864: Oviatt; Denig; Roantree; Hudson; Sprowle; Smith,Willard.
Without thinking, and for reasons that he didn't understand, McQueen began to
very softly repeat the list out loud.
"1872: McNamara, Dougherty, Purvis, Steward."
Kylen felt he was giving her both a hint and a gentle challenge. She became
alert. "Marines?" she asked.
"Yes."
The car was near to The Washington Hotel, and stopped for a light. McQueen
tapped on the glass that separated them from the driver. He held up his
index finger and drew several flat circles in the air - the signal for "drive
around awhile." The corporal nodded and eased the car into the traffic.
After several minutes Kylen asked: "2062?"
"No," he said.
After a few moments she asked again, picking a date at random. "1957?"
"No"
"1921?"
"One of the ones I most admire," he said. "Smith in 1921." He paused, and
then in a different tone he said: "Cook in 1964."
"Is it a long list?" Kylen asked.
"Too long."
Kylen had an insight. "They're the Marines who've received the Medal of
Honor, aren't they?"
McQueen gave his half-smile. She hadn't let him down.
"Why do you call this list to mind? ... When?" she asked gently.
McQueen paused. You brought it up for a reason, he told himself. Go
ahead. He took a breath and centered himself.
"When my time was up - my five years in the mines - I was conscripted to the
InVitro platoons. The very same day."
Kylen gave a little gasp. It was horrifying.
"Actually, I suppose it could have been worse," he said. "If I hadn't been
conscripted, I would be dead. I would have had to stay in that hellhole. I
would have had to work for another two years to make enough money to pay for
passage off of Omicron Draconis. No InVitro has ever lived for seven years in
those mines. When I got to Earth, I wasn't in a combat platoon. I was in a
labor gang."
McQueen decided to skip over the Port Riskin Affair. To cover the time gap in
the story, and his time in solitary, he leaned forward and tapped on the
glass. There was a faint whirring sound as the window was lowered. "Lincoln
Memorial," he ordered. The driver put the window back up. McQueen sat back
and continued his story. "During my second year I was transferred into a
different unit. I had drawn attention to myself, and the Sergeant decided
that I needed to be 'put in my place.' He made it his mission, and he could
be very creative. In one of the hallways in headquarters there were portraits
of all the Medal of Honor recipients. I didn't know what that meant at the
time. Well, I did something that pissed the Sergeant off - can't even
remember what it was. He canceled my liberty and gave me thirty-six hours to
memorize the list. It was a punishment. And if I failed, I knew that he would
come up with something else, and something more, and so on and so on until he
found some way - something - to break me. When the time was up he tested me
every which way but loose. He couldn't catch me. I was ready. I knew them all
backwards and forward. I could recite the list alphabetically, or by years,
or by rank."
"So you did it," Kylen prompted.
"Yes, I did it. And I learned a lot in the process. I learned that the medal
was the military's highest honor. It is still a 'pure' thing. Nobody tries to
'win' the medal. If they do - they screw up. Hell, they probably take out a
lot of their buddies as well. I learned that most of the guys were just
ordinary grunts doin' their jobs when something extraordinary happened.
Loyalty - I already knew about loyalty. And I knew a few things about
courage. I learned what tradition was - or rather what it could be. What
dedication was." McQueen gave a little smirk. "I learned that I was smarter
than the Sergeant, and that I had a good memory. That sometimes I could take
control of the events around me. And I learned that I could learn." He paused
for a moment, and then spoke again. "After that - as long as I did my job -
he left me pretty much alone."
"So you go through the list to get in the mindset for challenges?" Kylen
asked.
"No," he responded abruptly. "I don't recite it before action, and I don't
use it as a mantra - not in the conventional sense. I use it to remind
myself."
The list had evolved. It was similar to McQueen's wedding photograph. And,
like the picture, it had become a form of self-discipline. Both had taken on
meanings that had little to do with their initial significance. Both things
were now reminders of both his failures and his successes.
Kylen could think of nothing to say.
They arrived at the Lincoln Memorial. The driver parked, and waited for
orders like a good Marine. McQueen got out of the car and then held out his
hand to assist Kylen as she slid across the seat. They walked to the
Memorial and started up the steps. There were few tourists. It was getting
late, and it was cold for this essentially Southern city. As a New Englander,
Kylen found the weather unseasonably warm. Her breath was visible in the
night air, but there was no snow.
She returned to the subject. "You were at 1899?" Kylen phrased it as a
question.
"There were ten in 1899. I know all their names."
They reached the main floor of the memorial. McQueen looked up into the
illuminated face of the statue.
"I know all their names." McQueen said it again. He spoke as if he expected
Lincoln to answer him.
Kylen almost expected that the statue would. Lincoln had piloted the country
through its most turbulent time, and as a result a nation had been created.
Lincoln had outlawed the institution of slavery - an institution that the IVA
had been able to resurrect on a legal technicality. The InVitro program and
the aberration of indentured servitude has lasted for thirty-three years.
If the stones were to speak, they would speak to McQueen, she thought.
'I do the very best I know how - the very best I can, and I mean to keep
doing so until the end.' he thought, quoting the President's words back at
the man's statue.
Kylen waited in silence. After a minute or so McQueen turned and held out his
arm for her.
"Do you know that the statue is carved from marble quarried in Georgia?" she
asked. McQueen looked over his shoulder into her eyes - looking for the
truth. It was there. He turned back to the sculpture. The irony of it all
was not lost on McQueen. "Things may come to those who wait, but only the
things left by those who hustle," he softly quoted Lincoln to Kylen.
Kylen took his arm, and together they left the building. When they reached
the bottom of the stairs Kylen asked: "You memorized them all - the names and
the years - but you said that there are two you really admire?"
At that moment McQueen felt almost ashamed that he hadn't memorized the
histories of all the men - even though he knew that that was too big a task.
But there were two men - now three with Paul - who meant something special to
him.
"Who are they?" Kylen asked.
"Smith, Albert J. He was just an ordinary grunt standing sentry. It was in
1921 - the very infancy of the airplane. He saw a plane crash, and he pulled
the pilot out of the burning wreckage."
It fit together for Kylen. McQueen was a pilot. All pilots feared fire. There
was nothing more that needed to be said about Albert J. Smith's actions.
Kylen waited, but McQueen said nothing. "You mentioned one other," she
prompted.
"Did I?" he asked.
Kylen almost tripped. There must be a real and distinct reason that he had
chosen to suddenly 'forget' something he had so recently said to her. There
was a reason that he wanted to drop it. She chose to leave it alone. It was
either private or secret. Either way, Kylen did not want to push any buttons.
No matter how much she wanted to know, it was not worth creating tension in
the evening, which had become personal and private - almost like a night in
Maine.
McQueen escorted Kylen back to the hotel. Silent again, he was deeply
ensconced his own bubble. Kylen was well used to it and was still curious,
but not offended. He said good night in the lobby, at the elevators - in full
view of the public. Kylen had caught onto the conventions of "public displays
of affection." Bridee giving him a kiss - a kiss from a child - in public
was one thing. A kiss from her - even on the cheek - would be something else
altogether. She took his hand in both of hers, thanked him for a lovely
evening, and wished him good night. She gave him a wave as the elevator doors
closed.
The driver held the car door open. "Hains Point. The Awakening," McQueen
ordered with purpose as he got into the car.
Kylen entered her room and took off her coat. Bridee was sound asleep. Kylen
was tired, but knew that she would be unable to sleep. She knew that the
feeling of control that she had felt - had earned - during the evening would
not last. Not with that level of intensity. She knew that it would fade into
the background. Kylen was aware that she would again have feelings of
confusion in her life - of not being in control. It was, after all, real
life. But now she had a touchstone. Having felt it - the sense of control -
she was sure that it was a real and not a dream. And if the feeling was real,
then she could have it again. The knowledge created a fantastic calm in her
heart. Comfort. Kylen was determined to enjoy the feeling until the very
last of it drained away. She went to get her father, correctly surmising that
he had stayed up until she was home. They went up to the Terrace Room on the
top floor of the hotel for a nightcap. They had a skyline view of the city.
Cook, Colonel Donald G. As McQueen absently looked through his window he
thought about the man. McQueen hadn't told Kylen about Cook for a reason -
the story was just a little too close to home.
The date on the Medal of Honor Citation technically made it the first awarded
to a Marine in the Vietnam War - even though the medal wasn't actually
awarded for over ten years. A captain at the time, Cook had been captured by
the VC one hundred years ago. December 31, 1964. He had survived for three
years. He had rallied, and had been an inspiration to his fellow prisoners.
Cook had tried to escape. He had shared his food and medicine with his men,
and had finally died of malaria - or so the VC had alleged. In the 1990s the
Navy had named a destroyer after this steadfast Marine: The Donald G. Cook.
During the C.C. War with the Communist Chinese the Navy had transferred the
name to a new space destroyer. The motto of both of the vessels had been, and
was: "Faith without fear." During three years of capture, starvation,
illness, and encouraging other men - during three years of torture - Cook had
never talked. Cook had never been broken.
The driver parked the car and opened the door for McQueen, who walked toward
the mammoth sculpture. The driver got back into the car to await the
Colonel's pleasure. This place always gave the Corporal the creeps. He tried
to avoid the place even in the daytime. The sculpture had been in the ground
for just about a hundred years, and DC residents seemed to almost ignore it.
It was part of the landscape. Tourists were still fascinated by it, and in
his job as a driver for the brass that came into town, the Corporal was often
asked to bring people out here. It never got any easier. The place had a bad
vibe, and he was sure that his mother would say that it wasn't healthy. The
thing was just too weird.
The place - the Awakening - always drew McQueen back. He walked around and
through the dimly illuminated artwork. It was literally a sculpted metal
giant awakening from the earth - clawing its way out of the ground. Only
pieces of the giant were visible as it seemed to be fighting its way out of
the earth. Part of a hand and part of a bent leg - and from the expression
on the partially freed face and head, awakening was no easy matter. Being
trapped was hard enough, but getting out was even more difficult. Forever
caught halfway to freedom. The possibility of failing was a heartbeat away.
There were moments that McQueen wondered if the giant was not awakening from
the earth, but instead being sucked back down into it.
Colonel Cook. Faith without fear.
McQueen had accepted the fact that his final actions while under torture had
been excused. The AIs had learned from the Vietcong, and then had perfected
the art. He had lasted for several days. McQueen still had no idea what he
had said under torture - no memory - but he knew that he would have said
anything. Anything. Sometimes torture could be too extreme. The military
understood that fact as well. But Paul had been right. It was done to show
that you could be broken. That your will would fail before your body. Cook
had had a key - a secret place in his soul - that McQueen hadn't been able to
find. He hoped that Cook would forgive him. I wonder just what is the
number on that door? he asked himself.
Closing his eyes, McQueen caught another Lincoln quotation as it floated to
the surface. "My concern is not whether you have failed, but whether you are
content with your failure." McQueen was not content. He opened his eyes.
One of the giant's arms was totally free and stretched up to the sky. The
hand, however, was not reaching for help. It was bent into a claw - waiting
to strike - to tear into the dirt. It was the part of the whole piece that
McQueen liked the most. It implied action - not reaction. He had a brief
desire to lay out on the ground in the middle of the installation. Ready to
be crushed by the metal arms if the giant should move. To feel the giant's
heartbeat through the ground against his back. To see the universe from the
giant's point of view. To know with certainty that he, T.C. McQueen, could
get up, stretch, and walk away. I know that already, he realized.
Thanks, but no thanks. I already know the view from down there.
Lincoln had also said: "Always bear in mind that your own resolution to
succeed is more important than any other one thing."
As he walked back toward the car, McQueen felt that he was starting to regain
control over his life. There were possibilities. All in all, Kylen was
right. It has been a pretty good evening.
The corporal jumped out and opened the door. "Henderson Hall," McQueen said,
to the young Marine's relief.
(Ten)
10 January 2065
Inviting the Celina family out to dinner had actually been Becca Green's
suggestion. In fact, she had selected the restaurant, her aide had made the
reservations, and the same aide had contacted the Celinas to confirm. The
General had then dismissed McQueen with: "Convey my compliments to Ms.
Celina, and remember to give her my number. Please tell her that I want to
see her when she moves down here. Enjoy your evening."
All that had been left for the Colonel to do was to make the usual
'do-you-serve-InVitros?' phone call - and show up. McQueen hated to admit
that he would have never thought of treating the Celinas to dinner. General
Green had explained the choice in very clear and concise terms.
"One: The food is excellent. Two: The food is plentiful and not overly fancy,
so Kylen's teenaged brother ... What did you say his name was again?"
"Allston, Ma'am," McQueen offered.
"Well, Allston won't fidget and complain of near starvation. Three: It isn't
just another restaurant. It's really true - George Washington really did eat
there. The father will like that bit of history, I imagine"
Yes, he will, thought McQueen. It got my attention.
"Four: They do it up in period costumes and music. The girls will like that.
And five: It isn't like every other restaurant. Everyone will remember this
dinner. They will remember the night that Colonel McQueen took them out to
dinner at Gadsby's"
What the General had not said, but what McQueen had thought, was: And it is
a great place to break some news that might not go over too well. McQueen
had observed - from a distance - the way that various families took the news
that a Marine was shipping out. And Amy had gone ballistic if he was gone for
even a week. He had no idea how Kylen, or the rest of her family for that
matter, would take the news: Colonel McQueen was leaving for California at
0800 tomorrow morning.
When they were seated at the Tavern, Allston remarked: "There are a bunch of
places like this in Boston."
It was surprising how quickly McQueen felt the bottom of his stomach drop out
- how much the remark bothered and disappointed him.
"I've never been to one, though," Allston said. "Have you, Kylen?"
"No, I haven't. Always wanted to, but never got around to it." Kylen beamed
at McQueen, who instantly felt much better.
The dinner was a success. The food was good. Kylen and Bridee did love the
costumes and the music. Frank and McQueen discussed the Revolutionary War,
and Allston ate like a horse.
McQueen broke the news during dessert. It was met with silence.
Kylen put down her fork. Her first thought was: I'll never eat pecan pie
again.
"Tomorrow morning?" Bridee asked in clear distress and full adolescent
protest. Frank placed a hand on her arm to bring her into check.
Kylen gave herself a little shake. Months ago you told yourself that, as
his friend, you would do what you could to make his plans and dreams come
true. He wanted this. Now, put up or shut up. "Is it a good assignment?"
Kylen asked with more calm than she felt.
"Better than I'd hoped," he said quietly, turning to look into her face.
No, it isn't the Saratoga, but it is much better than I'd hoped for, he
thought. "I'll be working for General Wierick."
"He's the Supreme Commander of American Forces." Frank stated the obvious.
"Sounds pretty good to me," Allston interjected. "Wait 'til Marty Aalto
Guilio hears about it. He thought you were hot stuff before this."
"He is hot stuff," Bridee protested.
"No one said he wasn't," Allston shot back.
"Enough," Frank warned. "Let's give Colonel McQueen a better memory than you
two snapping at each other." He knew that when the kids got nervous they
would take it out on each other. They had all begun to think of McQueen as
their personal property. Dinner at the White House had impressed both of the
younger children, but McQueen leaving had just driven the reality of war home
in a way that speeches and ceremonies could not. "What will you be doing for
the General?" he asked, trying to make conversation.
"Dad, he might not be able to tell us," Kylen said, mentally ticking off the
different Marine bases she had learned were in California.
"Have you told Dale and Amy?" Frank asked.
"Not yet."
"But what about all your stuff? Your scarf and the mug I gave you?" Bridee
asked. "Aren't you going to go back up to Maine first?"
"I'm sure Dale and Amy will see to Colonel McQueen's belongings," Frank said.
McQueen had decided that he would call The Barn after he touched down in
Twentynine Palms. They would find the wedding picture. It would mess up the
truce he and Amy had built, but he didn't see how it could be helped. It's
time to put that thing away, he thought.
Kylen suddenly remembered the picture. She had never understood it. She
doubted that Six would want it made public knowledge, but she knew it
existed. She had already seen it.
"No," she said. "I'll go up and take care of things." Then she began to wing
it. "I want to visit them before I start the new job anyway. I'll go up next
Wednesday, and the Colonel can call and talk to them and let me know what he
wants done with his things."
"You can use our attic," Allston said. The family turned and almost gaped at
him: Allston was not known for his practical suggestions.
Frank was proud of his youngest son. "Excellent idea. Now, let's finish
dessert, go back to the hotel, and then have a nightcap up in the Terrace
Room."
All in all things could have gone worse. All in all it had gone pretty well.
McQueen decided that General Green really knew her stuff.
11 January 2065
McQueen had been correct. Frank Celina had slept late - all the way 'til
0530. As they had arranged the night before, McQueen was dropping off a few
things to be stored at the farm - his medals, sword and Evening Dress
uniform. Not a huge call for those items in the desert. Besides, he had
something for Kylen.
Frank opened the door to the suite - the sitting room. "Let me get the
girls," he said.
"Let them sleep."
"Ty, you don't have to travel to Massachusetts with those two today - I do.
You got time for coffee? Help yourself." He knocked softly on the girl's
bedroom door.
"A quick one," McQueen said, pouring the coffee.
Kylen almost immediately emerged from the bedroom. She was wearing the pink
Bunny Slippers.
Come to see me off, Boys? thought McQueen as he checked out her footgear.
"Bridee isn't awake. Can you just go in?" Kylen gestured weakly to the room.
She and McQueen briefly locked eyes. As much as he didn't want to do it,
McQueen could see that - no matter what it might mean to Bridee - it was
important to Kylen.
McQueen paused for a minute in the doorway, watching Bridee sleep. She
looked younger than her thirteen years. Sleep, sleep happy child, all
creation slept and smil'd,' he thought.
Kylen came and stood behind his shoulder. "It's OK, " she whispered.
McQueen squatted down by the bed. "Bridee ... Bridee .... Bridgid," he said
softly.
She stirred and slowly opened her eyes. "You've come to say good-bye," she
whispered.
"I've come to say good-bye," he agreed with her.
"Will you see Cooper Hawkes?"
"I don't know."
Bridee propped herself up on one elbow and looked at him with immense
gravity. "Will you be careful?"
"I always try," he said with equal gravity.
"Alright then." With that, Bridee put her arms around his neck, hugging him
tightly. McQueen was getting used to this, and hugged her back.
"Bye-bye, Tyrus," she whispered into his ear, and then gave him a child's
kiss on the neck.
"Good-bye, Bridgid."
Bridee let go and buried her head under her pillow. "I'm trying not to cry,"
she said.
"I appreciate that."
"I'll just stay in here, OK?"
"That's fine, Bridgid." He stood and left the room, closing the door behind
him.
Allston was waiting in the sitting area, and shook the Colonel's hand before
stumbling back to bed.
Frank put his hands on McQueen's shoulders. "Take care of yourself, Son. Let
us hear from you once in a while." He shook hands and left the room as well,
leaving McQueen alone to face Kylen.
Kylen regarded McQueen silently for a few moments. "I thought I was prepared
for this. I didn't think it would bother me this much," she said, stepping
forward and hugging him.
The statement jolted McQueen: He had been thinking the same thing. He hugged
her around the shoulders and lightly kissed her forehead. As was his wont, he
covered his emotions with action. He gently separated himself from Kylen, and
handed her the book he had brought for her.
"'The Little Prince.' Saint-Exupery," she whispered. Kylen had hoped that
McQueen would never find the book. The story of the self-sacrificing little
prince hit just a bit too close to the mark - his mark. "Have you read it?"
she asked, already knowing the answer.
"I ordered it when I was up in Maine. Your family got me started on the
author - and you got me started on fairytales, Kylen."
"But I didn't want you to read this," she blurted before she could stop
herself.
"Too late. Dale said something to that effect when he saw that I was reading
it. Why?"
Kylen could see that he really had no understanding as to why she would have
been afraid for him to read the story - that the Little Prince would offer
himself up for death. She could too easily see McQueen doing that.
"Maybe it was just something to do with my nightmares," Kylen hedged. "Tell
me, which character did you identify with?"
"The pilot, of course. Come to think of it, I can see you playing a bit of
the Little Prince, Kylen."
It made her laugh. Her apprehension had been groundless. She put one arm
around his waist, and he placed an arm over her shoulder. Together they
walked to the door. McQueen stepped into the hallway.
"Kylen, the most important things - the most beautiful things - 'what gives
them their beauty is something that is invisible.'"
"Saint-Exupery," she whispered, and kissed his cheek.
"Right in one," McQueen said, and then he turned and left.
(Eleven)
11 March 2065
Putting this task force together had been a major challenge. There was the
time element. There was the size element. The Marine Air-Ground Task Force -
the MAGFT - was twice the size of what had normally been put together. People
living in tents in the desert, in the winter. There was the personnel and
readiness element. The blending together of experienced and green units -
building teams - pairing people together. Spreading around the experience
and success, as General Green would say. McQueen had remembered Becca's
phrase numerous time over the last several weeks. The General herself had
been calling him almost weekly. She had sent McQueen a new black flightsuit -
with all his patches sewn on - with the "request" that if and when McQueen
was supervising Forward Air Control that he wear it. McQueen complied and
had now gotten used to General Wierick grumbling about 'Becca Boyington and
her damn horse trading.'
Training in the field had begun with an almost horrifyingly low performance.
General Wierick hadn't been - or hadn't appeared to be - upset or even
surprised. The poor level of accomplishment was initially to be expected. For
McQueen, those initial debriefings had been exercises in diplomacy. Always
give some positive feedback. Train your men and women for success - not
failure. The philosophy works, but it isn't always easy, he thought. It was
now eight weeks later. "They are good to go," he said to himself.
Idle stargazing had become a way for McQueen to unwind, and it was easy in
the desert. No light pollution - or very little. McQueen lay on the ground at
what had been his forward observation point earlier in the day. Looking up
into the sky, he found the constellation Draco. Omicron Draconis - he found
that star first. He always did. He looked for Kylen's star, and could not
find it. The Evening Star must be below the horizon. Finally, he looked up at
the North Star. It was kind of hard to avoid. Polaris - The Nail of the North
- The Polestar - The Jackal of Set. It had been "his" since New Year's Eve -
since before New Year's Eve. Kylen had given it to him. Had given him the
"responsibility," as she had called it. And tonight it made him feel
uncomfortable. It was no longer a dispassionate light in the sky. It was now
a memory and a connection, and for the past three nights it had been the
voice of his conscience.
He had known for three days that he would be shipping out soon. McQueen had
known that Kylen - pillar of fire that she was - had known it as well. It had
taken him less than an hour after landing in Twentynine Palms to figure out
why the Corps had hired her. His suspicions had been confirmed. Kylen didn't
have to tell him what she had been doing for the last two months. McQueen had
become intimately familiar with her work.
The North Star - The Steering Star - Lodestar - The Lance of Longinus - The
Angel Star, he thought. He looked at his watch and laughed. By the time he c
alled Kylen it would be 0300 in Virginia.
"Colonel McQueen?" The voice belonged to Captain Marshall Chan, an earnest
and effective man who had been functioning as McQueen's aide since his
arrival. In the two months that they had been working together, Chan couldn't
remember ever hearing Colonel McQueen laugh. And now the man was up there
alone in the dark - laughing out loud. The Captain wondered if he would ever
truly understand McQueen. "We are all squared away below, Sir. Would you like
a ride back to your quarters?"
"Thank you, Captain. I'll be down presently."
12 March 2065
Kylen had awakened a little after 0200 following a vivid dream. It had almost
been a nightmare, but she had been able to wake herself up using the trick
that Dr. Feller had taught her. In her dream, Kylen had looked at her hands.
After shaking off the worst of her jitters, Kylen had taken a shower and
washed her hair to relax her nerves - and her psyche.
The phone rang. Kylen looked at her clock and hastily put on a robe. She had
been half expecting this phone call for the past three days. Sure enough,
when she hit the 'accept' button, McQueen's face appeared.
"Is this the right time?" he asked, clearly amused with himself. It was a
three am. phone call that only friends can make. She had introduced him to
the concept.
"My time is your time, McQueen," she jested right back.
"I thought about you tonight," he admitted. "I thought about something that
made me laugh."
"That's why I'm here, Six. I provide the comic relief."
"Working hard?" he asked with a bit of concern. She couldn't have had an easy
time these last two months.
"Hardly working," she joked back. Kylen had been pushed to her limits the
past eight weeks. The Corps basically had her doing double duty. She was
attending classes, training in defensive tactics, getting crammed with
cryptography and security ... and at the same time being pulled hither and
yon to answer questions, analyze new data, and offer her opinions. Either one
could have been a full-time job.
McQueen had, of course, immediately seen that Kylen's hair was wet. And he
knew what that usually meant.
"Nightmare?" he asked.
"Not surprisingly. They told me to expect it. It wasn't a bad one. I was able
to wake myself out of it," she said, holding up her hands to the camera.
McQueen noted that the last of the blackness had disappeared from her
fingernails. Kylen sported an immaculate manicure. "They look good," he
observed.
"They do, don't they," Kylen said with a touch of satisfaction, looking at
her hands. "But, it's funny, in my dreams they are still all beat-up and
ugly. Oh, Bee asked me to say hello."
Bee? Bee? he thought. She means Becca Green.
"Give Bee my best," he said.
They were communicating on McQueen's secure channel, but it was only a
'secure' and not a 'compartmentalized' channel. They both knew that they
could not talk about what was uppermost in their minds. They both knew that
McQueen was skirting the boundaries of security by contacting her at this
time - so close to the start of a mission. They both were determined not to
say or do anything that could ever be considered a breach in security.
"Well, this was just my usual 'checking-in-with-you' call. I better let you
go back to sleep," he said, having grown tired of the charade. He had never
made just 'checking-in-with-you' calls.
"Fat chance. Wait ... what made you laugh?" Kylen asked.
McQueen had remembered the fight that he and Kylen had had in Maine. At one
point he had told her: "One day you will do what I tell you." And she had
waspishly replied: "And one day I will get to hear you really laugh out loud."
"You missed it," he said. It seemed important to McQueen - urgent - that he
tell her this story before he left Earth.
"Missed what?"
"I asked Dale Steinbeck why you didn't want me to read that book," he said.
"And yes, he did tell me."
"So," she said a bit defensively.
"Kylen, I have to tell you ... It made me laugh out loud."
The sounds of Kylen's laughter rolled through the air.
"See you soon, Six."
"See you soon, Small Change."
They both knew that would not be seeing each other any time soon, and
reluctantly signed off. They both had big responsibilities to attend to.
Operation Brass Ring.
Kazbeck.
13 March 2065
Exactly thirty-seven hours, forty-three minutes, and twenty-eight seconds
after the military heavy launch vehicle carrying Colonel T.C. McQueen lifted
off from Earth, en route to the Space Station Goddard, an ISSCV landed at
Albany Logistics Base. Three hours, twenty-three minutes, and nineteen
seconds later the Private on duty scanned the ID tag of one of the ninety-two
footlockers that had been unloaded to facilitate the reroute to its final
destination. All of the footlockers belonged to servicemen and women who had
been shipped back home - or who had died. The device in the Private's hand
automatically searched the system for the most recently listed next-of-
kin/home address of the owner. A label spat out.
Col. T.C. McQueen, USMC
McQueen's personal effects from the Saratoga had finally made their way back
to Earth.
end book two
Previous : Holding Up The Sky Book Two Pt 5 - 7
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Center House
Washington DC,
USA
2150
Pennsylvania Ave. (en route to Hotel Washington)
Washington DC,
USA
2300
1863: Vaughn, Nugent.
1864: Binder; Miller; Martin, James ...;
1865: Tomlin, Thompson, Shivers, Fry, Rannahan.
1871: Brown, Coleman.
"1876: Owens, Michael."
"1884: Morris."
"1898: Quick; Ford; Franklin; Gaughan; Kuchneister; Hill, Frank."
Gadsby's Tavern
Old Town Alexandria,
Virginia, USA
2100
Suite 832, Hotel Washington
Washington DC, USA
0630
Marine Corps Air-Ground Combat Center
Twentynine Palms, California,
USA
2235
Female BOQ
Marine Corps Command and Control
Quantico, Virginia,
USA
0300
Marine Corps Logistics Base
Albany, Georgia
USA
1845
c/o Ridge Farm
South Barre, MA 551076 -8539
USA.
Next : Book Three coming soon