Storiesonline.net
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                                 S&W.45
                           by Gina Marie Wylie

Copyright© 2010 by Gina Marie Wylie


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Description: Sherrie Richardson's life was a roller coaster of ups and downs. One evening she sat on the deck of her Malibu Beach home, seriously considering how far she could get swimming to China. The next morning, life got interesting. After that, it got very, very interesting indeed!

Codes: Mil
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Chapter 1: Weaver


Sherrie Richardson rolled over in her bed when she heard the phone ringing in the living room. She knew from the weak light coming through her bedroom curtains that it was early in the morning and her glance at the clock on her nightstand confirmed it. People call you up with news of wedding plans, births -- even divorces -- in the afternoon or the evening. Unexpected calls a little before six in the morning are invariably bad news.

She tossed the sheet to one side and headed into the living room, crossing her fingers that the caller wouldn't be persistent. "Sherrie," she said into the mouthpiece when she picked up.

"Sherrie, it's me." "Me" was her mother, Gretchen Richardson.

"Yes, Mother."

"Sit down, Sherrie."

Sherrie felt nausea, but she couldn't tell if that was from her third straight night of serious overindulgence of fermented grapes or dread anticipation.

Her mother, without benefit of a picture of her daughter's discomfort, went on.

"Last night the police conducted a no-knock raid on your Aunt Marilyn and Uncle Ben's. You know Marilyn -- she lives for the shopping networks. It was near midnight, Phoenix time, and she was sitting in her living room in her rocker with the lights off, the TV on and the TV clicker in her hand.

"The police said they thought she had a gun. They killed her, Sherrie."

Her mother's breath caught, a half sob. Marilyn Gold had been her mother's younger sister, the one her mother doted on. The person her mother was closest to in the whole world, ever since her husband, Sherrie's father, had died two and a half years before.

"Ben came running out of the bedroom."

Her mother's voice cracked. Sherrie was seriously concerned; her mother was usually unflappable.

"They shot him dead, too. They broke into Weaver's bedroom, but he'd run and hid in the closet. The neighbor who called me said they shot at his bed a dozen times. Then they killed his computer.

"Then someone told the cops that they were at the wrong address and they all ran down the street. Of course, by then, that drug house was empty."

"Jesus God!" was all Sherrie could think to say. "They killed them both? For no reason?"

"Yeah. Sherrie, Phil's on his way from Chicago, but he's not going to get to Phoenix until this afternoon. Please, Sherrie, go see what you can do for Weaver."

Sherrie blinked in astonishment. Her? Weaver?

In spite of the fact that her cousin lived across town most of her life, over the years she'd met her cousin Weaver twice. She only remembered him from the last one of those times. But, oh! How she remembered him that time!

The first time she'd been twelve, he'd been six and he'd sat, so Sherrie had been told, in an out-of-the-way corner, a book on his lap, never saying anything. He could have been green, twelve feet tall and had tentacles for all that Sherrie remembered him. She'd been a stuck-up bitch, her nose in the air, ignoring all the lesser denizens of the universe -- which meant everyone else in the family.

Six years later she'd met Weaver again and that time she remembered him. She'd been eighteen, a high school senior, at the family reunion her parents had hosted. That year she'd been the prom queen, a homecoming princess, and the Senior Class Vice President -- and even more stuck-up than ever. She had no time for dweeb twelve-year-olds, whose name sounded a lot like 'weevil' and that's what she'd said to her mother when told she had to baby sit him and the other younger kids. Lucky her, the first night of the reunion, the adults had given the senior baby sitting spot to her.

The mistake the adults made was giving the number two babysitter slot to her cousin by marriage, Coretta Castleberry, who was almost fifteen at the time.

It was cool that her father's brother, Phil, had married a black woman. But Coretta was a creature from the blackest lagoon. No one deserved a daughter like that, adopted or not. No one.

One of the eight-year-olds had come running to Sherrie to tell her that Coretta was killing Weaver. Sherrie had thought the brat was a little hysterical, but she knew enough to go check.

Coretta was pounding the boy. Sherrie still shivered at the memory of those blows; at the malevolent look of hate and rage on the girl's face. Coretta had turned to Sherrie and screamed at her. "The little faggot fucker just sits there and won't talk! I'll make the faggot fucker talk! You watch!"

The blows were heavy swings of her fists, each one drawing blood from the boy.

Sherrie had waded in and grabbed Coretta and attempted to drag her away from the bloody and unresisting Weaver.

For that she got kicked, punched and finally, bitten. That finally got through to Sherrie that the other was totally out of control. She backed off, dipped into her purse and pulled out her cell phone. Her first call wasn't to her parents -- it was to 911.

Then she called her parents.

The police are quite prompt when you phone in an attempted murder in progress. They were a whole lot faster than eleven adults, just sitting down to dinner in a fine restaurant, across town.

There had been a lot of recriminations later, but Sherrie had bruises over her entire body, and the bite to her right hand that later got infected and she'd come within a few hours of them having to cut her hand off. Yes, she remembered that Friday night -- every little bit of it.

Weaver lost two teeth and had a broken rib, plus dozens of cuts and even more bruises. Yet, in all the fuss, she had never heard Weaver speak a word -- just head shakes and nods. In a way, she'd been almost as freaked by his reaction as she had been by Coretta.

Three months later, one morning her uncle and aunt woke to find Coretta gone, along with their wallets, cash and credit cards, some jewelry and a number of other small items of value. No one had seen Coretta since. The official family position was that she was dead, but there was no way to tell one way or the other. The girl had been fifteen, when she vanished. She'd be eighteen now, but who knew?

"Sherrie, are you okay?" her mother asked.

"Sorry, I'm adjusting."

"Please, Sherrie -- please do this for me. Hop a plane and go to Phoenix. Do what you can for Weaver. Do whatever Phil wants you to do, to help with the arrangements for Marilyn and Ben. I'll be there tomorrow for sure, maybe this evening if I can get a seat on standby."

Sherrie sighed. "Yeah, I'll go. But I'm going to drive, not fly. Jeez, what a nightmare a same-day, one-way ticket would be! I'll be there around noon, Mom."

Her mother knew better than to ask how Sherrie could make a six hour drive in five or so hours. Piece of cake! You set the cruise control to 80 miles an hour and four and a half hours later you're there!

"I'll get going, Mom," Sherrie told her mother. "Where will I find Weaver?"

"Good Samaritan Hospital. Do you remember where it is?"

"Yes, I remember. I'll be there just after noon. And you're coming tomorrow?"

"Yes. Either late this evening or early in the AM."

"I'll get us a reservation for both of us at the downtown Hyatt," Sherrie told her mother.

"Okay. I'll call with my travel plans later."

Her mother hung up and Sherrie walked a few feet and stood in front of the picture window that looked out over the ocean. She didn't care if she was wearing only panties and no bra -- the people who had places on Malibu Beach made a fetish of privacy. She slid the door open so she could hear the sound of the surf, but today it was pretty puny. After a minute, she closed and locked the doors and then hustled into the shower.

One nice thing, she thought forty minutes later as she tooled south on CA 1, is that when you've traveled often, when you don't wear makeup any more and you have given up on the fancy things in life, you can get moving a whole lot faster than you ever could before. Her life had turned upside down three times in the last three years. In the beginning it took her an hour and a half to take a shower, put on makeup and get dressed. Another half hour or so for breakfast.

In most ways, life was much simpler for her now. She laughed at that as the free-flowing traffic on CA 1 slowed to a slow crawl. She'd traveled three miles at fifty-five! That was some sort of weekday morning record! The traffic was even heavier through LA after she turned onto I-10, until she was well east of the city.

She kept the cruise control on her Spyder set at 75, once she got to Banning. Before that, it would have been a waste of time. She'd stopped along the way at a 7-11 and bought a bag of potato chips and a six-pack of coke. Good to go!

At eleven she slowed down to go through the Arizona Ag inspection station, and then she set the cruise control for eighty-five. It was amusing, she thought, as she zipped down the freeway. At that speed, she was violating the Arizona speed limit to the same extent she'd violated the California limits.

She still had a lot of time to think.

She'd been a spoiled bitch, no doubt about it. Cordelia Chase on Buffy the Vampire Slayer had had a similar comedown. Similar, but not the same.

Sherrie could remember how she made a point of speaking loudly in every place she'd been taken to when she was an adolescent. She always found a way to say it: "Just as sure as my father's name is Herbert Arthur Richardson!"

At first her father was the highest rated TV anchorman in the Phoenix metro area. Then he started doing op-ed pieces for the station and his segment ratings went into the stratosphere. She'd come home after her high school graduation and he'd sat Sherrie and her mother down and told them that the state Republican Party had been talking to him about an exploratory run for the Arizona State Senate.

Six months later he was a senator-elect for Maricopa County, and a few weeks later the legislature met for their first session and they made him the party whip.

Ah, ambition! His and hers, really. She never really knew what her mother thought about it; Sherrie had always assumed her mother had been pleased but her mother had never, ever, talked to Sherrie about it.

Sherrie was in college then. A sorority sister, and one of the freshman student body representatives at Arizona State University. Everything had been right with her world!

In the spring her father called her and her mother in and announced his intention to run for governor in the next election cycle. At the time, Sherrie had all but orgasmed at the thought of her father the governor!

She'd had her first lover in junior high -- he was a high school junior -- a slick-talking guy who loved her and left her a few days later. He'd been the first, but nowhere close to the last. By the time she graduated from high school, she had been the prom queen -- and the favorite of half a dozen guys in the senior class.

Then one day in March of her freshman year in college the phone had rung at the sorority house a little after two in the morning. It was for her, from her mother. "Come home quick! Your father had an accident on his hunting trip. Sherrie -- he's dead."

If the loss of her father had been a shock, the news from Kirk Fleming, her father's best friend and chief of staff, had been a nuclear bomb. "He killed himself," he told them simply. "He walked away from us within minutes of our arrival, stuck his shotgun in his mouth and blew his head off."

Her mother was no fool; she never had been. "Why, Kirk?"

"We'd gone up so we could discuss Summerfield's next campaign ad. Gretchen, there's no way to say this politely -- Herb was sleeping with his personal assistant."

Sherrie had frowned, confused. Her mother had gasped, putting her hand in front of her mouth.

"Yeah," Kirk confirmed, "he was a deader. You can't have an affair with your intern -- not when his name is Joshua and he's only eighteen."

That had been bad. Her father's insurance company had made it worse. The man the insurance company had sent had been blunt. "Your husband was not covered in the event of suicide. Officially, he had a hunting accident. You know it's not true and so do we. I'm here to stop a lot of lawyers from getting rich. We'll pay off fifty cents on the dollar, in exchange for a quitclaim from both of you.

"Or you can sue. If you do that we will have to go to the mat, do you understand? We'll pull out all of the stops -- your husband's death and the reasons for it will become very public. Even if you were to win, your lawyers will take at least a third and more like two-fifths of any settlement. This is money in the bank: a check you can cash today and your lawyers will get zip."

Sherrie had been mildly shocked when her mother gestured for the pen and signed the paper.

The next shock was when Sherrie found that her father had hocked everything for his gubernatorial campaign. Like Cordelia Chase on Buffy, Sherrie woke up one day to find that she and her mother were virtually penniless.

Worse, the sorority must have heard something. She missed a meeting and found she'd been kicked out for her "infraction." She was dazed and confused; she had no idea how to deal with the situation. Being ostracized was a totally new experience for her.

Feeling good felt good. She started screwing guys, sometimes as many as two or three a day. She'd been lucky not to catch anything massive doses of antibiotics couldn't cure.

She started drinking. Only the example of Coretta stopped her from doing drugs as well.

One day she woke up in a bed with two different guys sharing it with her and three more passed out on the floor. She had a sick feeling she'd done it with all of them. She threw on some clothes and staggered home to her studio apartment, all she could afford.

It was the first day she'd been halfway sober in weeks. She found notices from the university explaining that because she'd missed so many classes, she was flunking most of her courses and wouldn't be permitted back the next fall. She'd gone to her mother and asked her if she could find her daughter a job. Something she could deal with simply for a while, until she could get her head on straight.

Her mother's connections came through for her. Sherrie became a truck dispatcher for a local trucking company. It was a good job with mostly good people, and for the first time in her life she felt comfortable in her own skin. This time her success was not a result of her father, nor her father's fame and money. Life was good.

Life, of course, has a way, of changing at the drop of a hat.

A year after she started there, one of the company's largest customers had come in to review the company's operation and Sherrie had been chosen to show them what her company was doing for them. She'd done it competently and well, smiling and answering every single question fully and honestly -- something some of her peers had a little difficulty dealing with.

Jim Bradshaw -- every office has a Jim Bradshaw -- he was the pool guy. No, not the guy who vacuums the swimming pool -- he was the guy who collected money from people for Powerball and the state Lotto. He was the guy who ran the Fantasy Football and Baseball leagues, who kept track of the NCAA "March Madness" basketball tournament brackets. All on company time, of course.

That day had been a Powerball day. She missed Jim before lunch, to give him her five bucks for the office pool. She had to gas up her ancient Corolla at lunch, and, on a whim, she'd spent five dollars on Powerball at the gas station convenience market -- hey, the jackpot was at $265 million dollars! Why not take a chance? The odds were better in the office, of course...

She had never imagined people could be so shallow, so petty.

She received a phone call late that evening from one of the other women in the office. The report on the news was that the winning ticket had been sold from the Circle K where Jim had bought the tickets. The problem, the woman told Sherrie, was the winning number wasn't on the list of tickets Jim had provided to everyone.

Sherrie went and checked, and for a while, had been elated. She'd won the lottery! Common sense, though, told her that things might not be all that sweet and wonderful. In theory, the rule was that you didn't buy private tickets if you were in the office pool. Except she hadn't been in the office pool.

Sure enough, it had been beyond awful. The same day the people at the office found out she'd won on her own, she'd come out for lunch and found her car had four flat tires, and the paint had been nearly scratched off.

Everyone stopped talking to her, except a minority who expounded on their friendship and how she should share her winnings with her office-mates.

She mentioned the slashed tires and the ruined paint job and was told she was an ungrateful bitch. A day later she quit without notice and moved in with a friend. Her friend promptly put on a full court press to seduce her. Sherrie tried to explain to her friend that she wasn't gay, but the fact was that she was going to come into more than a hundred million dollars and that was the only thing the woman understood.

It's hell, she found, when you're twenty-one years of age and have to turn to your mother to escape your "friends."

It helped that her mother had moved to Atlanta after her father had died. The pressure eased at once, vanishing overnight, as Sherrie had done.

Sherrie had gone on a tour of the country after that, visiting relatives at first, then into the unknown. She grimaced as she remembered the trip. Aunt Marilyn and Uncle Ben hadn't been on the tour, but Uncle Phil and Aunt Marion had been. Now, driving down the freeway towards Phoenix, Sherrie had to admit that justice seemed to be in short supply in the world.

One day on her tour she'd stood with her feet in the Pacific Ocean, watching the waves dance around her, soaking her ankles most of the time, and now and then, her knees. She wasn't sure how she knew it, but she knew she was home.

A second later, an irate Hollywood star had told her in no uncertain terms that she was intruding on a private beach. She'd waved at the "For Sale" sign on the house he'd come out of. "How much?"

"Ten million."

"I'll give you six million, cash."

He'd looked at her, sure she was lying. For the first time in her life since that day she had faced Coretta Sherrie found her backbone. "My real estate agent will talk to your agent. He'll assure you that I'm good for it. Then I'll look at your pig in a poke and make up my mind about whether or not I want to buy it. If you're smart, you won't spend a dime of the money on another face lift. Either for the house or yourself."

That had almost ruined the deal, but his desperation was greater than his pride. She had the money and so it had come to pass.

Her mother hadn't minded when Sherrie had bought her a new Beamer and a new house. It hadn't been much of a house -- they were expensive in Atlanta -- but it was a nice Beamer.

Sherrie slowed on the outskirts of Phoenix and stayed on I-10 to downtown, got off and followed McDowell Road east until she reached Good Samaritan Hospital.

She climbed out of her red Spyder a little after twelve thirty and went into the lobby and asked at the information desk about Weaver.

"He was admitted for observation. Pending arrival of next-of-kin, which is supposed to be later today, he's being held for observation."

One thing Sherrie had learned about having money was that a lot of things, theretofore impossible, became details. "I'm his next-of-kin. Tell me Weaver's room number and send one of your minions up to get the financial information."

"You'll have to go to the office to fill out the forms."

Sherrie grinned. "In a short while my Uncle Phil will be here. He's a lawyer -- in fact, he's one of leading lawyers in Chicago. One word from me and he'll dump on you personally and the hospital in general. Odds are, in that case, the hospital will decide you can be easily sacrificed to solve their legal problems. Get ahead of the curve."

"I'll check," the woman told her and a moment later told Sherrie, "He's in room 1017, his condition is fair. Visiting hours start at three."

"What are his injuries? His prognosis?" Sherrie asked.

"I can only give that out to next-of-kin."

"I suppose you think I was farting a little while ago when I told you who I was. Trust me, sweetie, you're going to remember this conversation and wish you'd done everything different."

Sherrie turned her back on the woman and went up to Weaver's room.

She walked in and he looked up from a book he was reading. Sherrie wanted to cry. It was a medical textbook.

"Hello, Weaver."

He nodded to her.

"Yeah, glad to see you too. How badly are you hurt?"

He shook his head.

"Less than Coretta?"

He nodded, and held up his fingers, squishing them together.

"You're not hurt at all? Why are you here?"

He mimed a pistol. There were a whole lot of trigger pulls.

"My mother told me a couple of years ago that you're not actually dumb, meaning stupid, or dumb, meaning you can't talk. You just don't want to. Is that right?"

He nodded.

She sighed. "You just do whatever you want, then. Those of us who've come to help, we'll do our best, but if you don't talk to us, it's not going to be as easy as it could be."

"You called me 'Weevil, '" he said, his voice filled with bitterness.

"And if you think that's the high point of my life, you're wrong." Sherrie held out her right hand, showing him the scar she never showed anyone. The teeth marks on the web between her thumb and index finger, then white marks that ran, spider web-like, over the back of her hand and up her arm, nearly to her elbow.

"That's where her bite got infected, Weaver. I nearly lost my hand." She held up my fingers and held them a fraction of an inch apart. "That's how close I came to them cutting it off. Never once, Weaver, did I blame you. I never once thought about whom it was I was protecting. You were there, in trouble and I put my oar in. I nearly lost the oar.

"Now, please. I'm the vanguard. The family is coming. The next one here will be Uncle Phil."

He closed his eyes and turned away from her.

"Wake up, dim bulb! Smell the roses! That was his stepdaughter! She left a few months later, robbing him and Coretta's mother. No one has heard from her since! Uncle Phil is a lawyer. Hate him if you want, but he's coming to do the best he can by you. I'm here to do the same. My mother will be here this evening or early tomorrow for the same.

"Don't be an idiot."

"You called me 'Weevil, '" he repeated stubbornly, muffled by facing away from her.

"I called you that exactly once, three and a half years ago. A couple of hours later I was being beaten bloody trying to save your life. Did I make a mistake?"

He seemed to draw in on himself.

"Weaver, you need to look me in the eye and say 'aye' or 'nay.'"

"Thank you," he said, without looking.

"Wonderful. You're not hurt?"

"They shot at my bed. They killed my computer. I was hiding in the closet." He rolled over and looked at her warily.

Sherrie could see his eyes were on her. She supposed there were those who would say that "hiding in the closet" was a wimp thing to do. Odds are, they'd never been shot at. She'd never been shot at, but she knew in her own heart what she'd do: run and hide! Don't let them shoot you! She would have been right next to Weaver, cowering in the dark.

"Weaver, a couple of years ago my father checked out of this plane of existence. The hardest lesson I learned from that was that there are some things out of our control and the only thing we can do is ride them out as best we can. You might not cover yourself in glory surviving, but I tell you true, Weaver, survival is head and shoulders better than the alternative."

A matronly woman entered the room with a clipboard. "Are you the young man's next-of-kin?"

"For your purposes. I'll stand good for any medical bills he accrues in the first twenty-four hours. According to Weaver, he wasn't hurt. After twenty-four hours you can expect lawsuits. Mega-lawsuits."

"He's here for observation."

"Except he wasn't hurt."

"Psychological observation."

Sherrie turned to Weaver. "Have you seen a shrink?" Weaver shook his head.

Sherrie turned back to the woman. "Let me put this in simple terms. My family is going to be suing the city for hundreds of millions of dollars on behalf of Weaver and his murdered family. It will be a trivial detail to add this hospital to the lawsuit."

Uncle Phil appeared in the door. Sherrie grinned. "Lady, this is my Uncle Phil. He's the top lawyer in Chicago. Phil, I don't know this woman's name, but we need to get a copy of Weaver's chart, right this second, to see why they are holding him."

Uncle Phil was, to put it mildly, diabolical. He held out his hand to the woman and said, "Denny Crane."

Sherrie convulsed with laughter.

The woman, the reference clearly not understood, shook his hand. Uncle Phil waved at the chart. "You and me, gorgeous. We'll go run a copy of that chart. Right now."

"You can't do that."

"Of course I can. That, or an hour from now a judge will issue an injunction saying I can. You might not know it, but juries learn about injunctions like that, and judge the case accordingly."

He grinned at Sherrie, then wandered off with the woman from the office to copy Weaver's chart.

"You're safe now," Sherrie told Weaver. It was sad when he flipped her a bird, rolled over on his side, once more facing away from her and ignored her.

"You can do that," she told him. "I can't say as I blame you. But, continue it and the people who have come to help you, might just decide to turn around and go home."

He didn't twitch.

"It's your choice, Weaver. If you like this, keep on with this sort of choice. The family will be shut of you, real quick. Enjoy! I understand foster care is really, really wonderful!"

She turned and walked out, without a backwards glance.

A little later, her uncle sat down next to her in one of the myriad waiting rooms that dotted the hospital. "Your mother told me you were coming," he explained to Sherrie. "I told her not to bother with the lightweights. She said you might not be as light on your feet as you appear to be. Then the hospital moaned and groaned about your threats."

"Tsk," Sherrie said.

Uncle Phil laughed. "Yeah, that was my thought, too."

"What's going on?" she asked, cutting to the point.

He looked at her for a bit and then laughed. "Oh, you are so far, far beyond even where your mother said!

"The bare facts. The local police served a no-knock warrant on person X, at address Y on Z Street. They had, they say, unimpeachable evidence as to the veracity of their informant. Oops! The informant transposed two numbers in the address, and the police were supposed to go a few doors down the street. Oops! So sorry, they say found armed belligerents at the first address they visited, they fired and killed them. Leave out that none of the 'belligerents' was actually 'armed' and leave out that 'oops, we had the wrong street address and no one at that address was the person they had named!'"

"Will those who killed them, pay?" Sherrie asked.

"No. That's unlikely in the extreme."

"Then I'm unsatisfied," Sherrie told him.

He shrugged. "The government enjoys sovereign immunity for its acts. Particularly as a result of bad no-knock raids there have been quite a few lawsuits. Every last single one of those lawsuits has failed. If you fight back and wound or kill a cop, you're charged with murder one or attempted murder one. There are people, today, sitting on death row, whose only crime was shooting at men who failed to identify themselves as police, who looked like drug heads, and who had assaulted someone's home in the middle of the night, guns drawn -- and who frequently fired first."

"And Weaver?" Sherrie asked.

"Is screwed. The only thing he's got going for him is that he survived. There will be no recompense; there will be no settlement. He gets nothing."

"You looked at his chart," Sherrie told her uncle. "Is there a medical reason for him to be here?"

"No."

"Then let's get him out of here. Now."

Her uncle looked at her steadily. "Weaver is a minor child. Whatever the local version of Family Services is, they are going to butt in."

"And I told the hospital earlier that Weaver's family stands good for him. Tell those bastards we stand with our family."

"Sherrie, is this about Coretta?"

"Yes and no. More no than yes. Weaver is a freakazoid. That's his right, so far as I'm concerned. Jeez! A kid who likes to sit quietly and read! Did you see what he was reading?"

"Nuclear Magnetic Resonance Imaging," her uncle replied dryly.

"Yeah. As if it was an Altoid."

Uncle Phil laughed. "I don't know as if I'd characterize it that way, but yes."

"Do you have a problem with getting him out of here?" Sherrie asked.

"No, of course not. What has this to do with Coretta?"

"Nothing. Everything. Coretta just purely hated someone who wanted nothing more than a quiet corner to read in. I've felt guilty I hesitated even for a second."

He nodded. "My wife spent years denying there was a problem with Coretta. I took my lead from her and tried to downplay the problems. No one won any glory there."

"Weaver," Sherrie reminded him of the subject of the conversation.

"We'll get him out of here now," Uncle Phil told her firmly.

It turned out, of course, not to be that simple. There were bureaucratic hoops to go through, but Weaver was the biggest problem. The plan was for him to stay with Uncle Phil temporarily, but Weaver simply shook his head emphatically no.

The only alternative, of course, was Weaver going with Sherrie. She sighed, blessing her foresight in getting a room reservation for her mother.

Of course, Weaver refused to be alone.

Looking at it from his perspective, who could blame him?

Sherrie went to the hotel desk with Weaver trailing along behind her and a helpful young man appeared behind the desk. "How may I help you?"

"Suites. Do you have any three bedroom suites?"

He looked at her clearly evaluating her ability to pay. Sherrie dropped her platinum American Express card on the desk between them to answer the unspoken speculation.

"We have two bedroom suites, we have four bedroom suites. I'm sorry; we don't have any three bedroom suites."

Sherrie didn't pause; she pulled her phone out and called her uncle. "Phil, do you have a room for tonight?"

"No. I was told that there are plenty of rooms free. I was going to get something by the airport."

"Would you be willing to split a suite?"

"This is for Weaver?"

"Yes, sir."

"No problem."

"The Downtown Hyatt. My mother will be there, as well as Weaver and myself. I'll pick up the tab."

"No problem, Sherrie."

She got the room, and shortly, moved into her new digs. It was only seeing the bellman toting her suitcase that she realized about Weaver.

"You need things from your house?"

He nodded.

"Weaver, you don't have to talk to me, okay? That's your right if that's what you want. But if you had the brains God gave a flea, it wouldn't be me asking what you're going to wear tomorrow."

"They said the house is a crime scene and that no one can enter."

A half hour later Phil was there, along with a woman from the Arizona Children's Services. The four of them went to Uncle Ben and Aunt Marilyn's house where they followed Weaver as he went to fetch his things from his room.

Sherrie could tell that Weaver wasn't comfortable with the woman watching his every move and she gave her uncle a high sign. He understood and dragged the social worker into the living room.

Sherrie watched Weaver for a second and decided he needed some space. She didn't more than glance when he went to the computer and pulled a memory stick from a slot on the front of the computer, and then he quickly undid the side of the machine and disconnected the hard drives. He examined each one; only one made it into one of those static free plastic bags that hard drives come in.

Without a word, he stuffed clothes into a shopping bag, then some books into the bottom of a box, then underwear and t-shirts to cover them up. He looked at Sherrie and she nodded and grabbed the shopping bag. Weaver grinned for an instant and took the box.

As they were about to leave, a policeman showed up. He waved at what they were carrying. "Has that been inventoried?"

"No," Phil told him. "This is Weaver's home. It's not required."

"This is a crime scene. It is required."

Phil grinned from ear to ear. "And you have the warrant, right? God golly, Miss Molly! I sure would like to get my hands on a copy of that warrant!"

The policeman backed up a step. "You don't want to get on the wrong side of this!"

Phil stepped forward two steps, putting his face in the policeman's. "Yes, I understand sovereign immunity. Do you understand that there are three separate national organizations now devoted to suing anyway? Pro bono? That while I'm not certified to practice in Arizona, I can get that certification with a phone call to the state Bar? Do you want your bosses to find out that we decided not to lay supine because you're a fuckwit?"

It was just that quick. The cop slunk off.

Later, Sherrie sat on a sofa in the sitting room of the suite, her feet curled under her, trying to relax, sipping on a glass of decent Cabernet staring out the window, over the lights of the city.

Her uncle was nowhere to be seen, and she had the lights in the room turned down. Her mother came through the door with a bellman. Sherrie waved at her mother's room and the bellman hauled suitcases.

A few seconds later the bellman was gone and her mother was standing in front of Sherrie, who hadn't moved. "There sure are a lot of doors in this room," her mother observed.

Sherrie laughed. "Togetherness, mother. Phil is there," she waved at the doors, one after another. "Weaver is there and I'm there."

Her mother nodded. "And how is Weaver?"

Sherrie shrugged. "Weaver is the sort of person who you could cut his leg off and he'd barely look up from his book."

"I need to talk to him."

Sherrie shook her head. "I expect to see him tomorrow sometime when he gets hungry. Right now, his bedroom door is locked."

Phil appeared and shook hands with Sherrie's mother. "What's going on, Phil?" her mother asked her brother-in-law.

"Virtually zilch. There is almost no chance of a successful suit. We could piss them off, making them spend money to defend a suit, but it wouldn't be much money on their part."

He waved at Sherrie. "However, a problem has developed."

"A problem?"

"Yes. Weaver refuses to deal with anyone except Sherrie, and not much with her."

"So?"

"So, in order to get him here, away from the busybodies, I had to get him released in Sherrie's permanent custody."

That was the first Sherrie had heard about that. She waved her wine glass. "Me?"

"You," her uncle replied laconically. He looked her right in the eye. "Sherrie, you're financially secure, right?"

She looked at him warily. "I won the lotto. BFD!"

"Sherrie, sometimes events take on a logic and momentum that are hard to stop. At least initially, custody of Weaver is going to fall to you."

"That's crazy!"

The door to Weaver's room opened up and they could all see him standing there, tears glistening on his cheek. "You won't call me weevil again, will you?"

"Weaver, I was teenaged snot when I said that. Once was the only time I used that word. Never once since, never ever before."

He waved at Uncle Phil. "I couldn't go with him. You understand?"

Sherrie sighed. "Yes, I understand."

"You called me weevil," Weaver said and Sherrie nearly snapped his head off. Fortunately, he was faster than she was with the next words. "But you never, ever, tried to make me do something I didn't want."

Sherrie let out her breath. "Weaver, in the spirit of honesty, I used the term 'freakazoid' in reference to you with Uncle Phil earlier today."

He nodded. "I'm okay with that. I am a freak. I'm not a weevil, though."

"You understand, Weaver," Sherrie's mother said, speaking up, "there are those who might not think Sherrie is an appropriate guardian for you?"

"She's better than you," Weaver said with a sniff. He waved at his Uncle Phil. "Way better than him."

Sherrie grimaced. "I just turned twenty-two; Weaver is fifteen, going on sixteen. This won't look good."

Phil grunted in amusement. "Actually, no one is going to look. They are going to hope Weaver goes away and stays away and that this whole thing goes away just like Weaver."

Sherrie looked at her cousin, who looked back at her. He didn't look at her with puppy eyes, but steel-shrouded projectiles. Adamantine laser beams.

"I sure hope you like the ocean, Weaver," Sherrie said softly.



-------

Chapter 2: Sherrie


Sherrie looked over at Weaver as he sat quietly, staring out the car window at the passing desert scenery. Everything, it seemed, was getting out of hand.

"How much do you know about me?" she asked him, out of the blue.

He shrugged, not bothering to turn and look at her.

She sighed. "Once again I'm going to mention that I realize social niceties aren't high on your list of priorities right now, but give the rest of us a break."

"Why? Like the break Mom and Dad got from the cops? Like the one they gave me?"

She pounded futilely on the steering wheel. "Listen, Weaver, your life is shit. Well, trust me about this, Weaver, you haven't got the market in shit cornered. The evening your parents were being massacred? I was sitting on my deck, staring at the ocean, drunk as a skunk, wondering how far I could get if I set out swimming to China."

He turned and looked at her, but said nothing.

"Yeah. Like I said, your social graces need work. I have no social graces, so I suppose I'm not one who should cast aspersions. Would it surprise you to learn that I have more money than the rest of the family combined?"

He cocked his head, looking at her curiously. She laughed. "Yep, I'm rolling in the bucks. I worked eleven months as a truck dispatcher before I won the lotto and then I retired. Do you know where we're going?"

"LA."

"Malibu Beach," she corrected him. "If you want to get laid, walk out on the beach, look at someone and grow a woody. Then it's going to happen, because women -- and guys -- cruise the beach hoping to get lucky. That is, laid by a resident who's filthy rich."

"You want to kill yourself?" he asked, ignoring her comment.

"Let's just say that I didn't see much reason to live. What am I going to do, eh? Go back to a nine to five job, one that pays a few percent of what I make in interest and dividends in a year?

"At the trucking company, one of the senior programmers liked to come over to my cube and talk to me. He spent every second trying to figure out a good angle to look down my blouse. He's married and has two sons and a daughter, but good Lord, did he like to look!

"The woman who sat across the aisle from my cubicle weighed something like three hundred and fifty pounds. Really fat people make me a little ill to look at. I had to look at her a dozen times a day. She brought cookies or cupcakes or fudge or something to work every damn day. She was the most popular person in the company, except maybe for the guy who did the lotto run and managed all the pools.

"What job could I hold where I wouldn't have people to put up with that I didn't like? Why should I have to put up with them?

"Every last person in that company hated me when I left. I won the lotto by myself, you see. And I wasn't willing to share my good fortune with my coworkers.

"Tell me, Weaver, do you think I'd make a good employee, knowing I don't have to take any crap from anyone? That I can quit and my income changes a few percent?"

He didn't say anything, just sat staring at her.

"So, lately I've taken up wine by the box. Most nights, I drink a couple of liters. That's the equivalent of three or four bottles of wine. I don't puke in the morning, but I have monster hangovers. I had one when I left LA yesterday to come and see about you."

She waved around them. "Curing a hangover out here is simple. Turn off the A/C and open the windows. In an hour, you sweat it out.

"And now I have you."

"It's not like either of us had a choice," Weaver said in something like an apology.

She laughed bitterly. "Oh, aren't we a matched pair! Did you ever watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Angel?"

He shook his head.

"There was a character there on both shows -- Cordelia Chase. She was every bit as vapid and stupid as I was. Stuck-up, snotty -- a social basket case. One day she woke up and the cops had busted her father for not paying any income tax for ten years. She lost everything. Did you hear about my father, Weaver?"

He nodded, but Sherrie laughed.

"No, actually you didn't because everyone lied and lied. He decided to run for governor, except that it was a bad idea. He was sleeping with his personal assistant, a fellow named Joshua, who was just barely of legal age. When it was going to come out, my father blew his head off with a shotgun.

"Like Cordelia, my mother and I woke up one day to find out that he'd mortgaged the house, the cars -- he'd hocked everything for that campaign. His life insurance barely covered our debts. We were poor as church mice. I had to leave school, you understand?"

He just looked at her steadily.

"Boom to bust to boom. I suppose it sounds stupid for someone who could do anything she wants to, but who is so bored and bummed out that she's been seriously thinking of killing herself."

"If you could do anything you want," he said levelly, "why would you want to get a boring, nine to five job?"

"Well, maybe that's because the only skills I possess are minimal office skills. That and I have piles of money. Yeah, I did a lot of research to invest wisely, but gosh! Two weeks was all it took!"

"Maybe you just haven't thought about it hard enough," he told her.

He looked away, off across the desert speeding past the window. "All sorts of things ran through my head when they were shooting. There were so many things I want to do with my life! I heard my mother scream; I had my father's angry voice and then his screams. I heard the guns. Each shot was like someone beating on an enormous cymbal. Did you know the concussions from the shots shook dust off the walls? All I could think about was hiding, and when I'd done that, I cried for all the things I'd never get to do when they came and killed me too."

He continued to stare into the distance. "You can't imagine it. One second you're asleep, then the next gunfire blasts shake the house you've lived in your entire life. Your mother screams, and there are more gun shots and she stops in mid-scream. Your father shouts and a few seconds later he screams -- and it too dies in mid-scream in a volley of shots. There are times I want to learn the name of every one of those cops, so I can hunt them down and shoot them like they did my parents.

"Sometimes, I look at myself in the mirror and wonder what I did right so I'm alive and they're dead. I think about the fact that most of my life is ahead of me and how easy it would be to throw it all away by doing something stupid."

He turned back to her. "All I know for sure, Sherrie, is I never want to be called 'weevil' again."

"I said I was sorry that night; I said I was sorry yesterday and I'll say it again today, Weaver. I was stupid. That's not a good excuse, but it's why I did it. I wised up eventually ... I have never used that word again. Ever.

"And now I know how stupid I was and I'm trying my best to overcome my handicap."

For the next three hours the two of them were silent, lost in their own worlds of thought. Traffic slowed after Ontario, and for an hour they moved steadily, albeit slowly, through LA, until Sherrie took the exit to link up with the 101 freeway. Traffic was even slower still, but eventually they were past the 405 and things speeded up again.

Weaver was rubbernecking and finally spoke up. "I keep expecting the ocean."

Sherrie waved to the left. "See those mountains? The ocean is just on the other side of them. But at this time of day CA 1, the main coastal highway, is a giant traffic jam." She reached the 111 and turned south. In a few minutes they were in the mountains.

They topped out and Weaver stared in rapt fascination. "It's beautiful!" he said, awe-stricken.

"It's a relatively clear day," Sherrie said with the panache of someone who'd lived on the ocean nearly a year. "The fog, when it comes, is cold and damp. Storms can be a little scary. When we get to the house, you need to read up on tsunamis. If the sirens sound, you have to hustle up the hills."

"My dad told me something once and I never understood it," Weaver told her. "'Even the Garden of Eden had its serpent.' I didn't understand what he meant." He swallowed. "Now I do."

"I breezed through school, oblivious to almost everything," Sherrie replied. "It never dawned on me that my parents and my schools were insulating me from real life. I thought I'd done well -- only now I know I've nearly flunked out."

"Sherrie..."

She glanced his way, but had to concentrate on the driving.

"You're wrong talking about going swimming. I suppose it's stupid for someone my age to tell someone your age how to live, but you have never really thought about things.

"Sherrie, I can't afford to lose you. There are so many things I want to do! Please -- I couldn't live with Uncle Phil or Aunt Gretchen."

Sherrie giggled. "Enlightened self interest on your part, eh?"

He nodded.

"And I need to do a little thinking outside the box, when it comes to deciding what to do with my life?"

He nodded again.

"Back to your verbose self, I see."

He nodded a third time.

A while later she pulled the Spyder into the garage, and then led Weaver into the house itself. She showed him the bedroom that would be his, and then on to the bathroom, kitchen, and into the living room. She walked to the sliding glass door and pulled it back and walked on through to the deck.

The smell of the sea was there, as was the dull sound of the surf, along with the shrill cries of the gulls and even shriller calls of some of the other sea birds.

After a second, Sherrie turned to her cousin. He was crying.

"What's the matter, Weaver? Are you okay?"

"You think this is unbearable? That your life isn't worth living? It's grand! It's so beautiful, it's breathtaking!"

"There's the old saw about not being able to see the forest for the trees. I shouldn't have told you about going swimming. You weren't the right person and this was definitely not the right time."

"And maybe you haven't changed as much as you think."

With that he gave a whoop and charged down the steps, sprinting across the sand on the beach. Sherrie smiled as she saw Weaver was having difficulty running on the beach in his street shoes. Nonetheless he reached the water's edge and took a running dive into the water. He started swimming strongly, even though he was wearing street clothes as well as his shoes.

He took a half dozen strokes, stopped and she could see him put his feet down. A second later he started walking back, waist deep in the water. The waves were nothing to get excited about, and in a second he was on the beach walking back towards her.

At first she thought he was hugging his sides because he was laughing at her -- before she realized he was blue from the frigid water. She laughed at that, stepped inside and grabbed a beach towel from the table just inside the door.

She handed the towel to him when he got back on the deck. She could hear his teeth chattering and his tremors were visible.

He looked at her, barely able to speak. "You wouldn't have gotten two hundred feet before you froze to death."

"Not at this time of year, no," she agreed. "You've ruined your shoes. If you have anything important in your wallet, it's time to get it out now."

"I don't want to track sand into the house."

"Kick your shoes off. If you think you're the first person to track sand inside, you're nuts."

He vanished into his room and shortly she heard the shower running.

Sherrie stood on the deck, staring sightlessly out to sea. Weaver was a smart ass! But what did she know? What kind of outside-the-box job was she qualified for? She snorted in derision. She racked her brains, trying to think of something.

"Do you have any tea?" Weaver asked from behind her, interrupting her chain of thought.

"Yes. There's coffee too, if you like."

He grinned. "My mom didn't think I was old enough yet to drink coffee. My dad said it would put hair on my chest. I wouldn't have minded that. Tea is okay."

"Come, I'll show you."

She went through the kitchen, cupboard by cupboard, showing him where everything was. "This is your place now, too, Weaver," she told him at the end. "We'll go shopping tomorrow. Make up a list of what you'd like."

"A new computer."

She could see the expression on his face. She laughed. "Weaver, my mother couldn't stand to live in Phoenix after my father killed himself. She couldn't face her friends; so she moved to Atlanta. After I won the lottery, I bought her a nice house there and a new car. It hardly made a dent in my lottery winnings.

"I'll get you any computer you want, but the worst possible thing you could do is start expecting things like that. The second worst thing would be to take it for granted."

"I have money of my own, and there will be money from my parents. Social security, insurance, their 401Ks ... Uncle Phil told me about some of it. I'll pay you back for everything."

"Weaver, the truth is, until they all turned out to be bastards, I was going to throw a party to end all parties for everyone in the office. I was going to fly everyone and their significant other to Hawaii, spend ten days in a hotel -- free meals, a happy hour every day on me ... all of it on me. It would have cost less than my mother's new house, not much more than her BMW."

"If you start spending money like that, you'll go through it in a hurry," he told her.

"Well, I'm not sorry about the party idea or my mother's house and car -- that was part of my interest income for a few months. I pulled out money from my investments for this house. You notice I don't drive a new BMW. I'm not looking for payback. You keep the money you have; invest it or something."

He nodded.

Sherrie waved at the ocean. "I spent what, an hour, while you were inside? I can't think of anything I'm qualified to do."

"Sherrie, you don't have any experience thinking beyond what you're used to. A dozen things pop into my head at once. Do like Veronica Mars -- become a private investigator. Try out for American Idol or play an instrument in an orchestra. Write a book, become a poet or write a screenplay. Make a movie. Become an artist. Dance, take photographs, learn to fly. Become a rocket scientist or something. Go all the way -- become a secret agent! Don't think small, think big!"

Sherrie blinked. A dozen protests came to mind. She couldn't sing and when she'd tried to play a flute in grade school she'd sounded like crap and she'd dropped it the first instant she could. Dance? Well, she could do that well enough on a date, but she doubted that she could do it professionally. The cheerleaders in both high school and college had been polite but had said "no" rather emphatically.

An artist? A writer? Hah! She'd hated essay assignments in school!

She had had a period like all ten-year-old girls where she had sketched horses. "That's a nice cat, dear," her mother had said, looking at one of her better efforts.

A private investigator? A gum-chewing, gun-toting private dick? She didn't have a dick! A secret agent? That was a hoot, but really -- do you just knock on the CIA's door and ask "Mother, may I?"

The human brain works in strange ways in situations with considerable stress and tension. Instead of a dozen things she could have brought up, legitimate reasons why something wasn't possible, she fixed on one thing. "I don't own a camera."

Weaver gave her a finger. "On the drive you asked me what I knew about you. Tell me, Sherrie, what do you know about me?"

Sherrie blinked. "You're almost sixteen."

He made a "whoopee!" circle with his finger in the air. "What grade am I in?"

Sherrie looked at him. It had to be a trick question. "A junior?"

"I have BS in computer science from Arizona State and I was working on my master's. It looks to me like I can kiss that goodbye, right?"

Sherrie blinked in consternation. "You were going to ASU?"

"Yep. At least, I was. The commute from here to there is looking to be a bitch."

He grinned at her sardonically. "And how much do you think the computer I want is going to set you back?"

"A couple thousand," Sherrie said reflexively, going higher than she thought she had to.

He laughed. "The server the police shot to death was thirty-five thousand dollars worth of hardware and software. Did I mention the two T-1 lines into the house?"

Sherrie shook her head, bewildered. PCs didn't cost anything like that!

He waved at a PC on her desk in the living room. "I don't suppose I could go online for a bit?"

"Yes, of course. No. Whatever; I don't mind. Weaver ... I'm a creature of habit. You're right, I've never had to think like this. I realize you must think I'm an ass ... but I'm not. At least, I don't want to be."

Weaver sat down at the computer. Sherrie blinked when she saw his fingers flying over the keys. That was a whole lot faster than she could type!

He sighed. "Yeah, my site's gone, even the mirror site." There was another flurry of keystrokes and he was writing some sort of message.

Then he turned back to her. "I'm going to need some time tonight to answer emails." He laughed bitterly. "On good days I get about a hundred and answer about ten. The site goes away and that number goes up by a hundred times. I've posted a notice on my mirror site about my server dying ... I just didn't tell anyone how literal that was."

"Weaver, I showed you the freezer. There are three frozen pizzas in there, each suitable for a meal. At least, a meal for me. You know where everything else is, right?"

He nodded.

"Tomorrow we'll shop for groceries. I'm sure I can find a place where you can buy a computer. Whatever it costs, okay?"

He nodded again.

Sherrie laughed bitterly. "Yeah, the same to you, kid. See you tomorrow -- I'm going to crash."

Sherrie had no idea how long she'd been asleep -- she knew she snored, and was sure she'd started snoring the instant her head hit the pillow.

Weaver was shaking her. "Sherrie, there's a guy in the living room. He's freaking out."

She sat up, grimacing. If there is anything worse than a hangover, she found, was it's lack. She hadn't bothered to undress, which was good.

She went out and saw Wayne Braden standing in the living room. "Who's this?" Wayne asked, waving at Weaver.

"My cousin, Weaver Gold."

"I'm sorry to bother you, Sherrie. I just saw a stranger in your living room and I..."

Sherrie laughed. "That's okay, Wayne. We all know it's better to be safe than sorry. Weaver is going to be staying with me for a while. Indefinitely."

Wayne raised an eyebrow.

"Wayne, tell you what. Come over tomorrow morning for lunch. Bring your tape recorder and a contract. We'll sell you the movie rights to Weaver's story."

"The hell you will!" Weaver said instantly.

"We," Sherrie emphasized. "We, Weaver. You were the one who wanted to avenge yourself. This is one way. Wayne is a good guy -- he'll tell you if your story is worth anything, and he'll pay you an honest dollar if he decides to use it."

Wayne chuckled. "Was that an asking price of a dollar?"

"A rhetorical dollar, Wayne. The real thing will be more than one."

Wayne faced Weaver. "I'm a movie producer, young man. My forte is 'reality-based' stories. Do you have a story like that?"

Weaver turned green, jumped and headed for the bathroom. It was impossible to miss the sounds of him being sick.

Wayne looked at Sherrie. "I know I'm sounding crass, but that certainly sounds like a 'Yes.'"

"It's not my story to tell, Wayne. Lunch, okay?"

"Lunch is fine. I'm in pre-production on my latest project -- normally I don't like to mix projects, but I get the feeling that this is an exception."

"Tomorrow, Wayne."

"Sorry to bug you then, Sherrie. I'll tell everyone you have a guest staying with you."

He left and Sherrie waited for Weaver. After a half hour, she knocked on the bathroom door. He opened it, looking wan. "Sorry, Sherrie, for hogging the bathroom."

"Weaver, a couple of nights ago something terrible happened to you. Just now, I was stupid once more. Wayne would have waited. He should have waited."

"He seemed upset about my being here."

"Yeah. You might as well know that the residents here are very protective of each other. If you're outside and you recognize someone -- please, for heaven's sake, don't rush over for an autograph. We watch out for each other, do you understand?"

"Even if you're here because you won the lottery?"

Sherrie could have been offended, but you had to consider the source. "Yeah, even so. To be honest, I traded on my father's name which hasn't been besmirched."

"I'm sorry to bug you," Weaver told her.

She grinned at him. "You're almost human when you talk."

He shrugged and Sherrie giggled. "Once again, good night, Weaver."

To her surprise, she was nearly asleep as she started to lay down. She didn't remember her head making contact with the pillow.

The next day she took Weaver shopping. It was, she thought, interesting that he wanted to buy a computer first, rather than groceries. Weaver stood in the computer store, listing what he wanted. The salesman had started off looking pleased, but as Weaver progressed, the salesman's face had grown longer and longer.

"This is a lot of money," the salesman said dubiously.

"It's a lot of computer," Weaver agreed. "My cousin will pay for it, unless you're willing to take a check from me."

The salesman glanced at Sherrie and grimaced.

Sherrie laughed. "Young man," she said to the salesman, "the question is -- do you want credit for this sale? You can either write up the invoice, and then do as you always do with any large invoice -- check with your boss, or we'll talk to him. What are the odds if we talk to him, that your name won't be on the final invoice?"

Weaver had to go over the list again, the salesman grinned helplessly and then went to get his manager. The manager wasn't much older than the salesman. "This is nearly forty thousand dollars."

"What's your cash discount?" Sherrie asked.

The man blinked. "We don't give discounts."

Sherrie turned to Weaver. "You said this was the closest place we could get what you wanted. There are others, right?"

Weaver nodded, no expression on his face.

Sherrie waved at the invoice. "Give me that, and we'll treat it as a bid. We'll get a couple more of them; you're right, this is a lot of money and we need more than one bid. Maybe we'll be back -- and maybe not."

The manager looked like he'd swallowed an entire box of apple sours. "I'm willing to go thirty-five," he told Sherrie.

Sherrie gestured at the invoice. "Write that in, then, and in a while, we'll back."

"Thirty," the man said.

"Delivery when?" Sherrie asked.

"A week ... some of the components will be hard to get. Ditto the software."

Weaver shook his head and Sherrie grinned. "Put that delivery date and your new price on the invoice. I think you're starting to get competitive."

The store manager stiffened. "This is LA. I can probably get everything on the list by tomorrow at this time. I can't go lower on the price."

"Tomorrow at this time then," Sherrie told him. "And do you know what happens if you don't deliver?"

"No sale," the manager said, resignedly.

"Weaver has a big Internet footprint. I imagine he might have a word or two to say about any company that stiffs him."

"This evening at four, I'll have some of this," the manager said, trying to keep his aplomb. "This time tomorrow afternoon for the rest."

Outside the store Weaver looked at Sherrie. "You were -- different -- in there."

"In cartoons people sometimes appear with an angel whispering in their ear from one shoulder and a devil on the other. All I have to do is let the old Sherrie come to the surface. I'm not proud of it."

"Well, contemplate the fact that we won't be able to get all that stuff in your car."

She found a U-Haul place in Santa Monica, arranged for a pickup truck for three o'clock the next day and then took Weaver to Santa Monica Mall for clothes and other things. They took their purchases back to the house and Sherrie waved around. "Where are we going to put the computer? How big a footprint will have it after it's installed?"

"About the size of a filing cabinet. Do you have a cable modem?"

"Yes."

"That's going to limit what I can do for a while. I'll need a bigger pipe, but that can wait for a day or two. Until I get access to my own money."

"Weaver, I don't care what it costs, okay?"

"Tomorrow then, we'll talk to your cable provider about a T-1 line. We're talking a couple hundred a month."

"And your parents bought you all this stuff?"

He shook his head. "Before they killed my computer, I was making about six grand a month from click-throughs. I saved a bunch by having my own server. There were some other things I did for money, too."

Sherrie laughed. "Need a secretary?"

"I saved a lot of money by not having any employees," he said solemnly, the expression on his face serious and intent. Sherrie had no idea if he was pulling her chain or not.

They had gotten back to the house in the early evening and both of them had a few bites to eat and then crashed. Sherrie was up early the next morning and spent some time walking along the beach, trying to think. Weaver was holed up in his bedroom.

A few minutes before they were going to head off to get the truck, the phone rang. Uncle Phil had a report for Weaver.

"I filed a motion this morning in the Arizona Superior Court, alleging wrongful death and all of that. A half hour ago the court issued an order for a summary dismissal, based on sovereign immunity. I'll appeal that, but it's just for form -- they'll dismiss it, too. Privately, the city attorney assures me that they will make restitution on property damage, including damage to your computer -- if you sign a quit claim.

"Weaver, you're going to need to think about this. We can probably jack up what you get from them to about a hundred thousand -- that was a lot of computer the police shot up. Legal action against them will cost hundreds of thousands. I'm more than willing to work pro bono, and there are groups who specialize in this sort of thing and would welcome the opportunity to litigate, but even so it will be expensive.

"In the end your chances of recovery beyond that are vanishingly small. On the other hand, the bad publicity will keep up. Intermittently and in a small way. Sign the quit claim and this instantly becomes yesterday's news and you'll never hear about it again. At most it will be just another example of a bad no-knock raid. I can give you twenty more examples just like it."

Uncle Phil paused. "And, I've started working on your parents' financial affairs. Aside from the rather sizable bank account in your sole name, their financial status is pretty typical of people of their age and professional status. There is the house, about a quarter million in 401K's and other savings vehicles, roughly that much in life insurance from their work, plus life insurance policies in each of their names that will cover funeral expenses and add a bit more.

"As to the funeral itself, I'll come to LA tomorrow and we can discuss the various options. For right now the bodies are in the custody of the coroner and they haven't indicated when they will be made available to the family.

"When I'm in LA you can tell me what you want to do about the lawsuit, the house and the funeral. I have Sherrie's address."

"And my mother?" Sherrie inquired.

"She's helping me with this and that. She'll deal with the funeral details, so Weaver doesn't have to. She'll do whatever Weaver wants in that regard. We're still at the Hyatt, but now in separate rooms." He chuckled wryly. "A thousand dollar a day suite was excess to needs."

They picked up the truck and arrived at the computer store. The manager was out.

The assistant manager professed to know nothing about any special equipment order.

Sherrie stared at the man for a second. "I don't know if you've simply been stiffed by your manager or are complicit. Look for another job -- tomorrow you will be unemployed. So will every other employee at this store."

She pointed at a phone. "Or, you can call your manager and tell him that in thirty minutes, Sherrie Richardson of Malibu Beach will be on the phone to upper management of the firm that owns this store. What will happen after that will be out of my hands. You might explain to your manager, while you're at it, that people who can write thirty or forty thousand dollar checks from petty cash aren't people he can afford to trifle with."

"He's new."

"And I had an agreement with him. Either he complies or he is going to be seriously terminated -- and to prove we can be mean and vindictive, so will everyone else here."

The young man went to another phone and made a call.

He came back, apologetic. "Fred says that you should come back tomorrow about now and he'll have some of the stuff."

"My uncle is an attorney," Sherrie told him. "He's one of the top lawyers in Chicago. As a joke, he introduces himself as 'Denny Crane.' Do you understand the reference?"

"No."

"There's a TV show called Boston Legal. Denny Crane is the lead attorney for Crane, Poole and Schmidt. His record is some 6200 and some odd cases to zero. That is, he's won thousands of court cases and never lost one. My Uncle Phil is like that. Except he's only up to about twenty-five hundred to zip and Chicago instead of Boston.

"Tomorrow he will be here and, later in the day, he'll be filing suit against this company for millions of dollars, because, of course, he's a rainmaker -- he doesn't work for peanuts. Your company management will take one look at who is suing them, and then at the facts, and then they will fire all of you and try to fall on their swords, to keep down collateral damage."

The young man looked bleak. "I work here, okay? I've worked here for two years. This is our sixth manager, because, for reasons I don't understand, when they see 'Malibu Beach' as an address they assume you're all hippies or overage movie stars."

"Hippies?" Sherrie asked, startled. "The last hippie died thirty years ago."

"Yeah. Can I see the invoice?" Sherrie put it in front of him, keeping her fingers on it.

The assistant manager nodded at Weaver. "He's quiet."

"This is for Weaver," Sherrie explained.

"Weaver? Weaver Gold?" The man turned pale again.

"Yes."

"Let me call the bosses. Forget this. Tomorrow morning, we'll have the stuff at your place, first thing."

"Why should I forget it?" Sherrie asked reasonably.

"What do you want more? Blood or the equipment?"

"The equipment," Weaver interjected.

"I swear, it'll be there tomorrow morning," the assistant manager told her. "At this address. Stiffing someone from Malibu is one thing, stiffing Weaver Gold ... that's just not going to happen."

"I've heard this before."

"Give me a chance to make this right," he told her. "If it's not right by ten AM tomorrow, then shaft us. Me included."

Sherrie turned to Weaver. "It's up to you."

"I want the equipment more than I want blood. We can't get the phone lines until tomorrow, anyway."

A few minutes later Sherrie and Weaver were headed back to Santa Monica to return the truck. "I'm sorry, Weaver. I forgot to take care of the data lines."

He grinned. "I checked. You can do all that stuff over the phone these days. It's set for tomorrow before noon."

Sherrie was quiet for a while, until they got bogged down in traffic. "I keep thinking about what you said," she told him. "About thinking outside the box. You have a raft of ideas and so far, all I've found is a rather unexpected ability to dump on hapless clerks at the hospital and here."

He glanced at her and smiled for an instant. "A useful talent."

"You understand that I reach down and pull out the old Sherrie Richardson, the evil one, and let her run things?"

"As a metaphor, it's cute. As a description of what's actually going on, it's a sign of pathology."

Sherrie laughed. "My, Weaver! What big words you know!"

"Since I was ten, my parents have been sending me to counselors and shrinks. It's in the medical texts: you can't psychoanalyze someone who's smarter than you."

"Even after Coretta?"

"Especially after her. Like everyone else, my parents were sure that it was my fault."

"That's ... perverse."

"Perverse is talking like an adult from the time I was six. So, I didn't do it much. Talking, that is."



-------

Chapter 3: Washington


The next morning there was a truck parked in front of the house a little after eight. A half dozen men started carrying in boxes, supervised by Weaver as they set up the equipment. The assistant manager from the computer store hovered nervously, watching everything.

At ten they were gone and Phil Richardson had arrived. Weaver listened to what the lawyer had to say, mostly nodding, only speaking rarely. Then the phone company guy arrived and Weaver went to deal with that, while Phil and Sherrie walked out on the deck.

"How are you holding up, Sherrie?"

She looked at him. "Weaver is low maintenance."

"There's a huge pile of computer equipment in there that belies that."

"You mentioned the bank account in his name. Weaver is famous on the Internet. Granted, I've never heard of him, but the assistant manager of the computer store turned pale when he learned that his manager had stiffed Weaver Gold."

"I've never heard of him either, but I'll look him up. I don't know if I could live with a sphinx, though."

"Phil, this is partly Coretta legacy. He's much more open than what you've seen."

"What if I talked to him and told him that Marion and I don't blame him for what happened? That we apologize for what we said at the time?"

"Phil, I called him a name that weekend. Just once. I wasn't even talking to him; I was talking to my mother. He mentions it a couple of times a day, no matter how many times I apologize. You did a lot more than call him a stupid name and you did it a lot more than once."

"And I was wrong. I swear, Sherrie, I will get down on my hands and knees and kiss his feet, if he'd accept my apology."

"That's probably a little overly dramatic."

Sherrie was silent for a few minutes, watching the surf break on the beach. "There's nothing he can do about the policemen who killed his parents?"

"No. Sometimes they file charges against the cops who do the shooting, but those are very difficult cases to prove because the police lie and lie and lie -- and that's when they say something at all. This isn't the first time this sort of thing has happened and not just in Phoenix. It's a plague across the nation and the police forces have zero accountability. The courts won't touch the cases, so people settle for what they can get -- which invariably entails a quit claim and a gag order."

"Phil, I'm serious here. I don't care what Weaver says he wants -- I want something different. Find out what they're willing to pay him. I'll give him that much, and then I'll sue. Every time the case gets rejected, every time we file, I want more publicity. I don't want anyone forgetting. If necessary, I'll pay your fees myself."

"Sherrie, I said this was pro bono. I'd never charge someone like Weaver a penny, family or not. And, like I said, there are all sorts of civil rights groups willing to intervene as well."

"I'm not sure I want to be on the same side as the ACLU."

"Sherrie, the ACLU runs away from cases like these as fast as they can. They only take cases where they can score big publicity on the off chance they'll win. You don't ever win sovereign immunity suits -- so they stay clear."

"I'm going to talk to Weaver about it, but would there be any legal problem if I left him alone for a couple of days?"

"He's almost sixteen, Sherrie. No."

Sherrie sighed. "He's a very, very old fifteen going on sixteen."

She could see that her uncle was waiting for her to explain further, but she didn't feel like it. It was too bizarre for words.

-------

Three days later they drove back to Phoenix for the funerals. It was clear Weaver was planning on getting through the ordeal by gritting his teeth, suffering -- and saying nothing. There were quite a few people from the family present, all of whom were effusively sympathetic. If anything, his parent's co-workers were worse.

Weaver was a silent sphinx and Sherrie wished she was, too.

After the graveside portion of the funeral Weaver turned to Sherrie. "I know you were planning on driving back tomorrow, but ... could we go now? This afternoon?"

"Sure, Weaver, it's not a problem."

They went back to the hotel, checked out and Sherrie started driving. By ten in the evening they were back in her house. Weaver went straight to bed, while she sat out on the deck, watching the surf phosphoresce in the night, thinking about her idea. There was, she was positive, no way it was going to happen. She was, however, prepared to use a little of "Evil Sherrie" to at least try to get what she wanted.

The next morning, Weaver was working at the computer when she woke up. She sat down next to him, ignoring the fact that as soon as he'd seen her, he'd put up a full screen version of solitaire.

"I've decided to leave for a few days," she told him. "A job interview."

"Cool! What kind of job?"

"The secret agent kind."

She saw him purse his lips, so she spoke up, "Yeah, I know. I sent in a resume a couple of days ago, and got a canned response back in half an hour saying they were sorry, but I don't meet their requirements."

"And you think asking in person will be better?"

"I'm thinking that the worst they can do is say 'No' and since they've already done that, what's to lose? Maybe they'll change their minds."

She waved at the computer. "You'll be all right?"

"Sure."

"Don't talk anyone's ear off while I'm gone."

-------

A few days later she rode a town car to LAX, and arrived in Washington, DC on an early Sunday evening. She went and checked into her hotel a few miles from the CIA building. Sherrie was a little amazed at how calm she felt. Partly it was because she was sure she was wasting her time, partly it was like she'd told Weaver: what could they do? The worst case she figured would be if she didn't get to talk to anyone. If that happened, she was going to spend the next couple of days touring DC and then she'd return home.

If she did talk to someone, most likely they were going to say no and probably fairly quickly. In that case, the same plan as before. But if they hesitated ... She smiled at that. It was foolish to even think about it, but that didn't mean she couldn't hope. She'd won one lotto jackpot -- who said you can't do it twice?

The first thing she learned the next morning was that walk-ins to the Central Intelligence Agency don't earn any points for being early. At eight there was only a bored security guard sitting in the "Information" booth. Tours started later, she was told.

"I don't want a tour." She waved expansively around them. "Someplace in this building are the people you send out to colleges and universities to interview people about jobs. I just want to talk to one."

"This isn't a college or university."

"I'm sure it's not, but then, I'm not a college or university student either."

"Send in a resume."

"I was in the neighborhood," she said, tapping her leather folio. "I thought I'd just stop by and drop it off, and maybe if someone wasn't busy, I could talk to them about career opportunities with the Agency."

It was, Sherrie thought, amusing, because the security guard called three different numbers before he could get someone who would talk to him. She ended up explaining twice more to skeptical questioners, all of them uniformed security people.

Finally a young man in a suit appeared and asked to see her driver's license. She showed it to him, and he wrote down the information in a notebook. He led her across the rotunda to a window. The woman behind the window handed her a badge marked "Visitor" and then her escort led Sherrie through a check point. It was disappointing, really. When he went through it too, the metal detector didn't beep. Evidently, he wasn't packing a gun.

She was ushered into a room that was clearly not an office, not far past the barriers. A portly, late-middle age man, balding and wearing a suit, stood to greet her, an open laptop computer in front of him.

"Miss Richardson, I'm J. Winston Croom the Third." He spoke with a Boston twang. Sherrie wasn't sure why, but she had to fight the urge to wipe her hand on a towel after she'd shaken his hand.

"Sherrie Richardson, sir."

"I understand that you're seeking a position with the Agency. Do you have a resume?"

She handed it to him and he perused it.

He lifted his eyes to her. The expression on his face was, she was sure, a sneer.

"You are not a college graduate?"

"No, sir."

"And how would you rate your fluency in Spanish?"

"I took it for two years in high school, and then another year in college. I can order beer in a bar, ask where the 'baña' is and that's about it."

"I believe the word you are thinking of is 'baño' Miss Richardson." His expression was clearly a sneer as he went on. "I don't see anything here about living overseas."

"I've never lived overseas. At one time my father chose to run for governor of Arizona -- that's my one claim to fame. He died in a hunting accident before the primary."

"What sort of position do you seek?" he asked.

Sherrie looked him in the eye. "Any position where I would be useful."

"The only job experience you list on your resume is a truck dispatcher. What sort of trucks?"

"Semi-trucks. I scheduled arrivals and departures for a warehouse in Traverse City, Michigan, but I worked in Phoenix."

"Why are you seeking a position with us, Miss Richardson? You have to know you are completely unsuited for anything we do."

"Do you mean do I see it as my patriotic duty? No. I'd like something useful to do with my life."

"Miss Richardson, the Central Intelligence Agency is charged with collecting and analyzing intelligence from around the world. You have no language skills; you have no special knowledge of some part of the world that might be useful. You are not academically prepared to collate intelligence, and you certainly have no preparation to draw conclusions from that intelligence, which is perhaps our most important function."

He paused. "I'm sorry, Miss Richardson, but you would not be suitable for the Agency."

"I understand. I thank you for your time, sir. Does it matter that I'm a self-made millionaire?"

It was a shot in the dark. She'd have done better keeping her mouth shut.

"Self-made in the sense that you bought a lottery ticket at the right time and place. Thank you very much, Miss Richardson. The gentleman in the corridor will escort you out of the building."

She allowed herself to be led away. Back in sunlight she contemplated her watch. Plenty of time to catch some of the tours!

For the rest of the day and the next, she visited monuments and memorials, museums and institutions.

On her third morning in DC she packed her bags, intending to go down for breakfast, then catch a limo to the airport. She opened the door to her room, and there was a man standing in the hallway, about to knock on her door.

He grinned at her. "Miss Richardson?"

She eyed him warily. He was, she thought, old enough to be her grandfather. He was easily in his sixties, although he had a head of bushy brown hair and a grin that would have suited someone forty years his junior.

"I'm Sherrie Richardson."

"If you have a few minutes, Miss Richardson, I'd like to talk to you."

She contemplated her room behind her and decided, geezer or not, it would be a bad idea. "I was on my way down for breakfast."

"That would be good! It'll be my treat!"

She shrugged and followed him to the elevator. On the next floor the elevator stopped and a couple joined them. The couple were both seriously overweight, loudly arguing about sightseeing plans. It was all Sherrie could do to keep her face bland and not curl her lip in disgust.

A few minutes later she and the man were seated in the hotel restaurant, facing each other. Sherrie wasn't sure how it had happened, but they were in a section that didn't seem to be open. They were quite a ways away from anyone else.

"I suspect," he told Sherrie, "that you never watched Groucho Marx as a child."

"I've seen a few of the Marx Brothers movies on cable."

"Yes. I was thinking of his quiz show, though. He would engage the contestants in small talk. There was an additional prize if the contestant uttered the secret word. If they did, a little fake bird came down, bearing the word in its beak."

"And what does that have to do with me?"

"This is the twenty-first century. Things are a little more complicated than they were back then. Now you need to say several different words. Things like 'useful, ' 'self-made' and 'millionaire.'"

"And you think a self-made millionaire -- someone who won the lottery -- might be useful?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. The right person, anyway, would be useful. Are you bored with life, Miss Richardson?"

"Not so much bored as without purpose."

"Your record doesn't exactly stand out as that of someone who sticks with a job to the bitter end."

"Think what you want. Sometimes, at a certain point, you realize that you're barking up the wrong tree. You can keep barking, but I personally think it's better to switch trees."

"I must say, you have a refreshing use of metaphor. You have also demonstrated over the years, Miss Richardson, an exaggerated sense of self-importance."

"Lately, fate has made it abundantly clear just where I stand in the scheme of things."

"Miss Richardson, would you hazard a guess at how many intelligence agencies the United States government has?"

She contemplated that. There was the CIA, of course. The NSA -- she'd heard of them. The FBI sometimes spied on people. So she guessed twice that number. "A half dozen or so."

He smiled slightly. "At the peak of the cold war, there were forty-eight. We're less paranoid these days -- there are twenty-three overt agencies today. Overt, in the sense that if you look at the book that is 'The Budget of the United States' you'd see an entry for them. Those budget numbers are fiction, of course, but they are listed."

"Since you use the 'overt' distinction, I assume then, that there are others," Sherrie replied.

"Exactly. Are you prepared to be an insignificant cog in a vastly larger machine that no one ever talks about and where we devoutly hope we are never talked about?"

"Only in the movies and books do you get to start out at the top. Of course."

"Are you prepared for the fact that we'd intend to use Weaver? That your active participation would be under the cover of his activities?"

Sherrie couldn't help it. Even though the waitress appeared with their breakfast orders, she had to laugh. When the waitress was gone she asked, "Weaver would also be an active participant, to use your words?"

"In a manner of speaking, and with your permission. Not now, but he would also be of considerable value to us in the future. Just now we would use his contacts."

"Whereas, I'm not valuable?"

"You would also be useful and would have considerable value. Weaver, you see, has reason to travel to certain places in the world, particularly in East Asia, that we are interested in. Japan, Korea, Taiwan, the Philippines, Singapore and perhaps Australia. In the past his parents forbade him to attend various gatherings that would have honored him."

"And exactly what is it I'd be doing?"

"You would be a courier. You would go to a certain place at a certain time and do a certain thing. You would take that which you obtain and convey it to a destination where you would hand it over to a recipient in a manner that we would specify.

"You would only work in countries with which the US has cordial relations. Even if caught, you would simply be expelled. Like as not, there would be little or no publicity about it. If you were to be detained -- well, it's a sad commentary on the affairs of nations, but nations play tit-for-tat on a schoolyard level. Their countries have their own people here, and we'd simply arrest three or four of their people and then offer to swap."

"And how likely is being arrested going to happen?"

"On any one trip, the odds are very low. Over time, it becomes more likely. It is nothing to be alarmed about, I assure you.

"There is a caveat, however. This assumes you've been doing what you were told to do. Go off on your own, sneak into a classified installation, or even into a company with a competitive advantage over American companies, and we would not feel constrained to help you. Being a courier is quasi-legal. Actual espionage is not. Also, going to a country not on the approved list terminates your employment at once."

"And what sort of information would I be carrying?"

"In this business, what you don't know, you can't be made to tell. Thus, questions of that sort aren't tolerated. Ask again and I'll find someone else."

"And if I'm found out ... two questions come to mind. What happens to Weaver? And what happens to me, once I'm home?"

"Nothing would happen to Weaver. He would likely be allowed to stay until the end of his engagement. As for later -- as in all things, if you've done a good job for us, we'll find something else for you to do."

"No offense, but this sounds about as exciting as waiting for a pot of water to boil."

"Agents come to relish the times when there is nothing going on. This task is simple and without significant risk, so long as you keep your cool and follow your instructions.

"As to what's in it for you, beyond the momentary rush when you make pickups and deliveries, we pay you the foreign service per diem for foreign travel, which is currently $250 a day, for instance, in Tokyo. It will vary by country and sometimes the city within a country.

"We would also deposit into a blind account for Weaver a similar amount. We would pay for business class tickets for you wherever you travel, and you would get to keep your frequent flyer miles."

"And Weaver?"

"Weaver would be a guest at conventions and meetings. They will be paying for his travel, meals and accommodations. We'll still pay him the per diem, but we won't double pay for the travel and other covered expenses.

"And you would also be paid as a GS-9, the equivalent of a lieutenant in the military, when you are on a mission."

Sherrie met his eyes for a few seconds. It had been on the tip of her tongue to say she'd do it for free and pay her own expenses. She contemplated for a second what it would have been like at the trucking company if she'd offered to work for free.

"Training?" she asked.

"That would be a week or two, but don't expect something from nine to five in a formal classroom. It would happen there in Los Angeles. I forgot something earlier -- it's been a few years since I gave this speech. Another ground for instant firing is the possession of a firearm while overseas. You are not authorized; you are not trained and you won't be. Don't ask."

"Fine by me," Sherrie told him. "My father taught me to shoot, but I've never pursued it as a sport."

"When I sat down, I did not pull out any ID to identify myself. We rarely carry such things. We run a tightly compartmented operation. For instance, I will be your instructor, and I will be as the phrase says, 'running you.' That is, I'll be your control."

Sherrie grimaced. "You could be a spy for the other side. How do I know for sure?"

"First off, it would be a firing offense to try to tail me. I'd know. Secondly, what do you mean by the other side? You aren't going to be visiting hostile countries. The vast majority of espionage is data collection. All sorts of data on all sorts of subjects for all sorts of reasons. None of that is your concern."

"How about visiting Europe?"

"Weaver isn't nearly as popular there. No Americans are, except maybe Elvis."

"What if I decided to visit Europe as a tourist?"

"There is a list of countries that you may not visit; some of them are in Europe. There are places in some of the acceptable countries that you will be warned against visiting. Visiting the first group would result in your being fired. Visiting the second group would be just plain stupid.

"Make no plans to go south of the US border or anywhere in Africa. We would strongly discourage a visit to Israel, but that's the only country in the Middle East you could contemplate visiting. No former Soviet states outside Europe, certainly not Communist China, Hong Kong or North Korea. We discourage visits to Iceland and Northern Ireland."

"I have a bump of curiosity," Sherrie admitted. "I've been thinking about doing some traveling."

"Miss Richardson, the countries you are forbidden to go are places you would be ill-advised to visit, even as a citizen. The places we discourage you from visiting are places where safety is problematical."

"Iceland?" she asked, disbelief in her voice. "Is Bjork really that dangerous?"

He sighed. "They actively hate the US. They wanted to remain neutral in World War II and we and the British gave them no choice. They wanted to be neutral in the Cold War, but because of their strategic location that wasn't possible either. Now that the Soviet Union is gone, every year or two they demand that we remove our military bases from their country. Alas, Iceland is a strategic location even now, and even now the answer to their pleas for neutrality is 'No.' They haven't been happy with the state of affairs for seventy years."

"I had no idea," Sherrie said, awed.

"Americans, as a nation, are some of the most ignorant people in the world when it comes to geography. One thing that you can do as outside study that would be of the most benefit to you would be to study geography. Do not use the National Geographic as a source."

"I'd like to do this," she told him.

"Return to your home. Suggest to Weaver that you might be convinced to agree that he could attend a convention in Japan. There's one coming up in two months in Tokyo. If he were to talk to some of the people he knows there and let it be known he'd be willing to come, they'd make him a guest in a heartbeat. After that, nature will take care of invitations."

"If you know so much about Weaver, you have to know about his parents."

"I know about them."

"I take it there is nothing that can be done?"

"You take it correctly. There is nothing that can be done. There is no way for the arrow of time to backtrack and keep them alive. Yes, we selfishly want to use the tragedy for our own purposes, as we wish to use you."

"And J. Winston Croom?"

"The Third," the man added with a laugh. "He's a second generation CIA officer. His father was an incompetent, arrogant prick who screwed up more often than not. The acorn did not fall far from the tree."

"You know what I told him."

He inclined his head. "Passive-aggressive questions like that aren't permitted either. What I know or don't know is none of your concern. But there is this -- I know who Weaver Gold is and if you were to ask Croom, he'd have no idea who he is or why he could be of value. Someone Weaver's age is beneath his notice."

"But not yours."

"This is your final warning, Miss Richardson. Such questions aren't appropriate."

"Well, I have a plane to catch."

He grinned. "I know. Pretty good timing, eh?" He stood up. "See you Friday on the beach, Miss Richardson."

He waved and left.



-------

Chapter 4: Training


On the flight back to LA, Sherrie had a chance to think about all the things she'd been told. First and foremost, the man she'd talked to had never introduced himself. He'd known who she was, clearly knowing a lot more than what had been in her resume or what she'd said in the interview with Croom. Of course, he'd waited almost two entire days after she'd been to the CIA to appear.

The second thing was that he'd never once said a word about what she was supposed to tell Weaver. She pretty much figured that had to be a test and a tricky test at that. Still, one way or the other, how would they know what she told Weaver, unless she or Weaver told them? Did they have her house bugged? That seemed to be carrying paranoia to a new level.

He did say, though, that she should bring up to Weaver that she'd let him go to one of those conventions. What sort of conventions? Why was Weaver so highly sought after? She had wanted to give Weaver his privacy, and had felt that the best way to do that was not to ask nosy questions. Everyone it seemed, except Weaver's family, knew about him.

She contemplated life as a tourist. The museums in Washington had been interesting, the monuments had been beautiful and the White House and the US Capitol imposing. As a steady diet, however, it wouldn't be that exciting. She smiled to herself. What had he said, right up front, about her ability to finish a job?

The more she thought about the interview, the more she realized that there had been quite a few levels to what he'd told her throughout his talk.

The plane landed and she rode a town car back up to Malibu, glad that someone else had to deal with Thursday afternoon traffic.

She came in the house and looked around. The place looked exactly like when she'd left it. She hoped Weaver hadn't spent the time she'd been gone in his room, glued to the computer.

She went and knocked on his bedroom door. "Weaver, it's Sherrie. I'm back. When you have a minute, I'd like to talk to you."

He popped the door open almost at once. "Sorry, I didn't hear you come in." Behind him, the solitaire game filled the screen.

At least he wasn't rank, and his clothes weren't rumpled or mussed and his room wasn't a pig sty. His bed was even made, something she couldn't say about her own.

"I need an ocean fix," she told him. "Could we go out on the deck?"

"Sure," he said and followed her outside.

Sherrie took a deep breath, but before she could say anything, Weaver spoke up. "So, they said 'yes', eh?"

"Actually, the man at the CIA was contemptuous of me and my resume. According to him, I'm totally unsuited for anything they have."

Weaver looked at her, a puzzled expression on his face.

"Weaver, I have this feeling you prize your privacy."

"Oh yeah!"

"I understand that, I do. Except I keep running into people whose eyes bug out when someone mentions your name. Since you're using your own name on the net, I figure you wouldn't totally wig out if I ask why everyone knows you."

"It's kind of hard to explain, Sherrie. Americans ... they pretty much don't understand the genre. Mostly you have to be young to pick up on it.

"Have you ever seen a Japanese anime?"

Sherrie shook her head. "What's that?"

He grimaced. "You've never seen the anime section at a store that sells DVDs?"

"Weaver, these days I watch TV for something to do while I'm eating or when I'm bored. I don't go to the movies very often and I don't rent videos either. I do watch a fair number of movies on cable, though."

"Well, think of Saturday morning cartoons shows in the US. Only anime is way more sophisticated and aimed at kids a lot older than Saturday cartoons are aimed at."

He seemed to change the subject. "I'm smart, okay? Stupid school classes are boring; they aren't a challenge. I like challenges. So, when I had to take a foreign language when I was working on my high school diploma, the most difficult one available was Japanese. So I learned it, and I spent a good part of the time learning online, talking to kids in Japan.

"Sherrie, the US education system has its head stuck up its ass. The Japanese system is screwed up too, but at least their sin is in overdoing, as opposed to what happens here, where no one cares what you learn -- or even if you learn.

"In a year or so, I was pretty fluent. One of the people I talked to online mentioned her favorite anime, and I went down to Circuit City and bought it to see what she was talking about. It was so cool, Sherrie! There were English subtitles, but the dialog was Japanese. I could practice! And the story line -- that was a bigger wow! The main character was cursed. Half the time he was a guy who chased every woman around and scored a lot. The other half of the time he was a girl, shy and virginal and determined to stay that way. Neither knew the other existed at first.

"Anyway, I was fascinated ... what ten-year-old isn't when exposed to all that sex and pictures of naked women?"

Sherrie laughed. "Ten, eh?"

"Yeah. Anyway, I was hooked and hooked good. You can download a lot of anime off the net and I did. Most of it was pure Japanese, without subtitles, which worked for me. I learned a lot more about Japanese -- and Japan -- from them. Some people I talked to online wanted translations, so I worked it out and started dubbing subtitles.

"I had to learn a lot about movie files and all sorts of other things. And, like most eleven and twelve year olds, I liked to doodle. I doodled some of my favorite characters. A year or so after I started, I was doodling characters of my own.

"I showed some of the doodles to friends and they liked them. So I started doing doodles with a plot. One thing led to another, and pretty soon I was hooked up with Tommy Tone, a Japanese anime producer. I did the concept work, supervised the character animation, and we put together a 24 minute pilot.

"The Japanese state-owned TV company snapped it right up. That's when it kind of hit the fan, because I hadn't exactly been candid about my age. My parents really freaked out when I got a check with all those zeros you get when you're paid in yen. Two million yen, to be specific -- about sixteen thousand dollars at the time."

"Not too shabby," Sherrie told him.

He held her eye. "This year I made more than my father."

Sherrie laughed and clapped. "Me, too! I make more than my father ever made!"

Weaver smiled weakly.

"And since then, Weaver, what have you done? What about your website with the gold mine of click-through advertising?"

"I'm on my fourth project -- this one is a movie. It was just green-lighted and the paycheck has a truly amazing number of zeros. Thirty million yen.

"As for my website, all the concept work and writing the scripts for TV and the movie, that's not very hard. I steal from just about every famous author and story there are. I had a lot of time on my hands, so I built a website in quadruplicate: one version in English, and others in Japanese, Mandarin and Korean. Friends do the translation for me. It's my public anime site, with its own story line. I get about three thousand visitors a day and that goes to ten or twenty thousand when something new of mine is shown."

She looked him forthrightly in the eye. "I've been told that you've been invited to conventions in places like Japan and Korea, but that your parents wouldn't let you go."

He shrugged. "Mom and Dad wouldn't let me go by myself and they didn't have the time they could take off from work to come with me. Pretty much everyone knows now how old I am, and I could have lived without having my mommy or daddy chaperoning me."

"I've been thinking about traveling lately. I really liked touring DC. All the museums and monuments and parks and stuff."

He nodded. The expression on his face was almost laughter. "It's a pity the CIA didn't want you," he said finally.

"It's probably for the best. Still, if I go with you, I can travel here and there and use it as a tax deduction. I promise you won't even know I'm around. I imagine someone with a six-figure income can probably take care of himself."

He cocked his head. "There's a convention in two months in Tokyo. If I said I could go, they'd pay my way, there and back, and most of my other expenses. We could share a room, if you like."

"I think that would be fun," Sherrie told him, "although I can afford my own room."

He was holding his sides to keep from laughing aloud. So, he wondered about being bugged, too...

"Thank you, Weaver."

"Thank you, Sherrie! This is my idea of heaven: going to a convention where I will be surrounded by thousands of screaming teenage groupies -- mostly girls."

-------

Friday morning Sherrie rose early, had breakfast and decided to go for an early walk on the beach. The sun was still behind the hills to the east, and the early morning air was chill.

She went down to the wave's edge and stood still, remembering Weaver's comments after she'd told him she was thinking of suicide and he'd seen the ocean. There was a sound and she looked. The man from Washington was there, next to her.

"Good morning, Sherrie," he told her.

"Good morning, sir. Sir, what should I call you?"

"Sir is good enough when we're being informal. When others are around, Mr. Smith will do."

"Okay, sir. Weaver's asking about attending the convention."

"Good, very good. Let's just stand here for a moment, looking out to sea."

"Sure."

"Your job is to appear normal. You will be asked to do normal, everyday things and all you have to do is make sure that what you do appears normal and every day. I want you to go to the Beverly Center after lunch. Go to the Borders book store there. Look for a book that meets your fancy. Then, go to the young adult section and find a hardbound book called Beka Cooper -- Terrier by Tamora Pierce. One of the copies will have a small check mark on the base of the spine of the dustjacket. Do you know what I mean when I say 'base of the spine?'"

"I understand."

"If ever you're in the least bit unsure, please ask a question. Take that book as well. You may or may not buy another book if that's your wish. Bring them all home with you. Tomorrow at nine AM, be on your deck, reading Terrier."

"Okay," she said mildly.

"Sherrie, when you go to a bookstore to buy a book, you don't look around to see who is watching. You don't glance behind you, you don't look around for familiar faces. You look at books, find one you think you might like and pick it up and check the jacket blurbs. You look at several other books beside the one you are supposed to pick, both before and after."

"The Border's young adult section, Tamora Pierce, Terrier, check mark on the spine. I can do that."

"Good. Normally, right now I'd leave. However, something has come up."

"What is that?"

"The other day I told you there was nothing I could do about what happened to Weaver's parents. I was reviewing the relevant facts and realized that if such a thing happened today, I'd have immediately opened a case file on the event. In fact, if the event hadn't happened first, you would be given other duties."

"I don't understand."

"Neither did I, until I saw a technical report. I was curious, you see, about why so many people keep saying that Weaver's computer had been 'killed.' That's a very odd expression for a what happens to a computer that's struck by a stray bullet.

"Miss Richardson, I'm a professional. I've been a professional for a very long time.

"What happened to Weaver's computer is beyond odd. And thoroughly and completely unprofessional."

"I understand that the police shot it."

"Yes. However, what outrages my professionalism is that the computer was shot at sixty some-odd times and hit fifty of those.

"I could understand one of the officers, given the situation, who might have fired one shot at Weaver's computer. In this case, though, some of those police officers reloaded their weapons, and then continued firing. The simplest explanation is vindictiveness, except at the time they weren't supposed to know it was a bad warrant.

"I put in a request, through channels, to interview the four officers who went into Weaver's room. I received the first results last night. The sergeant who led the raid was killed Monday last, a hit and run in a grocery store parking lot."

He stopped talking and Sherrie stared at him. She couldn't help what she said next. "Weaver told me about how he felt when the shooting was going on. He said each gunshot was like the clash of a giant cymbal. I assumed they fired once or twice at his computer. Dear God! What is must have been like to endure more sixty!"

He grimaced. "Not to mention a dozen shots into his bed. Regrettably, it is going to be nearly impossible to get information from those officers now about what happened. They would have been reluctant to tell the truth at the best of times -- but now to say something bad about a fellow officer who is dead? That's not likely. All I can do is what I've done -- open a case file."

"But if it happened today, I'd not be working for you?"

"Probably not. Do you know what I mean by Occam's Razor?"

"Yes."

"The simplest explanation for the events at Weaver's home was that a police hit squad was sent to kill Weaver. And then, when they couldn't find him, they sent him a message in order to intimidate him.

"Since whoever did this appears to have gotten away with it, odds are that if they cared enough to try once, they'll try again. And that we can't afford to be involved with him, or, by extension, you."

"So, why are we talking then?" Sherrie asked.

He held her eyes and said as a whisper, "Occam's Razor."

For a second, she didn't understand. Then she did.

"You want to use us as bait."

"I'm sorry. It's just not possible for us to leave this alone. We don't have police death squads in the United States -- at least, we didn't think so. This went very high, very quick. Some very senior people want to know what is going on."

Sherrie swallowed. "What are we supposed to do?"

"Technically, you're supposed to keep a normal routine. Privately, I suggest that you keep to your recent life style. You do things on whims, on your own schedule. Lack of predictability is your best defense. And, of course, there will be some good-hearted people close by all of the time, every last one of whom want to find out who is doing this. If anyone comes for you or Weaver, they'll have their work cut out for them."

He chuckled. "Not that you should blow off this afternoon's exercise."

Without another word, he turned and walked away. Sherrie glanced after him and then turned back to the ocean. She wasn't really sure what happened then, but she was sitting with her feet where the surf ended. She grabbed her knees and leaned forward, intent on keeping her mind blank.

She felt someone sit down next to her and she glanced over. "Weaver."

"You're not thinking of going swimming again are you, Sherrie?"

Sherrie blinked in confusion. "No, nothing like that," she managed.

"Weaver..." her voice cracked with a sob.

He glanced her way. "What? I saw you talking to that old guy. Fired already?"

She grimaced. "No. Weaver ... I remember what you said about cymbals. Do you understand I thought they only sounded once or twice. Sixty, seventy times..."

"There was a reason, Sherrie, why I was willing to go with a cousin, even the one who called me that name."

"She's dead, Weaver, just like I suspect the old Weaver is dead as well."

Weaver nodded solemnly. "I told myself I had to be strong, like the heroes in the stories I like. But I wake up at night and all I hear are guns firing." He smiled wanly. "I haven't used my bed once, Sherrie. I'm sorry."

"You don't have to be, Weaver."

She paused, then reached out and put her arm around his waist. "I want a favor," she told him.

He looked at her, startled. "What?"

"We're both just children. We are, Weaver, screwed up; both of us are messed up. A second ago I was going to say that you're my little brother. Nuts! You're my brother period, okay? And I'm your sister. You and me, together against everyone else!"

Weaver was quiet for a few seconds. "There's going to be hell to pay if the Tokyo trip is off."

She hugged him tight. "You're out on the net a lot, right?"

"Yes," he replied, being cautious.

"I saw it a few months ago and I was curious. NZ Bear's site. You and me, Weaver -- we're insignificant worms."

He glanced at her and then away.

"What?" she asked.

"You sound surprised."

"It's uncomfortable."

"Sherrie, when you came to the hospital, I was scared. Someone tried to kill me. Several someones. The police. And I didn't have a high opinion of you. So..." He paused and then said softly, "Sherrie, this is what I wanted. I didn't care a rat's ass about you, your mother and above all, I don't give a shit about Uncle Phil. Do you think it's an accident I mentioned 'secret agent?'"

"Unless you're a master of hypnosis and made me forget, you gave it a single mention and never came back to it and it was buried in a long list of other possibilities."

"From little acorns, mighty oaks grow."

"That was a pretty big assumption on your part, then."

"A lot of the things that I suggested could have been directed into looking into what happened at my house."

"Weaver, forget it, okay? You did what you had to do. Now, I'm going to do what I want to do. When I was twelve, I read every James Bond book there was. I wanted to be a woman like him -- not the brain-dead bimbos around him in the movies. Now, just maybe, something like that might be possible."

She saw he wanted to say something, but couldn't bring himself to say it. "What's the matter, Weaver?"

"You have your arm around me."

"Yeah," she said and hugged him. "Brothers and sisters do that."

"What if I hug you?"

"What did I just say, Weaver? It's something brothers and sisters do."

He reached out and put his arm around her waist. After a second, his head touched her shoulder.

"Are you okay, Weaver?" she asked, when she saw his eyes were closed.

He opened his eyes, staring sightlessly out over the ocean. "I was six. My father came into my bedroom, and looked at me quite seriously and told me that I was a very mature young man and that, as a reward, henceforth I could shut off my own light at night when I was ready for bed.

"It wasn't for years and years that I realized that meant no more hugs or kisses goodnight. No one has hugged me since then."

"Well, my father liked to hug and kiss me well past when I thought it was appropriate for a teenage girl to be hugged and kissed by her father. It wasn't until after he was dead that I realized what really bugged me: his heart wasn't in it."

She sighed. "Weaver, we are both messed up. That doesn't mean we have to stay messed up."

"Okay. You're not wearing a bra."

"I'm your sister, Weaver," Sherrie said, with a laugh.

"Just checking. I'm almost sixteen and male."

She had to laugh at that. "Dreams, Weaver. Save it for your dreams. Brother. Sister."

"Weevil, weevil, weevil."

She bumped him in the shoulder and he mock-crashed into the sand. After a second, he sat back up and put his arm back around her.

It was, she thought, a quite brotherly gesture. "One thing, Sherrie," Weaver said after a few minutes.

"What, Weaver?"

"Brothers do get to love their sisters -- even if it isn't that way."

"That's true."

"I am so looking forward to Tokyo."

She hugged him back.

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. "And what are we going to do now?"

"In general, be careful. In a little while, I'm off shopping at the Beverly Center. It wouldn't hurt you to spend a little time away from the keyboard."

"Well, if I'm going traveling halfway around the world I'll need some new clothes."

-------

So Sherrie took Weaver shopping with her. She supposed it was crazy to let him go off on his own once they got to the mall, but he was nearly sixteen. And, he was, she was sure, significantly smarter than she was.

Sherrie found the book, found two others and never once looked around. She paid for them, paid for a couple of new blouses and a pair of new loafers.

She expected Weaver would be empty-handed when she met him, but he had bags and bags of stuff. "Threads for Tokyo," he told her. "Debit cards are so cool!"

She smiled back at him. "We need, Weaver, to look into what we have to do to be able to go. Passports, for one thing."

"It's not taken care of?" he asked, looking confused.

"I doubt it."

The next morning Sherrie was reading the book, early in the morning on her deck. Her boss showed up and sat down. She slid the book towards him and he smiled. "Did you keep the receipt?"

Sherrie blinked. "I tossed it."

"See if you can find it."

She went and found it in the trash. She sat down and pushed it across to him.

"I hope you take the obvious lesson from this," he told her.

"Instructions may or may not be complete," Sherrie said sarcastically.

"Anything having to do with your assigned mission might turn out to be important. Be careful with the least thing."

"Did you get your message?" she asked.

He shook his head. "Your job is delivering the goods. How successful it was isn't something you should concern yourself about. Not, mind you, that if you mess up, we won't let you know."

"What's next?"

"Monday noon, I'll be at Griffith Park, at the planetarium. You go and buy a ticket. I'll be sitting one seat over. When the show starts, I'll put a newspaper down on the seat between us. You reach over and find the small package hidden under it and put it in your purse. Do it as quickly as possible right after the lights go down, so it will be harder to see."

"And you'll be along to pick it up?"

"No. The next day is your trash day. Put the package, unopened, in your trash."

Sherrie eyed him carefully. "That's all?"

"Yes. I have assistants who will actually retrieve it."

He smiled at her and was quiet for a moment.

"I told Weaver a little. This was, after all, his idea."

"There is no good way to hide what you're doing, at least not for very long, from someone you live with. Better they know not to ask questions or to be inquisitive. No details."

"And about the men who came after him?"

He looked away. "We're working on it."



-------

Chapter 5: The Wrong Reverend


Early on Monday Sherrie asked Weaver if he wanted to visit the planetarium with her and he shook his head. "I have an online production meeting with a producer in Tokyo in an hour. It'll be later there."

Sherrie slapped her forehead with her palm. "Wayne! I forgot all about Wayne Braden!"

Weaver smiled slightly. "I talked to him."

"What did you tell him?"

"It was impossible to hide what happened to me. You were right about using my real name on the Internet -- a lot of people have read about me in the news reports. My fans learned about it and, well, they've gone a little crazy. A lot of people overseas think the US is a mishmash of cowboys and Mafia gangsters, rustlers, red Indians, scheming corporate businessmen and rogue CIA agents..."

"I get the picture," she said with a shudder.

"They've promised me my own security detail in Tokyo. A dozen black belts around me, twenty-four/seven. They're calling it the Gold Ninja Squad, and they have more applicants than they know what to do with."

"And what has this to do with Wayne?"

"He looked me up on the Internet, too. So when he came over and I told him that I'd already had offers -- he wasn't surprised. He made me an offer and it was a tenth what the best Japanese bid was. I told him that and he understood. This is big news in Japan, Sherrie. I mean, it's not just the tabloids, but the major papers as well.

"The US got a big black eye out of this," he explained. "I ... I really want to get back at the people who came for me. But not everyone in the country was responsible. If I let someone in Japan do my story, or even here, for that matter, it will make the whole country look bad."

"They've been a little vague about what I can tell you and what I can't, Weaver. I think it's a test for both of us. Talk about Secret Agent Sherrie and I'll be out of a job again. I'd just as soon keep it, Weaver."

"As if! They had to be the ones who told you about how many times the police shot my computer. That means that, at the very least, they're curious. And you talked about worms. I know what worms are for, Sherrie. Bait."

Sherrie was silent for several minutes. Part of the time she was mentally kicking herself. Weaver had said it in enough ways. He spent a lot of time thinking about what had happened to him. She had shied away from it, each and every time. Whenever someone brought it up, she paid attention, but at the first opportunity, she was only too happy to change the subject. For Weaver, those events occupied his waking thoughts, and from what he'd said, a lot of his dreams.

She needed to sit down and do some serious thinking about this. Everyone else was.

"Weaver, I apologize. I think about what happened to you and then I change the subject as soon as I can.

"As for bait -- you understand that the government has larger concerns than you and me? Like a group of cops breaking into a citizen's home and mowing down everyone they see?"

Weaver nodded. "The other day at the mall, I couldn't hardly think. You wanted to go to the bookstore by yourself. I thought that was it; that it was curtains for me. I was terrified. I know you're not supposed to be obvious looking for a tail, but I didn't know if I was supposed to be looking or not. I looked, but I didn't see anyone."

Sherrie sat frozen. It had been such a casual thing. She hadn't wanted Weaver with her in the bookstore, so she'd sent him off to shop on his own. He could have been killed and she'd have been nowhere near him!

"Weaver!" she exclaimed, shocked to her core.

He laughed at her. "Oh, like I wanted to go shopping for blouses at 'The GAP?' Not!"

"I just walked away and didn't give you another thought."

"I thought I was supposed to be bait, wandering around looking helpless, innocent and clueless."

"I don't suppose any of the Gold Ninja Squad live in the US?"

Weaver didn't take it as a joke. "Probably. Sherrie, it was for the best. I had it all wrong about you, and the worst part is that, deep down, I knew it. I mean, you went for Coretta without hesitation. For me. And when you couldn't control her, you didn't hesitate, you called the cops."

"It's something you learn in Babysitting 101," Sherrie told him.

"You made it clear what you thought of me, but when it came down to it, it didn't matter."

Sherrie was quiet again for a few seconds. "I just realized something about myself."

He raised an eyebrow.

"All my life I was shallow and stupid -- unless I was given a responsibility. Then I did whatever I had to do to carry out my responsibilities, the very best way I could. My whole time at the trucking company, I did better than I've ever done at anything in my life. It was because I was given responsibilities and I took care of them. I just never realized my personal life was a responsibility as well.

"Weaver..."

"What, Sherrie?"

"Can I offer you a bit of advice?"

"Don't be afraid?"

She laughed. "Sisterly advice, brother. About those girls at the convention. A little of something can be a good thing. A lot of something -- well -- been there, done that, and had three different kinds of STDs, and one of them three times. The problem with screwing everyone is that you tend to screw people who would screw anyone themselves. Quality, Weaver -- go for quality, not quantity."

"You're telling me to go for it?"

"Weaver, life is too short not to go for it. It's simple advice: if you get the chance, particularly if she's nice, take the chance. Just don't take too many chances."

Weaver hit her gently on her arm. "I have work to do, sister. Thank you for your sage fucking advice."

"One last thing, Weaver. This is Sherrie talking, not your sister. Any woman who lets a guy get past the pearly gates is a fool if she isn't a thousand percent sure that she has rock solid birth control. Any guy who believes her is a fool if he doesn't reach into his pocket and pull out a condom and tells her, 'This won't hurt, though!'"

"If I went into a drugstore and bought condoms, people would see!"

Sherrie was pretty sure he was serious, not joking around. "Yep!"

"The bad guys might send me a shill! I might be a danger to a nice girl!"

"Or the good guys might see you and give you a little space if you're alone with someone."

He turned green. Evidently, he hadn't thought about that part of being an insignificant worm.

Sherrie went to the Planetarium and saw Mr. Smith put his paper down on the seat between them as the lights went down. Her hand was probing at once, while she never looked away from the sky above her. She took the box she found and the newspaper, stuffing them into her purse.

She was mildly surprised that he was gone when the lights came back up; she hadn't noticed him leave.

She spent a lot of time on the beach thinking about things. In the morning she dropped the newspaper and the small gift-wrapped matchbox in the trash before she took it out to the road.

When she came back, she decided she wanted something more than her usual bowl of cereal for breakfast. She knocked on Weaver's door and he answered promptly.

"Care for some French toast?" she called through the closed door.

"Sure, Sherrie. Thanks."

"Fifteen minutes," she told him. "How many slices?"

"Four! I'll be out in a jiffy!"

There were people, Sherrie knew, who were connoisseurs of French toast. She was one of them, most of the time. Today, she decided to be a minimalist and limit herself to 2% milk, eggs and vanilla.

She was well on her way to getting the first slices toasted when there was a knock on the deck door. The curtains were drawn and Weaver had just come out of his room. Sherrie was about to tell him to see who it was, then decided that she should do it.

"Weaver, check these slices in a second. When the bottom is golden brown, flip them over."

"Me? Cook?" The thought seemed to startle him, but she was heading for the door.

It was Mr. Smith.

"Come in, sir."

"Is that French toast I smell cooking?" he asked.

Sherrie grimaced. Maybe he could smell French toast cooking -- or maybe they really did have the place bugged.

"Sure, sir. Come on in." She opened the door wider for him, and he walked to the kitchen. Weaver eyed him warily.

"I'd introduce him, Weaver, except then I'd have to shoot myself for telling secrets," she told her cousin.

Mr. Smith pulled out a leather case and flipped it open. There was a gold badge and a plastic ID card visible for a few seconds, before he flipped it shut. "Smith, Federal agent," he told Weaver.

Weaver held the spatula out for Sherrie and she took it. Weaver vanished into his room and came back a second later with a similar leather case. He flipped it open, revealing another, larger, badge and an official-looking ID card. "Gold, Counter-Intelligent Corps of the US. We weed out the nerds, wherever we find 'em."

Mr. Smith laughed. "And yours is bigger than mine and solid gold to boot. Uncle Sugar is far more stingy. Gilt wash over pot metal."

Sherrie concentrated on the French toast, leaving the guys to discuss their size issues.

A few minutes later they were sitting at the table spreading butter and pouring syrup.

"Weaver, have you ever heard the name 'Hezekiah Johnson' or perhaps the 'Reverend Hezekiah Johnson?' Like you, he's from Phoenix," Mr. Smith asked as he was about to take his first fork full.

"No, sir. Is this about my family?"

"Probably not, but you never know. The reverend mentioned you by name in one of his sermons six weeks ago. His is a splinter congregation of the Southern Baptists. Reverend Johnson thinks the Southern Baptists are too worldly. Not a sermon of his goes by without a lot of Bible thumping, references to Babylon, Sodom and Gomorrah, sins, evil and wickedness."

"And the context of my name?"

"You draw scantily clad girls of indeterminate age. Sometimes, the word 'scant' doesn't apply and the age appears to be pre-teen. He doesn't like that at all."

"Those are cartoons, sir. They are published in Japan where there is no legal issue with them." Weaver smiled slightly. "There would be, if the girl was old enough to have pubic hair and that was visible."

"Yes. It's not an issue with us, but with the Reverend. Sergeant James Cook, the man who led the three officers that went into your room, was a member of the Reverend Johnson's congregation. Sergeant Cook was killed a few days after your parents were in a hit and run accident in a supermarket parking lot."

"That certainly sounds suspicious," Weaver said warily.

"The Reverend Johnson's congregation is managed by a dozen men, elected from the congregation and called 'deacons.'"

"I was raised Presbyterian, sir," Weaver replied. "We had a similar arrangement and men with the same title."

Mr. Smith smiled slightly. "Three of the deacons are styled, 'Fathers of the Church.' All of them have daughters between twelve and fourteen, and those daughters live in the reverend's house. After Sergeant Cook was killed, his wife and two young daughters moved in with the reverend as well."

"You suspect there is a connection?" Sherrie offered.

"Suspect is the key word, Miss Richardson," he replied. "There are perfectly innocent explanations for all of these things."

"But," Weaver interjected, "there were all those religious nuts in the past with a thing for little girls."

"Weaver, there is a word used these days in the context of computer languages: deprecated. 'N' words these days are, for the most part, deprecated."

Weaver laughed. "And would another 'N' word apply to the Reverend Johnson?"

"White as the driven snow," came the instant retort. "He's a southern Alabama redneck, who received a vision from the lord and who relocated to Phoenix a few years ago. There is an outstanding civil complaint in Alabama about his affection for the twelve-year-old daughter of one of his former parishioners."

Mr. Smith looked at Weaver steadily. "The complaint is outstanding, you see, because the father who complained vanished a few days before Reverend Johnson moved to Arizona and without someone pushing it, without someone paying the freight, the complaint languishes. In another year or so, the statute of limitations will render it moot.

"Oh, yes, the girl is a part of the reverend's household; he's her official guardian."

"I've never heard of him," Weaver repeated. "Tomorrow -- it will be a different story."

"Weaver, I'm going to offer you a promotion. Do nothing and from this day forward, I'll call you 'Mr. Gold.'"

"Do that even once and my first instinct will be to look over my shoulder for my father. My next reaction will to be to go for your throat."

Weaver waved a fork full of French toast at Mr. Smith. "If you want to promote me, make me Sherrie's junior assistant."

"That is, of course, not possible. At least for me. What Miss Richardson does is her business. You understand that her duties make her one of the least speedy and most expensive package delivery services on the planet?"

"Making up in security what she lacks in speed," Weaver came right back.

Mr. Smith inclined his head in agreement. "That would be true, so long as no one talks about it or brags about it."

"Up until this week, I wasn't permitted to brag in public. That was my parent's wish. They're dead, and while I could honor their memories by continuing to do what they wanted, this is too important to me. I honor their memory, but not many fifteen year olds pull in a seventh of a million dollars for concept artwork and a script. I'm entitled to a few brags."

"You are, Weaver. Except, like all such entitlements, there are trade-offs. For one thing, you already know you're a target."

"And just now you told me a lot of things, things that tell me that what happened to my family isn't going to languish, no matter what happens to me."

Mr. Smith waved at Sherrie. "Your cousin told your lawyer uncle that she didn't care what you wanted, she wanted him suing the City of Phoenix, from now until the end of time. Phil Richardson being on the case has panicked the lawyers in Phoenix. Earlier today the city conveyed a settlement offer of a million dollars to him for you. All you have to do is sign the agreement, deposit the check and shut your mouth."

"Weaver," Sherrie spoke up, "you do whatever you want. I've already checked with Phil. Marilyn, your mother, was not only my mother's sister, but her best friend in the world. They talked nearly every day and my mom went over to your house at least once a week. Go ahead, sign the settlement; do whatever you want. I'm going to be suing them today, tomorrow and next year. Mom has standing -- that's the legal term. She can bring suit, no matter what you do, no matter what you agree to. Make all the money you can from it, Weaver."

Weaver looked at Mr. Smith. "You are very good at listening at keyholes. Now I'm going to see how well the NSA really is at decrypting PGP emails. Wayne Braden."

Weaver said the name as a statement, not a question.

"Miss Richardson's neighbor, a movie producer."

"Yes, exactly. And his final offer?"

Mr. Smith shook his head. "I have no idea. It didn't come as an email. He's never sent you one."

"One of his production assistants is named Sophie Ong -- she has. A million and a quarter for the script and a ten share of the production. He was quite pleased when he found out I was a screenwriter with credits. Lots and lots of credits."

Sherrie wasn't entirely sure what it all meant, but she was pretty sure Mr. Smith was surprised.

"Do you know what NHK is, in the context of Japan?" Weaver went on.

"Nippon Hoso Kyokai. A cross between PBS and CNN."

"Gangster cops in America are a hot topic. They offered me five million dollars if I would spend a month talking with a group of their writers.

"And of course, the top prize goes to a fellow I know and who I do anime with. A thousand yen, which is their equivalent of a dollar. I get the script, full artistic control, direction, the final cut ... the whole nine yards. And a tenth of the gross sales. Not net, but gross sales. I get to skim the cream from the crop."

Mr. Smith held up his hands as if to ward off more blows. "Weaver, what you do is your business. It's clear you're a target. Piss them off and they will surely come again. Odds are, they'll come again anyway. Don't piss off Uncle Sam."

"I certainly hope you aren't telling me to swallow it and forget about it?"

"I'm talking China, Russia, Venezuela, Cuba and Iran -- all who could make hay with the propaganda."

"Not to mention a dozen other Hollywood types. Mr. Braden's offer was the only American offer that I considered. Everything else is a non-starter."

"Weaver, one thing you need to know about me. About the real me," Mr. Smith said. "I graduated at sixteen from Columbia with a PhD in modern languages."

"I don't want a PhD."

"I suspected as much. The MS though, that's yours."

Weaver looked unhappy and Mr. Smith laughed at him. "Look, Weaver, you are a paranoid polymath. I understand that; I was one myself. Dear God in heaven, I wish I had a do-over for college -- only today. I'd have had a dozen PhD's and my father would have been actually impressed by my scholarship. If you'd ever told the people at ASU about your web site, they'd have found a way to get you out the door early.

"They're academics, Weaver. If it's not growing on their nose in full view, they never notice. Rub their noses in it, and many, many things become possible."

"That would be nice," Weaver said politely.

"Behave, Weaver. Do not go after Reverend Johnson. Leave him to us. I assure you, if he's actually involved with what happened to your family, we'll learn about it and take the appropriate action. If you do go after him, we'll know and then ... well, as I keep mentioning to Miss Richardson, inquisitiveness is a fireable offense in our profession."

Weaver looked him in the eye. "I won't make any promises. If I learn anything, though, I'll pass it on."

"It doesn't bother you, what I just said? That if we catch you, we'll fire Miss Richardson a second later?"

"The operative word there is 'catch.'"

Sherrie wanted to open her mouth and ask Weaver to please not to interfere. Then she remembered why he'd want to interfere and simply kept her mouth shut.

Mr. Smith turned to Sherrie. "You have shown adequate proficiency in your basic duties. I'll be in contact with you about your specific tasks later." He stood up. "Miss Richardson, it was a pleasure. Your French toast is rather pathetic."

"I wasn't expecting company. Let me know next time and I'll use cream instead of 2% milk."

"And real vanilla?"

Sherrie blushed. "That too."

"That's a date. Good day, Miss Richardson. Weaver."

He left via the sliding glass door and Sherrie resolutely didn't watch him walk down the beach.

"You really want to be my junior assistant?" Sherrie asked.

"Yes. Whatever I can do to find out who was responsible for killing my parents."

"So far, the only thing I can think of that you could do would be for you to have taken out the trash this morning."

"Sherrie, it's my understanding that the most difficult part of being a supervisor is learning to delegate duties. Ask me to take out the trash next time."

The two of them laughed at the joke.



-------

Chapter 6: Tokyo


The rest of the week went quickly. Sherrie had no trouble with the exercises, even the last day when she was supposed to collect four different newspapers in the same park within an hour.

She took Weaver down to the local American Automobile Association office and they got passport photos and filled out the paperwork. She sent it in, with their passports supposed to follow within two weeks.

Another week passed and the details of Weaver's convention appearance were ironed out. She bought tickets on the same flight as he was on, and then got a room reservation at the same hotel. The last raised Weaver's eyebrows when Weaver found out that they were going to be in separate rooms.

"Why, Sherrie?"

"Oh, you want me in the room when you bring a friend back?"

Weaver blushed and shook his head.

"Weaver, I'm a multi-millionaire. Relax. Chill. Besides, there's that other thing..."

As it turned out, Mr. Smith showed up for more French toast the next day. He waited until he was nearly done with the meal, before waving his fork at Weaver.

"We've investigated Reverend Johnson and the major players in his congregation. Let's just say that the US government is -- reluctant -- to move against a man who has young girls in his household, absent a specific complaint. There are no complaints.

"We can't tie the attack on your house to him. Yes, he spoke out against you in a sermon -- but he speaks out against all sorts of people in his sermons. You are the only one who was attacked, and candidly, compared to what he says about someone like Madonna or Brittany Spears, you were just mentioned in passing and just once. Those two get mentioned nearly every week.

"Yes, a senior member of his congregation took part in the attack, and yes, that man was subsequently killed under the most suspicious of circumstances. The end result is that we have nothing."

Mr. Smith turned to Sherrie. "Continue to vary your daily routine. That's your single most effective tool."

Sherrie nodded and he thanked her for the higher quality breakfast than before and then left.

Sherrie looked at Weaver after Mr. Smith was gone and Weaver shrugged. Really, what could either of them do?

Sherrie grinned. "We're supposed to vary our daily routine. I'll toss a single die to decide what day I go shopping next week. You can stay here or come with me as you want."

Weaver smiled and shook his head.

Sherrie's secret agent lessons had mainly consisted of variations on two themes: "Do what you're told" and "Act naturally." The whole secret agent thing didn't appear to be nearly as interesting as books and movies made it out to be.

One amusing thing had been the arrival of a DVD from Netflix that she hadn't ordered, but came with a note reading, "From Sir, With Love."

It was a copy of Crocodile Dundee II. Sherrie and Weaver watched it that evening and found out that it had been heavily doctored. There were voice-overs and blurbs written, cartoon-like, on the screen.

One of the more poignant parts was towards the beginning where arrows pointed to the World Trade Center towers in the background as Mick was dynamiting fish off Manhattan. The blurb was blunt "Don't try this. The NYPD no longer treats people using explosives illegally in NYC's harbor with a shrug and a wave."

There were all kinds of things, plus the story had been jimmied as well, with flashbacks so that you could see the point of the lesson. People were identified with arrows, appearing implausibly in one shot or another.

In one way, it was funny and amusing; in another it wasn't. It was clear that lesson was meant to be taken seriously, even if the vehicle was whimsical. Moreover, the four-hour length of the DVD nearly tripled the time Mr. Smith had spent teaching her how to do her job.

-------

Then one day Sherrie and Weaver boarded a 747 for the flight to Tokyo. While Sherrie had traveled extensively, she'd never been on a 747 before and Weaver had never flown before at all. Both of them were impressed by the size of the aircraft.

Long before they reached Tokyo what had appeared so huge on the ground steadily shrank until it felt like a sardine tin, with too many sardines in it.

They exited the plane after it landed at Narita airport and then fetched their luggage. As they were walking to the customs line, they saw two Japanese men with a sign that read "Weaver Gold" standing to one side. Weaver went up to them.

"I'm Weaver Gold," he told them.

The man with the sign bowed formally. "Gold-san, I am Ito, from what you would call our foreign office. With me is Nishimura-san from NHK."

The second man bowed deeply at Weaver when he heard his name. Weaver bobbed his head in reply.

"I am to see that your arrival through customs is expedited," Ito told Weaver.

"Thank you very much, sir, I appreciate the courtesy. Please, this is my cousin, Sherrie Richardson."

Mr. Ito barely bowed and the other man didn't twitch.

Sherrie was amused. What the other called "expediting" consisted of getting them in their own inspection line, pissing off dozens of their fellow passengers. Their passports were scrutinized for a millisecond each and their suitcases searched by opening them, looking for a second and then closing them.

Mr. Ito led them down interminable airport corridors and out into the main terminal, filled with throngs of people. He walked directly to a very tall young woman about Sherrie's age, who had another girl, closer to Weaver's age, standing at her side. The second girl was, to be polite, petite.

Both girls, Sherrie thought, differed only in age. Okay, maybe height, too. The older girl was nearly six feet tall, while the younger was very close to five feet tall. Both had long oval faces, the same eyes, the same black hair, and the same thin frames.

The older member of the pair stuck out her hand to Weaver. "Gold-san? I am Gimu of the Gold Ninja Squad."

Weaver bowed very deeply and said something in Japanese. Sherrie smiled to herself. It was clear that the two men hadn't realized Weaver spoke Japanese, but that the two young women had known.

"Gold-san, this is Giri. She is your convention guest liaison."

Sherrie wasn't the only one surprised when Weaver stepped close to Gimu and hugged her tightly. While Gimu was surprised, she had a huge grin on her face afterwards.

Giri was more pragmatic. "Gold-san, hugging in Japan isn't done very much in public."

Gimu replied in a torrent of Japanese and Giri raised her hand. "I understand, Gimu. But we must be polite."

Giri turned to Mr. Ito and spoke a quick sentence and he bowed to her. Then Mr. Ito spoke a several sentences to Weaver. Weaver bowed and the two Japanese men left.

Weaver grinned at Sherrie. "He hopes we enjoy our stay in Japan. He thanks us very much for visiting his country."

"And then he left?" Sherrie asked.

"And he very much hopes the door doesn't hit us in the ass when we leave. Many Japanese don't like foreigners, and Americans are second on the list of those they dislike the most, right after Koreans."

Gimu bowed to Sherrie. "It is so, Miss Richardson."

Sherrie smiled at her. "Your English is very good."

Giri laughed as if that was the biggest joke in the world. Weaver turned to Sherrie. "Sherrie, Gimu is an American, born in San Francisco. She's been in Japan for only five years. Giri and I comment on how well she speaks Japanese."

"How come your names are so short? I thought the Japanese had names like we do, except backwards. I read it in a book."

Weaver answered her question. "That's so, Sherrie. But, like Americans, the Japanese adopt nicknames. Giri means duty, more or less. Gimu is very hard to define. Between these two, it means a debt of honor."

"A debt of honor?"

"Giri saved Gimu's life." Weaver paused. "I know this will sound stupid to an American, Sherrie, but to the Japanese these things are real and really important. Gimu owes Giri a debt of honor. Giri's name reminds Gimu that the debt is owed and Gimu's name reminds her who the debt is owed to."

"You seem to know a lot about them," Sherrie told her cousin.

Weaver shrugged. "Giri and I have been talking together for a very long time, Sherrie. Gimu not so much." He lowered his voice. "They live together and Gimu doesn't have much to do with guys."

That wasn't hard to translate. "And she's the head of the Gold Ninja Squad anyway?"

Gimu gave a high-pitched giggle like someone ten years younger. "Do you see the expression in Giri's face? She adores Weaver. I will be focused on the task of protecting both of you."

Giri grinned at Gimu and blew her a kiss.

"Come, let's go to my car," Gimu told them. "I'll drive you to the hotel; you both must be tired. Giri has Weaver's hotel room key and I have yours, Miss Richardson."

"Thank you, Gimu," Sherrie told the older girl.

It was true about their being tired. Their airplane had left LA at seven in the morning on Wednesday and arrived in Tokyo at 2:30 on Thursday afternoon, Tokyo time, fifteen and a half hours later. Sherrie had slept badly for a few hours on the airplane and she was pretty sure Weaver hadn't slept at all. She smiled slightly. Weaver had kept his nose pressed against the window as long as there had been daylight outside ... and by the magic of going from east to west, it had been daylight the entire time.

When they reached Sherrie's hotel room, Gimu glanced around and then turned serious, speaking to Sherrie. "Mr. Smith sends his regards, but events have forced him to remain home this weekend. I will act in his stead."

Sherrie closed her eyes. Common sense said there was no way for Gimu to know about her mission, unless she'd been told. But who had told her?

Gimu stood looking at her for almost a minute. "You have done the old man proud, Sherrie. Not a single question."

"That part of the training was the most clear," Sherrie admitted.

"Absolutely! Take a nap. About five I'll wake you, and you can shower and dress and we will go to dinner. About nine or so, I will be here to discuss your first task.

"The first time I made the flight you just came from, Sherrie, I thought I'd just ride it out, and go to sleep a little early, to wake up the next day, well-rested. About two hours earlier than I expected, I put my chin on my chest and dozed off. I slept until nearly local noon the next day. Do try to nap."

"I will get some rest," Sherrie promised.

-------

When Sherrie woke up it was from a mildly erotic dream, to find that someone was actually rubbing her back. It was a therapeutic back rub and felt nice. On the other hand, her back was bare.

She turned her head and looked back, and saw a grinning Gimu, fully dressed, sitting next to her on the bed, her hands busy over Sherrie's back. "I thought you would enjoy a gentler wake up than just my shouting from the door."

Sherrie swallowed, remembering Weaver's comment about Gimu's sexual orientation.

Gimu giggled when she saw Sherrie's expression. "Back rubs are a Japanese art form, like the tea ceremony. You need to forget Western conventions, Sherrie-san, or you will miss the best parts of Japan. The bath, for instance. And a bath without a massage? Sacrilege!"

"I'm sorry, it's just I wasn't expecting this."

"Japan, Sherrie-san, will frequently surprise you. Most pleasantly if you will let it."

"I'm not gay. I'm not even curious."

Gimu's laugh was high tinkling laughter. "Again, it is something we Americans have to unlearn here. In America, casual physical contact is common, from the hugs and faux kisses, to bumps and touches when walking down the street or in an elevator. Those things almost never happen here, and when they do, a profuse apology ensues.

"But, while casual physical contact is rare, physical contact isn't that rare ... it just comes without the sexual overtones there are in the West. Sherrie-san, I will never love another like I love Giri. Never."

"In America, you'd risk jail."

Gimu waved her hand like it was nothing. "I love Giri so very much, Sherrie-san. I do not mind that she is with Weaver-kun this moment. And I doubt she is rubbing his back!" Again, the high tinkling laughter.

"So, you're saying you're not hitting on me, that it's just a friendly back rub?"

"Of course, Sherrie-san,"

Sherrie would have accepted that but it was hard to ignore the little smirk on Gimu's face. "Well, I need a shower and to get dressed. How formal do I need to be for dinner?"

"Tonight, not so much. Jeans and a nice blouse. There will be a few senior people from those running the convention. They are eager to meet Weaver Gold. Tomorrow it will be much more formal. Giri says that Weaver did not bring a tuxedo."

Sherrie blinked. "He's supposed to wear a tuxedo tomorrow?"

"Yes, of course. The Japanese are very formal. And Saturday night as well."

"I am going to need to go shopping tomorrow," Sherrie told her. "If Weaver needs a tux, I have nothing close to that formal."

"I will have some of our Gold Ninja Squad escort each of you," Gimu told Sherrie. "There is a married couple who will be most suitable to lead the team!"

"Black belts?" Sherrie said, thinking she was making a joke.

"Fifth dan for Kimi, and sixteenth for Nomo. He is one of the top fighters in Japan."

"And you, you're a black belt as well?"

Gimu smiled politely. "I did not come to Japan to learn the language, to learn to dance or to learn manners in a public bath. I came to learn to fight!"

There was no windup that Sherrie saw, but Gimu went up, tucked and landed lightly on her feet, after a full rotation in the air. She smiled at Sherrie. "Since I was little, my father would tell me tales of the ninja. So I came here to learn the craft. I do not love Weaver Gold like Giri does, but for this opportunity to practice my art ... I do love him!"

She gestured towards the bathroom. "Go, wash. I will wait in the main room. I am very strong, Sherrie-san! I will wait until we are in the baths together to see you undressed!"

Sherrie had no idea if Gimu was jerking her chain or not ... but the woman did leave her alone.

Dinner was a pleasant thing with a dozen people present. Sherrie tried to ignore the fact that Weaver spent all of his time with Giri. Everyone else was ignoring the two young people who were quite obviously taken with each other. Several of those at the table tried to engage Sherrie in conversation. She shrugged helplessly as one after another of them mangled the English language beyond all recognition.

Gimu would translate the worst parts; keeping Sherrie from what Sherrie was sure would have been a major loss of face. That coupled with the fact that she was still jet-lagged, made the evening seem interminable.

When they were back at the hotel, the four of them stood for a bit in Sherrie's sitting room talking about the next day's plans. Early in the morning they would go shopping, return to the hotel for lunch, then Weaver had a series of interviews scheduled with the local media, followed by the convention kick off in the later afternoon. After that was their first formal dinner, followed by a "Meet the Guests" event.

Weaver and Giri, while paying some attention to the conversation, mostly paid attention to each other. Finally Sherrie laughed. "Weaver, my friend, you need to go find a hotel room."

Weaver grinned and led Giri away.

Gimu watched them go, before turning to Sherrie. "Giri will keep him safe overnight."

Sherrie couldn't help smiling. "And I will keep you safe tonight," Gimu concluded.

"I don't think I need the -- close protection -- that Weaver is going to get."

"Sherrie-san, earlier I spoke of ninjas. Yes, we are on the twenty-seventh floor of a high-rise hotel in room where the windows do not open. A ninja could still rappel down from the roof, use a heat detector from outside to locate you on your bed, and shoot you, even though the curtains were drawn."

"How do you stay alive if ninjas are after you?" she asked, half in jest.

Gimu replied seriously. "You have many of your own ninja guards, and you hope they are more skilled than those in the employ of your enemy. Historically, ninjas succeed more often than they fail in assassinations. Not to worry -- I am a very fine ninja, Sherrie-san -- and we have some very skilled people on the roof."

Gimu turned business-like. "Tomorrow I will point out a number of slips to you when you are shopping for a dress. Buy at least two, plus the one black one I will show you. The black one will stay in its wrapper and go in your suitcase, and Mr. Smith will give you instructions on where to deliver it once you've returned home."

Sherrie nodded.

"I have just about completed preparations for the last two pickups. Saturday evening, you will receive a special program with autographs of all the guests, when you sit down for the awards banquet dinner. Make sure yours gets put in your purse as quickly as possible and doesn't get mixed up with anyone else's. Sunday there will be another pickup, and I'll give you more details closer to the time."

"This hardly seems to be the stuff of TV and movies," Sherrie told her.

"This is what the work is all about, Sherrie. No, it's not dangerous, not really. It's not very exciting; it's just a job like any other job. Just be sure that you're careful and don't seem furtive. You're shopping for clothes ... what woman doesn't do that?"

Sherrie coughed. "Ah, a slip, yes?"

"Yes," Gimu said, looking a little puzzled.

"You have to understand I don't own any dresses, no skirts, and no slips -- just slacks and nice blouses."

"Tomorrow you must wear a dress in the evening. You may wear a very nice blouse and skirt for the Sunday luncheon or a nice pants suit."

A wave of fatigue washed over Sherrie, and for a second, she felt faint.

"Sherrie-san, go get ready for bed. In a minute, I will be there. I will rub your back."

Gimu could see that Sherrie wasn't comfortable with that and smiled. "Sherrie-san, I told you that I would keep you safe -- that includes from my questionable taste in lovers. It will be a back rub, Sherrie-san and nothing more."

Sherrie put on a nightgown and flopped on the bed, face down. She glanced at Gimu when she came in. Gimu was wearing a long Raider's t-shirt, and that brought a grin to Sherrie's face. Gimu sat next to Sherrie on the bed and starting running her hands over Sherrie's neck and shoulders.

Gimu told the truth about it being a back rub and nothing but a back rub. The stress, strain and fatigue ran out of her body like water running out of a bucket with a hole in it. In two minutes she was sound asleep.

-------

Shopping the next morning was fun. Sherrie had heard many tales of shopping in Japan, particularly Tokyo, and they had, if anything, understated it. And the Gold Ninja Squad was out in force, with three people preceding them, three more bringing up the rear, with Giri and Gimu and two others, walking alongside of Weaver and Sherrie.

Still, in spite of the size of their entourage, the shopping went quickly, if for no other reason than the riot of available colors, fabrics and styles that varied enormously from store to store -- it wasn't hard to find something you liked. She found a nice blue silk dress, a light blue, coordinated slip, bra and panties that went with it. Gimu had to remind her about stockings but Sherrie laughed at the notion of a garter belt, sticking with panty hose instead.

The purchase of the black slip was as effortless and uneventful as any of the other purchases, albeit more expensive, because it was imported Chinese silk, as were many of the other things that Sherrie bought.

Sherrie and Gimu ate lunch in the hotel restaurant and Sherrie had a mild case of sticker shock at the prices. Later, they joined Weaver and Giri, who, if Sherrie was any judge, had skipped lunch for a nooner. The afternoon was excruciatingly dull for Sherrie. Almost everything was done in Japanese and even Weaver had to ask for a few sentences to be repeated.

Sherrie was impressed with both Giri and Gimu. They were in full ninja mode, looking around at the people in the various rooms they were in. They were, Sherrie was sure, professionally efficient bodyguards.

The convention formally kicked off, and Sherrie decided then and there that she needed to learn Japanese. Then she smiled. Okay, Weaver was fascinated by things Japanese. How was he going to do in Korea? Taiwan? The Philippines? After the formal opening of the convention, Weaver and Giri went up to Weaver's room so that Weaver could "rest." Sherrie hoped he wasn't going to crash and burn at some point during the convention.

She and Gimu, on the other hand went to a Japanese bath. She'd been nude in front of other women often enough when she'd been growing up, but being nude in mixed company wasn't something she'd ever contemplated doing.

"Sherrie-san, the baths are more a social event than anything else. It's a time to relax, meditate, and chat quietly with friends. Voices are never raised, nor are hormone levels. This isn't America, Sherrie-san, where men associate a nude woman with sex. Here being nude just means you're nude. There is no other message. And yes, the Japanese and the Chinese even more so, consider Westerners to be uncouth barbarians. I go to the baths to show the colors, Sherrie-san. To prove to them that some Americans, at least, can be as civilized as any Japanese."

"Can one talk about serious subjects here?" Sherrie asked her.

Again came the high peal of laughter. "Of course, Sherrie-san."

"I do not understand how Giri could save your life and not the other way around."

"There is no shame in not understanding, Sherrie-san," Gimu replied seriously.

She turned away, looking north. "Once upon a time I was new here. The ground shook. Sherrie-san, I had no measure of experience with that, for all that I am from San Francisco. I panicked, Sherrie-san. I can tell myself over and over about how others panic in the same situation, but the fact is that I thought myself better than them -- not worse. The whole of idea of the ground moving under my feet still makes me sweat and tremble a little.

"The house I was in began to come apart. Then Giri was there -- until then she'd just been another student with me. In those days I was Ashana and she was Ryuki, student names. I had no idea who she was and she had no idea who I was. I was a person in need of succor and so she helped me, heedless of her own danger. She stood over me, Sherrie, trapping me in a doorway. Had I tried to move in either direction, I'd have died. Instead, I calmed myself and let myself be led by a girl seven years my junior -- and so I survived. I owe her a debt of honor."

There was no way to deny the raw emotion in Gimu's voice, nor the blaze of emotion that Sherrie decided was hero-worship. Sherrie took a second and did the math. Gimu was, she was sure, in her early twenties. That meant Gimu had arrived in Japan in her late teens. Seven years younger? Giri had been ten or eleven? Maybe twelve? No wonder Gimu was impressed. Sherrie didn't even want to think, though, about how old Giri had been the first time Gimu slept with her.

Does it matter how old someone is, if they've saved your life? Sherrie suspected that if there was ever a trump card in life, being saved by someone was it.

At least the raw emotions of the discussion distracted her and when the topic of conversation drifted to anime and Weaver Gold, and both of them managed to bring some degree of inner peace.

Sherrie wasn't as embarrassed in the baths as she thought she would be, and Gimu had been right -- it was quiet and relaxed. They returned to the hotel in time for Gimu and Sherrie to help each other dress for the banquet. As with the back rubs, Gimu was efficient and task-oriented. At the end, they inspected each other like twelve-year-old girls playing grown-up with their mothers' clothes and makeup.

Sherrie was only moderately uncomfortable in the dress, but it was pretty enough so she smiled and smiled, pretending to have a good time.

The truth of course, was that she was bored and confused. The whole topic of the convention -- anime -- had never made sense to Sherry. She'd watched a couple of the series that Weaver had recommended to her, but after the first time it had been out of politeness. The story lines jumped and shifted at unexpected points and Weaver's explanations, while rational, boiled down to "They tell stories differently than we do. It takes getting used to."

So to hear people talking in another language about a subject not near and dear to Sherrie's heart made it all pretty dull. She stoutly resisted the temptation to empty a wine bottle or two and retire to her room sloshed to the gills. Too many times in the past that had resulted in some very unfortunate choices. So she smiled, pretended interest and prayed for the evening to end.

After the dinner was over, however, there were a round of parties that Weaver wanted to attend, so they went around to those. There was a lot more wine and beer at them and it was getting very hard for Sherrie to resist the desire to just grab a big glass, fill it, empty it and head up to her room.

She found herself standing next to Weaver in the corner of one big party. Giri and Gimu were a few feet away, talking in whispers to each other. Sherrie was watching them intently, while listening to Weaver.

"Sherrie, I'm in love," Weaver announced.

"She's a nice girl," Sherrie said politely. She wanted to shake Weaver. On Tuesday morning they were going to board a big jet and fly away. The next convention he was talking about attending in Japan was four months away, in Osaka.

Weaver spoke glowingly of Giri and the good time they were having.

Maybe, Sherrie thought, she should just settle for giving him a good hug, a couple of days after they got back and the realization of how impossible it was going to be had started to sink in.

Across the room, Giri leaned close and kissed Gimu on the cheek. Gimu gave her a small bow. It was like a big signboard, clearly saying that Giri and Gimu were breaking up. You weren't supposed to break someone's heart, Weaver!

And of course, big parties are big parties and a guest of honor is always in demand. Someone came up to Weaver and was talking to him in passable English about drawing techniques and Weaver was replying, as it was clearly a topic of interest to him. Someone else joined them and then Giri was at Weaver's side. Weaver smiled and Giri smiled and Sherrie didn't know if she should bop both of them on the head or throw them in a cold shower.

Gimu touched her shoulder. "Sherrie-san, if you have a moment, we should talk."

Sherrie squared her shoulders, certain of the topic. They went down the corridor to the elevators and up to Sherrie's room, not talking, even when they were alone on the elevator.

Inside, though, Gimu was frank. "We have a small problem with our two young friends."

"Gimu, I don't know what to say..." Sherrie whispered.

Gimu gave one of her high-pitched giggles. "Sherrie-san, I love Giri like I love no other. She has always been clear to me that she had -- yearnings -- for Weaver. This is not a surprise, and I love Giri enough to think that her happiness is more important than my fondness for girls who look like they are twelve."

Sherrie blushed at the straightforward comment.

"That is not a problem for me; nor, even, is Giri's intention to run away to America with Weaver. I would cheerfully help her -- I will cheerfully help her -- except that her family situation is complicated. It is very, very complicated. It is beyond complicated.

"Think Romeo and Juliet, Sherrie-san. Giri's father is the head of a major Yakusa gang and he was married to the favorite daughter of a rival gang's leader. The daughter and the daughter's mother pleaded with the rivals to bury the hatchet and make peace, so that their daughter could find happiness with the man she loved.

"Even the coldest Yakusa have soft spots for their favorite daughters, and so for sixteen years there has been peace between two men who theretofore had been mortal enemies.

"Two years ago, Giri's mother died of ovarian cancer. Trust me on this, Sherrie-sama -- if you get sick here, demand to be rushed home!

"Giri's grandfather demanded that Giri should come and live with him, while Giri's father, quite naturally, disagreed. Giri and I were already lovers, and I was a way to break the impasse without either of them losing face. She came to live with me. Neither man was happy about that, but it was a simpler solution than a war.

"The peace is slowly breaking down, Sherrie-san. It hasn't reached the point of violence yet, but soon it will. A week ago, Sherrie-san, Giri's grandfather once again demanded that she come live with him. I was not there, Sherrie-san, so I could not counsel my friend on her best choice of words. She was -- intemperate -- in her reply to his demand. Her grandfather has not aged well; he rules with an iron hand and does not ever like to be denied in the least thing.

"Giri-sama told him that if he ever again demanded that she live with him, she would move back with her father. Of course, he asked again, then and there. Demanded, actually.

"This event and the preparations for it have managed to postpone a showdown. Sherrie-san, there are always snakes and weasels out there -- those who seek to foment trouble for their own gain. Giri's father had not known of Giri's argument with his father-in-law until yesterday. Someone told him, in the hopes that it would start the war right then."

Gimu waved around, indicating the hotel and, Sherrie assumed, the convention. "Not even the Yakusa would mess with this convention. Anime is extremely popular -- it would be like a drug gang going to war at the Super Bowl. Monday, Sherrie-san, the shit is going to hit the fan."

"It sounds like Giri really does need to run away."

"Except if her grandfather found out her intention, he would kill her -- and anyone else who happened to be in the way. Say, someone like Weaver -- or you, or me."

Sherrie contemplated a number of things she'd heard and a number of things she hadn't heard and decided that clarity was essential. "Gimu -- what do you know about what happened to Weaver? What did Mr. Smith tell you?"

She looked perplexed. "It was on the news, here. Brutal policemen broke into his family's home and nearly killed him and did kill his parents. Mr. Smith hasn't mentioned it. He applauded my initiative for joining the Gold Ninja Squad as a cover to keep close to you."

Sherrie cursed under her breath, and Gimu looked more perplexed than ever. "Gimu, I understand the significance Mr. Smith puts on 'need to know' and all of that; about not asking questions.

"The government thinks the attack on Weaver's home was deliberate -- and targeted at Weaver, not his parents. Gimu, do you know how many times they fired their weapons in his room?"

"Several times, I assumed."

"More than seventy -- most of them after they realized Weaver wasn't there. They shot up his computer -- more than sixty shots at it. Mr. Smith says he thinks they were sending Weaver a message."

"Sixty?" Her face was now in a puzzled frown. "There were three policeman, yes?"

"Four policemen."

"Even so, some of them must have reloaded."

"Yes," Sherrie replied simply. "And there probably was someone who hired them to do it. The leader of the policemen was killed a few days later in a hit and run accident."

Gimu turned away from Sherrie and went to stand in front of the window that overlooked downtown Tokyo. It was a pretty sight, so that probably wasn't why Gimu was crying.

She turned back to Sherrie, tears streaking down her face. "The Gold Ninja Squad was Giri's idea. She wanted a reason to be close to Weaver. I wanted to be close to you. We never, ever, thought the threat was serious. We've put good people, people we honor and respect, in grave danger."

"Twice," Sherrie pointed out, "if Giri is likely to be targeted."

Gimu bobbed her head and then pulled out a cell phone and dialed a number. Sherrie was sure it was Giri she was talking to, pleading with her friend to do something. Then another phone call to someone else. It was curt, clearly a boss commanding a subordinate.

A moment later, Nomo, the man from earlier, appeared at the door to Sherrie's room. He was, Sherrie remembered, "one of the best fighters in Japan." Gimu let him in.

"Life is never easy, Nomo-kun -- isn't that what our Master taught us?"

Gimu spoke in English and Sherrie saw Nomo glance at her. Gimu went on. "The problem with plots and plans is that you make assumptions, but as the Master says, 'Never assume.' For instance, the threat against Weaver-kun is real. Those were paid assassins that attacked his house in America."

Again Nomo glanced at Sherrie. This time he bobbed his head in her direction. Sherrie realized she'd just been promoted to a bodyguard ninja, herself.

"And Giri-sama wants to go to America to be with Weaver-kun."

This time Nomo audibly sucked air.

"Tomorrow, Giri-sama will have the flu, so sorry," Gimu continued. "She understands that her honor will not permit bystanders to be injured because of her personal situation. You will work over the schedule for tomorrow, Nomo-kun, and make sure that the Gold Ninja Squad are around Weaver-kun and are alert to the real danger. It is hard to imagine the threat against Weaver-kun coming here, but one never should assume."

"No, Gimu-sama, it is clear that assumptions are very bad."

"Monday, Nomo-kun, Weaver-kun will also have the flu. He will stay in his room. I expect that Giri-sama will remain to comfort him in his distress, having recovered, however slightly, from her illness. Tuesday, early, we will leave for the airport as planned. Except three will board instead of two. Not even your wife must know of this change of plan."

Nomo made a very Western gesture, zipping his mouth shut, turned and left.

Sherrie looked at Gimu and sighed. "I'm not sure I understood half of that."

"Sherrie-san, I am going to hug and kiss you. Do not freak, okay?"

"I suppose."

The hug was hard, very hard and very nonsexual. The kiss of the forehead was even less sexual. It reminded Sherrie of someone saying goodbye forever.

"Sister Sherrie, you are many things, but not a Machiavelli. Not to mention you must have had a terrible time when you were growing up playing connect the dots."

The hug and kiss, Sherrie realized, were an attempt to soften the digs that were going to follow.

"Sherrie-san, I told you that I came to train as a ninja and that Giri was also a student there. You do not train to be a ninja at a Girl Scout camp. Giri was being groomed by her father to follow him, since he has no sons. That has made Giri's grandfather very angry.

"Giri however suffers a fatal flaw as a ninja -- she's a good fighter, but she's a better lover. For Giri it's always been a game, like an anime. Now it's real and she wants to cut and run so she can be with Weaver -- and not have to deal with the life others have tried to force her into.

"The smartest thing for her father and grandfather to do would be to realize that she is never going to be what either of them want and just let her go. Except proud and powerful men don't behave rationally. Everything they do, everything that happens around them, you see, touches their honor, at least in their minds.

"So, no matter how objectively pointless something is, they don't care. It's their honor at stake, and they would rather kill a thousand innocents than suffer the least stain on their honor, even if that stain exists only in their imagination."

She straightened up. "Nomo is nominally one of our Master's most trusted lieutenants. We've known for almost a year that he's working for Gramps. Tomorrow you and Weaver will have a normal schedule throughout the day and evening. Go to bed at the usual time. Just before dawn Monday I'll wake you. Pack then and not before. Then the four of us will head out the back of the hotel, where the sightseeing limo will be parked, waiting to show Weaver more of the sights of Tokyo. The driver will then drive like a maniac out to the airport, and you'll be inside the security area minutes later.

"It's about six miles to the airport. At dawn, that's twelve or fifteen minutes. Traffic..." she shrugged. "We're okay if it takes fifteen minutes. Twenty is probably okay. If it takes thirty minutes ... life will become interesting."

Gimu touched Sherrie's cheek. "Only you and I know all of the plan, Sherrie-chan. If you speak of it to anyone, you'll kill us all."

"Then why tell me?"

Gimu giggled again, the usual high pitched tinkling. "Sherrie-chan one day you will wake up. Inside you are a true ninja! Just like me! Sooner is better than later!"

-------

To put it mildly, the last day of the convention was nerve-wracking for Sherrie. Weaver kept to his schedule of appearances, but little more -- everyone assumed it was because Giri was ill. The Gold Ninja Squad was out in force, putting themselves between Weaver and everyone else.

Night finally came and after only an hour of party-hopping Weaver complained of a scratchy throat and went to his suite.

When he was gone Sherrie turned to Gimu. "You never told me about the third pickup."

Gimu reached into her pocket and pulled out a small gold bracelet, with a dangling gold heart. "This is for Mr. Smith. Smile prettily at him when you give it to him and maybe he will return it to you later."

There was a small engraving on the heart. Two intertwined hearts, one with "W&G" in it and the other was labeled "G&S." The Gs were intertwined as well. Gimu wrapped her hands around the bracelet, forcing Sherrie's fingers to close around it as well. "This is for tomorrow and all the other tomorrows, Sherrie-chan."

"'San' and 'kun' are honorifics," Sherrie told her. "'Sama' is the same thing, although more so. 'Chan' is an endearment."

Gimu giggled once more. "Sherrie-chan! One day you will speak our tongue! Hopefully after you have learned to connect the dots!"

-------

The next morning at four, Gimu roused Sherrie, and then went cat-quick to Weaver's room to make sure he was awake.

"We will take the elevator to the second floor, then the stairs to the ground," Gimu explained to Sherrie and Weaver shortly thereafter. "Don't look around, don't talk, don't say anything, just you and your suitcases. At the limo, get right in. I'll put the luggage into the trunk."

"What if you find the limo driver isn't who you expect?" Sherrie asked.

"He will either get out of the limo to maintain his cover or stay inside. If he stays inside, we withdraw to the hotel and call the police. If he is the wrong man and gets out, he dies and I will drive us."

Gimu continued speaking as the elevator descended, "At the airport, we will get out, leaving the luggage behind. Just walk towards the terminal, Giri in the middle. We walk straight to the security checkpoint and get in the VIP line. There will be few, if any, VIPs there at this time of day. Weaver's passport has a high priority flag attached to it, and while they won't be expecting him, the flag will get him through the gate -- and us with him."

"A ticket for Giri?" Sherrie asked.

"I am a very resourceful person, Sherrie. It was booked on Saturday evening after you were asleep under another name, by someone who will be enormously surprised to find the charge on his bill in a few weeks. Someone, I might add, not connected to this.

"The flight doesn't leave until 7 AM, but we will be in the departure lounge and won't leave there until you three board the flight. Security at Narita is very tight and even though they will have an hour and a half, I estimate the chance of them getting a bomb aboard in that time as low."

"You are just so full of good cheer," Weaver told Gimu, speaking for the first time in more than a day to Giri's friend.

They walked out of the elevator, to the stairs. The corridors were deserted. Instead of going towards the traveled parts of the hotel, Gimu led them back to a loading dock through the passages that the hotel staff used to access the meeting rooms. Again, there was no one visible to Sherrie.

The chauffeur hopped out of the vehicle with alacrity, opening the doors for them, before helping Gimu quickly put the bags in the spacious trunk.

The driver was certainly confident of both his driving and the route. Two minutes after they left hotel, they were on the Japanese version of a freeway, speeding south.

"When we get to Narita," Gimu told them. "I will exit first. When I motion, you follow me, Weaver-kun. Stand just to my right. Giri is next. Sherrie-san you must be very fast and stand just behind Giri. We will walk quickly inside, staying in the same pattern. We stay that way until we are through the security checkpoint. We must not relax our vigilance -- not until the three of you are aboard the plane."

It went exactly as planned. Gimu got out when the limo stopped, her eyes scanning every which way. Then she gestured at Weaver and he got out, moving to Gimu's right. Sherrie was ready and as soon as Giri was moving, she was moving too, not six inches behind the younger woman.

Sherrie was too short and the attack came from above. Sherrie didn't understand the sound that went past her ear, but Giri simply pitched forward. The next two shots were not as close, but Sherrie heard them pass by as well. Not much more than a second had passed and Giri's body was jerking and spasming on the ground.

Weaver turned belatedly, and with a shriek hurled his body down to cover Giri's. Sherrie had heard Gimu talk about ninjas before; now she saw one move. It was like a bolt of black lighting -- Gimu's leg extended and sent Weaver rolling on the ground, several feet away from Giri. Gimu grabbed him and heaved him erect, to face her.

"She's dead!" Gimu told Weaver. "You must go! You must go now! Don't look back! Weaver-kun, I promise you, we will both be avenged a hundred-fold before the sun sets tonight!"

Gimu pushed and shoved them through the doors. People were just starting to realize something had happened, but were staring at confusion at the dead girl, who was surrounded by slowly expanding pools of blood.

Sherrie got a grip on herself, then a firmer one on Weaver and dragged him along.

Their flight didn't get off on time. They were questioned for more than two hours, but Mr. Ito appeared again and ended that. No one said anything, but Sherrie learned that when they arrived back in LA that no one's luggage was on the plane they'd taken.

When the 747 arrived at LAX it was met by a convoy of cars at the end of the runway and Mr. Smith led them off, while the police interviewed the other passengers.

-------

Two days later Sherrie handed Mr. Smith the items from her suitcase after the airline finally delivered her bag to her house.

"What's happened?" she asked her boss.

"I can't tell you," he told her, "it's against policy. Gimu, however, was fine as of a few hours ago.

"While I can't tell you anything official, you could, however, get the following information from the media: for about two hours after the attack, NHK reported it as an attack on Weaver. The anime community in Japan went wild with anger ... even those who aren't anime fans were outraged that American gangsters had brought their battle with Weaver to Japan.

"Then someone dropped the dime on the Yakusa. It was perfectly timed. There was already blood in the air, and when the Japanese found out that it was a home-grown plot to keep the love of Weaver Gold from joining him in America -- well, in the vernacular, the Japanese went ape. Totally fruit loopy.

"They've never liked firearms, and their ire went out first to anyone with a rifle, like the one that killed Giri. Basically, a day later, ninety-nine out of a hundred illegal rifles had been turned in, usually with the body of its owner. Giri's grandfather was rubbed out by a half dozen RPG hits on his car a little before noon, as he was trying to leave the city.

"Giri's father died at sundown." He smiled sadly. "Gimu has promised me that she will not take advantage of the sudden vacuum in the upper levels of the Yakusa power structure in Japan. In truth, I think it will be a generation or more before there is significant organized crime in Japan again. What few gang members who haven't been killed or arrested, have fled."

Weaver looked at Mr. Smith. "Did they find who killed Giri?"

"A little after noon of that day, someone reported that a body was swinging on a rope, hanging down into the truck lane of a Tokyo freeway. It was on a curve, and I guess you couldn't see it until it was too late to stop. He took something like a hundred impacts from big trucks before they could block the traffic. The rope was tied under his shoulders and the Japanese police are fairly certain he was alive at the beginning."



-------

Chapter 7: The Second Coming


It took Weaver a quite some time to even begin to recover from what happened in Tokyo. For weeks he was sullen and morose, blaming himself for what happened to Giri. When the news came of what Gimu had wrought, he blamed himself for not being there to help her.

Not even all the eye candy on the beach seemed to work. Worse, September faded into October and Thanksgiving was on the horizon. The beach was cooler, windier and the surf more exciting -- if you didn't mind freezing any portion of your anatomy exposed to the water.

A little more than six weeks after they got back from Tokyo it was a Saturday. Sherrie was up early, and as soon as it was light, she took a very brief swim and then came back to the house and sat on the deck, catching the early morning sun -- which meant she could stay out for a while without danger of frostbite. The only spot on the deck that got the sun that early in the day was the southern corner, and the patch of sun was barely large enough to hold her chair.

A little later, just before eight, she moved her lounge chair as the sun moved over the deck. She was in the middle of a good book and she didn't want to be interrupted.

She had just settled down again when she heard the sliding glass door into the house open and Weaver started outside. He'd taken maybe two steps when a large bore rifle fired to Sherrie's left from down lower, at beach level. In the distance there was a much fainter sound of a single shot.

Weaver spun and dropped to the deck. Sherrie was out of her chair an instant later, ignoring the multiple barks of weapons around her.

Weaver looked at her, stunned, still laying on the deck. "Sherrie! Someone shot me!" His voice cracked on her name.

She saw the mark on his cheek. "I think it's just a scratch," she told him. Still, she covered him with her own body, like Weaver had tried to do for Giri.

He was reaching for his cheek, when Sherrie noticed a lull in the shooting. She lifted her head and looked towards the beach. About a hundred yards offshore, about twice that from the deck, a jet-ski was bounding over the waves, with no one aboard. Another jet-ski was going in tight circles, laying over on it's side. It too appeared to be out of control.

She saw the cabin cruiser a couple of hundred yards further from shore, and even as she noticed it, she saw a fountain of bright flashes start up from it.

The house behind her cracked and creaked as bullets passed through it. There were short burps of sound from closer. Something hit her thigh a solid blow and Sherrie's heart lurched. Bits and pieces were flying from the cruiser, and, even though it had turned away from shore, it didn't travel far under power.

Silence descended on Malibu Beach for a few seconds. Then there were sirens in the distance, and a growing hullabaloo from the people around them.

"Sherrie," Weaver told her, squirming away from her. "It's just a scratch."

She smiled at him, feeling her world shrink around her. "Weaver, you'll want to call 911. Mine isn't a scratch."

She saw him look her over at her, then he was up and through the shattered glass of the deck door, running full tilt, back inside.

It probably didn't matter. There were a lot of sirens. Sherrie tried to stay awake, but the world closed in on her and she couldn't hold onto consciousness. Her last fading thought was the hope that Weaver wouldn't go postal -- and that he would accept someone other than her to live with.

When she woke up, it was with a choking cough. She was still belly down on her deck. Her first thought was gratitude that she was still alive, her second was that her right leg really, really hurt.

She looked around and saw Mr. Smith, kneeling a few feet away, looking up, talking to someone standing next to him. He saw her eyes on him and he turned to her. "You'll want to be still, Sherrie."

"I got shot."

"Actually, no," he told her.

Sherrie rounded on him. "I know what happened to me! Don't lie! I was shot!"

He reached out and touched her cheek. "No, actually it was a rather large piece of glass from your picture window. You need to be still here, Sherrie. They need to be sure that it's not going to do more damage."

She closed her eyes.

When she opened them a second later, it was like magic. Before, where there had been no one but Mr. Smith and another man -- now there were a half dozen people, all of them looking at her ass. Wonderful! And a couple of them were cute, too!

"Sherrie," Mr. Smith told her, as soon as he saw her looking at him. "We need to move you, just like you are. Right now, it's not too bad, but the medics are worried about pulling the glass out. They want good x-rays before they proceed. We're going to move you to the hospital here in a few seconds."

"Weaver?" she asked.

"Weaver's fine. He's safe." He laughed. "I have three people quite literally sitting on him, to keep him from coming outside. He'll get to the hospital a few seconds after you do."

Sherrie nodded.

When she did, she felt the prick of a needle. A woman leaned forward, into her path of vision. "Yeah, it sucks -- but you keep moving. Girl, you could die, here -- or lose the leg. Sleep!"

Sherrie started to talk, but the world faded away in a haze.

When she woke up again, she felt like shit. Her mouth was dry, her throat was dry, she felt like she hadn't had anything to drink for a month. At least she was on her back, this time. She looked and saw her right leg was lifted at an angle over the bed. The thought that she still had a leg was comforting for about two seconds.

She remembered when they took her appendix out when she was fourteen. The hospital gown hadn't even begun to cover her and she'd been full of teenage outrage. With her leg up like it was, she realized, all her goodies were on display. There was a sheet that covered part of her, but not everything. She could tell because it was drafty. She tried to pull the sheet up, but she couldn't sit up and she couldn't reach it otherwise.

Someone came into her vision. A man wearing a blue-green smock. "How do you feel, Miss Richardson?"

"Thirsty. Sore. Naked."

He frowned. "You feel sore?"

"Pissed. Everything is hanging out in the breeze here. Could you please pull the sheet up?"

"Ah. But there's no pain?" he asked as he pulled the sheet higher.

She had to think about it; she was surprised at how fuzzy her brain was when it wasn't thinking about everything hanging in the breeze. "It's like pressure, but it doesn't hurt."

"Good." He motioned to someone and Sherrie turned her head and saw two others in smocks in the room, also men. One of them turned and left.

"I'm going to do a quick exam, and then explain what's happened to you. Try to be patient."

Sherrie giggled at that. Like she had a choice? Like she wasn't a patient? "Where's Weaver? Is he okay?"

"He's outside and fine. I doubt if his injury will even scar. He'll be allowed in, in due course. Now please, if you're patient, we'll be able to bring you up to speed here."

For the next ten minutes he poked and prodded, making arcane comments to one of the others, who wrote the comments down. Her toes wiggled just fine, she had sensation on the bottom of her foot. Who knew that you could be drugged on pain-killers and still be ticklish?

Finally he faced her again. "You received a laceration to your right upper thigh. It was from a piece of double pane plate glass about eighteen inches long and about four inches wide at it's widest. Evidently it fell several feet before hitting your leg, penetrating about six inches. The injury did not involve any nerves, tendons or vital blood vessels, but it was close to some important nerves and a major artery. Because the glass remained in place until we removed it, there was minimal bleeding.

"Barring infection, you'll be up in a day or so, although on crutches for a week or two after that. There should be no long term effect."

"Thank you, doctor." She giggled, knowing she sounded stiltedly formal.

"Odds are, you'll be released within forty-eight hours -- again, unless there is an infection. The window glass appears to have been recently cleaned, so that's a good thing."

Sherrie laughed dryly. "I have a six million dollar view of the ocean, doc. I wash the windows once a week."

He blinked and then recovered. "Now, if you're up to it, there are some policemen outside."

"First Weaver, then the police."

He shrugged and a moment later three men Sherrie didn't recognize came in. "Miss Richardson," one of them started to say.

"I said 'first Weaver.' What part of the English language wasn't clear?"

"He was getting a coke, down the hall," the man told her. "I suppose we could have sat on our hands for a few minutes while someone went to fetch him. Me, I preferred to get the introductions out of the way."

"And Weaver?"

"We've introduced ourselves to him already."

Sherrie waved at her leg. "I'm sorry, this has been -- a bit of a shock."

Weaver came in and walked up to her. "You okay, Sherrie?"

"Yes, a cut, and some stitches."

Weaver tossed a glare at the policemen.

"Miss Richardson," the lead policeman said, "I'm supervisory Federal Marshal Fred Larchmont. I'd like to bring you up to speed on events."

"Please, go ahead." She saw him glance at Weaver, then he started his briefing.

"I was the night shift supervisor of your security detail. For the last three days we believed your house was under surveillance, so we increased the size of the detail from two to four men.

"This morning, a little before 0800, I saw a man on a jet-ski pull a rifle out." He cleared his throat. "I was authorized the use of deadly force to prevent any attack and I was authorized to fire without warning at anyone who appeared to threaten you or your cousin's lives. I fired, while warning the other three marshals who had the duty. I was surprised that the other marshal covering the seaward side did not fire at the man on the other jet-ski who had also produced a weapon.

"Because I thought that man was covered, I had turned my attention to the power boat another hundred and fifty yards from the house. I saw a man putting an RPG launcher to his shoulder and I fired twice, taking him out before he could fire his weapon.

"At that point I was seriously concerned, because none of the other three marshals were responding. I could hear what was clearly a fire fight from the front of the house, but I had to deal with the threats that were in front of me."

Sherrie realized that there was a reason his eyes were watery, and realized what it was and nearly choked.

"That allowed the man on the other jet-ski to get off a shot before I could engage him. Engaging him let the other man on the powerboat open fire with a SAW. That's a light machine gun.

"He wasn't aiming, he was just firing randomly into the house. I engaged him then and after that the seaward side of the house went quiet. There was still shooting from in front, and I finally heard from another marshal, one of the four men from the day shift that had arrived for shift change at 0800.

"I placed myself to cover you and Weaver from any threats coming from the south and west. Other officers cleared the threats from the north and east."

He met her eyes. "They must have thought we only had two men on duty. The two men on the north side of the house were killed by a sniper, while four perps rushed that side. The surviving marshal opened fire and was wounded in the exchange. One of the day shift officers was wounded as well.

"We believe that, except for the sniper, we accounted for all the attackers. All of them were killed. An immediate cordon was established on all the roads leading out of Malibu. There is now a massive search underway for the survivor, conducted by the Federal Marshal Service, the FBI, the Malibu police, California Highway Patrol and additional officers from various other jurisdictions."

Sherrie closed her eyes. Ten men were dead, including two men protecting Weaver and her. Two more men, there to protect them, had been shot as well.

The death of her aunt and uncle had been terrible. She hadn't felt anything when she'd heard that one of the policemen who participated in the attack on Weaver was dead. Eight men dead trying to kill Weaver! Two more dead to protect him! Added to what had happened to Giri, this was insane!

"Who did it?" Sherrie asked.

The marshal waved at one of the other men, who now spoke. "Miss Richardson, I'm Richard Morgan, Special Agent in Charge, the Los Angeles office of the FBI. We will be coordinating the investigative effort in this matter.

"The attackers were recovered quickly. Fingerprints were taken and the IDs rushed. Seven of the eight are known felons, thought to be members of a Nicaraguan drug gang. From the tattoos, so was the eighth man, although he's not in our records.

"In the next few hours we will be raiding all known hangouts of that gang, arresting everyone we find. Hopefully we'll have more information in the next day or so."

"And Weaver and me?"

"That is still under discussion. My personal recommendation would be the Federal Witness Protection program. But it won't be up to me, you understand?"

That was the first veiled reference to Mr. Smith, she was positive. She looked at Weaver and felt enormous sorrow. How would he react if Weaver Gold had to vanish from the face of the earth?

Weaver had been quiet, looking at her steadily. She'd seen him turn pale when he'd learned the death count, but he hadn't said anything. Even now, he stood there looking at her, now virtually expressionless.

"How has this been reported on the news?" Sherrie asked.

The FBI agent shrugged. "You can't have a shootout on Malibu Beach without a dozen paparazzi being present, taking pictures. They don't have pictures of you or Weaver, but they have pictures of just about everything else. We have been asked to describe this as a gang shootout."

Again, Sherrie was pretty sure that was the hand of Mr. Smith.

"Honestly, Miss Richardson, I advised against it. The media will honor a blackout to allow us to inform the relatives of the deceased through noon tomorrow or thereabouts. Then they will tear into this. Lying would cost us credibility with the press. The matter is still under advisement."

"I need my cell phone," she told them.

Weaver reached into his pocket and produced it. Sherrie smiled at him. "Weaver, has anyone told you lately that you're a genius?"

He shook his head, but grinned.

She pushed the speed dial for her uncle the lawyer. "Phil, this is Sherrie. Someone tried to kill Weaver again."

"Oh no! Is he okay?"

"A scratch. I got a cut from a piece of broken glass. Phil, two Federal agents are dead and eight bad guys. Two more agents were wounded."

"Oh my God!"

"Yeah. Would you do me a favor? Would you please call my mother and tell her that we're okay? Tell her not to worry about us."

"How did the Feds get involved?"

"I can't explain it on the phone."

"You're not in trouble are you?"

"How could I be in trouble? Weaver isn't in trouble, either. I'll explain it when you get here, because I really hope you can come out. This is more in the nature of personal legal services, Phil. They think we need to go into Witness Protection and I want some advice."

Sherrie had to ask where she was and she told her uncle. He told her he'd been there before midnight.

The doctor came back in. "Except for immediate family, I'm going to have to ask you to leave. Miss Richardson needs to rest."

Sherrie opened her mouth to say she felt fine, but realized she was, in fact, tired. But not that tired. Before she could say anything though, the policemen were leaving, promising to return in a few hours with more updates. She yawned and was asleep almost at once.

Sherrie had no idea how long she slept, but when she woke up later, Mr. Smith was there, talking to one of the doctors. He noticed she was awake and walked up to stand next to her bed, glancing at Weaver, sitting next to the bed, and who stared right back at him without expression. It was, Sherrie thought, like two cats trying to out-stare each other. Finally Mr. Smith turned to her.

"I have access to sources that our intrepid G-men don't. Do you understand?" he told her.

Sherrie nodded.

"A short while ago you told your uncle that they came for Weaver again. That's true, but incomplete. The MS-13 gang has put out a contract on Weaver. A quarter million for a successful hit on him -- however there is also a fifty thousand dollar contract on you, Sherrie."

"And here, I thought I was worth more than anyone else in the family," she said, trying to distract herself from the sudden gut-wrenching fear that she felt.

"You understand that your utility is just about zero at this point in time?" he went on.

"I understand."

"The question I have for the two of you, is would you accept being placed in the Witness Protection program?"

"Would we be safe?"

"You've heard this before, so it won't come as a surprise. You'd be safe so long as you follow the rules. TV and the movies aside, no one who has followed their guidelines has been harmed while in the Witness Protection program."

Sherrie looked at her cousin. Weaver met her eyes and shrugged.

Mr. Smith turned to Weaver. "Weaver Gold is going to have to disappear. Those gangs -- combined with that kind of money -- they'll never stop coming. The Witness Protection program works. On the other hand, if you try to stay at your old house, Sherrie, the next time they'll come with thirty soldiers. Or a sniper would take you out as you tried to go out some day."

He studied Weaver, before turning back to Sherrie, who simply stared back at Mr. Smith without speaking. "If you want to go into Witness Protection and live quietly for the rest of your lives, I wouldn't blame you. Not now, but eventually, we would find something else for you to do, if that was your wish. Both of you." He smiled slightly. "That would require more training, much more extensive training."

"I spent more time learning to drive," Sherrie said sarcastically.

"Take your time making up your mind; you will want to be sure. Think about it, talk about it between the two of you."

"You understand," Weaver said abruptly, "that Weaver Gold isn't going to die? He's going into hiding, but he isn't going to die." His voice was flat and confident.

"We can arrange that easily enough."

"Someday, Sherrie and I are going to find out who is doing this and put a stop to it. Then Weaver Gold can return."

He nodded at Mr. Smith. "Do you know why I'm willing to cooperate?"

Mr. Smith chuckled. "Yes."

That seem to surprise Weaver.

"Okay, why?"

"Because I've never treated you any differently than I do Sherrie."

"You never offered me a job."

Mr. Smith smiled broadly. "No -- I offered you your heart's desire instead. Which would you rather have?"

"You told me before that you were smart like me. I guess I better start believing it," Weaver replied.

"A few last minute details," Mr. Smith said, turning back to Sherrie.

"For one thing, MS-13 isn't a charitable organization. If they put out a contract on you two, someone else paid for it. Odds are, they were paid more than the three hundred thousand on offer. Further, like the police who get mean and nasty when someone kills one of their number, street gangs do the same when someone kills their people. Odds are, the amount of money on the contract will go up.

"From your point of view, it doesn't matter much. The original contract level was high enough to attract professionals, but as I've said they've never had any success against the Witness Protection program."

"Is there anything else?" Sherrie asked.

"We would very much like to know who is behind this. I talked about how badly the gangs take it when you kill their people. Trust me, that's a pale shadow of what's going to happen to them, because the police don't like it when people kill them either. We spoke before about mass arrests of all known members of the gang -- that's the very least thing we'll do. We'll be chasing down money, weapons -- everything under the sun. A full court press. We will cost them millions, tens of millions of dollars of lost business.

"In the past an older, wiser, head counsels them to cut their losses. We get who we want and they eventually get back to business as usual. We are hoping for that to happen this time, although it won't be at once and will not affect your status. If they can locate you, they will make another attempt.

"We have undertaken an extensive investigation of Reverend Johnson. So far as anyone knows, Reverend Johnson has no association with drug gangs and his association with the police officers who broke into Weaver's home is tenuous. For the time being, we're stumped. We should, however, get some information from MS-13 when they decide to call it a day."

"Am I safe here? Is Weaver safe?" Sherrie asked him.

"For the time being. The doctor told you that you'd be out of the hospital in a couple of days. Actually, tomorrow morning we'll be flying the two of you out of here on a Life-Flight helicopter. At this point in time, I'm the only person in the world, aside from you two, who knows that. If you tell anyone at all -- a doctor, a nurse, your uncle, your mother -- anyone -- you'll be putting your lives at great risk. It takes, you see, a few weeks for the gang to feel the pain."

"But we're safe here?" Sherrie persisted.

"As safe as a dozen FBI agents, a dozen US Marshals, and half a dozen of my people can make you. That's just those on this floor. The hospital itself is screened by a dozen other officers on each exit and more walking patrols."

"Well, don't forget my uncle is coming."

"We won't forget." Mr. Smith paused and then turned to face Weaver. "I realized a few minutes ago that I've never asked you the sixty-four million dollar question, Weaver."

Weaver frowned. "What question?"

"Who do you know that might want to kill you?"

Weaver shrugged. "I don't know of anyone."

"Have you gotten any threatening emails?"

"No. A couple of people have, in the last year and a half, suggested I'd have troubles with the Christian right, but I've never seen an email criticizing my work on moral grounds. Some people think I draw stupid, hackneyed characters, but that's it. I swear, 99% of what I get is fan boy stuff. 'Gosh! You're the best! Draw faster!'

"Since Japan I've been getting a lot of 'Please let me have your baby!' emails as well. Usually accompanied by a photograph showing me in graphic detail why I should consider her."

"Anyone, anyone at all. Someone you knew at school, a bully who had it in for you ... anyone at all?"

Weaver glanced at Sherrie, who shrugged. "I haven't gone to a regular school for years and years," Weaver told him. He stopped, clearly hesitating. Sherrie could read his mind, easily enough.

"Coretta," Sherrie said firmly.

"Coretta," Weaver agreed. "But that's just crazy. My cousin?"

"Your cousin? Coretta? Who is she?"

"Our Uncle Phil's step-daughter. One time at a family reunion, Coretta went crazy. She was really beating on Weaver because he wouldn't talk to her. I was supposed to be in charge..." Sherrie went on and told the story.

Mr. Smith sat still until she finished. "And you called the police? The Phoenix police?"

"Yes, sir," she told him.

He stood up. "You be patient, I'll be back in a few."

He strode out of the room.

Weaver looked at Sherrie. "I get the distinct impression that he has never heard of Coretta."

"Yeah, I got that impression too." Sherrie wondered how he could of missed something as simple as that. She was distracted by a long, low whistle from Weaver.

"He didn't know because there's no record of your 911 call," Weaver told her.

It was on the tip of Sherrie's tongue to retort, "That's impossible!" but then again, Mr. Smith had left in a hurry.

A few minutes passed and Mr. Smith returned. "Your Uncle Phil has just arrived and is passing through security. Please, there are some things I have to attend to. He's not to leave until I have had a chance to talk to him. I would prefer it if you didn't bring up Coretta."

"Yes, sir," Sherrie and Weaver echoed each other.

A few minutes later Phil came in. "You're both okay?" he asked, waving at Sherrie's elevated leg.

"Aside from grievous injury to my modesty, it was a cut that required some stitches. They had to be careful, though, so they knocked me out," she told him.

"I heard a little on the news on the way. The police on duty here in the hospital are -- surly."

"Two of them are dead, Phil, and two more were wounded."

"This is insane, just insane! I could understand that someone would come after Sherrie for a shot at her millions, but against you, Weaver? That just doesn't make sense."

"Phil," Sherrie told him quietly, "the police told us earlier that a drug gang has put out a contract on our lives. A quarter million for Weaver and fifty thousand for me."

He paled. "Which gang?"

"MS-13," Weaver said, "from Nicaragua."

"These days, they're from almost everywhere," he said absently. "Dear God!"

He took a second to regain his composure. "I have no idea what I'm going to tell your mother, Sherrie."

"Uncle Phil, you're going to have to trust me, trust Weaver and not ask any questions about what's next. Tell her we are fine and that we are going to stay that way."

He looked at her, and then at Weaver. "Yeah, I understand what you're not saying! That's undoubtedly the best option for you. Sherrie ... Weaver, for heaven's sake, listen to them. They know what they're doing. Follow their advice; don't give in to temptation."

A few minutes later Mr. Smith came back, as well as the FBI Special Agent in Charge, Richard Morgan. The FBI agent introduced himself, but it was Mr. Smith who did the talking.

"I understand you are Philip Richardson, a practicing attorney in Chicago?" Mr. Smith asked Sherrie's uncle.

"That's correct. I'm here to represent Sherrie and Weaver in any fashion I can. I'm her uncle on her father's side of the family."

"Sir, I have to ask you some questions. I'd read you your rights, but you might then think that this conversation was adversarial in nature when I'm simply seeking to ascertain certain information. I will, instead, ask you to simply acknowledge that you are aware of your rights under the Miranda decision."

Uncle Phil looked at Mr. Smith in astonishment. "Of course I'm aware of them! Do you think I have something to do with this?"

"Sir, right now we aren't ruling anything in or out. However, for the record, Mr. Richardson, our information is that you're single."

"I'm married to Marion Castleberry and I have been for seven years. We were married in a JP ceremony in Chicago, but there were close to a thousand guests. I have a marriage license; I've filed income taxes for years as married."

"And does Ms. Castleberry have a daughter from a previous relationship?"

Uncle Phil nodded. "Yes, Coretta. Coretta ran away from home three years ago. She took our credit cards, our cash, some other things. We filed a police report at the time."

"Except there is no such record, Mr. Richardson. There is no record of your wedding. Your tax returns list you as single.

"I understand that a police report was filed against Ms. Castleberry's daughter, nearly four years ago, in Phoenix, in regards to a disturbance?"

"Yes, that's right." Phil seemed to be trying regain his composure, Sherrie thought. "Coretta had fallen in with the wrong crowd. She was using drugs; she was frequently in trouble at school and she had a very poor attitude. We attended a family reunion in Phoenix. It was the first chance I had to introduce my family to Marion." He looked Mr. Smith in the eye. "I'm proud of my family, sir. They accepted Marion and Coretta without hesitation or demur."

"And the incident?" the federal agent pressed.

"Coretta was very brittle. At the time Coretta said Weaver had called her names -- vile, dirty, racial names. She reacted by striking him. Sherrie attempted to intervene, and was beaten and then bit. Sherrie ended up in the hospital for weeks; she nearly lost her right hand.

"Only later did I realize that Weaver was just being Weaver. He doesn't talk to people he doesn't like and he didn't like Coretta. Coretta didn't like anyone who defied her in the smallest way. There were no names, there were no racial epithets -- there was just Coretta losing her temper."

"And the police were called?"

Uncle Phil grimaced. "I was incensed about it at the time; I thought Sherrie over-reacted. Then I learned the nature and extent of her injuries and Weaver's as well ... there was no justification for those, sir. None. Sherrie did the right thing by calling the authorities.

"My wife and I tried to get Coretta counseling. We tried rehab ... we tried private schools. Coretta just spiraled out of control until she left home. I'm sure Marion would have told me if she'd ever heard from her daughter. More than once I've comforted my wife as she's cried herself to sleep, worried about her lost daughter."

Sherrie could see where the questioning was leading. So could her uncle.

"The thought that I've attempted to hide my marriage is ludicrous. My step-daughter was a drug addict who stole some money and credit cards and then fled to the streets. I have no idea what happened to her out there and neither does her mother. But I have a pretty good idea of what happens to the average girl of fifteen who goes out on the streets. It's bad if you're white. For a black? The survival rate is nearly zero."

"Mr. Richardson, there is no record of your marriage. I haven't seen them yet, but as I said, I'm told that your tax returns list you as single. There is no missing persons report filed by you or anyone else about Coretta Castleberry. There is no record of a domestic disturbance call in Phoenix involving Miss Castleberry, either."

"Is it possible that the records for Coretta are under seal? She was a juvenile, after all."

"The federal warrants that were presented recently should have elicited those documents. They did not. From the sounds of it, there should be other police records in Chicago. There is no record of Coretta Castleberry in the criminal justice system in Arizona, Illinois or the NCIC."

"Well, starting with the low-hanging fruit," Phil said. "I can produce a copy of my marriage certificate. At my office, I have copies of the missing persons report filed on Coretta, as well as the earlier domestic disturbance complaint in Phoenix. My tax lawyer is Richard Kimber of Kimber and Kimber, a Chicago CPA firm. I have certified copies of our returns in my files, and they have the originals in theirs.

"I am an attorney, sir. Others might be sloppy with documents, but I assure you, I am not."

Mr. Smith spoke again. "Mr. Richardson, in the last hour, we've found a half dozen people in Chicago who confirm your marital status."

"It's two o'clock in the morning in Chicago."

Mr. Smith smiled thinly. "Several of them were a little peeved when we asked. They do, however, confirm what you've told us here."

"I am ever so relieved," he said sarcastically.

"Sir, you are a proficient attorney. I assure you, Mr. Richardson, that we are proficient policemen."

"I still have trouble believing Coretta could be involved in this."

"Sir, there's an old saw: once is an accident, twice is a coincidence and three times is enemy action. Sir, police reports concerning your daughter from Phoenix and Chicago are missing," he ticked off two fingers. "A missing marriage license and related vital records," he ticked off another finger. "Income tax filings for at least six years." Mr. Smith's fingers from both hands vanished.

"Occam's Razor," Sherrie said, speaking up.

Mr. Smith pretty much ignored her. "Mr. Richardson, two federal marshals are dead, two more are in the hospital with serious wounds. We are going to be very, very thorough. I would encourage you, sir, if you can think of anything you can add, to do so. In fact, tomorrow I'd like you to visit FBI Headquarters in LA and give us a statement in regards to your step-daughter, her friends and acquaintances."

"I'll cooperate, of course," he told them.

Sherrie yawned and Mr. Smith picked right up on that. "Miss Richardson and young Weaver have had a long, harrowing day. I think we should let them rest."

"And what is the plan for them?" her uncle asked.

"The doctor believes that Miss Richardson may be released in a couple of days. At that point of time she and Weaver will be conveyed to a safe house somewhere in the LA area. After that, we will determine what's next." That came from the FBI agent.

"I understand there is a contract out on their lives?"

"Yes. I hope you will understand, Mr. Richardson, why contact with them will henceforth be circuitous."

Sherrie smiled at her uncle. "Phil, I'll talk to you later today, I promise. But I'm falling asleep."

"I'm sorry, Sherrie," he said, sounding considerate. "We should have had this discussion later."

Weaver spoke up. "You know I don't like you, right?"

"I know, and I understand why you don't," Phil replied.

"Sherrie trusts you. I'll never forgive what you said to me or about me. But I'll trust you, too." Weaver held up his fingers a tiny fraction of an inch apart. "About this far."



-------

Chapter 8: Going Into Hiding


It was a good thing she was victim, Sherrie thought sourly when a nurse woke her up a little after seven for breakfast. Someone had been in to wake her up every hour or so, all night long. Weaver was dozing on a chair a few feet from her bed. She ate a little of what was on the plate, but there wasn't much that suited her palate.

Around eight, Mr. Smith came back in. "Shortly," he told Sherrie, "you'll be getting a lot of official visitors. The FBI SAC and I go way back, but for the most part, I prefer to be a fly on the wall."

"And you do that very well, sir," Weaver offered.

He laughed. "Thank you, Weaver."

He turned serious. "There have been a lot of developments overnight."

"My Uncle Phil?" Sherrie prompted.

"I am chagrined. This is the first time in my experience that I've had to deal with a falsified Comprehensive Background Investigation. We are so used to taking what we get from those at face value that that we didn't probe more deeply. We knew your uncle was a prominent attorney, and simply let his part of what should have been a full investigation drop, assuming there was nothing to find that hadn't been found already."

He bobbed his head in Weaver's direction. "The Counter-Intelligence Corps of the United States is tasked with those investigations, using methods, we assumed, that have been honed over the years. They have major egg on their faces today. And as this is not the first time they've messed up big time in the last few years -- tomorrow they are going to be under all new management. Quite a few senior bureaucrats are facing early retirement.

"I suspect you will not be surprised to learn that we've confirmed your uncle's marital status, and that he has a step-daughter named Coretta Castleberry, and that she's been missing for a few years.

"The IRS is in the process of auditing itself, as a short while ago the originals of your uncle's tax returns were transmitted to them. They can't explain the discrepancy.

"The Chicago police department has no record of a missing persons report filed on Coretta Castleberry. Further, an examination of their records show no records for her at all, even though we have found at least one additional incident that should have been there.

"There is no record of a domestic disturbance at your house, Sherrie, nor any record of you, Weaver or Coretta Castleberry in the files of the Phoenix Police Department before the recent shooting deaths of Weaver's parents.

"Because he is a person of interest, we asked about Sergeant James Cook, and found that a year ago he was working in the file section of his department. For what it's worth, there is now a great deal of concern in Phoenix about what other records he might have removed or altered."

"And us?" Sherrie asked.

Mr. Smith glanced at his watch. "In a few minutes the California Highway Patrol will report a single vehicle accident along the Angeles Crest Highway. The car will be a mangled wreck and the 'victim, ' apparently thrown clear, will be in serious condition. He will be assumed to have internal injuries and about a half hour from now, a Life-Flight chopper will land on the helipad on the roof of this hospital. Three EMT's will carry his stretcher to the elevator, and then shortly thereafter, they will return to the helicopter, and it will lift off for its return to base.

"You, Sherrie, will be on the stretcher that goes back on the aircraft. You, Weaver, will be suited up as an EMT, as will myself and another marshal. We will fly to a secure location, deplane, and then ride in a convoy to a safe house.

"I expect you will be there for a couple of days, while we make further arrangements."

Weaver spoke up. "At this safe house, I want to be able to talk to Sherrie privately. I don't want you listening."

"As a matter of course, we do not monitor bedrooms or bathrooms," he told Weaver.

"And I should believe you?"

"Yes, you should. Of course we listen to you. But we do not listen in bedrooms or bathrooms. Which is why we know nearly zero about your activities, Weaver."

"And we should trust you?"

"Yes, you should, Weaver," he repeated seriously. "You can't function in my business without trust. The first time you find I'm lying to you, you would stop cooperating, wouldn't you?"

"You bet!"

"Then it behooves me and mine not to lie, doesn't it? We are famous, Weaver, for 'need to know.' Sure, we don't tell you everything that is going on, but what I do tell you is the truth. Thus, if I say your bedrooms and bathrooms are sacrosanct, they are. It's not worth lying about. Yes, you are watched. But it isn't twenty-four/seven and not everywhere you go. No one would be comfortable with that."

"So, if I'm in the kitchen and tell Weaver there's French toast for breakfast, and you have a hankering for some, you could show up?" Sherrie asked.

"Exactly."

He looked at Sherrie. "On other fronts, yesterday afternoon a woman in Malibu called in a tip. She had, she reported, seen someone in gray pants, a gray shirt, and a gray balaclava, run across her property right after she heard all the shooting. She hadn't reported the sighting at once, because the runner was carrying a long-lens camera. She's had problems in the past, because a hedge on her property gives someone a good view of two different swimming pools where Hollywood names have been known to skinny dip.

"A subsequent search of that location found the rifle we believe was used in the sniping attack on the marshals. We tried to follow the trail of the sniper, but we're sure that he went to a vehicle and drove away. California 1 is two hundred yards away, and a small jog puts you at an intersection with a traffic light. We're in the process of interviewing road block officers to see if they remember anyone wearing ice plant gray clothes."

"Ice plant?" Sherrie asked.

"An local succulent ground cover plant. It's about the color of light wood ash. The slope the sniper was set up on was covered with ice plant."

"Tracks?" Weaver asked.

"Ice plant grows well in sand. All there are, are smudges."

He stopped talking and looked distracted. "Excuse me," he told them abruptly, and left.

"What do you think that was?" Sherrie asked Weaver.

Weaver tapped his ear. Sherrie lifted a questioning eyebrow.

"He has an earpiece, like the cops on TV. You didn't notice?" Weaver told her.

Sherrie shook her head.

Twenty minutes later, Mr. Smith was back. "Sherrie, in a few minutes a female marshal will be here to help you dress."

"Bless the lord!" she said. "I'm so tired of the fact that every man who comes in first checks me out!"

Mr. Smith blushed. "Sorry, Sherrie. While you're dressing, Weaver will don his EMT outfit. We will go up to the helipad a few minutes later."

Sherrie looked and could see the earpiece when she looked for it. She mentally kicked herself hard. They were designed to be invisible, but they weren't, not really. They simply weren't obvious and she'd ignored it.

"What's happened?" she asked, waving at the earpiece.

"A few minutes after six this morning, the intelligence officer conducting surveillance on Reverend Johnson's residence in Phoenix reported a fire. A few seconds later, he was reporting many fires.

"At this point in time all that is known for sure is that the fire appears to have multiple origin points, and that the Reverend Johnson, three adult women and seven girls between twelve and fifteen years of age who lived with the reverend, have perished."

Sherrie sagged back in the bed. Eleven more dead? The numbers were crazy, insane! Someone was killing people with no compunction at all. None!

Mr. Smith saw her expression and spoke roughly. "Sherrie, on December 7th, 1941, President Roosevelt returned from church to find out that the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor and that more than 2400 Americans were dead and the largest warships in our Pacific Fleet had been gravely damaged or sunk.

"Before the day was out the Japanese had also bombed the Philippines and killed even more of our soldiers.

"Roosevelt's response was to appear before Congress the next day, asking for a declaration of war -- which was immediately forthcoming. Over the next not-quite four years, hundreds of thousands of Americans died in the Pacific fighting Japan, as well as millions of Japanese.

"Someone, Sherrie, has declared war on Weaver and now you.

"Like the early war in the Pacific, the enemy has more firepower than you, they have surprise and a lot of other things going for them. Six months after the war started, we'd brought the Japanese to screeching halt, and after that, we steadily forced them back, until General MacArthur stood on the bridge of an American battleship parked in Tokyo Bay, taking their surrender.

"No one is going to tell you that we haven't suffered early reverses -- and that those reverses haven't cost the lives of people we care a great deal about. I ordered those marshals to protect you. Their boss oversaw their placement and determined their assignments. Neither of you have a lock on guilt and despair, do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," Sherrie said dully.

"Sherrie, Sergeant Cook was killed because he had something he could say to us. Reverend Johnson -- and I suspect at least some of the others in his household -- were killed because they had something they could have told us. We are very, very good at what we do, Sherrie. We will find out what they had to say, one way or the other."

The door opened and a brisk woman of about thirty appeared. "Sherrie, this is Marshal Lulu McCloud. She'll help you get dressed. For the time being, she'll be with you all of the time."

-------

Mr. Smith called one afternoon two weeks after they arrived at the safe house near San Diego and talked to Sherrie. "Phil Richardson and wife will be brought to the house tomorrow morning at eleven AM," he told Sherrie.

"I assume there's a reason."

"Yes. Tell Weaver he will have to tear himself away from his work for an hour or two."

Ever since the last attack, Weaver had buried himself in his stories. Sherrie wasn't sure what to think about that -- he'd gone into a shell after Giri died, doing almost nothing. Now he was more active than ever. She didn't feel comfortable just coming out and asking him how he felt about events.

"What sort of reason?"

"Reasons I'm not going to talk about on the phone. I'll see you tomorrow."

She told Weaver and he barely looked up, returning to his drawing almost at once. Progress, Sherrie thought, was that he no longer put up the solitaire screen when she was in the room with him.

She sat for a long time, after the sun was down, staring out over the cityscape, and then to the huge black expanse beyond it. A metaphor for her life, she thought. A well-lit path at the moment; then a path that vanished into the black unknown.

The car that arrived the next morning just before eleven was an older model Chevy Blazer, with the ubiquitous tinted windows. As usual, it unloaded in the garage.

She shook hands with her uncle and aunt. "What's this about, Sherrie?" Phil asked her.

"You don't know?"

He shook his head. "The government man wouldn't say. He insisted that I bring Marion with me."

A few minutes later Mr. Smith appeared at the front door, letting himself in with a key. He was quite businesslike. "Sherrie, would you fetch Weaver?"

She nodded and knocked on Weaver's door. He came out, walked over to the lounge chair and sat down, every sinew of his body taut with anger and unhappiness.

"Mr. Smith, what's this about?" her uncle asked.

"Do you remember our discussion in regards to Coretta Castleberry that we had in the hospital in Santa Monica?"

"Of course. My wife and I have now had a half dozen interviews with various and sundry agents from various and sundry agencies about her."

"I wish to brief you on the results of our investigation. I want your assurance, sir, before I start that you and your wife will do a few things."

"What things?" Phil asked suspiciously.

"That you will hold what you hear confidential; that is, you will share these results with no one. I want you to listen to what I have to say, and do your best to save your questions for a few minutes until I finish."

"I'll be the judge of the timeliness of any questions I or my wife might have. We understand the need for confidentiality."

"If you give in to your first thoughts, sir, without a full briefing, you'll waste a lot of our time. I can only recommend, sir; I cannot coerce you."

Mr. Smith waved at the couch. "Mr. Richardson, do you love your wife?"

"Of course."

"Then I suggest you sit down together on the couch, and that you put your arm around her and hug her tight. You are not going to like what I have to say. I ask you to bear with me, and then, at the end, when I have a proposal for you, that you don't dismiss it out of hand, but instead, the two of you consider it seriously."

"You are being unduly mysterious and dramatic."

"I think you will regret standing on your dignity, sir. But that's your choice."

Mr. Smith looked Phil Richardson, as he stood unmoving next to his wife.

"Mr. Richardson, most of us, after a long airplane flight, even when we fly first class, make a beeline from the gate to the closest bathroom when we disembark. We don't tend to look backwards.

"Thus, you missed federal marshals taking two men into custody, men who had followed you onto the aircraft back in Chicago. Before the two of you met the limo to your hotel, we'd arrested two more men who had been sent to assist those following you. The reason you left your hotel this morning in a helicopter from the roof was that two more men were arrested in the lobby of your hotel moments before you left."

"Evidently Sherrie and Weaver are as popular as ever," Phil Richardson expounded bitterly.

"As you know, we found some irregularities in regards to your personal information," Mr. Smith went on, ignoring the lawyer's comment. "There are too many of them to be anything other than deliberate.

"Mr. Richardson, hug your wife."

Phil beetled red. "Where do you get off telling me to do something like that?"

"Two days ago a Federal Grand Jury returned a Bill of Indictment against your daughter, containing more than two hundred individual felony charges, including seventy-one charges of premeditated capital murder."

Phil's jaw dropped and Marion Richardson let out a shriek. "That's crazy! Coretta had a drug problem! That was all!" Marion Castleberry said, speaking for the first time.

"Ma'am, Mr. Richardson, we started work on finding out who might have changed the records, while at the same time doing a complete investigation of Coretta Castleberry's life. Almost at once, a pattern began to develop.

"The police officers in Chicago who had dealt with your daughter have died from a variety of causes. Most of those causes appeared to be accidental, but some are unexplained homicides. The one store manager who detained her for shoplifting died from a carbon monoxide leak in his house.

"We tried to traced Coretta's associates. We could find no one living who had spoken to her more than once or twice, or who knew anything significant about her. Those who did have any significant knowledge of your daughter have since died of various causes. All of them.

"We traced her school history. The vice principal of the high school that she attended was mugged and killed. Her freshman English teacher was killed in a drive-by shooting and her guidance counselor has vanished and hasn't been seen in almost two years.

"We were getting concerned, you understand. We assigned even more agents to the case, visiting every school Coretta has attended since kindergarten. Two of her eighth grade teachers are still alive, a seventh grade teacher and her sixth grade teacher. The rest of her teachers are dead or missing -- all the way back to kindergarten."

"That's absurd!" Phil Richardson said. "You never, ever stated a direct connection between Coretta and these deaths."

"Tell me, Mr. Richardson, how many people do you know who've met untimely deaths?"

"Gaylord Winston, one of the partners at my firm. He was killed in a hit and run traffic accident last year. He was a good friend. His daughter ran away about the same time as Coretta. Like Coretta, she vanished. And, of course, my brother committed suicide and Weaver's parents died violently, although they are not my blood relations."

"Mandy Winston was found dead of an overdose three years ago -- number forty-four on the Bill of Indictment," Mr. Smith informed him. "And you, Mrs. Richardson?"

"My friend, Ann Carol, was raped and murdered earlier this year."

"Miss Carol was on your daughter's baptismal certificate as her godmother. She is number fifty-two.

"Mr. and Mrs. Richardson, while I realize this is terrible to contemplate, but more than seventy people who are directly connected to Coretta have died under what we consider suspicious circumstances or who have been outright murdered.

"Not so long ago, we got word that the MS-13 drug gang had put out contract hits on Weaver and Sherrie. We applied a great deal of pressure to get those contracts withdrawn and to find out who had paid for them. The gang boss who negotiated with whoever it was, was killed in an explosion at a meth lab along with a couple of his lieutenants. Another senior lieutenant, and some forty of his 'soldiers, ' have vanished. One of the men we arrested yesterday belonged to that crew, but the rest weren't known to us.

"As soon as their rights were read, the men we arrested yesterday asked for attorneys and refused to speak further. Habeas corpus writs were served by midnight, and this morning the men arrested yesterday were released on bail. They walked out of the Federal building and jumped in a car and were gone seconds later. All efforts to follow them have proved futile. We expect the men we arrested today will do the same thing."

"But you have no proof," Phil said, but it sounded weak to Sherrie.

"I realize that you mainly deal in civil torts, but surely you've had some exposure to criminal work on occasion. The Grand Jury bill required some degree of proof and we supplied that. Sir, seventy-one is a floor and doesn't count the ten men who died at Sherrie's house. And the fact is, every time we turn around, we find someplace else where Coretta Castleberry has been, and a new windrow of dead."

"Did you link her to Reverend Johnson?" Sherrie asked.

"No, but those deaths will be laid at her door, based on a pattern of behavior. There was a rumor that back in Alabama the reverend was not only fond of young white girls, but that he also liked to buy the services of young black prostitutes. That's not a very satisfactory connection, but the fact remains that someone associated with Reverend Johnson was a central figure in the attack on Weaver and his family. Now they are all dead. And, I might add, that when the deacons of Reverend Johnson's church went to inspect the church finances they found that they had been looted. Nearly a million dollars has vanished."

There was a profound silence in the room. "Seventy, eighty, ninety ... and maybe more?" Phil asked, stunned.

Mr. Smith nodded.

Marion Castleberry Richardson broke down in tears, clearly shattered.

Phil hugged her tightly, whispering soothing words of comfort to her.

Mr. Smith led Sherrie and Weaver into the kitchen.

"Words don't really cover it, do they, sir?" Sherrie said.

He shrugged. "Do you understand that if Coretta was a military commander who murdered that many people, the World Court would be investigating her for complicity in war crimes? That in nearly every state of the union serial killings are considered a special circumstance, making the perpetrator liable for the death penalty, even in some states that have an otherwise high bar for the accused individual's actions to meet to be eligible for the death penalty?"

"What is it?" Weaver asked. "She wants to be in the Guinness Book of World Records for the most murders?"

"Someplace along the line she learned that killing wasn't difficult, and if you don't have a clear link to the killing, there isn't much risk if you're careful. A tidy housekeeper is a bigger threat to most investigations than anything else.

"But, for all of that, I doubt if she's actually doing the murders herself these days. She's clearly intelligent, and gathering money from a lot of sources. If I were a betting man, somewhere out there," he waved in the direction of the rest of the United States, "there's a First Church of Coretta. Odds are it has a public name of something harmless like 'Salem Massachusetts Christian Church.' Odds are, that unless you looked very close, you wouldn't find anyone who knew about her, except one or two people at the top."

He looked at Weaver. "I know she's come after you personally Weaver, twice. And you once, Sherrie. It's tough not to take something like that personally. But, again, the odds are that you were both a part of her cleanup of her past. Which is why both your aunt and uncle are here."

Weaver reacted as if scalded. "You want them to move in?"

He chuckled. "No. That would put entirely too many eggs in one basket.

"One reason I'm here is to get your decision on where you want to go -- Australia or New Zealand?"

Sherrie glanced at Weaver. "The Florida Keys. And I want to keep the Malibu house ... for now, I'll just rent it out. I'm sure you have a trustworthy property management company you can rely on."

"Of course. Not trustworthy enough to let them deal with sending you money directly, but yes, trustworthy enough.

"You understand that the Florida Keys are a bad choice?"

"Weaver and I plan on taking up power-boating, scuba diving, flying, driving fast cars and drinking dry martinis. Well, me at least on that last -- Weaver is old enough get a learner's permit to drive. I was surprised to find out that there is no bar, however, to teaching him to fly. He just can't solo. Yet."

Mr. Smith smiled at Weaver. "Would it make life easier if you 'aged' abruptly in your new persona? We can make you eighteen at the stroke of a pen."

"Please. I've been talking with the guy you sent me to from the NSA. We've worked out a way for me to continue to post as Weaver Gold, with suitable cutouts so that no one can ever find out where I physically am."

Phil Richardson came into the kitchen. "I'm sorry, sir. My wife isn't feeling well. I'd like it if we can go back to our hotel."

"We packed for you and brought your luggage here. Tonight you'll be our guests. Sir, is your wife up to talking?"

Phil shook his head.

"That's your choice. Mr. Richardson, as terrible as all this is, there is one more thing you have to contemplate. Coretta knows we are looking for her. Long before we learned there was something to be concerned about, we made no effort to cover the tracks of our investigation.

"She is not a fool, Mr. Richardson. It is my considered opinion that if the two of you were to return to Chicago your lives would be in grave danger. You were being followed. We arrested and detained those men -- however briefly we were permitted to do so. There is no further reason for her to wait for an ideal moment to make your deaths look like an accident.

"Sir, you, and your wife even more so, know significant personal details about your daughter and her life. We've interviewed Mrs. Richardson for barely six hours about her daughter. We'd like her to spend two weeks doing nothing but reminisce about her."

"You expect us to help you catch her?"

"Mr. Richardson, you're a highly successful attorney. You know the truth of it: we'll be able to prove all, some or none of these accusations, if she ever faces trial. But the fact is that your step-daughter uses people like you or I use a paper towel in a public toilet. We dry our hands on them and toss them away without a second thought."

"That's a cold description of our daughter."

"And if I'm wrong, I'll apologize." He gestured at Weaver. "You've had to apologize to Weaver; I'll trust you'll do the same for me, at the appropriate time if it is you who are wrong."

Sherrie could see the strength run out of her uncle, leaving him a gaunt shell.

"Mr. Richardson, you and your wife are here. We will have a nice dinner, a pleasant conversation that will not touch on current events. Then, afterwards, you and she should discuss entering the Federal Witness Protection program."

Phil Richardson's head snapped up. "What?"

"Sir, as I said before, if you attempt to return to Chicago, it's my belief that you would be killed. We would try to protect you, sir, but as you can tell from what happened at Sherrie's house, if you're in public, they can pick the time and place. Odds are, they will have a far better plan next time. And then you and your wife will be dead."

"How could we ever qualify for a program like that? What about my practice? Marion's charity work?"

Mr. Smith smiled and Sherrie knew why. It was because of where her uncle had started his protest.

"As I said, sir, we're going to want to hold extensive conversations with you and your wife. We would not compel either of you to testify in a trial, but we would expect an affidavit about the basic facts of Coretta's life as you and your wife know them."

"And if Marion is subpoenaed to testify?"

"Such a subpoena to either of you would only come from the defense. You will receive a binding written promise from the regional US Attorney as to that. Even if the defense should subpoena either of you, people in Witness Protection are allowed to testify by closed video link. The same for depositions, before attorneys for either side. I won't tell you, sir, that we've never lost a witness, but I can tell you that we've never lost a witness who has adhered to our guidelines.

"To repeat, the government will, in writing, grant the both of you immunity from a prosecution subpoena involving anything having to do with your daughter."

"So many people murdered!" Phil said, his voice cracking. "Dear God! It's going to kill Marion! Just the possibility! You're right, we're going to need to talk about this."

"Regardless of anything else, tomorrow you and your wife will be conveyed to another safe house, elsewhere. You can have two weeks to decide one way or the other."

Phil nodded, and then turned and left, clearly shaken to the core.

Mr. Smith turned to Sherrie and Weaver. "The same for you, two. Pack tonight. Tomorrow you'll be en route elsewhere."



-------

Chapter 9: Flight and Landing


The next day Sherrie and Weaver, plus their escorts, went to the Naval Air Station at Miramar and boarded a business jet. Once in the air, Mr. Smith told them they were headed for a place called Traverse City in Michigan.

Sherrie spoke up at once. "I used to dispatch trucks for a warehouse in Traverse City."

He nodded. "That's so, but you only met a few of the people from there and then just on the phone. In any case, you won't be staying in Traverse City. We'll drive north from the airport and take a ferry across the lake to an island. Quite literally the safe house on that island has the highest security of any safe house in the United States. The only access to the island is by power boat or ferry."

Weaver shrugged. "I'm going to take a nap," he announced.

Sherrie raised an eyebrow. A fifteen-year-old does not announce at ten in the morning that he's going to take a nap. He might be sleepy enough to take one, but it would just be one of those things.

The dull drone of the engines was hypnotic, Sherrie found. She watched Mr. Smith, sitting in the front of the aircraft, a cell phone glued to his ear. It was clear he didn't want to be disturbed. She had brought a book, but couldn't find the motivation to read.

An hour into the flight, Weaver stood up abruptly, nodded to Sherrie and jerked his head at Mr. Smith. He walked forward and Sherrie got up and hobbled along after him.

Mr. Smith finished his current conversation and put his phone down. "Weaver," the older man said neutrally.

"A couple of things," he told Mr. Smith. "I was thinking about what you said to me a while back. About me being a paranoid polymath like you."

Mr. Smith didn't say anything, he just continued to look at Weaver.

"One of my counselors said something to me once and later I read it in a couple of books. Paranoia is when you think someone is trying to kill you. A reality check is when you find someone is really trying to kill you, and that it's not just in your head. So, I think you should think of me as a realistic polymath."

Mr. Smith smiled slightly. "If that's what you want, Weaver."

"Sir, I have a trick I use, sometimes. I imagine my mind is a video camera that records everything I see or hear. I'm pretty good at it."

Sherrie started to speak, then thought better of it. What did Weaver remember from Tokyo? The good times or the bad? Did his video camera come with an erase button?

Weaver continued, "The very first time I did it was that weekend with Coretta. It wasn't conscious like it is now, but I can remember everything everyone said or did that evening as clearly as if it was yesterday."

He looked at Mr. Smith. "Clearly, everyone has mis-underestimated Coretta."

"Clearly," the intelligence agent said, agreeing.

"Me too, as it turns out. She said something at the time that I accepted at face value and never thought about, thinking it wasn't important because it was true.

"I was reading a book called Producing Computer Animation. I was propping it up between my knees, holding onto it, while eating an apple with my other hand.

"Coretta walked over to me and said, 'Talk to me, faggot!'" Weaver glanced at Sherrie. "I'd already learned that if you react to someone who calls you names it just gets worse, so I didn't look up at her. I didn't move -- I just ignored her and continued to read the book.

"She waved at the book. 'Talk to me you little pervert! You aren't even a real American! Real Americans watch American cartoons, not shit from Japan!'"

Weaver paused. "It seemed unremarkable at the time. I liked anime and until just now it never occurred to me to wonder how she knew what I liked and didn't like. I think she misread the book title; I think my leg was obscuring some of the words. It said 'Animation' and she read 'Anime.'"

Mr. Smith reached over to an open brief case and pulled out a small wad of paper and handed it to Weaver. Sherrie, standing a few feet away. She could see the top page was a list of names and dates. Most interesting of all was that at the top and bottom of each page was a "Top Secret" stamp, with the word "Shield" scribbled in after "Top Secret."

"This is a list of people that Coretta is suspected as being a party to their deaths or attempted deaths. I invite your attention to the fifth and sixth entries."

Sherrie looked over Weaver's shoulder and saw that his name was fifth and hers was sixth. Two of the names that preceded them were Chicago police patrolmen, there was a teacher and department store manager ahead of them as well. Each entry had a date and time of death, plus a short sentence of biographical details.

"And now, look at the last entry," Mr. Smith told Weaver.

Weaver flipped through the pages until he got to the last. Miranda Gold, age 12, San Francisco, a week before. Raped and strangled, left dead in a farm field south of San Jose.

Weaver was Sherrie's mother's maiden name. Then she remembered who Miranda was. Mandy Gold was the eight-year-old, daughter of one of Ben Gold's brothers -- she was the young girl who had come running to Sherrie with the news that Coretta was killing Weaver.

Tears filled Sherrie's eyes, but it was Weaver who turned scary.

"Why would Coretta have personally risked herself?"

Mr. Smith sounded matter-of-fact. "The first ones killed were ones that did things directly to her. One of the policemen backhanded her when she resisted arrest for shoplifting -- she tried to bite him too; the other just did his duty, so far as we can tell. The store manager who turned her in was dead within a week. The first dead teacher spanked her.

"You were, Weaver, someone on her list to rub out. But you upset her. You pissed her off. She'd already killed four people by then -- she probably knew that if she pushed the 'racial epithet' defense, even if no one else had heard anything, at worst she'd serve a couple of months in reform school. That's not much of a price to pay for killing a someone on her list. That she knew of your interest in anime confirms that you were marked for death, Weaver."

Sherrie stood up straight, but keeping the weight off her bad leg. "I bet she thought I'd blow it off -- that she was pounding on Weaver. I bet she knew I didn't like him, and that I had objected to having to baby sit at all and for Weaver in particular."

"That's my analysis," Mr. Smith agreed.

"My step-cousin isn't a homicidal sociopath," Weaver said. "She's a full blown megalomaniac."

Mr. Smith nodded. "We have psychologists who consult for us. When advised that Coretta has been involved with multiple murders, sociopath was the most frequent diagnosis. When they saw the extent of the murders -- megalomania has been the next word on each of their lips."

"She's not stupid," Weaver said, sounding stubborn.

"Stupid people don't kill this many people without others noticing. It was a fluke, really, that we found out about her as early as we did. If you'd been killed, Weaver, we'd never had made the connection. At least, not for a while. Sherrie might have gone for her swim, and again, her death wouldn't have raised any eyebrows." He lofted the list of death. "Clearly, Coretta's getting better and involving others in her schemes. "Eighteen-year-old girls don't leave semen residues on their rape victims."

Sherrie's leg started to throb and she turned and staggered down the short aisle and flopped into her seat. She closed her eyes and willed the world to go away for a while. Unsurprisingly, the world didn't oblige: Weaver wasn't done.

"I was thinking, sir, of just what a megalomaniac is."

"A sociopath on steroids," Mr. Smith replied.

Weaver disagreed. "A sociopath with an agenda. And that, sir, begs the question: what's her agenda?"

"Rubbing out her own existence," the secret agent said. Even at Sherrie's remove it sounded hollow.

"Like I said, it begs the question of what her real goal is and why she's pursuing it -- you answered how, not why," Weaver answered.

Mr. Smith smiled thinly. "One thing we polymaths regularly do: surprise not only everyone else, but each other. Why ... now that's another of those million dollar questions. The question of her actual goal is indeed very important."

"I was thinking that we could forget her, now that we know about her. What would be the point of hurting us?" Weaver went on.

"Because with you and Sherrie it's gone from business to personal," Mr. Smith told him.

Weaver sniffed audibly. "Coretta might have been going after me at the reunion on an opportunistic basis, but that would mean killing me had to have a higher priority than anything else on her personal agenda, including her personal safety. Sir, she might have known about my interest in anime, but the fact remains, we'd never met until that day.

"Not only that, but you weren't there. Something I did that day caused her to snap -- because if she was faking her rage she is the greatest actress who has ever lived. Ask Sherrie. Coretta was 'round the bend that day."

Sherrie nodded to herself, remembering what had happened.

"If she'd ignored me; I'd have ignored her. Sherrie would have ignored her. Instead, Coretta went ballistic. It wasn't an act. I have no idea why, but I can't help but think she knew that Weaver Gold already had a following on the net and it had to do with anime."

Mr. Smith shrugged. "And you think that's important?"

"We're back to why, sir," Weaver explained. "I don't know for sure, but if she was already killing people to implement her plan, the most likely reason I enraged her was that she perceived me as a direct threat to her. At the time I was famous for subtitling Japanese anime, fan-dubbing it's called, but not for my cartoons. TV shows, my cartoons -- none of that had happened yet."

Mr. Smith nodded. "I wonder if my basic assumption is wrong, then. Perhaps the first four murders were just what they seemed: simple retaliation for slights."

"And her rage about me was jealousy," Weaver said simply. "My name was known around the world, although mostly in the US and Japan and in the context of anime."

Sherrie spoke up so that they could hear her. "When Coretta saw the phone in my hand, she lost a lot of steam. Maybe she realized her temper had gotten away from her."

"It's easy to engage in speculation," Mr. Smith mused. "But it is interesting -- but it doesn't explain, if she was jealous of Weaver's relative fame, why she would go about erasing herself."

"There is a theme that occurs sometimes in anime. The 'Secret Master of Evil, '" Weaver told him. "You wouldn't get far as a secret master of evil if people could trace you back to the mean streets of Oak Park, near Chicago, with a loving mother and a caring stepfather."

Weaver chuckled. "That or she wants a place in the Guinness Book, for the most murders."

"She has a long ways to go to catch up with such worthies as Pol Pot, Stalin, Mao and Hitler," Mr. Smith replied. Then he stopped and looked out the window of the aircraft for a long time.

Sherrie had thought the discussion was over once more, and had been drifting towards sleep when Mr. Smith spoke again.

"In the past there have been examples of all of this. Fiddling with public information, like birth and marriage certificates. People routinely fiddle school records. There's a lot of money to be made by police clerks who 'lose' records on request. People have messed with the IRS before, and the best guess is maybe half or two thirds of those attempts go undetected.

"But all of those? A single individual who suborns policemen, government bureaucrats from top to bottom, a man of the cloth, and some of the most hardened gang-bangers in the US? The girl is a serious, serious player if what we think is true."

He stopped, cocking his head to one side. He stood up and went forward, returning after a moment. Even as he sat down the aircraft was turning.

Sherrie wondered what that meant and, seeing her expression, Mr. Smith promptly offered up an explanation.

"I consider it a low-order risk, but there are ways to monitor air traffic control transmissions; you can even get access to the ATC radar feeds if you know what you're doing. Our flight plan was filed through from Miramar to Traverse City. Just now, the pilot has reported a warning and we're diverting to the general aviation airport in Scottsdale, Arizona. We'll have a mechanic look at whatever problem the pilot picked, and then we'll depart under VFR, which means we don't have to file a flight plan. We'll fly low, out of radar coverage.

"When we get to our next stop, we'll go at once to another highly secure safe house." He'd been standing in the aisle, and now he went and stopped next to Sherrie.

"I have something to ask of you. I want you to listen carefully until I finish before you ask any questions."

She smiled thinly. "I've done this before."

"Not exactly," he replied cryptically. "We're going to be landing at Biggs Field -- a military airfield adjacent to Ft. Bliss, in El Paso, Texas. From there we will go to the BOQ on Bliss, that's the Bachelor Officer's Quarters. The junior officers are two to a room, and two sets of two share an adjoining bathroom. We'll put you in one room, Sherrie, and Weaver in the adjoining room."

He paused and then went on. "In the intelligence business, sometimes we pretend various things. One of those things is that sometimes civilians or enlisted personnel assume the persona of military officers of the various branches. We are going to tell them that you're a returning officer, wounded in a mortar attack in Iraq. Normally Weaver would go to the guest house, but I'm assuming that you don't want to be parted."

"You assume right," Weaver said, his voice tense.

"We stick together," Sherrie concurred.

"You'll be brother and sister. I assume that's not a problem."

"No, it's not a problem," Sherrie told him. She met his eyes. "Where is this headed?"

"There are two ways to do this. You can pretend to be an army officer, or you could actually enlist in the Army," he told her bluntly. "There are advantages and disadvantages to each, but in either case, your duties would be similar. You would receive military training, you would be assigned military duties and Weaver would be your dependent."

"And I would learn to be a secret agent in the Army?" she asked.

He shook his head. "First, I'd prefer that you do duty with troops."

"What do you mean, 'duty with troops?'" she asked, confused. "I thought everyone in the Army was considered 'troops.'"

"It would mean you'd be given a small unit to command, after suitable training."

"And you did something like this?" she asked him.

"No," he replied honestly. "But I wish something like it had happened to me. The first time you're given people to command, Sherrie, you make mistakes. My first mistake as a commander got three good people killed. There aren't many faster ways to learn, but the cost is ... prohibitive."

"And then I could be a secret agent?" she pressed.

"Then you could be anything you want to be," he told her.

"Once upon a time I explained to Weaver that I had a hard time imagining being a multi-millionaire and working at a regular job ... knowing that I didn't have to put up with the usual crap that other people have no choice but to endure."

"That, Sherrie, is between you and your conscience. You have to decide if your larger goal is more important than temporary discomfort."

"Like Coretta, you mean," she shot back.

"Pretty much. But, speaking of Coretta, she certainly knows you're wealthy. She is not going to look for you to be wearing a green suit. Coretta seems like a rather resourceful young woman, but you can't learn what isn't known. The document technician who will work on your papers would know your new names and social security numbers and nothing else about you. My boss would know only generally where you are, but not your names or any other details. Only I would know everything. And you."

"And what if something happens to you?" Weaver asked.

"There are sealed files that get opened when something like that happens. Someone else would take over. This will be as secret as a secret can be. The only risk would be if either of you tried to contact your family or a friend directly and told them about it. That's going to be a risk, no matter what you do."

"You haven't explained the various advantages and disadvantages," Sherrie told him.

"If you actually enlist, you'll have more trouble leaving the Army. Sort of like the difference between going through a door with a sill and going through one with weather striping on the sill. If you enlist, my department will have less of a say in your utilization than if you stay with us. Variety, however, is the spice of life."

"Once upon a time I told Weaver that I'd realized that when I had responsibilities I did my best. I'd like to think that since Weaver came to stay with me, I've done my best," Sherrie told Mr. Smith.

Weaver spoke up, "You bet! You're great!"

"I find I have a real taste for wanting to do my best. And if I do my very best, some day I might find my hands on Coretta's throat. Squeezing the life out of that bitch will give me a great deal of satisfaction," she said bluntly.

Mr. Smith smiled. "Personally, being an arrant coward, I'd settle for a high velocity round through her forehead from eight hundred yards. One thing you'll learn quickly about being a boss is the truth of 'different strokes for different folks.'"

"Weaver?" Sherrie asked for his opinion.

He chuckled. "Hey, go for it!"

"And what if the Army sends me to a place you can't go?" Sherrie asked him.

"Which you can pretty much count on these days, if you enlist," Mr. Smith warned.

That had to mean Iraq or Afghanistan, Sherrie thought. Did that make sense? Hiding from someone shooting at you by going to a place where people would be shooting at you?

Weaver put the back of his wrist against his forehead. "Oh, heaven forfend! An unsupervised sixteen-year-old! Think of all the wild parties I can host with my sister gone!"

The two adults chuckled. Then Sherrie sobered, remembering Weaver in Tokyo. Still, there seemed to be just one good way to go.

Sherrie turned to Mr. Smith. "Where do I sign up?"

"Later, probably tomorrow ... maybe the day after. I'll have more information by the time we're down at Biggs."

-------

They landed in Arizona and someone came aboard to work on whatever was wrong in the cockpit. After about an hour, they took off again.

Sherrie was amused, because flying low wasn't as interesting as flying up high. Sure, you were closer to the ground and could see more detail, but at the same time the detail passed out of sight almost before you could realize what you were seeing.

Mr. Smith spent a lot of time on his phone, speaking cryptically. When he finally came back to where Sherrie was dozing, she sat up.

"It's policy, you understand?" he said, beginning. "We don't let you pick your new names. There's a computer at NSA that tosses random numbers for a few hours, then pulls the names we're going to give you out of a hat. When we land, you'll become Karen and Robert Paulsen, brother and sister. Your parents died a year ago in a traffic accident.

"And yes, the Paulsen's existed and have a son and a daughter your ages. Karen Paulsen is currently in the Witness Protection program for something else, with no possibility that anyone is looking for her. Her brother is missing and presumed dead. He went over the side of a dive boat near the Bahamas and never surfaced.

"The tour guide, concerned, went over the side and nearly died himself, as the air tank he had, which read 'full, ' was nearly empty. He recognized the symptoms of low regulator pressure and surfaced at once. They neglected to mention the loss of another diver to the authorities until we insisted."

"And this Karen Paulsen?" Sherrie asked. "Why won't anyone come looking for her? Why is she in Witness Protection?"

"Her father was a chemical engineer working for a major oil firm. His wife was kidnapped by terrorists and held in exchange for him placing a bomb in the refinery where he worked. Instead, he alerted the FBI and they staged an explosion and fire. The terrorists took the bait and were apprehended.

"FBI agents, to be safe, escorted the Paulsen's home, with the expectation of gathering their things and going into protection. As they were returning to FBI Headquarters, the Paulsens and the four FBI agents in the vehicle were overcome with carbon monoxide and the vehicle swerved into a freeway divider at sixty miles an hour. All of them were killed instantly.

"The vehicle was one pulled at random from the FBI motor pool, then assigned randomly to the Paulsens. While the driver was waiting for his cargo, a cargo not known to him, he asked a female agent if she had any aspirin or Tylenol because he had a monster headache. That too is a symptom of carbon monoxide poisoning.

"Subsequent investigation showed that all of the terrorists had been rounded up. The Paulsens were no longer available to testify, but the perps were convicted anyway."

"Odd, I never heard anything like that on the news," Sherrie said dryly.

"It's a matter of national policy. The three men convicted were reportedly tried for immigration violations. They were subsequently deported to Pakistan, which has a rather different set of laws than the US.

"Karen Paulsen was living by herself, attending graduate school. After her parents died, she told people that she was going to chill for a while and has since vanished. She has expressed a desire to be 100% safe from any terrorist retribution. It was the least we could do."

"And how safe am I from terrorist retribution?" Sherrie asked him.

"Karen Paulsen is safe from terrorists. The deaths of her parents rattled the young woman. In spite of clear evidence to the contrary, she was positive that they'd been rubbed out on purpose and that she was next."

"Okay, then."

"The records will now show that Karen served in Army ROTC in college and graduated as a second lieutenant. She attended a couple of administrative management schools in the US, was promoted to first lieutenant after six months of active service. She was sent to Iraq, where she was wounded the same day she arrived in-country." He gestured at Sherrie's leg. "You'll receive a Purple Heart for the injury."

"I get a Purple Heart?" Sherrie was stunned.

"Yes. The people shooting at you and Weaver the other day aren't friends of the United States -- and you were acting in the service of your country. Absolutely no one had a problem with awarding you the medal."

"I have a problem with the fact that I have no idea whatsoever how to be an army officer. Not to mention, how are you going to convince anyone that I graduated from college?"

"For the next several weeks you'll be undergoing physical therapy on your leg," he told her.

"The doc said I had just another week or so, that I was almost healed," Sherrie retorted.

"Well, your new therapist will be one of my people. Two hours a day, six days a week over the next two weeks, you'll going to be getting lectures about life in the army. You're an intelligent young woman, Sherrie, and you learn fast."

"You base that on watching me learn your secret agent lessons?" Sherrie asked, aghast.

"Sherrie, I don't want you to let this go to your head, but acting normally when you're not doing something normal isn't a trivial thing. You did very well. We've given that course of instruction to more than two hundred individuals. Less than half pass. Half of the rest are marginal."

When he stopped, she laughed. "Oh! I made it into the seventy-fifth percentile! That's what? C work?"

"Then you did it three times for real, Sherrie. And each of the ops was letter perfect, in spite of some serious out-of-nominal events. That's one in a thousand, Sherrie. I was quite pleased with how well you'd done."

"Following instructions is that hard?"

"It is when you've grown up with wild notions of what a secret agent's duties are like. Listening to bullets buzz past your ear is no fun either. Trust me, Sherrie, the only thing you could have done out there on your deck was to get down and stay down and let the professionals do their duty. That's what you did and that's what they did."

Sherrie held his eyes for a moment, before she capitulated. "So, I guess you'd better start calling me 'Karen, '" she told him.

"That's right. And Robert, over there, had better get used to his new name. Like you, for the next few weeks he will be with an earnest young agent who will fill his ears with everything we know about the person he was."

"What if we meet someone who knew the real us, and realizes we're not them?" Weaver asked.

"Why, that's simple. They're thinking of someone else. If that happens, let me know and it'll be taken care of." He smiled slightly. "Did you know that it's a Class One Federal felony to reveal that someone is in Witness Protection? That revealing that will get you twenty-to-life at a Federal prison? And we make sure they know it'll be at the Super Max prison in Colorado."

An hour later they landed in El Paso. An army ambulance met them, and "Karen" was helped off the aircraft. Mr. Smith took care of signing them into the BOQ, but it was clear that the staff sergeant on duty at the desk had been alerted.

The first thing the next morning, Sherrie, now Karen, was up early, and was taken to the hospital on the base for medical evaluation. Mr. Smith had simply said, "Soldiers don't talk much about being wounded. Say 'shrapnel' and shrug."



-------

Chapter 10: It Isn't Easy Being Green


"Shrapnel?" a doctor asked her later.

"Yes, sir," she told him.

"Not much pain?"

"The itching is more of a problem," she told him.

"Well, you'll be another ten days in physical therapy, at a minimum, two hours in the morning each day. Light duty for a month after that. What are they going to have you doing?"

"They haven't told me, sir," Sherrie told him.

"Lord! Don't you just love the Army!"

Sherrie tapped her leg. "So far, this is my only complaint and it wasn't the Army's fault."

That afternoon, she was visited in the BOQ by a man wearing a major's insignia.

Mr. Smith had gone over the ranks for her a half dozen times before she'd been allowed to leave the BOQ that morning. Why, she thought to herself, was a gold leaf a major and a silver leaf a colonel, with the colonel the higher rank? Gold was more valuable than silver -- you'd think colonels would be more valuable than majors. Evidently not to Army thinking! And the same thing was true of lieutenants as well -- silver bars were first lieutenants, while gold bars were second lieutenants, with first lieutenants outranking the second lieutenants. It was confusing.

"Lieutenant, I'm Major Griffin, the assistant division G-1." He held up a brown folder. "I was reviewing your records, with regards to your next assignment."

"Yes, sir."

"I realize that your college work was in history, Lieutenant, but the division is in great need of an officer to supervise our electronic maintenance branch. To be candid, Lieutenant, the average enlisted person in the maintenance branch has a two-year college degree, and many of them have a BS in electrical engineering. It has been challenging to provide the requisite leadership."

"Challenging, how?" Sherrie asked.

"I assure you that the men and women of the electronics maintenance branch are as mission-oriented as anyone in the division. They just have, well, to put it bluntly, a low BS quotient. When they feel like they're put upon, their productivity can approach zero."

"I would have to say a productivity of nearly zero doesn't sound very mission-oriented to me, Major."

He ignored her. "In the past, they were commanded by Captain St. Cyr. His people did everything the captain asked of them and they did it very well. Since the captain was transferred to a line company that has no longer been the case. I realize this is a challenge for a young officer, but it's one that will be a feather in your cap if you can pull it off."

"And the fact I know virtually nothing about electronics, sir? How is that going to work?"

"You will be their boss. Listen to the recommendations of the senior NCOs and you'll be okay. We will, however, put you in a basic electronics class for a couple of hours every evening."

"Sure, whatever is needed, sir. The doctor at the hospital told me I have two weeks of therapy, then light duty. The therapy though will be just a couple of hours in the morning."

The major smiled and inwardly Sherrie/Karen wanted to laugh. "We'll work something out with them, I'm sure. I'll be back tomorrow after your therapy at the hospital and will take you over to your shop."

Her shop? Sherrie raised an eyebrow, but let it go. She was thinking of what she'd been told -- a lieutenant was typically in charge of thirty or so people. That seemed like a stretch, but she vowed she'd do her best.

A while later Weaver reappeared with Mr. Smith. "I hope you're going to be okay with the apartment I picked out for us," Weaver told her.

"An apartment?"

"Yeah. Some army captain had kittens this morning when he saw me. It seems that civilians aren't supposed to be here. Definitely eighteen-year-old opposite sex civilians aren't permitted in an adjoining room of the BOQ, sister or not. Mr. Smith told me that if anyone had a question to have the officer check with the SOP of the BOQ. That's the Senior Officer Present, not Standard Operating Procedure -- this one is a major who just got divorced.

"That poor captain got reamed; it was awful and I could barely hear half the words. So I'll be tolerated, but you have an enemy."

"There are no separate quarters for lieutenants with dependents on post, Karen," Mr. Smith told her. "So I took Robert apartment hunting. It's a rather nice place, and coincidently, two Federal marshals live in the complex. While we can't alert them about you, you'll have their phone numbers."

"They won't let me buy new computer stuff," Weaver told her.

"Oh! Weav ... Robert!" she caught herself and turned to Mr. Smith. "That's just not going to work, sir."

"Not to worry," Mr. Smith told Sherrie. "Weaver Gold's computer requirements are well known. What we're going to do is move what he had to DC, to the basement at NSA. We'll set something up so that he can log on here and it will be like he's there. And that computer will have a very, very secure link to the net. It will not be possible to trace it back to it's physical location. The boffins assure me that it isn't possible."

"I'm sure what you've picked is fine, Robert."

"Bob, please," her cousin told her.

"Bob. I'm going to stick with Karen."

Weaver nodded.

"I want to spend some additional time briefing you, Karen, then we'll go to the officer's club to eat. Be sure to be fully packed in the morning; Bob and I will move you. I'll pick you up tomorrow evening after you finish with your duties and take you to the new place," Mr. Smith explained.

He started in detailing more of "Karen Paulsen's" personal history. There was information about the "incident" where she was wounded, and yes, shrapnel played a role. Mr. Smith was just about ready to take them to dinner when someone knocked on the door to her BOQ. Mr. Smith answered it, and a private was there with bags and bags of things.

Mr. Smith had them put on the bunk, then they went to the officer's club. Before they left the BOQ he made sure she had her AGO card, her ID. Weaver, it turned out, already had his. Sherrie wasn't surprised when someone checked hers and Weaver's at the door of the officer's club.

They found a table in the main dining room, off in a corner. Mr. Smith talked in low tones, while they had a dinner with food about on a par with a fair restaurant. It was remarkable how much information he could pack into a short time.

The ate, and then Weaver started talking about things they were going to need for the apartment. Mr. Smith told Sherrie that he'd explain finances on the way back to the BOQ.

They were still sipping coffee after dinner when an army captain stopped at their table. "Are you Lieutenant Paulsen?" he asked.

Sherrie had learned to look at the name tag on the people she was talking to. The name on his was "St. Cyr."

"Yes, Captain."

"I understand that you've been tapped to take over electronics maintenance."

"That's what I was told this morning, sir."

"In the last six weeks they've chewed up four COs," he told Sherrie. "One poor schmuck lasted fourteen hours. He ordered a formation for everyone, including the married personnel, at 0600, and then inspected the six people present. He gigged them all for things like haircuts, boots not shined, that sort of thing. They got rid of him before the morning coffee break."

"The major from S-1 said the detachment had a low BS quotient."

"They do. The techs may be in their early twenties, most of them, but they're nerds. Some of them are geniuses -- but many of them are about ten years old on the emotional maturity scale. Master Sergeant Hanlon, the platoon sergeant and Master Sergeant Perry, in charge of supply, are both old, skilled hands. They know how to take care of their people. Follow their lead, Lieutenant. And for God's sake, support your NCOs and troops -- don't try to fuck with them!"

"I'm a history major," she lamented. "And there is no silver bar that goes with that specialty."

He laughed. "And I have a BS in English Lit from Arizona State, where they decided when I was a junior that Shakespeare was too white and dropped him from the curriculum." He paused, searching her face. "Do you know what did in the best of the lot?"

Sherrie shook her head.

"You have a surprise waiting for you. You're supposed to command a platoon. Except the maintenance branch has 172 bodies at last count. The reason you don't need to know much about electronics? You're going to have your day filled with administrative details. Morning reports, transfers, replacements, inventories, promotions, disciplinary actions ... not to mention the usual company grade officer BS."

Sherrie decided that it would be bad form to ask what he meant by company grade officer BS. She was a first lieutenant -- she was supposed to know about it already. This was starting to look harder than she had first thought. She'd expected to be in charge of a handful of people. Nearly two hundred? The only orders she'd ever given had been as a babysitter. This was, she was sure, going to be very different.

"Captain St. Cyr, it is my intention to do my best."

He bobbed his head in her direction. "My regards, Lieutenant." He waved at her leg. "How is your wound?"

She laughed. "It itches. It's a sham, Captain. I wish they'd take back the Purple Heart I'm supposed to get."

He frowned. "You should be proud to wear the oldest decoration in the US Army."

"You should get medals for doing something brave. I was hugging the ground and got hit by a splinter. A medic looked at my leg and the next thing I knew, I woke in a hospital, my leg up in the air.

"Someone, without ever asking me about it, decided I should be shipped home." She met the captain's eye. "I'm fine, sir. I've been limping for a few days, but that's it."

"Perhaps you weren't wounded charging up the hill, Lieutenant, but the fact was, you were at the hill. If I were you, I'd shut my mouth."

"Yes, sir," Sherrie said reluctantly.

The captain turned and walked away.

Sherrie spoke quietly to Mr. Smith, "Sir, what did I say wrong?"

"Nothing. Some people feel they deserve a Purple Heart for having a hang nail in a combat area. Others object because they weren't doing anything heroic when they were zinged. You were zinged. Relax, enjoy. You earned it."

When they got back to the BOQ, Mr. Smith spent the better part of an hour going over the uniforms that had arrived. After that, very late in the evening, he took her to the headquarters building and pointed out various offices, and the bulletin board where the duty rosters were posted.

"I suspect while you're on limited duty they won't stick you with extra hats."

"Hats?" Sherrie asked.

"Jobs. Like the Division Equal Opportunity Officer. Or my absolute favorite: payroll officer." He visibly shuddered. "At one time everyone in the army was paid in cash once a month. It was a nightmare for everyone involved."

In the morning Sherrie felt strange donning army fatigues and putting on combat boots to go to work was just plain weird. Her negative feelings about the stylishness of combat boots were, Sherrie hoped, the dying vestiges of the old, bad Sherrie. Words couldn't begin to describe what having to peel apart her clothes felt like because they were so heavily starched. That she'd risen at five AM also seemed perverse. Then she realized that she was in the army now and backtracked. She'd risen at 0500.

At the hospital she was assigned a bright-faced young man in a white smock. First, they did warm-ups, mostly stretching exercises, for a quarter hour, followed by an hour walking in circles around an indoor track. The entire time the man discussed military matters -- it was like listening to a taped lecture, Sherrie thought. After the walk came a brief exam of her stitches, followed by the doctor telling her she was coming along well, and he was going to cut the therapy down to a week.

Then Major Griffin arrived and escorted her to the building where the electronics maintenance for the division was conducted. It was a little intimidating because the building was larger than the one where she'd worked as a truck dispatcher, with something like four times as many people as had worked at the trucking company headquarters.

The major walked her through the assumption of command paperwork, which was extensive. Then two middle-aged men entered her office and Major Griffin introduced them.

The first was tall and thin, his hairline receding. Still, his eyes were bright, his gaze intent. "This is Master Sergeant Perry," she was told. "He's in charge of supply."

The major gestured at the second sergeant. He had a mild beer belly and was much shorter and darker than the other sergeant. "This is Master Sergeant Hanlon, who is your platoon sergeant."

Mr. Smith had been emphatic. "The military is not to be confused with civilian life. When you go around on your first day in a civilian business, everyone shakes hands and is on an immediate first name basis. In the military, if it's an officer, you'll salute if he or she is senior to you. A junior officer salutes you and you return it. Officers are addressed by their rank and last name. You may only use first names with those who have the same rank and roughly the same responsibilities as you do. Enlisted people are addressed by generic rank titles -- sergeant or specialist, and their last names. Never use first names in public with your enlisted people. Ever. You don't go out drinking with them after work, and you don't invite them to your parties."

There had been more -- a lot more.

Major Griffin stood and Sherrie saluted him. He nodded and left.

Sherrie watched him go, then turned to the two sergeants -- both of whom were about her father's age.

"I'm not your friend," she told them, "and I don't want to be. That said, I don't want to screw this up, either. What do I need to know?"

Sergeant Perry looked at Sergeant Hanlon. It was Sergeant Hanlon that spoke up.

"Respect, Lieutenant."

"Respect, Sergeant?"

"Yes, ma'am. Everyone in this building, just about, has a couple of years of college and that's the minimum. Even the company clerks and Sergeant Perry's supply clerks have been in college. Sergeant Perry will go over our supply requirements with you later, but they are complicated, to say the least. You will find that dealing with this many people in a platoon generates paperwork that is complicated and extensive because there is so much of it and it's so varied.

"Your people, Lieutenant, simply want to be treated as intelligent human beings, not idiots. The army used to be an ocean of BS, as sergeants crapped on the enlisted soldiers, and the officers crapped on everyone beneath them. This is the volunteer army, Lieutenant. Because of Iraq it's not easy to get out, but these are smart people -- they find new and innovative ways to quit if you dump on them."

"Well," Sherrie said dryly, "there will be no 0600 formations, because at that time of day for the next week or two, I'll be at the hospital getting physical therapy. I notice that this is a three story building. Is it all ours?"

"Yes, Lieutenant."

"And I expect that at some point I'm to get a tour?"

"This afternoon," Sergeant Perry replied.

"This afternoon I'll go up to the second floor and tour. Then I'll come downstairs and tour. Tomorrow I will see if I have three floors in my leg."

Sergeant Perry frowned. "Your leg, Lieutenant?"

She laughed. "And here, I thought the army was a rumor mill! On my first day in Iraq I picked up a mortar fragment in my leg. Real soon now, I expect to get a medal for cowering on the deck."

She realized she slipped as the last word came out of her mouth. Still, no one seemed to notice.

"And you got shipped home for that?" Sergeant Hanlon said.

Sherrie sighed. "The medic knocked me out and I woke up in the hospital, my leg all fixed. The next morning, I was fluttering home on a helicopter. No one asked me for my opinion."

"Ma'am," Sergeant Hanlon told her, "meaning no disrespect, but pretty much no one asks a first lieutenant for their opinion."

"Well, someone has seen fit to put me in command here. And I'm not a total idiot, either. Besides respecting the soldiers here, what else?"

"Like I said," Sergeant Hanlon told her, "our supply requirements are complicated, but Sergeant Perry is top notch and has them under control. There are a lot of electronics in a modern light infantry division. There are million items these days, above and beyond radios. Computers, radars, missile guidance systems, down to radios, night vision equipment and mundane flashlights -- at least the flyboys maintain their own gear. We need to have the right parts in the inventory to fix the items we're tasked to maintain. There are a lot of parts.

"And, as I said, with this many people, there are always something interesting in the paperwork. I'll help you with that."

"Is anyone in trouble?" she asked.

"No, ma'am. But in a week it'll be payday. There'll be a few fights, maybe a DWI. The base MPs are strict."

"I want as much of that handled on our level as possible," she told them.

"And why would anyone pay attention to a first lieutenant?" Sergeant Perry reminded her.

"There you have me. Maybe because whoever messes with us doesn't get their stuff fixed very quickly."

Sergeant Hanlon looked at her sternly. "You're not suggesting that we do less than our best, are you?"

"Of course not! Don't be absurd! I'd like to have a reputation for quick and efficient service! But, clearly, there have to be priorities, right? Combat readiness, combat effectiveness, those have to be our first concern, right?"

Sergeant Hanlon nodded, while smiling. "Those should be, yes."

-------

At 1500 in the afternoon Mr. Smith came to collect Sherrie. She walked through the apartment, before collapsing on her bed, exhausted once again. Weaver shook her awake a little later.

"There's an Army major here. He says you have an electronics class shortly."

Sherrie struggled awake, wishing she could don a simple blouse and a pair of jeans, but stayed in her once-starched fatigues and clod-hopper boots. Fatigues, by 1800 in the evening weren't nearly as starched as they'd begun the day and her boots each seemed to weigh a ton.

Two hours later when she returned to the apartment, she collapsed on her bed again, totally drained of energy. Then it was morning, time for therapy and a lecture ... then back to her shop ... followed later by another class in the evening. It was hard for her to reach equilibrium with what was going on around her.

Part of her success was her simple lack of understanding about what was involved. That and she was tired from the time she got up in the morning, until she finally collapsed in bed at night.

After a few days of walking therapy, Mr. Smith's man had her try short jogs that quickly grew into longer runs. He took her to the exercise and weight room at the hospital and briefed her on the equipment in the same, dry, terse voice that he'd explained military terminology, protocol, organization and the like.

And then there was commanding the electronics maintenance gang. She no longer remembered who said it first, but it was true. Life in charge of that many men and women presented something new every day. She knew that in the first days her sergeants and clerks carried her, and she suspected from the ease that they did it, that they'd done it before.

The strangest thing about army life though, came at night. It wasn't the sort of night life she'd indulged in college or later when she lived on Malibu Beach ... instead she was learning about electronics.

The first class was brain dead simple, starting from the very basics. Actually, it stopped being one class and quickly became several. These were remote learning classes, where she logged on to a computer at the education center and moved at her own speed through the courses. Her speed was a gallop.

She'd never studied electronics before, she had only the vaguest idea what an electron was and had never imagined the subject could be interesting. She devoured it. Day after day her thirst for knowledge grew and grew. During the day she would often talk shop with her techs, learning what they did, trying to fit it in with her class work.

By her third week at Ft. Bliss, she was officially off "light duty" and the physical therapist vanished. Still, every morning she ran and exercised for at least an hour, sometimes closer to two. She was aware she was in the best shape of her life, and instead of thinking it was stupid, she was proud of her physical condition.

She had found her feet, a steady niche, and if it frequently presented her with new opportunities, that was fine and dandy with her.

It took a visit from Mr. Smith to bring the rest of her life back into focus.

"I thought I would bring the two of you up to speed on current events," he told Sherrie and Weaver over a spaghetti dinner that Weaver had cooked for them.

Earlier, Sherrie had raised an eyebrow when Weaver said he was going to make dinner. Then she was embarrassed because she knew that for the past month and a half, she'd hardly seen him. She was up long before he was and didn't come back until late, where she would shower and collapse into bed.

Evidently, in self defense, Weaver had been learning to cook.

"Your mother, Karen, is safely in the program. Your aunt and uncle are in the program as well, but I suspect that they find it chafes. We will do our best to protect them, but I have no long terms hopes there."

"That's pretty cold," Sherrie told him.

"Yes, it is. I could sugar coat things or just have kept silent ... this way you aren't going to be surprised when things turn out badly for them."

"It's still pretty cold," she repeated.

"Yes. And that brings us back to the cause of all of this.

"I'm not going to lie to either of you. Yes, we can and do catch wanted people all the time. To be candid, that's because most criminals are stupid. Coretta doesn't appear to be stupid.

"In the past people have committed various and sundry illegalities and we have pursued them for years. A lot of times they are caught decades later after what should have been a minor brush with the law. Or they simply got tired of forever looking over their shoulder and turned themselves in.

"Coretta has vanished. As I intimated, that's not a huge surprise. What is a surprise is that we have confirmed she took thirty-seven members of a street gang with her. We have the names -- street names, birth names and all known aliases of each of them. We have lists of family, friends, and associates, and we are now actively seeking those men.

"None of them have been seen or heard from since your uncle came to visit you in the safe house. And that is very strange indeed, because most of them are pure muscle, frequently barely literate and sometimes not even that."

"Maybe she killed them, too?" Sherrie suggested.

"It's certainly a tempting guess, but why would she do such a thing? To run up the score? Where are the bodies? She's never made an effort to hide the bodies before.

"Another consideration is that such people are fond of drugs, booze, women, ostentatious life styles and the like. They should have made a splash any place they landed. We have made extensive inquiries in every significant town in the US and Canada. Street gangs aren't into sharing territory or letting competitors set up. When someone new comes into the 'hood, there's almost always a turf war. We haven't been able to find a trace of them."

"Essentially you're saying that you have no idea where she went or what she's doing? And the same is true of her confederates?" Sherrie summarized.

"That's about it. I'm back to being paranoid. I think Coretta has decided to lay low for a while and she'll use the time to her advantage. It's why you're going to have to be very careful, both of you. If you make a mistake, it's likely she won't try to capitalize on it right away. She's trying to lull you into a mistake, then lull you into thinking she no longer cares. When she strikes, and I think we can all agree that she'll strike again, it will be very difficult to avoid."

"Coretta has messed up our lives," Weaver said, his voice blunt. "If she comes out of her hole after us, then it means we can strike back at her."

Mr. Smith regarded Weaver levelly. "I'm aware of the coded messages you are sending, even if we can't break the encryption. If you convince people to intervene it could lead to such unfortunate events as friendly fire accidents -- or just Coretta succeeding instead of failing like she did the last time."

"I am constitutionally unable to sit on my ass, waiting for someone's next attempt to kill me," Weaver told him. "Twice now, people I love have been killed a few feet from me and I was unable to help.

"Yeah, I'm now two weeks past my sixteenth birthday. Maybe I don't look like someone who is planning a battle -- but I am."

"What do you mean, you're planning a battle?" Mr. Smith asked Weaver, his words flat and uninflected.

"Just what I said. And I might add, I know full well the importance of the work you do. You have your intelligence sources and so do I."

"And what do your intelligence sources tell you?" Mr. Smith asked, seemingly barely interested.

"Why, I imagine the same thing yours are telling you. It's why you are more than casually interested in what's happened to us."

"I don't understand," Sherrie spoke up. "What are you two talking about?"

"Where would you put three dozen dark-skinned people who speak a foreign language where they wouldn't be noticed?" Weaver asked her. "Violent men, men experienced in weapons?"

"There are a half dozen countries or areas of countries where they could be," Mr. Smith agreed. "We have been searching for them, even there. I assure you, we haven't found them."

"But in fact, those training camps are secret, and you've never had much luck penetrating them -- except by capturing graduates who tell you what went on in them in the past."

Sherrie was stunned and shocked as she realized what they were talking about. "You think they're studying to be terrorists?"

Mr. Smith shrugged. "I think that's what their trainers believe. I expect they are going to have a nasty surprise when Coretta and company finish their training."

"What do you mean?"

"Coretta has never left associates alive when she moves on," he replied simply. "And if there's any money around, it sticks to her fingers. Groups like Al Qaeda, Hezbollah, Hamas and the like are well funded. Robert is right, there's a reasonable possibility that she and her people are receiving regular military training. That will make them significantly more lethal."

Mr. Smith nodded at Weaver. "Which is another reason why you don't want to get friends involved in this."

Weaver just stared at the older man, unblinking. Karen remembered that awful morning at Narita Airport. Combine that with what had happened to Weaver at his home and at her beach house in Malibu -- it clearly had had an effect on him. It couldn't possibly have not affected him.

"There is one last thing for the two of you to mull over. Karen Paulsen doesn't know it yet, for it's most closely held, but tomorrow morning you will be informed of a divisional officer's call tomorrow at 1300 at the post theater. Ninety days from now, the division will be shipping out for Iraq."

Sherrie swallowed.

Weaver grinned. "And do you have a clever plan for me?"

"We've discussed this. You've been functioning as a eighteen year old. We're prepared to listen to how you want to handle separation."

"I really get to choose?"

"Yes."

"I'd like to stay with Gimu. There is no better bodyguard on Earth. If I asked her to come, she would."

Sherrie's heart gave a little leap. A week after they'd survived the second attack, Gimu had called her. "It is done, Sherrie-san. Please, I could not face Weaver-sama myself. Tell him it is done." And Sherrie had. Gimu didn't say what had been done and Weaver didn't ask.

Weaver had cried at the airport, before they'd boarded the plane to return to the US, but by the time they'd gotten home he seemed like his old, uncommunicative self -- only cubed. Sherrie hadn't believed it then and was now more sure than ever that he had not returned to anything like normal.

"She can't live with you, even if she is gay," Mr. Smith told him.

"Gimu wants to come to the States and work on movies," Weaver told him. "She wants to work in Austin. She says that trying to start a business in Japan is a waste of time, but eventually she'd like to be able to make movies here."

"You understand, she can't come as Gimu? Or as Ashana?"

"She understands. She tells me that names come and go in her life. She likes Gimu, but won't mind a change. I would like her to get the same sort of documents that Karen and I got."

"That can be done," he told Weaver. "But she would be under the same strictures as you. She can't do anime work."

"I've been fiddling around. I've written an action-adventure script with car chases, explosions and clever, witty dialog. It's nothing at all like anime."

"You'll have to give me some samples. I'll check with experts who are extremely good at pattern recognition. It's my understanding that it is almost impossible to hide the true author of a piece of writing."

"Maybe for a painting, but this will be a real movie script."

"I'm glad everyone is concerned about my upcoming thirteen months in a war zone," Sherrie said, trying not to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

Mr. Smith smiled at her. "You've been here for six months, Karen. Tell me -- if I told you that I could get you out of the duty, but everyone else in your shop would have to go with a new CO -- how would you feel about that?"

Sherrie gave him the finger. "I'm pretty sure you know exactly how I feel, sir. What am I supposed to do over there?"

"Avoid getting killed," Mr. Smith told her without any hesitation. "Do your job and see that your people do theirs. You know -- pretty much what you've been doing here."

"Am I a fraud?" she asked the question that had dominated her thoughts of late. "I couldn't stand it if my ignorance got someone killed."

"It happens, Karen," Mr. Smith said baldly. "Even to people who know what they are doing. This isn't a game -- this is for the biggest stakes of all. Life and death. Our enemies are going to be trying to do their worst and you and yours will be working to stop them. Mostly, you'll succeed and they'll fail. Now and then, though, they succeed."

With that he took his leave. Sherry looked at Weaver and he shrugged.



-------

Chapter 11 : Deployment


Weaver eyed his cousin as they stood in the living room of their apartment. "Is it official? You're going to Iraq?" he asked Sherrie.

"It's official," she told him. "And, I have a problem."

She looked around. "Okay, I understand that you guys listen. I'm in deep kim-chee here. Sometime in the next few days everyone in the division is going to 'fire for record.'

"Far be it from me to comment on this, but I have no idea what I'm supposed to do. The last time I fired a gun, my father was showing me how it worked. You understand that he was using his shotgun to demonstrate? The same gun he used to blow his head off? I'm in just a little over my head here."

Weaver grimaced. "You sure know where to step in it, sis!"

"A job isn't worth doing if it's not done right," she told him.

She was a little surprised she didn't hear from Mr. Smith or his people right off.

Instead, it was the S-1 major who wanted to talk to her.

"Lieutenant. May I have a moment of your time?" he asked the next morning from the door to her office.

"Yes, sir. Of course."

He handed her a piece of paper. "Normally this would come from your reviewing officer, but your status is somewhat irregular. I have been tasked as the officer responsible for your ER, and while you haven't been with us long enough to get one, I did a preliminary version. While I didn't go over it with you, I suspect this will adequately summarize my general conclusions."

Sherrie perused the page of officialese. It wasn't hard to parse. She was now a captain.

"I don't know what to say, Major."

He smiled slightly. "You have to say nothing, Captain! Your people say it for you by their actions. They do their duty, they do it well, and no one has any complaints. It's what we expect."

"The performance of the electronics maintenance branch is a team effort. From the supply clerks to the technicians and their NCOs."

He chuckled. "Of course. You understand where the division is going?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then, Captain, prepare your people. Motivate them to continue their good work."

"Yes, sir."

She had had quite some time to gain confidence in herself and those given to her to command. She barely paid the officer call attention. Until she heard the part that all officers and enlisted personnel would have to pass the rifle range minimums.

After she told the air that she was in trouble, she expected anything. Instead, nothing happened except her promotion. She had, Sherrie found, two days, to get ready and then it would be her turn.

She was trying not to gag when she signed off on extra practice for her people who weren't making the grade. Then the man she recognized from her physical therapy appeared, late in the afternoon the day before it was her turn on the range.

He grinned at her sardonically. "There are those that think you're incurably dim and just incredibly lucky. And it's certainly true that you never once spoke those words you did in your apartment around a sergeant."

He smiled at her. "Had you said the word 'gun' around a sergeant, you'd have been set quickly straight. It is, Captain, a weapon or a rifle. It is never, ever, a 'gun.'"

"Sorry," Sherrie said apologetically.

"Shibboleth," the man said genially. "It's just that. Do you have a little time?"

"For this? Yes."

"Good. Come with me."

They left the post and headed towards the outskirts of El Paso. A half hour later they pulled up at a private gun club. "Just listen, okay?" he told her. "You're very good at listening, so do your best."

"You bet. Let me guess -- you're a sergeant?"

"Good grief! Hush your mouth! I'm a civilian expert. You know what expert means? Ex means former and spurt is a drip under pressure."

He went to the trunk of his vehicle and pulled out two long gun cases.

For two hours Sherrie was deafened, even wearing ear protectors. She'd found she had a natural facility for command, she had a natural facility with electronics. Her only facility with firearms was her ability to pull the trigger and send a round downrange. She did hit the target; she did, in fact, do well enough to get a passing grade in marksmanship. She did not, however, get much more.

Still, the next day she didn't totally embarrass herself when it came her turn to fire for record. Sergeant Perry chuckled when he saw her target. "Captain, not to worry. It will probably never be important. The rest of the division is there to make sure that people like us never need to use our weapons."

"That's funny. Someone said something like that a little while before we were mortared. And someone was shooting, too, because I could hear the bullets whizzing past."

He looked at her keenly, then smiled and repeated, "We're there to make sure that it doesn't happen. Combat is about making the other guy's plans fail, Captain."

"I'm going to get some more practice," she told him. "I never thought about it before, but bombs and bullets do put you in the mood to practice, practice, practice."

"Roger that!"

-------

The day came and Sherrie hugged Weaver one last time, and then boarded a military bus that hauled them to Biggs Field. The service wasn't nearly as good the second time she was at the military airfield. Not only that, she found that she was on one of the early flights with Sergeant Perry. They were to look over the planned location for their repair depot in Iraq, make a decision if it would suffice, and if it didn't, to find a location that would. Most of the rest of the division was to fly to Kuwait where they would go through some final training for a few days before actual deployment.

The flight was long, boring and uncomfortable. Worse, they stopped three times for fuel in places that would have been exotic or interesting to visit -- but they weren't allowed off the aircraft.

They landed in Baghdad and were whisked to a helicopter for the flight to their new base. "It's on an Air Force base out in the desert west of Baghdad," Colonel Morrison, the Division's S-3 or operations officer, told them. "We'll be another two hours in the air until we reach our destination. The Air Force is in charge at the base, but it's a joint service operation, just like Centcom and the base is where the division will be headquartered."

Sergeant Perry settled into a seat next to Sherrie on the chopper and promptly put his head down to nap.

"Sergeant, how is it you can sleep?" Sherrie asked the veteran NCO before they got off the ground.

It was towards the end of April, and it was just a little hot, even for a former Arizona girl, who'd just spent eight, nearly nine, months in El Paso.

"You're still new, Captain. Old soldiers learn to sleep at the drop of a hat. You never know when you're going to go minus sleep at some point."

"Am I going to sound like a total wimp when I say I'm looking forward more to a shower, a hot meal, and then a cot?"

He chuckled. "Old soldiers love our comforts! We piss and moan when we don't get 'em! Grousing is the inalienable right of the soldier. We never leave home without indulging ourselves."

The helicopter lifted off and Sherrie looked around her. There were a dozen of them from the division aboard; mostly people like herself and Sergeant Perry, advance parties looking for a place to set up shop. Colonel Morrison, the division's operations officer, was up front, reading something, the rest of them were seated along either side of the chopper, their combat gear in heaps at their feet. Some were talking; others were like Sergeant Perry, sleeping.

There was nothing else to see, and within ten minutes Sherrie was envying the older sergeant's ability to sleep.

They been told it was a two hour flight, and they'd been en route less than an hour when it happened.

There was no warning, no nothing. One second they were flying straight and level, then there was a loud "Bang!" from the rear of the chopper. Sherrie could see the burst of flame and smoke and hear the hiss of shrapnel as it cut down the length of the aircraft. A sergeant across from her shrieked, clutching at his throat, which was spurting bright arterial blood in a thick jet.

She blinked. How do you put a tourniquet on someone's neck? The blood stopped pumping and the man folded into the aisle right in front of her. Thirty seconds, maybe? Sherrie shook her head, still too stunned to move.

When the shooting had started on her deck, she'd taken cover and stayed there. Since then she had silently vowed to herself that she'd never do that again. Now, she got a grip on herself and leaned forward and grabbed her rifle. She fumbled with her other hand and pulled a couple of magazines from her pack.

"You're not supposed to have live ammo, Captain," Sergeant Perry said, trying to sound funny. It was already clear the helicopter was going to auger in as it swung wildly in circles. The spinning was dizzying and there was a distinct elevator sensation in her stomach. No amusement park ride had ever come close to this!

She glared at her supply sergeant. "Some people suck their thumbs when they're scared," she told him. "I'm going to hold onto my blankie." She hefted her rifle.

It took an amazingly long time to hit the ground, something close to two minutes. Entirely too long, to Sherrie's way of thinking.

One of the chopper crew was standing in the doorway. "We're going to make a hard landing," he announced at the top of his voice, over various alarms sounding. "Make an orderly exit. Get well away from the bird, in case she burns. Watch for the rotors! Hustle!"

He looked outside. "Thirty seconds! Too late to get those wills signed!"

There were nervous laughs from those still living in the cabin.

Their downward movement changed to something closer to parallel to the ground. They grounded and bounced into the air. Bleeding off energy, Sherrie thought. She was going to hug and kiss the pilots! Whoever they were!

She felt the chopper twist a bit and at the next impact they were moving sideways. The machine tipped on it's side, the door now overhead, and they finally slid to a stop with an incredibly loud screeching, grating noise.

"Out! Out!" the crew chief was shouting. He gave a very large someone a boost up, and then a huge paw reached down and grabbed the next person and hauled them bodily out of the helicopter.

Sherrie nodded to Sergeant Perry. "Perry, get that man's dog tags and weapon."

The sergeant didn't need to be told twice. The progress of those in the chopper towards the exit was quick, but orderly.

The shooting started just before Sherrie was hauled out. Something heavy, a machine gun. She'd heard one just like it before, back at the beach house.

She was picked up, lifted and tossed. On her way past the burly man on top of the chopper, he had two words for her: "Take cover!"

There were loud bangs and pings from the helicopter and she recovered and sprinted a dozen feet towards a depression behind a berm where the others who had preceded her had taken cover. Bullets kicked up spurts in the dust around her, sparks visible even in daylight. Sherrie ignored them, intent on the depression ahead of her. As she ran, she turned her head and saw the flashes from the machine gun. She could even see two men hunkered down behind it.

Without hesitating, she slid to a stop, lifted her rifle and quickly fired twice at each man, thinking she'd make them keep their heads down. That was in the manuals she'd read.

She ran the last few steps and dropped down, expecting return fire. Instead, there was only silence.

The big man from on top of the chopper walked up to her, standing up, seemingly unconcerned about the possibility of being shot. "Annie Oakley herself! Good shooting, Captain! Anybody else here think to bring something to party with?"

He turned to the rest of the survivors. There were, Sherrie saw, only ten of them, not counting the burly man. For the first time she saw he was a command sergeant major, a little younger than her father had been.

Even as she thought that, she could hear bullets whipping by. "Get down, Sergeant Major!" she called.

He smiled benignly at her. "Captain, the sheetheads can't shoot worth shit. The rest of you need to stay down, because if you stick your heads up, they're liable to hit you by accident."

He motioned down the small berm they had taken cover behind. "Captain Oakley! A couple of them are moving around to the right to flank us! Hustle down to the end of the berm and take them out!"

Sherrie wondered if she should mention that she barely qualified with the rifle. Then she decided that no one else had responded to his request about loaded rifles. She got up and ran bent over, down to the end.

A man charged from around a bush and she shot him. A second man was shooting at her and she shot him, too. She moved a few more steps and saw two more men in night gowns running towards their fallen comrades. To her surprise, when she fired at the first man, both dropped.

Sergeant Perry fetched up next to her and handed her another magazine, while he searched for targets with his own rifle. Off to their left someone else was shooting. A pistol, Sherrie thought.

After ten minutes, there was only silence around them. The sergeant major crawled up to them. "How are we doing?"

"All quiet on the western front," Sherrie said with alacrity.

The sergeant major smiled wanly. "That's the good news, Captain. The bad news is that they zinged Colonel Morrison. You're it now, Captain."

"It?" she asked, not understanding. Was this a game of tag?

"In command."

Sherrie grimaced. "Wonderful. Sergeant Major, can I get a promise from you?"

"What would that be, Captain?"

"The last time this happened to me, I was evacuated back to the States for a lousy fragment in my leg. A couple of weeks of limping around and I was fine. I don't know how badly the colonel is hit, but I'd appreciate if you'd promise me that none of us are evacuated back stateside unless we're really fucked."

"That's wonderful, Captain! Now, what else should we do?"

"I can't believe the army hasn't noticed they've mislaid a chopper."

"The pilots were killed in the first burst from the machine gun, but I'm sure they got the word out. And you're right, word or not, they're coming."

"Then it behooves us to keep low, stay safe and wait for the cavalry."

"That's not very aggressive, Captain."

"I'm the division's electronics maintenance department supervisor, Sergeant Major."

"A Rear Echelon Mother Fucker," he said with a nod and a laugh.

"I'm not exactly the gender for that, Sergeant Major. But, pretty much, that's a roger."

He laughed. "You'll do, Captain. You'll definitely do."

She saw a movement and fired on instinct, with the sergeant major a fraction of a second behind her. The man had been creeping along the sand. One bullet took him in the forehead, the second in the neck. She could see the look on his face as he died. He was swarthy and dark, a dark beard, black hair and, like the others, it looked like he was wearing a sack nightgown.

It was odd, Sherrie thought. She'd cringed when the man on the helicopter had died in front of her. This man elicited nothing from her at all.

"I better get on back to the other end of the line, Captain," the sergeant major told her. "Holler if you get killed."

He stood up and started to walk back. One of their attackers rose up on his knees for a better shot and Sherrie killed him before he could aim.

The sergeant major gave her a little salute and continued to saunter the rest of the way back down the line, unmolested.

The Army's response an hour later was impressive. A dozen helicopters appeared and circled low, attempting, Sherrie realized, the same thing the sergeant major had done -- to draw the enemy's fire. There was none, and a few seconds later troop helicopters were down and disgorging troops.

There were no more shots fired; there was nothing but the roar of machines and men.

Sergeant Perry looked at her. "Well done, Captain!"

Sherrie laughed. "Well done? I kept down and out of the line of fire!"

She was surprised when the old sergeant gave her the finger. "You did what we all should have done, Captain. Don't make light of it."

"You were there when I qualified. You laughed at my target afterwards."

"Well, Captain, that was then and this is now. I'm not laughing now, by God, and neither are a half dozen insurgents. If you were to look around, I don't think you're going to find very many people laughing here at all."

The sergeant major appeared. "Captain, Colonel Morrison is asking for you, before they evacuate him."

"You remember what I said?" Sherrie asked.

He grinned. "I'll do my best, Captain."

They walked along the berm, where medics were seeing to sprains and bruises among the others. More men were working on the chopper. Sherrie remembered her desire to hug the pilots and how that was no longer possible. She ground her teeth in anger.

The colonel was sitting up, two corpsmen working on his shoulder. "Captain."

"Colonel Morrison, sir," Sherrie said, followed by a salute.

"I appreciate what you did here, today."

"I plead self-defense, sir."

The sergeant major elbowed Sherrie in the ribs when the colonel started choking. "Don't make Pops laugh, Captain. Not when he's bleeding."

"I have told you, Jacob, probably a thousand times, not to call me that on the field of battle," the colonel told the sergeant major.

"Sure, Pops, sure. Whatever you say. Court-martial me or whatever. In the meantime, Captain Oakley here went seven and fraction to zip against the bad guys. She was the only person in the crew besides you with something up the spout when she came off the bird -- including me."

"You understand, Captain," the colonel told Sherrie, "that you aren't supposed to have a charged weapon aboard the chopper?"

"Unless you're going into a hot LZ," the sergeant major corrected his superior. "Unless I'm completely senile, this was a hot LZ."

"Unless you're going into a hot LZ," the colonel agreed. "Well done, Captain. Don't take any shit from anyone. Sergeant Major Morrison has apprised me of the two orders you gave him."

"I'm sorry, sir, if I was out of line."

"Sometimes the docs are overprotective," he told her. "You did good with both orders."

Another colonel appeared. "Billy?"

"Hello, Jack."

"Zinged again, I see."

"Yeah; it's not much, through and through and didn't hit any bones. See to our people, Jack."

"You got it, Billy. Not that your people left mine anything to do. The survivors, three we think, bugged out."

Sherrie saw Colonel Morrison glance at her, saw the other colonel see the gesture and understand. She wanted to blush.

Instead, the new colonel ignored her and turned to the sergeant major. "Sergeant Major Morrison, please see that the captain and the others are taken to the evac choppers and get them out of here."

"Yes, sir," the sergeant major said, then saluted.

They were put aboard another helicopter. This one lifted off like a rocket, dropping flares behind it. An hour later Sherrie was in an Air Force dispensary being examined yet again.

When she was done with that, the sergeant major was waiting for her. "Please come with me, Captain," he told her.

He led her out of the dispensary, into the late afternoon, the sun nearly to the horizon. He went around a corner of the building and stopped. Sherrie looked around. No one was visible; nothing really was visible except occasional dark buildings that all had a distinct resemblance to bunkers.

"Sergeant Major?" she said, stepping a bit back, feeling wary.

"You have a fairy godfather, I suspect. He doesn't much like you."

"What do you mean?" Sherrie asked, trying not to jump at what had been a clear reference to Mr. Smith.

"I mean, I got the word. The word is that you did nothing special at the crash site. Forget the dead Indians -- there were only a half dozen of them and I killed most of them."

"Indians?" Sherrie asked, confused.

"Cowboys and Indians, Captain."

Sherrie swallowed. "I think I understand, Sergeant Major."

"I don't," he said simply.

"Please, don't make an issue of it."

"The machine gun -- that was inspired shooting, Captain. I couldn't have walked around if that was operating. Bang, bang! Crew's dead."

"Four bangs. You don't want to know my qualification scores."

He loudly and obscenely farted. "Do you understand, Captain, there's only one qualification score that counts out here?"

"I've been shot at before, Sergeant Major. Back then I was in no position to shoot back. I do believe I brought along a little repressed aggression this time."

"Captain, I have no choice. I'll do what I'm told."

Sherrie couldn't say what made her speak then. "Sergeant Major, do you have a security clearance?"

"Tippy-top secret, burn before reading," he responded.

"Yeah, well, I'm one of those tippy-top secrets. Sergeant Major, for your ears only, I'm in the Federal Witness Protection program. If I get publicity..."

He blinked in astonishment. "And you're in the Army?"

Sherrie couldn't understand why she felt the urge to talk. "It's because I'm loaded, Sergeant Major. Money up the wazoo. Who'd look for someone like that as an Army grunt?"

He looked at her for a long moment. "Can I tell you something, Captain?"

"I suppose, Sergeant Major."

"In the crash, I lost my weapon. I couldn't find it. I've never lost my weapon before. Ever. I grabbed Pop's pistol thinking that he'd not need it, because I had things in hand. The sheetheads came at him and he didn't have anything. Because of me."

"And what happened to them?" Sherrie asked.

He sneered. "I killed them -- but too late for Pops."

"He's alive."

"An accident."

"Accidents happen. I'm here, after all."

He was silent, looking out into the desert. Sherrie was quite sure that a dozen dancing girls could appear and would be ignored.

"So -- you want me to forget what I saw today?"

"Please. And have everyone else forget as well."

"I can do that -- except for your sergeant."

Sherrie was surprised at her response. "I can handle Sergeant Perry."

The sergeant major nodded.

"Speaking of that, Sergeant Major Morrison, tell me, do you have any contacts here? I need to check out the facilities suggested as our depot maintenance facility."

He saluted. "Roger that, Captain!"

He led Sherrie to the officer's quarters and she crashed on a cot. In the morning, another sergeant major appeared with Sergeant Perry in tow. The building they were shown was three stories tall just like their old building at Ft. Bliss, and even so, it seemed squat.

Sherrie looked at it and turned to the sergeant major. "I know this is about the size of the facility we had back in Texas, but I was hoping for more space here. We can knock ten percent off our maintenance times with more space."

The sergeant major nodded. "Sar' Major Morrison said something about that, Captain. This building isn't what it seems. It was the Republican Guard HQ on this Iraqi air force base. Three levels above ground and three below. Of course," he grimaced, "the lower level is more or less a dungeon, complete with iron maidens, racks and the like."

Sherrie let him escort them through the building. It was even larger than she'd imagined, and Sergeant Perry was salivating at the size of the storerooms. "We'll take it," she told the sergeant major at the end of the tour.

He grinned and left, leaving Sherrie and Sergeant Perry alone. "After lunch," Sherrie told him, "we'll return. See if you can find us some troops that we can use to measure things. I want an accurate floor plan."

"Yes, Captain," the older sergeant said. He lowered his voice. "I hear they're not going to credit you with what happened."

"Sergeant Perry, as a personal favor to me, I'd like you to forget what happened."

"That was my ass on the line out there, Captain. I'm not in the habit of forgetting when someone saves it."

"I can get someone a lot more senior than me to tell you to forget it, but I'm afraid they'd remember that you wouldn't keep your mouth shut when asked. Please, Sergeant, for my sake -- and yours -- forget it."

"Yours?"

"Yes."

He contemplated her for a moment. "It goes against the grain. You have to know, that when they told us who our new CO was going to be, I was dead set against a woman."

"A woman who knew nothing of electronics," she reminded him.

"That's so. But you hustled. You hustled with everything you did. I do believe you could do a whole lot better today on the known-distance range that you did back at Bliss. And you aren't ignorant of electronics these days either."

"It does seem like I shoot straight enough if someone is shooting back," Sherrie said dryly.

"This is what you want? Some brass hat isn't screwing you over and you're going to let it go?"

"Sergeant Perry, this is me asking you please to let this go. I kid you not -- loose talk about this could get me killed. Like you, I prefer my afternoon snoozes without interruptions!"

The supply sergeant laughed. "I do remember a rude wakeup call yesterday! As you, wish, Captain!"



-------

Chapter 12: Complications


Two weeks later they were doing business. Everything that happened back at Ft. Bliss happened in Iraq, but it seemed to happen much faster. Once again, for weeks, all Sherrie could do was play catch-up. She sent Weaver a few emails and he responded with short replies, mostly puff-pieces about the movie he and Gimu were working on together.

More time passed, months, and the work never ceased. The base never came under serious attack, not even occasional mortar rounds. It was sitting on a bare plain of rocks, a few of which were the size of a man's head, but grading down to gravel and then sand. There were bushes about a quarter mile apart, but all of those close to the base had been removed.

It was impossible to sneak up on the base, even at night. The guards had infrared gear and received an extra day of leave if they spotted attempted infiltrators. It wasn't just a little dangerous out there for the insurgents -- it was lethal.

One afternoon, a week after Memorial Day, she reached for the next report in her in-basket and groped around futilely for a second before she realized that the basket was empty. She rubbed her forehead, then sat down and composed a longer-than-usual email to Weaver and sent it off. There was still nothing in her in-basket.

She got up and went into the outer office. Even the clerks were looking bored. A couple were shooting the breeze, another was reading a lurid novel with a half-naked woman on the cover, in the grip of a space alien's tentacles. Some things never change!

She went into Sergeant Hanlon's office and found him with his feet up on his desk, reading a report, sipping a cold soft drink. "What happened to the war?" Sherrie asked.

He waved the coke can at her. "It's a lull, Captain. They happen. At times the tempo of operations just comes to a halt."

From behind her Sergeant Perry laughed. "What it usually means is that something big is going to happen soon, and we'll be waist deep in work," he opined.

Sergeant Hanlon spoke some advice. "Now me, if I was an officer-type with the situation well in hand, aided and assisted by her highly capable and extraordinarily competent NCOs, I'd head over to the O-Club and hoist a couple of beers, shoot the bull with my officer buddies and then about 2000 or so tonight, I'd hit the sack, sure that something was going to get me out of the rack first thing tomorrow."

Sherrie sighed. "Free time? I have no idea what to do with it any more."

"One day, Captain," Sergeant Perry reminded her, "we're going to be out of here. It wouldn't hurt to practice a little for that."

She laughed and nodded.

Sherrie contemplated stopping back in her quarters, but decided against it. If someone had a problem with her fatigues not being starched, or that she wanted a beer during duty hours, what could they do? Send her to Iraq?

She had barely started warming a dark corner of the O-Club, having ordered a beer going in, when Colonel Morrison appeared at her table. "Captain Oakley," he greeted her waving a beer instead of a salute.

She grimaced. "It's Paulsen, Colonel."

He smiled. "Of course! Please, come and join us." He waved at a long table with other colonels, lieutenant colonels, majors and two other captains. One of them she recognized as Captain St. Cyr, who had so long ago wanted to be sure that she'd do well.

Sherrie contemplated standing, draining her beer and heading back to her quarters. Instead she shrugged and followed the colonel, beer glass in hand.

None of the others at the table seemed to pay her any attention, except Captain St. Cyr. He stood and offered her his hand. "Captain Paulsen, I'm glad you've done so well."

"Someone created a fine group of technicians," she said politely. "I just continued the tradition that others left me."

Captain St. Cyr grinned at the rest of those at the table. "One of the things Captain Paulsen did was to talk with the Provost Marshal. If he wanted to get a priority on getting his radios fixed, she was going to need all of her people. She listened to the Provost and made sure her people got the equivalent punishment as they would have at the hands of the Provost Marshal -- but without all the paperwork."

Captain St. Cyr beamed. "We all know about youthful high spirits!"

There was a general laugh around the table.

Sherrie smiled slightly, but that was all. The conversation continued to be mainly about professional matters. The discussion was frequently frank; dealing with administrative issues, supply issues and, above all, what to do about the growing unhappiness of those they commanded.

Colonel Morrison was quite open. "We were told the division would be here for thirteen months. Now it looks like it will be fifteen or sixteen months. We can talk ourselves blue in the face about what a stupid idea that is, but it's falling on deaf ears up the chain of command."

Sherry didn't know how you went about interjecting opinions so she simply spoke up. "I was reading recently about George Washington and the revolutionary army. They had a lot of trouble about militia enlistments ending at inconvenient times during the war. The Union army had the same trouble at the start of the Civil War. Sometimes it got pretty ugly."

"Ugly doesn't begin to describe what happened to the French Army in World War One," Colonel Morrison expounded. "Towards the end of the war they simply refused to fight. The same thing happened to in World War II at the Anzio beachhead. Only then it was American troops. They cleared out the hospitals in North Africa, told the wounded that they were on their way home, then took a right turn and landed them on the beachhead at Anzio. Surprise! The men were less than enthusiastic about that."

Sherrie spoke up. "I have good people. Damn good people -- but they won't handle this well. They were told one thing, and now ... something else. It's tough on any of us. For a family person, away from the spouse and kiddies -- it has to be hell."

"Well said, Captain," Colonel Morrison commented. "Any suggestions on how to deal with it?"

One of the majors spoke up. "We could hold a football or baseball tournament, sir!"

Sherrie wasn't sure how she knew that most people at the table thought it was a stupid idea, but she was sure that was what they were thinking. "I'm all aquiver at the thought, Major," Sherrie said lightly.

There were guffaws up and down the table and all eyes were on her. "I'm a junior officer, but sirs, you can't sugar coat a turd. We can pretend anything we want, but the troops know turds when they see them. It's unpleasant, it's not what any of us want -- but it's what's going to happen. Just tell them. There are going to be malcontents, and our sergeants can, mostly, put a cork in it. When they can't -- we step on those who are out of line."

"That's a little harsh," one of the other captains said.

She looked at him, then at Colonel Morrison and shrugged.

Sherrie was distracted when a half dozen sets of eyes at the table turned towards the main entrance, looking past her. Sherrie craned around to look and saw Sergeant Perry hastening across the room. "Captain, we need you back at the shop, ASAP," her sergeant told her.

Sherrie stood, relieved for the interruption. As she stood, Sergeant Perry leaned close and whispered in her ear, "It would be really good if we could get Colonel Morrison to come as well, Captain."

She raised an eyebrow and he nodded.

Sherrie turned to the table. "You'll have to excuse me, gentlemen, duty calls. Colonel Morrison, sir, could I have a brief word with you?"

The colonel got out of his chair and headed towards Sherrie. She could see some of the others looked surprised, but she ignored it. They went a few feet away from the others. "Colonel, my sergeant says he has something that you have to see back at the repair depot."

Colonel Morrison looked at Sergeant Perry. "You don't want to blindside me, do you, Sergeant?"

"No, sir. Colonel, we received a shipping container this afternoon with a bill of lading for an expected resupply. The forklift driver came and fetched me right away, saying that the container was too light -- otherwise we wouldn't have cracked it until the evening shift -- they receive stuff and the night shift puts it away.

"So I sent for Sergeant Hanlon and we went ahead and broke the seals. Sir, the container was supposed to contain 20 cases of parts, sir, each case 27 cubic feet -- three feet on a side. Instead there were twenty old footlockers, sir. They had the replacement part RFID tags, sir, and the container had the right RFID tag.

"The footlockers were cinched down with simple canvas straps and all were padlocked. I had someone fetch some bolt-cutters and I opened a couple of the footlockers. Sir, they contain undelivered mail, all of it addressed to theater APOs."

Sherrie was sure Colonel Morrison had been listening out of politeness, until the last few words.

"How many pieces?"

"There's no way to be sure, sir. But the four footlockers I opened were full. Maybe 1500 to 2000 pieces each."

"Thirty or forty thousand pieces of mail?" The colonel seemed stunned.

"Yes, sir. I wanted to tell Captain Paulsen and get her in the loop, and have her call someone in your office to get someone senior involved as quickly as possible."

"You did right, Sergeant. I want you to hustle back to your office and secure that container. Treat it as a crime scene."

"Only myself and one other man were inside, Colonel."

"Good. Secure the scene and wait for me."

"Yes, sir."

Colonel Morrison waved at the football tournament major. "Major Rawlins, you are to report at once to the Provost Marshal's office. You will tell him that we need a full Criminal Investigation team at once at the electronics maintenance facility. Full kit. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do it now!"

The major hustled away, without even bothering to return to the table. The colonel turned and went to the bar, beckoning Sherrie to follow him. "Your phone," he told the bartender.

The phone was served up faster than most drinks. "Colonel Morrison for General Keller." A pause. "It's urgent."

A second later the colonel was speaking to the division commander. "General, Billy Morrison. What we were talking about last night? I think it's turned up at the electronics maintenance shop. I think you should come personally. I've sent for a CID crew."

He put the phone down and turned to Sergeant Perry. "I have my own vehicle. Do you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Take Captain Paulsen with you and get back at once. Expect company ... lots of company!"

"Yes, sir!" the sergeant said with alacrity, saluting at the same time.

The colonel turned to Sherrie. "You were cool under fire the first time. Be cool this time. The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Captain, can wound even without intent."

"I'm not worried, sir," she told him.

"Somehow I'm not the least surprised."

After that, it was totally fubar. The military police Criminal Investigation Department, the CID, swarmed over the container, while other investigators talked to everyone who'd had anything to do with ordering or receiving the container. Since there had been a lot of material on order, that meant a lot of her people.

Later in the evening, she was closeted with a colonel from the other CID, the Counter-Intelligence Department, Colonel Morrison and Brigadier General Keller, the division commander. The CID colonel, William Edgerton, looked like a men's store clothes dummy. He was cool, elegant, suave and seemed over-dressed, even though he was wearing desert fatigues like the rest of them. General Keller was short and thin and just a bit hyper.

She listened to the reports from the Criminal Investigations officer, wondering for the ten thousandth time why she was in on this. At the end, General Keller was clearly enraged, but not at anyone handy. An, as yet unknown, APO mail clerk in Kuwait City had decided to "store" mail instead of sorting it by unit. It had been going on for nearly a year and had been the subject of an intense, but fruitless, criminal investigation for more than six months.

General Keller finally stopped ranting about the "insult" to the troops and all of that and turned to Colonel Morrison. "Billy, anything?"

"No. Captain Paulsen?"

Sherrie swallowed. "General, sir ... I'm just a lousy captain. It's clear this is important, a severe ding to troop morale. But, sir, that container we received was supposed to contain parts. Color me mission-oriented, General, but not today, sir, not even tomorrow -- but unless we find out where my supplies are in a week, I'm not going to be able to maintain our repair pace. Ten days, sir, and the combat efficiency of the division is going to be affected."

For a second General Keller stared at her, and then shook his head. "I was going to say, 'Out of the mouths of babes, ' meaning youngsters. I don't want to offend, Captain."

"Better not think of the captain like that, General," Colonel Morrison told his boss, "I've seen her shoot. Get her pissed and she doesn't miss."

"Oh, yeah. Right. Annie Oakley."

Sherrie flinched and the general saw it.

"That pissed you off, didn't it, Captain?"

"Sir, I hope you haven't used that name around others."

To her surprise he stopped and thought. "I don't believe so. Billy?"

Colonel Morrison coughed. "Captain Paulsen is a special circumstances officer, sir. I don't know who told you, but they were mistaken to do so."

"Special circumstances -- but I didn't have the need to know?" the general asked, his voice level.

Colonel Morrison met his eyes. "No, sir. And I wouldn't know as little as I do either, except I was there and I was asked to keep my mouth shut. Sir, you should talk to whoever spoke to you about her and caution them."

"And how secret are Captain Paulsen's circumstances?"

"Code word, sir."

The general grimaced. "My apologies, Captain. Twice, actually. As a general, I'm supposed to remember simple little things like logistics. In it's own way, losing that container's contents actually hurts the division's mission more than what has been delayed."

"Yes, sir," Sherrie agreed.

The general turned to the CID colonel. "I've been watching you, Colonel Edgerton. You aren't surprised to hear about Captain Paulsen's special status."

"No, sir. Captain Paulsen's status is known to me. I have to report any incidents involving her to senior headquarters."

The CID colonel turned to Sherrie. "Right now, Captain, you're contemplating telling General Keller your special circumstances. Don't."

Sherrie laughed. "Colonel, I've been contemplating how much rack time I'll be getting tonight, too. I haven't done anything about that, either. Thinking about something doesn't imply action."

"You think that the electronics maintenance shipment was just a happenstance selection, right, Colonel Edgerton?" the general asked.

"That's my belief, sir. Whoever did it wanted to intercept a container with the same number of RFID tags as there were cases of old mail."

"Tell me that it's a very short list of people who have access to outgoing shipping containers and incoming mail."

"Two people, sir. One left the theater six days ago and one is still here, with about another six or eight months left on her tour. She's been taken into custody and is being questioned. The other fellow -- we've alerted his unit stateside. They haven't gotten back to us yet."

"You jack them up," the general said bluntly. "If you don't have a reply in two hours, let me know and I'll jack them up."

"Yes, sir," the CID officer said, saluted and left.

"Colonel Morrison, you go find someone to jack up over the missing container of parts. I really don't want to hear that they went into a dumpster."

Sherrie winced at the thought. Colonel Morrison saluted and he too left.

"Captain, special circumstances or not, you've done well. A half hour, right? From the time your people unloaded that container, noticed the weight discrepancy, alerted you, and when Colonel Morrison and I arrived on scene with the CID."

"About that, sir."

"Good work, Captain! Now, go jack someone up at CentCom supply about getting us a replacement container ASAP."

"Yes, sir."

He saluted her and she returned it, then he too was gone.

Sherrie didn't get to bed until very late that night.

Three days later she was woken up by an early morning knock on the door to her quarters. As a captain, she was sharing a bathroom with another captain who did something for public affairs. Sherrie rarely saw her, because the other woman worked from 0900 to 1700, Monday through Friday and Sherrie was up at 0500 every morning for PT and rarely got back to her quarters before 2200 -- every damn day of the week.

She opened the door and saw Mr. Smith standing in the corridor.

She silently held the door open and he came in. In theory, men weren't permitted in a woman's BOQ room, but about 0500 every morning there were a lot of heavy footsteps in the corridors.

He went and sat at her desk, while Sherrie sat on her bed. She slept in fatigue shorts and a t-shirt, so it wasn't as if she was indecent.

"I considered coming to see you after the shoot-down," he told her. "But, since all I could have said was, 'We have no way of knowing if it was deliberately targeted at you, ' I decided not to bother. The mail container incident, however, has me seriously concerned."

"Concerned how, sir?"

"The person who was involved is someone who promptly deserted when he returned to the States. He told his family he didn't ever want to return to Iraq and was going to flee to Canada. Of course, there's the fact that he was actually stationed in Kuwait City to consider, working as a shipping clerk and postal clerk."

"He sounds like a liar, sir" Sherrie said briskly. "Soldiers hate them more than a priest hates sin."

"Yes. He told his family that he had converted to Islam over here and he was changing his name from Donald Washington to Ali Mohammed. He is from Chicago, his family is from Chicago and at one time Donald slash Ali sat a few feet from Coretta Castleberry in eighth grade English."

Sherrie swallowed. "Suddenly, that concerns me, too."

"Yes. And the teacher of that class? He was black, male and alive at the time of the attack on your house on the beach. Rumor has it he was fond of lifting the skirts of some of his students. Since the attack on your house, he's gone missing. It's possible he's dead, of course, but it stretches credulity to believe that Coretta wouldn't have killed him if she wanted him dead, long before the shootout at your place."

She silently regarded her boss for a few moments. "And you're here, wondering if I spilled the beans to someone."

"Actually, if there were beans spilled it was probably soldier story-swapping about the shoot-down. But we've not covered ourselves with glory in this investigation and I decided not to assume and to ask you. Then I intend to ask everyone else involved."

"I sent you an email a couple of days ago, mentioning that General Keller had heard that I was involved to a greater extent in the helicopter shoot-down then was generally known. The CID colonel investigating the mail incident had also heard about my 'special circumstances.'"

"Which you included as well. Which is why I was pretty sure that you haven't broken cover."

"If Coretta knows about me, she probably knows about Weaver," she told him.

"And Weaver is currently on the move," he told her. "Gimu refused to leave Austin, however."

Sherrie swallowed. "She'll be a target."

"She knows that, and we both know why anyone coming after her will have their work cut out for them. For reasons I don't understand, she has a fierce maternal instinct, as if Weaver was her son. I'm hoping you can impose on her and convince Gimu that we don't need to use her as bait."

"What about me?"

"I don't know about that. I'll discuss you with General Keller later today. There's four months left on your deployment..."

Sherrie interrupted. "I've heard they are going to extend it two or three months. Although the official word hasn't been passed."

"Four months," he said positively.

"You have that kind of mojo?" Sherrie asked.

"No," he said, grimacing. "Nothing like it. Karen, this is rattling a lot of cages. This is the first inkling we've had of Coretta in almost a year. We're still working on it, and it's possible that it's just a wild coincidence. The clown in Kuwait City had been ditching mail for a month before you joined the army. He was assigned to Kuwait City two months before the attack on your house, four weeks before I had the idea of where to stash you this time.

"But the critical thing is that the powers-that-be are rattled. Coretta seems to have the ability to effortlessly penetrate any kind of security we put up. We have no way to know how she does it, how long it takes, or where else she's applied herself to learn about things we'd rather not have her know."

"Do you think Weaver is right? That she's out to make herself the 'Secret Master of Everything?'"

"I have no idea of what she's doing. Back during the Cold War we had no idea what our enemy was doing except by hard, investigative work. Even so, we knew their tactics, their overall goals, and the strategies they were employing to achieve those goals -- even if we were a little weak on the details.

"Here we have nothing at all."

"Perhaps. I remember a discussion about hearing about how maybe Coretta had gone off to study with the sheet-heads."

"We haven't been able to confirm or deny that," he warned her. "We're trying to keep the bucket of assumptions about what we think she's been up to separate from the bucket of known facts, right now. Every time we start to assume something, it blows up in our faces."

"Maybe this Donald Washington guy was a sheet-head lover, working to undermine morale by ditching mail. Say Coretta found out about it when she went to work for them. She's black and from Chicago, maybe she took some of her street buddies with her to camp, at the same time she was hauling her gang-banger buddies there? Although since the guy was there before the attack on the house, I have to wonder about when and how he was bent. And when and where she was bent," Sherrie told him.

"We don't know. About three months ago there was a string of what appeared to be connected robberies across Europe. We thought that Coretta had gotten the info from her A-Q contacts and used them for her own profit and to head off on her own. We thought she was repeating the same MO she used with the drug gang -- she left with some of their people, probably some of their money, and operational plans for the robberies. If she did it this time, we're hoping that pissed off A-Q."

Sherrie rubbed her eyes. "I need to get ready for PT, sir. But think about this: what if she was blessed from on high, and that instead of pissing them off, she was acting in concert?

"We're briefed fairly often about insurgent tactics, including A-Q's. Their tactics haven't changed significantly, at least not here in Iraq. What if they wanted Coretta to set up an A-Q operation someplace? Not just a cell, but a full blown organization? They use robberies and the like to fund those operations. Maybe the powers-that-be are right to be rattled."

"And you base all your supposition on..." Mr. Smith asked.

"Washington over in Kuwait City. If A-Q wanted Coretta's scalp, and if he was truly associated with her, he'd be dead. I think he was in place to do just what he did. Maybe at the end Coretta learned about me and had that container shipped here. Maybe it was a coincidence."

Mr. Smith stood up. "I have to leave. I'll talk to you later."

He was gone even faster than his arrival.

PT was an unmitigated disaster. Sergeant Major Morrison showed up with two privates and all three were armed. The privates stood on either side of her, their rifles at port arms, while the sergeant major stood in front of her and chatted with Sherrie as if she wasn't going through warm-ups and the various exercises that the army had decreed made you fit.

The PT leader was a Ranger captain who said nothing, but it was clear that he wasn't a happy camper. The run was the worst, with the two privates pacing her, carrying their rifles at port arms, while Sergeant Major Morrison ran next to the Ranger captain, more or less poking fun at him for keeping the pace so slow.

If the stares from her fellow officers had been bad before the run and worse during the run, the reaction afterwards sucked rocks.

The Ranger captain stood stiffly at attention as he uttered his message. "It has come to the attention of General Keller that less than fifteen percent of his officers at this headquarters take regular PT. An order coming down from division this morning will see that every officer in the division, with the exception of those on the sick list, will participate at least once each day. PT will be held at 0600 and at 1800 every day. Roll will be taken and if you miss a day, you will find yourself replying by endorsement."

The captain stared daggers at the sergeant major. "The general requests, but does not require, that officers exercise in their full field gear, including weapons. Weapons are not optional."

Which translated as "Do as you like, but if you take the easy way out, the general will be really unhappy with you." Sherrie had now met a general officer and had learned what so many had learned before: you don't want to make generals unhappy with you.

Sherrie started back to the barracks, with the soldiers around her. "Will I get an escort every time I go out?" she asked the sergeant major.

"Yes, Captain. Moreover, Colonel Morrison has suggested that the base engineers create quarters for you and the rest of your people on the lowest level of your building. They'll put in quarters, latrines, showers, all of that in the next few days." He smiled brightly. "Then you won't have to go out as often and even then you will always have lots of company."

"You realize there is no way you can keep the troops from calling it 'The Dungeon.'"

"Pops feels that the unique cachet will improve unit morale."

"Yeah, right," Sherrie said sourly. "And I'm going to have guards from now on?"

"Twenty-four/seven," the sergeant major agreed. "At least until they decide what to do with you. General Keller was of the opinion that if we can't secure a single captain inside this base, a whole lot of people have been wasting his time about security."

"I never wanted to be treated special," Sherrie said, knowing it sounded lame.

"I imagine Audie Murphy, Joe Voss and all those other CMH winners felt the same thing. You were considered, you know."

"And maybe that consideration got me you and the Bobbsey twins as guards."

"It could be, Captain. But you were a pretty spectacular shot."

"I barely passed a few weeks before when I shot for record."

"I told the old man that I should run you through the infiltration course. You'd have done much better."

"And why is that, Sergeant Major?"

"Why, that's because me, or someone like me, is at one end and you start at the other. We shoot close to you and you are suppose to avoid shooting at us and concentrate on the targets. It's a real sporty course for everyone, Captain."

"I've been shot at before. I don't need it."

"Maybe, maybe not. It does seem to help you focus."

Sherrie stuck her tongue out at him, and the sergeant major laughed.

"Let's get back so I can take a shower. I assume you all will stay in the corridor?"

"We'll draw straws to see who gets to watch," he told her, keeping a straight face.

"You know where you can go with that idea, right?"

His grin showed that yes, he knew exactly where to go with that idea.



-------

Chapter 13: Edgerton


And, sure enough, at 1230, she received a call from Colonel Morrison. "Please report to division HQ, Captain, entourage and all."

"Yes, sir."

She reported and was quickly escorted to a conference room. General Keller was there, along with Colonel Morrison and his son, the sergeant major. CID Colonel Edgerton and Mr. Smith were also there.

It was no surprise for Sherrie to see that is was Mr. Smith who conducted the meeting.

"There are little secrets, big secrets, important secrets and all sorts of other sizes and shapes of secrets. Do not be offended at not learning all that you'd like."

He waved at Sherrie. "Captain Paulsen was placed in the Federal Witness Protection program after an attempt on her life. For a number of reasons, it was decided that she would serve with the Army. I do believe that there should be no doubt that she has fulfilled her obligations to the full extent of her abilities."

"Amen," General Keller said softly.

"Fuckin' A!" Colonel Morrison exclaimed.

"Yes," Sergeant Major Morrison agreed, more mildly.

Colonel Edgerton laughed. "I have one Ranger-qualified agent. He's complained since day one that Captain Paulsen takes PT entirely too seriously. She's never missed a day."

"Captain Paulsen," Mr. Smith told her, "I'd appreciate you listening for a while before speaking."

"Yes, sir. Been there, done that, and I have the green suit to prove it."

"The question before us," Mr. Smith explained, "is whether or not the captain is secure here. It is my thesis that she is not. General Keller disagrees. Gentlemen, I invite discussion."

Sergeant Major Morrison spoke first. "Sir, are you sure Captain Paulsen's special status is compromised?"

"No. That said, an individual of interest involved with the mail diversions was directly involved with the individual believed to have organized the prior attack on Captain Paulsen. While it could be a coincidence, it would be a very remarkable coincidence. The individual of interest was placed in Kuwait City ahead not only of Captain Paulsen's arrival in Iraq, but before the orders for her assignment here were cut, before, in fact, the attack on her and her subsequent enlistment.

"This leads to the conclusion that there is A-Q involvement in the original attack on Captain Paulsen. Further, the individual organizing the attacks on Captain Paulsen is believed to have attended an A-Q camp, probably in the Bekaa Valley. This individual is now a high priority target of the United States."

"Do you have a name for the target?" General Keller asked.

"Sir, if you insist, I'll give it. I have reason to believe that if someone were to mention that name in the wrong place, they would instantly become a target themselves. The individual we are seeking is believed to have either killed or had killed more than a hundred and twenty people to keep that name secret."

Sergeant Major Morrison whistled.

"It's still a long ways from the Guinness Book of World Records, Sergeant Major," Sherrie said flatly. "The thing is, I personally believe that she wants to head that list."

"Or something equally as dramatic," Mr. Smith added. "We have many suppositions and not much fact. One fact we do have is that the vast majority of people who know the name are dead."

"You said, 'she'," General Keller spoke to Sherrie.

Sherrie wanted to kick herself. "That's one of those suppositions, General."

"General," Mr. Smith went on to explain, "elementary school teachers, high school teachers, counselors, police officers, classmates, casual contacts, family and family friends of a particular individual are all dead. Still, Captain Paulsen was incorrect just now to assign a gender. And if you speak it in the wrong circumstance, it could quickly come to haunt you, so to speak."

General Keller put his hands over his mouth, but spoke past them. "Like the sergeant on Hogan's Heroes: I hear nuzzing! I see nuzzing!" No one laughed.

"General, we have an active investigation into how Captain Paulsen's identity leaked. Our best guess is that someone on the chopper said something to someone and it ended up in the wrong ears. A war story, 'How close I came to getting my ass shot off! But there was this starchy captain with us who mowed 'em down!' Someone picked up on it and the story got back to those wrong ears. I would swear that Captain Paulsen's cover would withstand any scrutiny, but it's too much to hope that it hasn't been blown now."

"And the attack on our helo?" Colonel Morrison asked.

"A certain individual didn't take prisoners," Mr. Smith responded. "Not that I blame her. The battlefield received a very thorough CID scrutiny afterwards. We think that the raid commander was off to one side and scuttled to a car and fled the scene once he realized the attack was failing. He made a mistake, we think, going cross-country as it made his trail easy to follow. We traced the vehicle from the attack site, until it crossed into Syria.

"Two other men, armed with a heavy machine gun, never engaged. They were on the other side of the field from their commander. We think they were the reserves, and almost certainly in radio contact with their boss. Regardless, they too sensed that the attack had failed and successfully exfiltrated the area."

He looked around the room. "There is no evidence, one way or the other, for a connection to Captain Paulsen. It's a hell of a coincidence, but the insurgents were making a major effort to target helicopters just then. It was a single vehicle, unescorted, relying on low and fast to avoid engagement. Our pilots have a half dozen flight paths from Baghdad to their destination; there is no way to know in advance which route they will take. We checked other routes and found no evidence of other possible ambush sites.

"Sometimes, gentlemen, in battle, the other side gets lucky. It is my belief that not only did they get lucky, afterwards they found someone who talked out of turn."

"And Captain Paulsen?" Sergeant Major Morrison insisted.

"My instinct is to pull her out of here. There is no possible way to keep the necessary security that she requires confidential, not in a combat theater. We know of not just the one jihadi in the army, but several others as well -- and there are others we won't find until they've done their damage."

General Keller looked at Colonel Morrison. "What do you think, Billy?"

"Sir, it's easy enough to explain the leak. I suspect it's much more common knowledge than any of us want to contemplate about what Captain Paulsen did after our chopper went down. No one would be surprised about the sheet-heads putting a price on her head. The troops would be -- eager -- to meet the challenge."

"We don't need any incidents involving innocent Iraqis," the CID colonel cautioned.

"That, Colonel," General Keller said firmly, "is something my soldiers deal with every day. They are trained about how to avoid friendly and civilian casualties. I'll stack them up against the opposition every day in every way."

"Captain Paulsen might have -- feelings -- about being a target in a shooting gallery," Mr. Smith said.

Sherrie met his eye, willing him to understand that she was asking if she could speak to before. He shook his head.

"I've done it before, General," she told General Keller, accepting her bounds. "There's a particular person I'd dearly like to wrap my hands around their neck and throttle." She nodded at Mr. Smith. "He'd rather a NATO round through the forehead from eight hundred yards.

"General, he," she indicated Mr. Smith again, "has told you about how many people are thought to have been killed by this person of interest. I don't want to add to the total, but on the other hand, I'd do anything to bring the count to a screeching stop. Including risking my life."

General Keller looked at Mr. Smith. "So, Captain Paulsen will continue with something like her normal routine. Except she'll be quartered in her building. She's been to the O-Club, what -- once? -- since we arrived? She can forgo a repeat. If there's another attempt on her, she'll be on the first bird out of here."

"Make it anything other than the first aircraft," Mr. Smith suggested.

"Okay, something different. You haven't talked about your department being the leak."

Mr. Smith smiled grimly. "That's because my department has no idea about the details of Captain Paulsen's assignment or identity. We are a very tightly compartmented organization. In any case, I ordered a full investigation of everyone involved, including myself."

"The bottom line," General Keller said with alacrity, "is that you think that Captain Paulsen should leave?"

"The only way to keep her alive will be to keep her a prisoner. She can't go outside, not so much for a smoke."

"I don't smoke," Sherrie said automatically.

"Or to stop and scratch," Mr. Smith added.

General Keller turned to Sherrie. "Captain, during Desert Storm I a nut case Islamic whacko tossed a grenade into a tent where some operations officers were discussing things. Men were killed and wounded. The whacko was an army sergeant." He waved at Mr. Smith. "He's right, I'm afraid. It's unpleasant, but it's clear that the enemy has penetrated the military.

"I see no way to help it, because it will be terribly corrosive of morale, but we have to turn our security scrutiny more inwards than we already have."

Sherrie took a deep breath. "I don't want to sound like a fanatic, General. But I've been with the division for more than a year now. I love it here. I love my people, I love my duty, I love what we're doing ... it's not something I can just walk away from.

"You, sir, you have to know that the insurgents would dearly love to kill a general."

"And I have security everywhere I go," he told her.

"But you don't hide in your headquarters, afraid to go out, sir. You go out knowing that if something happens to you, the others around you are going to kill the sons-of-bitches who did it. And you know that the next day, or even later the same day you're killed, someone else will step into your shoes and set about to bring some righteous hurt on the people who did for you.

"I'm no different, sir. Someone wants to kill me -- but I have my pride. You don't cower in a dungeon, and I don't want to either.

"If you send me home, what will I face there? My enemy is uncommonly efficient. I was traced here; in spite of what I was assured was a rock-solid, impenetrable cover. Back in the states they will assure me I have another rock-solid, impenetrable cover.

"If it's all the same to the rest of you, I'd rather be in the middle of this division, doing the job I came here to do. And just like the guys who go out on patrol, well, if my number's up, my number's up. I expect the rest of you will take it back to them, just like a guy's buddies on patrol do if one of theirs is killed."

Mr. Smith sighed. "Captain, it's your choice and I certainly understand it. You may, if you wish, stay here and continue in your duties. You may or may not attempt to keep to your current routine, including PT, if that's your wish.

"However, you have to know that back in the States security on military posts isn't adequate."

General Keller chuckled. "I'll be just as safe back at Bliss as I am here -- although I'll probably be reassigned to the Pentagon after this tour."

It was the most fleeting thing in the world. Sherrie saw a minute tightening of Colonel Edgerton's eyes. It was like she could read his mind. He said, "Note that!" to himself. There was another second where she wasn't as sure what he was thinking, but it sure seemed like he was weighing the value of an operation against the general. There was a quick glance at her. He seemed supercilious, smugly contemptuous of her. And then it was all gone, as fast as it had appeared.

"All I'm saying is that I'm going to move Captain Paulsen elsewhere when she rotates back to the states."

Sherrie felt a pang. It went very deep, deeper than anything that had struck her since that awful day she'd woken up with all the guys around her. She tried not to react. The fact was, from that day to this, the only twinge of sexual desire she'd felt was for a woman. A woman who was hopelessly in love with someone who had died a tragic death that Sherrie doubted she could match and was pretty sure she wouldn't want to.

And it had only been a twinge.

"Captain Paulsen?" General Keller asked.

"Sir, with your permission, I'll live in a dungeon, but that's so I'm not a danger to someone next door to me in the BOQ. I don't want to be exempt from my other duties, including officer's calls, officer of the day, staff meetings, and of course, PT."

General Keller didn't look at Mr. Smith. "I'm sure we can accommodate you there, Captain."

Sherrie met Mr. Smith's eyes. He flinched.

Silence dragged out in the room. "I think that about covers it, yes?" General Keller spoke into the empty air.

"Yes, sir!" Colonel Morrison and the CID colonel echoed.

Four hours later Sherrie was sleeping when she heard the door to her room open. She put her hand on the pistol under her pillow and cracked an eye towards her door.

Sergeant Major Morrison held his finger to his lips, shushing her.

He walked over to her desk and sat down. The lack of light didn't seem to bother him.

"Captain."

"Sergeant Major."

Their words were soft, hardly whispers.

"I want to help," he said softly.

Sherrie snorted. "And if my name was 'Robert Paulsen' would you still want to help?"

"Probably not. I don't want to get personal, Captain, okay?"

"Okay for you, maybe, but not so much for me."

"Damn it woman! Do you ever let up?"

"People are trying to kill me. Me, personally."

"And if that's paranoia?"

"Oh, it's not paranoia," Sherrie said dryly. "An aunt, uncle and a cousin are dead. My mother, an uncle, aunt and another cousin are in hiding. Sergeant Major, the dead cousin? She was eight when she offended and not even thirteen when she was murdered and left in a ditch."

"Shit!"

"She was brutally raped and dumped, dead, in a farm field, miles from her home, lost and alone. The rage I feel when I think about that has no bounds, do you understand?"

"I thought you said... 'she, '" he whispered.

"She's not a fool. Surely from the conversation you realized they think she has A-Q contacts. My dead cousin had the requisite semen stains."

"An American is doing all this? It's hard to credit."

Sherrie laughed. "It would be nice to hope ol' UBL takes her to bed. She has a record of killing all of the guys she sleeps with."

"I want to help. Although I can begin to see why you might be paranoid."

"Sergeant Major, my cousin, the one in hiding? The police raided his house. They killed both his parents, saying they were armed. They tried to kill him, firing a dozen times into his bed. Do you know what our first clue was to who was behind this?"

"No."

"They fired more than sixty times at his computer. My cousin, not quite sixteen then, was hiding a few feet away. How many times could you let yourself be shot at, Sergeant Major, before you had to do something?"

"Honestly? Way less than thirteen. Sixty? Seventy?" he visibly shuddered. "No."

"The second time they came for him, they came for me, too. I have, you see, a contract out on me from a drug gang. The last number I heard was fifty thousand for me -- dead."

"And your cousin?"

"A quarter of a million. But that was before, because of the nine people they sent after us, eight were killed. Of course, two US Marshals were killed and two more wounded."

"Shit! Yeah, I guess your paranoia is justified. Still, I want to help," he said stubbornly.

"Why? You're old enough to be my father. There is not a chance in hell, Sergeant Major, that I would feel even a little romantic towards you."

"That latter word you used. Father. Lately, I've spent a lot of time looking into the bottom of a beer glass, wondering where my life has gone. I told myself early on I didn't want to inflict my life on someone else. The Army was all the family I needed."

Sherrie managed not to sneer. "My real father put his shotgun in his mouth and blew his head off. We're back to me wondering why you'd want to help. And what, exactly, can you help me with?"

"I've spent twenty-one years in the Army. The real reason I was walking around after we were shot down? I don't care any more. I want to care about something again."

He waved around him. "What we're doing here is very much something worthwhile. Ninety percent of the Iraqi people would be glad to have the violence end -- and then, would we please go home? Except they know that if we leave, the violence won't end -- it will get worse. As near as I can figure, we're going to have to kill upwards of a quarter million Iraqis to make them quit killing us, and then the minute we leave, they'll start killing each other anyway. People have been killing each other in this neck of the woods since history began.

"I was thinking that if I can't do squat here, maybe I could do something worthwhile elsewhere. But I haven't been able to think of anything. Until now."

"What can you do? Not the best minds in the government can figure out what to do."

"I don't honestly know. If nothing else, another man with a gun, another pair of eyes watching your back."

"It's my back you want to watch?" Sherrie asked sarcastically.

"Well ... maybe not entirely. I am a dirty old man, after all. Seriously, if I can study the situation for a while, maybe I can come up with something. Something that was missed, or maybe something that's not obvious."

"Well, what if I told you that I was morally sure that the person who let them know where I am was Colonel Edgerton?"

He was silent for a while. "That's a serious accusation."

"You bet. And I have another accusation against him. I was watching him when we were talking about security for General Keller. His eyes suddenly got -- speculative."

"You're sure?" he pressed.

"Of course I'm not sure!" she snapped. "If I was sure, I'd have stood up and pointed at him. It was just for a second, maybe two and that was all. It was my first impression that he was intrigued with the idea of an attack on the general, then I thought he was -- contemptuous -- of security efforts on my behalf. That was when Mr. Smith was talking about the lack of security on military bases stateside and General Keller was thinking it was okay."

"Accusing a colonel of something like that without proof..." he shook his head.

"I'm not going to formally accuse him. I'll just mention my impressions to Mr. Smith."

"You really think the CIA will do anything?"

"Sergeant Major, Mr. Smith doesn't ask much of me and I virtually never ask anything of him. I don't know -- or much care -- who he works for. I was told not to speculate or to try to find out. And I haven't."

"Please -- let me help," he said simply.

Sherrie pulled her knees up to her chest and started rocking back and forth, just a tiny bit.

"Do you know what I was thinking when I came back to my quarters earlier?" she eventually asked.

"No."

She laughed low. "I realized that I'm in the middle of one of the largest American bases in Iraq, secured, we're told, against insurgents and all of that. And yet, the consensus is that I'm not safe. That damn girl has me with the wind up; I'm terrified, Sergeant Major!"

"That's not the person I saw when we went down," he told her. "You stopped dead with that SAW rattling away at you. Of course, no one in their right mind would stop running full tilt when being shot at like that. They kept traversing and you nailed them both. You killed the rest, bang, bang! You sure didn't look scared to me.

"And when I told you that you were in command, what did you want first? To make sure no one got evacuated because the piss-ants at the hospital had the wind up. Oh yeah, hold until relieved."

"What else was there that we could have done?"

He laughed. "You were in your first combat, Captain. Your first command. I've seen all sorts of responses when that happens. And after being told that command has devolved on you? You told me to take care of the wounded and let's keep out of the line of fire until we're rescued."

"You said it wasn't very aggressive."

"It wasn't. On the other hand, next chance you get, Google 'Fetterman Massacre.' Now there was an aggressive officer! He told his CO that, given eighty men, he could ride clear through the Sioux nation. He got just a few miles before he and his seventy-nine soldiers were wiped out to the man. And Captain Paulsen, the story is that at the end Fetterman and another surviving officer stood next to each other and on command, shot each other in the head. That sure did their men a lot of good!

"Captain, I'd stack the security on this base up against all the sheet-heads in Iraq. But against American traitors? That's something very different. Like was mentioned before, the only warning you're liable to get is when the bastard rolls a grenade in your door."

"You're not helping me," she told him.

"I'm not trying to. Treason is an ugly thing, even if it's wrapped up in a personal vendetta. Odds are, if the other side scores, one second you'll have been alive and the next second dead, with no awareness of what happened to you. The trick becomes keeping the other side from scoring. Doing unexpected things, that's good. Having someone close by who is ready and willing to react -- that's even better."

"Mr. Smith has people watching me," she admitted.

"So? I have another pair of eyes, Captain. Please, let me help."

"And if I don't want another father? Much less something closer?"

"How many friends to you have? Too many?"

"No, I don't have too many friends. Just a couple." She laughed bitterly. "One more, if you count Mr. Smith."

"You like him, don't you?"

"He's been straight with me. He gave me a shot at my heart's desire. I think, if the truth be told, he thinks of me like you do -- as a daughter. I think he's embarrassed because he's skipped this and that of his regular procedures in doing so -- and those lapses have bitten him in the ass."

"There's a reason for SOP," Sergeant Major Morrison whispered. "And that's so you don't get bit anywhere." He grinned at her. "So, it's a yes?"

"God save us all. Yes."

"Good. When you muster for PT, I'll be there with Larry and Moe. Curly is around, someplace else. You'll probably never see him, but he's there to provide over watch."

"Christ! I'm going to be late! I can, Sergeant Major, shower by myself!"

"Well, if you ever need someone to get your back ... remember, I already said I'd be watching it!"

She laughed and he got up and left.

Sherrie rushed into the shower, hurrying. When she got out, her suite-mate, Captain de Ruyter, was brushing her teeth. "Oh, God!" the other woman said. "PT! What am I going to do?"

"As well as you can," Sherrie told the other. Captain de Ruyter was blonde, buxom and beautiful.

"If I ever find out whose idea this was -- I'll kill him!"

Sherrie laughed. "Captain, surely you heard the gossip!"

"Gossip?" the other asked, looking confused.

"Well, you'll hear it soon enough. Have an nice day, Captain."

When she went outside, two men flanked her again, while Sergeant Major Morrison walked in front of her.

There was, of course, no way to hide during PT. Having men with rifles standing next to her rather made her stand out, even if everyone else had their own weapon as well. Most officers, however, had pistols. The rifles were distinctive.

Worse, the Ranger captain walked over to the first person in the front rank. His target was an overweight major, sweating profusely even at 0600 and having only walked to the PT field. "Major, I wish to inspect your weapon."

The major pulled his pistol from his holster and handed it to the captain.

The Ranger looked at the major coldly. "Sir, by order of the commanding general, you are on report. Tomorrow, sir, you will have learned the proper way to pass a charged weapon for inspection."

"It's not loaded, you fool!"

"Sir, where are you?"

"Here for this stupid PT!"

"Sir, with respect, we're eleven thousand miles from home, surrounded by a hostile desert with some decidedly hostile natives. This, sir, is Iraq. A year ago, sir, something like a thousand insurgents massed to attack American troops based outside an Iraqi town. Our allies, with our support, cleaned their clocks. That, Major, was a victory for intelligence. If, however, we hadn't had that intelligence, an American unit would have had to absorb an attack from a thousand insurgents. I dare say, Major, that if you were one of their number, you'd have wanted a pot to piss in!"

"You are insubordinate, Captain!"

"And you are standing here, under orders to be armed, without a pot to piss in, sir. I trust it will never happen again, sir."

The major sputtered, but the captain had moved on.

At each officer the captain asked the same question: "Is your weapon charged?" Anyone who said no was put on report. Sherrie had long since learned that if you said "yes" and it subsequently came out that you'd lied, your career in the army was at an end. Maybe not formally, but the word would be passed: "He lied about something stupid!"

When the Ranger came to the armed guard next to Sherrie he audibly chuckled, and then walked past Sherrie, ignoring her, ignoring the man on the other side of her, and stopped at the officer on the far side of Sherrie's other guard. "Captain, is your weapon charged?"

"No, sir," Sherrie glanced out of the corner of her eye. Captain de Ruyter. What had possessed the woman to stand next to her?

"Do you know why I didn't bother to ask Captain Paulsen the same question as the rest of you?"

"No, sir."

"That, Captain, is because Captain Paulsen was prepared the time it counted. She came off her downed chopper shooting. Do you think the men on either side of her need to be asked about whether or not their weapons are charged?"

"No, sir!"

"That's right, Captain! That would be because intelligence has learned that the insurgents have decided to rub Captain Paulsen out. To show that it can be done, even here, in the heart of an American military installation.

"Do you know what General Keller said when he heard this, Captain?"

"No, sir!"

"He said he something to the effect that he would be gravely disappointed in the division if such a thing occurred, and if there were any officers, enlisted men or women of the division in the vicinity with unfired weapons or, in fact, any such with ammunition left at all. Of course, in polite company I can't quote the general exactly."

There was no helping it. A roll of laughter went through the group.

The Ranger leaned close to Captain de Ruyter. "Do you know what form the general's disappointment is likely to take, Captain?"

"No, sir!"

"Captain, neither do I! Moreover, I have no intention of finding out, either. Because it will happen over my dead body. Do you take my meaning, Captain?"

"Yes, sir!"

A few minutes later the inspection was finished. The rest of the PT hour flowed normally -- even if they ran twenty minutes late.

Sherrie showered again, and found Mr. Smith sitting in her office when she finally arrived.

"Sir," she said simply, "last night I thought I saw something."

She went on and explained. He listened quietly, until she finished.

He stayed silent for a minute, before finally looking at her. "I have, pretty much, a photographic memory, at least for things I deem important. Like what Weaver says he has."

"Yes, sir."

"I remember Edgerton's expression. At the time I thought nothing of it. Replaying it in my mind, I'm of the opinion that there might be something there. I stress, there might be something. Please, say nothing to anyone about this."

"I told Sergeant Major Morrison."

He looked exasperated. "And why would you tell him such a thing, before you told me?"

"Unlike you, he arrived before I woke up this morning. He says he wants to help."

"And you decided to believe him?"

"Sir, I believe you want to help. I believe Weaver and Gimu want to help. I believe my Uncle Phil wants to help, and I believe Aunt Marion no longer wants to hinder us. If the sergeant major is on the other side..." she sighed. "Life would really, really suck."

"You understand that the more people you trust, the more likely one of them will let you down?"

"I suppose. I also know the fewer people I trust, the more Coretta wins. I can't, won't -- give her the satisfaction, sir."

"I suppose not. You are determined to stay?"

"Yes, sir."

"The document officer who prepared your ID has been relieved. He has a lot of money in his bank account that he can't explain. He told us he was unaware of it -- except he withdrew some of it and bought a ski boat."

Sherrie tried to parse that. "You don't think Colonel Edgerton was responsible?"

"At this point I have no idea, one way or another. One important facet of intelligence gathering is confirmation from multiple sources. It is possible it was both, neither, or one or the other. It is possible that we are making a mountain of a molehill."

-------

In three days the new barracks were well enough along for Sherrie to move into her new quarters. The one surprise there was when Captain de Ruyter appeared in her office the afternoon before Sherrie was to move.

"Captain Paulsen..." the woman started to say, then stopped. The pretty blonde grimaced. "There is no easy way to put this, Captain, but as you may have noticed, they built your new quarters to match the floor plan of the BOQ."

"Master Sergeant Hanlon said it was probably because they have just one set of plans for company-grade officer quarters."

Captain de Ruyter smiled thinly. "I have been told that I am to move into the new quarters at the same time you do."

"You work over in public affairs," Sherrie told her mildly. Public affairs wasn't that far from the BOQ; it was from the electronics repair shop. Sherrie had no trouble getting to work -- someone was always out and about on some errand and they would pick her up and take her back to the BOQ.

"Captain, I was told to inform you that while my nominal duty assignment is in public affairs, mostly I sleep on duty. My actual duty assignment is your night watch."

Sherrie sighed. She'd known that Mr. Smith had someone watching her. Still, she didn't have to be happy about it.

Captain de Ruyter plowed ahead. "I was sorry to have to report Sergeant Major Morrison's visit to your quarters the other day. I must say I was stunned to find out you'd done that yourself, before I did."

"He wasn't there for the reason you seem to think," Sherrie said with a tinge of acid in her voice.

"Captain Paulsen, my training is observing and reporting what I see -- not to draw conclusions from what I see."

"Someone I know is not fond of passive-aggressive questions. Still, I'm curious and that's the best way, I think, to do it. May I ask who assigned you this duty?"

"Mr. Sir, Captain. You know him as Smith. I just call him Mr. Sir."

"Captain de Ruyter, I'm going to ask a personal question, the answer to which may also be classified. How long have you been at this sort of observing?"

Captain de Ruyter shook her head.

"Is that you saying no, or is Mr. Smith saying no?"

"Me, Captain."

"A ballpark figure, perhaps? A year? Two? Three?"

"Three, Captain. Almost three years, now."

"You don't like me, do you?"

"No, Captain, I don't. You got where you are today because of special influence."

"And you've gotten stuck in your shitty job for nearly three years, Captain, because you are as dumb as a stump."

The woman blinked in astonishment. "I don't have to listen to this, duty assignment or not."

"I've never had your job, De Ruyter, but I'm smart enough to know one thing: you were told to observe things. There are a million factors about what you see that are simply personal impressions. I would never, ever, listen to anyone who wanted me to observe and report and didn't want to hear my conclusions as well."

"I wasn't trained in that."

Sherrie grinned. "Neither was I. But you might wonder why I can figure that out in a few minutes, and you haven't after a couple of years."

"I was told not to report my impressions, just the facts that I observed."

"Mr. Smith told you that?" Sherrie pressed.

"Yes, of course."

"Do you remember what he told you? Exactly?"

"He told me that my impressions weren't facts, and that I should limit such things in my reports."

"Limit, Captain de Ruyter -- not omit."

Sherrie could see when the woman realized her error.

Captain de Ruyter drew herself up. "Captain Paulsen, I have taken the liberty of requesting a detail to help us move this afternoon. If there's nothing further, I will speak to you later."

"Carry on, Captain." Sherrie saluted and the other returned the salute and left.

That was, Sherrie thought as she watched the blonde captain go, about as close to the old "Evil Sherrie" as she'd come in the Army. What had Weaver said once? A cute metaphor unless she was really channeling an evil twin. She smiled to herself and dug into the paper work, which had returned with a vengeance.



-------

Chapter 14: Allies of a Diverse Nature


There was, Sherrie thought, absolutely no better medicine than work. For six weeks after she'd moved into her new quarters, the pressure was unrelenting.

In spite of Mr. Smith's assurances that the division's tour in Iraq wouldn't be extended, it was, by two months.

Two things of interest happened in the six weeks, at least relating to her personal situation. She'd thought for a few minutes after she'd talked to Captain de Ruyter, the first night in her new quarters, and then she'd went and knocked on the other woman's door. Captain de Ruyter had answered it and Sherrie had smiled and asked if she had reported Mr. Smith's visit to her room as well as Sergeant Major Morrison's.

Captain de Ruyter nodded, and Sherrie slapped her as hard as she could. "I'm tolerably sure Mr. Smith never suggested bugging my room. You did it, anyway. You better not have bugged my room again, Captain, because I'm going to CID to have it swept."

She'd gone to PT the next morning and Captain de Ruyter hadn't been there. After that, the captain simply parked herself on a chair outside Sherrie's door every night.

The second thing came just before the six weeks was up. She really wasn't in the gossip loop, but some pieces of news were juicier than others and the early return of Colonel Edgerton to the States was one of those items. It was a gossip topic because officers returned home early because they were either a) promoted or b) relieved. Since there had been no promotion orders, it was clear that Colonel Edgerton had been relieved, although no one had any idea why.

One morning she looked up when there was a knock on her office door. Usually her people would knock, announce themselves and what they needed and she'd deal with it. A knock without an announcement was unusual. She glanced up and saw Sergeant Major Morrison.

"Sergeant Major?"

"Captain Paulsen, do you have a moment?"

"Certainly, come in and take a load off. There's coffee if you want."

He made a beeline for her coffee maker and poured himself a cup, and since he emptied the pot, busied himself getting the next pot started. Sherrie was amused, because he hadn't bothered to ask if she wanted another pot brewed -- but then again, it was a couple hours short of noon.

He sat down and looked at her and said simply, "Edgerton."

"Gone," she replied equally laconic.

"Yeah. Your Mr. Smith was livid, beating on General Keller's desk, in a fine rage, according to Pops. It's supposed to be routine to run credit checks on CID officers. But Edgerton had his own derailed. The first time an honest report was run, alarm bells, whistles and sirens went off, all at once."

Sherrie hadn't heard that, but it really wasn't in her area.

"So, now there's a special CID unit, detailed to look at other CID units. And another CID detail to look at them ... it's going to be a nightmare."

"Treason is a nightmare," Sherrie told him.

"Yes. I'm here because the old man, my old man, has a hair up his butt. Edgerton could have planted a hundred agents here. All personnel files are under review, but there's no telling yet what's going to be found. He wants you to get with your two senior sergeants and go through your own records in your company and check them for anything that might be suspicious."

There was a knock on the door and one of Sherrie's clerks stuck her head in the door. "Captain, there's a buck sergeant out here who says he needs to talk to you. He says he's from the 355th Heavy Truck Company."

"And you think it's okay to let someone you don't know waltz right in to Captain Paulsen's office, right?" Sergeant Major growled sarcastically.

The Spec-4 clerk grinned. "Sergeant Conejo is dressed rather whimsically, Sergeant Major. He says that the captain would want to see him and he seems pretty positive."

"Send him in," Sherrie said before the sergeant major could object further.

The sergeant major pulled a .45 1911 pistol from his shoulder holster and gestured with his other hand for the clerk to comply.

Sherrie hid a smile when the sergeant came in. He was wearing a thin OD t-shirt, a very tight pair of shorts, more like a bathing suit, which made it clear there was nothing but flesh under them. He was wearing low quarter oxfords on his feet.

"Sergeant Conejo, Rueben J., Captain. I have some information for you."

"What sort of information, Sergeant?" Sherrie asked carefully.

The sergeant gestured at a metal chair in front of her desk. "I think we'd all be more comfortable if I sit, sir." He did so without leave, but assumed an unusual posture. He put his legs out in front of him and then crossed them at the ankles. He put his hands behind his head and laced his fingers together and leaned back on the chair. It was more like he was laying on the chair at an angle than he was sitting on it.

"I was thinking the other day," the sergeant said, his tone light, "about applying for OCS. Except I don't know which way they pass the sherry in the mess. That and while not every swinging dick is a son of bitch, some are. I'd hate to be one of those."

He stopped talking, his eyes on "Captain Paulsen."

It took Sherrie a second to kick her mind into gear. Making sense of what he'd said unfolded from the middle. Her father had decided late in his life that he used too many swear words in front of his daughter and had tried to curb his tongue. One of those phrases he'd favored before was "swinging dick" and he'd modified it to "swinging Richard" in the hopes of being a little obtuse.

Conejo had also said "Son of a bitch" with emphasis on the first word. Richardson. And it wasn't sherry that was passed in the mess, it was port. Sherrie Richardson.

"Did you practice those lines a few times, Sergeant?" Sherrie asked, suddenly grim.

"Quite a few times, Captain. I wanted to motivate you to listen to what I have to say."

"Well, I'm listening," Sherrie said, suddenly nervous.

The sergeant turned to Morrison. "I'm going to stand up carefully and face away from the captain. I'm going to lift my shirt up off my back a few inches, then pull it back down and then sit down again, Sergeant Major."

He got up, slowly unwinding his feet, standing up and taking his hands off his head and slowly tugging at his shirt. As soon he'd raised it even a few inches, Sherrie told him to stop.

"Gang tattoos," Sherrie observed.

"Yes, Captain. Up on my right shoulder is one from MS-13." He paused and looked at Sherrie searchingly.

"I'm fucked, Captain; I'm really fucked. I have no one I can blame for that but myself, but I'm screwed. I'd like you to listen to what I have to say before either of you go postal. I don't expect to get anything out of what I say -- no one's ever going to trust me again; not anyone at all.

"I know they took Edgerton out of his quarters in the middle of the night, a sack over his head, and I know they put him on a chopper and flew him south. You don't do that to full bull colonels in good standing. For the last week, I've been waiting for one of those midnight knocks on the door. I decided I had to do something before that happened."

"So, you worked with Edgerton?" Sherrie asked, leaning forward, interested in spite of her concerns.

"For, Captain, not with. I was a total fool. I was like a naive lamb going in for my first shearing. Please, I'm not asking for sympathy, I'm not even asking for a quid pro quo. I just want you to listen, okay?"

"We're listening," Sherrie said evenly, stifling the urge to start beating information out of the man.

"First, you gotta know about me. Like I said, I'm not looking for sympathy, but you need to know about my history.

"I grew up in Cartagena, Columbia. When I was ten, men came in the night for my father. They thought my father had sold one of their people to the government. Except my father was a dentist, not an informer. They learned later that night they had come to the wrong house, and went and killed the man they really wanted, but it was too late for us.

"I had two older sisters, sixteen and fourteen, and a six-year-old brother. They tied my father up, then, in front of us; all six of them raped my mother and my sisters. Over and over. Then they cut off their breasts and slit their throats when they finished. All in front of my father. They cut my little brother's balls off and made my father eat them. They thought I was a girl, too young to be raped and no balls to cut off. One of them stabbed me in the belly. Then they cut my father's eyes out, cut out his tongue and finally his balls, too. He bled to death before we were found.

"I lived. It was a bad wound, but I lived. I spent a long time in the hospital and while I was there a man came to see me. Juan Tomas heads one of the main Columbia drug cartels and he told me that he'd heard of what I'd endured and wanted to meet the brave boy, the boy who'd spit in the face of the man who'd stabbed him."

The sergeant shrugged. "I'd thought the bastard who stuck me was about to kill me. It takes no bravery at all to spit at someone knowing you are seconds from being dead -- but no one believed me.

"Juan Tom raised me as his own son. I continued in good schools, and when I told him I wanted to work in his business, he permitted it. I was a rising star, Captain; I did good work. I was so good, in fact, that Juan Tom sent me to New Orleans to hook up with some MS-13 guys there; we were going to set up a new operation for direct distribution of cocaine into the United States, intending to cut out a lot of American middlemen.

"I became a member of MS-13. I wore their ink. I ate and drank with them and I slept in their cribs. We did well, very well. One evening I was sitting alone in my apartment when there was a knock on my door. As I have said, I don't like knocks on the door at night. I got a weapon, and when they took the door, I was shooting. It was my 'compadres' from MS-13. I killed four and went out a window and down to the street. They did not know I could get out and hadn't put anyone in place.

"I called Juan Tom and told him of the treason of MS-13. Then I ran, because if I had stayed, they would have killed me. A week later I was eating in a shopping mall food court in Tucson when Juan Tom told me that MS-13 had explained to him that the men who had attacked me were rogues, that MS-13 was putting out contracts on them. Juan Tom told me that they had paid him a million dollars of blood money.

"You see Juan Tom is a hard man, a feared man, in Columbia. Moreover, he is a known man. Say what you will about such men as him, but he has a code of honor and one of the pillars of that is his word. Others have betrayed him, and have died for doing so. But Juan Tom has never betrayed anyone and has never broken his word. Ever.

"Many years ago, he was allied with FARC, the guerillas."

"I know them," Sergeant Major Morrison spoke up.

"Yes. FARC made a ceasefire agreement with the government a few years ago. It only lasted a little more than a year, but one thing FARC did to prove their word to the government was to give them the details of the various drug cartels they worked with, including Juan Tom.

"Since then, Juan Tom works against FARC as he works against the government. He made MS-13 bleed for their betrayal of him -- and me -- until he decided to accept their word that they too had been betrayed.

"MS-13 was, in fact, even more pissed than Juan Tom, because those men had gone to LA, wormed their way into the local branch of MS-13 there, and then brought down every cop agency in the world on top of MS-13 for trying to off a woman in the Witness Protection Program."

Sherrie looked at Sergeant Major Morrison. "Hand me your pistol, get your old man on the phone and tell him we need him and Mr. Smith, ASAP."

"No," the motor pool sergeant said. "I'm talking to you, alone. I trust him," he pointed at the sergeant major, "because he's had a thousand chances to kill you and he hasn't. No one else, absolutely no one else."

"You want me to listen to you and trust you, right?" Sherrie asked him.

"I asked you to listen; trust? Who's going to trust me?"

"I'm not trusting you -- I'm asking you to trust me. Sergeant Major, if you would." She nodded at the door.

Sergeant Conejo stared at her for a second, and then resumed his story. "Anyway, I was sitting there in that food court and it was like a light shone down on me. All of the time I'd been in America I had marveled at the way the people there lived -- I marveled at the stores, at the shops, the gas stations! There were so very many! So very, very many! And the prices were frequently far less than they were at home ... and yet everyone talked about the greedy capitalists gouging the peasants.

"I was a hunted man; a man who could walk past someone from MS-13 any second of the day or night and be recognized, and then they'd come for me. I might get lucky two or three times, but I was a dead man walking and I knew it.

"I remembered my boyhood, with my parents laughing and having a good time. I remember the foolish things my little brother would wear as hats. My older sisters were like goddesses to me. They were so old, so wise, so cool...

"And they were all dead, killed by small men in a small country for small reasons. All of our happinesses had been smashed for no reason at all. I looked around the mall at the people going about their peaceful pursuits and I realized that I was a cancer cell among them. I'd become a bad man, a small man, who did bad things, smashing happinesses, just like those men who'd come into my house.

"The only reason I didn't kill myself right then and there was because two girls were sitting a few feet away from me, laughing and giggling, reminding me of my sisters. I got up and ran into an Army staff sergeant, on recruiting duty in the mall."

A smile quirked Conejo's face. "He was a good salesman, plus he should get work as a shrink. In ten minutes he had me talking about what I really wanted to do in life -- fix trucks. The next thing I knew, I'd signed on the dotted line and I was off to basic, then training as a truck mechanic.

"I loved it. If I could be anywhere in the world just now, it would be back in the motor pool, the guts of a vehicle spread around me, trying to fix what ails it.

"I did good in school, and then I went to Afghanistan on a short tour and did good there and came back a corporal. A couple of months later I made E-5 and was assigned to the division at Ft. Bliss.

"I met Colonel Edgerton within two days of reporting in. He knew about MS-13; he knew I was Columbian and that I didn't have a green card, except one I'd bought. He had, he told me, looked over my record and said he saw nothing there but things a good soldier would do if he was jammed up. He told me that there were waivers for everything in the Army, and he could get my immigration status fixed so that when I got out of the Army, I could apply to become a citizen.

"I thought I'd died and gone to heaven. Then he offered me an extra fifty bucks a month if I did some 'special work' for Counter Intelligence. It was secret, he told me, so he'd slip me the money in a variety of ways, but it was always cash.

"Do you know the Uncle Remus story about the tar baby?" Sergeant Conejo asked.

Sherrie said she did, and the sergeant major was back and he also knew the story.

"Colonel Edgerton was a tar baby. At first, he asked me questions about various people in the division, including someone else who'd been in MS-13, and who, like me, had bailed. Somewhere along in there he asked me if I'd tell him the truck numbers. How many were in the division, how many were mission capable, how many were undergoing maintenance, what the maintenance turn-around times were.

"I didn't even think about them being classified. Not at first. It was Colonel Edgerton after all -- if he wanted to get the numbers all he had to do was go over to ops, flash his CID badge and what was the spec-4 clerk there going to do? Tell him no?

"I did one thing after another for him until you were assigned to the division. He told me that you weren't a real officer, that you were a fake. He wanted me to help get proof of that, so he asked me to chat up some of the guys in the electronics maintenance company and see what they had to say. He told me I could offer someone the same fifty bucks a month I was getting if whoever would report regularly on you, and if someone accepted, I'd get a twenty buck a month raise."

"Did you find someone?" Sherrie asked, her back was running with sweat.

"Emilio Garza. He's a sergeant in supply, under Sergeant Perry," Conejo told her.

"I swear, all he's ever done, so far as I know, is tell me gossip about you. It was never bad, either. He said you'd gotten promoted because you'd been wounded, but that you were a good officer, willing to listen to your NCOs and that you had learned the job quickly. Your people liked you."

"Did Garza ever talk to Edgerton in person?" Sherrie asked.

"Not that I know of, but Colonel Edgerton insisted I had to give him the name -- so he could pay Garza, he told me.

"Anyway, once we deployed, the colonel's requests for information changed. Slowly, the information was more classified. I was supposed to recruit others as well, who would be willing to work for Counter Intelligence.

"I'd figured it out by then," Conejo said flatly. "I knew I was screwed. I put in for a transfer and Edgerton brought the paperwork back the next day and told me not to be disloyal. That was rich, coming from him!

"I knew I was fucking every name I gave him, but he kept talking about what happened to disloyal people. I started giving him the names of idiots and fools. People who just ate that 'secret agent' shit up. Guys, mostly, who couldn't find their ass with either hand.

"Then they came for Edgerton. Two days later this Iraqi sheet-head stopped me on the way for chow. He said he was asking for directions, but as soon as there was no one close by he told me that he was taking over for Edgerton and that henceforth I was to report to him. He had, he told me, acquired the rights to buy used motor oil from the motor pool and that gave him access to the base. The two of us would meet regularly, and he'd tell me what I was to do.

"Two days ago he told me that there was going to be a convoy going to Anbar in a week or two and that Captain Paulsen would be with it. He gave me a bomb to attach to the bottom of her Humvee. We'd be attacked and I was to hop out, place the bomb and get away. He said I had two minutes."

Canejo laughed. "I was past it by then. Sure the timer says it's set for two minutes. Except I tested it. The damn thing popped after ten seconds."

He looked at them. "About now, you're thinking about how many thousands of years I'm going to spend at Leavenworth. I don't blame you; I was stupid. I was a coward. Me, a coward! I would never have believed it! Juan Tom didn't believe me either, when I told him what I'd done.

"I was sitting in my quarters last night, waiting for that knock, a pistol in my hand, planning on blowing my brains out for being such a cowardly asshole. I fell asleep instead. I dreamed, Captain who-ever-the-fuck-you-are. I dreamed I was happily married to a nice woman. I had smiling, happy kids and we lived in a nice house with a nice car -- we all had nice lives like what I'd known growing up. And I knew I'd pissed it all away.

"I looked deep inside myself and realized that I'd thrown it away a long, long time ago, when I decided I wanted to grow up to be like Juan Tom. Everything since then was just one long slide down into the pits of hell.

"That dream is impossible for me, I know. I thought about you and wondered what you dreamed about. So I got off my chicken-shit ass and came over here. There is nothing you can do to keep me alive. Edgerton made it very clear to me that there were others he'd recruited besides me, people I had no knowledge of. And that if I turned my coat, I'd be dead."

"I'm shedding huge, weeping tears for you, Conejo," Sergeant Major Morrison told him, his voice tight with rage.

"I'm not doing this for you," Conejo told him, "but her. Captain, there's more."

"More?" Sherrie asked. "Before we get into more, talk to me more about that operation in LA against someone in witness protection?"

He shrugged. "Juan Tom heard that the MS-13 boss in LA sent eight men to hit a teenage boy and the female cousin he was staying with. Sent eight, lost eight."

"There were nine," Sherrie told him. "Nine of them went after those two."

Reuben Conejo shook his head. "Juan Tom said it was an unblooded crew. An unblooded crew either comes back with their target dead, or they don't come back. If a ninth person had been along, he too would have had to kill or die.

"Captain, I mentioned I told Juan Tom about my situation. He was very angry, mostly with me, but also at Colonel Edgerton. He was going to have him killed, but I told him not to bother because an army officer accused of treason in a combat theater was a deader.

"Still, he started looking into Colonel Edgerton, because I'd told him that I was sure that the colonel wasn't in charge. Colonel Edgerton told me once that 'Afterwards' -- that's the word he used -- afterwards he was going to be the Viceroy for Texas. I thought he was blowing smoke up my ass. But..."

"But what, Sergeant?" Sherrie asked, more bemused and confused than ever.

"I said that Juan Tom was looking at Colonel Edgerton. Last Sunday he left for church at the usual time, with many of the people from the hacienda. A half hour after they left a World War Two-era bomber popped up over the hills and dropped two laser-guided thousand pound bombs on the hacienda. More than forty people were killed, including women and children -- one of those children was Juan Tom's infant granddaughter and another was his daughter.

"That airplane made a big mistake, then. It turned around and came back. They had orders to verify the strike, and do it again if it looked like they'd missed.

"A ZSU-23 knocked a wing off the aircraft, and a few seconds later a SA-7 ground-to-air missile broke it in half. As I said, Juan Tom has been fighting the government, and now FARC, for many years.

"Amazing as it seems, there was a survivor from the aircraft. He jumped as soon as he saw the tracers coming up at them. Before he died he told Juan Tom that they had been briefing for a flight to Africa when someone had come in, changed their orders for their aircraft to do the strike on Juan Tom's ranch.

"After the raid they were supposed to return to their field, refuel and continue on after the other two aircraft. The others had gone to a place called 'Port Harcourt' in Nigeria. Oh, and each aircraft was ferrying two one thousand pound laser-guided bombs. For the relatively short flight to Juan Tom's they'd been able to carry four bombs."

"Laser-guided bombs?" Sergeant Major Morrison queried.

"Yes, that's what Juan Tom said. Both of the weapons they dropped hit the hacienda, one at either end. It was obliterated."

"Is that all, Sergeant?" Sherrie demanded.

"Well, all the big stuff."

"I think I can guarantee it that you're going to be extensively debriefed," Sergeant Major Morrison said, steel in his voice.

"And I told you I'm expecting to be dead. I will be dead, soon enough. I just couldn't live with myself any more." He waved at Sherrie. "Captain Paulsen doesn't deserve any of the shit Colonel Edgerton wanted to dish out to her."

"Sergeant, I was the 'cousin' there in LA. Tell me, something -- afterwards I had quite a few briefings on gangs, gang culture and all of that. What if I told you that Edgerton's boss's beef with me and my cousin is personal?"

His jaw literally dropped and he sat up abruptly, alert. "What? Personal? They sent a crew to kill someone for a personal beef?"

"That's right," Sherrie told him. "I understand it's not done."

"You can send a crew to after someone you have a personal beef around to bring them back so you can talk to them. But if you want them whacked, you at least accompany the crew."

"Like I said, there were nine."

He let out a slow whistle. "Look, could I tell that to Juan Tom?"

Sherrie laughed. "You've been in the army longer than I have. Do you really think I get to decide something like that? I'll have input, to be sure, but I can't help it if they decide something else."

"Like I said, I've come close to killing myself twice now."

"I was there once, myself," Sherrie piped up.

He looked at her and shook his head. "I don't believe it."

"There's a lot about me you don't know. A lot he doesn't know," Sherrie gestured at Sergeant Major Morrison. "I have not always been a good girl."

Colonel Morrison came in with the lieutenant colonel who was the new CID head, Colonel Steve Terry. "Captain Paulsen? My son was vague, but insistent."

"Colonel, this is Sergeant Reuben Conejo a mechanic from one of the truck companies. He worked for Edgerton and has named some names and would be, I'm sure, willing to name more." Sherrie went on and filled them in on the high points, leaving out Africa -- that was for Mr. Smith.

"I put in a call for Mr. Smith," Colonel Morrison said to Sherrie, while looking at the sergeant. "You need to shoot him a summary of this ASAP."

"Yes, sir."

"Before you do that, call in Sergeants Hanlon and Perry."

"Yes, sir," Sherrie said and made the call.

Hanlon arrived first and Platoon Sergeant Perry a few minutes later.

"Sergeant Perry," the CID light bird said, "do you know an Emilio Garza in your shop?"

"Yes, sir. He's come a long way in the last year. Now he's in charge of my paperwork."

"Can you think of a reason to get him up to the company offices right now?"

Sergeant Perry shook his head. "A half hour ago he started puking. It was pretty bad; there was blood in it. I had one of my other clerks take him over to hospital for an emergency sick call."

Sherrie froze. "We've been in here for forty minutes."

There was silence in the room for a few seconds, and then Sergeant Conejo sighed. "Like I said, I'm a dead man."

"I have two men in the outer office," the CID colonel told them. "I'll have more in a few minutes. Then we'll arrest everyone."

"You will not," Sherrie said firmly. "What you will do is secure the office from outside. No one in or out. When it's secure, I'll talk to them."

"Captain, I'll do it my way, thank you very much."

"Colonel if you do it your way and it goes wrong, tomorrow one of us will be an E-1."

"Colonel," Colonel Morrison interrupted, "you'll do it Captain Paulsen's way."

"That's not the proper SOP, Colonel Morrison."

"Use your head, Colonel," Colonel Morrison told him. "It'll be bad enough having CID securing the room -- but Captain Paulsen will be working here tomorrow and she'll be working with all or most of those people. If there was a demonstrable risk, I'd agree with you. Absent that, I want to retain whatever tattered shreds of the division's morale that I can."

"Yes, sir. And the man supposed to be at the hospital?"

"Take no chances at all with him, do you understand? It sure looks like he was alerted and was prepared to react if Sergeant Conejo ever showed up here."

"Yes, sir! I'll get on that at once!" He spoke into a small, encrypted VHF radio, giving orders.

Sherrie was at her desk typing rapidly, filling about a page in five minutes. She sent it off to Mr. Smith and blind copied Weaver and Gimu. The odds Mr. Smith wouldn't learn about the blind copies at once were nil. But, so far as she could tell, no one had yet interfered with one of her emails to Weaver.

Colonel Terry announced that his people were in place and Sherrie turned to Sergeant Hanlon. "Do you understand what I'm trying to do?"

"Yes, Captain. I can't imagine someone in the company office is capable of doing something like that but..."

They walked outside, leaving Colonel Morrison and his son with Sergeant Conejo. Sherrie looked over the office and then turned to Staff Sergeant Atkins, the office manager. "Specialist Dumont? Where is she?"

He looked around and frowned. "She left a while ago. I thought it was a trip to the latrine." He shifted nervously. "I don't know where she is -- it's been more than half an hour."

Sergeant Hanlon's voice sounded like steel on steel without oil. "I will see you shortly in my office, Atkins!"

Sherrie asked the question. "Has anyone in this office called Specialist Garza in supply in the last hour? Seen him or talked to him?"

One of the company clerks raised his hand. "Not in the last hour, Captain, but just after lunch. He was late with a report and I reminded him."

"Anyone else?" Sherrie asked.

One of the other women in the office, Spec-4 Nita Easterbrook, raised her hand. "Captain..." her voice trailed off.

"Specialist Easterbrook?" Sherrie queried.

"Robin Dumont and Garza were an item. They call each other a couple of times a day. She was on the phone when that funny-looking sergeant came in. I don't know who she was talking to, but it could have been Sergeant Garza."

In the not terribly far distance came the sound of an automatic weapon firing. Then a couple of more. Every second another couple of additional weapons started shooting.

Colonel Terry went to a window, looked and turned to them. "Everyone to the other side of the building! Take cover! Truck bomb!"

Sherrie refused to go first, planning on leaving only after her people were out. Colonel Morrison spun and dove for the floor. "Cover! Cover!"

Reluctantly Sherrie went down, getting down behind a heavy steel filing cabinet.

The explosion was very loud, followed instantly by the sound of every window on that side of the building breaking. Still, the Republican Guards had been expecting American bombing attacks. The twenty-four inch-thick concrete walls stopped the shrapnel, although the windows let it in and added to it.

Perhaps a dozen of the electronics maintenance company's people were injured, mostly by flying glass, when they'd taken shelter on the floor. Outside, however, bits and pieces of a small tanker truck had cut down more than a dozen soldiers, including two women.

The base went to full alert and armed soldiers stood every few yards around the perimeter, but there were no other attacks.

Later Sherrie found herself once again at the same conference table as General Keller. He was toying with a yogurt cup, with a similar one sitting a few inches away.

The last person to arrive sat down and General Keller waved to him. "Doctor, the casualties?"

"Thirteen confirmed dead, sir and nearly two hundred injured. Only a half dozen of those injuries are life threatening. We have those people stabilized and while I can't say they are out of the woods yet, I'm reasonably confident that they will all make it.

"General, I realize that levity is completely out of place, but there is a certain irony to the human remains we found associated with the tanker truck."

"Irony, Colonel?" the general asked, his eyes clearly showing his anger.

"Yes, sir. A great many bits and pieces -- irony, General, is finding three more or less intact feet. One Caucasian foot with red-painted toe nails, one foot that was clearly brown and another one Caucasian, with no nail paint. Pathology says a Caucasian female, a Caucasian male and an Iraqi male."

"I'm not laughing," the general told him. "But you're right -- that is ironic when we're missing a male and female soldier and an Iraqi male. I hope Criminal Investigations dotted their i's and crossed their t's."

"That is my understanding, sir. They have already given us context photographs of the specimen collections and tests on the remains are in progress as we speak."

The general passed one of the yogurt cups down to the doctor. "Does your experience, Colonel, tell you what this is?"

The foil lid had been partially peeled back and the doctor sniffed and pushed it away. "Cocaine."

"These were found in Specialist Dumont's quarters, along with a bottle of blue pills, which Criminal Investigations has tentatively labeled ecstasy, pending chemical tests.

"You will personally oversee a tox-screen of the dear-departed from that truck, Colonel."

"Yes, sir!"

"Please, Colonel, go see to our people. Keep me posted as to their condition. I'll be along directly to visit them."

The doctor stood and saluted, and left.

"Colonel Harcourt," General Keller said.

Sherrie couldn't help a small gasp.

"Captain Paulsen, do you have something to contribute?"

"No, sir. I apologize, General. The colonel's name startled me."

"We'll talk about that later in an executive session.

"Colonel Harcourt, Colonel Wu, and Colonel Terry -- right now every last person in this division not in this headquarters is out on the base on guard duty. I have already talked to Major General Shoup, the Air Force base commander, and he's agreed. About twenty percent of his people are on guard and in twenty minutes, he's going to turn everyone out in field gear and put them on guard as well.

"Colonel Harcourt, you'll coordinate with General Shoup's staff and secure all of the barracks and officer's quarters. We are going to shake down the entire base. No one, and I repeat, no one is to be allowed back into a living or work area until we've conducted a very thorough shakedown inspection. I'm not interested in girlie magazines -- just drugs. We thought we'd put this behind us after Vietnam. I want to make damn sure that what we have here are a few spoiled apples.

"If anything is found, that goes up the chain of command like greased lightning. Now you three get your asses over there and make sure I'm in the loop. You have a full plate!"

The three colonels rose and saluted and hurried off.

The general's expression turned, if anything, blacker.

"We've been playing army with gentleman's rules," he declared. "That's to stop. We have druggies wandering around, bent CID colonels who can wave their magic wand and exempt themselves from routine security checks. A short while ago I had Criminal Investigations pull the phone records from the electronics maintenance company, to see who the two suspected traitors have been calling. Imagine their surprise to find that Colonel Edgerton used his security codes to exempt their phones from recording what numbers they called.

"Now, CID is going through every phone switch on the base.

"We can't play nice any more..."

Someone coughed and raised his hand. General Keller looked at the colonel, the division supply officer, and gestured for him to speak. "If Electronic Maintenance has had two bad apples, why is their boss here? A captain shouldn't be here, anyway."

General Keller growled something inaudible. "Take this personal if you want, Colonel, but good God, do I hate supply pukes!

"I'm tempted, Colonel, to ask Captain Paulsen to come over here and take her personal weapon, which she is wearing and you're not, and put it to my head. Do you know what emotion Captain Paulsen would be feeling if I made such a request?"

The supply colonel's throat worked. "No, sir."

"She'd be embarrassed. Captain Paulsen is an exemplary officer, in a position of such difficulty that few officers could undertake their duty in a more proficient manner.

"Colonel, A-Q undoubtedly has a target list. I'm probably a B-list target, because they know if they kill me, it'll just piss off the troops and Colonel Morrison could well have the division five minutes later. I'm pretty sure if I was A-Q, I'd make it a priority never to let Colonel Morrison command so much as the division soccer team.

"Captain Paulsen, now, she's not just on the A-list, she's a priority target. I know I'm repeating myself, but evidently you weren't listening the first time. Every last A-Q link we've found here has been targeted on the captain. They have expended eleven people in theater, trying to kill her. That truck today was headed not only right for her building, but towards her office. We have a half dozen of our people in custody, including a former colonel who once sat at this table."

The general shuffled some papers in front of him, and handed one sheet down towards the supply colonel. "That, Colonel, is a list of personnel and their units that we've identified so far that work in one or another of your shops. You have sixty minutes to get their personnel files to CID when this meeting is over. The persons carrying those files over will be their platoon sergeants and they will keep their mouths shut."

He sent a few more sheets down the table. "Ditto for the rest of you with possible bad apples."

He looked around. "I want to make it clear. Not all of these apples are likely to be bad, and this is not likely to be all of them. We have to ask our people to start reporting suspicious activities."

He held his hands up as a chorus of protests rose. "Yeah, I know. But I want you people to pay attention. Staff sits on this side of the table and the line commanders on the other. All of those lists of names were passed out on the staff side of the table."

The general looked like he was going to say something else, but stopped.

"We have to step up vigilance. I jacked up an Air Force major general today about that. That damn truck has been coming and going for months ... and is just waved through the main gate. Anybody who is expecting to be waved through the gate now had better stop from here on out or they will come under fire.

"Our operational security sucks. Too many people know too much. During the interrogation of one of the suspects, it was revealed that he had heard from an Iraqi national that we are planning a move into Anbar province in the near future, and knew specific officers who would be tasked with planning and implementation.

"That's true, but I thought the knowledge of those plans was limited to just a half dozen persons on my staff. Evidently not. Now, I'm crossing my fingers and hoping the leak was back up at Iraq or Theater -- but the fact is, I have no idea where the leak came from.

"Button those lips! Now, Colonel Morrison and Captain Paulsen, you stay. My senior aide stays, the rest of you have things to do."

The others filed out and Sherrie contemplated the rather short staff meeting.

When everyone was gone, General Keller turned to Sherrie. "I understand that you originally hale from Phoenix."

"Yes, sir."

"Do you understand the philosophy there about swimming pools and 'attractive nuisances?'"

Sherrie nodded. "We had a pool when I was growing up. Each year the insurance agent would show up at the front door on the first weekday past January first and demand more stringent security precautions. The day I left for college my father had our pool filled in."

"You, Captain, are an attractive nuisance. I did not agree with Mr. Smith's logic for extracting you and I still don't. But you are an attractive nuisance that I can ill-afford. After today the division's combat efficiency will be in the shitter, with people looking into everyone else's dirty laundry.

"It is June, Captain. I spoke earlier to both Iraq Command and CentCom -- theater command -- about my desire to promote you major and send you to the Command and General Staff College long course. That course starts just after the first of the year. I've pulled in some favors and as soon as CentCom cuts your orders for major, you'll get the hat tip to CGSC.

"I have no problem with how you've done your duty, Captain. None at all. But you're a walking target and Seamus McHenry is in charge at Ft. Leavenworth and he is positive that you won't be a problem, target or not. I've always thought Seamus was a bit dim, ever since we roomed together at West Point. However he's of the opinion that his two stars trump my one. Let me know what you think."

"I have no choice, sir?" Sherrie asked levelly.

"Of course you have a choice. Smith and his ilk would dearly like to keep that target painted on your back. It's kind of like the entire war in miniature, Captain. Would A-Q continue to target you this aggressively back in the states? The fools say, 'Of course not.' Just like they say that if we weren't here, the Iraqis and A-Q would no longer have a beef with us. Right!"

Sergeant Major Morrison came in, walked quickly to the General and handed him a message form, turned and left.

General Keller read it and smiled nastily. "Mr. Smith has arrived in Kuwait. They won't let the stealth bomber he and his two assistants flew in on land here in Iraq, so they are about now strapping into the back seats of a trio of F-15Bs for the hop here.

"We will adjourn for an hour. Everyone take a break, relax and take care of personal business. Captain Paulsen, you will insure that Captain de Ruyter is also here at 2100. I'll extend the rest of the invitations."

"Yes, sir!" the room chorused. The general was up and gone a second later.

Sherrie found the sergeant major talking with his father and, since the subject was of interest, she eavesdropped. "Sergeant Conejo is safe, sir," the sergeant major told his father.

"And how safe is safe?"

"Very safe, sir. While we were remodeling the lower level of the maintenance department's building, it seemed a waste to just tear out all of those cells. So I left a guardroom behind a very heavy steel door, and a half a dozen cells beyond another very heavy steel door. Right now I have an entire line platoon on duty down there. There are a half dozen doors and Conejo is behind one of them. Four men outside in the hall at all times, four more in the guardroom and four more in the cellblock. The prisoner has stopped complaining ... that happened right after the truck bomb."

"It was meant as much for him as it was for me," Sherrie added.

"No doubt, Captain," Colonel Morrison told her. "I could tell that you aren't exactly happy about leaving."

"Happy, sir? Why, I'm overjoyed! I'll be closing in on my twenty-sixth birthday ... there aren't very many twenty-six year old majors in the army, are there?"

"Not many -- but there are some."

"It's an insult to every other officer who comes over here and quietly goes about doing their duty," Sherrie said heatedly. "That's all I've done; that's all I ever wanted to do. There are captains out there who get shot at nearly every day and who will never make major."

"And for the most part, Captain," Sergeant Major Morrison told her, "there's a good reason why they don't make major."

"Do you know that the first eighteen months of my military service is pure and unadulterated bullshit? That it never happened? That my first full day in the army was the day I was introduced to my shop and turned loose on an unsuspecting army? I've never graduated from college; in fact, I flunked out as a freshman. Do either of you think someone with a BS record, who actually has less than two years of service, deserves to be a major?"

Colonel Morrison looked at her steadily. "Actually, the only thing you said of consequence just now is that you never graduated from college. The weenies in Washington require you to be a college graduate to get into CGSC. Maybe you could get in if the President waived the requirement, but that would be about the only way."

Sergeant Major Morrison cleared his throat. "And if I could get her a diploma, say, later this month -- what about that?"

"Don't you dare cheat for me!" Sherrie said, punching him on the arm very hard.

"Captain, I look things up. I look up things like how many credits you've got from the distance learning classes, and you told me you had some college on top of that. We probably have to clean up a few requirements, but I'm pretty sure that I can score you a BS in electrical engineering for you within thirty days," the sergeant major told her.

General Keller stuck his head into the room. "Did I, or did I not tell you to take a break?"

"Yes, sir!" the three of them chorused together.



-------

Chapter 15: Once More, Heart's Desire


Sherrie went and found Captain de Ruyter, who was standing in the Headquarters building, staring at duty rosters and looking morose. She saw Sherrie and said, "Our quarters are off limits until they finish a shakedown inspection."

"I heard about that, Captain. Captain de Ruyter we're going to reconvene a meeting shortly. Mr. Smith has asked that you attend."

The captain waved in the direction Sherrie had come from. "Back there?"

"That's right, Captain. Right now we're on a break, but Mr. Smith is due in at anytime. General Keller expects to reconvene at 2100, so you should take care of any personal needs -- we could be a while."

Sergeant Hanlon and Sergeant Perry arrived and saluted. "Captain, we need guidance about the building. We no longer have any windows on one side of the building."

"How many of our people were hurt?" Sherrie asked, ignoring the windows.

"Thirteen, Captain. None of the injuries are life threatening, but some of our people are going to be scarred for life. The medics are still evaluating the casualties, Captain, but we look to lose around five or six people who are going to be shipped back to the World for plastic surgery."

"Find out when they are going to start shipping them out. I want a chance to shake hands before they go."

She was fighting the fact that she was so choked up that she could hardly talk. Those people had been wounded and disfigured because Coretta Castleberry had a personal grievance against Sherrie. What right did she, Sherrie Richardson, have to inflict that on men and women who were trying to do their jobs?

Her body was sodden with fatigue, her heart was as heavy as the day she'd hustled Weaver aboard the plane for home after Tokyo. She wished right then that Gimu was there to rub her back. She needed something!

In the distance came three sharp explosions. Her first instinct was to hit the floor, but the explosions had sounded totally different than the one from the truck. Then came the roar of jet engines, something you couldn't normally hear inside the buildings.

"That'll be Mr. Smith," Sherrie said evenly, trying to sound like she hadn't been scared again a few seconds before.

She turned and walked towards the officer's open mess and found some cold cut sandwiches. She filled a plate with three of those, two bags of potato chips and a couple of cokes. She went back to the division headquarters and was waved into the conference room.

-------

Others had preceded her, and most interesting of all were the two men with Mr. Smith. One was wearing a flight suit and an aviator's helmet. The visor was lifted, revealing a man with the deep black satin skin that was closer to blue than black. He was to Mr. Smith's left. On the right was J. Winston Croom, the Third, wearing a suit, complete to a tie and vest. He was staring at Sherrie, his faced creased, trying to remember where he'd seen Sherrie before, she was sure.

General Keller, the two Morrisons and Lieutenant Colonel Terry were on one side of the table, Mr. Smith and the two with him faced them. The only seats available were the solitary chairs at either end. Sherrie went and took one of those without hesitation. Captain de Ruyter was more tentative, but Colonel Morrison's eyes had indicated where she should sit.

"General Keller, sir," Sherrie said levelly, "I'm sorry we're late."

He laughed and waved at her plate. "Sergeant Major Morrison, I believe you're the junior man at the table. Go around and see if anyone else wants something to eat or drink. Have it fetched. I'll have a Sprite and a pastrami on rye and a salad, no dressing."

"Yes, sir." The sergeant major quickly took the orders, vanished for two minutes and came back and sat down.

They sat there, with nothing being said for what seemed like forever. Sherrie had no idea what they were waiting on; it seemed improbable that it was the food orders.

Two additional men came in. One was in Air Force blue and had two stars on his color, while the second was in fatigues with three stars hanging on a lanyard around his neck. That was General Homer Shoemaker, the commander of the US Army in Iraq.

General Shoemaker kicked off the meeting. "What do you hear from the hospital, General Shoup?"

"General, they've moved a half dozen people, including a woman, from the critical to the serious list. No one else has died and the doctors assure me that the death toll isn't likely to increase. There are a lot of our soldiers and airmen who were injured by flying glass, sir. Many of those will need to be returned stateside for medical treatment and plastic surgery, sir. About a hundred, at last count.

Sherrie wanted to put her head down on the table and cry.

Shoemaker waved at her. "This is Captain Paulsen? You believe her to be the focus of the attack?"

"Her and Sergeant Conejo, sir," General Keller reported. "Conejo is one of those working for that particular officer, sir."

The three-star waved at General Keller. "You will all note the circumspection of the general's words. He has promised to court-martial anyone who utters that particularly contemptible officer's name in his hearing again. Dittos for me."

He waved at Sherrie. "Right now, Captain, you're beating yourself up about the loss of our people."

Sherrie met his eye, but didn't say anything. The three-star general chuckled. "That looks says you want permission to speak freely, Captain. Go right ahead."

"I'm told that I'm attracting the enemy's attention, General. That I'm getting people killed. I guess that's true enough, sir. But my people and I have been through a lot in the last year and it seems like a rat thing to do, to leave them here while I go home."

The general smiled a nasty smile. "Did you ever see the Clint Eastwood movie, Heartbreak Ridge, Captain?"

"No, sir."

"In the movie Eastwood plays a Marine gunnery sergeant who is given a slacker platoon of Marines to shape up. At one point Eastwood tells his brigade commander, a major, that he wants permission and I quote, 'To freelance training my men for a while.'

"The major, a real prick, tells Eastwood that his platoon are Marines, they are the First Marine Division's men, they are the Third Brigade's men, they are, in short, his men. He was, you see, trying to put the old gunnery sergeant in his place."

Sherrie kept the grimace of disgust off her face. You heard about officers like that and she was glad she'd never had to serve with one.

"Captain, you don't have exclusive ownership of the soldiers under your command. They are also General Keller's men and they are also my men. They are the US Army's men. I've reviewed General Keller's recommendations vis a vie you and have signed off on them. Soon, Captain, they will be someone else's soldiers."

"And what if my military record before I joined the division is a fantasy? What if I never graduated from college? How would that affect things?"

"Is that the case, Captain?"

"Yes, sir, it is. At the time it seemed to be a good idea. Now, not so much."

"Do you think I just rubber-stamp promotion requests for captains -- women in particular -- who have barely a year in grade -- to major? Or do you suspect I look into them, assuming my old friend has had an attacked of delayed teenage libido?

"You didn't meet the profile of a combat veteran, and when I went to Counter Intelligence they told me that I didn't have the need to know ... that there were flags all over your records." His expression wasn't pleasant. "I convinced them otherwise. Captain, you have a few i's to dot and some t's to cross. I do not promote rear echelon captains to major and send them off to the nicer part of Fort Leavenworth -- not as a general rule."

He smiled at her once again. "There is an old army saying that applies here, Captain: Shut up and soldier."

"Yes, sir."

"Now, Mr. Smith," the commanding general said, "what brings you and these fine gentlemen all this way in such a tearing hurry?"

"Captain Paulsen sent me a summary of her interrogation of Sergeant Reuben Conejo, of the 355th Heavy Truck Company here. There were a number of items of interest..."

"Can you explain, Mr. Smith, why I haven't seen a copy of that report?" the general asked.

"Some of the details have been made known to you, sir. Others will come forth in this meeting. Beyond that..." Mr. Smith spread his hands.

"I'll grant you that treason is a terrible thing -- and this is one of the reasons why," the general told him. "Continue, Mr. Smith."

"With me are two CIA officers. Mr. Croom, here, will brief us on the broad details about the area of interest, then the other gentleman will brief us on the specific area of interest. Mr. Croom, you may proceed."

J. Winston Croom the III looked around, self-importantly. Before he started though, he nodded at Sherrie. "May I ask who this officer is? She seems familiar."

"That is hardly germane to your brief, Croom," Mr. Smith said, his tone acid. "Proceed. Stop wasting our time."

"It's just that this is a highly classified briefing, sir. I can't imagine the utility of an enlisted man, or two captains being present."

Sherrie couldn't stop herself. "Mr. Croom, you said something almost identical to that when I offered my services to your agency." Sherry gestured to Mr. Smith. "One thing I'm sure of, Mr. Croom, is that you don't want to keep Mr. Smith waiting. Not to mention three generals."

"And you sure as fucking hell don't want to keep me waiting," General Shoemaker growled. "Croom, your director told me that you were a pompous asshole but could give a good brief. You either proceed or I'll put you on a C-130 headed back to CONUS via West Bumfuck, Alaska."

"Mr. Croom, if you would, please execute your brief on the situation in Nigeria," Mr. Smith demanded.

Croom had a sour look on his face, but he started speaking. "Nigeria is an oil-rich country on the east coast of Africa." He talked about population, geography, and resources, before he reached the political situation that existed there.

"Nigeria's government is in collapse. They control the capital and a few other areas, but the rest of country is under anarchy, particularly in the oil-producing regions of the Niger delta.

"There, rebels, gangs and warlords dominate. It's in everyone's interest that the oil continues to flow, but only a very little money makes its way into the coffers of the central government."

At the word "gangs" Sherrie stopped being half-bored and became quite intent about what the CIA man was saying.

"The gangs and warlords fight among themselves continually and have occasional brushes with the rebels and government forces. If it looks like one group or another is getting stronger than any of the others, two or three gangs combine and wipe out their rival -- but they are cautious about that because it means the short-term allies emerge stronger.

"Oil is hijacked and diverted. Oil contracts are meaningless. You pull your tanker up to one of the oil terminals -- and it has to be heavily armed tanker with a strong force of fighters -- then you pay cash and whoever is running the terminal that day fills the tanker with oil. That's two or three billion dollars a year going into gang coffers.

"On top of that, there is a kidnapping industry that is simply unbelievable. If you attempt to resist the kidnappers, they kill everyone. Go along, and you live. The average ransom is a hundred thousand US dollars and last year there were nearly 400 reported ransoms paid -- another half billion a year..."

Sherrie interrupted, "Croom, four hundred times a hundred thousand is forty million."

The room was silent while Croom took out a pencil and paper and laboriously did the math. "Yes, I guess it is," the man admitted.

"Mr. Croom," Mr. Smith said smoothly, "why don't you head out to the O-club, get a drink and rest up after our journey? You look a little peaked."

"I'm fine, sir," Croom said, clearly sweating.

General Keller had been digging in his briefcase in front of him. He sent a small calculator skidding towards Croom. "Mr. Croom, you're dismissed. Don't ever let it be said that the US Army has failed to support the Agency, even in small things. Don't let the door hit you in the ass on your way out."

Croom left without another word.

Mr. Smith gestured at the other civilian with him. "Let's call this gentleman, 'Mr. Jones.' Talk to us, Mr. Jones about Port Harcourt."

Mr. Jones looked around the room. "Until two years ago I was the agency's person in Port Harcourt, which is the center of the oil business in the Niger Delta. I was exceedingly grateful when the agency pulled me out, because it was getting too dangerous. There has been a general exodus from the area, starting slowly, but it has accelerated of late. Now the kidnap gangs are taking the children of Europeans, and I doubt if any of the westerners will be left by the year's end. Many of the natives have been forced to flee the violence as well. There's a civil war of sorts, but as Croom said, it's more like general anarchy than any sort of regular conflict."

"I understand you still have contacts there," Mr. Smith asked smoothly.

"I think so. It's impossible to keep to any sort of regular contact schedule. Anyone caught sending any sort of unusual message outside is killed. My cover there was a day laborer who worked, now and then, for an oil company. The proximate reason I was pulled out was that one of the gangs kidnapped fifty day laborers just like me, and when the oil company who had hired them that day wouldn't cough up the $10,000 ransom demanded for each of them, they shot that group of workers and took another fifty hostages, including me. I'm alive today because the ransom was paid."

"Have you heard anything about Al Qaeda or Latin gangs involved there?" Mr. Smith asked him.

"A-Q rumors? Yeah. There are a fair number of Muslims in Nigeria and they are more radical than most. A few years ago, they tried to impose Sharia law in the northern part of the country, but that failed spectacularly when the people realized that only the poor were subject to it, as everyone else paid off the clerics. One of the things that exacerbates race relations is that most of the oil is found in Christian areas. There is a definite element of ethnic cleansing to what's going on. Latin American gangs? Again, I've heard a rumor that at least one has set up there, but it was just an unconfirmed rumor."

"How would you go about confirming it?" Mr. Smith asked.

"Me? That's not going to happen, sir," Mr. Jones said with brisk certainty. "I'd consider going back there as part of a task force of a couple of thousand Marines, kicking some serious butt. But going back with just my naked skin to protect me? Nope, that's just not going to happen."

He looked around the room. "The agency has lost six people in the last year in Nigeria and more than that the year before."

Sherrie spoke up, unconcerned about who she offended. "Conejo offers us a unique opportunity in this regard. He has gang contacts and in his interrogation revealed that his former associates have reasons of their own to want revenge against at least one of those gangs in Port Harcourt. It is possible that they can get someone in there, or they might have other ways to get the needed information out."

"If the sergeant will continue to cooperate," General Shoemaker mused.

"Why don't we ask him?" General Keller suggested. "Captain de Ruyter, Sergeant Major Morrison, would you see to it that the man is fetched? I'm afraid it will have to be in shackles."

The two left and Sherrie met Mr. Smith's eyes, wondering what was going on behind them.

Mr. Smith broke the silence. "Before Conejo arrives, I want to share additional intelligence, intelligence that was made available to the agency, but which they have discounted."

He pulled out a folder from his brief case and handed a sheaf of photographs and passed them to the Air Force general. "These are satellite photographs taken of the airport near Port Harcourt in the last few months. The two circled aircraft are, we believe, World War II vintage B-24s, as Conejo reported after one such was used in an attack on a gang headquarters in Columbia. It is a significant datum that he says that laser-guided thousand pound bombs were used and that the aircraft had four of them. Two other aircraft he reported flew to Port Harcourt each with two of those weapons.

"We have never seen more than one of these visible at once, always while taxiing, landing or taking off. Since they are not visible at other times, we believe they are in hangars when not flying."

He stood up and put his hands down on the table. "We believe the aircraft were bought a year ago in the US, from a variety of owners. Three purchases of flyable aircraft have been traced, as well as two other machine purchases that were probably used for parts. After the aircraft were bought, they fell off the radar screen, so to speak. They were last seen flying into a private field in California ... the field located in the middle of the Mojave Desert."

He gestured at the photos, now in Colonel Morrison's lap. "Those aircraft would be a considerable force multiplier to whoever had them. It is my opinion that our spider is currently in Port Harcourt."

"And what is your recommendation?" the commanding general inquired.

"That would be something for commanders at your level to decide," Mr. Smith replied.

"Excuse me, Mr. Smith," Mr. Jones spoke up. "You are laboring under a misapprehension here.

"In what way?" Mr. Smith inquired.

"Even a simple operation, say to take out those bombers, would probably have to be undertaken by stealth aircraft and would entail significant risks. You are looking at satellite photographs and making assumptions based on what you think you see. Yes, the airport is surrounded by jungle -- but it's an international airport with many daily flights in and out. Drop a bomb by mistake on an airliner or terminal filled with civilians and we're screwed. If there are large weapons stored in the hanger, they might detonate and leave a whacking big hole that would be hard to explain and could well cause significant collateral damage.

"A while ago I was being facetious when I said I'd be willing to go back as part of a Marine Expeditionary Force because that won't work either. Sure, Port Harcourt is a port -- but it's a port in the Niger River delta, about fifty miles from the ocean. There is a maze of river passages between the ocean and the city to contend with.

"And the headquarters of the gangs and warlords. I knew pretty much what they were like before I got my guided tour of one of them. One thing they are not is a dozen pacos sitting around, banging their girlfriends, drinking beer, playing pool and shooting the shit. Each of these gangs number in the hundreds and most of those men are fighters. They are well armed and most of their soldiers have some combat experience. They maintain a high degree of readiness.

"Port Harcourt will probably have lost a quarter of its population by the end of the year -- but that's going to leave three-quarters of a million inhabitants. Don't forget Mogadishu!

"You'd need ten thousand or more troops to land, and our casualties would be in the hundreds or more. They'd have to kill tens of thousands of locals. And there is a very real chance you could lose them all, if someone sinks a tanker or other large vessel in the couple of deep entrances to the river, cutting off retreat.

"If the groups holding hostages get any hint of an ongoing military operation against the city, they'd kill their hostages -- there are forty or fifty being held at any one time, some of them white Europeans in the three to six year old range."

General Shoemaker grimaced. "So, a small strike of force of Special Ops troops would fail because they'd be outnumbered and outgunned. A larger force would have to fight its way in and out and we'd be risking significant casualties and significant collateral damage?"

"That's it, General," Mr. Jones said. "Moreover, there are just a few oil terminals and if anything happened to any of those, you'd send the world-wide price of oil shooting up."

Sherrie cleared her throat and everyone looked at her. "I have another idea."

"What is that, Captain?" Mr. Smith said, a little acid in his voice.

"Sergeant Conejo is the key to this. Not only can't we strike directly in Port Harcourt, right now we don't even know where to strike even if we reached the city. We are going to need to convince him to enlist his former confederates to finger our spider. Why would he do that under sentence of death, or the threat of such a sentence?

"I'd like to form a special unit," Sherrie went on. "Myself, Captain de Ruyter, Sergeant Major Morrison, Sergeant Conejo and a couple of others I know, individuals that Mr. Smith is also aware of. My group would coordinate the search for the spider, then see if there's any way we can take the spider out without risking significant loss of life among bystanders."

"Such a group already exists," Mr. Smith told her.

"At an operational level? Or is it just a clearinghouse for intelligence?" Sherrie asked.

"And you want to trust a traitor to our country, to the uniform we wear, to be a part of that?" General Shoemaker sounded incredulous.

"Sir, that truck bomb was directed at both of us. He knew that by coming to see me that he was putting his life in danger. In his interrogation he expressed regret and remorse for his actions."

"And you believed him?" the incredulity had grown.

"Sir, he's like me. He wants to be a good soldier. He volunteered for the Army, sir, in hopes of putting his past behind him. That officer you don't want to hear about sucked him in with threats against his immigration status. Conejo described the experience, sir, as like meeting a 'tar baby.' I saw those Uncle Remus cartoons on the Disney channel when I was a kid; I know about tar babies.

"With his help, we'll have access to his former confederates. They have means and access that we don't and which we can easily deny if they run into problems -- and those confederates are just as angry at the spider as we are. The CIA has used such groups before, as I'm sure we've all read about.

"It should be obvious that so far, the spider is outthinking us. It's no accident that she's hiding in a place where the money runs out of the ground and where trying to get her out would entail major political risks. Not only do we need to outfight the spider, we need to outthink the spider and we need to do it as soon as possible or that spider will realize we know where she is and she will move someplace else.

"And about that relocation, Mr. Smith -- we know she's working with A-Q. She's a native-born American, with a solid core of fellow Americans around her, even if most of them speak Spanish. If the spider relocates back to the States, it's my belief that she'll be looking to make a big splash -- larger, probably, than 9/11. And she's going to have money enough and men enough to pull it off."

General Shoemaker's voice was harsh. "I think I can confidently speak for most of the general officers in this room. What the fuck are you people talking about?"

Mr. Smith smiled at Sherrie. "Captain Paulsen, if you would, please fully brief these people. Start with babysitting and leave out Tokyo. Leave out names."

Sherrie spent half an hour retelling the story of her life, ending with the truck bomb.

General Shoemaker sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "You're telling me that some smart-ass teenager is responsible for running rings around us? She's killed hundreds of people, including thirteen on this base and she is looking to run up the score even further?"

"She's twenty by now," Sherrie told him, knowing it sounded lame.

Mr. Jones laughed. "General, if this spider woman has been operating in Port Harcourt for any length of time, she's probably killed a thousand or so by now. Particularly if she's been dropping thousand-pound bombs. There are people I know there who can tell me if there have been any really big bangs."

"Do you know how helpless we are, General?" Mr. Smith asked General Shoemaker.

"How helpless is that, Mr. Smith?"

"We believe we know the spider's birth name. As Captain Paulsen stated, we believe she's made it a point to kill everyone who knows it. It's why we haven't mentioned the name here -- we believe if someone knows it, they become a priority target. But, getting back to helpless, General -- we don't know any of her aliases. Not a one. Zero, zip, nada.

"We're sure she's been involved in a number of crimes, but we've never found a living soul who has seen her or who has known the name she was going by when they knew her -- and was willing to tell us what it was. We know what she looked like when she was fifteen, but there are no current photographs of her. We've generated some computer extrapolations, but we have no idea how accurate they are."

Mr. Jones sat up. "You say she doesn't want her name and face known? But that maybe she's in Port Harcourt?"

"That's right," Mr. Smith told him.

"Well, here's a thought. Print up a million leaflets with a couple of those pictures and that name she doesn't like. Maybe include a short biography and a list of past deeds ... and a reward. Pack the paper up and put it on a C-130. Fly that puppy to Port Harcourt, with a flight plan through to Nairobi. Land, fuel, take off and then lighten the load over the city."

General Keller whistled loudly. "Now that sounds like something we could do with minimal risk."

"And like as not would mean she be back in the US within a month or two, spitting fire and blood," Mr. Smith warned.

Colonel Morrison spoke for the first time. "Mr. Smith, you are no doubt good at what you do -- but the fact is, in the army we like to get an enemy out in the open and on the move. They are a hell of a lot more vulnerable out there. Mr. Jones has half a plan -- not only Port Harcourt, but also every port of entry in the US should have her face on every wall. Put it on the TV, the Internet ... every place we can. Hell, do the same thing in Europe, Central and South America, wherever we can get it ... make it really risky for her to move."

"And my suggestion?" Sherrie asked.

"We'll take that under advisement," General Shoemaker told her.

Sergeant Major Morrison stuck his head in. "Are you ready for Conejo, General Shoemaker?"

"Yes. We'll continue this discussion later. Bring him in, Sergeant Major."

Sergeant Conejo was brought in. To Sherrie's surprise he didn't look like he'd been worked over. He was escorted to a chair and chained to it.

"Do you know who I am?" General Keller asked the young gang member.

"General Keller, sir. You command the division."

"The division that you belong to. The division you spied on and transmitted information about to our enemies. Yes, that division."

"Sir, I fucked up. I fucked up bad. I can't change the past but I want to help make the future better. If there is any way I can try to make some amends, sir, I will. I'm a big boy, General. I know you can snap your fingers and have me shot and I don't want to die."

The general smiled slightly. "Only in my dreams can I have someone shot. If I did, my JAG officer would lead the pack demanding my court-martial.

"Captain Paulsen filed a report on your interrogation, Conejo. You said some things that interest us. While Captain Paulsen is young and prone to make snap judgments, I don't think she exceeded her authority with you. Continue to cooperate and execution will be off the table. Help us -- and who knows where that could lead?"

"I will do whatever is within my power."

"Which translates," Mr. Smith said, breaking in, "almost to weasel words, Conejo."

Reuben Conejo turned to Mr. Smith. "Sir, perhaps you fault me for not being able to fly. You could, sir, take me to the top of a high tower and throw me off, ordering me to fly, threatening me with death if I didn't. Sir, I would go splat because it is not within my power to fly."

It was Sherrie's turn to interject. "Sergeant, these men want to determine your metal from your words. They ask you questions that I already know the answers to, and while hearing those answers might please them, they don't please me.

"You spoke earlier of your patron, Juan Tomas. You spoke of Africa. Let me be blunt -- we have had to pull our people out of some places in Africa because it is too dangerous -- including that place you named. If we requested it of you, would it be within your power, or the power of those you know, to retrieve intelligence for us from some of those places? Even if the location is not safe?"

"Yes," he said without elaboration.

"You seem quite sure," General Keller spoke.

"Sirs, Captain Paulsen -- Juan Tomas is a powerful man. This spider of yours has personally attacked innocents under his protection. This is not done."

"Al Qaeda does it every day and in every way," Colonel Morrison said, contradicting him.

"There are bad men everywhere," Sergeant Conejo agreed, "even in my country. But men of honor, there are limits to what they do. I know you will spit on the ground and say it's not true, that men like Juan Tom and myself have no honor, but you know the opposite. Sometimes we in the Army kill innocents. It is not something we wish, it is something we work very hard to avoid, but we do it. My patron does not target innocents, but yes, sometimes they have died and he lights candles for the lost, and sends compensation for the hurt he has inflicted. As do we, sir.

"If I ask him, Juan Tomas will get your information. He will hand it over willingly, and if asked, would be only too pleased to help in whatever plans you might make to send these fiends to hell. Like me, he will strive to prove his honor and determination in this, even if you will never approve of him or his methods."

Mr. Jones laughed. "Oh, you'd be surprised what we approve of, push comes to shove."

Glares around the table from senior officers simply brought a smile to his face. "I've been out on the end of the pointy stick, don't ever forget. I survived where a lot of good men didn't. I can tell you that if the choice was left to my employers, they'd leap at this chance."

"Croom?" Sherrie asked in disbelief.

"Well, those with balls. The guys with balls run things now in field operations. Croom sits at a desk and flips through his Rolodex, wondering just where in the hell he can land safely."

"Side issues," General Shoemaker barked. "These are all side issues. Will you cooperate, Sergeant?"

Sherrie was furious. "He just said he would!" She turned to Conejo. "I told you before, and I now I'm telling you again. Join my team."

Sergeant Conejo's eyes went around the room. Clearly, everyone played for high stakes. "You told me that if I followed you, there was a chance for my dreams to come true. I said yes. I say yes again."

Sherrie stood again and faced the senior officers and Mr. Smith. "Let me make this clear. I am going to war upon the spider. With your help or without it. If you wish to assist me, I'll remain in the army, and if you don't want that, I'll have my resignation on your desk in ten minutes, General Keller. I want a team of my choosing, I want a team..."

Sherrie stopped talking. Gimu stood next to Sergeant Conejo.

She swallowed, thinking she'd been shot or hit on the head or something. She blinked, but Gimu was still there.

"Sherrie-chan, Weaver-sama said you could use some assistance. So I came," Gimu said evenly.

"Here!" the Air Force general said, startled. "Who are you? What are you doing here? Guards! Guards!"

Gimu shook her head, feigning sadness, waving at the outer office. "Can you imagine that! A half dozen soldiers sleeping on duty!"

Sergeant Major Morrison smiled slightly. "I take it you're a friend and not a foe?"

"Yes," Sherrie said. "This is Gimu. She is a for-real ninja." She turned to Gimu. "You didn't kill anyone did you?"

"Sherrie-chan! I have not been paid to kill anyone! I don't give freebies!" She pointed at Mr. Smith. "In any case, I work with this gentleman as well."

Mr. Smith smiled and Sherrie had to choke back a laugh.

Sherrie couldn't help it. "I appear to have been reinforced. Please, sirs, understand this -- I am going to fight the spider. I am going to step on the spider, crush it and flush it down the handiest sewer. Help or get out of the way."

Colonel Morrison looked at his son. "Why are you just standing there, Jacob?"

The sergeant major laughed ruefully. "Pops, she has a .45 in her sash. That's mine. I felt her take it, but the next thing I felt was the barrel against the base of my spine. I have been a good boy, Pops, ever since."

"Let's all stop and take a deep breath," Mr. Smith told them. "Gimu is one of my people, and like Captain Paulsen, she is fond of being overly-dramatic."

Sherrie turned back to the others. "So, I'm either going my own way, or in concert with the government. Pick one."

The commanding general's eyes were bright, but Sherrie couldn't decide if he was angry or not, and if he was angry, who he was angry at.

"General Shoup, General Keller, Mr. Smith, Colonel Morrison you stay. The rest of you, out!"

They filed out after Sergeant Major Morrison unshackled Sergeant Conejo and closed the door behind them. "Sergeant Major," Sherrie said, "return Sergeant Conejo to his cell. Captain de Ruyter, accompany him."

They left and Sherrie looked around the outer office. Three enlisted men and an officer looked like they'd fallen asleep at their desks; evidently there were others outside. "How long will they be out, Gimu?"

"At least an hour."

"I have to call in the medics," she told her friend.

"I understand, Sherrie-chan."

She picked up a phone and dialed the hospital and had them send medics at once for a half dozen unconscious men.

Nothing is ever that simple in the Army; not just medics came. MPs and Air Police arrived in droves and General Keller had to come out and explain that the matter was classified and to just deal with it.

Sherrie pulled Gimu to one side. "I have a question to ask of you; the ninja side of you."

"Yes, Sherrie-sama."

"Karen-sama, Gimu, Karen-sama."

"Yes, I suppose so, although I do not see the need for further subterfuge."

"Someone offered a plan. Our spider wants to be unknown and had made a career out of carving up anyone who knew who she was. The plan involves dropping a million leaflets with her name, what we think she looks like today and her biography all over the places where we think she currently is. How do you think she will react?"

"Sherrie-sama, there is no way to know for sure. You must plan for a number of possibilities."

"Would she be even more pissed?"

"It could be. Or maybe not. She knows the government is looking for her and she knows they know her true name. She could simply ignore it. The thing is, Sherrie-sama, is that even if she was a stable, sane individual, we would have no idea what she would be likely to do. And she's not sane and not stable so anything is possible.

"There is an old saying, in one form or another in many countries, that the best swordsman in the world need not fear the second best swordsman. He fears the inexperienced man who has no idea what to do -- because he will do something completely unpredictable.

"Certainly, there is a real possibility that she will explode like a bomb. Perhaps, in that event, she might do something foolish..."

"The Army says it might flush her and if she's on the move, she might be more vulnerable."

"And your army has caught bin Laden, eh? And they caught Sadaam on the move, yes? And most of the rest of the deck of cards, they were caught how?

"Sherrie-sama the reward on Bin Laden is something like $75 million dollars. That is, by the way, much too high. That much insults his fighters. If it was five million, he would already have been yours -- greed would exceed umbrage."

"I want to know if I'm putting the rest of my family in greater danger. There were eleven adults who sat down to dinner that night long ago, back in Phoenix. Three are dead, one by his own hand, three more are in hiding. Two of them have lost a daughter."

"Sherrie-chan, Mr. Smith moved your father into the 'killed by Coretta' column months ago."

Sherrie stared at her friend. "What?" she was suddenly shaking like a leaf.

"Yes, Sherrie-chan. So sorry. Your father died with his boots on."

"I don't understand," she told Gimu forlornly.

"He was using a shotgun with a very long barrel, Sherrie-chan. Mr. Smith found out that he wouldn't have been able to reach the trigger, except perhaps, with his toes."

Sherrie managed to turn and hit a wastebasket when she threw up. That of course, caught the attention of the medics, still working in the office, on her. Try as she might, the next thing she knew, she too was on a gurney, headed for the base hospital.

Then it really hit the fan, because Mr. Smith went out to bring her into the meeting to find she was gone -- and without her security detail. A half dozen NCOs abruptly found themselves back at E-1, starting over in the army, and a captain found himself relieved of duty and under arrest.

General Keller, along with the other generals, Mr. Smith, Colonel Morrison and his son were perhaps ten minutes behind Sherrie when she was admitted. Not to mention they brought along a dozen guards. Gimu however, had ridden with Sherrie by the simple expedient of causing anyone who said "No" excruciating pain.

The hospital commander was called and chewed out. The doctor stood his ground against General Keller. "Sir, the officer was nauseous. That is a serious symptom, sir, and has to be taken seriously."

"Perhaps I can inform your doctor's diagnosis then," Mr. Smith told him. "The officer in question had just been told that her father had been murdered with his own shotgun, having his brains splattered for yards around. Do you suppose nausea might follow such a revelation?"

"Yes, sir, I suppose so. But it is our duty to make sure."

General Keller turned to the Air Force base commander. "I know this mother fucker isn't in my chain of command; he's in yours. He's out of here by 2400 tonight, unless you want to start a little war of our own. I am sick and tired of these piss-ant motherfuckers who 'have to be sure' by sending every last soldier who has the tiniest wound home. We're in the middle of a fucking war! People get hurt! Not one of them can sue a military doctor for malpractice! Get rid of the shitty civilian doctor mindset. Not you, shithead. Not you. Your successor." The last few words were directed at the hospital commander.

In a few minutes, the staff meeting resumed, this time in a hospital room, with Sherrie sitting up on a bed. "I am so glad, General, sir," she told General Keller, "that you arrived when you did. The next thing on the schedule was a hospital gown."

Everyone laughed, but Mr. Smith brought them back down to earth. "I wish to apologize to everyone for the subterfuge in regards to Captain Paulsen, actually Richardson's, enlistment. She said it best earlier -- it seemed like a good idea at the time, but now, not so much.

"We have, Captain Richardson, decided to agree to your plan, including the use of Sergeant Conejo. He is going to be released into your custody. Colonel Morrison has found an old army regulation regarding the transport of prisoners that will allow you to assume responsibility for his actions. I hope you understand that that is a two-edged sword. If he stays true to form, you'll be cashiered."

"I'll take my chances, sir."

He smiled slightly. "I was sure your would. Mr. Jones' plan has several appealing facets. We need to evaluate them and decide if we want to implement it."

"Sir, Gimu and I talked about that. She had a cogent response when I asked her what the spider would do. She said there was no way to be sure, since the spider is clearly unbalanced. What we would have to do is plan for a number of contingencies and be ready for anything."

"That's what we're best at," General Keller told her. "I have a request from Colonel Morrison that he be allowed to retire, with the intention of joining your band of merry adventurers."

"Sir?" Sherrie had no idea what to say.

"Captain, Colonel Morrison is a fine and wonderful man, but like his son, prone to expressions of opinion that haven't always been well received. He is fifty-nine years of age and it's time for him, he says, to let the next generation have their shot."

"As a civilian," Colonel Morrison told Sherrie, "I would be a contract employee of yours, and as such, there would be no chain of command issues between us."

Sherrie translated that to mean that he was agreeing to serve under her. It was a heady thought.

"Captain Richardson," General Keller told her, "the division rotates back to the states in time for Thanksgiving. Billy Morrison stays with us until that happens. So does Sergeant Major Morrison, who has also asked to retire.

"You will be returned to CONUS at once, probably in the next 48 to 72 hours. Captain de Ruyter and Sergeant Conejo will accompany you. Mr. Smith will supervise you until the first of the year, when you will be promoted major and then you will attend the CGSC course at Fort Leavenworth. That duty will be doubly difficult as you will maintain responsibility for the effort against the spider."

"Yes, sir," Sherrie told him. "Can I be spared for a time to say goodbye to those in my shop? And above all, those here in the hospital from my shop?"

"Of course. If you wish, we can both make the hospital rounds together."

Sherrie frowned. "I'm not sure that would be appropriate."

He shook his head. "They were trying to kill you and got these people instead. You missed the bullet and they didn't. There may be those who fault you for what's happened, but not one of them will be from the line units. This is what they deal with each and every day. Suicide and truck bombs, IEDs, EFDs, snipers, mortars, rockets ... all of the above and more. Captain, those men and women have been there and done that, and if they're here, they know why. Prepare for a very pleasant surprise, Captain."

It was, Sherrie found, the most eye-opening experience of her life. Yes, she'd commanded the electronics maintenance department, and yes, she'd been popular among her soldiers, mostly, she figured because she didn't put up with any bull shit.

The real soldiers, the real warriors, welcomed her with open arms and open hearts. More than once, she was cheered and there was always applause. Some of the division headquarters staff were less charitable, but then, they weren't fighters. Sherrie found that the applause from fighting men was a heady brew.

Twice Gimu pinched her. The first time, Sherrie looked at her friend in askance. "Sherrie, you are just Sherrie. You are lucky, you are smart and when moved to it -- brave. Your shit stinks, you put on your panties one leg at a time like the rest of us." The second time it took one long, piercing look and Sherrie remembered that she was, indeed mortal.

There was a quick return to the electronics maintenance department. To her surprise, Captain St. Cyr was there to greet her. "S-1 told me that if I do well here, I might make major," he said with a laugh. "After all, you did."

"I lost a lot of our people, Captain."

"No you didn't -- the bad guys messed them up. I'm told that there is a new policy about wounds. If you have to go home, you have to go home. Then, when you're ready, you can come back when the docs have nothing more to contribute. Thank you, Captain."

"Like you, Captain, I've never been comfortable with others messing with our people. Although I've been admonished about using a personal pronoun in their regard."

"Fuck 'em!" Captain St. Cyr retorted. "You know the truth of it, our people know the truth of it and if the staff weenies don't -- fuck 'em!"

-------

Mr. Smith appeared later that morning, just when Sherrie assumed that at long, long last she could get some sleep. "I won't bother you long," he told her. "I'm giving you your heart's desire, you understand."

"Yes, sir, I understand."

"De Ruyter will sit on Conejo for the time being. Mr. Jones will be joining you, as well the little bunny from the gangs."

"Conejo?" Sherrie asked and he nodded.

"Exactly. You can have Gimu as well and, most reluctantly, Weaver. Because of my fiddling he is now legally eighteen and can decide for himself. He'll be waiting for you when you get back to the States."

"And you, sir?"

"I am, in this matter, a staff officer. I need to find you quarters, billeting, and a few more souls to put at risk, and do it all before your plane lands. I need to make sure that Colonel Morrison and his son land on your doorstep and not in the other Agency's."

"And then?" Sherrie asked.

"Your first assignment will be twenty questions to be answered. The questions will take the form of: 'What we will do if the spider does X after we leaflet bomb Port Harcourt?'"

"Yes, sir!" Sherrie said, sounding pleased. "When do I go back?"

"Tomorrow, I think."

"Isn't that a song from the musical 'Annie?'"

"Something like that. It has been decided to run your operation in parallel with the other operation, although compartmentalized -- which means you won't know what they do and they won't know what you're up to. I registered vociferous objections about duplicate work and the possibility of white on white casualties, but I was overruled. Even though the other group has yet to produce much worthwhile intelligence."

"We don't actually have confirmation that she's in Africa, much less Port Harcourt," Sherrie told him.

"Don't try to buck up my spirits, Sherrie. Yes, you've learned a great deal in the last two years, more than I would have expected.

"One last thing. Few majors have combat commands. No women have combat commands. Majors are, for the most part, junior staff officers learning what they need to know for more advanced ranks. You will be an anomaly and the Army, not to mention the military in general, is a place where the old adage about 'The nail that sticks up gets hammered down' is true.

"No one is going to say that they want to avenge Colonel Edgerton, but there are colonels who purely hate it when someone sticks it to one of their number, no matter how deserved the stick. There are colonels, majors and captains who want to promote themselves and make sure potential competitors get waylaid. It's not so much combat as Gulliver versus the Lilliputians -- but you have to remember that they can drag you down. And will, if you make a mistake."

"I understand, sir."

"Get some rest and then get on with killing that woman before she kills too many more people. She is making a lot of people, including those in the White House, very nervous about her plans."



-------

Chapter 16: Sherrie Studies the Situation


Sherrie hugged Weaver when he greeted her after their small jet landed wherever it was they had landed back in the US.

Then it was Gimu's turn to hug Weaver and Sherrie watched the two of them with interest. Gimu hugged Weaver and he hugged back, but it was even more sisterly than the way Weaver had hugged Sherrie. Then the two of them exchanged formal bows.

Weaver turned to Sherrie. "Welcome to beautiful Whiteman Air Force Base, Missouri, Sherrie."

She looked around. That they were on an Air Force base was clear -- there were a lot of military aircraft parked around the tarmac. The tarmac apron was one huge open area of concrete that seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see to the east, north and south. They were near a pair of low buildings with more buildings scattered about with larger hangers further down the flight line, off to the west.

"Well, it's a nice enough day," she told him.

"Mr. Smith is inside, smoothing the path for us," Weaver told her. "To put it mildly, the Air Force was -- reluctant -- to put us up at this base."

"Why is that?"

"This is an old Strategic Air Command base, and where they house B-2 bombers these days. You remember those little signs some businesses have that say something like 'We have had 365 accident free days?'"

"Sure."

"Well, they have had a couple of thousand accident free days here, at least free of the serious kind of accident. We are going to be inside the bomb dump fence. The big bombs."

"Wonderful!" Sherrie said. "First a dungeon -- now a bomb dump!"

"Well, the building we're going to be in is nice enough, although there are no windows."

Sherrie remembered the shower of glass at the maintenance facility in Iraq and shuddered. "I'm not the fan of windows I once was," she admitted.

Weaver looked at her curiously for a second, but didn't ask any questions.

"The big thing right now is that the base commander, a full colonel, told Mr. Smith to go take a flying jump with his idea of locating us here. Then the strategic forces commander and the bomb wing commander both put their oars in -- as near as I can tell, everyone up the chain of command in the Air Force said not only 'No!' but 'Hell no!'

"Then someone on high blessed the project and they were all told, so I've heard, to shut up and do what they have been ordered to do. So we have not exactly been welcomed with open arms. Mr. Smith has a map for us, where we'll be allowed to drive. Basically we're restricted to the public areas on the base, the entrance to the dump and the building we'll be in. Guards here are authorized the use of deadly force, so don't go through any fences or gates without permission. You too, Gimu. They're serious."

"As if I would want one of their big bombs!"

"Yeah, well, they would like us to go away, far away."

Mr. Smith came out of the building, accompanied by the pilot of their aircraft who had proceeded ahead of his passengers, a notable difference in procedure. Now the pilot simply boarded the aircraft and a few minutes later the plane was taxiing away.

Mr. Smith shook Sherrie's hand and waved at the plane. "He'll be back in a few hours with Captain de Ruyter and Sergeant Conejo. In a few minutes we're going over to air operations and wait for them. The Air Force is not proving very cooperative. The general commanding the Air Force contingent in Iraq spoke to his Air Force superiors about Conejo. I really, really hope he likes his new duty station in the Aleutians and the shiny new gold maple leaf on his collar."

Oh! Busted four grades! Not good!

"Perhaps I should talk to him about the importance of security?" Gimu said, looking grim. While Mr. Smith shook his head, Sherrie got the distinct impression from Mr. Smith's expression that the general had gotten off mildly.

For Sherrie the delay was mostly time to sit and think more about what she wanted to do. When the second flight arrived, though, she was pleasant enough as she met the two who had come last.

Mr. Smith drove a station wagon to their offices and they all trooped down into the bowels of the earth to a conference room. Mr. Smith stood in front of the room and waited until they were all ready for him to speak.

"Normally, I'd meet with a new unit commander and go over the details of their assignment in private. This time, there is too much at stake for too many people.

"It is quite simple. Captain Richardson, you are detailed to conduct intelligence gathering operations against the individual we suspect in responsible for the deaths we've cataloged -- Coretta Castleberry. You are under no circumstances to engage that enemy or her associates for any reason, excepting self-defense. Stay away from them. You are, in fact, to act only in self-defense, and then making as swift of an egress as possible with safety of the personnel involved. Don't try to push things.

"You're remit is data collection on Coretta Castleberry and her associates. You will prepare written weekly reports and submit them to me. I may appear at any time and review your operation and if I consider it either too risky, too unprofitable or at fault in any other way, I will shut it down at once and brook no complaints."

He looked at the others in the room, besides Sherrie. "I'm telling all of you this for the single reason that some of you like to exceed your orders. Don't do it. You can't go haring off after the smallest scent, you can't engage in a battle in this country -- or any other -- without my full knowledge and concurrence.

"Some of you will have noticed that this building is rather larger than your requirement. You will be headquartered in the lowest level, three stories below ground. The next higher floor will contain guard and check points. The top two floors will house the company offices of two infantry companies -- both Ranger and/or Airborne soldiers. Those details are still being worked out.

"One of those captains, Captain Richardson, is senior to you, as of this moment. He is, however, not a major-designate as you are. Come the first of December you will outrank him. You have to deal with it and so will he. Those companies will be your strike force, should the need come. Colonel Morrison and his son will be here within a month and they will handle their training and operations planning. Until then, Gimu can keep them on their toes."

"You are to develop assets, gather intelligence, and if Coretta is located, you will devise a plan to eliminate her and her assets with as little collateral damage as possible. I will talk with you at length about that further, in private, Captain.

"Right now, begin planning the Port Harcourt leaflet drop -- amongst other things I want pros and cons, risks and advantages. Gimu, you will help Captain Richardson with that at the onset, until you are sure she has found her feet."

He grinned. "I'll leave you to it."

They went back to the flight operations building and Mr. Smith said he needed a few words with Captain de Ruyter and that the rest of them should check out their quarters.

Sherrie would have rather gotten right to work, but Gimu insisted on showing Sherrie her quarters, with Weaver in tow. The building was, Gimu told her, a former barracks for crews on nuclear alerts during the Cold War. Sherrie's small suite had belonged to a mission commander, a colonel, while the room next door was Gimu's and the room on the other side held Weaver.

The barracks were inside a high fence with guards walking the perimeter. Sherrie looked around at the nicely fitted suite and sighed. "This used to be a colonel's?"

"Yes, Sherrie-chan. Please, my friend, go in the bedroom." Sherrie would have balked, but Gimu waved at Weaver, indicating that he was to come along.

She waved Weaver to sit on the bed, but put her hand on Sherrie's sleeve. "Sherrie-chan, this next is important to me, do you understand?"

"I think so," Sherrie said, not truly certain what the other wanted.

Gimu moved in front of her and looked at Sherrie. "Please, do not wig out. This is important to me. I am going to put my arms around you and hug you, Sherrie. I would be ever so grateful if you would hug me back."

Sherrie shrugged. The last time Gimu had done this there had been a few mild digs, but nothing really out of line.

Gimu wrapped her arms around Sherrie, and Sherrie decided that if she could give Weaver sisterly hugs, she could do the same for Gimu. It took a second to realize that Gimu was softly crying on Sherrie's shoulder, and her grip was very tight.

Finally Gimu pulled back, and wiped her eyes with her sleeve. "I am sorry, Sherrie-chan, sometimes I am weak when I should be strong."

"I don't understand, Gimu."

Gimu nodded. "Yes. You see, first I am going to make you angry. Then I'm going to insult your intelligence and then I will demonstrate that you have difficulty tying your shoes laces together and have yet to master connecting the dots."

Sherrie laughed. "I'll take my chances. I got the shoelace thing down when I was six." Well, sort of. She'd done it for practice -- mostly she had shoes with velcro tabs.

"Sherrie-sama, it is generally known that I am a lesbian and that Giri and I were lovers. In Tokyo, Giri went with Weaver and the consensus was that she had rejected me and that I found solace in your arms. We did, after all spend time naked together in the bath, and I did rub your back. Americans, as I told you Sherrie, see being undressed in a totally different fashion than the Japanese do."

"Well, in that case they have it wrong, don't they?" Sherrie told her friend.

Gimu shook her head. "You understand Sherrie-sama that they acted on those assumptions. They put someone cute and attractive next to you and crossed their fingers."

Sherrie thought about that for a moment. Sergeant Major Morrison wasn't cute and attractive, and Gimu was broadly hinted that it was a woman. That meant it was ... She blinked in consternation.

"De Ruyter?"

Gimu nodded sadly. "We think so, Sherrie-sama. Right now Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones are asking her some unpleasant questions in less than pleasant circumstances. We've definitively tied her to Colonel Edgerton, where there was never supposed to be a connection."

"Good God! There must have been a hundred times she could have opened the door when I was asleep and shot me!"

Gimu shrugged. "We will talk about motives and goals directly. Sherrie-sama, some of senior people think you and she were secretly having an affair."

"Well, I'd say we both actually felt a great deal of antipathy for each other. Sex between us was never going to happen."

Gimu smiled slightly. "It was very strange, Sherrie-sama. I told Mr. Smith that it should be you who talked to that woman to see if you could flip her back to the other side. He said he would consider it, but honestly doubted that it was possible."

"Me?" Sherrie said. "I couldn't talk to someone like that."

"You could, Sherrie-sama. You see, you didn't know it, but we could see it in the reports that de Ruyter submitted. Any antipathy there was, was from you towards her. She'd come to like and respect you. Her reports were initially very biased and slanted. One day, they stopped being anything other than accurate."

Sherrie suspected she knew what day that was. "I swear, there was nothing between us. Ever."

Gimu grinned. "I figured if a beautiful, clever and intelligent woman like myself couldn't seduce you, a clumsy double agent was going to strike out. I just wanted you to know what some people think."

"And you think this was going to make me angry?"

"I wasn't sure. You are taking it better than I thought."

"And now what?"

"Sherrie-sama, please sit next to Weaver. This first part he has figured out, the second eludes him as well. This sort of thinking isn't what you've had experience with -- it's not actually difficult, but it does take practice."

"Connecting dots?" Sherrie asked and drew a nod from Gimu.

Sherrie sat down next to Weaver and looked up expectantly at Gimu.

"Sherrie-sama, you are an army officer, and soon you will be going to the premier school for general officers on the planet. They would not have nominated you for this honor if they thought you weren't adequately prepared."

Sherrie laughed, "Well, I have three college semester-long classes to finish in the next two months. I'm not as well prepared as all that."

"But you have read about the importance of initiative on the battlefield, have you not?"

"Yes, the American army is working on new ways to increase the effectiveness of our combat soldiers. Keeping the initiative is part of that. A good part of that."

"I will ask you some questions then, Sherrie-sama and I would ask you to think about them, but not answer them, not at first. I would prefer that you not ask questions either until I finish."

Sherrie shrugged, totally unprepared for what was about to come.

"Sherrie-sama, please contemplate a simple question. Who has the initiative? You or those attacking you?"

In spite of having simple directions, it was all Sherrie could do not to speak quickly. Instead, she bit her tongue and thought about it. It had to be a trick question. Coretta had attacked Weaver and then Sherrie. The police had come for Weaver and his family, and then more men had come for Sherrie and Weaver. Then more people had come for her in Iraq, maybe a coincidence, but maybe not. Then they'd come again. Edgerton, de Ruyter ... all seeking to kill her.

What was hard about this question? How could it possibly be tricky? She looked up Gimu and shrugged; sure that the easy answer was wrong, but unsure how it could be.

Gimu gave one of her high, tinkling laughs. "Weaver, Sherrie-sama, is used to more complex plots, so he reached the right answer first. Please, take the first incident where Coretta attacked Weaver and then you."

"You just said it, Gimu, she attacked us. I responded by calling the cops."

"What you say is true, Sherrie-sama, but you left out a very important thing. If you were a police detective working on a solving a crime, one of the elements you have to prove beyond a reasonable doubt is motive. Think now, without talking. Did Coretta attack Weaver at that moment for the hell of it? Because she couldn't stand seeing him sitting in the corner reading? Or was there some particular reason why she chose that time?"

Well, Sherrie remembered Weaver thinking it was because Coretta saw him reading a book that Coretta believed was on anime and that reminded her that Weaver was already known in other countries for his work with anime. She saw the book and had responded violently.

That word, though. Responded. That didn't sound like Coretta held the initiative. You don't respond when you have the initiative, you force the other side to respond.

In fact, if you thought about it, there had been a degree of hysteria and perhaps even panic in Coretta's actions. She had totally lost control of herself, Sherrie was sure of that. The question then became, why?

Weaver was famous in Japan. What did Coretta know about Japan and anime?

"I can't ask questions?" she asked Gimu.

Gimu giggled and shook her head. "Now, who had initiative when the police came for Weaver?"

Again, logically, it had been with the policemen Coretta had sent. Except it was clear that Gimu didn't think it was an offensive move, but a defensive move. What had Weaver done to Coretta? Maybe it would be better to phrase it, 'what had Weaver done to Coretta that had caused a precipitate attack on Weaver?'

For about a minute she flailed uselessly, then she focused on the question. Weaver barely knew Coretta existed then. It was something Weaver had done -- probably something having to do with anime -- that had angered Coretta. Again came the question about what did Coretta know about Japan and anime? That led to another question. It surely seemed as if it was important to Coretta, so that begged the question: why was it important?

The answer, when Sherrie thought about what Weaver could have done was clear. She turned to Weaver. "How long was it between when you signed your movie deal and when the cops came?"

Weaver glanced at Gimu, who nodded. "We inked the deal early Friday morning, my time, Friday evening theirs. They put a press release out right away, but I'd been asked not to mention it until Sunday, our time, so that it could be announced in the Japanese papers on Monday. I put up a notice on my site on Sunday evening. The attack was three days later."

It was, Sherrie thought, totally bizarre. Okay, Coretta was a nutcase -- that much was clear. But what could she be so angry about that would drive her to respond so quickly and so dramatically?

She lifted her eyes and met Gimu's. "Giri? Surely not Giri, too?"

"Sherrie-sama, while I didn't know the assassin personally, I knew of him. If he'd been paid to kill you or Weaver or both, you'd be dead. If an outsider had tried to interfere in Yakusa business, they'd have been killed instantly and without compunction."

"Well, the attack on my house had to have been them trying to gain the initiative," Sherrie told her friend.

"Sherrie-sama, when someone commits sepuku, there is a twist they are supposed to make with the knife at the beginning. That hurts a very great deal and your ability to make another twist and then complete the deed is supposed to be a measure of your strength, courage and honor.

"I still believe it to be a reaction, albeit to the events in Tokyo. They waited until the initial sadness of Weaver's loss had passed, and then tried to kill him and you. It was a very poorly planned attack."

"Four guys from the ocean, four from the landward side and a sniper?" Sherrie asked, curious. It didn't sound like a poor plan to her. Of course, there was the incontrovertible fact that the attack had failed spectacularly.

"They scouted for three days before the actual attack. It gave the marshals time to bring in reinforcements, who it is clear that the attackers hadn't noticed. The sniper took out two of the guards, but there was still shooting going on. Someone should have been smart enough to either change the plan or fall back."

Gimu laughed. "Oh wait! The sniper pulled back!"

"Surely you can't think they were on defense in Iraq?"

"Yes I can," Gimu shot right back. "That attack came right on the heels of Sergeant Conejo's visit. It was an attempt to take one or both of you out because they were afraid of what the sergeant would say and what you would make of it."

Sherrie sighed. "You're saying the Coretta has been on the defensive all this time."

"Not so much on the defensive, but reacting to external events, instead of initiating events herself. This leads to an obvious question about what the true reasons for the attacks have been."

"Coretta is secretly trying to become the 'Master of All Anime?'" Sherrie joked.

"If you think you are such hot stuff, Sherrie-sama, perhaps you can tell me the single most important fact we've learned to date? Can you do it, Weaver-san?"

Weaver flipped her a bird. "Gimu, rub my nose in it long enough and even I notice."

"Notice what?" Sherrie asked.

"The obvious," Weaver said. "I'm still trying to work it through."

"What's obvious?" Sherrie asked.

"Sherrie-sama have you heard the phrase 'Necessity is the mother of invention?'"

"Yes, of course."

"I leave it as an exercise what assumptions are."

"What are assumptions?" Sherrie asked.

"The father of all mistakes," Weaver said wryly.

"Not seeing the forest because of the trees in the way," Gimu agreed. "Not being able to connect the dots."

"Okay," Sherrie said, a bit testily. "What's the big thing in front of my nose that I can't see?"

"Sherrie-sama you don't see it because it is not there. You have read the reports and you were busy assuming, based on your knowledge of events and your assumptions about your enemy."

"I tried to keep an open mind," Sherrie told Gimu. "Come on, what's the big deal?"

"Sherrie, in the reports you and I saw Coretta hitting me that day at your house," Weaver observed to Sherrie.

"Yes, of course."

"Sherrie, there are no other reports of her being seen since then except by her parents. Zero, zip, nada. The last reported sighting was from her parents the night before she disappeared. She went to bed at a normal time without a fuss."

Gimu nodded. "There is no way to be positive when she left because no one saw her leave. At three-thirty AM, her father's credit card was used at an ATM to pull out cash. Someone in a bulky parka, wearing a ski mask, a stocking cap and gloves walked up to the ATM and spray-painted the camera, and then took the money.

"Ten minutes later a half mile away at another bank, her mother's credit card had $600 cash removed. Ten minutes later, Coretta's card was used, cleaning out her bank account. Two thousand dollars gone in thirty minutes. The same MO was used at each bank -- someone whose identity was totally obscured, blanked the camera and took money out. We've shown the films to Marion Castleberry and her husband. They both assure us that they can't be sure if it was Coretta or not."

"And since then," Weaver told Sherry. "Nothing."

"Nothing? But it has to be her!"

"You can make a circumstantial case, Sherrie-sama, but it would never fly in court," Gimu lamented. "Not only has no one fingered Coretta, but no one has seen anyone in the background that might have been her. We have assumed her presence, but confirming it? That's not happened.

"Take for example a simple case. A friend of Coretta's ran away a week after Coretta and Coretta's other friend did. There was never a direct connection to Coretta, even though they were good friends.

"Six months later the girl was found dead of a drug overdose in a crib in the worst part of Chicago.

"It is a special miracle that we learned anything at all, Sherrie. The parents of that girl had twin twelve-year-old daughters. Aghast at what happened to their older daughter, they moved downstate to a rural area. No drugs there!

"The detective who did the paperwork on the dead girl had a twelve-year-old daughter himself, so, after the body was found, he accompanied it back to the parents. There were a lot of tears, and he gave them his card in the faint hope they might learn something.

"When we went to track the girl's death down, we had a terrible time because while Phil Richardson remembered the incident, and a few other of their coworkers remembered it -- the police reports for the girl were gone. All of them, including the initial missing persons report and the paperwork associated with her death.

"Because the family remembered the sympathetic cop, and still had his card, we tracked him down. He told us that a guy named Sammy, a small-time drug hustler in those days, was leaning on a light post near the downtown bus terminal when a guy and a girl came out. The guy offered Sammy ten bucks if he could find them crib space. Sammy was only too happy to cooperate, particularly because it was an abandoned house ... ie, he pocketed the money.

"The guy said his name was Rick and spent most of his time screwing the girl. When Sammy woke up the next morning, Rick was packing his bag, while Sammy thought the girl was still sleeping. Sammy, not exactly a standup guy, offered Rick a hundred bucks if he could shag the girl. Rick, he said, laughed, 'No man, I bang 'em for a few days, and then get tired of 'em. I give the bitch a hot shot and split. This is thirty-seven.

"Sammy was, we think, appalled at the idea of wasting a girl, but whatever, he was enough of a citizen to check her and see she was dead. He called the cops, but when they arrived, Rick was gone. Do you know how many wasted-looking Hispanics in their twenties, with gang tattoos and crew cuts, there are in this country?

"And that kind-hearted cop? He'd lied on the paperwork anyway. He'd said it was a straight overdose, because he'd have had to do a lot more paperwork if it was a homicide. Nothing about anyone who looked at all like Coretta -- the only odd thing the detective remembered was that he was a little surprised the girl had turned out to be Anglo -- because she was dark-skinned. He thinks she might have had a tan. That was November, so she didn't get it anywhere around Chicago."

"A will-of-the-wisp, the Scarlet Pimpernel," Weaver said, sounding frustrated.

"That's right. And consider this: that report about Sammy went up through channels and four days later Sammy got into a fight with someone and was shot dead. Sammy had hit the big time, more or less, because of Rick. He told the agent that was investigating the events that Rick had given him the idea of charging people for crib space. When he was killed he owned a half dozen condemned tenements and was raking in big bucks."

"She's never been seen? Not ever, not since she left home?" Sherrie asked, still mulling it over.

"Not ever. Like you heard at the meeting in Iraq. We have no names, no pictures, no nothing."

"The way I see it then, Gimu," Weaver announced, "is that she's dead and someone else took over hating us, that or she's being very, very careful not to be seen, which maybe we can use against her if we flash her picture around, or she's working through surrogates while sitting next to Osama in his cave in Afghanistan."

Gimu slapped her thigh and giggled. "Oh, Weaver-san! Sometimes you are almost as funny as Sherry-sama! There are a couple of possibilities that you missed."

"Small potatoes," Weaver said, but he did sound a little wary.

"Weaver-san, have you seen pictures of Michael Jackson? Perhaps she's had a treatment that made her white like you?"

Weaver frowned. "I suppose..."

Gimu laughed again. "Extend the idea ... she had cosmetic surgery. Why stop at skin color? A different face!"

Weaver whistled.

"And Weaver, one more thing, my personal favorite -- Snip, snip! Now he's John Boy Walton or something like that."

Even Sherrie's jaw dropped at that. "She's a he?"

"Sherrie-sama, we can't find Coretta. She's dead or hiding. If she is hiding, wouldn't she try to change her appearance? Why stop at half measures?"

Weaver nodded. "You know, that's kind of interesting when you think about it. She's been interacting with a lot of male-dominated societies -- Hispanic and Muslim. Still, we do have her DNA, don't we?"

"It wasn't an easy thing, Weaver-sama. We do not, for instance, have her fingerprints. Evidently, unknown to her parents, she went through their house in the days before she left and cleaned every surface she might have touched. We checked at school, but it was years later and we couldn't definitively isolate her prints.

"Her mother described her as a 'health fanatic' spraying some sort of bug juice on her bed every week or so. I don't know if it killed bugs, but it destroyed the DNA in her skin cells that sluff off of our bodies naturally. We found none of her fingerprints anywhere we looked. We got lucky on a DNA sample, finding some hairs, complete with follicles, on an old doll that she had slept with for years, but then the doll had been packed away in a box and forgotten.

"We think it survived where almost none of her other personal items did, because it was in a mislabeled box that had never been unpacked and was in the back of Marion Castleberry's closet. There is no telling when it was done, but all of the other boxes of Coretta's old personal effects were found empty."

Gimu looked at Sherry, then at Weaver. "She planned this carefully, jumped into a hole and covered it up. We've already started collecting DNA from the known participants. We are going over the physical characteristics from known participants but her physical appearance now has too many degrees of freedom.

"She once was five eight. The opinion is that a motivated person could have changed that two inches either way, and just to be safe, we added another inch. We think she is somewhere between five five and five eleven. We can't be sure of the weight, skin, eye or hair color." Gimu shrugged. "Not to mention her gender. That isn't a description that anyone can use."

Sherrie looked at Gimu. "I missed it, and I'm sorry. Once Mr. Smith told me they were trying to keep the information about Coretta in bins -- things they knew for certain and things they guessed were hers. I never realized that there was almost nothing in the 'For Certain' box about Coretta."

"That is for certain, Sherrie-sama," Gimu said, followed by high-pitched giggle. "One of the things you must do when approaching a mystery like this is periodically go back to the barest fundamentals, reviewing everything, absolutely everything, to make sure that you aren't making unwarranted assumptions. Coretta has been uncommonly effective, as you say, in removing certainty from our knowledge about her.

"She is using that uncertainty as a shield, a magician's cape to distract us, I think. We don't actually know any of her motivations. Yes, it appears that there is something about Weaver that upsets her greatly. Something, one would think, having to do with Japan and/or anime.

"But there is nothing there, Sherrie-sama. Nothing. You would not believe the number of man-hours that were expended trying to determine if Coretta belonged to any of the same bulletin boards Weaver did in those days. We think it was the girl that went missing shortly after Coretta -- her mother reports that Coretta spent a lot of time at the girl's house. The mother suspected they were both using drugs, but since she was an addict herself, the mother didn't care. They spent a lot of time in the girl's bedroom together with the door locked.

"The computer was stolen a few days before the girl vanished, along with other household items. It was thought to be a simple burglary ... or the girl herself scoring for some drugs. The ISP suffered a fire a few weeks later and was put out of business when their uninsured hardware was destroyed. They undoubtedly had offsite backups of their data, but in the intervening years, it has vanished. Once again, a dead end.

"But, think about it. It means Coretta was, from the earliest times, proactive about cleaning up behind her. She was thinking about this, and, I'm quite sure, ruthlessly planning on sacrificing people around her who knew too much. In fact, anyone who knew anything at all."

Gimu snorted. "It is very frustrating, Sherrie-sama. I have never heard of a puzzle like this; nor has Mr. Smith and his associates. Usually there are threads and strings that you can pull on and start to unravel the puzzle. Except Coretta has spent more time, I suspect, looking for threads and strings than she has on trying to kill both of you combined.

"I have already presented my analysis to Mr. Smith. Given the absolute best case: we find some of the others she has with her, who haven't been nearly as careful. We follow those to the heart of the plot. We frustrate it, or if nothing else, swoop down on them after a tragedy. I told him that I'm sure that Coretta has already prepared another hole to hide in. That we will want to carefully follow the evidence about the bodies we find -- we'll want to look particularly carefully at how they were killed and who might have done it.

"First she was supposed to be a drug addict on the streets. I wouldn't be surprised to find she's never used drugs, Sherrie-sama. Then we think she was associated with a semi-cult church. Then a drug gang and now al Qaeda. She is a chameleon or perhaps a shadow would be a better metaphor. There is almost no trace of her after she passes. We can see some things we think she's caused -- but we can't even be certain that she is the actual person responsible. Mr. Smith mentioned a lieutenant with the title of 'rubbing out Sherrie and Weaver.'"

She looked at Sherrie and Weaver. "We can't even be sure of that, because of who has been killed or captured trying to get at you. It is impossible to think she has so many army colonels in Counter-Intelligence that she could afford to give one away. Yet, by having him involved with gathering intelligence on Sherrie, it almost guaranteed that at some point he'd be found out."

"It must have been a terrible shock," Sherrie said quietly, "if what you say about the obvious change in De Ruyter's reports. Edgerton would have noticed, wouldn't he? He would have known his days were numbered."

Gimu nodded. "We aren't sure. However, we now have both of them and have just started de Ruyter's interrogation. Edgerton is not only in a secure location, he's as secure as a human being can be.

"He was reluctant only for a few minutes, and since then we've wrung him thoroughly dry." She cackled and Sherrie added two and two, connected some dots and came up with the term: "water boarding."

"His connection to this comes from a fellow he met two years ago in a bar. According to Edgerton, it was a straightforward business transaction. The man started placing packs of a hundred hundred dollar bills in front of Edgerton until he reached the magic number of ten million dollars. Edgerton admits that he fancies himself as a clever dick and thought he could fool us because he's smart and we're stupid.

"Imagine his chagrin when he found that he gave himself away with two seconds of unguarded expression in front of someone he thought was dumb as a stump."

Sherrie laughed, but Gimu shook her head.

"Sherrie-sama, you were right about what he was thinking. And since he wasn't arrested right away, he put his thoughts into report to his masters. It may well be that they try to kill some of our generals in Iraq, or perhaps, after they come home. As you may not know from the news, but our forces are having considerable success in Iraq just now, heavily rolling back AQ and AQ is scoring one own goal after another, targeting their fellow Muslims instead of infidels."

Gimu giggled again. "Sherrie-sama, one thing I hope they teach you in your army classes is the foolishness of killing your allies instead of your enemies in a battle. One day you look around and find every weapon you can see is aimed at you and you've lost."

Gimu drew herself up. "So, leaflets, Sherrie-sama. What do you think?"

Sherrie thought for a moment. "You know what? I think we should go with that as fast as possible, regardless of anything. Coretta thinks she's covered her tracks. We'll pick photos that most resemble how she used to look. We agree that there is almost no chance she still looks like that, right?"

"Yes," Weaver said.

"She will laugh, won't she? She has to have some sort of ego, and the idea that she's fooled us completely will have to tickle that ego. She will think we are clueless and will have a good laugh at our expense.

"What we have to do is what Gimu said. Let's stop concentrating on Coretta and start looking at the others we think are with her, with the intent of finding where they are. Then we use Conejo or any other means available to study what they're doing."

"We can do that, Sherrie-sama."

"And my mother, my uncle and step-aunt -- they're still okay, right?"

"Yes, Sherrie-sama."

"If Coretta thinks we're barking up the wrong tree, that might take more pressure off our family, and perhaps us as well. As long as she thinks we're haring off after a will-o-the-wisp that no longer exists, why worry?"

"Because she seems to be a very effective worrier, Sherrie-sama."

"Yes, you'd think so. But who among all those who are dead knew her better than her mother? Even her stepfather knew her better, I imagine, than some of those dead. This will no doubt tickle the cockles of Weaver's heart, but I think we should take a much closer look at Uncle Phil and Aunt Marion."

"The thought has occurred to me, Mr. Smith and the other group, Sherrie-sama. We have delved deep into their lives and found nothing of note. One theory that was advanced is that one or both is a secret Muslim convert and fanatic, but there is simply no evidence for it."

Weaver made a face. "I've been looking at them very hard for a long time, Sherrie, and even I can't find anything."

"Even you, Weaver?" Sherrie asked, curious.

"Lets just say that as I told Mr. Smith a long time ago, I'm not going to sit on my ass and trust the authorities when it comes to keeping my ass safe. I have a lot of sources of information of my own."

Gimu nodded. "Weaver-kun has a great many fans, and after each attack, the anger has grown at whoever is doing this. Japan would have been a nearly impossible AQ target at the best of times, and now..." she spread her hands. "Now every Muslim in the country is essentially under scrutiny, twenty-four/seven." She laughed harder. "Both of them."

"How about the man who recruited Edgerton?" Sherrie said, moving to another known link.

"Edgerton gave us the names of everyone he's met; however they use four person cells. In Iraq, Edgerton belonged to at least three cells where he was the fourth person. Those were all recruits that he and Conejo put together. Edgerton's cell in Texas..." again she shrugged. "Their operational security is quite professional, Sherrie-sama. They used code names and he knew the real name only of the man who recruited him and just codes for the others. The man whose name he knew vanished long before you appeared, Sherrie-sama. He is being sought, but he was last seen in Pakistan."

"Sherrie," Weaver said, "it doesn't make the news, but a lot of times now we get information from prisoners, when asked about their contacts. We know a lot of names, a lot of aliases that we ask each prisoner about. More than once we get the response, 'Oh, so-and-so was killed in a raid. We gathered the body and fled, then buried him in secret grave.' Certainly there's a chance that it's misinformation, but there are a lot of question marks these days in the AQ organization chart. Some of those questions marks really are dead. It is making things very difficult for interrogators. Another thing that happens is that when someone is wounded, they change their name and the word is spread that he died."

"This is probably the most massive intelligence war that has ever occurred, Sherrie-sama," Gimu told her. "There was a lot of cloak and dagger stuff in the Cold War, but this time it's all about information, not so much secret agents skulking around in the night."

"Pity," Sherrie opined.

Gimu laughed again. "Indeed!"

Sherrie looked at her friend for a moment. "I'm neither embarrassed nor angry, Gimu. Well, I'm still angry with Coretta, but I've never been angry with you. Even when you rub my nose in what I don't know."

Gimu nodded, and pointed at the bed. "Sleep, Sherrie-sama. Tomorrow, early, we'll rouse you. Explain to Mr. Smith your very good reasons for going right away with the leaflet drop."

"You really think they're good?"

"Sherrie-sama, making your enemies think things that aren't true is a very good thing -- in some ways it is very difficult to do, and yet, very simple. An opportunity like this should be exploited, because you never know when it will work. Still, the true reasons should be known to the three of us and Mr. Smith -- or it will surely fail."

Sherrie realized it had been a long day, once again flying east to west. Even private jets could keep up with the sun, particularly when you start out at dawn.



-------

Chapter 17: Retreat


Sherrie spoke the next morning when they assembled at the office. Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones were there, Weaver, Gimu and Sergeant Conejo.

"I believe we should proceed with the leaflet distribution as soon as humanly possible," she told them. "It doesn't matter what our spider is likely to do. There are too many options open to her -- none of them are going to be surprise to us." She turned to Mr. Smith. "Did Captain de Ruyter have anything interesting to say?"

"In some ways, she ties things together better. She and the document clerk were in the same cell, and the cell leader was a man who taught sociology to them at the University of Michigan at Ann Arbor. When pressed she admitted that there was a fourth person in the cell who went into the FBI. I expect to hear shortly that he is in custody. The professor vanished eight months ago -- Captain de Ruyter thought that he'd been sent for training, perhaps in Iran. He is, in fact, known to have gone to Iran and is now officially listed as a possible kidnap victim there and has been since January of this year. He won't likely be back, now that we've rolled up the other members of his cell."

"And why am I still alive?" Sherrie asked.

"Captain de Ruyter hewed to the Edgerton line that you were where you were based on special influence and not capability, at least at first, and Edgerton discounted the things you did at Fort Bliss, some of which didn't show you in a positive light. Of course, and de Ruyter realized it later, that at first you were in over your head and struggling to come up to speed. She isn't stupid and knew that, in theory, you can't take someone off the street, put a uniform on them, put a bar on their shoulder and expect them to hit the ground running, managing nearly two hundred people.

"For what it's worth, Sherrie, you made far fewer mistakes than most people would have made in the same position. The promotion to captain wasn't something we requested -- in fact, if our opinion had been solicited, we would have said 'No' as it would draw attention to you.

"Then, in Iraq, you confronted Captain de Ruyter and pointed out her deficiencies -- correctly I might add. Her assignment with you was her last chance, before she would have been released back to the Army. I was -- disconcerted -- when I realized that she had developed an attachment for you."

"An attachment that wasn't reciprocated. For instance, I don't even know her first name."

"She is Captain Helen de Ruyter. Or was. She is quite aware of the seriousness of the charges that will be brought against her. She is trying, I believe, to cooperate to the full extent she is capable of at this time, but the fact remains that she had plenty of opportunity before she was unmasked and unlike Sergeant Conejo, will never be given a chance to make amends.

"As to why you are still alive -- she had come adrift when her control was removed. She had been told to take no action against you until she received orders to that effect. She knew that they knew where she was, and had to have some awareness of Edgerton. We haven't yet covered that yet in her debriefing."

"Trade craft," Mr. Jones offered, "would have it that she would have a way to contact another agent in the event of an emergency."

"It is certainly possible that is true," Mr. Smith agreed. "It would, in fact, be heartening, as it would tie more loose ends together, without expanding our spider's web. Captain de Ruyter's interrogation will continue indefinitely."

"Gimu has explained why I was incorrect to assign a gender to the spider," Sherrie told him, trying to apologize for the mistake.

Mr. Smith chuckled. "Actually, it was a very useful thing, Sherrie. The military mind doesn't react well when you are forced to tell them you don't know anything about someone who is messing with them. At some point someone would have asked the gender question and then I'd have been forced to lie, guess or tell the truth. This was better. I just cast doubt on the gender, without having to lie or guess."

Sherrie looked at Weaver. "You're the man, Weaver. Why does Coretta want you dead?"

"Coretta has shown the danger of assuming things about her," Weaver told them. "But you and I were both there when she attacked me. She was in a rage. Since I didn't even know she existed at that point, and since I hadn't spoken to her, or, so far as I know, done anything in any way that affected her, I think the source of that rage had to be enormous frustration about something.

"I've got a dozen theories, but they are all equally likely to be wrong."

"Name one."

"Well, that girl that was her friend, the one who was on some of the anime boards. I do remember her, even after all this time. She was curious, and, I think, a little jealous, because I'd already met Giri online and we were sweet on each other. As sweet as twelve-year-olds with crushes on someone half the world away can be.

"It is possible that Coretta was in love with her friend, but her friend was having fantasies about me or about Giri. When Coretta was at the reunion, someone might have mentioned my name and she might have looked it up online and realized I was the rival for the love of her life.

"The problem is, all those preparations she was making," Weaver added. "She had a well-thought out plan, Sherrie. We've spent a lot of time now tearing into what it could be, and we're not progressed much further than the day I mentioned her to Mr. Smith at the hospital. That sort of planning isn't something you can ad-lib -- not and avoid mistakes. The fact is, her attacks on me have, from the very first, had the appearance of mistakes.

"Sure, the first one wasn't much of a risk, but the police raid on my house was much more dangerous. Granted, it took a while for anyone to get interested in it -- and thank you so very much, Mr. Smith, for going the extra mile there -- but they did. That attack exposed the Reverend Johnson to scrutiny and ended that thread of her plans.

"The same thing with the attack on Sherrie's house. That terminated her plans with the gang in LA and she had to flee, just like she left the Reverend Johnson behind. Something I'm doing is making her frantic."

Gimu giggled again. "Is it always about you, Weaver-san?" she asked sarcastically.

"Well, I don't think she's panicking on purpose!"

"That is because you are not diabolical, Weaver-san. You are a simple American who has had some slight exposure to complicated plots that can exist in anime.

"You have left out ego, as a possible motivation."

"Ego?" Weaver asked warily.

"Yes. It is certainly possible that there is something to what you say, but more than one mastermind leaves a trail behind, daring the police to catch him -- or, in this case -- her. The person is so supremely confident that no one else is half as smart as he or she is, that he or she taunts those seeking to catch her.

"Suppose she doesn't like loose ends, but doesn't want to explain all those dead bodies of her former associates to her current associates? Why, they tried and failed to kill you, and she can then rub out any survivors for screwing up and the onus is then on you or the failed associates -- not on the spider."

Weaver looked at Gimu and laughed. "In other words, we still don't have a clue about her."

"Not for certain, Weaver-san. Somewhere in here is the truth -- one of our many theories will prove to be something like reality."

"You are assigning this spider has almost supernatural abilities," Mr. Jones observed.

"I don't think that for a minute," Sherrie retorted. "She's clever and thorough. If we're more clever and more thorough -- we'll win in the end."

She looked around the room. "So, we leaflet the world with what we know about the old Coretta. She has associates and those associates we know something about. What have we done so far about them?"

Mr. Smith shrugged. "We've identified about forty-five for sure. We've interviewed their families, their friends and their associates. Most of these men were once part of MS-13 and no one is forthcoming with significant information." He waved at Reuben Conejo. "I am hoping Sergeant Conejo's friends can apply persuasion and obtain information that we cannot.

"We know she has to be practicing very thorough counter-intelligence," Mr. Smith went on. "She would certainly kill anyone who violates her rules, so there aren't going to be many leaks. There are more than a hundred people we need to watch and as dire as this is, we simply don't have the manpower for that, plus if we were trying to keep watch on that many people, for certain we'd slip at least once."

Weaver laughed nastily. "I've done a lot of research in the last two years. Who here remembers Patty Hearst?"

Sherrie could see that Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones did, but she didn't and from the expression on Gimu's face she didn't either. She wasn't at all certain what Sergeant Conejo was thinking.

"She was a young heiress, kidnapped by terrorists in the mid-70's," Weaver explained. "In that case the terrorists were homegrown -- bored rich kids fighting to overthrow the rule of evil capitalists. There was a huge search trying to find her, but subsequently she appeared on a surveillance camera in a bank robbery, carrying a submachine gun and looking like she was ready to shoot.

"The rescue effort shifted gears and she was added to the list of people being hunted by the authorities. Does anyone remember how she was finally nabbed?"

"You want the official version or what actually happened?" Mr. Smith said levelly.

"Oh, the real thing, of course," Weaver said lightly.

"Supposedly we had a tip that she was going to visit a girlfriend from college. Actually an FBI agent and a San Francisco police detective went to interview a possible member of the group. When they knocked on the door, there, sitting in the living room, was Hearst."

"Tell me that Coretta will never be allowed to get away with what I call 'The Hearst Defense, '" Weaver came back.

"What's that, Weaver?" Gimu asked.

"Why, 'They made me do it.'" Weaver told her. "Hearst served a short jail sentence and went back to being an heiress. Some of her compandres shot it out with the cops and others took it on the lam. So far as I know, they all were eventually caught."

Mr. Jones laughed. "You left out the best part."

Sherrie looked at him, wondering what the best part could be.

"She and her friend were arrested by an FBI agent and a San Francisco detective as Mr. Smith said. The two officers were so excited about making the bust they forget to read either person they arrested their rights and didn't get a search warrant for the apartment. The only reason Hearst was convicted was because her family hired an expensive celebrity attorney who managed to lose anyway -- not the defense you read about in the news."

"So, Sergeant Conejo," Mr. Smith interrupted, "getting back to the topic de jour, we need to talk to your former boss, Juan Tomas."

"As you instructed," Sergeant Conejo reported, "I contacted him. He will come in a week or so. I gave him the number you wanted him to call to work out the guarantees."

Mr. Smith nodded. "That works. Now, what you need to do, Sherrie, you, Weaver and Gimu, is to go over the reports we've developed on Coretta and her associates."

For a week, day and night, Sherrie, Weaver and Gimu read reports and took notes. There were some new reports about Helen de Ruyter's interrogation, but they didn't reveal anything. Neither Colonel Edgerton or Captain de Ruyter appeared to have met Coretta. Both had been bought and paid for, something Sherrie couldn't fathom.

Why would you betray your country for money? Why would you betray family and friends to enemies that were inimical to everything that was good and fine in the world? Sherrie applied for and was granted access to de Ruyter.

"Why?" Sherrie asked straight out. "How could you do this?"

"Money, mostly," the blonde woman told Sherrie. "Sure, there were promises about come the revolution I'd be sitting pretty, but I never believed them. I'm gay and they knew it. I'd have been stoned to death as soon as they could get around to it."

"So, why?"

"Money," de Ruyter repeated. "I put a lot in the bank, in an offshore account. I didn't think I'd ever come under suspicion unless I did something more overt than just watch you. If I had to do more than that, I'd have vanished a few minutes later. I had everything all set and ready to go. The old man fooled me completely -- I never had a chance to run."

"Money?" Sherrie asked, still uncertain. "What could money buy that could make up for what you stood to lose?"

"The sweet life, you dumb fuck. I was going to a golden beach some place far away, relax with a willing maiden and a pitcher of margaritas close to hand. I sure as hell wasn't going to ever get anything like that in the Army!"

"Why didn't you kill me? You had plenty of chances!"

"Are you just stupid?" de Ruyter asked. "You don't do anything -- in the Army or as a spy -- without being told to do it. I was never told to do it."

Sherrie laughed. "You know I was sure you were as dumb as a stump before; now I know it."

The woman spat at Sherrie and instead of being angry, Sherrie laughed at her again.

"Yeah, you didn't understand the simple fact that you were supposed to exercise judgment about what you observed. You're also supposed to exercise judgment in regards to your other duties. Surely you noticed that your associates were paying a rather high price to kill me?"

"It wasn't my job," Captain de Ruyter replied angrily.

"Like I said, you're dumb as a stump," Sherrie laughed in the woman's face. "The other day Mr. Smith was explaining that at one point they thought you and I had a relationship. I pointed out that I didn't even know your first name, de Ruyter.

"Well, I know it now, of course. Like I said, dumb as a stump."

"I'm a prisoner. You're not supposed to insult me."

Sherrie laughed again. "Look in the mirror and be insulted again. You are a walking billboard for 'dumb blondes'"

She turned and walked away. Later Sherrie asked Mr. Smith what was going to happen to her.

"Actually, regrettably, not much. She was never exposed to anything with any significant classification and she has reported what she passed on to her handlers -- indeed it wasn't much. Say, two to five years in a Federal prison and then probation."

"That doesn't seem like much," Sherrie agreed with him.

"You called her 'dumb as a stump' Sherrie. You had some very good analysis there. The woman was spectacularly incompetent at everything she put her hand to."

Sherrie laughed for a second and then turned thoughtful. "You have tested her DNA, right?"

Mr. Smith raised an eyebrow. "Now that's a terrible thought! I have to say, I can't imagine that someone so incompetent could be our spider, but then, she is a master at not being who we think, isn't she?"

"I've seen them artificially age someone for the movies. So, not only could she be a blonde or a man, she might be someone her mother's age. Or her father's."

"Well, we've cleared them, at least insofar as that." He chuckled. "Mr. Jones alluded earlier to failures of procedure that could have resulted in freedom for a terrorist. I will have some people work up a syllabus and we'll have a general review of the legalities. If we do catch the spider, we want to end her career in the most effective fashion possible." He drew his thumb across his neck. "And, part of our new procedure will be to run DNA tests on everyone we meet in the course of this investigation. Each and every person we meet."

"On either side," Sherrie commented.

"Yes. It's never good when you can't trust your own people..." he paused. "You have to understand, Sherrie, that my organization's future now lies in your hands. We have been penetrated twice, and while neither penetration resulted in significant damage to national security, they have shaken the bosses' confidence in our ability to conduct secure operations.

"Because of our degree of compartmentalization, they are incorrect, but in this business perceptions are everything, as you so markedly pointed out to Captain de Ruyter."

-------

Two more days passed of intensive study, and on a Friday a little before noon, Gimu called for a break. "I have been given the task of 'Head of Security' for this operation," she told them. "I have a great deal of latitude in what I'm responsible for. One of the things I've decided on, is to keep us from getting too focused on what we're doing to the exclusion of anything else.

"So, this afternoon you will all have a homework assignment: you will report to our new armory on the lower level, where I reign. There you will select a pistol, a rifle and a knife -- at a minimum. Once you have those, you will show me how well you can use them. After that, why, we'll board a bus at 2100 hours and go on a field trip."

She grinned broadly. "To this effect, I have posted a schedule of appointments for you to see me in the back of the room. Lucky you, Sherrie-sama, you are first.

"The weekend will feature a number of surprises! Enjoy!"

"What about me?" Reuben Conejo asked.

"Did I say anything in particular about you?" Gimu asked bluntly.

"No."

"Then unless you receive some special order, you may consider yourself one of the group. Do as the others are ordered. I think you are intelligent enough not to throw away the chance you've been given by ignoring the standing orders."

Reuben turned to Sherrie. "Thank you, Captain."

"I want that woman dead," Sherrie told him harshly. "Whatever it takes."

Gimu walked over to Sherrie and stood in front of her. "Repeat that, Sherrie-sama."

"I will do whatever it takes to kill Coretta."

The slap Gimu rendered Sherrie speechless, and left her ears ringing.

"Those are not your orders, Sherrie! They are not the orders of anyone here -- not even me. Even if you are told to kill that person, you will not do whatever it takes, do you understand me? It may well be that it will be necessary to spend people to kill her. Perhaps even people in this room. But you never go into a battle preparing to accept the worst, when there are almost certainly better approaches to the mission."

She actually buffed her fingers on her blouse. "For instance, I killed the heads of the two top Yakusa gangs in Tokyo, spiked the Yokusa in general in Japan for a decade. More than three hundred men died, Sherrie-sama. The only loss I suffered was the one at the start. In a way, I am like your spider. I plot, I am careful and I am cognizant of my enemies and myself. It is like ju-jitsu, Sherrie-sama. That is a method of fighting where you use your enemies' strengths against them.

"Tonight at 2100 there will be knock on your door. Be ready! See me in the armory before that. You are first, Sherrie-sama."

Sherrie followed Gimu down a hall she'd never explored before, through a steel door and into a room where weapons of all sorts were racked. Sherrie looked around and turned to Gimu.

"What sort of weapon do you recommend? I did okay with an M-16 when push came to shove."

Gimu laughed. "Your enemies were a distance away and armed similarly."

"They had an automatic weapon."

"A machine gun is no different than any other firearm. The bullet goes down the barrel in the direction of their intended target. I read the report, Sherrie-sama. You stopped when it made no sense to stop and they assumed you would continue. You had two or three seconds before they could bring their weapon back to bear on you. You used your time wisely and effectively."

"I thought ninjas killed with throwing stars or numchuks or something like that. Bare-handed."

Gimu smiled thinly. "Sherrie-sama, we use whatever method will work best to accomplish the mission and, at the same time, the method that gives us the best chance to survive. These days ninja are just as likely to use a sniper rifle as a traditional weapon."

"So -- what do I need?"

"You need a pistol, a rifle, and a couple of knives. That's for now. From now on you should carry all of them with you at all times."

"All times? Even when I'm walking around? Shopping at the mall?"

Gimu sniffed. "Sherrie-sama -- they have come for you twice. You should have died both times, but instead you survived. If I were you, I would seek to reduce the amount of luck involved in those escapes.

"Come," Gimu commanded, gathering up a number of pistols.

"What if someone else comes for a weapon?"

Gimu laughed. "It isn't very Japanese, but it works." She held up a store window sign that said, "Back at:" and a clock face with moveable hands beneath it. She set if for a half hour and then led Sherrie through another door, into a low dark room, with firing positions near the entrance and well lit targets further away.

Gimu pointed to the nearest firing position. "Sherrie-sama, please stand there."

Gimu showed her how to hold a pistol, although Sherrie was sure she was supposed to stand sideways to the target she was shooting at, not square on to it. They ran through several dry runs before Gimu let her pull the trigger for the first time.

Sherrie had learned about weapons when she had been very young, mostly from her father, and knew that some firearms could kick. She'd fired all sort of weapons now that she'd spent more than a year in the Army and had never had that problem, even when she'd been young.

If Gimu hadn't warned her to make sure she didn't drop the pistol, Sherrie might have lost it. The first shot put the pistol over her head, both of her arms painfully wrenched. She'd nearly lost hold of the weapon as well.

Gimu had her shoot the pistol again, and again Sherrie aimed and pulled the trigger. She was better braced for it, but it was still a huge recoil.

"What kind of a cannon is this?" she asked Gimu.

"It isn't a cannon, Sherrie-same. It is a 10 mm pistol ... one millimeter larger in diameter than a 9mm pistol, which is what most police forces use."

Gimu waved down range. "Where did your bullets go, Sherrie-sama?"

"I think I put the first one on the target, the second one, I lost track of."

"If you look at your target carefully, you will see a round hole on the right, at the very edge, that wasn't there when you started."

Sherrie looked and finally saw the tiny crescent. Well, the bullet had cut the target, anyway.

"Do you see the second, Sherrie-sama?"

Sherrie shook her head, wondering if she'd gotten it into the black. She couldn't be sure if there was a hole there or not.

"Were you to look at the target to the right of yours, Sherrie-sama, there is a hole about half way between the bottom of the bulls-eye and the edge of the paper."

Sherrie saw it and blushed. She hadn't missed a little, she was six or eight feet off target and a foot or so low! At fifty feet!

"Sherrie, firing a pistol well at this range is difficult to do. You did adequately for a first effort for that. Except the shock, sound and kick of your first shot intimidated you, and after that you were afraid of your weapon and instead of squeezing the trigger, you jerked it, flinched, closing your eyes -- all before the trigger was pulled."

"Perhaps if the pistol didn't kick like a mule?" Sherrie asked, trying not to be unduly irritated.

Again Gimu gave one of her high-pitched, tinkling laughs. "Sherrie-sama! Physics! Newton! For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction!"

"I'm not sure I understand," Sherrie replied mildly.

"Sherrie, the bullet will impact with the same amount of force as the shock of the kick is, less air resistance as it goes further from the muzzle. The bullet's effectiveness is enhanced because it has a small cross-section and because the bullet was accelerated over the period of time it was still inside the barrel."

Sherrie grimaced. This was all the harder a bullet hit? That didn't seem to make sense!

But of course, she'd heard of that law of physics and for the life of her she couldn't refute Gimu's logic.

She ended up going back to her quarters with a Belgian FN-90 small automatic weapon, three knives and a 9 mm pistol that didn't seem to have any kick at all after the 10 mm.

Gimu had been dismissive of Sherrie's concerns about her lack of familiarity with the new weapons or the knives. "It is not really an issue, Sherrie-sama. Your job is to deal out death to your enemies by coordinating your soldiers -- not to do it personally. The weapons are only in case of dire, last ditch need."

Sherrie remembered Sergeant Perry so long ago telling her, quite seriously, that the purpose of the division was to keep Indians from bothering people like her as she went about her duties. That had before her helicopter had crashed.

At 2100 they were in a bus that had once belonged to a touring rock group, since defunct. It was quite luxurious, and the windows were darkened so that no one could look inside.

The trip was relatively brief, little more than an hour. Gimu spoke on the bus's public address system. "Welcome to the Lake of the Ozarks. We have rented a small resort with a dozen cabins for the next three days. It is a little before 2300 on a Friday night. We will assemble again at 2100 Monday evening for the return to the base, and at various times before that for some group activities.

"There is a bar, a restaurant, and various and sundry means of entertainment from the totally mundane bowling and fussball to tennis, volleyball, swimming, riding, boating, fishing ... there is a long list available. Between now and Monday evening rest and relax. There will be a minimum of duty formations."

Gimu picked up her suitcase and gestured at Sherrie's when they were pulling their bags from the bus. "Come with me, Sherrie-chan. I will show you our room."

Sherrie stopped. "Gimu..."

Gimu laughed. "Sherrie-chan, yes, I have decided I love you. I let my feelings get away from me with Giri -- I'm not going to let it happen again. You and I Sherrie-chan -- we are going to end up in unmarked graves."

"Not if I have anything to say about it," Sherrie told her.

"Sherrie-chan, please! One of the things we are going to do in a few minutes is review your thinking once again. Even if you were to kill the spider with your own hands tomorrow, it won't be forgotten or forgiven by your enemies. Actually, if it happens quickly, they are likely to be exceedingly irate.

"No, they will remember you and at some point in time, they will come for you -- and me, too. They will try to kill all of us to intimidate those that will follow in our footsteps. It is, after all, what they know -- I think it is all they know. They know that if their enemies killed their friends and leaders that they would slink off and hide if they could. So, to keep up their courage they will issue brags and make claims that they won't be able not to at least try to make good on."

"You mean I'm trapped?"

"Yes, Sherrie-chan. I killed a great many men in Japan. Dozens, however survived, and all of them would gain considerable glory if they were the one who killed me. It is the dilemma that one always faces when you climb on the back of a tiger. You can ride it, and after a while, if you're good, you might even be able to guide it where you want to go. Except you can never get off, because the tiger's single goal is eating you."

Gimu opened a bungalow door and Sherrie went inside. Gimu simply dropped her suitcase on the bed closest to the door and waved at the other bed, for Sherrie to deposit hers.

"Sherrie-chan, please come and stand in front of me."

Sherrie did, not sure what was happening. Gimu put her hands on Sherrie's shoulders and looked her in the eyes. "Sherrie-chan, please look me in the eyes."

"I am," Sherrie replied.

"I do not think you and I will ever be together as Giri and I once were. It is not in our karma. That doesn't mean, though, that I'm blind as to what's in my heart, even if it's not reciprocated."

"Gimu I don't know my heart. While I was gone ... there were times my whole body ached to the feel the warmth and comfort of another person's touch. Some of those times I wished very hard to see your face again."

"And I've been close to Weaver for some time. I see why Giri was attracted to him and why. However, the two of us suffer from the same curse. You're not me and I'm not Giri. Please, Sherrie-chan, come with me."

Gimu propelled Sherrie into a bathroom that would have been right at home, she thought, in a palace. The bathroom was huge, in fact, nearly as large as her house in Malibu. There was a large spa, a shower stall big enough to wash an entire NFL defensive line and gleaming fixtures and a mirrors everywhere. Gimu gently turned Sherrie around to face the mirrors, and then stood behind her, her arms once again on Sherrie's shoulders, now looking over Sherrie's head.

"Please, Sherrie-chan. Look at yourself in the mirror and see yourself."

"I see myself this way several times a day," Sherrie said dryly.

"No, you see a fantasy, one you've made up in your mind. You see a shell, a will-of-the-wisp that you've made up. Once upon a time you were a princess, you thought. Your father was a noble and you were a noble and the rest of the world was filled with lesser beings.

"Except, you found your father was mortal rather than noble and then he was killed. In all of this time, Sherrie-chan, you have never looked under the hood. You haven't lifted up the rock to see what is underneath."

Sherrie chuckled. "You think I'd find myself under a rock?"

"I don't know where you will find yourself Sherrie-chan, I just know that it is important that you do. Weaver and I have had many talks. All of the people around him, even you, underestimate him. He found you many years ago, but knew you hadn't found yourself.

"Weaver, Sherrie-chan, is the best of us all."

"I suspect you're right," Sherrie agreed.

"But Sherrie-chan, you are almost as good as he is. Once, I told you that you would one day realize that you were a ninja at heart. I hadn't realized how deeply you refuse to look at yourself."

"I still have no idea what you are talking about."

Gimu gave her high tinkling laugh. "I am going to teach you, Sherrie-chan. You and I, Sherrie-chan are going to spend the night in bed."

"I thought you said we weren't..." Sherrie's voice trailed away.

"We aren't. Remember that. Right now, I want you to completely undress and then lay face down on the bed."

Sherrie laughed. "I thought you said..."

Gimu snapped at her. "And I know I told you once that in Japan when a person is nude, they are simply undressed. They are not saying, 'Let's fuck!'"

"This isn't Japan," Sherrie said.

She never saw it coming, there was no warning. Gimu's hands had been on her shoulders. Suddenly the world vanished in a red haze of pain and Sherrie's next conscious thought found her on her knees.

"Sherrie, get out of those fucking clothes and get in the fucking bed, on your belly!" Gimu demanded.

Sherrie moved her shoulders and turned to face the woman. "That hurt."

"I told you, I am a ninja. I told you that a ninja does not learns his or her trade in a boy or girl scout camp. When you displease a teacher, they use pain to teach you respect, to teach you to pay better attention and above all, to learn to obey. Get on the bed!"

Sherrie worked her shoulders again and climbed on her feet and started on her uniform. In a few minutes she was down to bra and panties. "All the way?" she asked.

Gimu started to lift her hands and Sherrie hastily pushed down her panties, and then unhooked her bra. A moment later she stretched out face down on the bed.

"Close your eyes," Gimu demanded, and Sherrie complied. A moment later Sherrie felt Gimu sit down next to her on the bed. Gimu's finger left a slightly wet track down Sherrie's spine.

"That, Sherrie-chan is a tear. I do not want to hurt you ... but it's that or see you fail, and most likely die.

"Once I told you that you had the heart of a ninja." Gimu laughed bitterly. "Learning to see the world around you without coloring it with your own experience is hard to learn to do, even a tiny bit. Yet, you must do it. No, Sherrie-chan, I was wrong. You are not a true ninja. You are daimyo."

"I don't know that word," Sherrie told her.

"Literally it means 'great name.' Functionally they were warlords in feudal Japan."

Sherrie chuckled. "I'm not a warlord. We don't even have them in the US."

"True, but you don't understand that you are a true lord of war. It is why they want to promote you, Sherrie-chan. They can see it. You took a group of men and women and welded them into a unit that would have followed you to hell and back. And they weren't even warriors."

"Two of them tried to kill me," Sherrie said sarcastically.

"Aye, Sherrie-chan, it is true you have enemies and that they plot against you. It is a measure of the person what the nature and quality of their enemies are. You must understand that if you are daimyo, Weaver is shogun."

"Another word I don't know, although there's a book and movie by that name."

"Prince or regent," Gimu told her. "A man who commands the daimyos under him."

Sherrie didn't want to say that so far as she could tell, Weaver commanded his fans and little else.

"Now please, I want you to close your eyes and drift. Once again I am going to ask you some simple questions -- and, as before, I want you to think about them only, and not tell me what you think the answer is. I do not, in fact, think you will need to talk unless you need to pee."

Sherrie chuckled. "Do shoguns and daimyos have to pee?" she asked lightly.

"Close your eyes, Sherrie-sama. Drift, relax, focus. This is like before, where you need to learn to connect the dots."

"Whatever," Sherrie said, a trace of the old, evil Sherrie in her voice, a trace she instantly regretted.

For a few minutes Gimu rubbed her shoulders, first working on the two nerve clusters that had brought Sherrie to her knees, then spreading out. It was, Sherrie found, very easy to just drift off...

"Sherrie-chan, once again a simple question. In your battle with the spider, you have changed, have you not?"

"Of course," Sherrie replied.

"Hush! Speculate to yourself on how your enemy might have changed -- and I don't mean whether or not she still has to sit to pee."

"I don't think there is any way to tell," Sherrie said honestly. "Sure, I imagine she's changed, but what those changes are -- we'd need to know a lot more about her than we do."

Gimu literally ground her teeth. "Some people need to speak their thoughts to form them. Sherrie-chan, that is a great weakness. Run the timeline without speaking! First Coretta came for Weaver herself. There had to be a reason for that! That reason almost certainly had to override immediate concerns for personal safety."

"She was pissed at Weaver," Sherrie repeated. "I thought we talked about this the other day."

"We talked hypotheses. We know little, so we have to use a variety of assumptions to cover what she might possibly be up to.

"Tell me, Sherrie, you've seen the results of the spider's planning. Do you think that if she was seriously intent on killing Weaver, that she wouldn't have done so at the first opportunity? Did the weapons she bring to the task that first time actually pose a risk to Weaver's life?"

Sherrie chuckled helplessly. "How can you make any sense out of this welter of suppositions?"

"Because, Sherrie-chan, some make sense and others don't. Combine those that make sense in each scenario and then perhaps you can draw conclusions. You, dear heart, simply refuse to see patterns.

"Now, please, when an enemy is not intending on killing all of their enemies, but they attack the weakest ones, what is that called?"

Sherrie didn't need to think much about that one. "Terrorism."

"Exactly. And what is the best thought about what the spider is up to these days?"

"Terrorism," Sherrie parroted.

If Coretta hadn't been trying to kill Weaver, could it have been terrorism? But, that left out the important question: you used terrorism to keep your enemies from opposing you and to change the overall context of the conflict to one that offers the terrorist more opportunities. How was Weaver opposing Coretta? He'd been dubbing anime cartoons in the first instance, later getting ready to make a cartoon in his own right. That simply made no sense.

Certainly, someone could have been professionally jealous, but the attacks would have been intended to kill Weaver. What if the attack on his house hadn't meant to kill him? Why? Why try to terrorize him into ceasing his activities?

Sure, he could have given up anime, but what would Coretta gain? In those days Weaver Gold had a following but it wasn't very large.

Gimu gave one of her high-pitched giggles. "One real possibility is that Coretta has the hots for Weaver's body and can't brook the idea of rivals. It is a hypothesis that fits more of the facts than most others."

"She has a funny way of showing it," Sherrie quipped.

"Perhaps, but realize that Weaver should have been killed both times. It would have taken one of those police officers two steps to open the door to his closet. They could all see the closet door. If they'd directed a tithe of the bullets they fired at the computer towards the closet, Weaver would have been dead. Instead, they shot an inanimate mass of metal and plastic, over and over again.

"At your house in Malibu, they should have killed Weaver. The ranges weren't very long and the weapons more than adequate to the task. A competent marksman should have sufficed. Instead, they failed. In fact, the attackers failed abysmally. Half of the defenders who could shoot back died in the first few seconds, killed by someone we never caught. Regardless, the attack by the others promptly stalled and never went anywhere. Still, the last gunman -- or gunwoman -- escaped easily and without a trace."

"When I was driving Weaver back to Malibu after his parents were killed, I was telling him why I so depressed. He laughed at me, particularly about my inability to think of a job that a millionaire could do without feeling hemmed in.

"He gave me a long list of occupations, one of which happened to be secret agent. Most important of all, he made it clear that he didn't think much of my ability to think outside of the box. I spent hours trying to do that, and got nowhere. The other day you listed all those things about Coretta that I'd never dreamed about. And now, again today. Gimu, tell me the truth? Are you really sure I'm such a hot shot? Or am I just a fine salesperson, better qualified than most, to motivate people?"

"Sherrie-chan, what I think you can do is beside the point. What counts is what you can do. I am a person who has long studied these sorts of arts and you have just begun. Now, I am going to use a time-tested method and see if that works. Sleep tight, Sherrie-chan."

Gimu had never stopped rubbing Sherrie's back. It had been soothing and relaxing. She wasn't sure what the difference was, but there was something different all right! One second she was awake and the next she was drifting in a dream.

Maybe a nightmare would have been a better description. Nothing Sherrie could do changed it. She was standing with a dozen soldiers, listening to someone report that the huge building they were in was being pumped full of gas. A half dozen of those with her started to put on gas masks, but Gimu had laughed and farted. "Natural gas!"

Sherrie peered around her, knowing only that she was in some vast sort of building she didn't recognize, with dim shapes visible, but not recognizable. After the third time she flashed back to Coretta, beating on Weaver. In spite of what she remembered from the actual event, now Coretta said something different. It wasn't greatly different.

She remembered it as, "The little faggot fucker just sits there and won't talk! I'll make the faggot fucker talk! You watch!"

Now, instead of saying "fucker" she was saying "lover" instead. For the life of her, hearing Coretta say it three times, she was no longer positive about what she had originally heard.

Finally, the scene in the huge building repeated twice more, then there was a flash the last time and she was pretty sure the building had exploded. She wasn't sure, because that was the instant she woke up.

She was in the bed, Gimu sleeping next to her, as nude as Sherrie was. Sherrie rolled over and lightly kissed Gimu on the nose and rolled back, intending on going back to sleep. Gimu's soft whisper chased her back to slumber. "Ninjas never sleep, Sherrie-chan. And being naked isn't always about sex."

This time when Sherrie dreamed, Gimu was talking to her once again. "Explain betrayal to me, Sherrie-sama!"

"You break an oath and work against your friends and allies."

"Forget oath breaking -- it is working against family, friends and allies. That and nothing more. How many ways can you betray someone Sherrie-sama?"

"I imagine there is no limit," Sherrie replied.

"Imagination is indeed infinite, and so are people," Gimu agreed.

"Does that mean I finally answered a question right?"

"Sherrie-sama, you've never answered a question wrong. You have, a time or two, touched on what is likely to be the correct answer, and sometimes you have left out many other possible answers, but always you have answered rightly."

"I've completely changed some answers."

"And you think the rest of us haven't? The spider is a very vexing person, Sherrie-sama. If I hadn't already been sure that she was a student of anime, I would have suspected it. A student of anime and Japanese culture in general. Did you read anything in the reports of her interest in Japan or the Japanese, anime or other cartoons?"

"No."

"It isn't there. As was said, we think the one friend was interested in them, but even so, we can't be sure to what extent or if Coretta was interested as well. There is a lot of betrayal in Japan, Japanese culture and anime in general. All sorts of things are betrayed."

"So, Coretta has lots of examples to base her ideas on?" Sherrie asked.

"Indeed so, Sherrie-sama. However, Weaver too has had the same exposure and the results are vastly different."

"It's trite, I suppose," Sherrie answered, "but different strokes for different folks. Some people float their boats in champagne and others in shit."

"Perhaps, Sherrie-sama it is something more overt. A life-changing event."

"What kind of life-changing event would change a person into a monster? What kind of life-changing event would cause you to betray others?"

The dream-Gimu gave one of her tinkling laughs. "For some, the experience was undoubtedly unpleasant and terrifying. For Edgerton, with someone putting piles of money in front of him, it probably wasn't unpleasant at all."

The dream-Gimu reached out and picked up a small brush like what Sherrie imagined artistic Japanese and Chinese caligraphers used and shook it over piece of snow white paper. A dozen tiny spots of black appeared on the sheet and then, one by one, they started growing in size, until finally some of them merged and eventually the paper was entirely black.

Then the real Gimu was shaking Sherrie awake. "You are not as much fun as Giri to sleep with, Sherrie-chan! When she woke up in the middle of the night, it wasn't my nose she started kissing!"

"I thought we weren't going to have sex? Just be nude in bed?"

Gimu's dainty tinkling laugh was deeper this time. "Oh, Sherrie-chan! You are so funny! I said it wasn't always about sex! Sometimes, of course, it is!"

She swatted Sherrie playfully on the butt. "Now, Captain Richardson needs to get her pretty bottom out of bed and shower, dress and be ready to meet Sergeant Conejo's former master."

"Sure, but first, I have a question for you, Gimu."

"Ask away, Captain, sir!"

"Last night in my dreams you and I talked about betrayal. Coretta is typical, right? She seeks pawns to command, getting them to betray those around them. Then she betrays them as well."

"At least, we think she does," Gimu corrected Sherrie. "Yes, that is common, garden variety betrayal, Sherrie-sama. You work to convince allies of your enemies to aid you in secret, to the detriment of your enemies. Betrayals come in all sizes and shapes, from one school girl sharing a secret given to her by a friend, to plotting the overthrow of your government or the murder of a member of your family."

"It should work two ways, right?"

"It should," Gimu agreed again. "But, remember that your enemy is very careful. She is not going to let members of her group spend the time with an outsider necessary to convert them to another cause. And someone who was isolated for a time like that, would immediately fall under suspicion and would be subject to intense scrutiny on their return."

"How can we possibly hope to win?" Sherrie said, despairing.

"There are four or five dozen of them and hundreds of millions of us who despise them."

"We need," Sherrie declared, "to get a better handle on her associates. For one thing, we clearly haven't expanded our investigation far enough into them."

"I'm not sure why you would think that, Sherrie. There has been an enormous amount of investigation done on this."

"Empirically, it hasn't been enough, because we've never found a candidate who could be Coretta. Somewhere, each time she's appeared, there has to be a connection to someone who is really Coretta."

Gimu nodded. "You are correct, Sherrie-sama."

"And we need to do a lot more searching on where the people she's with actually are. We are going to need Juan Tomas to ask questions of people in such fashion as we get answers."

"You understand, that his methodology in interrogation won't be up to American standards?"

"I'm sure of it," Sherrie told her. "But I was thinking last night that Coretta is like a metastasizing cancer. She is spreading from place to place. Even if she is Port Harcourt, she will have people out setting up a new location. At least one new location. She's been doing it, so far as we know, one location at a time. At some point she'll start up two. Who knows how many sites she'll end up with?"

Gimu nodded. "At some point we will find a point of traction, Sherrie-sama. After that, most times, things unravel quickly."

"I hope so," Sherrie whispered.

Gimu turned and faced her, reached out and put her hands on Sherrie's shoulders. "This time, my friend, I know I will hurt you. You can be angry with me as you wish. Before you meet with Sergeant Canejo's master, I want you to think about the men and women in your unit in Iraq, who were hurt when the bomb exploded. Think of Mandy Gold, Marilyn and Ben Gold and all the others dead because of this one woman's twisted ambition.

"Then, and only then, will you be ready to negotiate with him."



-------

Chapter 18: Juan Tomas


Sergeant Conejo's former boss was an older man of about sixty-five. He was slim and erect of carriage, carrying himself with an ease and elegance that bespoke of long years in command.

He stared at Gimu of all people. "We meet again," the man said civilly in unaccented English.

"Yes," Gimu replied sparingly.

"You know him?" Sherrie asked Gimu.

"Yes, Sherrie-sama. It was thought that perhaps someone other than Sergeant Conejo should invite him to this meeting and provide assurances that he would be allowed to leave."

"And you did that?" Sherrie persisted.

"Of course, Sherrie-sama! Your general had six guards -- this one only had four. I pointed out to him that if we desired his death, he would have died then. But, we wished him to help, so I offered him the invitation. The American Ambassador to Columbia is currently his house guest."

The man nodded. "It is barbaric, I know, to trade hostages, but still..." He spread his hands. "It works."

His eyes shifted focus and Sherrie glanced over her shoulder as Weaver came into the room.

The old man reminded Sherrie of a hawk eyeing a small bird, wondering if it would be worth it's time to devour.

"I'm Weaver," her cousin said. "We've met twice."

The old man tipped his head slightly, studying Weaver. "Not that I recall."

"I was the one who stopped your people in Cartagena two weeks ago. And the one who stopped your people in Miami six days ago."

Sherrie winced.

"You cracked our computers the first time," the old man said, "the second time?"

Weaver grinned and pulled out a piece of string and tugged on both ends. It was visible for just a second, before vanishing back into his pocket.

The old man's smile was wintery. "Ah! You are a clever young man!"

"I wanted to make a point. We wish your help."

"To stop the one Reuben calls the 'spider?'"

"Yes."

"In Africa?"

"There and elsewhere," Weaver replied.

"South of your border, then."

"Everywhere," replied Weaver firmly.

"Why would I want to do that?"

"New Orleans, with Sergeant Conejo. New Orleans, three days ago when they killed your people again."

The old man studied Weaver again. "You are -- well informed."

"You have no idea how well informed."

Juan Tomas waved a hand at Sherrie. "And this woman? Is she yours?"

Weaver smiled. "Better to say, I'm hers."

Sherrie felt Juan Tomas' stare as an almost physical thing.

She regarded him in return levelly and without expression.

The old man turned to Reuben. "You have fallen in with the some very odd associates, Reuben."

"Jefe, these are true men -- and women. They stand with you, no matter what. You have no idea what it is like."

"I have read about it, Reuben. That one American soldier is worth ten of any other army, no matter how brave or how well trained."

"It is true, sir. And, sir, it is more like two hundred -- and I'm not exaggerating."

"And this one, she too is worth at least ten?" he waved at Sherrie.

"Jefe, once in a fight she killed seven fighters, two of whom had a crew-served machine gun. Alone. Nine men attacked her house, one survived by fleeing."

"That was the personal thing you talked about?"

"Yes, Jefe."

The old man turned to Sherrie and grinned at her. "And if I pulled a gun?" A pistol appeared in his hand, barrel-down, at his side.

There had been too many things for too long. Sherrie's hand went to her belt where her 9 MM was holstered. She drew and fired an instant later. He froze into stillness.

He'd started to lift his pistol as she started to move, but had been too late. He saw the half dozen weapons leveled at him and grimaced. "I would like to think I could say I was getting old."

The pistol vanished, and he rubbed his ear and then looked at his hand. "No blood," he said, as if surprised.

"Get Sherrie-sama angry and she doesn't miss," Gimu said mildly. Of all of them, she was the only one who hadn't moved.

"Your spider isn't in Port Harcourt," the old man said. "I have two men now with the MS-13 group there. They say there never was a woman in command. Alovar -- he set up the operation in the beginning, but he vanished two months ago, right after the attack on me. Now Mariposa commands. I know him of old -- he is a pederast and not likely to be a tool of your spider."

"Perhaps the spider prefers to be a fly on the wall?" Sherrie asked. "Perhaps she works through figureheads?"

"Alovar?" Juan Tom said. "He would never accept orders from a woman. Not ever, not even if his life depended upon it. Mariposa might be controlled by a male lover but even that would be a stretch. And never by a woman. None in MS-13 would willingly be led by a woman."

Sherrie looked him in the eye. "It is now possible for someone to visit a surgeon and stop being one sex and become another. You can change your face, your height -- even your skin color, if you wish.

"Once before she was associated with a man who liked his partners young, although we believe he preferred girls."

Juan Tomas regarded her calmly. "You think she has done this?"

"Juan Tomas," Sergeant Conejo interjected. "The government has applied the full power of their investigations to finding this person. They not only don't know what she looks like, but they don't know the name she uses now -- they know almost nothing for certain. She has tried to obscure her identity in every means possible."

"And you're sure who it is?" Juan Tomas asked levelly.

"Sir," Sherrie told him, "someone is killing a great many people -- that is incontrovertible. Someone bombed your hacienda ... that too is certain. All roads seem to lead to her. I suppose someone of extraordinary cleverness could be using her as yet another shield to obscure their identity, but there are reasons we believe she is the ultimate source."

She explained Coretta's attack on Weaver and her intervention. Then the attack on Weaver's parents and his computer. She talked about the attack on her house, and threw in what Reuben Conejo had told them about his betrayal in New Orleans.

"So, you see we think we know who is at the center of things -- but you're right -- we know very little for certain. You said you had information about Port Harcourt."

He reached into a brief case and pulled out a thick wad of paper. "This is the result of my investigations into Port Harcourt. The one survivor from the bombers named names, but they aren't there any longer. One is stated to be dead, but the others have vanished, 'working on something else' we were told.

"Reuben has told me that you've learned how difficult it is to work there and the futility of trying a direct strike. This irritates me, as I too suffer the same problems.

"Further, the local interests feel there is sufficient competition at present and won't tolerate interlopers. I have tried three different approaches to another groups there to make common cause against the MS-13 group."

He smiled thinly. "However, of the two machines they took there, a local group put enough lead into one that it crashed before it could return to its base. The second has had an engineering failure. At last report, they weren't sure they could fix it. If they don't fix it soon, it won't matter. I've killed all but one of the pilots and the survivor's days are numbered."

"We need to know all you can learn about the ones you and we have identified -- not just their names, but their families, friends, girlfriends -- as much as can be learned," Sherrie told him. "Someplace the spider is hiding, trying very hard to obscure her existence. Still, she exists and has to have some way of controlling all of this. Someone, somewhere is in command and giving orders.

"I can't believe that none of her people have gotten in touch with their families and friends -- I can't believe that none of them have bragged to someone on the outside how they are fooling all of us. Someplace there is a chink in the armor -- we need to find it and exploit it. Because it is for certain she has other plans and those plans aren't going to be a good thing for any of us."

He snorted. "Not a good thing for you, perhaps. Me? I doubt it!"

"What was the purpose of the attack on your hacienda? How many knew you wouldn't be there? The woman is a terrorist, sir. That's how she works. She shows you an iron fist and hopes that your fear overcomes your boldness."

"You are saying that attack wasn't meant to kill me, but to intimidate me?" He seemed incredulous.

"That a good question, sir. How many people knew you'd be gone?"

"I go every Sunday to the same church, to light a candle for my mother and to say the rosary for her soul. I have never missed." Again, a thin smile. "Three times people have tried to kill me there. They always fail."

"So, the attack was deliberately timed for when you weren't there, Jefe," Reuben told him.

Juan Tomas shook his head. "That is sheer stupidity! I do not bow to intimidation! Even if they killed me, it wouldn't change anything! Were I to show such weakness, the hyenas would rend me limb from limb within a few days! It won't happen, and I have appointed successors who would also see to it."

Gimu spoke up. "I am ninja, as you know. My skill is approaching anyone and killing them. However, ninjas have other skills as well. One of those skills is replacing one leader with another more in line with my master's intentions. Another skill is to make an enemy do some of my work for me. Obviously you went to war with MS-13 after the bombing. What if that's what she wanted?"

"The men who ordered it were from MS-13. Why wouldn't I exact revenge for the death of my family and friends?"

"None," Sherrie responded. "We've noticed though that lately the spider tends to use other people to remove people she is finished with. It would be a way for her to war on MS-13 without it being obvious."

Juan Tomas looked at her for a few moments. "It took a while before I could get people into Africa. It has become a very dangerous place. But ... with sufficient money and motivation anything is possible. We started raiding them and killed a dozen or more of them. More importantly we intercepted a cash shipment back to the US -- a hundred million dollars. The head of MS-13 spoke to me directly and said that I could keep the money, that he would give me the heads of the men who had ordered the attack and another hundred and fifty million on top if I would cease operations against them in Africa.

"As I said, Africa was expensive in terms of men and money. I agreed and what I got was four heads in a barrel of wine. Three of them were men I knew I wanted. The fourth head was supposed to be Alovar's but it was unrecognizable. He had, they told me, resisted interrogation."

He smiled thinly. "I had a lab in Cartagena run the DNA tests ... it wasn't Alovar. So I demanded him and the other two remaining names on my list. We are at war still, but there is a lull, because, they'd given me the additional money." He laughed lightly. "After paying me a quarter of billion dollars they aren't sure any number of particular men is worth additional losses.

"For all of that, Mariposa has recovered pretty much all of the territory he lost in the first attack. There are nearly four hundred of them and the cost of directly attacking them would be prohibitive."

"Unless of course, you let it be known that you were no longer looking for allies, that you are certain of victory." Gimu giggled after she said the words. "That would have a certain irony."

Mr. Jones laughed. "And, guess what? Once one of the big players lets a whiff of vulnerability escape, the hyenas come out of the woodwork. Suggest that they aren't careful with their money shipments and it will become a self-fulfilling prophecy."

Juan Tomas nodded, his eyes bright.

"Do you think this Alovar is still alive, just no longer in Africa?" Sherrie asked.

"Yes, I have no idea where he might be. If he shows his face his days will be numbered in single digits."

"What we need to do, sir," Sherrie told him, waving at the stack of files he'd brought with him, "is go through this. We need to learn a lot more personal details about the men who are working directly for the spider. She might be unknown to most, but she can't be unknown to all of them. She might be highly effective at what she's done, but I can't believe she's not keeping a good eye on them."

Juan Tomas shrugged. "Occasionally a man I trust steals from me. I might not be your idea of a businessman, but I am one nonetheless. Yes, there is supervision, but generally speaking, I have trusted lieutenants who do that -- they go to remote operations and see how things are going. We use modern bookkeeping methods -- it is very hard to skim, and of course the penalties are severe. Most men, almost all of them, are content with their slice of the pie, and know that if they try for a larger slice, like as not they will die."

"But some try," Weaver told him.

"Yes, some try. If you look through the files and compare them with yours, later we can meet and discuss additional tasks for me."

"Just so we have all our cards on the table," Mr. Smith told him. "We are chasing a mass murderer who is, we believe, planning a massive terrorist attack on the United States. We believe that the person who is undertaking this was born Coretta Castleberry. We are assisting you in finding the people who bombed your hacienda and those who ultimately gave the orders. You are helping us locate them as well, as well whatever person Miss Castleberry has morphed into these days.

"We do not guarantee your immunity from any action you take without prior consultation with myself or Captain Richardson. Talking about it with Sergeant Conejo won't suffice. However, for deeds taken in coordination there will be a specific immunity granted.

"And, of course, we never had this conversation if the matter becomes public."

"Of course. Mind you, when it comes to my principle targets, I will notify you in advance -- I won't be seeking approval."

"We understand that," Mr. Smith told. "We'll also be exchanging information, although we are going to limit ourselves to giving you our files only on individuals you specifically ask for."

"That is fair. As you know, I informed Sergeant Conejo of the names I was interested in, and he says that the material will be here shortly."

He turned and walked out of the room without saying anything further.

Reuben sighed. "I think that went well."

Sherrie nodded. "How many names did he want information on?"

"Six, one of them is the spider. However, the one he most wants is Carlos Hurtado, his former son-in-law. Carlos hadn't been to church in years, but went that Sunday. When the word of the attack came, he vanished in the confusion and hasn't been seen since. Another of the names is Pablo Escobar. Pablo is almost certainly helping Hurtado -- he wasn't in the house when the attack came, although he should have been."

"I've been working on the spider's table of organization," Weaver announced. "There are too many blank boxes and lines of responsibility that we aren't sure of. I'm going to dig into these files and integrate them with what I know."

Sherrie kicked herself. You'd think the idea of doing a Table of Organization would have been one of the first things an army officer would think of.

"And," Weaver continued, "the amount of money they lost to Juan Tomas, that is very interesting. We know that this Mariposa fellow in Port Harcourt sends Los Angeles fifteen percent of their take. There are a bunch of bank transfers and about two thirds of that actually goes to the gang."

Sherrie looked at him. "Weaver ... how could you possibly know that?"

Mr. Smith looked like he swallowed a lemon. "I keep telling Weaver that one of these days he'll make a mistake and come to a bad end."

"I have a lot of fans, Sherrie. It spite of grouchy over there, the Feds are letting me put anything I want on Weaver Gold's server down there in the basement of NSA. And my fans, well some of them, are pretty good at hacking just about anything on a computer that exists. Everyone knows that if they get caught it's curtains if it's the bad guys and the slam if it's the police. Still, they are working at this night and day, some of them. On my site there's a file download that lists MS-13 payouts to all sorts of people."

Mr. Smith nodded. "There are heart palpitations in some quarters in Los Angeles, San Francisco, Sacramento and DC. Since Weaver only posts confirmed information, it's almost certainly true. Which means that the people involved don't dare try to stick it to Weaver directly. He'd just use discovery and get the real records and they would be looking at prison time.

"The FBI has conducted a couple of raids, and while they haven't found bundles of cash in anyone else's freezer, they have opened a couple of safe deposit boxes that had a lot of unreported cash. Now most of those names are trying to throw up a smokescreen to delay inquiries."

Weaver spoke soberly. "I'm hoping that if there is any MS-13 connection to Coretta that I'll make it too expensive for them and they'll have to drop her. Except of course, I don't have any way for sure yet of figuring out where she is. I've tried following the money, but there are places where the money is physically transferred from one bank to another. I get the records on one of those, but we're still working on the next one."

"We should talk to all of those people," Sherrie said darkly.

Weaver shook his head. "Most of these people are the banking equivalent of peons. They get an order and they execute it -- it's not their job to pay attention or question those orders. Banks are a service industry and when you're moving millions of dollars through their institution, there are all sorts of ways the bank can make money ... and they are only too happy to perform whatever services their patrons ask for."

"Time!" Gimu said loudly! "We're taking a two hour break to go bowling! Lunch is on me!"

Gimu wouldn't listen to anyone's protestations that there was work to do; instead she hustled them out of their conference room, outside, across a parking lot and into bowling alley.

Sherrie hung back, long enough to draw Gimu's attention. "Sherrie-sama! Get some shoes! Find a bowling ball!"

"I haven't got a clue how to bowl," Sherrie told her. For sure! The old Sherrie would have turned up her nose at anything so tediously blue-collar.

"Well, you are lucky! In ninja school our master was a completist! He prides himself on being able to use any weapon that comes to hand. He's particularly fond of bowling balls. Few targets would let a man get close with a sixteen pound sledge hammer, but laugh at someone carrying a sixteen pound bowling ball!"

Gimu took Sherrie in hand and quickly got her fitted with a pair of bowling shoes and then found her a bowling ball. "This is on the light side, Sherrie-sama. You may which to switch to a heavier ball once you have the hang of it."

Some of the others were already throwing balls down the lanes, knocking pins down. Even Weaver got some.

Gimu stood poised. "Watch me, Sherrie-sama, then you try it!"

Gimu took a few steps and the ball went zipping down the lane. It hit the pins at the other end and it was loud noise, a virtual explosion, as pins went everywhere. When the movement stopped, all of them were down.

"See, Sherrie-sama! So easy a caveman can do it!"

Of course it wasn't that easy, and it took Sherrie a couple of attempts before her ball would travel all the way down to the pins. "You will get better, Sherrie-sama! This is much easier than connect the dots!"

Sherrie flipped her a bird, but Gimu was laughing.

Weaver, Sherrie and Gimu were one team, Mr. Smith, Mr. Jones and Sergeant Conejo on the other.

Weaver, she found, was fair at the game, although not as good as Mr. Jones. Mr. Smith was better, but he wasn't in the same league as Gimu who almost never left a pin standing. Sherrie was glad when most times she got four or five pins, and the only thing that kept things from being worse, was that Sergeant Conejo wasn't much better than she was.

It was fun though, particularly for the third game when Gimu said that the losers would buy beer for the winners. Weaver came through with his best game, Sherrie did two pins better than her two prior efforts and Sergeant Conejo wasn't enough better than Sherrie to outdo the advantage that Gimu gave them.

That afternoon, Gimu ostentatiously belched before they started the afternoon session.

"Before we do anything else," Sherrie told them. "I had a thought earlier, when Juan Tomas was talking. I'd like to explore it."

"Certainly, Sherrie," Mr. Smith told her.

"I have been having a crash course in how to connect dots. I realize that trying to figure out the psychology of someone like Coretta is probably impossible, but it seems to me that at some point she was an average kid who slept with a teddy bear and played with dolls. But somewhere along the line that changed and she developed into something else."

She turned to Mr. Jones and Sergeant Conejo. "This is personal, and I hope you two won't mind leaving."

"No problem," Mr. Jones replied. "I'm a big boy."

"And I'm beholden to you, Captain. Whatever you want," the sergeant said seriously.

"Go work on those files Juan Tomas bought. Names, and all that. Weaver has a form he uses to put data into his computer."

"Sure," Mr. Jones said and the two of them left.

"Sometime between teddy bears and beating on Weaver, Coretta changed. I was thinking last night about Weaver and his 'video recorder' memory. Weaver, does your video recorder pick up sounds?"

"Sure."

"When Coretta was hitting you, she was yelling at you. What did she say?"

He thought for a moment and then blushed. "She said faggot a few times, maybe four times. After I heard the word I just tuned her obscenities out."

"Until last night I remembered her saying 'faggot fucker!'"

He shrugged. "Sherrie, she was hitting me. It hurt. I heard some of it, but when she started on the obscenities, I just ignored her."

"In a dream last night I heard her saying 'faggot lover' instead of 'fucker.'"

He concentrated and shrugged once again. "Maybe, I honestly don't know for sure. I heard 'faggot' and just wrote her off as an asshole who was hurting me and stopped listening."

Sherrie turned to Mr. Smith. "Sir, I've heard that there is a genetic component to homosexuality."

Gimu quipped, "You don't have it, Sherrie-chan!"

"No, but my father did. What if that really was what she was saying?"

"I'm not sure as that would be important Sherrie," Mr. Smith told her.

"Did you hear anything about my father's -- proclivities -- from your interviews?"

"No. No one wants to speak ill of the dead, so virtually no one mentioned it. We interviewed the young man involved and he was tongue-tied at the attention. Your father was a subject of his adoration and hero-worship. He was a willing and eager participant -- it was, to him, the stuff of dreams."

"I'd like your permission to re-interview my mother, my uncle and aunt."

He looked at her without expression. "Could I have some idea where you're going with this?"

"What if Coretta was molested as a young woman? Marion Castleberry said her daughter was normal when she married my uncle and it was only later that she got involved with the wrong crowd and drugs. I think it's safe to wonder if Aunt Marion had the cart before the horse. Coretta was the bad influence, using the drug crowd to advance her agenda. Somewhere in there, she did develop an agenda."

"And you think this might be a family dirty secret that no one has mentioned, assuming that it has nothing to do with this? Only a total idiot would think that."

"When you're talking about someone close to you, you go out of your way to ignore problems. I have, for instance, never asked my mother if she knew about my father being bisexual before he killed himself. I knew there was something wrong about the way he acted towards me, but I was too self-absorbed to care one way or another about it. Hugs and kisses! What the little people should give their princess!"

"Your father didn't kill himself," Mr. Smith reminded her.

Sherrie shook her head. "I don't know for sure, but I don't think he fought very hard to stay alive. And Uncle Phil is my father's brother."

"Why would Coretta call me a 'faggot lover?'" Weaver asked. "Female homosexuality is common enough in anime, but male homosexuality is rare. I have not, so far as I can remember, ever worked on an anime about gay men."

"You were talking to me about the first anime you looked at about the guy who chased guys during the day and the girl who was a virgin at night. Ummm ... did they ever get together?"

"Yeah, they did. Magic, of course. But it was heterosexual sex, Sherrie."

"What if we have her motivations all wrong? That she thought, for whatever reason, that you were gay? And that she really hates gays?"

"That makes no sense, Sherrie-sama," Gimu said patiently. "We're pretty sure that she's a guy now. Do you think she's embarrassed about still liking guys? Her mother was positive she wasn't a virgin."

"I don't know. I do know that it's a question I feel like asking some people who might not have been as forthcoming on this topic as they should have been.

Mr. Smith nodded. "It is a blind spot, Sherrie, you're right about that. I think I'm like the rest -- I don't think you're going to find anything except skeletons and your family's dirty laundry."

"My mother first, as soon as we're done here. Then my aunt and uncle. Separately, my aunt first."

"In fairness, hunches are always things you should follow through on. I know you think you saw Edgerton's expression change back there in Iraq, and I thought there was something there too, when you jogged my memories. But I'm afraid in my report it is listed as a 'hunch.'"

"I don't care if it is listed as a fart. I saw it, and it was true."

"Indeed so, Sherrie." He sighed. "I will make the arrangements. Right now we need to focus on exactly how the Port Harcourt leaflet drop will be conducted. Let me get the others back in. You were right, by the way, not to involve them."

Weaver spoke up, something he had been doing much of late. "I put together a story and Gimu helped me with it. It's not very flattering about Coretta and like as not your Uncle Phil isn't going to be happy about it."

"Tough," Sherrie told him. "What's the story?"

"The new paradigm for terrorists. Spoiled rich kid, daughter of privilege, gone bad. The antithesis of a poor, struggling revolutionary, and not at all a modest Muslim woman -- not that there is any indication she's converted. A girl who got involved in a drug gang, was recruited into al Qaeda and is now going around stealing oil, robbing banks -- and salting the money away in numbered accounts in Switzerland -- all for her personal benefit."

"Not that we know if such accounts exist," Gimu warned.

"We know they exist somewhere," Weaver riposted. "Generally we should play down anything that might seem to make her a heroic, martyr figure and instead try to make her out to be someone that AQ wouldn't want to associate with. We leave out the murder charges all together."

That brought Sherrie up sharply. "Why would we want to do that?"

"We don't want her to have the credit," Weaver told her. "We play down anything that would make her look good in their eyes, and play up everything that would make her look bad. We can justify and 'armed and dangerous warning' to go with the bulletin."

"We'll have cooperation in North America, Europe and a number of other places, Sherrie-sama," Gimu reported. "About half the policemen in the world will be looking at the photographs of her. Further, I convinced Mr. Smith to set the reward at $100,000 -- enough to raise interest among her followers but not like the reward of Osama, which is an insult to his soldiers."

Gimu paused and looked Sherrie in the eye. "What do you think Coretta's response will be?"

"I have no idea," Sherrie told her. "As much as I'd like to say we're starting to get ahead of her, we still don't have any idea about her at all. What have you done on an organization chart?"

Weaver shook his head. "We have her name in a box, and a few dotted lines to other boxes. Edgerton, so far as we can determine, has never met or heard of anyone like Coretta. It is his opinion that we are making her up as a boogeyman to justify more draconian threats and penalties.

"He told us that he was recruited by a white supremacist from Baton Rouge. That man was found dead in a ditch two months after Edgerton is supposed to have been recruited, his throat cut and a swastika carved on his chest.

"The man was Roman Catholic, but one of his cousins is a Southern Baptist and she was married to a man in the Reverend Johnson's New Orleans congregation, but divorced him when he tried to convince her that their daughter should be washed in the blood of the lamb, as administered by brother Johnson, and then the daughter could marry the Right Reverend. The girl was thirteen at the time.

"The former husband was one of those killed in the fire in Phoenix."

"That's ... tenuous," Sherrie said, not happy.

"Very."

"Still, Sherrie-sama, it is a significant bit of intelligence anyway. You have seen the lights of Los Angeles from an airplane haven't you? At night?"

"Yes, twice."

"There is an ocean of light, Sherrie-sama. Around most of the periphery the lights are fuzzy and scattered but there is also a clear and definite line and nothing beyond it -- utter darkness from the ocean. We might not be able to see what is there, but we know that there is something there, we know it's size and shape, and if we study the ground carefully, we can learn something about it's nature, even if we can't see anything in the dark."

Gimu gestured at Weaver. "Weaver-sama has been working on a timeline, Sherrie-sama. When he showed it to Mr. Smith, Mr. Smith became quite agitated and rushed off to Washington to talk to his superiors. It is almost certain that Coretta is going around building cells, probably in more than one country. Weaver believes, and I agree, that she is using a mixture of drug and terrorist connections to get them started. It is probable that some cells are in the same general areas, but don't otherwise overlap, and still mostly function according to their regular purposes. Whatever those purposes might happen to be. Since it was the spider setting them up, I can't believe they are up to any good.

"We are sure of the location in Africa, and we're nearly as sure about operations in New Orleans, Phoenix and Los Angeles."

"All of the groups seem to be doing a lot of fund raising, Sherrie," Weaver interjected.

"Does there seem to a be faster pace of late, or has the fund raising been steady?" Sherrie asked.

Weaver laughed bitterly. "Until Juan Tomas they were increasing revenue from Port Harcourt about ten percent a month. There hasn't been enough time yet, to tell if they have tried to increase revenues more than that.

"Six months ago they were bringing home a hundred million a quarter from Africa -- that was a monthly paycheck that Juan Tomas intercepted. It's grown that much."

Sherrie whistled and Gimu giggled. "A hundred million here, a hundred million there -- pretty soon you are talking about some serious money!"

Weaver nodded soberly. "In spite of my best efforts, Sherrie, we don't really know what they are up to in the US. I think in the American cities they are organized around MS-13 chapters, or at least former members of MS-13. There has been no way for me to do more than pointing them out to Mr. Smith. None of my people have anything to do with the drug gangs -- and they have almost nothing to do with anyone else.

"And we are constrained by our legal system. We've arrested a few of the ones we think are involved, but the first words out of their mouths after an arrest is: 'I want a lawyer.' We've gotten nowhere with of them. We've tried surveillance, but most of these are just low-level street punks and we don't know the names of their higher ups.

Mr. Smith picked up from there. "We've arrested a half dozen and gotten nowhere with them. It is difficult to secure convictions, as their lawyers are competent. Still, a couple have been convicted and are serving time. They have to be put into prisons where there are no other MS-13 members, as MS-13 goes after them, no holds barred."

Sherrie contemplated that for a second. "We're asking questions of the wrong people, then," Sherrie told him. "MS-13 knows who they are and know they're working for someone else. Who among MS-13 wouldn't give up an enemy if he could get off?"

Gimu clapped her hands. "Sherrie-sama! You are so good! You are learning connect the dots very fast!"

Sherrie smiled and then turned to Mr. Smith. "We need to ask them all sorts of questions. And, if they aren't willing to talk, we tell them that Columbia wants them extradited. We walk them to a plane, put them aboard and wave goodbye."

"Most of them are from Nicaragua," Mr. Smith said, uncertain. "There's no reason the Columbians would want them."

"One Columbian might. Juan Tomas," Sherrie told him. "And the prospect of that might loosen a few tongues."

Mr. Smith sighed. "Ah, rendition! I tell myself it's no different than a prosecutor shopping jurisdictions to insure a perp gets the worst sentence. Conceptually the same, but..."

He shook his head. "I need to make some phone calls. Sherrie, you and the rest of your gang should join Mr. Jones and Sergeant Conejo."

They went and joined the others going over the files Juan Tomas supplied. Nothing was said about the earlier meeting and no one asked where Mr. Smith was.



-------

Chapter 19: Investigations


Sherrie was glad that Gimu didn't mind spending the night in her own bed. On the other hand Gimu wasn't pleased when Mr. Smith led Sherrie away, well before first light, to return to the airbase and a flight to where her mother was living.

That turned out to be a rather long flight, because her mother was living on the island of Hawaii, near the city of Hilo. The flight seemed interminable, even though Sherrie had a lot to think about and when she got bored with that, she had piles of files to pour through. Someplace in one of those files, she was sure, had to be Coretta, or at least a clue towards Coretta. For the life of her, though, as the others before her had learned, "where" was the million dollar question.

They rode from the airport in a single black Yukon with tinted windows, which she personally thought was ostentatious and conspicuous. On the other hand once she was on the ground, a half hour later, she was hugging her mother.

"Oh, Sherrie! I'm so glad you are home safe!"

"The rest of the division will be coming home soon," she told her mother. "And hey, I'm getting another promotion!"

Her mother beamed and they spent a while catching up on family minutiae which her mother seemed to still have a good handle on.

Finally Sherrie had to break in. "I don't have long, Mom."

"You haven't found your cousin?"

"No, we haven't. She's causing a lot of people a lot of harm, Mom. We're going to have to dig even deeper. I'm sorry to say, that's why I'm here."

"I don't understand, dear."

"Mom, I have more questions to ask of you. They won't be pleasant, I'm afraid. But I can't stress too much how important it will be to fully forthcoming."

"Dear, I've answered every question they've given me to the best of my ability."

"Yes, I know. But now we have to go into personal areas I'm sure you weren't eager to bring up, absent any questions about the answers I suspect you know.

"Mom, how long ago did you find out Dad was bisexual?"

"That's really a very personal question, Sherrie. It doesn't have anything to do with anything."

"I don't want to be adversarial, Mom, but these are official questions. Not answering such questions truthfully were what got Martha Stewart a jail sentence. Vice President Cheney's Chief of Staff got jail time as well. Mother, this is a serious federal crime we're investigating. Coretta may be planning a major terrorist strike in the United States; something she hopes will kill more people than 9/11.

"You just have to answer, do you understand? You can't lie; you have to volunteer any information that you know, whether or not you think it might be relevant. Now, once again -- how long did you know Dad liked men as well as women?"

She looked down at her hands, folded in her lap. "He was honest with me, on our first date. He was gay, he told me, but he wanted a career in TV and that would end it. So, he told me, he was giving it all up."

"Did he?"

"I swear, Sherrie, I never knew he was having any affairs. I swear. I was as shocked as anyone about that ... that boy."

"Is there anything else?" Sherrie asked her. Her mother turned away. Sherrie realized that her mother was crying.

"Mom?"

"It was at the wedding. I'd never met Phil before -- it was before he married Coretta's mother -- that came eight years later. Marilyn was my maiden of honor and she was so happy ... she was so excited! She was already thinking of how much fun it would be, she told me, to find a nice guy and get married.

"Phil was your father's best man, which put him together with Marilyn a lot. The ceremony seemed perfect; Marilyn was crying but I thought it was because she was so happy for me. Sherrie, Phil got her in a closet and he made love to her -- except it was the next thing to rape."

Sherrie looked at her mother without any expression on her face. "Then?" she asked, trying to keep all emotion from her voice.

"We got back from the honeymoon and Marilyn was just a wreck. She was crying half the time -- I thought she might kill herself. Sherrie, Phil is bisexual like his brother. He told Marilyn that he -- well, liked doing it in the backside best of all. So that's how he did it to her. It just devastated her. Then, a few years later, Ben came along. He was so kind, so gentle, so understanding! He was perfect! I can't believe they're dead! It still doesn't seem real.

"Marilyn told Ben about what happened, and he told Marilyn that while Phil might be an evil man, they were civilized and that they would show Phil how truly civilized people could live. He got Marilyn to say she forgave Phil, but she didn't, not really.

"That night at the reunion dinner, Marilyn had hysterics. She wanted to have Phil arrested for what he was saying about Weaver; for what his daughter did to Weaver. When your father told her that wasn't possible, she brought up what happened at the wedding. Your father convinced her that after so long a time, no one would believe a rape allegation."

She looked up and met Sherrie's eyes. "It bothered me, Sherrie. It really bothered me, then and later. After that ... I didn't like your father that much. He didn't act surprised at all -- it was like Phil was a known quantity. Once, he even laughed about it. 'That's Phil! He'd nail a barn door if it ever turned its back on him!'"

Sherrie grimaced. Yeah, there was a lot to be said about letting sleeping skeletons lie.

Her mother went on, "I hated having to call Phil when Marilyn and Ben were killed, but everyone, including your father, talked about what a great lawyer he was and that he could win when anyone else would lose. I wanted someone to pay for what happened to Marilyn and Ben."

Her mother started crying and Sherrie leaned close and hugged her. After a few minutes, her mother dried her tears. "I don't see how this can possibly help, dear."

"I'm not sure either, Mom. But something made Coretta into a monster. It could well help us catch her if we knew more about her history than her birthday and the schools she went to."

"Since the funeral, I haven't talked to Phil or Marion. When we were alone in the suite he hinted ... that we could scratch each other's itches. I wished I had a pot scrubber just then!"

"A pot scrubber, Mom?"

"For him to masturbate on!" her mother said with venom.

"Oh, Mom ... I'm so sorry."

"Don't be mad at me because I didn't tell you or those men. It just doesn't seem relevant."

"Like I said, I don't know either if it's important or not. We know so very little about Coretta that we're grasping at straws."

It had been Sherrie's intention to hop back on the airplane and head off to talk to Phil and Marion, but her mother was clearly upset by the memories, so they talked about a million things -- but not coming near Phil, Coretta, Marilyn, Ben or Weaver Gold, and certainly not the US Army!

They had a quiet dinner, and finally a little after nine, Sherrie hugged her mother one last time. "I'm sorry it's been so long, Mom. I've been so focused on this..."

"Dear, I understand that most of the people who were responsible for Marilyn and Ben's deaths are dead. I won't mind if you kill the rest of them. Do whatever you have to do, and if it takes ten years, I'll survive. Just so long as they don't."

"Mom, I'll be back sooner next time. For one thing, I have an assignment that starts in a few months that will take a long time. And it'll be here in the states. Coming to Hawaii and taking some time to lie back on the beach -- it'll remind me of home!"

They hugged once more and she went out and rode with Mr. Smith to the airport.

"I'm sorry it ran so late," she told him.

"I have a family, too," he told her. "I don't get to see them nearly enough. Every time I see them I seriously consider chucking the job."

Sherrie covered what her mother had said, even though she was sure Mr. Smith had eavesdropped on them. He listened carefully and when Sherrie finished he nodded. "That was a good summary, Sherrie, you have got the knack for it down pat!

"Now, take a nap; we're on another long flight, and worse, from west to east. It's a little after 2200 Hawaii time. In five hours we'll be in San Francisco, then another six hours to southern Florida ... throw in the five time zones as well, we'll be hard put to get there before dinner tomorrow."

"I messed up Gimu's retreat."

He chuckled. "So you did. On the other hand, there will be a shrink waiting for us in Frisco, and we'll have her advice until we land in south Florida in the late afternoon. Get some sleep on this leg, Sherrie!"

He reached out and touched her shoulder. "I conducted more than a dozen interviews with your mother. Her naked desire to see her sister's killers pay made me think that she'd have told my anything and everything that might be germane. Family skeletons? Intellectually I know they exist, but like most people I shy away from them. Why?"

He snorted in derision. "Because with Coretta Castleberry there is no such thing as being too thorough and exploring every possibility. You did good, Captain. Thanks."

She did finally get some sleep, willing her brain to be still and ignore what she'd learned. Her sleep was fitful and she woke up every half hour or so. Each time she woke up, she'd add another blanket, because she couldn't get warm. The fourth time she did it, she mentally laughed at herself. She was actually homesick for the sauna-like heat of Iraq and Phoenix.

They landed a little after 0500 in San Francisco and the maintenance people refueling the aircraft barely disturbed Sherrie who had finally gotten warm enough and was sleeping solidly.

When she awoke they were in the air again and there was a woman sitting next to Mr. Smith, talking, if Sherrie wasn't imagining it, crossword puzzles.

She went to the rest room, splashed some water on her face, brushed her teeth and combed her hair. "Sorry, I'm not more presentable," she told the other two when she finally emerged.

"No problem," Mr. Smith told her. "Captain Sherrie Richardson, US Army, this is Dr. Svetlana Carlson, a resource used by various intelligence agencies when we wish to create psychological profiles."

Sherrie shook hands with the woman. Svetlana Carlson was Helen de Ruyter, written in full Viking glory. She was over six feet tall; she was far more buxom than any mortal should be, with platinum blonde hair, eyes bluer than any glacier, and, to put it mildly, she was large-boned. Sherrie felt like a dwarf.

"Pleased to meet you, Captain."

Sherrie nodded, not certain what to say.

"I have been talking to Dr. Carlson in generalities about young women who might have possibly been sexually abused by strangers or even family members. Dr. Carlson will be with me, listening in during your interviews."

Sherrie looked at him steadily for a moment. "You want me to do them? I thought ... you would."

"You did quite well earlier, Sherrie. In a bit I will go over with you about the bait."

"The bait?"

"Yes. With those two I've made no promises about where they won't be monitored -- they are monitored every minute of every hour of the day. Waiting for us when we land will be the ultimate get-out-of-jail-free card. It is a conditional Presidential pardon that will wipe away any crime either of them confesses to. The conditional part is, of course, that if they've been less than candid with us the pardon goes away and we can charge them with anything they've admitted to."

"The ultimate stick and carrot?"

"Yes. Now, however, we need to discuss with Dr. Carlson, in general and without specifics, what the psychological effects of such sexual abuse could be."

Dr. Carlson spent an hour talking about just that. At the end the pretty shrink paused and laughed. "If I tell you any more, I'll have to start awarding degrees and worry about the competition.

"I am, I understand, to sit in on a raw interrogation?"

"Two of them," Sherrie told her. "I'm more sure than ever that I want to talk to Marion first and go slow, and see what I can see. Blanket pardons, however conditional, can wait." She glanced at Mr. Smith. "You're sure you want me to do this alone?"

"Oh, yes. I was, briefly, tempted to have Weaver come and sit in. What with one thing and another, I'm not certain he could maintain the proper demeanor."

"Weaver?" Dr. Carlson said, her brow furrowing. "Weaver Gold? Is this about that?"

Mr. Smith looked at her with exasperation. "Where am I going to get another shrink at such short notice?"

"I will be, sir, as unbiased as I can be. But yes, I am a big fan of his."

"By saying you'll be unbiased," Sherrie told the woman, "that almost certainly says that you know about what's happened to Weaver."

She nodded. "Many years ago, I was fascinated by what it was about Japanese anime that so appealed to American young women. A lot of the guys are fascinated because of the sex, but I didn't think that was what interested the young women. I've interviewed hundreds and hundreds of young women, and given out nearly ten thousand questionnaires. It's not about sex; it's about positive role models. Kick-ass women, doing kick-ass things. Ironic, really.

"After what's happened to Weaver, I'm in the mood to see justice done."

"Are you trying to change the subject, Dr. Carlson?" Mr. Smith asked, his voice tight with anger.

"Of course. Okay, I'm not as naive as I could be, going into this. That doesn't mean I'm any more likely to sacrifice my professional judgment than you are, sir. In fact, it's insulting."

"You're still trying to change the subject," he told her. Mr. Smith turned to Sherrie. "It is a tried and true sign -- someone is changing the subject when their last sentence has nothing to do with the question."

"Mr. Smith, let me speak frankly, and if this jeopardizes my job, so be it.

"People come in all shapes and sizes. The reason I'm neither a feminist or a liberal these days is because both of those belief systems insist that all women fit in one mold. The fact is that there are girlie girls who play with dolls, who can't stand to get dirty, and play dress-up.

"There is another cohort, smaller, but just as valid, of women who are adventurous risk takers. They have a sense of wonder, a sense of adventure, they're romantics with a solid measure of pragmatism. Those women, Mr. Smith, a great many of them, are fans of anime. They lack role models in our own culture. Kick-ass women these days usually have superpowers. They aren't nearly enough ordinary girls, like Nancy Drew or Veronica Mars, who use their wits and native abilities to get what they want. We need people like that, sir. You in particular.

"They find such role models, however, in anime."

Mr. Smith laughed. "I think she's talking about you, Sherrie."

"That can't be, sir. The couple of times Weaver showed me anime stories, I didn't understand them. I'd yawn and nod off."

He smiled. "Well, in that case, I will let you continue, Dr. Carlson. However, you might want to reconsider."

"What in the world for?" she told him.

Mr. Smith delved into his briefcase and pulled out a pistol in a shoulder holster. "You're going to need this."

He turned to Sherrie. "And you will need your weapons from your luggage, as well. You won't have them during your interviews, but they will be close by. I'll point out where to you, before you go in."

"And what is it about my uncle that leads you to think I'm going to need a weapon?" Sherrie asked evenly.

"Your uncle did not heed our advice. Yes, he changed his name, but he didn't change his ways. He is partner in a large law firm in Miami Beach and his wife is once again active in various charities and volunteer activities. I would rate it a certainty the Coretta knows where they are. We are certain they are being watched."

"Just to amuse me, Mr. Smith, do you have a list of those activities that Marion engages in?" Sherrie asked. He dug in his brief case and handed her a bunch of papers clipped together. The top sheet was a summary.

She looked up at him, nearly speechless. "Oh my!" Sherrie said mildly.

Mr. Smith turned to Dr. Carlson. "A week ago we were teaching Sherrie how to connect the dots, now she's teaching me."

Dr. Carlson held out her hand for the report and Mr. Smith just smiled and shook his head. "You're supposed to be naive, Dr. Carlson. You're supposed to arrive at an independent judgment, without being influenced by the investigators."

"Just so long as I can read it before I file my final report."

"Of course. There are other supporting materials, as well."

"To be objective is no more a problem for me, Mr. Smith, than it is for you. I understand your desire to try to make sure I'm as objective as possible and I can appreciate why you want to do it. This is personal, sir. Weaver has been quite candid about the events surrounding him, as I'm sure you are well aware."

"He is careful, in spite of what you might think, not to be too candid. But yes, everything you've heard him say you can take to the bank."

There was silence in the aircraft for a quite a lot longer than Sherrie would have expected, then Mr. Smith got out the pardons and went over how they could and should be used.

They stopped in St. Louis and had lunch in an airport restaurant while their aircraft was being service again and once again, an hour later they were in the air.

This time Sherrie had no trouble at all sleeping, and was still sleeping when Mr. Smith shook her awake at the Miami airport.

She gathered her things and they went to a hotel where she showered and changed clothes. Then they met again. "We have quite a contingent of security. As Sherrie has learned, not all security people can be trusted. Still, they are in teams of four and I personally randomized the assignments. Most teams have personnel from at least three agencies. That said, there will be a lot of eggs in one basket."

"Too many?" Dr. Carlson asked.

"Yes, but they would have to have a large team available and on call almost at once. As yet, neither of the subjects know there is an interview coming. The other preparations have been made with everyone thinking that a Columbian drug cartel head is coming to be deposed before the US Attorney. Juan Tomas, I think his name is."

Sherrie made sure nothing showed on her face.

This time there was a motorcade of a half dozen vehicles that traveled to the Federal building in downtown Miami. They were whisked upstairs and Sherrie was shown to a small room. "Put your weapons in the desk," Mr. Smith told her. "There is only one entrance to this room, which is good, because you will be between it and anyone else. It's also bad, because the subjects will be between you and us."

"No problem," Sherrie said grimly.

He looked at his watch. "Agents gathered up Marion Castleberry about seven minutes ago; she'll be in the building in three more minutes and ready to be interviewed in five minutes after that. Relax and enjoy. Myself, Dr. Carlson and others will be monitoring things. If you need help, say 'Oh my!'"

"Sure," Sherrie told him.

She went in and sat down at the interview table, her back to the door to the office with her weapons, facing the entrance to the interrogation room. She had just enough time to start feeling bladder pressure before Marion Castleberry was shown in.

"Miss Richardson," Marion said formally, then changed tack. "Sherrie. What is this about?"

"This is another interview, Marion. Please, have a seat."

"But you..."

"I'm an army officer now," Sherrie told her. "I am working on the investigation concerning the activities of your daughter."

"I've told everyone everything I know a hundred times."

"Well, we have to be diligent, Aunt Marion. I'm sure that you've heard the words, 'If you remember anything, anything at all, please call us.' Sometimes, Aunt Marion, we think of something small and trivial and it either slips our mind or we don't think it's worthwhile enough to bother people with."

"I haven't thought of anything."

"Aunt Marion, you have to be aware that at some point in time your daughter went from a young girl who played with dolls to a young woman who kills people without remorse. Sometimes, in spite of how well we try to protect our children, bad things happen to them. Things that might not seem terribly important to an adult, but might loom more important to a young girl.

"Can you think of anything like that, no matter how unimportant it might have seemed to you at the time, something that affected Coretta?"

"No, nothing. She had the usual number of scrapes and bruises at school. She was a bit of an athlete, a little tomboyish. She won some track and field events; she played a mediocre game of soccer. She wasn't tall enough for basketball."

"Anything, anything at all?"

"No. She took my divorce well -- she hadn't much liked Leonard. You know my ex- was somewhat bigoted? He thought white folks owed him for all his troubles."

Sherrie's first instinct was to change the subject, and then she realized that if other interviewers had done the same thing, perhaps they had missed something.

"She didn't feel that white people were the blame for the problems in the black community?" Sherrie asked.

"No, not at all. Leonard was a crybaby -- I said it often enough and Coretta was contemptuous of him as well. Everything was someone else's fault to Leonard. Sure, there's prejudice, but Leonard was just impossible to get along with, and it didn't make any difference what your color was."

"And how did Coretta react to a new man in your life? A white man?"

Her aunt looked irritated. "Don't make this a racial thing, Sherrie. I swear, the only difference between Phil and I is the color of skin and that's not important. Coretta told me that she liked Phil. He was clever, he was even more well to do than we were, and we did fun and exciting things when we were together. Phil doted on her; he was always getting her small presents or a buying her a new piece of clothing. At first I thought he was trying to buy his way into Coretta's heart, but he was like that with me too. He was like that with a lot of people. He was always giving people small gifts. He is a very giving and generous man."

"So you lived a rosy idyllic existence?" Sherrie asked, trying to keep her obvious sarcasm in check.

"Oh, not that idyllic. About six or eight months after we were married, Coretta's cat vanished one day. Tiger was an indoor cat, and he never tried to go outside, but one day Coretta called me when she got home from school saying Tiger was gone and that she couldn't find him.

"We looked all through the house; we put up posters outside, but Tiger had vanished. Coretta was devastated for a few days, but then she snapped out of it and carried on."

Sherrie carefully stamped on her emotions, letting them trickle out instead of the tsunami that was her first instinct. "Aunt Marion, in all of the interviews you've had, you never once mentioned Coretta having a cat."

"It wasn't pleasant, but we all have to learn to live with death, Sherrie. It was Coretta's first experience. Personally, I thought she handled it a lot better than other things in her personal life. Within a few months she was having trouble in school, she was running with the wrong crowd and getting in trouble."

Trees, meet forest, Sherrie thought. Forest, meet trees. You need to be able to recognize each other, because my aunt can't recognize either of you.

Sherrie pulled her briefcase next to her and drew out the pardon and turned it to face her aunt. She slid it forward. "This, Aunt Marion, is what's called an conditional Presidential Pardon. If you look at the bottom you'll see the President's signature and that of the nice fellow who is Attorney General. It's made out in your name."

"Phil takes care of all of our legal affairs."

"Yes, I'm sure. However, the conditional part of this pardon is, that if you sign on the dotted line, you agree to tell the whole, complete, unabridged and unvarnished truth about everything and anything in your life. In exchange, if you admit to any crime, you are promptly given a presidential pardon.

"The catch, of course, is the agreement becomes null and void if we find that you lied to us or omitted a felony."

"I haven't committed any crimes," Marion said, sliding the piece of paper back towards Sherrie.

For a second, just a second, Sherrie was tempted to tell Marion what she'd explained about Martha Stewart to her mother, but just as quick the impulse subsided. Her mother should stay out of this.

"Aunt Marion, Martha Stewart went to jail for lying to the FBI when they were investigating activity that later turned out not to be fraudulent. A former Vice President's Chief of Staff was convicted for lying about leaking a name to a newsman who was never charged with receiving the leak -- and it was the wrong name.

"Trust me, Aunt Marion, if there is anything in your past you're not sure of, now is the time to come clean."

"There is nothing," her aunt insisted.

"Aunt Marion, did any other animals in the neighborhood die or vanish about the time your daughter's cat vanished? Knowing that if you lie, you could go to jail?"

"You're saying Coretta could hurt an animal? That's crazy! She could never do that!"

"She couldn't kill an animal, but she can blow up, shoot, gas, knife, burn ... just about every way you can imagine a person can be killed? Coretta's been accused of all of those and other things as well. You'll find your protestations aren't going to fly far."

"I want my husband here. I want an attorney!"

"Aunt Marion, right now Coretta is thought to be allied with Al Qaeda. Under the Patriot Act, you don't have those rights.

"Aunt Marion, is your husband bisexual?"

The older woman blinked. "What? Phil? He's a hound dog! I have to keep him away from any good-looking woman!"

"Has your husband ever, to your direct knowledge or suspicion, molested your daughter?"

She turned away from Sherrie. "No, of course not."

"Aunt Marion, I'm the nicest interviewer you are ever going to face from here on out. Coretta has killed or has had killed, hundreds of people. It is our belief that she wants to run the number up into the thousands or tens of thousands. That is terrorism of the worst sort, Aunt Marion.

"People like me have taken an oath to prevent that..."

"You're part of the jack-booted Gestapo, like so many of your kind!"

Sherrie waved the piece of paper. "This is it, Marion. You're going to answer our questions. This is your one chance at a deal, your last chance to ameliorate your circumstances. This is a matter of utmost, gravest national security. This pardon is your one hope, I think, of avoiding a lengthy prison term."

"I've done nothing!"

"And a court may disagree with you, and decide that that wasn't what you should have done and throw you into a jail cell and lose the key." Sherrie held up the pardon. "Last chance, Marion."

"Fascist thug!"

Sherrie turned the piece of paper sideways, shredded it into a dozen pieces and tossed them like confetti. "Good luck, Auntie! You're going to need it!"

She got up and walked into the back room, which was, she realized stupid. If Marion knew about the door without any other exits, she'd laugh.

Still, two minutes later Mr. Smith and Dr. Carlson came in.

"I must say, Captain Richardson, I hope I never have to be interrogated by you!" Svetlana told her.

Sherrie shook her head. "That was too easy by half. I don't know why so many people can't look you in the eye when they lie. Why even bother?"

"For many people it's automatic and virtually unconscious," Mr. Smith told Sherrie. "It does make the life of an interrogator much easier. Of course, you have to be careful of not falling into the trap of expecting that when someone is lying. There are many people who can look you in the eye and lie like troopers. The reason they are watching you is to see how well their lies fly."

"Tell me about kids who kill pets, Dr. Carlson."

She reviewed with Sherrie the things she'd brushed on earlier, and then went on to talk about children who start in killing pets and graduate to family and friends and sometimes strangers.

Finally Sherrie said she was ready for Phil and the other two left. A few moments later her uncle was shown in. He immediately stuck out his hand and Sherrie shook it.

"Is there something you wanted, Sherrie?" he asked.

"I have some questions for you about Coretta," she told him. "However first," she waved him to the chair, "I have something for you."

She slid the pardon to him and explained it. He looked it over and put it down on the table. Sherrie couldn't tell if he connected the scraps of paper from her aunt's pardon to what he was resting his fingers on. He looked at her steadily for a few moments and then spoke. "I'll sign this if I can be permitted a condition of my own. That I be given a reasonable amount of time -- say twenty-four hours -- to come up with a complete list."

"That would be an acceptable condition, so long as you realize that being late wouldn't be acceptable."

"Sure, no problem." He reached into his coat pocket brought out what Sherrie was certain was an old-fashioned fountain pen and signed it with a flourish, and then slid it back to her. "Go ahead," he said levelly. "Ask your questions."

"Are you bisexual like my father was?"

"Yes, all my life."

"Do you have a preference?"

He contemplated that. "I'm not sure that's germane."

"In this, I get to decide what's germane or not. Please answer the question."

"My preference is young men in the age range of twelve to fifteen and then young women of the same age group. My particular preference is the younger end of the spectrum. After that ... I'm not particular."

Sherrie tried to keep her aplomb, but it was a stretch. "You liked young women in that age range as well?"

"Not as much, but in addition to, yes. Look, I'm not a nice guy. I like to fuck. I fuck a lot of different people. Virgins if I can get them -- there's less risk of STDs. It's hard to find forty-year old virgins, no matter how many movies they make about them."

The coldness of that turned Sherrie's stomach.

"Marilyn Gold was my mother's sister. Did you have sexual relations with her during my parent's wedding?"

"Of course. God, yes, her and two of the other bridesmaids. I fucked them all in the ass!"

"And did Marilyn or any of the others say 'No' or 'Stop?'"

"Grow up, Sherrie! If men actually stopped when a woman said no, the human race would have been still born!

"I know people like you think people like me are disgusting, but that fact is, I don't have any kids out there. And I've put smiles on a hell of lot more faces than I've put frowns on!"

"You'll want to include all those women who said 'No' Phil, because we'll be doing a lot of investigation on this."

"Muck-raking? Is that it?"

"In your relationship with your wife, did she know you were bisexual?"

"Marion wears the world's largest set of blinders. I was reading the other day that some shrink has decided that modern-day liberals suffer from clinical disease, a psychosis that renders them unable to accept reality, even if it hits them in the face or bites them in the ass. She hasn't a clue. She thinks I like to fuck her ass because I have 'a fetish' as she calls it -- instead of an aversion to fathering children."

"And your stepdaughter Coretta -- did you ever have sexual relations with her?"

He laughed. "The brat didn't like it the first time, but after that, she loved it. A few weeks before she ran away she told me that she wanted to be a guy too, so, as she put it, 'she could fuck people in the ass just like me.'"

"Do you remember Coretta having a cat?"

"Yes. The brat kicked it across the room once, when her mother wouldn't let her go play with her friends. It croaked and the next day she told Marion it ran away. She had a temper, but she kept it under control, mostly."

"Did Coretta have any interest in anime or Japan?"

"Not that I know about. Nor do I have any idea of why she blew up at Weaver and you."

"Are you aware that the word 'faggot' figured heavily in her comments to both Weaver and me?"

"I never heard her utter the word. Not ever. Like I said, she was a true convert. Odds are right now she's a he, fucking everyone she meets in the ass." He laughed as though that was incredibly funny.

"And if Coretta was in this room right now, just you and her -- how would you rate your chances of leaving alive?"

"She was a brat -- I used to hit her whenever she gave me any shit. A couple of times she tried to fight back, but my philosophy is double or nothing. You do what I want, when I want it done, or I'll kick your ass -- and then I'll fuck you twice. And if you resist, you get the same, only double again. She didn't have the nerve to fight back, not for months before she ran away."

"And you didn't connect any of your stepdaughter's behavior with your own towards her?"

"Look, I'm not a saint. I like sex, okay? I'm not going to apologize for it. Brats have to shut up and do as they're told -- it was that way when I was growing up and it's that way now. Tough shit if someone's feelings get hurt in the process. You suck it up, you learn your place, and after that, you'll get along fine."

He laughed nastily. "You don't think I won all those court cases by being 'Mr. Nice Guy' do you? Watch professional sports some time -- it's all about intimidation. You want to play with the big dogs, you intimidate them, not the other way around."

The door to the room opened and Mr. Smith came in. "Sherrie, the interview is done for now -- if there are other questions you need answers for, we'll reschedule. Mr. Richardson, outside are two Federal marshals. Please accompany them."

"It wouldn't bother me at all if the pardon was a sham -- I'll take you all apart in a courtroom. I wasn't read my rights!"

Mr. Smith looked at him like he was a tiresome gnat. "What you do or don't do is of no concern to me. The pardon is valid, the time extension you discussed with Captain Richardson to prepare your list of pardoned crimes is agreed to. You can use the next few minutes to work on that list of your crimes."

"I'd rather leave."

"You can if you wish, but two armed people, at least one of which is a known associate of your stepdaughter, entered the building a few moments ago. Feel free to take your chances."

"So, the marshals are protective in nature?"

"Yes. Now, please go with these gentlemen or we'll not be responsible for what happens next."

Phil Richardson went through the door while Sherrie went back into the other room and obtained her weapons. Mr. Smith went along, explaining as she armed herself.

"It was pure luck. Each of the entrances have cameras that allow a supervisor to check each of them. About six minutes ago, a supervisor saw that the judge's entrance only had one guard -- there are supposed to be at least two on duty at any time.

"As she was reaching for the phone, a man entered from the outside, who wasn't a judge. He went through the metal detectors without slowing, while the guard drew her weapon and fell in beside the newcomer. The supervisor tripped the silent alarm and right now the FBI is in the process of securing the building.

"We don't know their target, but it seems unlikely that you and I, Phillip Richardson and Marion Castleberry aren't the targets. Which of us -- or all of us -- there is no way to be sure yet."

"And Marion?"

"She refused the pardon. While her husband's testimony would seem to exonerate her, that's not something I'd be prepared to take his -- or her -- word on. So, she's in a cell here as well, as her husband will soon be. They will not see each other, and unless one of the marshals is a total dunderhead, neither will know the location of the other."

They had stopped before leaving the interrogation room and Sherrie wasn't sure if he was nervous or not. "Mr. Smith, I know this isn't my area of expertise, but the other day Gimu was going on about how I've changed and how we can expect Coretta to have changed. I had no idea how much Coretta has changed!

"Still, the truck bomb in Iraq ... they just came straight for my building. I heard someone say later that even if they'd rammed the building, they wouldn't have done more damage than what they did, because the building was meant to withstand cruise missiles and bombs.

"But they never got close, because they came straight in and everyone that could, was shooting at them.

"Coretta isn't stupid, and if she's read the report of that attack she's going to realize that a little razzle-dazzle would have worked better -- sort of like a matador's cape."

"You're saying that this might be a diversion?"

"Sure, you say it was an accident that someone happened to be looking when someone came waltzing in..."

"It was Alovar," he told her. "I saw the replay of the surveillance footage."

"Of course, this could also be Coretta reducing the number of people who have links to her. But it sure would be nice to capture Alovar alive," Sherrie added the last as an after thought.

"I can't believe she would send someone into a situation where there was a real possibility that they could be captured and who knew anything significant. We'd have to treat anything he tells us as possible disinformation."

He opened the door to the hallway and looked carefully both ways. "After you, Sherrie."

Sherrie put the FN-90 against her shoulder and went out, looking carefully in both directions. They went down the corridor to a set of steps and then went upwards.

"Is it my imagination," Sherrie said as they reached the sixth floor a few moments later, "or is it awfully quiet out there?"

"They haven't found them, if that's what you mean." He waved at a heavy steel door ahead of them. "The surveillance center is ahead and to the right, through two more secure doors that you have to be buzzed through. There are no door handles on this side." The door promptly buzzed; Sherrie wasn't sure if that made his point or invalidated it.

Sherrie pushed the door open a bit, and saw a half dozen men with weapons aimed at her. She laughed, "I'm with him," she told them, gesturing at Mr. Smith.

A man in an FBI jacket, wearing a bulletproof vest stepped up. "They're okay."

Mr. Smith made a come-along gesture. "Talk to us. There's nothing on the radio."

"They have a radio," the agent reminded him. "So, we're using old fashioned challenges and passwords that I just made up. The challenge is 'Homer' and the reply is 'Madge.'"

"Change it every hour. Once you change it, if someone uses the old password and you don't know them, detain them," Mr. Smith commanded.

"Yes, sir," the FBI agent replied. "We last saw them on the first floor, when they got on an elevator and went up. We don't know where they got out -- they pressed the buttons for all of the floors. Right now, we've secured all the exits, and are slowly processing people with IDs outside. For the time being, we're holding every one we let out in the outdoor courtyard area."

"Good, don't let anyone go. If anyone tries to leave, even if they have ID, detain them. If they refuse to stop -- you are authorized the use of deadly force."

"We've secured the first five floors," the FBI agent told him. "And I have teams working the others. Radio silence, though. We'll have to rely on runners. I've shut down the elevators and have men posted on the third floor in the stairways. There's no way for them to exit the building."

"This may be a diversion," Sherrie told him bluntly.

The FBI agent opened his mouth to speak, and then said softly, "That bites. I don't have enough people to take and hold the floors. We sweep and then go onto another. True, I'm sweeping three floors at a time but..." his voice trailed away in frustration. "Sir? What do you think?"

"Captain Richardson is, in my opinion, right on the money. This was too simple, too straightforward and had zero chance of success. You pulled everyone out of the lower levels except the duty guards, right?"

"Yes."

"Get someone down there and remind them to be sharp."

"Change the password down there," Sherrie told him. "Challenge is 'Pig' and the reply is 'Porky.'" It was clear to see who knew why that was a good choice -- they were the ones who laughed.

"That works," the FBI SAC told her. "Tyrese, you and Grant remind them. And for God's sake! Be careful out there!"

Two men, both tall, solid men who looked like they had once played NFL football, nodded and left.

Someone came out of the stairway just behind the two men. "Two perps are on the sixteenth floor -- they're holding Judge Hathaway's courtroom hostage!"

It was a long haul, ten floors in the stairwell. A half dozen FBI agents went first, making sure the way was clear, with the SAC, Sherrie and Mr. Smith following behind them and with a couple of additional agents bringing up the rear.

The courtroom wasn't very large, Sherrie saw as she glanced inside. There were four people the spectator's seats, being held at bay by a woman in a guard's uniform. A man, Hispanic in appearance, was holding a pistol to the head of a man in a judge's robes.

She had time for just the shortest glimpse when she saw Alovar swivel his weapon towards her. She pulled back and the bullet smashed into a small window above head level in the corridor.



-------

Chapter 20: The Big Bang


The echoes of the shot were still reverberating when Sherrie saw Mr. Smith glaring at her. "He missed," she said softly with a laugh.

"He was aiming over your head, that, or he's a terrible shot."

Sherrie's eyes went to the window. It was seven feet off the ground, and was a foot tall and six feet or so wide.

"I think I'm going to assume that he's a good shot," she told Mr. Smith. "Sooner is better than later, and the sooner this is over, the sooner we can get back to business as usual, right?"

"What do you mean?" he asked Sherrie.

Sherrie handed him the FN-90. "Here, hold this for me." She pulled the .45 Colt from the holster under her arm and slid it into her belt, behind her back.

"You can't be serious!" Mr. Smith told her. "He'll kill you the instant he knows who you are!"

"And what makes you think he doesn't already know who I am?" Sherrie inquired mildly.

She stepped back closer to the door and called, "Alovar! This is Sherrie Richardson! You know who I am -- I want to talk!"

"So, come and talk!" he replied.

"I'll put down my FN-90 if you put your pistol on the desk. Your friend there can keep hers."

"Step out where I can see you!" he demanded.

Sherrie turned to the FBI SAC. "How fast can you get a sniper outside, behind that window?" She waved at the window with the bullet hole.

"Five minutes!" he said instantly.

"I'll see if I can stall them that long. If anything happens to me, see that the woman in the police uniform dies. Mr. Smith, you'll want to run some accurate DNA tests on her ... and Alovar."

He frowned. "That's an idea too bizarre to be real. He can't be Coretta."

"Maybe ... and maybe not. No one's perfect and this could just be a really bad day for her."

She stepped through the door and looked around. Alovar was looking at her, his pistol still pointed in the direction of the judge's head, while the woman had hers covering the spectators and a bailiff.

"Hello, Alovar. I thought we had a deal? You put your weapon down and we can talk."

"Turn around!" he demanded.

"You still have your weapon," Sherrie said patiently. "There is no way on God's green Earth I'm going to turn my back on you while you have a grip on it." She turned slightly to face the woman in the police uniform. "You wouldn't do it, would you, Coretta?"

The woman blinked. "Huh?"

"I figured it out, you know. You couldn't go to one of your people to off your stepfather -- you have too much ego invested in this. Even in the smallest thing, they have to come to you. Tell Alovar that I mean him -- and you -- no harm."

The woman looked confused. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about Alovar putting down his weapon, or I'll back out of this door and you two can whistle Dixie until we kill you. You figure it out, Coretta. There is no way you're leaving here alive, unless we deal."

"Fuck you! I have no idea what you're talking about!"

"Yeah, right. Which is why Alovar there has his eyes on you, waiting for his orders. Come on, Coretta! The jig is up! You know we have Phil here! He told me about everything! How much you wanted to have a cock so you can fuck people in the ass! Just like you enjoy having a cock in your ass so much!"

For Sherrie it was amusing. Alovar clearly was waiting for the woman to tell him what to do. On the other hand, Coretta was supposed to be a master of disguise. This woman was a little older that Coretta was supposed to be, and had a different face. Sherrie didn't think the woman actually was Coretta, but nonetheless, she was sure that Coretta could hear the words. The question was, could these two hear Coretta's words? Sherrie couldn't see any earpieces.

The woman cop motioned to Alovar who had his hand out, his pistol flat to the judge's bench. He shook his head, then shrugged and started to put the pistol down on the bench table.

From the moment Sherrie had stepped into the room, she'd been running the actions over in her mind, again and again. She'd lowered her arms to shoulder height, and now dropped her right hand down, twisted and gripped the pistol grip of the .45.

She pulled it and fired once at the automatic on the bench. To her pleasant surprise, evidently it was true: put her life on the line, and her marksmanship improved considerably. It was too bad, really, that the bullet knocked the pistol at an angle and the weapon hit the judge in the chest.

She was barely watching that, though. She was turning the pistol on the women in the uniform, who, even as Sherrie was moving, was turning her weapon to bear on Sherrie.

It was, so to speak, a dead heat. Sherrie rapped off three shots in a bit more than a second. The woman in the uniform got off one that hit Sherrie low and on the left side. There was a momentary burning sensation, then nothing.

All three of Sherrie's took the woman in the chest and knocked her ass over teakettle. Sherrie, on the other hand, could still hold her hand steady. She lined back up on Alovar, who was a little slow in reacting to the fact that his weapon was six feet of open space away from him, on top of a desk that was only a little lower than his eyes.

When Alovar started to move towards his weapon she yelled stentorianly. "Freeze!"

He hesitated and in that instant the judge threw the book at him -- one of the books from his desk. It was a thick law book and hit Alovar in the chest and staggered the man.

By the time he recovered, FBI agents came in the back of the courtroom, through the judge's chambers, and grabbed Alovar, trussing him up at once.

Sherrie turned her attention back to the woman she'd shot. She sighed. If the wages of sin were death, this woman was paid up in full.

More agents poured into the room, securing the prisoner, removing the weapon from the dead woman. Sherrie didn't let any expression show on her face. This is for you, Coretta. You might think you've fooled me, you might think that you've fooled everyone, but you'll figure it out soon enough when we don't quit. Still, I'm going to tell it like I think I just shot you dead, in the firm hope that you won't be sure, and Mr. Smith is going to overrule me, just like he should. Two can play the game of misdirection!

Mr. Smith stood next to her, looking over the scene. "Jesus! No wonder Jake Morrison calls you 'Annie Oakley!'"

From down below there was a vibration, right on the edge of perception. Yeah, Sherrie thought, I do believe I've got your number now, Coretta.

She lifted an eyebrow to Mr. Smith who turned and spent a few minutes talking in whispers to the FBI SAC before he turned back to Sherrie. "That was Marion Castleberry. Since she wasn't a prisoner, we left her with her cell phone. A phone call came in just now. The agents heard it ring. She opened the phone and it blew her head off. They're still working on her, but they say she's dead."

"But Phil is alive?" Sherrie asked.

"Yes," Mr. Smith told her. "We've secured his cell phone, over his protest."

"You will want to research his past very thoroughly -- I don't believe that even if he intended on telling us the whole truth, that he could remember things perfectly. Find even one omission and his ass is ours.

"Coretta is history now, I guess. I suppose she thought she had this all planned out, but this particular plan sucked rocks. I'm pretty sure this was intended to just be the first step in her plan to wreck vengeance on Phil."

"First step?" Mr. Smith asked, shaking his head in confusion.

"Yep. One day she was going to fuck him in the ass and as soon thereafter as was practical, she was going to blow his brains out. Before then, her plan was to teach him to fear her even more than Coretta feared him."

"I don't believe that this woman is Coretta," Mr. Smith said most firmly, waving at the dead woman. "She couldn't be this stupid."

"Well, DNA tests will confirm it, one way or another. It could be she has the self-confidence to think she was perfect in her plan to destroy all of that, as well. Two mistakes like that -- who would have thought? But lets face it, if criminals were smart, they might be more dangerous."

She saw Mr. Smith realize that she was playing for the gallery. His eyes darted to Alovar and she minutely shook her head.

He shrugged his shoulders. "The big question is how much faith we can put in what Alovar tells us when we question him."

"Let Gimu ask the questions -- he will tell us everything he knows. Threaten to have Juan Tomas ask the questions -- Alovar will tell us everything he even suspects."

"But he will lie, ether intentionally, or because he was misinformed. This was a foolish plan. If Coretta had wanted her mother dead, she had but to call her at any time," Mr. Smith reminded Sherrie.

"And," Sherrie reminded him in turn, "if it's a trap, some of them are exposed to us -- and any we eliminate now, can't participate in what's to come. Without Coretta to guide them, hopefully they'll decide that toughing it out with the US Army is a losing proposition."

Sherrie stopped. "We spoke earlier of this being a diversion. We never really pursued that."

Mr. Smith cursed under his breath and grabbed one of the FBI agents and spoke rapidly to him. That man rushed off to two more, and in just a few seconds, a small herd of agents thundered into the stairwells, mostly heading down.

Abruptly Gimu was there, startling any number of FBI agents. Sherrie merely nodded in her direction.

"Sherrie-chan, you have spent more than a year in Iraq. Before that was Malibu and Phoenix. You had a pretty tan. Sherrie-chan, you're bleeding."

Sherrie shook her head. "A scratch. It doesn't even hurt."

Gimu's tinkling laugh was the almost the last thing Sherrie remembered. "Oh, Sherrie-chan! If the Ghostbusters were here, they'd be hitting you with their weapons! You're as pale as a ghost!"

Sherrie remembered taking a step forward; she remembered the feeling of blood squishing out of her boot. They were big damned boots, was her actual last thought before the world vanished around her.

She woke up again in the ambulance. Gimu was next to her and grinned. "I've never ridden with a siren before, Sherrie-sama! I am in your debt! This is so cool!"

"I take it that I'm fine?"

"Don't be silly, Sherrie-sama! You were shot! You are bleeding! The doctors think you will recover, but one of them was talking about amputation!"

"I was shot in the side," Sherrie said, with only a little of her usual verve.

"That is so, Sherrie-sama! Right now that doctor has decided that when he can walk again, he should return to medical school to learn his job and work on his sense of humor!"

"Based on your extensive medical opinion, then," Sherrie said, "am I likely to live?"

"Of course, Sherrie-sama! True, it would have been better if they'd shot you in the head -- fewer vital spots there -- but this is almost as good. Three days in the hospital, and you can return to your quarters. I will have kept the bed warm!"

"That's Missouri, Gimu. Even now, it's a little warm and more than a little humid."

"The evenings are mild and pleasant, Sherrie-sama! I will make yours the same!"

Gimu turned serious. "Mr. Smith has assigned me to be your bodyguard. We will have to forgo physical pleasures for the time being! Caesar and his wife! They are asking Alovar all sorts of questions. You, I think, could do better."

"Has Alovar said anything interesting?"

"Nothing. And even if he was talking there is no way at this point to be sure that what he is telling us is truth or fantasy. He says he's never seen anyone who looks like the pictures we have of Coretta, that he's never taken orders from a gringo, and when we ask him who he gets his orders from, he tells us that he's in command and that he takes orders from no one."

"That's a little implausible. Anyone do any DNA typing of him?"

"It's in the works; those tests take two or three days."

"Who does he say the woman was?" Sherrie asked.

"A cousin, one Carmen Quintero; we've since verified that. He says he came to kill the judge, because the judge once sent him to prison. We've verified that, pending the DNA tests, too. On the other hand, he was in prison for just eighteen months -- that doesn't seem like a good enough reason to try something this drastic. When pressed for a further explanation, Alovar said the judge dissed him."

Gimu shrugged. "I've asked Sergeant Conejo to look in on the interrogations as Mr. Smith conducts them. He's positive that the man is Alovar, but he says it's like Alovar has taken a stupid pill or something. He's not as sharp as he should be. We're in the process of giving Alovar a thorough physical, including tests for mental acuity."

The ambulance pulled to a stop and for the next hour there were pokes and prods and the occasional question. Gimu stood silently by Sherrie's side, ignoring repeated requests to leave.

This time Sherrie stayed awake the entire time; she wasn't sure if it was an improvement over being asleep and not knowing. The head doctor kept up a running commentary about what he was doing that was, as far as Sherrie was concerned, too much information.

"We've given you something for the pain," the doctor told her. "The wound is a deep graze, which appears to have bleed freely. Usually such a wound is partly cauterized by the hot bullet. You must have been quite some distance away."

"Fifteen feet," Sherrie told him.

The doctor frowned. "That doesn't seem right, there's no sign of the burn I'd expect to see. From the size of the track, I'd say it was a 9mm or .45 caliber round. Perhaps it was an under loaded .45."

"You're an expert?" Sherrie asked.

The doctor gave a wry laugh. "This is Miami Beach, Captain. I see a couple of gunshot victims a week on the table. Usually, they aren't as lucky as you.

"The track is a mixture of good luck and bad luck. It's good luck it wasn't an inch further to your right, or it would have messed up your kidney on that side. It's bad luck because a fraction of an inch to the left and you'd have had a score, but no serious injury. As it is, the bullet nicked the peritoneum, and we will have to keep you a few days for observation."

All the while he was busily working, wiping and swabbing. Sherrie suspected it was a good thing she was feeling no pain, as his movements were brisk and efficient.

"What's going to happen is that we'll watch you closely for any signs of infection. If nothing develops in seventy-two hours, we'll kick you loose, although you'll have to take it easy for a few weeks -- not to mention faithfully take your meds -- an infection inside the body cavity is a serious matter."

"I understand," she told him.

"It's going to leave a scar," he went on. "There's not much I can do about that. The wound edges aren't jagged, which is good, and I'll suture them shut carefully to reduce the scarring, but it's going to be visible, particularly if you wear a skimpy bathing suit. Actually, you'll be able to see it unless you're wearing a one piece suit."

"I'm getting a collection of scars," Sherrie told him. "One more or less isn't going to make much difference."

He frowned. "You have another injuries?"

"Yes, on my right leg."

He actually stopped what he was doing, and when he couldn't see a scar, Sherrie added, "It's on the back of my leg."

He promptly lifted her leg and peered at it.

"A mortar fragment," she explained.

He sniffed. "It must have been an unusually thick fragment."

Gimu spoke for the first time. "Doctor, you don't have the need to know. Please, make sure Captain Richardson's current wound is dealt with. That is your single priority at the moment."

"Oh, that's pretty much done. I'm killing a few more minutes until we can gave Captain Richardson another pain injection, before I suture the wound." Still, he moved back up and peered at his handiwork for a few moments.

Sherrie didn't even feel the prick of the needle, but evidently she'd been injected again, as he started sewing, neat, small stitches running the length of the wound. It took about fifteen minutes and then a nurse was painting more antiseptic on it, and the doctor spoke to her for the last time.

"Here in the hospital, we have nurses who will see to it that you follow the schedule for your meds. The only one you have any leeway on, is what we give you for pain. Within limits, you can request an earlier pill, or cancel them, if that's your wish. Be advised that if you're in significant pain it can delay your healing processes."

"I'll see how it goes," Sherrie said mildly.

"I say that because the pain meds can be addictive."

"I've avoided it before; I'll avoid it again," Sherrie told him.

He nodded and left. Sherrie waved at Gimu. "Please, Gimu, sit on the edge of the bed."

Gimu looked at her curiously. "What is it you wish, Sherrie-sama?"

"I'm going to bounce ideas off of you for a few minutes. I want you to listen to my thinking."

"I can do that as well from here, Sherrie-sama," Gimu told her.

"Yes, but there's a certain comfort in knowing I've asked you to do something and there's no good reason for you not to. Usually it's the other way around."

A smile flitted across Gimu's face and her high tinkling laugh came. "Of course, Sherrie-sama. What is your first missile for my armor?"

"I read once about something called a 'state diagram.' Basically that's a decision tree. The way I see it, Alovar was doing one of three things: he was doing as Coretta ordered him to, he was doing something on his own, without reference to Coretta, or he had general instructions to carry out a particular task as he saw fit."

Gimu pursed her lips. "Those seem like reasonable assumptions, Sherrie-sama."

"Then, there are three possible outcomes from his point of view -- complete success, complete failure or something in between."

"But you have no idea what the plan was, Sherrie-sama," Gimu said reasonably.

"True, but let's think about this for a moment. I'd be willing to bet that Coretta's penalties for taking things into your own hands are drastic -- I would rate the chances of Alovar doing this on his own, without reference to Coretta, to be the least likely event."

"I would say you're right, Sherrie-sama -- but for the fact that he's said he was on his own. That should be worth a little on the plus side of the equation."

"A little," Sherrie agreed. "But, I do believe that this was most likely masterminded by Coretta -- otherwise we'd have to believe it was a coincidence that her mother died just as we were taking the situation in hand."

"It could be that she realized that her plan had failed and she exercised an option on the back end," Gimu told Sherrie.

"Except if she knew enough to have that option available, Alovar wouldn't have been acting on his own."

Gimu pursed her lips. "That is so, Sherrie-sama."

"I think that the most likely path was that this was run by Coretta herself. But, we have to stop and think. Coretta always seems to have a long-range plan. I can't believe that if this was something she wanted, that she didn't have long-term goals that she expected to meet. I don't see how she could control a man like Alovar to that extent, without him knowing something was up. I can't believe he'd let himself be manipulated like that."

"Sherrie-sama, people do many things against their best interest. For instance, suppose that Coretta found something unpleasant in Alovar's history, something he didn't dare let come out. Blackmail would seem to be right up Coretta's alley."

"That's true. I'll leave it to others, at least for the time being, to decide if they think he's telling the truth when he says he doesn't take orders from anyone."

Gimu sat still for a moment and then nodded.

"You must not over-think the situation either, Sherrie-sama. The further down the decision tree you make assumptions, the more likely it is that you have made an error. And that's Alovar's choices. What Coretta is about is, at least now, unknowable."

Sherrie laughed. "Actually, I was just getting going. If Coretta was in charge, she had to have a plan. Do you agree?"

"If Coretta was in full or even partial control, yes, she had a plan," Gimu agreed.

"I can't believe that plan had anything to do with a judge who either sentenced Alovar to some months in prison, or who was disrespectful."

"That would seem to be true, Sherrie-sama. However, as you said earlier, sometimes people do things that seem out of proportion to the alleged offense."

"If Coretta had merely wanted her mother dead, she had but to dial her mother's phone number. Her mother died as events were winding down. I'm sure that was to cause a burst of speculation about why she killed her mother when she did -- with the intent of leading us away from the actual objective of her plans.

"There is something else going on here."

Mr. Smith, as if on cue, came in. He stood at the door of Sherrie's hospital room for a moment, contemplating the two women. "Do the two of you want the good news or the bad news, first?" he asked.

Sherrie grimaced. "Bad news."

"An hour ago Alovar began to complain about a stiff neck. A short time later, he asked that we turn the lights down. About ten minutes later he went blind."

"Blind?" Sherrie asked.

"Yes. Stone, cold blind as a bat."

"And he's not faking?" Sherrie pressed.

"He's not faking. The direction and intensity of his medical exam changed focus. It appears as though he has a form of bacterial meningitis."

"Oh," Sherrie said, not sure why that made her uncomfortable.

"The really bad news is that the disease is, to a degree, contagious. The worse news if that all of us in this room have been exposed. They'll be here shortly to shoot us full of even more antibiotics than they've already given Sherrie."

"Meningitis is a nasty disease?" Sherrie asked, still not remembering anything important about it.

"Very nasty. In theory, while it's contagious, it's not all that contagious. However it's on the official list of possible biowar pathogens. The military has stepped in and everyone who was in the Federal building earlier is being quarantined. That amounts to about two thousand people -- there will be no way to keep the quarantine secret.

"The biowar people aren't forthcoming about the dangers and risks ... however we can read into the seriousness of how they are taking this that it isn't something they are comfortable with."

"Oh, darn," Gimu said softly. "I'd rather not go blind. I would not be able to look upon Sherrie-sama again."

"Mostly, the blindness would be temporary," Mr. Smith told her. "On the other hand, sometimes the disease is fatal. The powers that be have reacted very strongly and very quickly to the possible threat."

"May I be permitted a contrarian opinion?" Sherrie asked.

"You are permitted anything that might help," Mr. Smith said drily.

"This is the first overt act Coretta has made against the US. I can't help but think though, this isn't the spectacular splash we expected. Maybe if this disease is like the great plague -- then maybe it's something serious. Otherwise, I think this a trial balloon, to see how we react and what resources we use to fight it.

"She's a terrorist at heart. She's intelligent -- and patient. I think this is a pure terrorist act, and the most likely purpose is to scare the bejeezers out of us ... so that when the real blow comes, we will be too paralyzed to react. Plus, we'll spend who knows how long worried about what's coming next, without a clue what it is -- but predisposed to look at more bioterrorism."

Mr. Smith nodded. "That is substantially my analysis as well; an analysis that I forwarded to DC. That being said, however the bosses are right: it isn't something we can take a chance with, however confident we might be about our assumptions."

He paused and listened for a moment. "The official jury is still out on how bad this is. Alovar is now unconscious and running a very high fever. They haven't determined the precise agent yet and it may take a day or two to do so. Samples are en route to the CDC in Atlanta, and a bevy of their doctors are on their way here. Department of Defense doctors and other medical personnel from Ft. Detrick are also on the way.

"The official position is that we want to hit this with everything we've got -- even if it's not a calamity, it'll be a good exercise. Alovar's cousin is being autopsied and studied as well. All of us who participated in questioning Alovar where he was physically present in the room, will be most tightly quarantined, plus any of those who were in the same room with him at any point."

He paused again. "It is unlikely that any of us are infectious ourselves at this point, but they need to isolate us as soon as possible. You, Captain Richardson, will be in the second level of quarantine, and will probably be released in three to five days, depending on what the doctors learn. Gimu, the same for you. Sergeant Conejo is also second level, but he's at another facility. I'll be here, upstairs, in the maximum containment facility since I've had considerable face time with him."

He smiled and laughed, "As soon as they get it set up, that is."

He paused again and said something under his breath. It was still a little disconcerting to know that he was continually getting information fed to him. That brought a thought to her. "Sir, how secure is your radio?"

Mr. Smith looked at her and shook his head. "Probably not secure enough, now that you mention it. While I don't think any of the penetrations of our organization would have had contact with our communications technology, you never know."

"You have a backup?"

"Of course."

"Ready to go?" Sherrie queried.

He nodded and Sherrie completed her thought. "Sir, I would suggest going to something totally different. Maybe they have your current codes, maybe not. But if I was Coretta and planning something big, I'd target your backup system, knowing that like as not you'd switch to it after something like this."

He watched her steadily for a second, and then said drily, "I don't know how well you're coming along learning to connect the dots ... but you showed a great deal of tactical ability in Iraq. And now this.

"They just about have things ready upstairs now; I'll be leaving in a few minutes. After that, we'll be in contact by phone and email only. I was just informed that Alovar was run through a routine tox-screen and it showed he was heavily medicated with a half dozen different forms of over-the-counter cough syrup. A routine chest x-ray indicates that he has TB, and a test has confirmed it. Because of his lifestyle and the TB, it was decided to run a test for HIV. The quick test isn't very good; about half of the positives it finds don't actually have the disease -- but on the other hand, if it says you don't have it, the odds are about 99% that you don't. The test says he has it. Blood work shows an abnormally low white cell count, which is indicative of full-blown AIDS.

"Coretta sent us a walking bio-bomb."

A while later he was gone, leaving Sherrie alone with Gimu again.

"I have been connecting dots," Sherrie announced.

"Ah! That is good! Which dots have you connected?"

"I have a strange request to make. I want us both to take off all of our clothes, go in the bathroom and climb into that huge tub that's there, and sit and talk with the door closed. Think of it as a waterless Japanese bath."

Gimu looked at her steadily for a moment and then shrugged. "As you wish, Sherrie-chan."

"This will be, I'm afraid a -san not a -chan discussion."

"Even so."

Gimu took a few seconds to disrobe; Sherrie left her backless gown on the bed. "Lock the outer door," Sherrie told Gimu.

Gimu laughed. "Sherrie-sama, it doesn't lock."

"Then put a chair under the handle and jam it shut."

Again the high tinkling laugh. "You are so funny, Sherrie-sama! The door opens the other way; the chair will fall flat and startle whoever it was who tried to enter."

Sherrie grimaced and said, "Well, we'll deal with an interruption if we have one." The two went into the bathroom and sat down in the empty tub, facing each other.

Gimu shook her head. "I never wish to do this again, Sherrie-sama. The cold tub against my bare bottom removes all romance."

"Good," Sherrie said cheerfully. "We have a problem."

"And what is that, Sherrie-sama? Besides your spider and her machinations?"

"A week ago Alovar was a name we barely knew. Then he came into focus. Today he is a 'bio-bomb' as Mr. Smith describes and is likely soon to die. Once again, Coretta has sacrificed one of her major players."

Sherrie steeled herself and tried to move into a better position, knowing it was foolish. Anything she might know about self-defense would be kindergarten stuff compared to what a ninja knew.

"Gimu, sweet Gimu. How long after Coretta ran away did you appear in Japan?"

Gimu's expression was priceless. "Sherrie, sweet Sherrie! You have connected too many dots! Yes, I arrived in Japan about the same time as Coretta ran away from home ... about the same time -- as in half a year before. I was continually in Japan after that. When Coretta's people attacked Weaver, attacked you and Weaver and all of that, I was there, attending the dojo for ninjas. I am not Coretta, Sherrie, so sorry." She giggled. "Besides, Mr. Smith had me tested a year ago."

"Like I said, we have a problem. In a week Alovar went from a valuable, functioning member of Coretta's team to an asset to be expended. I can't help but think that meant that she knew we were looking at him -- and that perhaps he knew something she didn't want him to tell us."

She nodded. "Yes, it is clear that someone told her about our interest in him. We hadn't really gotten in gear with extra people directed at Alovar before this."

"Perhaps she has one of us bugged -- our quarters, our clothes, maybe even embedded in our bodies."

"I will see to it that everything is swept again. Sherrie-sama, the technical people are very good. Not once have they missed a remote listening device. If there is one, they will find it."

"Good. Gimu..."

Gimu reached out and lightly tickled Sherrie's side -- the good side. "Sherrie-sama, you are so transparent. You want me to do something dangerous."

"Yes. I don't remember Alovar's cousin's name..."

"Carmen Quintero," Gimu promptly responded. She blushed. "Sherrie-sama, I told you a few minutes ago while you were still being worked on."

Sherrie grimaced. "Okay, I wasn't paying as much attention as I should have. If there is something Quintero might have known, it's possible she told someone else or someone else knew it. I imagine that Coretta might suspect the same thing and either watch Quintero's family and friends, or simply move to eliminate them."

"Please, Sherri-sama. Stopping Coretta isn't something we can do from the safety of a dry Japanese bath. You command; you are going to have to send people into danger, and because you know the people, you will have qualms. The Army will tell you that you should never get to know the people who do your bidding -- which solves the problem neatly.

"It is also completely unrealistic, as we all have friends, and in a new situation, whether or not the Army approves, we make new friends. That is the way of the universe. Those who command, Sherrie-sama, they have to send people in harm's way -- whether or not they are friends. They have to send the people who are most likely to succeed or are best suited for the job. I am a big girl, Sherrie-sama; don't worry about me."

"Well, don't leave any marks."

"And the quarantine?"

That gave Sherrie pause. Sherrie sighed. "I will tell the doctors that you have a priority to get cleared. With something like this I can't justify the risk that Coretta might actually have something dangerous and that I'd help spread it."

Gimu shrugged. "This is where being a ninja is an advantage. We know the risks, we understand the risks, and we learn not to let our fear possess us. Because even ninjas, Sherrie-sama, fear the little crawler things that live in our bodies."

Sherrie nodded. "Good. Now, I need to get my butt out of this icy piece of shit."

Gimu promptly stood. "You will make a good leader, Sherrie-sama. You understand the important things!"

The two of them went back to Sherrie's room and a nurse was standing by the main door, but who had made no attempt to get closer.

"I am told that you two are quarantined. Shortly, we will be installing an airlock, and thereafter you will only see people in environmental suits. I am told, however, to make sure that you get all cooperation with anything that isn't inconsistent with the quarantine."

"And you waited out here ... why?" Sherrie asked.

"I was told you were in conference and not to be disturbed."

Sherrie looked at Gimu who tried to look innocent.

Sherrie turned back to the nurse. "Are we possibly contagious now?"

"No, Captain, not for at least another twenty-four hours, but more likely thirty-six hours."

"Then you stay here for a moment and Gimu and I will go out in the hall. We'll be just a few moments."

"Dressed like that?" the nurse said, stunned.

"You bet!" Sherrie said. "It's time everyone became a nudist! Everyone out of the closet!"

They went out in the hall, and indeed, there were any number of shocked looks but Sherrie didn't care. She done this once in Japan and it hadn't been the embarrassment she'd thought it would be. That had taught her that it was her embarrassment she'd been trying to avoid.

Sherrie dragged Gimu a dozen steps down the corridor. "Coretta has tapped your surveillance," Sherrie told Gimu.

"I cannot believe our organization could be penetrated so easily -- except this would be the fourth time. The first three weren't charming. Four ... Sherrie-sama, this could end us."

"Consider this. Coretta has learned that you exist. I bet a lot of your cover in the past was because no one knew you existed. Your cover is blown, so to speak. Consider how the drug cartels work -- and we know she has had considerable contact with them. They take someone they want working for them off the street. They show them candid pictures of their family, demonstrating that they can reach them at any time. Then they show them great huge stacks of money. How many people, Gimu, can resist that? Knowing that their organization has been repeatedly penetrated and that if they report it, they will not only kill themselves -- but their families as well?

"I won't belabor the fact that the US isn't prepared for this type of subversion. I don't think you could resist it directly, even prepared. You fight it by continual vigilance -- and never trusting anyone as an individual, and being cautious of even two friends working together."

"Aren't we friends?" Gimu asked, half joking.

"No, we're not. We respect each other; we're willing to work together ... but I don't think we will ever be friends."

Gimu paused and looked at Sherrie. "I rather hoped for something different." Then her expression changed and she clutched her belly and started laughing. "Sherrie-sama -- please turn around."

She did and saw Weaver standing in the hospital corridor gaping at the two women.

"You're naked!" he said uncertainly.

"Undressed, anyway," Sherrie said cheerfully. She pointed at her room's door. "Go through there and shuck the clothes."

"Why?"

"There are listening to us. I don't know how, but I know they are," Sherrie told him.

Weaver shrugged and pulled a device from his jeans pockets. After a second, he pointed at their room. "There is a radio source in there, but it's on the same frequency Mr. Smith uses. There's nothing coming from either of you or me."

"And you're sure?" Sherrie asked.

"I'm sure. This is similar to one of those wireless signal finders, except it's looking over a much larger range of frequencies."

Gimu spoke up. "Sherrie is suggesting that perhaps Mr. Smith's communications, including surveillance, are compromised."

Weaver frowned. "I never thought about that." He laughed. "You know, Mr. Smith has never planted anything in my bedroom and that's where I do most of my work. Only rarely do I talk about it elsewhere; never where there is a listening device close."

He waved the device at Sherrie's side. "You were shot."

"A graze, Weaver, nothing serious."

"I heard about the quarantine."

"They say we aren't contagious yet -- still, this is Coretta we're talking about. I don't think complacency is wise -- or waiting until the last moment."

"I have a couple of messages for you, and some news -- both business and personal," Weaver told her.

"I've integrated my data with what Juan Tomas gave us. That's opened up a number of avenues of investigation and those are being pursued. We can talk about it at length when you two get out of here."

He got more serious. "Alovar died a half hour ago; he never regained consciousness. They are very concerned now. The disease normally has a relatively slow progression, taking days between stages. Alovar died in hours from the first appearance of symptoms. I did some looking into things and Mr. Jones agreed with me that when we found Alovar's cousin's sister was still alive and well, albeit in hiding, that we should grab her. Technically, she has a warrant out for her detention because of exposure to Alovar; Mr. Jones got them to change that to a Patriot Act warrant and a short time ago, Marivel Quintero was arrested and is now in protective custody. You can talk to her when you get out of here -- she's in a very high level of quarantine, though. Not to mention, her protection is very high.

"Some of those army dudes you were expecting? They arrived at the base. Mr. Jones said that if I were a little older he'd tell them I was in charge until he or you two got back. For some reason, he didn't think that now was a good time for that."

"Amazing!" Gimu said with a laugh. "I wonder why?"

"I pretended to be a gopher, who knew about their quartering and ration arrangements. I told them about the bio-war thing, but they already knew about it. They were chomping at the bit to get into the scrum -- so Mr. Jones brought them here. All of them. He said they were a company of Army Rangers."

"Amazing," Gimu repeated. "I wonder why?"

Weaver threw her an exasperated look. "Look you two, Mr. Smith and his bosses might not like what I'm doing. The fact is, I know a whole lot more about Coretta than the rest of you combined."

Sherrie reached out for her cousin and fisted his shirt. "Where is the bitch?"

"If I knew, I'd tell you. I know where a lot of her money is; I know a lot about how it moves here and there. I don't know where she is, Sherrie. Trust me, if I ever find out, you'll be alerted in a nanosecond ... I want her dead even more than you do."

He paused. "I suppose you think I'm just a kid, still suffering from the tragic death of his girlfriend, right in front of him. I'm not." He nodded at Gimu. "You know what I've done, but you haven't told Sherrie, have you?"

Gimu shook her head. "As you said, Weaver-kun, it is a personal matter. I don't betray personal trusts, even small ones of little account."

Sherrie ignored that. "Weaver, I know you suffered. Anyone could see it. Still, not even the first time I talked to you at the hospital back in Phoenix have I ever treated you as 'just a kid.' Every time I think I understand you, you do something totally unexpected. Maybe that's why Coretta wants you dead. Have you ever thought about that? That maybe you are the only person she thinks is smarter than herself and she's out to kill the competition?"

"It's a theory," he said brusquely. Abruptly a cell phone chirped and Sherrie nearly jumped out of her skin.

Weaver casually reached down and plucked the phone off his belt and lifted it to his ear. Words stuck in Sherrie's throat and for a second she froze. Weaver said simply, "It's probably the Gold Ninja Squad. They are here to keep me safe."

His head stayed attached. He listened for a second, grimaced and handed the phone to Sherrie. "It's Jones. He says to wait a few minutes before I come out. He wants to talk to you, though."

Sherrie took the phone and held it gingerly to her ear. Gimu giggled when she saw what Sherrie was doing.

"Richardson," she announced.

"We have company," Jones said directly. "Have Weaver stay put for a few minutes. Probably two truck bombs, plus a ground assault forming up."

Sherrie said, "Wait one!"

She turned and grabbed the nurse still in her room. "Do you know what I mean when I say there's a truck bomb, or maybe two coming?"

The woman paled and nodded. "Get everyone away from the windows. There's no way to know where they plan on detonating them."

The woman dashed down the hall yelling for the nurses at the nurse's station. She was on the phone a second later, explaining. It was amazing how fast people reacted to the threat.

"What should we do?" Weaver asked, trying to keep up his nerve.

"One place is as good as another. Run around and you're just as likely to go to the wrong place instead of doing better. Just tough it out."

The first explosion came from one side and wasn't as bad as the one truck bomb in Iraq. It came perhaps three minutes later and it shook the building, causing a million sudden questions as the lights went out and stayed out.

The second explosion came a minute later from the rear of the building and did more than shake the building. Sherrie swore she could hear the steel frame of the building screaming in pain. The shock from the blast knocked her from her feet, sending her down on all fours on the floor. Every florescent fixture in the building exploded at once, showering everyone with shards. Ceiling tiles sprang loose, coming down slower, but covering even more of the floor.

A few seconds later the sounds turned to the crack and crash of falling building materials. The building continued to shake and sway, and the sound, while not as loud as the explosion was still quite loud, finally dying away slowly as the rubble started to settle. Then there was a third explosion, not as bad as the first two, towards the front of the building.

When the cacophony of sounds died down, Sherrie heard Gimu say, "Sherrie-sama! You said you went through this once before! Sherrie, Sherrie, I've found something I fear more than earthquakes!"

Sherrie scrabbled a few feet to an emergency light that had started on a platform on the corridor wall; now it was on the ground, with one light busted. "You're okay, Gimu?"

"Alive, unwounded. I wet myself."

"Weaver?" Sherrie said, waving the light around. She saw him under a pile of ceiling tiles, bloody and unmoving.

"Weaver!" she screamed and lunged for him.

As fast as she was, Gimu interposed herself between them. "Sherrie, it's a head wound. This is a hospital; it is better not to move him. Please, Sherrie-sama! You see to the situation! I will take care of Weaver-kun!"

Sherrie found that she still had the cell phone in her hand and mildly marveled at it. She lifted it to her ear.

"You still there, Mr. Jones?"

"Gaaa!" a voice said. "Wait, here's the army captain."

"Captain Jim Kirk, Captain Richardson."

Sherrie caught herself. She had nearly made a stupid remark about his name.

"Situation report, Captain Kirk."

"Mr. Jones said it would be a useful exercise if we treated this building as housing a high profile target that needed to be protected. When we arrived, I sent twenty men around the back to secure the emergency room entrance, the rest I deployed close to the main entrance.

"Mr. Jones' has resources of his own -- so we had a Predator drone deployed. Almost at once we detected a significant threat.

"Quickly, the hospital compound is about 400 meters on a side, with a main entrance on the front side of the hospital, centered on that side. The hospital is surrounded by a meter tall brick wall, I don't know if it's three full plies of common red brick, but there are at least two plies.

"We detected Indias gathering outside the front wall, about twenty-five of them. They were getting set, pulling AK's and RPGs from duffle bags. They were concentrated near the front corners, away from the main entrance, extending only half way from the corners to that entrance.

"I widened the Predator's field of view and the operator reported two suspicious vehicles headed our way. One was a ten-ton stake bed truck, with a load covered by a tarp. The second was a full-size panel van, closely following the stake bed. When they turned into the entrance, Mr. Jones sent you the alert, and I had my people get small as best as possible.

"Neither vehicle stopped in the front. The vehicles turned the northern corner of the building. A moment later, one of my lieutenants reported that the stake bed truck drove straight along the aisle it had been in, ending up near the back of the parking area, where it turned into an aisle that led towards the emergency room. He said it was heading for the emergency room, accelerating all the way.

"I advised him and his men to get very small."

"Then the bomb on the panel truck detonated around the corner from me. I had people hustle to the corner ... before they reached it, the larger weapon detonated. I have been unable to reach anyone at the rear of the building. There are a significant smoke and dust clouds from the two explosions, blowing away from the hospital.

"Then a third vehicle, a pickup, turned into the hospital parking lot. It came about a third of the way towards the building and my people got small again, sir. But it detonated away from the building, in the parking lot."

He chuckled wickedly. "I think that was to cover this ground assault force they have assembled. If so, they screwed up, because the explosion had enough force to push the parked cars in the lot together, creating an almost impenetrable barrier. The only way they get in is across the crater, about twenty feet across and six feet deep."

He paused. "Ah, here they come. Permission to engage, sir?

"You may engage. Try to keep collateral damage to a minimum -- but you will ensure as your first priority that none of those men reach this building."

"Roger that, Captain." He laughed again. "They are having to bunch up, sir. This will be like killing fish in a barrel."

"Do it. Keep safe. As soon as you can, send me a radioman with secure communications."

"Roger that, Captain. Okay, time to rock and roll!"

Outside there was a sudden thunder of weapons fire.

Gimu looked up from where she was forcing a nurse to examine Weaver and Sherrie looked back at her without expression.

"Sherrie-sama?"

"Some of the cockroaches came out of their holes. We're putting them into new, permanent quarters," she said roughly.

"If any still live, later, I shall make them hurt," Gimu said matter-of-factly.

"They blew up a hospital," Sherrie said darkly. "Odds are, none will survive. And if any do, I suspect they will be hurting plenty already."

The gunfire outside died down, and Sherrie lifted the phone. "Captain?"

"I hesitate to use the words, sir, but so far it's mission accomplished. The hostile Indias are all down. I have a party making it's way around the one side of the hospital that wasn't bombed -- but that's a parking structure, sir. They have quite a distance to travel.

"I have a radio man and security element in route to you."

"Let me speak to Jones," she told the Ranger.

"Sir, I'm sorry to report Mr. Jones has no combat experience. I didn't see that he'd crouched down next to a car. Sir, it hit him; I don't think he's seriously injured, but when a Lexus hits you, it most thoroughly rings your chimes."

"That leaves you in the hot seat, Captain. Shortly civilian first responders will be arriving."

"A couple of cops are already here; they are just wandering around, trying to figure out what to do."

"Take them in hand and get them to work on traffic control or something. Have them get their bosses rolling, though. Be polite, be firm -- but don't be rigid. We have no jurisdiction here; in fact, we're both liable for court-martial, breaking all of the posse comitatus laws. If we're willing to take a bullet for our country, Captain, we have to be willing to get screwed by the civilians.

"So, when you get someone senior there, you gratefully hand over command to them. Say please and thank you a lot. They can run the show; they're trained for it odds are they've rehearsed it.

"On the other hand, there are a lot of casualties. Once relieved of site command responsibilities, you and your men are to render whatever assistance you can until someone in a green suit senior to the two of us stops you. Secure your combat gear, and then help with this catastrophe."

"Yes, ma'am! You've got it."

"Oh, yes. Remind the first people who arrive that these people do like to kill first responders. You will want to make sure that they secure the area as much as possible, as far out as possible."

"Yes, Captain! No problem."

"And get that radio to me; we're surely being monitored by people I don't want listening to us."

"Roger that." There was a hesitation. "He's from the 20th Mountain Division, Captain. Another floor and he'll be there."

"I'll be off the grid for a few minutes. I'll get back to you then."

"Roger, Captain. We're working this."

Sherrie went over to where Gimu was and crouched down next to where a doctor was working over Weaver, a nurse in attendance.

The doctor glared at her. "There are other people, people who could die, without treatment."

"Doctor, you are treating a significant national security asset of the United States. There is a very real possibility that the attack on this building was meant to kill him; without regard to what other harm it might cause."

"I'm going to have you cashiered! I'm going to sue..." he grunted in pain as Gimu touched his shoulder.

"You are barbarians!"

"You are able to work, doctor," Sherrie told him. "You will continue to work on this individual. You will remain in attendance until such a time as another medical doctor can take over from you."

"You're stupid!" he said, waving at the dressing on her side. "You're likely to die of infection from that wound! And here you are parading around like this is a nudist convention. You need to get that redressed, a much better bandage, and get to another medical facility as quickly as possible -- or this time tomorrow you'll be nearly dead, and twelve hours later, you will be."

Sherrie grimaced.

As if by magic, a staff sergeant in full combat gear appeared. "Who is Captain Richardson?"

"That would be me," Sherrie said.

He studiously ignored her state of undress, and handed her the radio. "Ma'am, the staff duty officer wants to talk to you."

"Captain Richardson, sir," Sherrie said into the radio.

"Captain, this is Lieutenant Colonel Bozeman, the staff duty officer at the Special Operations Center. I understand your locations has been attacked with multiple truck bombs, plus a ground component."

"Yes, sir. Two trucks of moderate size, and a third of quite immoderate dimensions. Sir, this building has taken substantial damage, the casualty count will be in the hundreds; perhaps more than a thousand."

"Help is on the way. General Weymouth, the Special Operations commander is on the way in. What do you need?"

"Everything. We're going to need someone on scene as quickly as possible that can provide national security liaison with the local authorities."

"That's in the works."

"Further, the first bomb detonated outside the hospital's physical plant -- the second a minute later at a different location. You are aware of the bio-war threat?"

"Yes, Captain," came the flat reply.

"I think we'd have heard by now if they'd used a chemical weapon. But a radiological or bio-weapon could have been deployed in either explosion, in an attempt to kill as many first responders as possible. We need that checked ASAP."

Sherrie waited a second, but it was obvious that the colonel was talking to someone else. She gestured at a private, who'd accompanied the commo sergeant. "Private, you will go down this corridor, to that hallway that you see branching to the left. You will recce down that corridor. You are to take no chances, do you understand? You will avoid any damaged regions. Report back as quickly as you can."

"Sir, Captain Kirk told me I was to stick with you, no matter what."

"Private, get your ass down the hall and get back to me as fast as you can. I want some idea of how much damage there is to the back of the building. Move!"

She turned to the sergeant. "Aim your weapon at the doctor. I'd say his head, but I think it would be too easy to miss a critical spot. If he stops working on this particular patient, voice a warning. If he attempts to leave, or ignores your warning -- kill him."

"Yes, sir."

"Gimu, I think we need our clothes."

Gimu glowered. "Sherrie-sama, you think? This was easily your worst idea, ever!" She turned to the sergeant. "When I return, you will have located your field medical pack, yes? We will treat Captain Richardson-sama's wound again."

"Whatever you say, ma'am."

Gimu left and the radio spoke again.

"Brigadier General Weymouth, Captain."

"Sir, Captain Sherrie Richardson."

"I want you to reassure all and sundry that every asset available to the US government is en route to your assistance."

"Yes, sir, I will."

"Your appraisal, Captain."

The private returned, and Sherrie spoke into the radio, "Wait one, sir, I have a report incoming."

"Ma'am," the private said, trying to desperately check out the floor of the corridor.

"That hallway isn't very long; I asked one of the staff, but she was hysterical. As near as I can determine, it used to be three hundred feet longer. About half of the rear portion of the building is gone. Sir, I don't believe there is any place in this building that is safe."

"Thanks," she told him, and turned back to the radio.

"General, I sent a scout to recce the building. He reports that it might be as much as fifty percent compromised and perhaps more."

"Half?" the general said, stunned.

"Yes, sir. Sir, every little while, I can hear debris shift. The entire frame of the building twists; you can hear the girders bending. The hospital has an evacuation plan, starting with the upper floors. I am about two thirds of the way up the structure; not yet for us."

"You are to exit as rapidly as possible, Captain. Your party has priority."

Sherrie looked at the radio with disgust. "Sir, if you think I'd sacrifice one person's life in this building to save mine, sir, you are seriously mistaken. Richardson out."

She handed the radio back to the staff sergeant. "I never want to talk to the fucking asshole general again. If he calls again tell him I'm in the shitter taking a very much needed sit down."

"Yes, sir!" the sergeant said with alacrity.

Gimu was back and held out Sherrie's uniform. Sherrie grabbed for it. To her surprise, Gimu swiveled and blocked her. "Sergeant, do you have field dressings?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Get two out. Sulfa, too -- do you have that?"

"Yes, sir."

A moment later Gimu was swabbing antiseptic on Sherrie's side, then sulfa powder, before two dressings were applied.

"That's it," the doctor announced. "I'm done here."

Sherrie had no idea how Gimu could hide a twelve inch dagger on her person -- still, it had to have come from someplace. Gimu poked it lightly into the doctor's arm.

"You can make your best medical decisions, doctor. However, I have more pragmatic criteria. If Weaver Gold dies, you die within a minute. If Sherrie Richardson does, you may have as much as two minutes to make your peace with your maker ... but most likely much less."

"This is outrageous! I'll sue!"

"Doctor, I'm a supervisory US Marshal," Gimu announced. "I realize that your little pea-brain doesn't understand much, but there has been a major terrorist attack on this hospital. There are going to be a thousand or more casualties. No attorney will take your case; you're attempting to obstruct a federal agent and a captain in the US Army from their duty. What will happen is you will go into custody under a Patriot Act warrant, where you will be held for a year or two before you're permitted an attorney.

"Or, you can simply do your duty as you are told. We no longer have time to waste on you."

Sherrie turned to the radioman. "Get Captain Kirk on the horn."

A second later he handed her the radio. "Any sign of the first responders?"

"We have a couple of patrol cars; a sergeant is about five minutes out, with more supervisors five to ten minutes behind them. I have people right now working on checking the Indias, we've secured most of our weapons in a panel truck, and started clearing a path through the parking lot for emergency vehicles ... the last explosion essentially blocked vehicle access."

"Grab one of the cops; they have to set up a secure perimeter," Sherrie told him. "Explain the drill; no one gets access to the site until their vehicle has been searched. Nobody, absolutely nobody, walks in. The full drill like car bombings in Iraq."

"Roger that Captain," the Ranger told her.

"What do you hear about the other side of the hospital?"

There was a perceptible pause. "It's been destroyed. I have a dozen people missing. Captain, there were operating rooms over the emergency room ... but above them were a couple of pediatric floors, including the nursery. All of that's gone."

Sherrie closed her eyes, wishing so long ago that she'd throttled Coretta instead of calling the cops. Anything would have been better than this.

"Do what you can. Don't make an issue out of the handoff to civilian authority."

"It's been made triple clear, Captain ... from everyone up the chain of command."

Sherrie fetched clothes and handed Gimu's to her. "Sherrie-sama," Gimu said as she dressed. "You do not look well."

"The blew up the kids and the nursery. How am I supposed to look?"

Gimu sighed, while the doctor spoke sarcastically. "Look, I can do more good elsewhere."

He gurgled when Gimu gripped his shoulder. "Doctor, like I said, you're dim. Weaver Gold is a prime asset of the United States. This attack was very likely directed at him. There are currently hundreds of people working on this -- and tomorrow there will be thousands. Of all of those, Weaver has the best chance of stopping this from ever happening again."

"I'm fine," Weaver said suddenly, struggling to sit up. A struggle he lost. "Christ, I'm dizzy!"

"You have a concussion; lay still," Sherrie told him. "We'll be moving you here in a few minutes."

"That was a truck bomb?"

That was three truck bombs," Sherrie told him.

"Good grief!" he whispered, but sank back.

Sherrie turned to the radioman. "Tell Captain Kirk I need four more men and a stretcher up here. Tell him, the same way you got here."

"Roger that, sir," the man said and spoke into the radio. Then he vanished into one of the rooms.

One of the nurses stopped by Sherrie. "Are you Captain Richardson?"

"Yes."

"A Mr. Smith says that a staged evacuation, starting from the top most floors, is in progress. You are to assume command until replaced by competent civil authority. He reports his injuries are uncomfortable, but not life-threatening."

"Thank you," Sherrie told her.

Hours later Sherrie was outside, leaning against a low wall, having a drink of water from a plastic container someone had given her. The hospital was a beehive of activity as thousands of rescue personnel did their work. Captain Kirk and a security detail of six were a few feet away. Most of his men were still involved in rescue and recovery -- something Sherrie knew enough about to leave alone.

It had been a surprise to exit the building to find out it was nearly three in the morning. Now it was near dawn. Captain Kirk walked in her direction and she perked up.

"They're bringing in a chopper for you and the Japanese lady; you'll be in Atlanta in a couple of hours for quarantine. Mr. Smith has already gone."

"Roger that," she said.

Another man, razor thin, graying and a posture Marines would die to possess, appeared out of the night.

"You Richardson?" the man asked.

Sherrie nodded.

"I'm Lem Jourdan, chief of police here."

"You sound like you should be from New Orleans," Sherrie commented.

"Pissant fuckers there are all cowards; I left after the hurricane. I understand you were the one who insisted on a perimeter and searches."

"Yes, sir. That's how we did it in Iraq." Leaving out she'd never actually had to do that. Her one truck bomb experience had been on a military base and generals dealt with the issues.

"Twenty minutes ago we stopped an ambulance on the way in; we're still evacuating wounded. The corporal in charge of the road block thought something was off; he just barely stopped the driver from detonating a bomb, 'cause he'd gotten as close as he was goin' to get. Bomb squad says about a thousand pounds of C-4 was hidden in various compartments in the ambulance. It would have killed hundreds of cops, firemen, EMTs and the like. On behalf of the City of Miami Beach, I want to shake your hand and say thanks!"

He did, too.

As the sun started to lift into the heavens, they were racing towards Atlanta in a fast chopper. Then they were down and rushed inside and into a proper quarantine facility. There they were poked and prodded, particularly Sherrie.

The process seemed to go on forever; it left Sherrie with too much time to think.

She drowsed for a time, but the slightest sound would wake her, and once again she would heard the building scream in agony, shivering and shaking. It made her life hell.

Finally, realizing that there was nothing she could do to stop it herself, she pushed the call button on her bed. "I need a secure phone; the more secure the better." The CDC doctor shrugged and vanished.

A half hour later a familiar sergeant appeared. "Captain, look! They give me some new toys!" He seemed genuinely pleased.

"I'm in quarantine. You're standing there, effectively stark naked."

"I'm better dressed than you were the first time we met -- but I know what you mean. It was put to me simply. In a day or so they'll know if you're infected. If not, then they let you go. Since you're not infected, I'm not infected and I get to go too."

"Still, there's a risk."

"Sir, after Miami, there are some risks and there are other risks. I have a wife, a seven-year-old daughter and a two-year-old son. My wife told me on the phone a little while ago that she understands that we all have to take risks; if I wasn't willing to take those risks, she'd just as soon I never came home. She's third generation Marine Corps, sir."

"Well, I can't guarantee your safety ... and as you can see, being around me is hazardous to your health."

"We killed twenty-five Indias and captured two. They had really crappy helmets; enough to give a semblance of protection, but no real protection. The survivors were pretty beat up; but that guy, the one in the hospital, the kid ... he made a phone call and gave it to one of them. The guy shit a brick; I kid you not. He started singing like a canary."

"Weaver?"

"Yes, ma'am. They said he was talkin' to someone else though. They've got him in a power chair and he scoots around like a bullet. I dunno what was said to the guy, but it worked better'n Ex-Lax."

What was it Conejo had said? "He's a known man. A feared man." Evidently so.

"Get me Mr. Smith if he's available."

A second later she was handed the phone headset, only to find it was Mr. Jones. "I'm sorry, Major. Mr. Smith lost a leg and has extensive other injuries. He's just out of one surgery; he's expected to have another later today and another first thing tomorrow. His right side was badly crushed."

"I'm a captain," Sherrie said automatically.

"Not as of 0001 this morning. Verbal order of the President. You're a major now."

"Well, I want you to set up a highly secure voice conference with whoever is Mr. Smith's replacement and the rest of the major players for first thing tomorrow morning."

"I can do that."

"Good, please see to it."

"Roger that, Major.

"Major..." his voice took on a different tone.

"What, Mr. Jones?"

"The numbers aren't final yet. Three hundred and twenty infants and children are dead, another hundred and ten wounded ... mostly children aged twelve and up. More than five hundred medical staff killed or wounded, another thousand civilians. Total confirmed dead right now is six hundred and seven, thirteen hundred and twenty-seven injured."

"We will deal with this tomorrow," Sherrie said firmly. "0800."

"As you wish, Major."

Sherrie hung up the phone and leaned over and wept.



-------

Chapter 21: Retrenchment


The "new toys" resulted in a video conference. Sherrie and Gimu were participants, as was Mr. Jones and Captain Kirk. Even Weaver was present. There were two new faces, and one that was more familiar.

Sherrie nodded to Colonel Morrison. "Sir, it's good to see you again."

"I'm here vice Mr. Smith." He chuckled. "Not only did I have to buy a civilian suit, but I've had to change my name to Smith. Jacob is still en route, Major -- he had to fly coach."

"Yes, sir," Sherrie said, repressing a smile.

One of the others was in a military uniform that Sherrie didn't recognize. "I am Naval Captain Stillwater, representing the NSA. We're providing the communications; I wanted to meet the participants."

The other man wore a brigadier general's stars. "I am General Thomas Jackson; the US Army research station at Ft. Detrick, Maryland. I'm here only in an advisory capacity in regards to the biological threats."

"And legally," Colonel Morrison said, "I'm the convener. Mr. Jones ... you have a report for us on the hospital bombing."

"The death count is now six hundred and twelve, with another twelve hundred or so still hospitalized; more than a hundred are still critical.

"We've determined that there was no WMD involved in any of the truck bombs ... however it is chilling that there were more than five hundred pounds of flour mixed with the debris from the first bomb that we found. That is clearly a shot across our bow.

"Of the ground component of the attack, two survived. One man has a serious -- and probably fatal -- head injury. He's never regained consciousness. The second fell trying to cross the crater, breaking his leg. He decided to play dead, seeing that the attack was failing. He has been very forthcoming.

"We are told that one Ramon Alovar was their leader. Alovar was reported to them that he was being held prisoner in the hospital, in a room in the front. Thus the bombs were situated to keep him safe ... of course there is the fact that Alovar was dead by then and miles away. They expected a simple, quick raid to regain their boss ... but got something very different. Thank you, Captain Kirk."

"No problem. Point my people at the Indians and we'll kill them all!"

Colonel Morrison was blunt. "We've heard nothing but good things about you and your men, Captain Kirk."

"I acted under the instruction of seniors, particularly Major Richardson. I am proud that the Rangers could accomplish the objectives set before us. I wish we could have done more to stop it."

"There was no way to know what they intended," Billy Morrison told him.

Colonel Morrison turned to the general. "Sir, what can we expect from the quarantine?"

"There is no way to tell; we are at least twenty-four and probably forty-eight hours from knowing definitively what we are facing. All we can do on that front right now is wait."

"That's it?" Colonel Morrison asked.

"Yes, sir."

"General, this briefing has been code word secret; I'm sorry but you're going to be disconnected until you have something to report."

"I was just raising the army flag, Colonel."

"Raise a flag when you have something to report, General. Please don't risk security again when you have nothing to say."

Abruptly, the general was gone.

"Major Richardson, your thoughts," the colonel segued smoothly.

"Sir, a week ago Ramon Alovar was a name we hadn't heard. Today, he and his people are all dead. The spider, Mr. Morrison-Smith, doesn't like loose lips."

"What exactly do you mean?"

"I mean, we identified Alovar and his crew as subjects for further investigation. A week later, they're dead, most of them. It seems like whenever we come across someone who could tell us something about the spider, they're killed."

"Right now, we're back to square one. Almost everyone we've identified is dead. Worse, we knew their names. We don't know the names of anyone the spider recruited in Africa or here in the states ... or anywhere else."

Reuben Conejo spoke up. "I'm not sure why I'm here..."

"You have things to say I'm interested in hearing," Sherrie told him.

"And you keep calling me sergeant."

"Long before this is over, you'll be dead or a more senior sergeant still," she told him firmly.

He grimaced. "We can get names for you for Alovar's associates in Port Harcourt. As you know, there is no sign of the spider."

"None," Sherrie said with aplomb. "She was there though; I'm sure of it."

"Do you understand that it would be the happiest day of my life, thus far, if I couldn't report on Juan Tom's thinking?

"He says his people have seen no trace of an 'Eminence Gris' -- whatever that is."

"Someone behind the action of others," Weaver told him. "The spider seems uncommonly adept at covering her tracks. Still, she has to lead and there have to be tracks."

Colonel Morrison interjected. "Weaver, I know we haven't met before, but a question. I understand that you've been working on a table of organization. How are you going about that? Do you assume a priori knowledge of what it looks like -- or do you simply record relationships?"

"A priori, sir? I'm not sure what you mean."

"Do you assume the spider at the top? Or do you simply report relationships?"

Weaver was silent for a few seconds. "I can see what you're driving at, sir. For the lower ranks, I merely record what I see. For the top positions -- I've tried to guess the relationships. After thinking about it, that's clearly wrong. No wonder I didn't find her! The spider isn't hiding at the top -- she's hiding lower down the food chain!"

"Re-evaluate and report next time," the colonel told him.

"Major Richardson. Thanksgiving is in two weeks. You have until the end of the year to wind this up. Preferably before the spider spoil's anyone's Christmas."

"I'll do what I can, sir."

"We won't meet like this again. I will be the liaison between groups. In a day or two we'll have a better understanding about the possibility of contagion. Better people that I am have said they believe it's a low order of probability. I'd sure like to think that ... but none of us can afford our assumptions these days. Make plans based on best case/worse case scenarios."

The former colonel vanished from the link, but Weaver and the NSA captain were still there. All the others were gone.

Weaver cleared his throat. "Sherrie, at the hospital I was interrupted before I could finish giving you all the news. There are a couple of personal items that you need to know."

"Sure, Weaver." Sherrie glanced at the naval officer who simply sat quietly.

"Gimu told me I needed a bodyguard, that I'm to exposed. She recruited one for me. Sherrie, she moved in with me the other day."

"Moved in in what sense?" she asked curious.

"At first it was employer-employee. Now -- we're closer. A lot closer. Sherrie, it's Kimi. She was Nomo's wife."

"Isn't the guy who betrayed Giri?"

"Yes. It is a very difficult thing to explain, Sherrie. In Japan personal honor -- keeping your promises and oaths -- is exceedingly important. For the troops. The leaders..." He shrugged. "You have to be very careful of what they say and do. You can't trust them.

"For someone like Nomo to betray his employer -- it's not unheard of. Think of it somebody from a farm league trying out for the bigs. Except Kimi was loyal, and what he did affected her personal honor was well. She caught him with his back turned. She hit him over the head with a baseball bat. While he was still unconscious she broke every major bone in his body, then pulped his head. She was very angry, Sherrie.

"Still, as a ninja she was pretty much washed up. She was going to kill herself, but Gimu heard and asked her to come watch over me."

"Weaver, I hope you have better judgment at the age you're at now than I did. I was a spectacular fuck-up."

"I'm trying, Sherrie."

"Is there more?"

Weaver glanced at the naval officer. "NSA wants you to know what I've been up to. I sort of have permission, but it's gotten a little out of hand."

"What is that, Weaver?"

"I've been tracking drug gang money as it moved around. It came to some of us that it wouldn't be hard to intercept some of it and make it vanish. Except it doesn't really vanish. The government and I are splitting it 50-50. And I'm splitting it with those helping me."

Sherrie frowned. "How much are we talking about?"

The officer from the NSA chuckled. "A billion here, a billion there -- pretty soon you're talking real money. Mr. Gold has put more than a little crimp in their operations. He has siphoned off more than 70% of the money flowing through the money-laundering conduits. They are going crazy."

"How much?" Sherrie repeated.

"Mr. Gold reduced the deficit by ten billion dollars in the last year."

Sherrie nearly choked. "And I thought I was lucky with the lottery. Good God, Weaver! They are going to kill you so dead..."

"Sherrie, remember that I'm not stupid! We left definite tracks that they code decode -- with a lot of effort -- that lead to Al Qaeda and the Russian Mafia. The drug gangs have broken relations with A-Q; they had only the loosest of ties with the Russians. Now they are going at it, hammer and tongs."

Sherrie leaned back. "I hope that's it."

Weaver blushed. "I bought an airplane. I'm learning to fly."

"That sounds harmless enough."

"It's a Gulf Stream VI, Sherrie. You couldn't afford one. It would clean you out."

"That's a jet, right?"

"Yes. It goes really fast, really far. I can only hanger it in a few places because of the security. It's a pain, but better safe than sorry."

"Please tell me that's it."

"That's it, Sherrie," he replied. "Your comm sergeant is going to be in the loop for redacted copies of my reports. He'll pass them on to you. This is all being done through the NSA. They have gone over their security procedures from top to bottom. They won't tell me how many, but I know they busted a couple of spies."

The link cut off and Sherrie turned to Gimu. "What do you think?"

She surprised Sherrie, going to yet another subject. "I have known Mr. Smith for many years. He is a known quantity. Honestly, Sherrie-sama, this man, Morrison makes me uneasy. He is too much like Mr. Smith. It's as if he's studied for the role."

"You don't trust him?"

"Not like I did Mr. Smith. Mr. Smith is a true ninja!"

"And Colonel Morrison?"

"A bureaucrat trying to fake it. Sherrie-sama, there are many flags ninjas see for someone you cannot trust. Colonel Morrison evidences none of those. Yet -- it's like he's playing a role. Don't ask me to explain, Sherrie-sama."

"And his son?"

Gimu laughed. "He wants to make a personal acquaintance with you, Sherrie-sama. A very close personal acquaintance. He has the hots for your bod."

She turned to the radioman. "You of course, hear nothing and say nothing."

The sergeant laughed. "While the rest of the company was getting shot at, I was making a class three ascent of a vertical wall -- cool! I get to play with nifty new toys! I see nuzzing! I hear nuzzing! And I speak nuzzing!" He laughed again, "Except what I'm told to say."

"And you trust him, right?" Sherrie asked Gimu sarcastically.

"Sherrie-sama if the spider has suborned a random staff sergeant in the US Army on his second day with us -- we should surrender now and flee to the antipodes -- the battle is lost."

"I'm trying to figure out how I'm going to avoid be bored to death by a couple of days of quarantine."

"Sherrie-sama! After the last day, I need a break! Taking down the Yakusa wasn't this exciting!" She walked over to one of the beds, swung up her legs and drew the sheet over her head. A few seconds later she was snoring. Sherrie considered the odds that Gimu couldn't fake snoring and decided that it would be a foolish bet.

The sergeant packed up his gear and went to leave. A minute later he was back. "Major, sir, they told me that I'm quarantined too; that for now, they were going to leave me in with you."

"I thought they said it would take a couple of days to be infectious?"

"They don't want to take any chances, Major." He nodded at Gimu. "I'm with the lady, ma'am. The hospital -- I never want to see anything like that again. I want to kill the bastards who did it, shit on them and their kids, and then fuck their old ladies ... so they have a little civilized blood in the their heritage."

"That doesn't sound very civilized to me, Sergeant."

"I didn't join the army to play patty-cake with the bastards, Major. I want to kill them. Blowing up babies -- that sucks big rocks."

"And if I told you that a few years ago I could have stretched out my hands and throttled the spider? And saved us all a lot of trouble?"

"I'm betting that civilization intervened, Major. You have it and they don't. I've lost it."

Sherrie laughed. "If I had it to do over again, I'd have ripped her arms off, turned her head the wrong way and tried to shove it up her ass."

"Her?"

"Forget I said that. It's secret, but that's just BS. She started life as a woman. We think she's a guy these days, but we don't actually know. At least she seems to effortlessly boss guys who say they'd never be ordered around by a woman."

"Surely you know for sure?"

"Surely we don't. She kills anyone connected with her, whenever she moves on. She's moved on now from Chicago, New Orleans, Phoenix, LA, Africa, and now, I suspect from Miami. Everybody we know of from Chicago, New Orleans, Phoenix and now the ones we know she recruited in LA are dead."

"That sucks!"

"She's killed my father, two aunts, an uncle, and a cousin, just in my family. She's tried to kill me a couple of times. Miami was just the latest."

"Holy crap!"

"Two good guys were killed in LA, fourteen in Iraq, and now more than six hundred. We think the spider is determined to go down in the record books."

He didn't say anything after than and Sherrie was left to contemplate the universe, alone with her thoughts.

She'd never been political, even when her father was running for office. She'd paid only the least attention to his campaign platforms. He was socially liberal and a fiscal conservative; she was okay with that. She wasn't gay but had no problems with people who were. She'd never get an abortion, but wasn't about to tell someone they couldn't choose for themselves. She thought it merely prudent if you spent less money than you took in.

For the life of her, Sherrie couldn't imagine how someone like Coretta came by her "kill 'em!" political views. If Sherrie disagreed with someone about something, she talked it over with them and they could usually come to a meeting of the minds. It had worked really well in business and not badly in the army, even if she was supposed to be telling people what to do. When people had a personal stake in the way things were done, in the outcomes, they went the extra mile. It made common sense. Yet Coretta wasn't interested in what Sherrie wanted, or what anyone else wanted who opposed her. It was Coretta's way -- or she'd kill you if you got in her way.

She laughed. Coretta was likely to kill you, no matter what. As near as Sherrie could tell, Coretta thought people were disposable assets. Did she think that about herself? That was an interesting thought. What if she thought she was a great martyr, willing to die herself to accomplish her goals? Would that make her more dangerous?

Sherrie snorted. If there was one thing she was sure about human psychology: people looked out for number one as the first priority.

Of course, that begged the question once more: what was Coretta's goal? Was everything really personal for her? Did she want to get back at her stepfather for all the pain he'd caused her? Had it started out like that, but maybe she'd taken on new political views as she expanded her horizons? Why was she so eager to hurt everyone?

There seemed no logical explanation, which hinted at that there might be no reason at all. She hated people because they were people -- growing up it must have seemed as if every hand was raised against her.

Sherrie went back to the day of the family reunion where Coretta attacked Weaver. That had to be something important. She sat up. What if it was simple? Much more simple than anyone suspected. Stockholm Syndrome they called it; where people threatening you became your friends.

She got up and went to the sergeant, who was reading a magazine. "Can you get Weaver Gold on that gear?"

"His gear is even better than mine! Yeah."

"If you would."

A moment later Weaver was on the line. "Sherrie, it's late."

Sherrie sniffed. Honestly, she had lost track of time. "Think back to the reunion. Did Uncle Phil say anything to you that weekend?"

"Uncle Phil? Well, that morning he made a comment about my reading. In the afternoon he asked me if I'd seen a particular anime. I had and he asked what I thought of it. It was more hentai than anime, violence for violence sake ... plus the naked girls, of course. I think the Japanese are closet BDSM lovers; they do like their bloody violence, particularly against women. I stay away from it."

"Was there anything unusual about what he said?"

"Unusual? I don't think so. He talked about maybe getting together to watch some of the hentai-type stuff. I told him that wasn't not my thing -- I said no."

"Weaver, I'm not like that. You're not like that. But Uncle Phil is. Could anything he did be something like he was coming on to you?"

"Good God! I never thought about it! He hugged me once. No one had hugged me for years and I was thrilled by it. He came back a couple of hours later with the offer to watch the DVDs. Good God! He was hitting on me!"

"Gently, at least I suspect, from what I've heard about his methods. You do understand that back then you were in his prime 'target' age?"

"Intellectually. Back then I was just thrilled that an adult had liked me enough to hug me. Do you suppose that Coretta thought I was a threat for Uncle Phil's attentions?"

"I think it's possible. It would explain her rage; no matter how much she hated him, she could have been jealous."

"I never even thought about it. Good grief! Let me think about this for a few."

"What is it, Sherrie-sama?" Gimu asked, sitting up.

"I may have found what triggered Coretta's first attack on Weaver."

"What is that?"

Sherrie explained, with the army sergeant listening intently.

"That certainly sounds more likely than anything else we've come up with," Gimu responded. "You'll need to share that thinking with the others."

Sherrie grimaced. Weaver wasn't going to be happy to find out his possibly being hit on by an adult pederast was going to be public; particularly when it happened a half dozen years before and he hadn't even noticed at the time.

Two more days flew past; no one got sick.

When they were released from quarantine, Gimu grabbed Sherrie, hugging her hard and swinging her around in a circle. Then she very thoroughly kissed Sherrie.

Sherrie looked at Gimu in askance. "That was unexpected."

"Tell me you didn't like it!"

"Gimu, I liked it. Gimu, when I was sixteen and my father would hug me, it would set my teeth on edge. Yet I felt wonderful that he cared enough to hug his daughter. At the next opportunity, I'd be there, eager for his hug."

"You are conflicted, Sherrie-sama! If you let me, I'll simplify matters for you."

"Gimu, you and I will never be simple."

Gimu shrugged. "Still, we're free! What is it that you most want to do?"

"I want talk to Carmen Quintero's sister, if she's okay."

"She has TB; all things considered, that's not a bad result."

It took a day, and they faced the woman through a sheet of safety glass. Her name was Marivel Quintero and it was quite clear she was terrified.

"I am Major Sherrie Richardson, US Army," Sherrie told the woman.

"I told them that I will do anything, anything at all."

"Miss Quintero, talk to me about your sister Carmen."

"It wasn't right, but she had a thing for our cousin Ramon. Ramon Alovar. Ramon -- well, he liked little boys more than he liked Carmen. They were always fighting. Then, Ramon went away for a couple of years; I thought Carmen was finished with him. Then, a few months ago, he came back. Carmen just went crazy after that. Anything he wanted, she gave him. Money, information ... herself. It was terrible to watch."

"Who gave the orders? Between Ramon and Carmen?"

"Oh, Ramon. He'd never let a woman boss him around."

"In his last days, he acted like she was in charge."

"He was sick and getting sicker; I think he knew he was going to die. Carmen would hold his hand, pat his brow and he'd follow her around like a puppy. It was disgusting to watch them before he got sick -- after it was much worse. He was a limp noodle. Carmen told me he couldn't get it up any more, either ... but he'd always had trouble with Carmen because she was a woman and not twelve."

"And you?" Sherrie asked.

"Me?" Marivel Quintero laughed. "They thought I was queer."

"Queer? Gay?"

"I am a novice nun."

"Ah, Miss Quintero I assume you know Ramon Alovar was a significant leader in MS-13, a drug gang. Tell us what you know about that."

"Almost nothing; if I'd learned anything about that, and if they thought I was a rat, they'd have killed me. I made a point of learning nothing."

"Who did Ramon Alovar take orders from?"

"Ramon? You're kidding. He was so proud! His back was so stiff! He said he never took orders from anyone."

"Surely he answered to someone in the organization."

"He said once, it was a band of brothers, and then laughed. I do know that his brother, Raul, was part of that."

"Part of what?"

"Growing up, well, Raul was you know, swishy. Gay-like. He told Ramon a few years ago he was going to get a sex-change operation and become a woman. Ramon went crazy; no brother of his was going to become a woman! Then Raul came back from Africa one time and he was shorter, more, well, feminine. I thought Ramon would kill him; but Ramon just laughed and said his brother had finally understood what was important in the world."

She stopped and Sherrie looked at her piercingly. "You've left something out," Sherrie told Quintero.

"Ramon said, his brother had stepped up in the world; now he was his liaison with MS-13."

"His boss?"

"No, they just coordinated things, like. To make sure they weren't stepping on each other's toes. Some of the groups were really aggressive -- they were always barging into other people's turf. Ramon hated it, but for the last couple of years he was smug and confident. No one, he told Carmen, was ever going to mess with his people again. They were, he told Carmen, wolves among the sheep. Carmen didn't know what he meant, because she knew a lot of people in MS-13 besides Ramon. They aren't sheep."

"You said Ramon was sick. Was it bad?"

"There were times he would cough for ten, fifteen minutes at a time; he'd always end up coughing blood. He didn't want a doctor; he told Carmen that he was fine; it was just a cough he'd picked up in the jungle. Now that he was out of the jungle, he said the cough was getting better. I didn't think so, but I only saw him every week or two. Carmen said it seemed like he was getting better. She said Raul had found him a really good doctor."

She looked at Sherrie. "My sister -- she was like so many. The only part of a man she cared about was between his legs. If he's big there, that was enough for her. She said it made up for everything else; there wasn't, she said, much else a man could do for a woman except pleasure her. If you got that, you had everything you were going to get."

Quintero couldn't see Sherrie blush. As long as a guy had something, she hadn't cared. Big or small, it made no difference to her. What a small, stupid person she'd been!

She quickly wound up the interview and spent a few minutes staring into space.

Gimu came up next to her. "It bites, does is not, Sherrie-chan?"

"How do you figure out my moods?"

Gimu laughed. "Sherrie-chan! It's simple! I let my heart speak. I don't figure anything!"

"So now I'm -chan not -sama or -san?"

"Sherrie-chan, Mr. Smith is a very thorough person. In your dreams he shorted on your SOP. He knows all there is to know about you."

It was all Sherrie could do to keep from being sick. "Surely not everything?"

"Sherrie ... faced with a badge and a peremptory demand for information -- few even bother to try to dissemble."

"So you know it all as well?" she said, feeling awful.

"All? Sherrie-chan, all I know is a series of events. I can guess some of the motivations, but not all of them. Mr. Smith came to the conclusion that they were in no way a measure of who you are today -- you'd moved on. I've looked at the same information and I can only agree. You are Sherrie Richardson, a very unique individual in very unique circumstances."

"I've been trying to pretend that part of me never existed."

"Sherrie-chan, it is as much a part of you as anything else. We all make mistakes -- we realize that and change our behavior. It's how we change that's important -- not the wrong turn taken."

Weaver talked to her next. "I think you're on to something there, with Uncle Phil. But honestly, I don't see it beyond more information about what is motivating her and nothing that really leads to any conclusions about where she is or what she's planning."

"Well, if we play 'Hide Uncle Phil' it might piss her off and make her do something stupid."

"It might -- it might also cause her to reach out and kill someone like my cousin Mandy, just to show that she can still hurt us."

"Well, I want to reach out and hurt her." Sherrie paused and looked around. "Are there any bugs anywhere close?"

"Yes, over there by the lamp," he told her.

"Then lets go for a walk, where we can find a place we can talk."

A few minutes later they were outside, standing in the middle of a patch of grass about a hundred feet on a side. "You understand, right," he asked, "that if we are under direct surveillance, they'll have a parabolic mike on us and there's no way to tell?"

"I'll take the chance. I want you to arrange a private conversation with Mr. Jones for me. Off the record; like the ones you have been having with him."

Weaver grimaced. "No one could have told you; how did you figure it out?"

"Because every time I turn around lately, the last person you've talked to is Mr. Jones. It's not that I don't trust Colonel Morrison -- but I trust Jones more."

He frowned. "You're saying I should be -- circumspect -- around the good colonel."

"It wouldn't hurt. Big things, but not critical things; things we don't care if Coretta knows about or not."

He sucked wind. "That's the second Army colonel she might have bent. That's not good."

"No, it's not. Unlike with Colonel Edgerton, this time there is no evidence whatsoever; just a feeling that Gimu has."

"Gimu has? That's a different kettle of fish. She's the most discerning individual you'll meet in your life. If she thinks there's a problem, there is."

"I get a little of that vibe myself," Sherrie admitted. "But I don't get it from his son."

"If she thought there was a problem with him, she'd have mentioned it. Let me talk to Mr. Jones. I get to him through the NSA -- it's cool having a secure link to the NSA."

"If Coretta hasn't hacked that," Sherrie said bitterly.

Weaver shook his head. "We use a brute force encryption key that is more than ten thousand bytes long. If you don't know the primes that make it up, you'd need to spend longer than the lifetime of the universe trying to calculate them, even with a quantum computer. Each end has their own key; so you'd need to crack two keys. Not going to happen."

"Good, as soon as you can, because I think this is important."

As soon as possible turned out to be four hours. They met in front of the detention center where Marivel Quintero had been held briefly, but was now elsewhere.

He drove a more mundane Saturn, not a tinted-glass SUV monstrosity. Sherrie got in and he started driving.

"I understand you are concerned now about security," he told her as they pulled away.

"I always was, but I'm thinking the spider has us pierced and skewered."

He grimaced. "That seems to be the case. I've had to deal with leaks and informants before -- but we could figure out generally where the problem was. Then we'd set traps and catch them. This..." he shook his head. "We don't know at what level, what agency and who is leaking and what they are leaking. The spider has been very canny -- when a source is blown, she cleans them up."

"Except Edgerton, De Ruyter and a few others I could mention."

His eyes narrowed. "We got so little from them, we figured that no matter what rank insignia they had on their collars, they were really small fry in the organization, and probably not well trusted."

"I think we need to talk to them again. Marivel Quintero may have given us the key to the whole thing."

"Back to security for a moment." He reached across his body and knocked on the window next to him. "This is not your GM autoworker uncle's Saturn. We pipe white noise into the windows -- anyone with a mike or even lasers hear nothing but static. There's a gizmo like Weaver's that scans the car for any radio source ... about every ten seconds when there's someone in the car. Once an hour when it's empty. There is a passive detector that would probably also catch any source that starts transmitting."

"I'm going to rain on more parades. Although I respect the man, and it grieves me to say this, but you need to take a real close look at Colonel Morrison. The consensus in my group is that he's bent."

Mr. Jones blinked. "I can't believe Billy Morrison is bent. They don't mint that much money."

"It might be useful to quietly check on all of the members of his extended family. It could be someone is missing."

He cursed. "Fuck 'em! God damn these people to hell! Don't they understand that we haven't started playing cowboys and indians with them yet? If they ever get us started it will be very bad news."

"I don't follow."

"It's not something I'm proud of, you understand? But the indians killed settlers indiscriminately -- men, women, children and babies. The only indians who survived were the ones who surrendered -- and then were shot full of luck that we didn't wipe them out anyway. Men, women, children and babies."

"Yes. Well, I'm hoping we have a clue to the spider in Marivel Quintero. Her sister was close to Ramon Alovar. Alovar had a brother named Raul, who wasn't well thought of by anyone -- he was evidently a wuss. He went for a sex change operation and came back a girlie man, if you get my drift."

"I saw that, yes."

"It would appear that afterwards, at the very least, Raul Alovar was the spider's conduit into the gang."

"He's been under DEA surveillance for a year; we can get detailed records for Weaver to analyze. Maybe we'll be lucky."

Sherrie shook her head. "I know the CIA isn't supposed to operate in the US; I'm betting anyway that you have contacts with people who do."

"I think that would be a safe bet."

"The odds that the spider doesn't know Raul is under surveillance is zero, and much less than zero if that is Coretta's actual identity these days. Thus, I would expect that all of Raul Alovar's detail is bent."

Mr. Jones was silent for a second. "Yeah, I can see that. It was a straight DEA investigation; they wouldn't have taken any special precautions." He laughed bitterly. "Evidently, we're going to need to tighten everything up. We've known for years that some of the drug gangs were hooked up with the terrorists; we knew the drug gangs were ruthless. They haven't targeted the cops in this country, at least often, because when the hammer drops on them, it's a heavy blow.

"Christ! The DEA is going to have to back to square one! We need to know if gangbangers are going to those camps -- not just the spider and her crew, but others.

"They are going to have to keep their teams under a microscope -- and they'll have to change them out often."

"I have information that the gangs and the terrorist might be on the outs. That, and I think the security in the DEA were things they should have been doing."

"Yeah, but those precautions cost loads of money; the bosses don't mind spending more money when it comes to adding staff; they hate it if what you're doing might reduce it."

"Tough."

He was silent for a moment, and then started up from a stoplight. "I like to think I'm a mover and shaker even though I know, when it comes to the bureaucrats, I'm small potatoes. I expect you're right about Raul Alovar's detail being bent. When the bosses realize that -- well, it's going to hit the fan big time. More, even, than now.

"They will never understand that the spider is picking and choosing her targets. They are going to see rot here, rot there, and assume rot everywhere. It'll be a nightmare."

"I want to talk to Edgerton and De Ruyter, as soon as it can be arranged."

"You realize, we can move you to them -- but they have to be watching you, so that means the prisoners will have to move afterwards. If we bring them to you, they are far more at risk moving than still. And, once they see you, once again they are at risk."

"Twice now, I've had bombs aimed at me. I'm really sorry that they'll be at risk -- but they are the traitors, not me. They will have to live -- or die -- with their choices. Just like I have to."

"When you put it like that, it pulls everything into crystal clarity."

Two days later she sat in front of Colonel Edgerton. In spite of his shackles and the presence of two guards, he was contemptuous. "You."

"Me. I take it then, no one bothered to inform you of who ratted you out."

"You? That's a joke. You're a puffed-up civilian who doesn't belong in the uniform; the major's insignia is a sick joke."

"I'm off to C&GS college after the first of the year. General Shoemaker promoted me."

He laughed nastily. "I know how it works; you can say whatever you want."

"I suppose I can; on the other hand I'm telling the truth. It is immaterial to me if you believe me or not. At that meeting with General Keller you contemplated briefly an operation. You looked at me and laughed at the idea I was secure. Yet, here I am and there you are. You might want to contemplate empiric results."

"I have no idea what you are talking about!"

"Two of your minions at HQ, joined with an Iraqi and tried to use a truck bomb to kill me. They got killed. Another of your boss's confederates sent three truck bombs to kill me -- they did succeed in blowing up a nursery and children's ward at a hospital. You may have noticed that in the last few days your guards are -- surly."

He blinked. Obviously, the guards were something more than surely. "I've filed official complaints. I've been worked over twice."

"Babies, Edgerton. They blew up more than a hundred new-borns. More than three hundred kids under twelve. What the fuck did you expect? Cheers?"

"That's what you say."

"Ask them, they next time you slip a few times in the shower or climbing the stairs."

He rubbed his lip, clearly nervous. "What is it you want?"

"Your boss."

"I was bought and paid for by Al Qaeda. You haven't had much luck catching Bin Laden."

"He wasn't your boss. You were part of cell that was embedded in the military to be of whatever use you could be -- and then disposed of. You do understand that we could kill you in thirty minutes? Publish a public statement of your release, give the location and then let you go there?"

"I have no idea what you are talking about."

"We found the names of a group that went to Africa, including their ring-leader. All of them are dead now. In fact, everyone we've discovered except you and De Ruyter who worked for them are dead."

"That fucking queer!"

"At this point we know of more than a hundred and fifty people who knew who your boss was. All but two of you are dead. You do the math."

He looked uncertain. "You're lying."

"Sure, we just pat colonels in the army who are in bed with our enemies on the shoulder and wish them luck as they are off for 'other opportunities.' Edgerton, the President cut through the red tape about my promotion and made it official. I don't think he'd have done that for just any officer under just any circumstances.

"So, I'm here to ask more questions. Did you ever have any contact with the fellow in Kuwait that was diverting mail?"

"I never heard about that. It was another cell; I wasn't in the loop."

"How about Hispanic gents, who spoke Spanish better than English?"

"Just before we deployed to Iraq, my control didn't make contact like he was supposed to."

"Dead in a ditch," Sherrie interjected.

"I heard from someone with an accent that I thought was Spanish -- Mexican anyway. He had all the right code words; he hooked me up with a new control." He looked at her steadily. "You understand that by 'control' all I mean is the person with lateral contact to other cells?"

"Someone higher in the food chain than you, yes," Sherrie told him, knowing it would irritate him.

"Lateral contact," Edgerton repeated firmly.

Sherrie laughed. "And you would show that on an org chart how? One person with authority over a number of others. I believe they have a higher place on the org chart, with lines dropping down to their subordinates."

"Describe the man," Sherrie jabbed.

"A fag. Christ, he minced when he walked; he made fairy gestures. I only saw him once, just before we shipped out. Raul, I think he said his name was. Why would you care about someone like that?"

"You'd be surprised. All of this but that name you gave up earlier. Why didn't you give up that name?"

He glared at her and Sherrie realized he hadn't meant to.

She laughed at him. "I read all the James Bond books too when I was growing up -- but I had the sense to know they were BS. In your mind you're a great secret agent. You gave yourself away to two different people because you don't have a poker face. And again just now because you don't know how to control your tongue."

"What, you read minds?"

"If you weren't going to spend the rest of your life in the slam, I'd have liked to play poker with you, Edgerton. You're a cluster-fuck when it comes to keeping your thoughts to yourself."

"If you think I'm going to answer another question -- well, go fuck yourself."

"Edgerton, we can see the answers to our questions in your face. You don't have to say anything. The name was useful, though. Thanks."

He literally ground his teeth. Sherrie waved to the guards and off he went.

A day later she met Helen De Ruyter once again. "I've been cooperating," were the first words out of her mouth. "No one believes me that I'm truly sorry."

"What a surprise. How were you recruited?"

"I've told that story a hundred times. I was at a club I knew near Ft. Meade, where I was stationed. It catered to gays. A woman struck up a conversation with me. We hooked up; the sex was good but not great.

"She was a little taller than I am. We took a shower together the morning after. There was no warning, no nothing. She hit me with a body block; the next thing I knew I was backed up against the shower wall with a knife at my throat.

"I was, she told me going to listen to her. She explained that they knew about my extra curricular activities for Mr. Smith. She described the last couple of women I'd hooked up with.

"She told me that I had a choice. I could die or cooperate. Then she dragged me into my dining room. There, on the table, was a million dollars in cash. I have no idea who put it there. None. She told me I had a choice. I could cooperate or die. If I cooperated, the money was mine; more money would be mine if I kept doing what I was told. She told me they'd know at once if I tried to turn my coat."

"Describe the woman."

"About five eight, willowy thin; she was African-American. She had shoulder-length black hair; I remember it was wavy; she was cute."

"In your love-making ... did she have a thing for your asshole?"

De Ruyter blinked. "That's personal."

"De Ruyter, Edgerton tried that on me. I asked if he's been falling down a lot, lately. Have you had any falls?"

De Ruyter looked away. "The guards are ... abusive."

"Your confederates blew up a hospital. They targeted the nursery and the children's wing. More than three hundred under the age of twelve died, De Ruyter. You'd better expect to be falling a lot. I'm sorry this is a personal question, but I assure you, it's serious. If you lie it would come out at trial and add to your sentence."

De Ruyter looked at Sherrie, and then sagged. "She wanted to put her fingers there. It was gross; I wouldn't let her. The next day, after she made her 'offer' she told me that was how we were going to 'seal the deal.' She used a dildo there. It was rape."

"Which you didn't report ... either then or lately."

"A million dollars goes a long ways towards making the hurt go away. It didn't seem germane."

"I'm not surprised; you were never very good at your job. You wouldn't recognize something was important unless your nose was rubbed in it. Did she rub your nose in it?"

From De Ruyter's expression, that had happened as well.

"She made you do it, didn't she?" Sherrie said, softening her tone.

De Ruyter looked away. "A million dollars. How many times have you said, 'For a million dollars I'd do anything?'"

"Actually, I either did it for free or the money wouldn't have been enough."

"Edgerton said you were a slut."

"Edgerton had his tenses wrong. One day I woke up, looked around and grew up. My life up to that point hadn't been exemplary; since then I've been celibate. You figure it out."

"You were sleeping with that Japanese woman."

"Who told you that?"

"Edgerton."

Sherrie made a mental note; there simply weren't too many questions you could ask, no matter how off the wall they seemed. She doubted if they'd trot Edgerton back so she could ask a few more. She'd write a memo and let someone else ask.

"Did Edgerton tell you that 'that Japanese woman' was my Tokyo control and worked for Mr. Smith?"

"No. He never told me much. He just came to me one day with the right codes and told me about you. I'd already been told by them to watch you."

"Told by who?"

"My control; that black woman."

"When?"

"I'd been attending a training course Mr. Smith set up for me. We graduated and I met her that Friday night; I had orders to Ft. Bliss. Mr. Smith met me Monday night at Bliss and explained to me that he'd placed another officer there and that I was to watch over you, but not let you know."

"When was that?"

"About two weeks after you reported in."

That set Sherrie back. Coretta had known that soon? How? Nearly two years later she had no trouble believing Coretta had penetrated Mr. Smith's security. But just after she arrived at Bliss? There couldn't have been that many people involved.

The troubling thing was that Edgerton had been recruited about a month before the attack on her beach house, about the same time as the guy arrived in Kuwait to diddle the mail.

Edgerton's recruitment could have been done by any related group -- although it had some of Coretta's earmarks. Coretta had almost certainly recruited De Ruyter -- and that had come barely a month after the attack on Sherrie's beach house.

The interesting thing was that she had still been Coretta, then.

Coretta would have had to learn about Mr. Smith, then his organization, then De Ruyter and her assignment -- all in less than a month. Coretta was probably more efficient than most bureaucratic intelligence agencies, but that was still awfully fast.

She froze. There were two simple explanations: Mr. Smith was the person bent ... which seemed unlikely, as he could have simply sat on Weaver's troubles and no one would have ever known. But what if the leak was elsewhere, for something else? What if the drug gangs -- with Coretta around -- had penetrated the US Marshal's office? Odds were that the US Marshals were as fond of gossip as soldiers -- what if they talked about Mr. Smith's involvement? And what if someone knew where she'd gone? That would have been a juicy gossip topic!

Coretta would have heard about it almost at once. Sherrie laughed bitterly to herself. Would Coretta have put the pedal to the metal to penetrate a US spy agency, as she must have already done to the US Army? In a heartbeat. Would she have applied maximum extreme measures? That same New York minute!

That was why Coretta herself was involved with recruiting De Ruyter -- she was counting coup on the entire US intelligence community. She probably had recruited the document clerk earlier by a couple of weeks. She made a note to have someone ask the document clerk if he'd given his recruiter any names of his fellow employees ... Sherrie bet he had, and those names included someone in communications and Coretta would once again have gone all out to recruit that person.

She'd been doing all this thinking, with De Ruyter in front of her, sitting quietly.

"De Ruyter, a quick question, and one you can take your time answering. Did you give Coretta any names of people in your agency? Did you know other people in the agency, well enough to discuss where you would be going next?"

"Look, I know you despise me. You haven't been raped in the ass -- because you get an entirely new perspective on how shitty the world is when you are. That woman raped me every couple of hours until I gave her names. I was bleeding out my backside, do you understand? I thought I was going to die."

"I thought his operation was 'tightly compartmented?'" Sherrie responded.

"It is -- but lets face it, if you're in a class with a dozen others, what are you going to do during a break? You talk, trade names, trade assignments, although that last in general terms.

"Do you know what that bitch did? When she was done she stuffed a tampon up my ass to 'stop the bleeding.' She thought it was hilariously funny."

Sherrie mentally shook her head. No wonder no one had pursued this line of questioning! Entirely too much information!

She eventually left; tired of de Ruyter's whining about how terrible it had been to be raped. Sherrie was sure that being raped was no fun -- but she figured being blown up as an infant was worse. Or being a twelve year old dying of leukemia ... who might have had a slim chance, suddenly been rendered asunder. When she thought about that, or Mandy Gold, dead in a field -- after having been raped -- de Ruyter didn't deserve any sympathy.

Mr. Jones was hanging around Whiteman AFB, and Sherrie found him in an office, reading reports. "I have a favor to ask," she told him.

"What can I do for you, Major?"

"Tell me how you whistle up an fast aircraft to fly a long, long ways."

He laughed. "Until I went to Iraq with Mr. Smith, I usually went coach -- or flew in a C-130. I would have bet that nothing could be more uncomfortable than a C-130, but trust me, a F-16 is actually worse. They have bathrooms on a C-130."

"I need to go out to the West Coast."

"Colonel Morrison can do it, I expect. They've given us a number of unusual priorities."

"Thanks, I'll look into it. Tell me, how did you get Captain Kirk and his band of Merry Men to Miami?"

"He's got a priority on a C-130. He can whistle that up anytime."

Sherrie nodded. "You said C-130's aren't very comfortable."

"Or fast," he told her. "On the other hand, it can get you to the West Coast before breakfast."

Sherrie left it at that. Next she looked up Captain Kirk.

"I understand you have a C-130 at your beck at call."

"Yes, Major. Although, it is a little more complicated than that."

"I need to go to LA. Now. If I have to drag the rest of you with me, so be it."

He grimaced. "Is that fair to the men?"

"Tell them I trying to prevent the next bomb that kills babies and kids."

"I would be ever so glad, Major, if you could forget I ever uttered that last despicable sentence."

He paused, searching for words. "This is why we joined, Major. This is what we want to do. We want to take it back to them -- yet, at the same time; we don't want to become them. Blowing away a couple of dozen Indians crossing a parking lot -- you can't imagine how that has boosted morale. Not only that, now I have a line of volunteers who want to transfer in. I was stupid and I apologize."

"Apologize by getting us in the air, ASAP."

He shook his head. "Mr. Jones greased the ways for us the last time. There's an Air Force colonel that has to sign off on the trip. Mr. Jones leaned on someone higher up, and they leaned on that colonel and it happened.

"The Air Force is a bunch of limp dicks. They put the colonel's ass in a crack because we violated posse comitatus. We got medals and he got a written reprimand. It's rather tempered his enthusiasm."

Gimu tugged on Sherrie's sleeve. "Ask Weaver-kun. He has a very fast airplane.

Sherrie looked at Captain Kirk. "I'm off to LA. If you and your men want a chance to do business -- join me. Otherwise, why don't you just sit around the barracks and swap stories?"

The captain's expression was priceless, but Sherrie ignored it. In five minutes she had arranged with Weaver to fly to California. It would be best, she thought, in all aspects if the destination and everything else about the flight was kept secret.



-------

Chapter 22: The Marshal Plan


Sherrie marveled at the small private jet. It was actually nicer than the one she'd flown home from Iraq in. She grinned at Weaver. "This is nice," she told him.

He shrugged. "I got it at a forfeiture sale from a drug runner. A steal at the price."

Sherrie grimaced at his use of words. "I thought you were learning to fly."

"Sherrie, they don't let people with learner permits chauffer people around for money. Trust me; Uncle Sugar is paying for this flight, so the pilots both have commercial licenses -- and top secret clearances."

He reached out and hugged the diminutive Japanese woman at his side. "This is Kimi. I'm sure you remember her from Tokyo."

Kimi bowed and Sherrie bowed nearly as much. "Kimi, an honor."

The other shrugged. "I tell all those I work with now, about the treason of my husband." She laughed bitterly. "I can't work any more in Japan. Gimu told me that she could find me honorable employment here. Weaver-kun is as honorable a man as there is."

"Just so it's out in the open, Sherrie, Kimi and I sleep together," Weaver told her.

"A long time ago I told you that was your business and offered some general advice. Nothing has changed."

Gimu giggled. "Sherrie-chan, Kimi-san has learned an important lesson about the difference between American men and Japanese men. In Japan, a man thinks it's a woman's duty to pleasure him. If he goes away with a smile, he's content. Very, very few are interested in whether or not the woman is pleasured as well. Weaver-kun has shown Kimi how much better it is if everyone goes away with a smile."

"Too much information," Sherrie told her, shaking her head.

In no time they were rolling down the runway. Weaver spoke up again as they lifted into the area. "It'll be an eight hour flight. Plenty of time for a nap."

"We'll be in LA at 9 AM?" Sherrie asked.

"Well, Burbank anyway. That's the only airport we could get cleared to this quickly. You understand that the only thing I've done is arrange with Mr. Jones to have a car available when we land."

"The fewer people knowing we're coming the better," Sherrie told him.

"Oh, they don't know we're coming -- just that a senior CIA operative is coming. Senior, but not all that senior."

Sherrie nodded, then leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes, mentally rehearsing what she was going to say to the marshal. She was pretty sure that most people, faced with the possibility of someone under them being bent wasn't going to be all that cooperative.

-------

The next morning, Gimu performed superbly, pretending to be a senior agent of the CIA. The car whisked them onto the freeways effortlessly, headed for the downtown Federal Building.

It was mildly amusing to watch Gimu work the bureaucracy, until they ended up in Marshal Larchmont's office. Gimu was introduced, and when he stood up to shake her hand, Sherrie stepped forward.

"Do you remember me, sir?"

He looked at her and blinked. "I don't remember you being a major in the army, no. The lady from the beach house, yes."

"Sir, I need to talk to you in private."

He laughed sarcastically. Sherrie had Weaver, Gimu and Kimi; he was alone. "I'm sure that can be arranged, Major."

A moment later he poured her a cup of coffee and then sat down at his desk.

"Evidently there has been a lot of water under the bridge. I heard privately that you were at Miami during the hospital attack. Is this about that?"

Sherrie composed herself. "Yes; in more ways than one. Do you realize that the 'back-channels' are compromising our security?"

He shrugged. "Law Enforcement are as much gossips as any group of older ladies over bridge."

"Well, sir, this is about that, not Miami.

"I realize the questions I'm going to ask will be uncomfortable, but they have to be answered to the best of your ability. Of the people who were involved in the matter at my beach house -- have any left the employ of the government? For any reason?"

"You mean," he said acidly, "besides the men who died there?"

"I told you this wouldn't be comfortable. Sir, to coin a phrase, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. I don't think you would like the hard way."

"Two of the men have been reassigned to other offices -- one in Las Vegas, one in Richmond, Virginia. They are still marshals. One man took a disability retirement; he was one of the wounded in the attack. He took a round in the right hand, costing him the use of most of his fingers. He is, so far as I know, still living in Southern California."

Sherrie contemplated things for a moment. "We'll start with the easy things thing. The man who retired -- what was his name?"

"Stan McGinnis. His right hand is more like a claw now -- he can only use his index finger and thumb. He was marginal with a weapon and decided to pull the plug."

Sherrie decided to be blunt. "We've learned from the interrogation of prisoners that the opposition knew who I was and where I'd gone into the witness protection program within a week or two of my entry."

The marshal sucked wind. "And you think one of my people was responsible?"

"Sir, it's my intention to check all those who might have heard. You've already essentially told me that your people gossip about operational matters that shouldn't be gossiped about."

He sighed. "I can't believe Stan would do something like that -- if that's who you're thinking of."

"What I'm thinking of, is that you should start an investigation into who in your shop heard what -- officially or not -- how much they knew and when they knew it.

"Marshal, I had nearly two hundred people working for me in Iraq. Two of them turned out to be bent pennies, when I would have bet none were."

"This will tear my shop apart," he said sadly.

"And you think it helped my troop moral? Even after a truck bomb tried to take me out?"

He made a face. "A moment." He picked up his desk phone. "Sol, could you come in, please."

A moment later an older man, in his forties arrived. He was a little overweight, was well on his way to being bald, and carried himself as the quintessential "desk warrior."

"Sol, you're Stan McGinnis' neighbor. How's he doing these days?"

The man ignored Sherrie and her people.

"He had some trouble at first, adjusting. Fred, he really tried to stay on active status, but his hand..."

Fred Larchmont nodded. "Other than that?"

"Well, his wife teaches junior high at the Osborn Academy. His kids get a deal on tuition to go there. She teaches social studies and Spanish. Last summer, he took his wife and kids to Spain for three weeks. Jenny was really excited by it -- she got to speak Spanish with real Spaniards, and got to visit places she'd only read about. Carol Sue, the youngest, though, threw a temper tantrum and didn't want to go. She ended up staying with relatives.

"This last summer, they went to Portugal, Spain and Italy." He laughed. "Carol Sue decided that there was a lot to be said for adventure and went with them."

Sherrie gave the marshal a significant glance. The other marshal saw it, stopped talking and stood thinking.

"Fred, I'm so fucked, aren't I?"

"Sol, at this point we don't know anything."

"Fred, for the last year I go over to Stan's house or he comes over to mine. We shoot the breeze." He swallowed. "I've kept him abreast of what's going on in the office. For Christ sakes, Fred! We were in the Academy together! Our wives are best friends! He got my kids a deal at his wife's scho..."

He stopped, his eyes bugged out. "Oh. My. God." The words were punctuated with abject despair. "What have I done?"

Sherrie spoke up. "You behaved like anyone would, with a friend and colleague. Except these people want us all -- men, women and children -- dead. Never forget that."

He looked at Sherrie. "Do I know you?"

"Sol, this is Sherrie Richardson, and the young man with her is Weaver Gold. They were our primaries at the beach house."

The man took a step back, ran into the door, and then slid down, sitting so his legs were folded in front of him, his face buried in his hands.

Marshal Larchmont was patient. "Sol?"

"I gave them up, Fred. Keith Phelps told me that he'd heard they were going to stash her in the army. I never thought anything about it; I told Stan. I thought it was a joke that they'd put a slacker like she was in the army."

He buried his head in his arms; clearly he was crying.

Marshal Larchmont was patient, still. "Sol, I wish I could say something. Have your resignation on my desk before close of business today. God; I hate to say this, but I have to. If you tell anyone, anyone at all, about it, you'll face prosecution."

"I understand," the man said dully.

"Marshal, just so you know. I wasn't a total slacker when I joined the Army, but like so many others have, over time I found myself.

"You are the one slacking now. You screwed up; trust me, I'm sorry as hell about that. I was in Miami when the same people who hit my beach house blew it up. The question you have to ask yourself right now -- is how are you going to deal with this? Is feeling sorry for yourself giving it your best shot, to try to make up for what you've done?"

"Not the same people. Surely, not the same people."

"The same, I'm afraid. The MS-13 members who didn't take part in that raid on my house went to the Middle East, got some training, went to Africa, got some more, and came to Miami and used it.

"Now, please. Man up or crawl out on your belly."

"I think, Sol, you should listen to her. You've been a good man; I can't believe you're going to sit on the floor and cry because you screwed up."

He levered himself off the floor. "Sorry, Fred. It's tough to face this. I have no idea how I'm ever going to look myself in the mirror again."

Weaver spoke up. "Sir, I'm Weaver Gold. Tell me about the Osborn School."

"It's a private junior high and high school. Normally it's pretty exclusive, but Stan's wife has gotten a number of us good deals on our kids. Public schools these days..." He shrugged expressively. "Literally, a lot of people would pay good money to get their kids out of there these days. LA is worse than most places."

Weaver nodded. "And who, besides you, has kids there? Anybody else in this office?"

He mentioned three names. Weaver turned to Marshal Larchmont. "Sir, those three -- what are they detailed to?"

"I'm not sure what you're getting at. Delgado and Chavez work with the DEA. Yung Kim is a jack-of-all-trades ... he's always on different assignments. Why?"

"It's something I saw in the records we've been reviewing from another source. A lot of MS-13 non-combatant family members attend the same school. It was odd. This is odd."

Suddenly, Sherrie connected dots. "Good grief! What a great recruiting tool! We know they like to give people choices of going with them or not ... using candid pictures of their families. What is more candid than a kid sitting in class, watching his or her teacher?"

Marshal Larchmont sighed. "Yung Kim's wife died a few years back; his kids are with a sister, so he can work as much overtime as we'll let him."

"We learned that the DEA had a detail on a certain MS-13 member," Sherrie told him. "When we realized that the person wasn't the minnow we thought, we got curious. The whole detail had been turned.

"We think that what's happening is that they are very specific in targeting people to turn -- to us, it looks like rot everywhere ... instead, they target a few people close to our operations, and it looks bad when we find them."

Larchmont coughed. "You think they are targeting others at the school?"

"I think so, sir," Sherrie told him. "Think about it -- they would have a smorgasbord of the rich and famous to suborn."

"Good grief!" the marshal said, rocked back to his heels. "It was bad enough to be questioning people in my office ... an entire school?"

Sherrie nodded. "I felt the same thing when I found out that some of my people might be bad. Then two of them came at us with a truck bomb and blew themselves up. After that, we got real thorough."

She paused, and Weaver spoke up. "Sherrie, I need to talk to you in private."

The two marshals left for a moment, with Gimu tagging along behind.

"I didn't want to speak about my concerns about the Osborn School before, Sherrie."

"Why not?"

"Mr. Jones has two daughters there."

Sherrie looked heavenward. "Oh, that's just wonderful!"

"Sherrie, I didn't think about it before, but think about this: most of the students are boarding students. They live there."

She thought for a few moments, and then called the others back.

"Marshal Larchmont -- can you deputize people in an emergency?"

"Of course. I've done it a couple of times."

"How about more than a hundred?"

His face froze. "You don't trust us?"

He laughed. "Of course you don't trust us. Who would I be deputizing?

"The Army Rangers who were last in Miami."

"You're trying an end run around posse comitatus."

"I'm trying to get a hundred plus people we can trust. We need to take that school and sort out the good, the bad and the ugly. I can't whistle up that many agents from other agencies that I'd trust more than those men and women."

He shrugged. "I will if you ask me too ... how legal it will be, will be something for the lawyers."

Sherrie nodded. "I just want to scotch this as quickly as I can, as thoroughly as I can. If we do this quick, maybe we can catch them by surprise."

She nodded at Gimu. "I need the communications sergeant."

Gimu smiled. "Sherrie-sama, why haven't you learned his name?"

"Bruce Evans. Now, would you please get him?"

A moment later the man was there. "I need your magic, Sergeant," she told him.

Sherrie eyed Gimu carefully. "Connect me with Colonel Morrison."

Gimu smiled slightly at Sherrie and then bowed deeply.

"Colonel, Major Richardson. I need Captain Kirk and his merry band in LA, ASAP. Can you arrange it?"

The colonel laughed. "Sure, no problem."

"I need them in civilian clothes and side arms. Some heavier stuff available in case of need. We'll need a some wheels as well -- stuff that doesn't look military."

"I can do that, Major." He said something to someone else.

"We're issuing the alert now."

"Sir, I'd like to ask that as few people be in the loop as possible. Just the Air Force pilots, Captain Kirk and his people."

"And not the various other players?"

"No, not them. Sir, we've found more leaks here in LA."

He sighed. "And you need a company of Army Rangers to sort it out?"

"Something like that, sir. The marshal's office here will deputize them, so we avoid posse comitatus problems.

"Do we have an ETA yet on your son?"

"He's available; they sent the division home a little early after Miami. They'll have a couple of weeks of leave time, and then go right on alert. If you want him, he'll be with the Rangers."

"I'd like that, yes, sir."

There was a pause on the other hand. "Major Richardson, I just heard from my liaison. You can't have the Rangers deputized, sorry."

"I need about a hundred and fifty badged LEOs, sir. We have reason to believe that LA law enforcement has been penetrated by the spider and through the drug gangs. There is no way to tell quickly how deep that penetration has been. What the Rangers would be doing would be taking hostages back."

"You'd need something like a hostage rescue team, not Rangers in that case."

"These are soft hostages, sir. They are kept in a public place, with minders from the spider and others."

"How can they do that? Surely someone would notice?"

Sherrie looked steadily at Gimu, knowing she would disapprove. "It's a private boarding school, sir."

"Let me think." There was a long pause and Sherrie was aware that there was talking going on in the background of the channel.

"I'll be sending you Captain Kirk, his executive officer and a couple of specialists. They are not to be deputized and should be used in an advisory capacity." He chuckled and said to someone, "That's perfect! Do what has to be done!"

He returned to Sherrie. "It'll take a while to get organized; I can't guarantee a hundred percent purity, but you can secure them in an area were cell phones are prevented from working. I should have them by three or four this afternoon, your time. Captain Kirk and his people will be there about midnight, along with Jacob.

"Let me arrange this, and I'll get back to you in an hour or so."

He cleared off and Sherrie turned to the sergeant. "Is there a way to keep cell phones from working?"

"Yes, ma'am! Theaters do it all the time to stop cell phones from going off during a movie. It doesn't work over a large area, but you could put some people in a gym and keep it secure."

"Make sure we get that equipment, ASAP," Sherrie told him. He nodded and spoke into his own radio.

Marshal Larchmont cleared his throat. "I have a half dozen men who've transferred in with the last 30 days; five of them from smaller offices, like in Bismarck, or Austin. I can't believe they are a problem."

"I wouldn't think so," Sherrie told him.

"There is one from DC; honestly, we have bad chemistry. What I'm going to do is call in the others and have them effect detainments of the two marshals we have suspicions about. Then, one by one, we'll sweep up the civilian families.

"If they've penetrated the Marshal's office, they've undoubtedly got people among the jailors. We'll have to go slow there. I have another dozen people who've transferred in from smaller offices in the last six months. We've been going through an extensive shuffle of our people; we do that every couple of years. I was due to go to Phoenix right after the end of the year."

"That's fine, Marshal ... just keep me apprised of things."

"What do you want to do about Mac?"

"Nothing right now. We'll organize the school thing, and bust the wife then. We'll put a couple of people on him at the same time, and as soon as that bust is complete, we'll pick him up."

The marshal nodded. "I can't fault your conclusions. I wish to God I could. Still, isn't this a little pat?"

"We finally found some loose threads to pull on," Sherrie told him.

He laughed. "Do you know how many investigations we've done that on? Yeah, I understand. One minute it looks insoluble; the next minute you wish you'd figured it out sooner."

Weaver pulled her aside a little later. "I'm doing some research, Gimu is doing some logistical stuff. I'll have maps and diagrams in a bit. Digging deeper into the school -- Sherrie, it was right under my nose. I had a glimpse but I didn't see it as anything except as coincidence."

He paused. "Sherrie, the head master's name is Fernando Quintero, although he had it changed to Frank Quinton. The Alovar brothers' mother married a guy named Alovar. Her maiden name was Quintero. Her sister was the mother of Marivel Quintero and her sister. Fernando Quintero is another brother, at the parents' level.

"I've got the Gold Ninja Squad looking more deeply into the school's finances ... they have a number of kids from gang families 'on scholarship.' The school charges steep tuition -- I'm pretty sure they're laundering money that way. Each student is paying about twenty-five thousand a year tuition, and the boarding students another twelve thousand. There are about fifty students I suspect are gang-related."

Sherrie whistled. "That's a lot of dirty laundry!"

He nodded. "If you spread them over six grade and eight to ten classes per grade, it works out to less than one additional student per class. I'm betting it's treated like overhead."

-------

A while later Colonel Morrison was back on the radio. "I've authorized some funds being expended. We've called up about two hundred of the California National Guard; they are military policemen. The Governor doesn't know what they'll be used for, but has agreed to their use. They haven't been federalized and thus posse comitatus isn't an issue.

"They'll report to the Coliseum, south of USC; they've been asked to bring side arms; I've arranged for some civilian clothes to go there as well.

"You're communications sergeant has gotten the requisite electronics to suppress cell phone transmissions. I've also included a platoon of National Guard infantry -- they'll provide perimeter security. There's no reason if they aren't badged that the truck drivers can't be Rangers.

"The Guard troops will be there by 1800 hours, local time, this evening. Get them into civilian clothes, brief them, and be ready to go at 0800 tomorrow. I'll have a convoy of trucks there to provide transportation. Make an attempt to confiscate all cell phones. Make it really clear that any attempt at outside communication will get their asses in a serious crack."

"Yes, sir."

"I've decided to send Captain Kirk and his entire merry band. They aren't to be deputized -- they will provide operational security. They aren't to be used to arrest anyone."

"I understand, sir."

"Be at the Coliseum when those troops arrive; they are under a captain, so there should be no problems."

"Yes, sir."

"One last word. Lucky me, I get to ride in one of those hot jets that Mr. Smith used to be able to whistle up. The pilot tells me that I'll arrive 'over easy' -- he isn't going to be able to achieve 'sunny side up.' I haven't the courage to ask in advance exactly what he means. I'll be there by 1800, but then I have to go from Burbank to the Coliseum. That may take longer than the flight out there. See you later, Major."

After that, it was a long day. After much discussion with Marshal Larchmont, they decided to wait until the next day to detain the suspects in the Marshal's office. He simply told the men he wanted to do the arrests that he needed them in the office the next day at 0700, without telling them why, and telling them not to talk about it.

At 1400 they went to the Coliseum. Sherrie had been directed to the events manager there.

"How many people are currently in the building?"

The man blinked. "There are about twenty of us the office; another half dozen around the building."

"Send them home. All of them. Now. You too."

"I can't do that ... well, I can send everyone else home, but I can't leave. Someone responsible has to be at the location at all times while tenants are here."

"You have a choice. Leave or be detained for few days. If anyone stays, they too will be detained. I imagine for just a few days. But I can't be sure."

"I was told this was for National Guard training."

"Yes. We are going to be as realistic as possible," Sherrie said with a straight face.

He squared his shoulders. "If I have to be detained, when will it be okay for others to leave?"

"Yes it will."

"When should I tell others to come back in? Tell me the time I can send someone in. Please, it will mean my job if someone responsible isn't here 24/7 when the facility is under lease."

"Someone else is coming?"

"Of course."

"Call them up; tell them you have a burst of energy and they won't need to come in. Call anyone else scheduled to come in. What I'll do is detain you in your office. After 1800, you will no longer be able to communicate to the outside. If there is a call for you, they'll take a message."

"Thank you, Major." He paused. "This is about Miami, isn't it?"

"I'm not a liberty to say, sir. Please don't speculate."

He shook his head. "I'd never dream of it. Go kill the bastards! I'll do whatever you want!"

A while later Gimu reported to her. "Weaver-kun has established a base of operations in one of the luxury suites. For now, your communications guy is there. He says the cell phone suppression equipment is operational. He has coordinated with the manager here and engaged theirs as well."

There were so many details! Still, she doggedly made notes, checked things off and at 1700 greeted the National Guard captain who reported in ahead of his people.

"Major Richardson, I presume?" he said with a smile, saluting. "I'm Captain Truax, California National Guard."

"I was told your people would have only side arms," she nodded at the rifle slung over his shoulder.

"I'm single. This is my better half, Major. I never leave home without it."

"Side arms only, Captain. Make sure all your people know, side arms only. How many of you are there?"

"I'm with the advance party -- about forty of the senior NCOs. The rest of the company will be here over the next half hour. Another hundred and fifty or so, plus a platoon from one of the infantry companies of the division. They'll be in uniform, and won't have side arms."

"Have your men been told about side arms?"

The captain shrugged. "We're a military police company. We have both and typically deploy with both. In civil disturbance situations, we're trained to go in butt ass naked."

"Have your armorer collect anything that is not a pistol from anyone below the rank of staff sergeant. Staff sergeants and above may arm themselves as they see fit. This will be a police action."

"I was told this was a readiness exercise."

"Sorry, Captain. This will be as real as it gets. You are, however, not to share that with anyone else until I share it with everyone. If I find out that you have, you'll be on your way to Leavenworth."

He blinked. "And I can't communicate this to my command?"

"They will be informed later. Captain, this is a follow-up to the Miami bombing."

He blinked. "I'm an LAPD lieutenant, Major. There is nothing, nothing at all, that me and mine would rather have a hand in."

"There are grave national security issues, Captain. Your people will be used to secure a high priority target. A very large target. This will have to be executed with consummate skill."

"My people can do this, Major!"

"What we are going to do is make sure all your people are put in civilian clothes, and have side arms only, except for your sergeants. Those that avail themselves on heavier weapons are going to have to initially stay back."

"We can do that, Major. Just aim us at the target, and we'll do business."

"Your target is school children, Captain. You'll want to show due care."

He grimaced.

Sherrie went on, "Further, none of your people may contact anyone until much later. If there are any attempts -- whoever tries will seriously be screwed."

"A full court press, in other words," he told Sherrie.

"Exactly."

The captain gestured at a man wearing a silver bar. "This is Lieutenant Ferris, my number two. The other fellow is Ken Malloy, my sergeant major. Sergeant Major, would you poke your head outside and call the first sergeant?"

"Roger that, sir."

The man's voice boomed. In a moment, a man with master sergeant's stripes appeared. "Sir?"

"Sergeant Kaplan you will assemble the company in the gymnasium as they arrive. You will tell them that this is not an exercise. They are to going to have to turn in their cell phones, their uniforms and don civvies. They are to be armed with side arms only; if they mustered with rifles, those are to be withdrawn by Sergeant Taggart. Tell Taggart that only staff sergeants and above may have long guns."

"Yes, sir."

"Stress to them that this is not a time to feel they can disregard the rules. This is real and the penalties for straying from the rules will be real."

"Yes, sir!"

An hour later Sherrie strode out on a platform, giving her a little bit of height over the room.

"I'm Major Sherrie Richardson, US Army. This is not a drill, this is not an exercise or test. A week ago, I was in the hospital in Miami when terrorists bombed it."

There had been small rustles of movement; that stopped.

"What you are going to do is come forward and turn in your cell phones, black berries, and any other form of personal communications device. You'll be given a strip of adhesive tape to sign your name on and attach it to the device. You'll get it back afterwards.

"Failure to turn in such a device will see you arrested on a Patriot Act warrant as an enemy combatant -- you are in the wrong uniform. You will be held without bail, without representation, so long as the Army determines. A year, maybe two or three. Without any contact with anyone.

"If you see anyone after this with a personal communications device and if you don't report it ... you'll be treated exactly the same as they will be. The people we are after blow up infants, toddlers and young children; you will not find us very forgiving if we think you side with them.

"Come up, give up your phones or PDAs, any radios. If you don't have civilian clothes, get some from our stock. If you can't find your size, let me know and we'll get it for you. An hour from now, you should all be ready.

"At that time you'll eat. Tomorrow you'll have an early briefing about what you're going to be doing. Very early."

She found Colonel Morrison in the "Skybox" that Weaver had appropriated. She resisted the urge to salute, he was in a suit and, so far as she knew, he'd retired.

"I heard the speech, Major. That will most definitely do. We now have people on all of entrances and exits that we know of. I have roving patrols that are checking to see if there are any we don't know of.

"Those people have been told not to enter the gym area, and not to talk to anyone in there. I was a little more lurid than you about what happens if they are caught disobeying orders."

Later, the Rangers filed in, carrying their weapons. There was no helping the murmurs of speculation from the National Guard troops ... but the few who approached the Rangers learned what "surly" meant. There were undoubtedly hurt feelings, but Captain Truax spread the word that there was a reason for that and they'd find out in the morning.

-------

Sherrie was up early, but Gimu, Weaver and Kimi were up even earlier. Weaver had a dozen maps to give to the truck drivers, with written directions. He had a large map that he gave to Sherrie with the critical objectives. She listened carefully to what he had to say, taking notes. Both Morrisons and Captain Kirk were listening, but said nothing.

Weaver briefed her on the school. "What we have are two two-storey stucco covered buildings, about a hundred yards apart, aligned east-west. There are athletic fields to the east and a relatively small parking lot on the other side.

"The building in front is the main building, with the offices, classrooms, cafeteria and library. Those last two rooms are on either end of the building, each with an exit door to the outside. There is a main entrance as well with a foyer with swinging doors on either side, then the main hallway, with the offices to the right as you go in. Classrooms run the length of the building, except where the cafeteria and library are.

"The second building is the residence dormitory; female students downstairs, males upstairs. There, there is a main entrance in the center, but no second door on the other side. The students live in suites, two to a room, with an inter-connecting bathroom between two sleeping rooms. The rooms are about twenty-five feet on a side, with a divot away from the door, that's ten feet by six feet for the bathroom. There's a shower, a pot, and two washbasins.

"Both buildings have stairwells at either end of the hallway, and the main entrance is a stairwell as well. Classrooms and sleeping rooms have stucco walls that run up about four feet, then windows above. I don't know what kind of windows ... in none of the pictures I've seen of the buildings show any of them open."

Sherrie spent some time coming up with a plan. They would secure the exits of both buildings as a first step. Then a half dozen people would secure the school office. They would enter posing as three different sets parents, inquiring about the school. When a second team was just outside, they'd move to the headmaster's office, the assistant headmaster's office and the counselor's office and secure them.

Moments later two more teams would secure the outer office. More teams would enter, and be dispatched to classrooms, the cafeteria, library and other places where students were gathered. In the residence building, the teams would go from room to room, sending students outside to the athletic field, while adults would be detained.

The plan was to start taking the adults out almost at once, and trucking them to the Federal Building for questioning. There were no arrest warrants, just a general search warrant for the school and the environs.

When she was explaining the plan to the others, her comment was blunt. "We either find A-Q or gang penetration or we don't. If we don't -- we're pretty much screwed."

Captain Truax spoke up. "Are the detained individuals to be Mirandized?"

Sherrie looked at Colonel Richardson and spoke. "It's my thought if we find A-Q connections, we'll make up some Patriot Act warrants -- we don't need to Mirandize anyone for those. Anyone we don't have anything on is going to have a get-out-of-jail-free card because we haven't Mirandized them. It might save a few law suits."

Captain Truax nodded. "I haven't heard you say anything about LAPD and LAFD support."

"I wasn't going to involve them."

"Major, I understand now why your security is so tight. I understand why you have to have tight security until we get to the school. Major, once we start taking doors there, the cat will be out of the bag. The bad guys will notice."

"And you propose?"

"Since the cat is out of the bag, who cares what LAPD knows? We can get more people, and, for that matter, you said you were afraid they've emplaced demolitions in that building. None of my people have any but the most cursory experience with those; you'll want the bomb squad here, ASAP. And the fire department.

"My sergeant major is an LAPD watch commander in the Valley. With one call, he can put the whole thing in motion."

"After we take the doors?"

"After you start taking doors, Major."

"Colonel Morrison?" she asked.

"It's your op, Major, but I think it would be prudent. What I can do is sit on this sergeant major until the right time, and then give him a working phone."

"We'll do that, then."

She looked at the assembled officers. "Captain Truax brought up an important point just now. Originally I'd thought to hold the students in their classrooms until we'd secured the building. I think we might be better off if they were out on the athletic field instead, along with those from the dormitory.

"Gimu, I hate giving you a shitty job, but we're going to need a dozen porta-potties delivered to the athletic field after we start taking doors."

"I can do that Richardson-sama. Consider it done."

"A moment, Major," Jake Morrison said.

"What, Sergeant Major?"

"You need to plan for one more contingency. Armageddon."

"I don't understand."

"I don't think there is a way to secure this facility so quickly that someone whose job it is wouldn't have time to react to a preset plan. If the plan is to use high explosives to blow up the entire school -- we'll all shortly be meeting our maker. Still, those sorts of explosives are expensive and hard to get.

"Incendiary devices are much cheaper and far easier to obtain and deploy. I think you need to prepare an emergency evacuation plan."

Sherrie contemplated that. "Weaver -- you had some exterior pictures of the school -- isn't that right?"

"Yes. I don't know if they planned on destroying the building how they'd do it. As I said, it's they are two story stucco-covered buildings. I assume it's just standard 2 by 4 framing under that. All of the rooms have windows. Upstairs would be risky to jump from, but better a broken leg or ankle than burning up. At some point people would start jumping out."

"And if the ground floor was fully involved?" she asked.

He shook his head. "Heat rises. If the ground floor is in flames, upstairs would be untenable as well."

Sergeant Major Morrison spoke again. "Where are the stairwells?"

"One at either end of the building, one centered, next to the offices. That's where the main entrance is as well. There also emergency doors on each end of the building, on the ground floor."

"Is there a basement?"

"Not that I know of. I didn't see any physical plant on the floor plans either. I suspect that there is a partial basement, probably under the offices. There would be steps down in the main entrance."

"Captain Kirk, you should have some EOD types."

"Two, Sergeant Major."

"One goes through the door first in each building and hustles downstairs. Teams are going to have to hustle down the hallways to the doors on either end, armed with bolt cutters. If they've rigged incendiaries, they will be down in the physical plant, the library and cafeteria -- and those doors will be chained shut. I imagine they unchain them if the fire department shows up for an inspection."

They changed the plan yet again, adding the extra teams.

Then Sherrie went out to brief the teams. "What we are about is attempting to prevent another terror attack, this time on a private prep school.

"Do any of you have children attending the Osborn Prep School?"

In the middle of the National Guard troops a man suddenly erupted. "Allah Ahkbar!" and went for his pistol. It was holstered, which prevented him from ever getting it out. The man to his left swiveled and slammed a ham-sized fist into his gut, while another man behind him slammed his open palm against the back of the man's skull.

He was black, wearing what Sherrie thought were really fat dreadlocks. He went down and men wrested his weapon away, and handcuffing him.

Sherrie turned to Marshal Larchmont. "Two things. You have your first prisoner ... and it would appear we are going into a hot situation."

He nodded.

She turned back to the waiting National Guard troops. "There you have it in a nutshell. They're here, they're among us, and they have every intention of hurting us as much as they can ... and to make it hurt more, they'll be targeting kids.

"That said -- we're not them. We will go about our tasks in a professional manner. We will not get carried away; this operation had tight security so we could prevent a warning being passed. But once we start -- the gloves will be off. You are going to have to be sharp and act sharp. Now, you'll spend a half hour being briefed on your individual tasks.

"Most of you are tasked with saving lives. I hope that our fears are ungrounded -- but I fear they are not. You will need to be consummate professionals in that event. Now, listen to your individual briefings, and then we'll have a final check, and then board our trucks.

"Just so no one forgets -- this is not the time to whip out your hidden cell phone to call your spouse to let them know what's up. Until we're actually secure afterwards, you'll be under a communications blackout. Trying to avoid that blackout will have the most dire consequences."

Forty minutes later the trucks were loaded and rolling down the road.



-------

Chapter 23: The Raid

Sherrie had often heard a plan never survives contact with the enemy. She was stunned when hers didn't survive driving into the parking lot. She was in a truck with Sergeant Major Morrison driving, her and Captain Truax sitting in the front with him. A half dozen National Guard soldiers were inside the truck.

Sergeant Major Morrison stopped as they reached the end of the building, the cafeteria being closest to the parking lot entrance. "Shit!" he exclaimed.

Sherrie looked around and saw nothing untoward. "Sergeant Major?"

"You can see the entire front of the building from here. There is exactly one wall air-conditioning unit visible, next to the kitchen's exterior door. Eight gets you ten, that's where the bomb is."

He waved ahead. "I'm betting there's another unit next to the door of the library on the other end. I don't see one on the student residence -- they may have used something else."

Sherrie mentally cursed. They were under radio silence; according to her instructions, no one was to use a radio.

"Jake, you take it out; get some rope or chain and just yank the thing out of the wall. Gimu will be here in a second; have her get rid of the other. This is not going to be good."

"Right, Major!"

Sherrie had planned on having the sergeant major pose as her husband, describing their daughter as in fifth grade. When they pulled up to the door, she turned to Captain Truax. "I'm going to take one of your people."

"Roger that."

She grabbed the soldier sitting closest to the back of the truck and briefed him as they went in. "We go in and ask to see the headmaster; we're curious about what we'll need to enroll our fifth grade daughter in about two years. If they say no, we'll ask the secretary to at least ask the headmaster if she'll see us. In any case, we start forward for the door. Another two teams will be behind us, going for the assistant headmaster and the counselor. Then two more teams come in and secure the outer office. Got it?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"From here on out, it's 'Yes, Sherrie.'"

He laughed. "Roger that!"

It was going to be pointless, Sherrie saw, to try to dissemble. The office windows were wide open and they would be visible all the way. They would know with a glance when everyone got out of the trucks.

"Forget what I just said," she told the soldier as they entered the building. "Produce your badge and ask to speak to the headmaster. Odds are, if the offices aren't labeled, we'll get a glance in the right direction."

He nodded. Behind them, Jake pulled in to a parking spot, then turned the truck around and headed the other way, leaving the rest of the team to follow Sherrie.

She hurried through the door, with the National Guard soldier treading on her heels, and into the office. The soldier displayed his badge, "I need to see the headmaster!" Sure enough, there were no labels on the doors, but the secretary glanced at one.

Sherrie jerked the door open, with her .45 in her hand. "Put your hands behind your head, and push away from the desk."

The man was dark-complected, with dark brown eyes and black hair, about fifty. She saw the trace of his movement. "If you so much as twitch again, you'll eat a .45 caliber slug! Move back from the desk!"

The other's face held no expression. He pushed back, put his hands on his head and said, "I wish an attorney."

The soldier handcuffed him, and then led him to the outer office. The National Guard and one of the marshals had that in hand and Sherrie sniffed. No smell of smoke.

Captain Kirk appeared. "Report, Captain," Sherrie said, a little anxious.

"We've secured this building. A device attached to the eastern side of the building, in the library, detonated when it hit the ground ... detonated isn't the right word. Activated. It appears to have been a hundred pounds or so of thermite. It was dragged clear of the building and there was no damage. The device at the other end of the building wasn't activated.

"The device down in the basement evidently had a bad trigger. We arrested two men still trying to figure out what had gone wrong.

"The evacuation is in progress."

He reached for his radio when it beeped.

He smiled as he listened.

"The residence has been secured and the evacuation is nearly complete. The devices there failed to activate as well, although two men did manage to activate the one at the main entrance manually. One was well back, and he was taken into custody. The other evidently was surprised at the reaction and stood frozen in place. I'm told he had second and third degree burns on that side of the body. Medics are seeing to him.

"The LAFD has arrived and is working to extinguish the fire. It isn't large and even though they just arrived, the fire department is confident that they will be able to quickly contain it."

"And the building?"

"There were, I was told, eighteen students and four adults in the residence. One of the adults is seriously injured, the rest are in custody. The young people have been moved to the holding area as planned. This building has significantly more people and the evacuation is taking a few minutes longer. We're making a final sweep to make sure we've cleared the building."

He was back on his radio. "Captain Truax is on our net now. He reports LAPD as well as the fire department is on scene. We are holding them back a bit. Right now there are two engine companies from the fire department and four patrol cars. LAPD response will be slow at first, he says, but will ramp quickly up."

Sherrie nodded. She'd been watching Quintero during the entire report. He hadn't shown any sign of emotion.

Colonel Morrison appeared, with Gimu at his side. Sherrie could only shake her head, wondering what was going on.

"Well done, Major," the colonel told her. "They'll be teaching this for decades at West Point."

"We were lucky."

"You were," he agreed. "But you prepared for the worst consequences and were flexible enough to change the plan as circumstances warranted. This is as good as it gets in military planning."

Sherrie turned to Marshal Larchmont. "This is your site, now."

"Thank you for your able assistance, Major, and solid advice." He hesitated. "Major, all of our known problems have been detained. I was wondering if you would speak to those we've detained here. I think your perspective would be valuable. You've been here before, Major. This turned out a lot better."

"I never want to trade on that experience, sir. It cost too much."

"Still, outside are four hundred some-odd young people who were, a half hour ago, sitting in their classrooms, bored most of them, waiting for the day to end. Now they are under guard by armed soldiers, separated from their teachers, who are under close guard. They need to hear something positive."

"I thought the teachers were going to go out first?"

"The fire trucks blocked the entrance. We've separated them from the students, but they are still here."

"Please, Richardson-sama," Gimu spoke. "He is correct. You should speak to the people."

Sherrie walked outside and looked over the field. It contained both a football field and a pair of baseball diamonds, with a track around the football field.

Hundreds of young people shifted and churned, nervous and upset. There were about forty adults and, if anything, they were more agitated. The students had guards, but most of them faced outward. Most of the guards on the adults faced inward, weapons ready.

She mounted the back of a pickup and someone handed her one of those electric megaphones. She looked over those assembled and sighed inwardly.

"I'm Major Sherrie Richardson, US Army. I was the primary advisor for what happened here today.

"Not so long ago, just days ago in fact, I was wounded in a gun battle with terrorists. I was taken to a hospital. A hospital in Miami. I'm sure you can guess which one."

There was silence.

"I wish to God I could tell myself that those bombs were just random acts ... but they weren't. That wasn't the first time they've come for me, nor the first time they used bombs. Just the worst.

"I have to live with the fact if I'd been taken anyplace else, a lot of people -- young people -- would still be alive today.

"Now, today, I'm here.

"You students, just be still. Think very carefully about what you hear, and then think very carefully about what you should think -- much less do.

"As for you adults. Some of those standing around you are terrorists. They infiltrated this school with the intention of holding some of the students hostage to insure the cooperation of their parents in treason.

"You have to know and understand this. I imagine most of you are innocent -- but I don't know that. What we are going to do is investigate you most thoroughly ... all of you.

"There are armed police surrounding you. They are under orders to use deadly force if anyone tries to escape or appears to be trying to escape. There will be no verbal warnings, no warning shots -- they remember what was done at Miami and now they know what was planned for this school.

"We've found incendiary devices that were designed to make it difficult if not impossible to evacuate the buildings in a timely fashion. We've disarmed five of the six we've found; the last started a fire that the fire department has contained.

"Some of the people standing around you intended to be martyrs for the Prophet -- and take you with them. You will want to be fully candid with those people asking questions -- or you'll find yourself being charged as an enemy combatant and on trial for your life.

"Now, I'm going to speak to the student body.

"Not so long ago, I was your age. Well, I try to pretend it wasn't that long ago." There were smiles, but not many laughs.

"I'm going to assume that the vast majority of you had no idea what was going on here. Still, we intend to be thorough and you're going to need to be truthful, because you too will be questioned.

"Some of your parents have been threatened by the terrorists. The way they work is show them pictures of you sitting in class, and then tell them what it is they want them to do for them. Most parents would give such people the finger and tell them where to go -- but those pictures -- that's something else. They know the terrorists could reach out and kill you at a moment's notice.

"I'm sad to say that the terrorists then put stacks of money in front of them and gave them a choice of cooperating -- or else.

"I'm not a parent, but I am a human being. That is a terrible choice to have to make. Only the bravest, most determined person could say no. Don't blame them for not saying no ... alas, the fact is, that the rest of us will provide more blame than you ever could.

"Don't feel responsible; don't feel despair. You have to understand that there are those of us tasked with defending the rest of you. It's not a nice thing, and it's not easy. Please, exercise judgment before you judge someone yourselves."

Sherrie handed the megaphone to Fred Larchmont.

"I'm supervisory US Marshal Fred Larchmont. What's going to happen is that students will be taken to another location and reunited with their parents. Both you and your parents will be interrogated before those reunions take place.

"You adults are headed for the Federal building. You can count on two to three days in custody, at the bare minimum. We are going to be checking you every which way there is ... we aren't going to make hasty decisions and let someone walk prematurely.

"I realize the actual terrorists in your number won't be forthcoming. That doesn't matter. We'll unravel this in short order and the innocent will go free and those others ... you're going to face all sorts of Federal charges."

A little later Gimu put her hand on Sherrie's shoulder and squeezed lightly.

"It is okay, Sherrie-chan."

"I saved lives," she told Gimu. "What's not to like?"

"That is your job, Sherrie-chan. No one will ever fault you for doing it so well."

Sherrie sniffed in derision.

"No one who counts will ever fault you for doing so."

There was an after-action session with Sherrie, Captain Kirk, Captain Truax and Colonel Morrison.

The comments were fast and furious, but generally positive. Sherrie looked at Colonel Morrison at the end. "Sir, you've been quiet."

He sighed, glanced at his son and then folded his hands in front of him.

"I understand you had some doubts about me, Major."

"I resolved them, sir."

Again he glanced at his son. "I had an agreement with my wife. After this deployment I would have had nearly 40 years in the army. She and I agreed that we were going to retire to an avocado ranch; she calls it, north of San Diego. Sixty acres of trees that would provide financial security in our retirement."

He signed. "I pulled the plug a year ahead of time ... but I wanted to do this, Major. Worse, the market has turned sour and right now the income from those trees won't provide the money we expected.

"Catch-22. I promised. I can't fulfill that promise and be financially secure. My wife has been steadfast all those years; I can't leave her in the lurch now ... but we need this money. That's probably the worst reason of all to take on new duties."

Gimu laughed and Colonel Morrison cast her a sour glance. "Hush!"

She shook her head. "Your first duty is to your employer. In my world, you never leave his employ -- except feet-first. Your second duty is to your brothers and sisters. Not your sons and daughters.

"You don't live in my world, Colonel. But please, consider just what you would do if you turned your back on your duty to try to salvage what Weaver-kun tells me is a hopeless situation. I understand conflicting desires. I've never comprehended conflicting duty."

He stood frozen. "You don't trust me."

"And now I know why, Colonel. The truth is that you don't trust yourself. You have no reason for that, sir."

Marshal Larchmont spoke up.

"Lets talk about went right. We were ready; we did business. We took them by surprise; that or their boss hung them all out to dry. I have three men from my squad who are being interrogated by teams." He laughed bitterly. "I need to do some training on resisting interrogation.

"Two of the three have already talked; McGinnis is the exception. His wife, however, has talked.

"We stopped this; we scotched it in the bud. Nearly five hundred people are safe tonight where they weren't this morning. That's success in my book."

The others echoed the sentiment.

Weaver was more pragmatic. "This has opened a whole basket of related threads, Sherrie. Marshal Larchmont sent me a tape of one of the interrogations of one set of parents.

"I think this is important. He's a property manager. He says that they wanted full access to one of his properties -- a mall that was due to be fully renovated, and when the financing collapsed, went into receivership. He says Quinton/Quintero was in charge of that.

"The mall is a shell; there's nothing there to make it a target. On the other hand, there is construction ongoing and trucks can come and go without comment.

"Sherrie, he says he also manages a fully functional mall about three miles away. He says it was built five years later than the first one, but more or less to the same plan."

"And?" Sherrie asked.

"He heard a word that interests me. Rehearsals."

Sherrie contemplated that. "Rehearsals in regard to the older mall?"

Weaver nodded.

"Christ!" Marshal Larchmont exclaimed. "We hit that and we might roll up another plot!"

"Another thing the man overheard was 'Black Friday, '" Weaver offered. "It's a little pat. I mean, why would they let him hear this stuff?"

Gimu gave her tinkling laughed. "Oh! Weaver-kun! If they were smart, they'd be home with some of those virgins stroking their brows! I expect the spider isn't around and they've gotten lax!"

"And if she's here?" he asked.

"Then she is sacrificing a lot of people for who knows what? She lost a major asset today for almost no return. It has to disrupt her plans for the LA area.

"We hit this shopping center like we did the school and we could disrupt even more of her plans. At some point it was always possible that we'd outrun her ability to dissemble. I think this is that. We could eliminate everything in LA," Gimu told them.

Sherrie didn't much time to thing about that. "Lets do it. Colonel Morrison, check with your liaison. I want to go tomorrow at daylight. Can the National Guard stay another day?"

He laughed. "Washington having to decide once about something this big? They had twisted panties about this. The governor of California has simpler worries: he's up for re-election and desperate to do something to gain any sort of credit.

"I can't think he's going to be unhappy with what happened today; you can be sure he'll be there with the rest of the brass hats taking all the credit. Another day? No sweat!"

"Could you see to it, sir?"

"I'll be on it in a second!" he told her. He moved across the room, his phone already in his ear.

Sherrie turned to Captain Truax. "I'm sorry, Captain."

"About what?" he said with a laugh.

"You were told this would only take a day; it appears it will take longer."

"Major, I don't even have to ask the men. I have no idea what the fuckin' courts will do with the people we busted today, but it's clear what they intended to do. At some point, those devices would have been used.

"Honestly, I think most students would have gone out the windows, even though they aren't the sort that open. This, Major, this provides enormous job satisfaction. This is why we're in the Guard. I can't speak to the political leaders predilection to federalize us and use us overseas but most of us signed up to do what we can to help our friends and neighbors in the event of trouble.

"That's what we did today. None of us, Major, have anything more important on our calendars than something like this. There is no place we'd rather be. If I asked for volunteers -- I'd get everyone."

"Thank you, Captain. It hasn't always been like this."

"Yeah; the Rangers are okay and now we understand why they are so gruff. What happened in Miami was on their watch, but they had no way to expect what was coming down. Neither did we; I know we got lucky today. But Major, this is a time to double down."

Colonel Morrison returned. "They say okay." He grimaced. "Of course, they have no idea what to do if you bag more; every detective in Southern California is questioning suspects. They're bringing in more from San Francisco, Salt Lake and Phoenix, police, US Marshals and FBI."

"It would tickle my fancy, Major, if you can do this again."

Sherrie turned to Weaver. "I keep relying on you for intelligence."

"Yeah, well, let me tell you, what we did this morning has sent shock waves all over ... not just our people, but theirs. All we're hearing from the bad guys is basically questions about what happened? A few people leaked early on that it was an op they'd planned that had been busted. Then they tried to take it back, but the cat was out of the bag.

"Osborn was supposed to have rock-solid security. MS-13 is furious, as now everything in the school coffers will get confiscated -- I've heard a hundred million dollars.

"The FBI traditionally hires lawyers and accountants to be agents; as near as I can tell NSA requires everyone to major in math and minor in accounting. With the help of the Ninjas, they've really ripped into their finances with this. All sorts of traces and leads have popped up now.

"Like I said, MS-13 is furious. A lot of their senior people, the ones without criminal records, were busted today. The government has gone all out tracing the finances of everyone associated with the school -- and those people all are suspect."

He looked around and then decided to continue. "I communicated the names to our friend down South. He was -- excited. He believes that this might be the key to bringing MS-13 down, and he's only too happy to have hooked up with us. With you, Sherrie."

"What have you got on this mall, Weaver," she asked, trying to find her center.

"I have an old floor plan. I'm told that with the remodeling, it's obsolete. How obsolete, no one wants to speculate.

"However one fact sticks out. If they are doing rehearsals there for the other mall -- they couldn't afford to make many changes. I've learned that the rehearsal mall went bankrupt very quickly after it closed and that while no one is saying they know how much was changed, the general opinion is little or nothing."

"So, we have no idea what might be there?"

Weaver smiled. "I wouldn't say no idea. There are several websites that gather pictures. They are searchable, most of them, and I've searched. I have about two hundred photos of the mall in the last two years. Right now the Ninja Squad people are putting them together to see if they can give us updated information."

Captain Truax cleared his throat. "I have to think a lot of that work falls under the heading 'hacking' and is illegal."

Weaver smiled thinly. "You can call it whatever you will, Captain. The people engaged in this are no different than your men; they want to keep us safe. They use different weapons, and indeed, they don't always follow the rules. Think of them as ronin: men without a master who seek to avenge unspeakable evils."

He glanced at his computer screen and smiled. "The Rabbit has been heard from. He has, in conjunction with our friend down south made some interesting comments on some of the names we've come up with. A couple of them are older brothers of men who were in MS-13, men with no known gang connections. They were thought to be non-combatants and our friend to the south doesn't harm them.

"Now, however, several men who live in Cartagena, one of the MS-13 centers, have been invited over to chat." He stared at Sherrie. "They go out of their way to leave the non-combatants alone. When they find out that someone was using that as a cover -- well, it's not a good day to pretend about your status.

"Sherrie, the thread is finally unraveling. I think this is it."

"And Raul Quintero? What about him? Last I heard, we were positing him as being Coretta?"

Weaver shook his head. "He's not careful where he leaves his DNA ... particularly if the subject is young and male. He's not Coretta."

"But he has ties to her?"

"I think so, but she is devilishly hard to pin down."

"I'm not understanding hardly any of this," Captain Truax said weakly.

"Welcome to the club," Captain Kirk told him.

"We know there is a single individual who is responsible for all of this. We know her original birth name. Later in life, she ran away from home. Since then we've found only one person living who has seen her, and that was years ago. We have reason to believe that she has altered her appearance with surgery and a possible sex change operation. Usually we call her the "spider" because it seems she has tentacles everywhere.

"The reason you are here, Captain Truax, and not the US Marshal service is that we've found that they've been compromised. We know of at least one intelligence agency with people compromised, the US Army, the DEA ... it's a very long list.

"This operation was the first time we've caught the spider unawares.

"We have a number of prisoners now who are giving us more information than what we've had before. Yesterday morning we stumbled upon the Osborn School connection and now today we have a new connection. We exploited the first quickly and now we need to exploit the second."

"A shopping mall, you say?" Captain Truax asked.

"That's the information we have. A bankrupt, deserted shopping mall. They may be using it as a base for a large-scale terrorist attack. Christmas is coming up and there is a nearly identical mall, not closed, not deserted, a few miles away."

"Christ, even small malls are huge, with a lot of entrances and exits," Captain Truax said.

"My men and I -- hey, this is why we joined. We want to keep our city safe -- that means stopping this sort of thing. Yeah, I like my day job, but that's why I'm in the Guard -- I want to go the extra mile."

Gimu spoke up. "Captain Truax, I am a supervisory US Marshal; I am also a ninja. Mention my name in Japan and you would get a quite different reaction from each person you spoke too. But they all know my name.

"Captain, one of your men called on Allah and tried to draw his weapon, undoubtedly intending on using it. He was subdued and quickly transferred to military custody.

"Sir, you need to talk to your men. 'Going the extra mile' isn't acceptable. The man had ten broken fingers, considerable bruising on his ribs, arms and legs plus a fractured skull.

"Several of the people at the Osborn school your people arrested were also injured, even though they surrendered.

"The further participation of you and your men in this effort will be contingent on that sort of thing never happening again. I can't say it strongly enough. I've looked aside twice; it won't happen again."

He looked at her in surprise. "Some of the men are upset."

"Then tell them to go home. We are not the barbarians are enemies are, who hurt people for the joy of hurting them.

"I was at the hospital in Miami when they bombed it. I helped in the rescues. I saw the bodies of the little ones. I will not have it." The last sentence was said as if there were periods after each word. "We are a civilized country and if your men can't behave in a civilized manner -- I'll charge them with police brutality ... violating people's civil rights."

"It would never stick," Weaver volunteered.

"It doesn't have to stick. If I can't find out who, I'll charge everyone. Like as not, they would all be acquitted. But they would all have the charge as part of their official record."

Sherrie spoke quickly. "You will talk to your men, Captain, about excessive zeal. Impress upon them that it isn't going to be tolerated and this isn't a pro forma protest.

"Now, however, we have a raid to plan."

Captain Kirk spoke up. "Major Richardson, could I have a moment of your time in private?"

"No."

"Then with Colonel Morrison and the sergeant major."

"Gimu too."

"Her too," he agreed.

"Excuse me, the rest of you."

Sherrie led the way to another conference room. "What is it Captain Kirk?"

"I have a modest proposal. There is a man, a particular man, in my company who is skilled in reconnaissance. Not just a little skilled, but beyond skilled. There are extensive caves in Afghanistan. He would penetrate them, alone, in advance of our forces. He would explore them, note the booby traps, where people were concentrated and how many.

"We can't possibly go against something as large as a shopping mall with out a reliable recon."

Gimu nodded. "He is correct, Richardson-san. I could do it, or this man could do it. But it needs to be done."

"Both of you?"

She shook her head. "There is too much chance of mistake if you haven't worked together. In this sort of situation, you can't leave any of your opponents who see you. You have to be quick and thorough. One or the other."

"My man will volunteer," Captain Kirk said.

"Then him. Get him whatever he needs and get him over there. I don't want him to rush, but we need to get what we can get as quickly as possible. The spider will surely react at some point, and protecting her forces will undoubtedly occur to her. Gimu, you cooperate with Captain Kirk and this fellow to get it done."

A few minutes later a short, thin and intense man of about thirty appeared, wearing master sergeant's stripes.

"This is Sergeant Hutchins," Captain Kirk explained. "We have a little job up your alley."

He listened to Weaver give the preliminary brief on what he'd learned about the site -- which wasn't much.

The sergeant grimaced. "You say there is a mall built to a similar plan a few miles away?"

Weaver nodded. "I'll look at it then, then look over the target. We can get a UAV up, right Captain?"

Captain Kirk nodded.

"We need to get some photos of the roofs of both structures; that's got to be the best way in. What do we know about sensors?"

"Absolutely nothing," Weaver told him. "There may be any number of people inside ... there is no way to tell. There may be booby traps as well."

"Sounds like the usual then. Call it an hour to recce the first mall, then probably most of the night for the other."

Sherrie grimaced. "I suppose it takes as long as it takes. Does that sound right, Gimu?"

"Richardson-san, it takes as long as it takes. If I was looking over such a facility I would take as much as two days."

"And you're an expert, eh?" the sergeant said, clearly laughing at her.

"Indeed so. I understand, however, the need for haste and could learn about 85% of what was there in a night."

"An expert?" he sounded contemptuous. "Care to go a few rounds? Say two of three? You have to know how to put the other guy down -- things don't always work out."

"I am ninja. I don't think it would be good if you are expected to work tonight to do more that one fall. There is a chance, however slight, that I might be rushed."

Sherrie winced. That was a direct challenge. The sergeant smiled, made a small "come-on" gesture with his hands.

It was certainly quick, perhaps, Sherrie thought, less than a half second. Gimu's left leg whipped forward, then back, sweeping his right leg. Her right hand slapped his left shoulder hard, pushing him to his left, where he was unbalanced. The sergeant sprawled on the ground.

He rose, pulling back a bit. "I admit, I didn't see that one coming. Shall we try it..."

Sherrie had seen Gimu jump back in Tokyo, long ago. With no wind up she was not only jumping up, but forward. Her legs scissored around his neck, while bearing him backwards.

One of his hands slapped the carpet and Gimu untangled her legs from around his neck and stood, not saying a word.

The sergeant picked himself up and looked at her, then bowed. "You really are ninja, aren't you?"

"Yes. Your tradition of training is perhaps fifty or sixty years old. Mine is three thousand."

He nodded. "And it shows. Sometime if you're not to busy -- I teach self-defense and stealth techniques to the others. I would be honored if you would demonstrate to us some of what you know."

"Yes," she said simply. "When the need is less urgent."

He nodded in reply.

"I thought the night was your friend, Sergeant," Captain Kirk expounded. "Maybe you'd have better luck in a darkened room."

Gimu had no expression that Sherrie could see, but the sergeant was forthright.

"Sir, once upon a time the 17th Regiment of the Seventh Division was 'Ninja! We own the night!' They've long since been broken up, sir ... but we remember them, even so. I would have no luck in the dark, sir. None at all."

He turned back to Gimu. "You will anchor me?"

"Of course."

He bowed formally again and Gimu grinned at Sherrie. "Put your arms around a man's neck and he thinks he's in love. Put your legs around his neck and he knows he's in trouble."

Sherrie could only shake her head. Still five minutes later the two were gone, escorted by two of the Rangers.

For a while, about ten PM at night, it was quiet. There were no messages, no one knocking on the door of the office she'd expropriated.

She had time to think, time to go over all the events of the day. Was the mall some sort of trap? She had no idea. It seemed so pat. But how could Coretta have known they'd hit the school?

Or had she had something ready anyway, in case the school got hit? There was simply no end to the possibilities.

She was neither awake nor asleep; at one point she flashed back to a memory of something like a shopping mall that was filling with gas. She shuddered. She'd always envisioned that as natural gas, to be ignited and the subsequent explosion rocking the city. What if it was simple poison gas?

Two seconds later, she was out of her seat, looking for Captain Kirk. He was asleep, his head on a desk.

She shook his arm. "Captain!"

He woke instantly. "Major, sir. Sorry."

"Don't be. Did you deploy with MOPP gear?"

He shook his head.

"Get on the phone, find some."

"Some?"

"Enough for everyone."

He made a face. "Do you really think so?"

"I don't know what to think. All I know is that even her own people that the spider no longer needs, have a nasty habit of ending up dead. What the spider might do is simply unknowable. Best to expect the worst."

He held her eyes for a moment. "My men have had some of the best training in the world. If we have the best equipment in the world -- we'll still take casualties."

"I wish this could be bloodless, Captain. But I can't promise that."

Kimi appeared, holding a radio. "Ashana wishes to speak to you."

Sherrie switched mental gears. "Hello there, toots."

"Exactly so, boss. We have a problem."

"It's barely midnight."

"We are coming in. Tell me, have you seen more of your son?"

"Not for a few hours."

"You should find him and find out when he can the rest of the family together."

Sherrie jerked. "I can talk to him and find out."

"We'll be there in a half hour. I have some interesting news."

Sherrie handed the radio back to Kimi. "If Weaver is asleep, tell him a meeting in an hour and a quarter."

"He is awake. At times like this, he doesn't sleep."

"He should."

She shrugged. "He won't listen."

Sherrie went and found Sergeant Major Morrison, asleep on an office couch. He sat up as she approached.

"A problem?"

"Evidently. Is your father around?"

He grimaced. "His august majesty found a Laz-E-Boy chair and a blanket. If you want I'm I'd only be too happy to wake him up."

"I need him. According to the recon team, we have a problem."

He was instantly alert. He'd been sleeping in plain BDUs and combat boots; he simply stood up and hustled off.

An hour later, they met in the main conference room again.

Gimu nodded to Sergeant Hutchins who stood up. He went to the white board and drew what looked like a racetrack.

"The mall is oval shaped, with a caboose on each rounded end -- the anchor stores. There is a basement receiving area and warehouse. The second level of the mall is the first of the store levels, with the anchor stores have doors that lead inside, and inside doors at other two levels. While I didn't see them, I assume there is access on the lower level, plus a freight elevator. There is a wide corridor that circumnavigates the building, with stores opening on either side creating an inner and outer ring of stores."

He demonstrated with a pointer what he meant.

"In addition to entrances for the anchor stores, there is a large entrance here," he pointed to a set of doors indicated on the hasty drawing.

"The mall sits on about sixty acres. The inner twenty acres are stores, and the mall itself is offset on the lot, with a 'main' entrance. Around the 'back' is a receiving dock that lets into the below grade warehouse area, that was evidently shared in common ... at least that's what the current mall does.

"The problem is that there are a lot of people in there. People with weapons."

He pointed made X's at each end of the oval corridor, and drew lines halfway down the corridors.

"There are four automatic weapons positions on each level. Each position has two SAW-like weapons and an ammo runner. That's on each level. In addition, inside the two anchor stores they have half a dozen men on the doors. I didn't see if they had someone downstairs -- but I didn't look either. There are another half dozen on the main door.

"In addition to these positions, there are four roving patrols of three men on each level. To put it mildly, I was a little surprised at how many men they had on guard mount." He bobbed his head at Sherrie. "Major, I'm not being sexist -- I saw no women.

"Eight three-man weapons positions. That's twenty-four men. Three doors guarded with six-man teams. That's eighteen more men. The roving patrols contribute another twenty-four men. That's sixty-four men in total just pulling guard.

I checked carefully. There are bivouac areas here, here and here on the ground level, and mirrored on the second main level." There were two "X's" on one side of the store levels, one on the other, and obviously, three more upstairs, but reversed.

"I carefully inspected two of the occupied bivouac areas. They are nothing fancy, just a cleared space on the floor of a store ... carpeted floors. The men are in sleeping bags, in groups of four, with four stacked AK-47's right close at hand. There are a dozen cases of ammo in each of the stores I checked, clearly ready stores. Ten thousand rounds a case. That's a lot of ammo.

"Four of the six areas were occupied, so there are two platoons, roughly on guard. I didn't wait for a guard change, but they probably have the duty for an entire day -- thus pulling guard every third day."

"Three hundred men?" Sherrie exclaimed, stunned.

"About that, Major."

"At least they're stupid," Jake Morrison offered. "Those automatic weapons positions are just plain stupid."

"Indeed so," the colonel agreed. "They have each other in their fields of fire."

"Sirs, those positions are offset by about twenty feet on either end. Someone coming in the middle could be targeted by both ends ... there are escalators in the middle, plus a bank of elevators in each anchor store as well as in the middle. I don't know if the elevators work or not -- they didn't have anyone guarding them."

Sergeant Hutchins cleared his throat. "I worked faster than I usually do, then I went out and ask Marshal Gimu if she'd check my work."

"Gimu?" Sherrie asked.

"What I found substantially agrees with the sergeant. I did find, however, that the officers are quartered on the second store level in the mall offices. They have beds. The food court has two stores that are open for business. The men are, so far as I can tell, all Hispanic, Spanish-speaking individuals. I heard no English spoken at all. Further, few of the men had extensive gang tattoos." She grinned. "I peeked in the shower."

"They didn't see you?" Sherrie asked, aghast.

"If they'd seen either of us, the sound of the gunfire would have alerted everyone for a mile."

Sherrie turned to Colonel Morrison. "I've read the manual about infantry in the attack. I'm smart enough to know that raiding a school was brain-dead simple -- this will be something else."

He grimaced. "I'm mustering my courage. I'm going to have to alert the chain of command that a company of National Guard isn't going to do it. We need a regiment of well-trained light infantry to do this."

"In Tora Bora," Sergeant Hutchins said, "we'd stopper up a nest of caves so no one could get out. We'd toss in a bucket load of tear case, and a few times we'd get guys who were calling it a day. Mostly not. Then we'd go in with heavy suppression fire -- if they started shooting back we got on the loudspeakers and told them they could surrender or die -- we weren't going to fool around and let them shoot at us. We'd blow all the cave entrances. The first couple of times they didn't believe we knew them all. It didn't take them long to figure out we had found them, almost always."

He shrugged. "We always figured Osama as one of those who didn't come out." He turned to Colonel Morrison. "With all due respect, sir, I don't think the National Guard is up to this."

Captain Truax purpled. "We've been to Iraq twice and Afghanistan once in the last four years. You bet your sweet ass we're ready!"

"You're MP's," Sergeant Major Morrison reminded him.

"We are, the rest of us are light infantry. Even my guys participated in sweeps where we'd go in, block all the exits, and then check each and every room in each and every building."

Colonel Morrison sighed. "All I can do is recommend."

Shortly after that Sherrie was sitting next to the two Morrisons while the comm sergeant worked at setting up a link.

After a moment he turned to Sherrie. "Good news, Major! The Special Ops Staff Duty Officer called the general. He's on his way in; in the meantime they've alerted the Pentagon and they've alerted the White House. It won't be real quick, but in a bit you're going to be dealing with a lot of gold braid -- and not a few suits."

Colonel Morrison cleared his throat and the sergeant grinned but said nothing further.

Twenty minutes later a general officer appeared, a little bleary-eyed. "This is a secure link, Colonel?"

"It is, sir," Colonel Morrison replied.

"And you need more support?"

"A lot more support. We have found more than 300 insurgents congregated in one place."

"Three hundred! I'd say that's impossible ... but ... You did confirm it, right?"

"We sent two people in separately to recce the site. Yes. The men are armed with AK-47s, squad automatic weapons and thousands of rounds of ammunition."

"Rockets?"

Sergeant Hutchins shook his head. "They didn't report any, sir," Colonel Morrison told him. Sherrie was a little nonplussed when Sergeant Hutchins made a gesture like he was settling a bra into place, but then he did again.

Colonel Morrison knew the gesture. "They have standard grenades, sir. At least four each."

"And the structure is a shopping mall, with limited ingress and egress -- plus, once inside limited fields of fire and many nooks and crannies?"

"That's it, sir."

"Christ! What a nightmare! Delta Force and the Rangers could probably take it on, combined. We need at least a regiment of infantry."

"That was my thinking, sir. First we secure the perimeter, and then go in like gangbusters. Once we get a foothold, we'll be able to roll them up well enough, I imagine."

Gimu spoke up. "Sergeant Hutchins can confirm -- many of the stores have booby traps. They mark those by lowering the store security gate about two feet -- easy to enter, but a warning that there are bombs beyond. I saw six in one store and I only looked for a few minutes."

"Wait one, Colonel Morrison."

After that it was a dizzying spiral upwards. There was about a two minute delay when someone at Continental Army Command passed the buck to someone at the Pentagon -- then a longer delay to get even more senior people on the line.

Finally, the group stabilized. Sherrie looked at the faces she'd mainly seen on the news and tried to pretend they were no different than her father. At least it helped.

The discussion between the Secretary of Defense and the Secretary of Homeland Security pretty much ignored them, being as it was a contest to see who would deal with the matter. Since Homeland Security didn't run to the number and training of those that would be needed, they quickly conceded.

Then it was their turn. The Secretary of Defense said a few words to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and then he spoke a few words to the Army Chief of Staff.

The Army Chief of Staff regarded Colonel Morrison, Sherrie and Sergeant Major Morrison somberly.

"We're leaning on the California governor to activate one of his ready battalions; in this case the First Battalion of the 160th Infantry Regiment of the 40th Infantry Division. It's mechanized, but they will be made available without their Bradley fighting vehicles. This is one of the most combat-ready units in the National Guard system -- but we're not federalizing them, this is the governor calling them up for 'local duties.' Lieutenant Colonel Shaeffer commands -- he'll get things going, and then get to you as quickly as possible.

"You are authorized to act in an advisory capacity only. That said, Colonel Shaeffer will be informed that if he finds your advice out of line, his career ends unless he's pulled a rabbit out of the hat. You will return the MP company to the 40th Division's senior officer present. You will offer your Ranger company in an advisory capacity only.

"You will first secure the perimeter, so that none may enter or leave. Any who try shall be detained for questioning -- you are permitted the use of lethal force if they won't stop. Once the perimeter is secure, you will attack in force. Colonel Shaeffer will have a hand in that, along with Colonel Morrison."

Someone slid him a message and he read it. "Okay, they've been called up. Schaeffer should be there within the hour -- report to the Special Ops Duty Officer all the milestones."

"Yes, sir!" Sherrie and Colonel Morrison chorused.

"Oh yeah -- don't fuck this up. Not this close to Thanksgiving."



-------

Chapter 24: Sherrie Plans a Shopping Trip


The conference room was filled with a dozen people when Sherrie, Weaver, Gimu and Kimi entered. Gimu pulled Sherrie aside before they went in.

"Sherrie-chan, I would be remiss if I didn't remind you that you aren't in the proper uniform for this. The other officers are all in BDUs."

"They'll have to live with it. It's my dress uniform or civvies -- my BDUs got a little mussed the other day."

"I will take care of it, Sherrie-chan. Tomorrow you will be fine."

The two of them entered. Everyone was standing, not exactly sure what was going on.

"I'm Colonel Tony Shaeffer," the senior Guard officer said. "I command the First Battalion of the 160th Infantry Regiment of the 40th Infantry Division. This is Lt. Colonel Alan Goddard, my XO and operations officer."

"Major Sherrie Richardson, sir. Currently on detached duty regarding a terrorist group operating in the United States. Specifically here in the Los Angeles area."

"And you need a mechanized infantry battalion to deal with a cell of terrorists?"

Sherrie met his look. "Sir, if you and your people will be seated, I'll bring you up to speed, then explain our current mission and your part in it. This meeting isn't going to follow the usual forms of a staff meeting. We have a lot to cover and not much time to do it. Efficiency and speed, sir, have to be our watchwords."

"First, Colonel, let me introduce you to the others here."

Sherrie ran through the people present. "I know some of the job descriptions are vague, Colonel, but that's because we're an ad hoc group formed for a particular purpose.

"There is an individual who came to the attention of sundry agencies of the US government. At first, she was investigated for an attack on my cousin Weaver and myself. In that attack two US Marshals were killed and another wounded. As the investigation progressed it became clear that there was a pattern of violence associated with this person. People who came into contact with her ended up dead.

"Not just a few -- in the first weeks of the investigation, they government identified nearly a hundred individuals associated with her who were either murdered or died under suspicious circumstances."

She went on to explain in broad detail her sojourn in the Army.

Colonel Shaeffer could only shrug. "Two years ago you were a civilian college drop-out? And now you're a major?"

"Yes, sir."

Colonel Morrison spoke up. "Colonel Shaeffer, I know you won't like this, but we should make it clear here, before we go any further. Major Richardson enjoys the trust of a lot of very important people. I'm here as the liaison with the intelligence community. She is the convener of this meeting, under the direction of the JCS. It will behoove you to cooperate fully."

"And she needs a battalion of Mech infantry to deal with these terrorists?"

"Colonel, if you'll be patient, we will get to that shortly. You have to understand the seriousness and scope of the threat."

"Of course, Colonel." He was more polite to Colonel Morrison, but that wasn't really a surprise.

"The next part of this briefing will lead you to think that I shouldn't be working on this; needless to say, I disagree. It provides motivation and context.

"Since an incident in my house about six years ago, the subject has killed, or had killed, my father, two aunts, an uncle and a fourteen year old female cousin. It's true -- I harbor not the least forgiveness for this person in my soul.

"The extent of the threat? She suborned a full colonel in the Army, sundry lesser officers and non-coms. This person has suborned DEA agents, US Marshals, and intelligence agents from various agencies.

"She has tried to kill me a number of times ... I stopped taking it personally after the first time. Sort of. I personally want to wring her neck."

"She's tried to kill you?" Lt. Colonel Goddard asked.

"We caught a CID colonel that she subverted who organized a truck bomb attempt on my life -- and the lives of my people in Iraq -- in the event he was captured."

"Major Richardson, may I speak for a moment?" Colonel Morrison asked.

"Of course, sir."

"Colonel Shaeffer, the first time I met then-Captain Richardson was on a chopper from Baghdad to our new divisional headquarters in Iraq. The insurgents shot us down; Captain Richardson came off the chopper shooting. In very short order she eliminated an automatic weapon position, went around the flank, stopped the attack that was forming there, and then suppressed the remainder of the attack. By that time I'd been wounded and command devolved upon her."

He nodded at his son. "Sergeant Major Morrison, when he apprised her of the fact, received two orders: hold until relieved and don't let any of the wounded get sent home without sufficient reason.

"It's quite amazing, how much your confidence in an officer increases when they personally save your ass. Moreover, there were a number of incidents that will have to remain classified, beyond the shoot down that she handled efficiently and with aplomb.

"And I seriously doubt she is going to tell you that she personally took down a terrorist who invaded the Federal Building in Miami, even though she was slightly wounded in the process. Again, the details are still secret -- but she was evaced to a hospital in Miami for treatment of her wound.

"That was the one that was bombed, Colonel. Then-Captain Richardson organized the initial rescue and recovery efforts. Again, I can't get into details, but there were other components to that attack."

"I've heard rumors -- that is was a bio-war attack that went bad or warning of a future such attack."

"Both, Colonel," Sherrie told him. "One of the terrorists at the Federal Building was suffering from a number of communicable diseases. It's typical of our enemies -- we found he communicated them only to people he worked with.

"One of the truck bombs had a couple of hundred pounds of flour packed around the explosives -- it was an attempt to make us think they'd spread either chemical or biological weapons."

"Shit!" The battalion XO said, and crossed himself.

"I sure hope you can keep your mouth shut, Colonel Goddard. Major Richardson is sharing code word classified information."

"And I'm going to share more, because I think the colonel is a competent commander and needs to know what we are up against.

"Colonel, the interrogations of suspects after Miami led me to think that there might have been leaks here in the US Marshal's office in LA.

"By involving you and your people in this, Colonel, I will be exposing you and them to the same sort of threat. Their favorite tactic is candid pictures of your family -- your wife and kids -- and an offer of money to do their bidding. The choice is clear -- cooperate or they die.

"I've asked Captain Truax," she nodded at him, "not to report the details of our mission the other day to his command structure until I release him to.

"I've seen the local papers, Colonel, and their reporting is about what I expected. Yesterday we raided the Osborn School. Terrorists associated with our suspect were running the school. Osborn is a boarding school; the students were, in effect, hostages -- but only those wanted to suborn knew that.

"The school was rigged with incendiary devices. Captain Truax and his men secured the school quickly, and most of the devices were disarmed. The two that were activated caused only minor damage. The FBI and the US Marshal's office -- a suddenly greatly motivated Marshal's office are still conducting interrogations.

"In those, we learned of next target. Weaver, if you would, please display the map. Sergeant Hutchins, if you would, explain your findings when you reconned the building.

Weaver pinned the map up and Sergeant Hutchins moved next to it, with a better pointer than the last time. "Sergeant Hutchins, sir," he told the assembled officers.

He explained what he found; the silence was deafening by the time he finished.

"Our mission objective?" Colonel Shaeffer asked formally.

"JCS was quite clear, sir. First we secure the perimeter -- no one in or out. Then we eliminate the threat. Sir, today is Tuesday, Thanksgiving is day after tomorrow. The interrogations hinted that they planned to strike on Black Friday. I wasn't given explicit orders, sir, but I'm pretty sure they meant, 'localize the threat and then exterminate them.'"

Colonel Morrison laughed. "Exactly that."

"A perimeter around sixty acres? We're talking an unfenced perimeter of a mile and a half, seventy-five hundred feet. A man every hundred feet and I've taken ten percent casualties right there. And a man every hundred feet isn't going to be enough, is it?"

"Do you have any ideas?" Colonel Morrison asked mildly.

"Christ! We have to assault across hundreds of yards of open ground!"

His XO shrugged. "There are several places where the only way they could engage us would be to come out. If they come out in the open, then we can kill them."

"And what if the whole bunch of them make a break for it? All together?"

"If we have a hundreds of yards of open ground to assault across, so do they. We're going to need some additional vehicles, sir. Light trucks, I think, would be best. Pickups with open beds. We put an automatic weapon in each of them, a couple of cases of ammo, couple, two, three men to serve the weapons. For that matter, we put even more trucks around the perimeter; three, four man teams. They head to cut off any penetration of the lines."

Colonel Shaeffer turned to the rest of them. "You have to excuse Alan and I -- we've known each other since grade school. I present the down side -- he comes up with ways to make things work."

"And I have Gimu," Sherrie said, nodded at her friend. "Who has taught me to connect that dots. I'm a big believer in 'whatever works.'"

"I'm going to have to requisition the personal vehicles of many of my men. Is money a problem?"

"Sir, the JCS was quite clear about our priorities: let none of them escape, and then kill them. Nothing was said about money."

"Well, you'd better check," Colonel Schaeffer told her, "because we're going to have a hundred or so personal vehicles at risk."

"It's not a problem," Colonel Morrison told him. "The President told the JCS: whatever it takes -- just get it done!"

Colonel Shaeffer turned to Sherrie. "You're going to have to excuse us. Alan is going to write the outlines of an op order, and then we'll have the rest of the staff by then. Call it two hours, for a briefing to senior command on the op order."

Sherrie smiled slightly. "I expect, Colonel, you've had the benefit of CGSC ... I'm scheduled for January. I'd be obliged if you'd let me peek over your shoulders."

Weaver spoke, which surprised Sherrie. "Colonel, I'm going to pass out copies of some photos to your people. While nothing has been said about who those men are, inside the mall, it interests me. I've been in contact with foreign sources and they tell me that a particular group of people has been missing for more than a year. They have photos of the leadership."

He looked at Sherrie. "Our friends are concerned. They say that the spider has access to the fighters of MS-13 -- there are about forty thousand of them these days, across Central and South America. They will not like losing them."

"And have these men been trained?"

"They think so, Sherrie. Sherrie, our contract numbers recently changed."

"And?"

"Two million for me, five million for you."

"At last! I'm finally worth more than you!" Sherrie said.

"Those numbers are?" Colonel Schaeffer asked.

"The bounties MS-13 has placed on our deaths," Sherrie told him. MS-13 people carried out the ground attack at the hospital in Miami. They are -- exercised -- about the results."

Captain Kirk brightened. "Do I have a bounty on me?"

"Sorry, Captain," Weaver told him. "They think you are just our minions. Nothing."

Captain Kirk stood. "I understand you have contacts, Mr. Gold."

"I have contacts, yes," Weaver admitted.

"Send them a message from Alpha Company, the First Rangers. We're gonna fuck their mothers, their sisters, their daughters. We're gonna kill their fathers, brothers and sons." He actually blushed. "Not mind you, that our wives and what not would actually let us do that ... but they don't have to know it."

He turned to Colonel Schaeffer. "Sir, I'm just a lousy captain with a joke of a name. When I found out my company was going to be commanded by a major-designate I was less than happy. I was senior to her by date-of-rank; Rangers are combat soldiers, and women can't command in combat.

"I was wrong, Colonel. Women can command in combat. Major Richardson was brilliant at Miami, simply brilliant. The orders she had for us were clear, concise and effective."

He hesitated. "Sir, one last thing."

"I can hardly wait," Colonel Schaeffer said drolly.

"When I told my wife we'd been at Miami when the bombing took place, she wanted to know why we let some of them live. She told me that if my men and I were pussies and couldn't bring ourselves to kill them, she and her fellow wives had no problems with it -- leave it to them.

"She says being a military wife is very hard -- but they are willing to put up with it because they know it's our duty to keep our nation -- and them -- safe. Sir, she said if I can't do that, she'll fix up the spare bedroom for me."

Colonel Schaeffer smiled. "I think your wife and mine -- and Alan's -- would be kindred spirits. God forbid, they should ever get together! Give us some time."

"Sir, yes, sir!" Captain Kirk shouted, and saluted.

"Before you all get too gung-ho," Sherrie said, "I hope my request for MOPP gear came down."

"It did," Colonel Schaeffer told her. "Of course that added anywhere from two to four hours for our deployment time."

"We call our enemy 'the spider.' We don't usually assign a gender, as we think the spider changed hers. The spider has a knack for never leaving her people behind -- she kills them all. I have no idea how she can still attract anyone, but she does.

"I have no idea what she intends, but I can feel it in my bones. Her people will live or die based on how well they accomplish her plans. It's my intention that they fall short. In that case, I don't want any surprises."

"You think they will suicide? I understand that they did so in Miami," Colonel Shaeffer commented.

"They suicided in Miami because they weren't expecting anyone to be there to stop them. Captain Kirk's people knew the magnitude of the bombs by then, but not the damage. Still, they did business.

"At the Osborn School the one man they lost was because he was fascinated by the thermite reaction he started. Like Lot's wife -- it isn't good to watch that sort of thing. We need to be ready for any eventuality."

Sherrie waved at the map. "This feels all wrong. Yeah, we have a lot of open space to cover to assault the mall ... but then if they want to bug out, they'll face the same problem. We can smother one of the doors with firepower and get to the wall. We could scale the walls and then cut holes in the roof and assault from anywhere we want.

"Then, logically they'd have to bug out or die in place -- I don't think we can count on them surrendering, and even if they wanted to, I don't believe their boss would let them."

The communications sergeant walked in and handed Weaver a slip of paper. Weaver grimaced and pulled his cell phone out.

"Care to share that with the rest of us young man?" Colonel Shaeffer asked drily.

"Sure, go ahead, help yourself," Weaver told him. The sergeant was stifling laughter, Sherrie saw. It wasn't going to be good.

The sergeant handed the message to the colonel who looked confused. "It's in code," he said, his voice strained.

"A moment," Weaver told him. In a moment he was talking to someone else. From hearing his end of the conversation, it wasn't good news.

Nor was Sherrie particularly happy to hear Weaver requesting the "party" to come to the coliseum and ask for her.

He folded up the phone and was going to speak to Sherrie, when the colonel interrupted. "Exactly what is your function, young man?"

"Intelligence," Colonel Morrison told him. "Rock solid, unbeatable intelligence. Golden intelligence, if you will. What is it Weaver?"

"One of the ninjas hacked the LA traffic cam archives. From seven in the morning until seven at night, there is a steady stream of dump trucks arriving empty at the site and leaving full. About six an hour. Records reviewed go back three months, and rain or shine, seven days a week, twelve hours a day, those trucks run. Somebody has been digging a tunnel."

Sherrie wanted to faint. Good God! Where was it? Where did it go? Was there more than one?

Weaver smiled. "A standard dump truck holds five to seven yards of material. That's cubic yards. Six trucks an hour, twelve hours a day is 72 loads -- at six yards average, that's five hundred cubic yards a week. Over three months, call it thirteen weeks, that's a total of sixty-five hundred cubic yards of material. Making the math easy, a nine-foot high, nine-foot wide tunnel a half mile long. If the tunnel is six by six feet -- it's a mile long."

He smiled at the colonel. "The ninjas found some people who can operate geophones -- they listen to audio signals from underground. Mineral exploration firms, including oil companies, archaeologists and paleontologists, usually use them. We're getting two with their equipment ... they are normally post-grads at Caltech."

He glanced at Kimi and then grinned. "They are both anime fans and twenty-four years old. Since they're women I told them that we'd make sure they were safe."

"We will make sure they are safe. Do you think they can locate that tunnel?"

"Maybe. It depends on what the spider's people do at night. If they keep digging, we might be able to hear them hauling dirt out to the entrance; otherwise we'd have to be close to the digging. Close, as in a few hundred yards. If they shut down at night -- we won't hear anything until they start up tomorrow morning."

"Colonel, can we hold your people at the armory?" Sherrie asked.

"Yes. It'll take a half hour or so to mount up the convoy, but we can have everything loaded but the people." He nodded at his deputy. "We were going to need more time anyway, because we're going to need a lot of ordinance that we don't normally deploy with. Rockets -- lots of rockets; grenade launchers -- we'll need more of those than we normally deploy with. Give us some time to work on this."

Sherrie nodded. The National Guard staff huddled together, with Sherrie and the Morrisons looking on. Captain Kirk looked around and asked, "Why don't I just tell my people we're go for the morning? Let them get some sleep."

"That's good. We'll try to work out a legal role your people can play."

"Oh trust me, Major. When we show up, we won't be playing!"

Gimu spoke up. "We are going to need some of the Rangers, sooner than later. We are going to need to put in watchers to keep the site under observation. Sergeant Hutchins has trained up a half dozen or so that he says can do the job. The sergeant and I are going to have to go back in. We didn't get down to the below-grade level before. Clearly we should have.

"That is going to be much more difficult, because the access to that level is limited to three freight elevators. Considering the number of guards upstairs, we're going to find everything well-covered down there as well."

"I thought you said you couldn't work together," Sherrie asked mildly.

"Richardson-sama, he will anchor me while I go down. He is quite good, but they are defenseless against someone like me."

"How many Rangers?" asked Colonel Shaeffer.

"Eight; they will have to be armed, but their task is surveillance only. They are to avoid contact with anyone."

"Couldn't Captain Truax's men do that?"

"Colonel, they can not be seen. Not even once. If they see a person watching, it will warn them. Captain Truax can provide a security detail for the geophone operators. They are going to be hanging out there, exposed. There is no way they can do what they have to do without showing themselves.

"It won't take a rocket scientist to realize what they are looking for. They are going to need very tight security, and even then it will be dangerous. Weaver-kun tells me they know the risks and are willing. I would be more comfortable though with at least four men in their van with them, plus two additional vehicles with four men in them."

The two scouts left to gather up their observers. Colonel Shaeffer, with the Morrisons looking on, went back to their op order. Captain Kirk and Captain Truax returned to their troops, to brief the officers and NCOs.

Weaver was busy doing Weaver-things and Sherrie was, once again left alone with her concerns.

About two in the morning, the two women from Caltech arrived. Weaver introduced them to Sherrie and Captain Truax. It was amusing, Sherrie thought. It was one of the few times she'd seen Weaver caught making unwarranted assumptions.

"Our van is special," the blonde member of the pair told Weaver and Sherrie. "We actually do this all the time with the DEA and the US Border Patrol -- we look for tunnels, mostly coming out of Tijuana, but sometimes Nogales and twice Juarez.

"We use a high frequency ultraviolet laser, aimed at the ground to measure vibrations ... we no longer deploy sensors that have to be in contact with the ground. More importantly, the lasers are in the extreme ultraviolet -- you can't see the beam. They can measure vibrations far better than a standard geophone.

"That's the good news. The bad news is they are too sensitive. It will take us a few minutes at each point in the search grid to determine what it is we are hearing. Usually five minutes, unless there are a lot of people around, doing a lot of varied things. Once we were fooled by an unbalanced washing machine in its spin cycle ... that won't happen again."

"You're okay with guards?" Sherrie asked.

"Yes. Weaver-kun ... you offered us a bonus. Is that still on?"

"Yes."

The blonde member of the pair high-fived her partner. "Cool! Let's get going! Night is the best time -- less activity!"

When they were gone, Sherrie turned to Weaver. "And what sort of a bonus are you offering?"

"There are bonuses and bonuses, Sherrie. The fact remains if the spider's people spot them; their odds for survival are virtually zero.

"They are being paid a hundred grand to be here, and double that if they find the tunnel. But what they really wish is to smooch Gimu."

"Pardon?" Sherrie blinked.

"Yeah. I suspect that at least one is going to try to cop a feel. Each one gets five minutes of 'personal time' with her."

"And Gimu agreed?"

"Sherrie, if Gimu has any weaknesses, it's how willing she is to smooch -- and otherwise carry on with people around her."

"We've never..." she stammered.

He shook his head. "Gimu thinks the two of us are reincarnations of some of the early Shoguns. She is tickled pink to be able to teach either of us anything. It would be like a Roman Catholic contemplating seducing a saint. Just about never going to happen."

He yawned. "I'm going to get some sleep before dawn. You should too; you've been going fast and furious the last few days."

"I catch little cat naps. I swear Weaver, I'm fine."

In spite of that, her next waking thought was when Jake Morrison shook her. "It's 0700, Major. They are loading the battalion into trucks now; they're coming here first.

"Gimu and Sergeant Hutchins are reported to be ten minutes out. The dynamic duo traced the tunnel. They will be here in about twenty minutes. Colonel Shaeffer wants a senior staff briefing in forty-five minutes. A lot of his staff are already here and have been working on this."

"Thanks, Jake," she told him.

She found a bathroom, showered and changed into a new set of BDUs and did her morning routine. She was much refreshed when she sat down to coffee and pastry in the conference room.

Colonel Shaeffer nodded to her. "Special Ops command wants to know our op plan; I told him that it's still a work in progress, but the rough outlines are in place."

Weaver came in, with the two young women in tow. "You should hear what Monica and Leilei have to say, Sherrie," he told her.

He went to the map, and presented the pointer to the blonde, named Monica. "We traced the tunnel. Honestly, it doesn't make much sense.

"It goes about a mile through the city -- headed south. The ground there is mostly alluvial soil -- loosely compacted, and easy to dig. The problem is, it's going nowhere. There is nothing of any significance along the line they are building.

"Honestly, what we usually find with a tunnel like this is that they surface in a home, hollow it out and make it a terminal. The gangs never dig further than they have to, but Weaver-kun says the spider isn't like the others."

"Could this tunnel also emerge into a private dwelling?" Sherrie asked.

"Oh, easily. We can't locate it, though. Worse, for your purposes, there are long distances that the tunnel goes under rows of houses. A dozen or two at a time. Then the tunnel goes under an intersection and does it again. It passes under more than a hundred residences, and a half dozen commercial establishments."

Gimu and Sergeant Hutchins entered the conference room. Both were limping, above all Gimu.

"Gimu?" Sherrie asked.

Sergeant Hutchins grimaced. "You should see the other guy."

"What happened?" Colonel Morrison asked. "The first report was that you left clear."

"We left clear," Gimu told him, "but that didn't allow for a drunken fool, about a mile from here, t-boning our vehicle. He was belligerently drunk; I tried to reason with him, but he wanted to fight.

"Richardson-sama -- when ninjas do things right it is because have much time to plan. Where we most often go wrong is when unexpected events occur. He kicked Sergeant Hutchins in the nards, Richardson-sama. I could no longer afford to waste more time. We left a note on the body; I imagine the police will be here eventually."

"Body?" Colonel Shaeffer queried, obviously startled.

"I might have a few bruises, Sergeant Hutchins might have one -- the drunk had his windpipe shattered. So sorry, Richardson-sama."

She pointed at the map. "In the lowest level there are about forty miners; they appear to be experienced. There are another ten guards, plus the miners stand a guard watch as well. The tunnel appears to go in the direction the Caltech people say. They were mostly asleep; they appear dirty and tired. A half dozen more were working, hauling hopper carts from the tunnel to a loading station."

She looked at Sherrie. "I heard one man say to another, that the 'crew in the building are getting bored.'"

Captain Kirk sighed. "I wish we had this report earlier. We've got the UAV up; we found a couple of buildings with more people than we would have expected for the time of day, but they've all checked out. Now, though, most businesses are getting started on their last business day before the holiday."

Sherrie felt a chill. "You checked them out?"

"Yes, public records search."

"And the UAV was up?"

"Yes. No one can see it, Major. It's designed not to be seen at night."

Weaver spoke for Sherrie. "There are already people who hack Predator feeds; mostly for the excitement, but we assume for tactical intelligence as well. The spider would have programs that would spot any unusual query about a building she might be interested it. Odds are, she knows we're coming."

"You can't know that," Colonel Shaeffer asserted.

"Assume they aren't aware and you could be walking into a trap," Sherrie reminded of him. "I've already mentioned my concerns.

"We really can't have a couple of hundred frustrated terrorists popping up in the middle of the city someplace, locked, loaded and looking to make a busted plan work," she finished.

She looked at Sergeant Hutchins and Gimu. "Can you collapse the tunnel? Close to the mall?"

"Yes; although there may be some collateral damage -- windows will break. The glass will mostly fall straight down and is unlikely to hurt anyone."

Sherrie turned up her lip, remembering from before. "My experience is different. Still, it we must, we must."

He grinned. "Demolitions is my middle name, Major. Say the word and I'll add a little bang up front that will make people think it's an LA shaker. They will run for the doors and avoid the windows. It'll shake things, but not be enough to break windows. The second though -- if you want that tunnel cut -- it'll break windows."

"The first priority is cutting the tunnel," Sherrie said emphatically. She saw Colonel Shaeffer wasn't as comfortable with that as she was, but he didn't speak.

Captain Kirk interjected with, "The UAV feed shows a lot of infra-red coming from the mall, but it is too diffuse to know what we are actually seeing. If they know we're coming, they may have already fled, but left heat sources behind."

Captain Truax's sergeant major appeared. "Sirs, General Carlisle is here, along with two civilians. One of the civilians is from the governor's office and the other from the LA mayor's office. They say they're here to coordinate with their various departments."

Sherrie's face went ashen pale; Gimu's suffused red. Colonel Schaeffer just started saying the word, "Fuck!" over and over.

Colonel Morrison got up and fetched the three men.

"Which of you in senior?" Sherrie asked.

The general blinked. "Who are you to ask?"

"I'm Major Sherrie Richardson, in command of this operation. Answer the question."

"You'd better answer, General," Colonel Morrison said, as he watched Gimu stalk closer to the general.

"I'm senior. I'm here to coordinate with the scene commander and the National Guard. I was told this was going to be a major terrorist incident; the governor had called up an entire battalion. Per SOP I alerted the state's Emergency Services director and the LA Emergency Services director. They'll have alerted the first responders, again per the SOP."

"And no one mentioned that this was a classified operation?" Colonel Morrison asked, his voice flat.

"The governor said it had to be kept quiet. I didn't think he meant to exclude the emergency services."

The sergeant major came again. "They're running bulletins on the local news stations: a major terrorist threat has been found in LA and people need to exercise caution."

Colonel Morrison's voice was frosty. "All I can say, General, is that you'd better hope our fears were right: they already knew we were coming. Because if you let the cat out of the bag -- you're finished."

The general opened his mouth to talk but nothing came out.

"Get on the horn to JCS," Colonel Morrison told the commo sergeant. "We need to tell them the op is blown."

Weaver had been typing furiously on a laptop; Sherrie had no idea what he was up to. But he suddenly punched the sky.

"Got it! You're going to have to hustle." He looked apologetically at Sherrie. "I don't have good maps. The mall is here," he went to the white board and cleared the racetrack away.

He drew a small oval. "The tunnel strikes south, just west of Vermont Avenue, from just south of the 101 Freeway, and ends in the middle of a group of apartment buildings. I have no idea if they even care where it ends.

"They will emerge in a small office block owned by the same property management company, about two blocks from the mall. They will strike east, along the street, to the Metro terminal at Vermont and Beverly. They'll take over a train. Two stations later ... they'd only pass one, that is, they'd be at the Vermont and Sunset station. God, Sherrie, the spider's doubled down. Yeah, there's a strip mall there ... but there are hospitals. All kinds of hospitals. A Kaiser-Permante facility, the LA Presbyterian Hospital."

He had tears in his eyes. "The LA Children's Hospital, the Ronald McDonald House..."

Sherrie froze and looked at Gimu, who was equally stricken.

Sherrie had never had a "come to Jesus" moment; God had never spoken to her before. She looked at Colonel Shaeffer. "There's no way we can interpose your troops?"

He shook his head; there were tears running down his cheeks as well.

Sherrie turned to the two civilians. "Which of you is from LA?"

One man stepped forward.

"I am going to ask you to do a terrible thing. In a short while three hundred heavily armed terrorists are going to be striking towards an area filled with hospitals. I could be wrong, but I doubt it -- this is the same terrorist group that targeted the children's wing of the hospital in Miami.

"Get on the phone to your mayor. Tell him where we think the terrorists are headed -- Sunset and Vermont. This is no earthly way we can get sufficient troops there in time ... it's just too far.

"However, there is an force we can interpose..."

"The LAPD?" the worthy offered.

Sherrie shook her head. "They are too sparse; they would be targeted at once. No. The citizens of LA. Have them announce on the radio and TV that terrorists are attacking out of that station, headed for the hospitals. Mention the Children's Hospital. Tell the people of LA that there are a hell of a lot more of them, than there are terrorists. Get with Sergeant Major Morrison; he can advise you on the language. They shouldn't take chances -- snipe from long range; don't try to be heroes. That sort of thing. Do it right this second -- seconds are going to count."

She turned to Colonel Schaeffer. "We can try to interpose at Vermont and Beverly; do we have some assets available?"

"Yes, but just a platoon. They'll be..."

"Yes. Don't order them -- just ask them to see what they can do. Officially they are to harass and impede the terrorists."

"Yes, Major!" He was on the radio seconds later.

Sherrie turned to Captain Kirk. "You will take your company and assault the mall. If you face heavy opposition, dig in and extend your lines. Captain Truax, your company will support Captain Kirk."

"Posse comitatus?" Captain Truax.

"They can court martial me. Who the fuck cares? Captain Kirk, that mall is filled with booby traps and is probably rigged to blow up. I really don't want to hear about you running up our casualty count."

"I won't, Major -- I told my wife I'd be home in time for Thanksgiving dinner."

Sherrie saw the mayor's aide was off the phone and looking at her. "Do you have something to say?" she asked a little roughly.

"I know you think I'm probably a wuss -- but I graduated from the Air Force Academy in 1990 and flew bombing missions in the two Gulf wars. The mayor calls me 'his military dude.'

"The mayor has a scheduling conflict and is at a black pastors' prayer breakfast and can't be disturbed. Thus, absent anyone more senior, I gave the necessary orders. I imagine there are a lot of dirty drawers downtown today. But the message has gone out to the local media. God have mercy on our souls."

"The LAPD and, I understand from what I've heard, the LA County Sheriff's office have choppers. I need them. All of them. Here, as fast as they can get them."

"Most are being vectored to Sunset and Vermont; a few to Vermont and Beverly."

"I need anything that can hold more than a pilot. I'm going to Sunset, with my radioman. Colonel Shaeffer, I want as many radiomen as you can get aboard these choppers up there as fast as possible.

"We'll put people with the various groups of civilians that will be forming up. Captain Kirk, get the drone headed there. I'll want real time info on where everyone is."

"You got it, Major!"

She clapped her hands. "Lets make things happen!"

Twenty minutes later Sherrie was sitting in the right hand seat of a chopper, with two radiomen sitting in the back.

The pilot was blunt. "I hear this will be a hot LZ."

Sherrie laughed. "Not!"

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. "I have three soldiers, locked and loaded, and it'll be just a normal sit down?"

"No, it won't be normal. I want you to hover over Vermont and Sunset. I need to take notes of the ground; we don't have good maps. I expect we'll land on one of the hospital helipads. Kaiser's would be good."

"Major, I'd rather be down there than up here."

"Then you're an idiot. The people you will be ferrying here are like the ones in the back. They carry radios. If anything will work, it will be radios. I need every man -- or woman -- who can carry a radio out here, as fast as possible. I wish to God it wasn't true -- but I'm afraid the first one's I'm going to be shoveling into the furnace. Trust me -- you don't want to be down there."

"Terrorists attacking hospitals? I beg to differ!"

"And you'd be wrong. What we need is cool heads who can deliver the goods. We need to apply the maximum hurt to them that we can. That means playing to our strengths and their weaknesses -- not giving in to our personal desires to wrap our hands around these scum's throats and kill them slowly. We're going to have to be quick about this."

The pilot laughed. "I heard it on the radio. You've called out the 'citizen soldiers.' The shitheads need to throw down their arms and surrender -- once 'citizen' soldiers get into the field, there will be damn few prisoners."

"Like the rest of us, they'll have to rely on what the day brings," Sherrie said darkly.

For five minutes she scribbled a map on a notepad, while the pilot identified buildings on the ground to her. Then they swooped in to land on top of the hospital.

"Get back to the coliseum; bring more radios! Get all the other choppers out there going back and forth too."

He lifted off and hustled back south, while Sherrie turned to the two others with her. "Get down there. Don't try to be a hero -- we need to organize people who arrive. First, though, do what you can. Get to the Metro terminal and stop people from going inside. Shoot into the air, if you have to!

"Have them spread the word to get out of the area as fast as possible."

They left and she picked up her own radio. "Spider control to base."

"Sarge here," a voice said. She recognized Jake Morrison.

"I'm on scene and have the first two radios headed out."

"It's like you said; only worse. They came out of that office building about six minutes ago. If you look southeast, you're going to see one towering pile of smoke; shortly there will be a second. The big one is the mall -- they torched it. The second one is that office building -- they've torched it as well.

"They are shooting everyone they see. It's not random fire, but aimed ... they only shoot at targets. We heard from an LAPD officer who had two rounds in the chest saying that hundreds of people were down.

"The odd thing is, we've reports that they are in uniform, with fatigues, some sort of unit patch on the shoulders, and an Arab-style green and white checked headdress of some sort. We've put that out; at least we're going to be able to give everyone a target to shoot at.

"Sherrie, it's rush hour. That station is going to be crowded. The trains are going to be crowded. Those people are in big, big trouble. Wait, here's the old man."

Colonel Morrison was quick. "No one has a better plan, but frankly, it's given Washington hysterical fits. They can't figure out what to do -- and they know they have to do something.

"They've called up the reserves and the National Guard in California and the surrounding states. Delta Force will be on the way shortly and so will be a couple of ready combat brigades -- they will all arrive too late except for cleanup. The alerted Camp Pendleton down in San Diego, they're probably the closest ready force. They be helicoptered in, the first getting there in an hour or so.

"The reports are that LA area Reserve and Guard units are to muster at the scene -- so they are going to be coming in in dribs and drabs."

Suddenly Sherrie was laying on the ground, her ears ringing.

"Spider Control!" The colonel's voice was oddly tinny and distant. Sherrie looked up and saw a medium-sized black helicopter, with a man in the door aiming another RPG at her. The first had impacted about six feet behind her.

She scuttled towards a doorway about ten feet away, but realized she was never going to make it in time. She veered right, and was rewarded by an explosion against the door, but far enough away so it just rattled her teeth.

She again veered and yanked on the remains of the door, and tried to ignore that someone must have been reaching for the door when the rocket had hit. Whoever it had been was down and dead. There was about ten feet to an elevator -- only that had taken some of the shrapnel from the rocket. Sherrie spun to her right and jumped as far forward as she could, down a flight of stairs.

The landing jarred her, and only laced boots kept her from doing more than mildly spraining her ankles.

"They have a helicopter up," she reported to Morrison. "They have a guy firing RPGs from it."

She climbed back up the stairs, carefully went to the door, then leaned down and dragged the victim back and away. Sherrie was pretty sure the victim had been a woman, but the explosion had shredded her upper torso and face, and the woman had short hair, so it was hard to be sure.

She popped her head around the corner, her pistol up. The rocket man had his head turned forward, and his rocket was off his shoulder.

It was instinct and nothing else. She held a little high and rapped off three shots at the rocket man. She could see the pilot's head was turned towards her, and that his window was open. She fired three more times and he jerked and slumped forward.

The helicopter swerved, and started to turn away. Sherrie smiled slightly. That turn had been too fast. The rocket man fell like a limp doll towards the ground below.

Because she had nothing else to shoot at, she aimed where she thought the engine was, and emptied the remainder of the magazine. The helicopter was by then, nearly headed directly away from her.

She watched for a few seconds, wanting to make sure it wasn't going to circle and try to come back. About a half mile south of the hospital there was a sudden burst of black smoke, and seconds later the helicopter suddenly dove, nose down, towards the ground. She was too far to see exactly where it hit, but the explosion was visible.

She pulled her radio out again. "Back," she told the other end.

"Are you okay?" Colonel Morrison asked.

"Fine. Say, if I shoot down four more helicopters, do I get to be an ace?"

He laughed. "You shoot down one helicopter and you're an ace in my book!"

"I hate to say it, but they knew someone was coming to coordinate. The odds are that I'm going to have a lot of fleas to pick off. I'm going to need some security."

"We'll get it on the way."

"I need a few minutes," she told him.

She didn't have a few minutes. A woman appeared from downstairs. She saw the body and rushed to it.

"Oh, Carolyn!" the woman said sadly as she knelt beside the body. She turned to Sherrie and took in the uniform and the radio.

"We really are under attack? They're saying it on the TV and radio. Half the patients are hysterical."

"I'm sorry to say, the attack is real. You'll need to evacuate people to the northwest, staying well away from the south and east. The attack will be coming from the Vermont Metro terminal."

The woman checked the victim for a pulse, but Sherrie was sure it was just pro forma. "So curiosity killed the cat," the woman said softly, looking up at Sherrie. "Her name was Carolyn Gato and she told everyone she wanted to be called 'Cat.' Honestly, we called her 'Attila the Hun' behind her back -- she was just a little strict."

The woman sighed sadly. "I told her we had things to do, but she had to know what the explosion was ... she came running up here."

"They were shooting at me," Sherrie told her. "I'm a lot better shot than they are."

"Pardon?"

"Their chopper went down a mile or so south of here, one of them fell out as well, just south of the hospital. Now, you need to focus on what has to be done to save the living. I was at the hospital in Miami when they blew it up; they may well use truck bombs here as well. You have to get people well clear of the building."

The nurse stood up. "Right. On it." The woman sprinted for the stairs.

Sherrie went back out on the roof and carefully looked around. She wasn't about to let another chopper sneak up on her. She lifted the radio. "Spider Control. Talk to me."

"Sarge here, Control. It's not looking good. They took two trains. There were a couple of hundred people on each train. Most are dead or wounded; they just dragged the bodies off and dumped then on the platform, then took off. They tried to fire bomb the station, but it didn't take."

"Roger that. Little Me One?"

"Number One is here, Control. I'm at the subway station. I've got people on the entrance now, scaring people away. We've just about got it clear. I'll be exiting in sixty."

"Stay safe."

"Number Two here, I just got to my post. They are already in the process of evacuation. I've got about a dozen people here; we'll do what we can."

"Sarge for Control. The first train just passed through the one intermediate station. They didn't stop, but they had busted out the windows and fired at the people waiting on the platform. Another fifty or so people are down. The healthy ones have scattered, and we've got EMTs on the way."

There was a laugh from the radio and a feminine voice said, "Richardson, you are annoying me. Cease and desist."

"Is that you Coretta? Your voice sounds a little husky." It was the first thing that came into Sherrie's head.

"An ace, Richardson? You always had an outsized ego! I'll give you a huge freebie. I've never had my face changed, my skin color changed or a sex change. I did get a boob job, though! The next time you interfere, Richardson, I'll add another zero to the casualty count for my next op."

Sherrie laughed. "What, your plan isn't to add as many zeroes as you can? Thank you. One day I'll wrap my hands around your throat -- that will finish it."

"Not today, Richardson. This is a warning shot across your bow ... a notice of what I can bring to bear against you and yours. It was amusing to watch you work. Think of me as a modern day Scarlet Pumpernickel! Bye now!"

Jake Morrison spoke up next. "Obviously, our radios aren't as secure as we thought."

"Obviously."

"Still, I imagine she knows by now ... NSA realized they were coordinating by cell phone. We've turned everything off within a hundred miles of LA. Our radios might not be secure, but she has no way to communicate that to her commanders on the ground."

"Another LAPD chopper is inbound. Let me get them going," Sherrie told him.

"You take care now, you hear?" he said.



-------

Chapter 25: The Ain't Okay Corral


Sherrie got the next three radiomen off, although one had insisted he'd been detailed as her security. She'd hardly got them moving when Jake was back on the radio.

"The second train came through the station; they were going quite fast and didn't slow down. LAPD says about a dozen people fired at them, but they doubt that if anyone was hit on the train. The sheetheads, on the other hand, used massive suppression fire on the station. Another half dozen people are down, mostly civilians."

"They'll be here in a few more minutes," Sherrie told him. "We don't have much yet."

Jake laughed. "You listening, you stupid bitch? There's the mother of all traffic jams in LA right now. About a half million people are headed for that station. You might reach your objectives ... but no one is going home!"

Sherrie grimaced, but continued to survey the area with field glasses. She heard steps behind her and saw the woman from before, still wearing hospital scrubs.

"You need to get out of here," Sherrie told her.

"It's odd; I'm not religious ... I would resent being called religious. Yet God talked to me. He appeared as a burning angel and that angel told me that you stood as our protector -- but not to let you fall."

"I'm fine."

"I have an uncle; he's single, never married, my 'rich' uncle. Growing up, he gave us the best presents -- even better than we got from my parents, who had four kids.

"He's a major in the army -- a helicopter pilot. I've seen his insignia. You're a major. Major -- you have a dozen pieces of shrapnel sticking out of your back. I've come to deal with them."

"I do?" Sherrie was mystified. There was no pain, none.

"Please, hold still for a bit." The woman produced tweezers and a metal tray from a small brown bag.

Sherrie spoke up. "Look, I don't know if I have shrapnel or not; it doesn't hurt." She waved towards the east. "In about two minutes, about a hundred fifty terrorists are going to come boiling out of the Metro terminal. The odds are even which way they'll go -- east or west. If they come west, a few seconds later, they'll be shooting at us."

The woman ignored Sherrie; instead, Sherrie heard bits of metal landing in the pan.

"You are our guardian angel, Major," the nurse said. "Now, unbutton your uniform, so I can clean the wounds and put antiseptic on them."

"Why is it," Sherrie asked, "that every time I enter a hospital, you want me to take my clothes off?"

Still, she'd felt small, sharp pains before each metallic clink in the pain, so started unbuttoning. "If they start to shoot, get small. Very, very small," Sherrie told the woman.

"Major ... I am twenty-five, nearly twenty-six. I went to school for sixteen years, to get a BS. Then three more years as a pre-med student. Now, nearly a year as an intern. It would be a blessing, Major, if I was killed, because my student loans are a quarter million dollars. I have no way of paying them. None. Shut up and let me work."

"What's your name?"

"Phyllis Palmer." She swabbed and probed. Cindy felt the woman's hand on her bare shoulder.

"I've never done anything like this before," Phyllis whispered. Sherrie felt the woman's lips press for an instant against her neck.

"I don't suppose you're free for dinner in the next couple of days?"

"Are you asking me on a date?"

"Yes," the other woman replied, and then added, "You can put your shirt back on now."

Sherrie turned and pulled the woman down on the roof. "They just came out and they are shooting at us. We need to stay down for a bit."

A second later Sherrie popped her head up. "The first batch are going east -- towards the Children's Hospital."

She picked up her radio and spoke into it. One of her radiomen came right back.

"We're in cover and starting to shoot back. This is the strangest thing I've ever heard of. There are maybe a hundred people here now. No one had to tell them -- they've dispersed and are picking their targets with care. We've taken some casualties, but they are taking more. Major, every few seconds we get five, ten, twenty more people.

"I think the attack is going to stall short of the hospital."

The quantity of small arms fire in the distance was steadily increasing. There were occasional thumps of explosions, but not many.

Sherrie shrugged back into her BDU shirt and turned to the intern.

"Every other time someone has said something like to me, the first words out of my mouth are 'I'm not like that.' Are you free Friday?"

"I can be."

"I thought interns have to work crippling hours?"

"I do believe I'm going to get some overtime here in the next few days."

Sherrie laughed. "You and me both, Phyllis. I'm game to try."

A voice spoke on the radio and Sherrie responded. "Sarge, I missed that last."

"The Metro people finally got off the time and turned off the power to the trains. The second train was only about a hundred yards from the station. Evidently they sent the first train ahead without a driver.

"They'll be coming up in a few minutes."

"Roger that; the eastern prong of the attack is stalling."

"I heard that."

Sherrie turned to Phyllis. "One thing, before I forget. Out there," she waved around, "is a woman who is doing her level best to kill me. She's the one that organized this as she organized the attack on the hospital in Miami.

"She's killed my father, two aunts, an uncle and a young cousin. Any one close to me is going to become a target as well. And she doesn't just stop there -- she'll go after family, friends and anyone else close to you."

"My parents were killed in a traffic accident when I was twelve. They left me enough money to get through three years of college; since then, I've borrowed money to get through med school. I have brothers and sisters, and one rich uncle. He's stretched a little thin, even so. I was a pre-med student: there was no way I could do the studying and have a social life. This is all I've ever wanted to do."

She looked at Sherrie and quirked a smile. "You never told me your name."

"Sherrie Richardson, Major, US Army." She popped her head up again, as the gunfire had suddenly gotten a lot closer.

"They're shooting at us again."

Phyllis laughed. "This time I can hear the bullets. I couldn't the first time."

"Once you hear it, you'll be sensitive to it in the future, believe me!" Sherrie said. She popped up again and emptied her pistol at the crowd of men headed their way.

"I thought you couldn't hit anything very far away with a pistol," Phyllis asked mildly.

"Not unless you're shooting at the broad side of a barn. There's a hundred and fifty or so of them; they're not very good at this -- they're all bunched up."

The radio spoke again. "The attack is stalling here too, boss," one of her people said. "Some guy starting waving at them to spread out and go to cover. It was awful -- for a half-minute or so, everyone was shooting at him. He went right down. They've stopped advancing, but are still bunched up." The radioman laughed. "To quote Johnny Horton -- 'There aren't as many of them as there was a while ago.'"

Another voice spoke up. "I'm a cop; the radio guy is down. They are now applying maximum retrograde movement -- running as fast as they can from the Children's Hospital. There's maybe five hundred people here now, chasing after them, shooting as they go."

"See to him, if you can," Sherrie told him.

"The nurses here are spectacular," the voice said. "They are taking nearly as many chances as the shooters. God damn these bastards to hell!"

"You're a cop?"

"Yeah, I was off duty. Not so much any more."

"It will probably be difficult to impossible. But we need as many prisoners as we can get -- and as few incidents of 'shot will trying to escape' as possible."

"Yeah, I can see that. It's going to be hard, because in just the few conversations I've heard, people are really, really, pissed."

"Do your best. Try to organize others to help."

"Roger that."

Sherrie popped up again, and this time stayed standing. After a second, Phyllis stood next to her. "Good God!" she whispered, seeing the carnage on the street.

"I haven't been in the Army all that long, but I've had a chance to read a lot of history. The Japanese admiral who planned the Pearl Harbor attack said, 'I'm afraid all we've done is wake a sleeping tiger.' It's true today, too."

"They attacked this hospital, the Children's Hospital and the hospital in Miami. They deserve what they are getting," Phyllis said with heat.

"In 1865 Grant took Lee's surrender at Appomattox Courthouse. In 1945 MacArthur accepted the Japanese surrender in Tokyo Bay. We treated our defeated enemies with respect and honor. Both times we were the better for it, and our enemies became our friends.

"I don't know if we can do that with the Muslims, I don't honestly know. But these people today, they aren't Muslims, weren't converts -- just dupes. The spider got them all killed or captured. There's a finite number of times she can do that and still get people to follow her.

"I've heard the drug gang that supplied these men has tens of thousands of fighters -- I'm pretty sure that losing this many is going to be a heavy blow in several ways."

She picked up the radio again. "I don't know if you're still listening, Coretta. If I were you, I'd be headed out of Dodge about now. The attacks never got within a hundred yards of their objectives. Yeah, they still killed a lot of people, but I think this time you should be able to read the message loud and clear: you might be willing to go any lengths to hurt us -- but we're willing to go to any lengths to stop you."

She put the radio down and turned to Phyllis. "Stay safe -- I will. But I've got to go down there now and do things that have to be done."

"I understand. You stay safe, too, Sherrie. See you Friday."

"I'll call," Sherrie told her, "here at the hospital."

Phyllis nodded, and then Sherrie turned and headed down.

She went out onto the street, and two of her radiomen surrounded her. In moments, she was just one of a group, moving towards the Metro station.

"The last hundred survivors have holed up down there," she was told. "Rangers are coming from the south, along the tracks. There's no way out that way. National Guard units are coming from the west -- there's no way out that way, either."

"Sarge here, boss."

"Go ahead," Sherrie told the sergeant major.

"The first contingent of Marines will be there in five; consensus is to let them lead the assault on the station. They have the weapons and training."

"That's the best news I've heard this morning," Sherrie told him.

"They wanted to pull you out. The old man told them hell no. Now he says once you've get the Marines started, then repair forthwith back to the helipad. They want you back here to debrief Washington."

Sherrie rolled her eyes. "I'll get back, then, once the Marines are finished."

"Started," he repeated.

"Finished," she told him.

He laughed. "Watch yourself out there!"

There was a crowd in front of the Metro station, but there were enough Guardsmen present to contain their enthusiasm. When a chopper roared overhead, "US MARINES" emblazoned on the side, there was an equally loud roar from the crowd.

She was a little surprised that the helicopter didn't land, instead a dozen men slid down ropes.

It was, Sherrie thought, a little surprising. The crowd opened up, giving the Marines a path that led right to her.

The lead Marine saluted her. "Major Richardson, Colonel Fremont, 1st Marines."

"We have a problem with some sewer rats, Colonel." She gestured at the Metro station. "About a hundred are holed up in there. The Rangers are coming through the tunnel from the south, California National Guard from the west."

"We can deal with them. Do you want them slow roasted or flash fried?"

"I'm of two minds. If we were to offer to let them surrender, they might just do so. These men are in uniform, although I doubt if any nation state will own up to them..."

The colonel shook his head. "We were briefed on the way up from Pendleton. The Taliban has announced a government-in-exile, headquartered in Pakistan. They say they have as much legitimacy as the Free French did in War Two."

Sherrie laughed. "Oh! Have they screwed that up! Then offer to let them surrender. We'll put them in a prison camp and keep them there until a peace treaty is signed. If they don't want to surrender..."

The colonel's teeth gleamed as he grinned. "And as POWs, they are subject to the civil laws of the capturing country and can be tried in a military court for any offenses they've committed."

Sherrie nodded.

"Let me get organized, here." In the meantime more helicopters would arrive, at first the men had to helicast down, but now enough police had arrived that they were able to move the substantial, and still growing, crowd back for the helicopters to actually land and disgorge.

Sherrie watched, and when the colonel finally turned back to him she grinned. "Your men are well-trained Colonel."

"We practice a lot -- and we've had a lot of experience of doing it in combat," he acknowledged. He started to say something, stopped and then started again.

"I'm told these a gang-bangers and not Muslims."

"That is correct, sir. Some might have a smattering of Arabic, but most of them are Hispanic."

He smiled broadly again. "That's good, because we're short Arab linguists. Hispanics -- I've got a shit pot of those!"

"Captain deRoyo! Front and center! Get a megaphone! Don't take any chances, but tell them they're surrounded. They can surrender or die. Tell them in Spanish!"

"Aye, aye, Colonel!" a tall, dark-haired officer sprinted to one of the Marines, who handed over a bullhorn. The captain gingerly approached the entrance.

Sherrie turned to her radioman. "Tell the Rangers and National Guard to hold in position for the time being."

"Roger that, Major."

In spite of the police trying to move the crowd back, they'd had no luck whatsoever with the people in the upstairs part of the station. The steps leading down to the platform were a no man's land. A number of people were sprawled here and there, mostly men in the uniforms of their enemies -- but not all. There were catcalls from both sides, but no movement.

A Marine in battledress quieted the crowd.

The captain spoke to the men downstairs, with Sherrie and the colonel about fifty feet away. More and more Marines were forming up, checking their weapons and getting ready to go downstairs.

"Hermanos! I am Captain deRoyo, US Marines! If you lay down your arms and come out with your hands held up, you will live! If you choose to fight, we will welcome that -- there will be no more chances for you to live! There are thousands of people up here now, and a thousand Marines! You have no option! Surrender or die!

"If you surrender, you have my word you will get far better treatment than the innocents you killed today received at your hands."

There were groans of disappointment from the assembled people, and cries of opposition.

"Hermanos! The men up here want to kill you. They want nothing more for us to let them finish the job they started! If you surrender to me, me and my men will protect you! Yes, you will be prisoners -- but you will be treated as prisoners always are by countries like this one. Three hots and a cot!"

There was laughter from the assembled crowd.

"You have five minutes!" the captain announced. "And then it will be out of my hands."

He then ran through the same spiel in Spanish. There was a single pistol shot and a shouted phrase in Spanish.

Captain deRoyo had pulled back to his commander and Sherrie, but they were close enough for him to hear the shout. "He said, there will be no surrender. I believe the shot was fired in the air."

Three more single shots rang out, then a fusillade of fire. Captain DeRoyo laughed nastily. "They are discussing the terms of surrender."

The firing stopped abruptly. There were a few sounds of conversation, but not as loud as before.

A voice in heavily accented English called out. "Two of us are coming out! If you want the rest of us to surrender, let nothing happen to them!"

"Tell them to give us a minute," Sherrie told Captain DeRoyo.

She raised her voice. "I understand the heroism and patriotism of those of you who rushed to the defense of your city and your country. All of you here deserve medals, and I'm sure something like that will happen."

"We didn't come here for medals!" someone growled.

"Trust me, no one sets out to earn medals except fools. However sometimes it happens when you do what you have to do.

"Our enemies attacked us, launching assaults not just on helpless people in hospitals -- but helpless children in hospitals. That is the act of unspeakable barbarism by scum of the earth.

"That's them. We're not them. Now, right now, I want you all to step outside and let the Marines handle this from here on out. Please don't make a scene -- and above all, act like civilized people -- like the Americans I know you are."

"What," a man said, stepping forward, "you're going to read them their Miranda rights?" He was older, wore a gray-flecked ponytail and fatigues there were probably fifty years old.

"Sir, I'm a major in the US Army; I don't know and don't care what the contents of the Miranda warning are. We have a lot of Marines, and I doubt if any of them know what they are either.

"These men will be taken prisoner. They will be escorted to a military stockade where they will be heavily guarded. They will be extensively interrogated. While I have no idea what means of interrogation will be used, I think it's safe to say after gunning down hundreds of Americans today the interrogation will be -- unpleasant.

"Then we will take them to a detention camp where they will sit out the rest of the war -- however long that takes."

"We'd do better stringing them from the lampposts -- warn others what they'll find if they come here."

"Someone is planning these operations. Someone is supply the training, the equipment and funding these operations. We were lucky this time -- we had some warning, even if it wasn't much. A few weeks ago some members of this same group blew up a hospital in Miami. Today another group is here. Nearly all of that first group were killed last time -- and that didn't stop them. Interrogations of the survivors got us here. Which makes more sense to you? Doing this again in a few weeks, with no warning because we killed them all and not getting questions answered? Or getting a better grip on things and maybe stopping the next attack dead in tracks?"

"If anyone wants to do this again," another man said, "I invite you to look at the fallen in this room; there are even more in the street outside. There are lots more outside. Dozens. I, for one, am going back home to the wife and grandkids."

With that the man walked out the door. There were a few token grumbles and more than one angry fist-shaking but they left.

Colonel Fremont saluted Sherrie. "Well said, Major!"

"It was the simple truth."

"Sometimes simple truths are the hardest to understand." He turned to the captain. "DeRoyo, have the first two come up."

The two men were gang-bangers, their hands held high over their heads. "Now what?" said the leader.

"Now you're prisoners," Sherrie told him. "After this you well be a lot better treated than you treated the people you met on the way here today."

"One thing. I know you aren't going to believe me, but it's the truth. My crew boss told me that volunteering for this would mean I'd earn good money, I'd have all the women I want, and I'd get to stick it to Norte Americanos. I grew up hating you, you understand? You were rich, you were arrogant and we were poor.

"My boss lied. We were taken to a place far away. It was like a prison camp. If any ran, they were hunted down and killed in front of us. Anyone who mouthed off to the foreigners was killed.

"They gave us military training. When we finished with that we were brought here to Los Angeles. They were even more strict here than they'd been in whatever country we were in. Desert, mostly.

"If anyone tried to run, not only were they killed, but they killed the men in your 'stack' -- the men you stacked your weapons with. We continued to train hard; we stood frequent guard duty. We had weapons, but no ammo. We had knives we were supposed to use on any who tried to get past us.

"This morning they gathered us up and told us this was the big day. We marched into some fuckin' tunnel, then out. We were told to shoot anyone not wearing one of those fucking targets on our heads. If the foreigners thought you were shirking, they shot you out of hand. About a third of us, then were foreigners.

"I am a hard man; I've done hard things. I've killed before. But not women and children. They made us kill everyone. Then we were in the train and some men thought it was grand -- we were killing gringos in their homeland. Most of us realized that those foreigners didn't care who we killed.

"When we reached this station we came up and they foreigners led us on our attacks. They had learned, they told us, that men follow best when led from the front -- so most of them were in the front ranks. Of course, they had some bringing up the rear to shoot anyone they thought wasn't with the program.

"Each step from that station, it seemed more bullets were coming our way. One minute we were going forward thinking we'd be okay; then the foreigners started to die in great numbers. Another minute and most of the ones in front were down."

He spat on the floor. "The ones in the back, we found, had already run. So we ran as well. There were only a few of them left when we stood in the station. We knew soldiers were coming along the tracks in both directions. We were dead; we knew it. One of them insisted we die for the 'prophet.' We killed him. A couple more tried to convince us as well, and we killed them too."

"I have one demand from my brothers, and then we will capitulate."

"You are in no position to make demands."

"I am Catholic; we want to confess to priests before you kill us."

"We aren't going to kill you. You aren't going to have a happy captivity, it's true. But survival will be up to you. We can arrange for your confessions -- first to a priest and then to us."

"So be it." He turned his back on her and walked to the stairway.

"Hermanos! Lay down your weapons, hold your hands high and come up!"

Sherrie was startled. Only about forty men emerged, and a good many of them were wounded. The medics went to work, and the rest were chivvied outside to waiting helicopters where they were whisked to Camp Pendleton.

The Marines, with the Rangers and National Guard troops moved into the station area. There were no survivors. At least, Sherrie consoled herself; there weren't very many civilians dead in the station area.

She stood with Colonel Fremont as his people saw to the dead; already some were being removed.

Sherrie sighed. "I know no one will like this, but the dead of both sides are going to have to go into military custody. We need to run DNA tests on everyone."

"The civil libertarians will scream," he warned.

"I'm not sure how many people will be listening after this. Make the tests quick, get the results back and analyzed as fast as possible so we can turn the civilians back to their loved ones. The others -- I want them studied seven ways from Sunday. I want to know their names, their origins. I want to know everything we can learn about them."

"You don't think that fellow was shining us on about this being involuntary?"

"It's happened throughout history, Colonel. This wouldn't have been the first time and I imagine that there are others in the pipeline. We need to find out where that pipeline starts, where it runs and how it works."

"Affirm that!" he said with heat.

Colonel Morrison, his son and a half dozen men, all heavily armed appeared. All were in BDUs.

Colonel Morrison saluted. "Major Richardson, some people want to talk to you if you can spare the time. Your court magician is back in the chopper, working his magic."

"I can handle this, Major," Colonel Fremont told her.

Colonel Morrison smiled. "Just in case, I'll leave Sergeant Major Morrison with you to provide guidance in case you have questions. The procedures are still being worked on, but you're going to have a relatively free hand, at least for the time being."

A hundred yards away, a single shot rang out. The officers dove for the deck, while the thunder of a great many rounds going the other way sounded.

A sergeant major appeared. "Colonel, there was a survivor. They say he had a pretty bad gash on his head. Evidently when he came to, he decided to take an infidel with him. Evidently he was disoriented. He 'killed' a department store dummy. He's sipping nectar in heaven with his virgins now." The sergeant major laughed grimly. "That or in that other place, dancing like a flea on a hot griddle."

Sherrie went with Colonel Morrison to his chopper. She was a little surprised to see Weaver was inside. He grinned at her. "I have a little surprise for you. First, someone wants to talk to you."

A second later she was face-to-face with President of the United States, even if it was on the small screen. "Sir," she said, feeling helpless.

"At this moment the Congress of the United States is meeting in emergency session to redo the posse comitatus rules. When our enemies come to our shores to attack our citizens, we need to bring all possible force to bear."

"Yes, sir," she said weakly.

"You have, Major, pointed out a problem we've had for some time now. On 9/11 the Air Force dispatched jets to shoot down possible hijacked airliners. Not even the civil libertarians complained."

"Yes, sir," Sherrie told him, overwhelmed.

"Now I want you to continue with mission you've been assigned. I have complete confidence in you, Major, and have expressed that to all commands in the military, plus the governors of all the states and the mayors of our major cities. Get it done!"

"Yes, sir!" She saluted him and he did a credible job of returning it.

"Lets saddle up!" Colonel Morrison said loudly. Sherrie joined the line of soldiers boarding the chopper. She was unprepared when they lift off to have Colonel Morrison gesture at Weaver.

"Mr. Gold, if you would please brief Major Richardson in."

Sherrie turned to Weaver, who grinned at her. "NSA and some others have a present for you Sherrie. You did outstanding talking to Coretta -- she talked too much. We tracked her signal.

"She's outside of Indio, California. It's a home on ten acres in a subdivision northwest of the town. Right now nearly every satellite in the inventory is maneuvering to observe it nearly continuously."

"You found her?"

"Well, actually, you kept pissing her off. I'm pretty sure she was on the radio a lot longer than she intended -- moreover, she was talking to you and so we could isolate the signal. Once upon a time tracking a signal took a couple of minutes. Now it takes a couple of seconds."

"And we're going there?"

"Yes. Colonel Morrison will explain what happens next."

The colonel was succinct. "We'll be landing a couple of miles away; we will drive in a Toyota Camry to a house not far from where we'll land. They have a link to a house close to the one Coretta's in. We have cameras -- some extraordinary cameras -- that can see every pore on someone's face.

"No one who leaves that house will be allowed to escape. There are a half dozen Apaches orbiting a dozen miles away, in an area where they are known to orbit. There are B-2 bombers in the area as well. Once we give them the word, they will reduce that house to atoms."

Sherrie cleared her throat, trying to think rationally.

"We can't do that, sir," she said levelly.

"And why not?"

"Sir, for a century there have been claimants to the Romanoff throne in Russia. I certainly understand the desire of the communists to destroy the royal family, but they should have put the bodies on exhibition. That they weren't has left opportunity for opportunists. I'm all in favor of bombing that house flat, Colonel, but we have to do it such a way that DNA can survive. Sir, Coretta, and evidently that's who she still is, is uncommonly efficient at avoiding being seen."

"The character in the book was the 'Scarlet Pimpernel' not the 'Scarlet Pumpernickel.'"

"Sir, I repeat. Coretta has been highly efficient at remaining hidden. While I certainly hope we have her located, unless we find her DNA we will never know. Blow that building to atoms and that's what we'll have: nothing."

He pursed his lips. After a second he spat out the word, "Crap!" He looked at Sherrie. "I wanted to see not one stone left on another. I wanted to make sure. But, my way we couldn't be sure, could we?"

"No, sir, I don't believe we could."

"Fuck! I don't imagine I want her dead quite as bad as you or Weaver -- but I want her dead and I want to be sure. We'll do it less drastically. Those Apaches can deliver a couple of Hellfire missiles. Those are 'Afghan Specials' -- they leave a hell of a hole, but that's mostly blast damage. The CIA wants body parts to identify."

"I think that's what we have to do, sir," Sherrie told him. She turned to Weaver. "Gimu? Kimi?"

Weaver grinned. "Colonel Morrison wanted this to be a military operation. Kimi was unhappy, but Gimu..." he coughed. "I'm sorry, Sherrie."

"Sorry about what, Weaver?"

"She's with Monica and Leilei. They are celebrating the completion of their task. Sherrie, Gimu is doing more than smooching."

"She's happy, right?"

"Yes, she is. Sherrie -- Giri's death. I think it hurt Gimu more than it hurt me. Giri was like a fever dream to me -- she was nicer than I'd ever imagined a person could be. In bed and out. I know she's dead, but I still expect to see her come in my bedroom and leap on my body. She was like that."

"I'm sorry, Weaver."

"We were happy, Sherrie. We fit. Kimi is nice, but we aren't that good of a fit."

"And this?"

"This is Gold," he said after a second, grinning. "That's the good news. The bad news is our ETA is a little more than an hour. Lay back and get some rest."

Sherrie laughed. "Can't, sorry."

"Pardon?"

"I took some shrapnel out there on the roof. Most of the time it's just a nuisance. Leaning back would make that a pain."

The next thing, Sherrie found herself leaning forward, her shirt hiked up a few inches. She adamantly refused to take it off.

The medic grunted. "Whoever did this, Major, knew what they were doing."

"She's an MD."

"What I said," the medic said.

He turned to Colonel Morrison. "Major Richardson is experiencing some discomfort, sir. But she is in no way impaired."

"That you, Captain." Colonel Morrison looked at Sherrie. "Take a nap, Major!"

Sherrie laughed. "Good luck waking me up!" Still, she put her chin down on her chest and willed everything away.

Weaver touched her shoulder and she came instantly awake. "We're landing," he told her.

"Thanks, Weaver." She grinned at him. "Have I told you lately that you are the best cousin I've ever had?"

"You let me see you undressed. You bet, cuz!"

A car met them and took four of them about two hundred yards to a non-descript stucco house, like so many in southern California.

There were ushered into a well-lit room, with a half dozen people sitting a electronic consoles. A captain appeared. "Colonel Morrison; I'm told to take guidance from you on targeting."

"And I take my guidance from Major Richardson," the colonel told him. "What have you got?"

"We have everything on the trips, sir. They targets are putting together a three-SUV convoy. They've been loading crates into them; there is no indication of what's in the crates."

"And that's it?"

"Yes, sir. Imagery says they should be ready to go any time."

"I want the best pictures conceivable of anyone boarding one of those vehicles."

"Only one so far, sir. A woman." An image flashed on the screen.

Sherrie spoke softly. "Well, hello Coretta. You're right. No face change, no sex change."

"That's the target?" the captain asked.

"That's the target. You're sure that's the women who entered the vehicle? There is no possibility she slipped away?"

"Sir, we've have eyes on that vehicle ever since. We can't make out her face, Major, but that person is still inside."

"Destroy it with the minimum force needed to assure the destruction of the vehicle and kill the target. Destroy the other vehicles and the building in the same fashion."

"We have a number of UAVs on station, Major. While that will tax our capabilities, it's still within our limits."

"Execute the order," Sherrie told him. "You understand that I want DNA evidence from the woman in the vehicle?"

"Yes, sir. We'll hit a little short. Shrapnel will slice it open like a sardine tin. Typically, there's not even any fire."

"Execute, damn it!"

He looked at her without expression. "I've already passed the order, sir. About another minute."

The SUV vanished in a black blot of an explosion. The camera pulled back; the other vehicles and the house were clouds of churning black smoke.

"Hit it now with troops!" Colonel Morrison commanded.

The captain looked offended. "There were ordered in with the initial 'go' order, Colonel."

Colonel Morrison was angry. "I have no idea if you'll ever advance beyond captain, Captain. But one thing you will want to make sure of: your superiors don't want to hear about the orders you've given after the fact -- not unless there was no possible way to avoid not letting them know."

"Sorry, sir. This is just SOP."

"And not everyone is familiar with your SOP," Sherrie told him, "and not everyone follows SOP."

Weaver spoke up. "That was definitely Coretta that got in the car. That car was definitely destroyed. The house and other vehicles were destroyed and some heavy hitters are taking the situation in hand," he related.

"That said, with all due respect, Colonel, Major, Captain -- I will not be satisfied until we get DNA confirmation. That's one tricky bitch."

"Amen," Sherrie breathed.

Still, it felt like a million tons had been lifted from her shoulders.

She turned to Weaver. "I don't suppose you have a secure cell phone I could use?"

She dialed the number from memory; the digits burned in like none before.

"Phyllis, Sherrie Richardson."

"You're okay?"

"Yes. Are we still on for Friday evening?"

"I'd like that very much. I've been on duty for two days now; you've given us a lot of extra things to do..."

"Was it bad?" Sherrie asked, concerned.

"Not bad, but not good. We had time to get the patients to safer locations. On the other hand, the people outside weren't safe. We have a lot of extra work to do. I'll be busy tomorrow, but my boss says I can go home Friday morning. A few hours sleep and the intern's legendary ability to get by with short sleep hours will kick in. I'll be fine, Friday evening."

"I was thinking about taking you home. Still, that wouldn't be a good idea. I'll find a nice place."

"There a sea food place I like along the beach in Marina del Rey; I'd like to go there if you have nothing else in mind."

"It's a date, then," Sherrie told her.

"It's a date."

The expression on Weaver's face was priceless.

"A date?"

"Surely you've been on dates?"

"Me? Yes? You? Not that I remember."

"Gimu, you told me is otherwise occupied."

"Surely you're not dumping her?"

"Weaver, there was nothing there ever to dump."

"What's he like?"

"He's a she, and intern at the hospital. Like every other clown in hospitals, she made me undress."

He laughed. "Cousin Sherrie, I tell you true. If I can't figure you out, Coretta would never have been able to. Congratulations."

"If there is anything to congratulate me about, you're welcome."

"You don't think we killed her?"

"I have no idea."

There was a chime on his computer and he turned to it. A moment later he was back.

"You can, if you're looking for certain genetic markers, make a quick test. Sherrie; Coretta's DNA was in that car."

She smiled at him. "In that case, I'm planning on a long, long weekend."

Weaver laughed. "Sherrie; it's Thanksgiving. I'd say there's more reason than usual to give thanks ... did I mention it's a four day weekend?"

Colonel Morrison spoke up. "If you're asking for few days leave, Major, I'm sure I can arrange it."

She laughed. "Time off? It's been a long time since I had some time off. I'll be back Monday morning and we can work on the after action report."

"Do you think we can leave the clean-up in the hands of the Rangers, National Guard and Marines?"

"In the capable hands of those worthies, as a matter of fact I'm sure they can deal with it."


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The End
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Posted:  2010-03-14
Last Modified: 2010-08-29 / 08:44:04 pm
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