Jinny rolled over on her back, opened her chocolate brown eyes, and scratched her tummy. She wasn’t panting, but the dog-tags felt cold against her chest. She tongued her dry lips, stretched, and muzzled a raspy bark: “What time is it?” No answer. She was the only soldier awake in the barracks and liked it that way. Her wake-up routine included slipping slender fingers under the mattress to feel for her CAC—common access card— phone, and scriptures. Safe and sound. Freshly laundered clothing and towels lay neatly stacked by her bunk.
A kinky Venetian blind high overhead intermittently clattered against a window in need of re-glazing. Outside the cinder-block wall, a stiff breeze nagged, and stringed chimes continued practicing arpeggios. “Tinkle, tinkle little tubes, are you as cold as both my boobs?” Jinny rubbed, blew into her hands, and cupped them over her breasts—which of course were covered with a white tee-shirt. No one had ever accused her of immodesty. Never. She smiled as the memory of Bing Crosby and Bob Hope took center stage. But being clad in a native skirt, wearing a split-coconut bra, and dancing the hula weren’t on today’s duty-roster. Nevertheless, like those movie stars of yesteryear, Jinny the was “On the Road” to the end of the road.
The curly head in the top bunk came to life and demanded , “If you insist on talking to yourself, discuss something besides your boobs.” A bugler sounded reveille. “That’s not what I had in mind.”
After showering and donning her duds, Jinny piqued like a ballerina, tugged on the drawstring above her bed, and raised the Venetian blind so she could peer through the window. Her breath fogged the pane, which squeaked each time she rubbed it clean. “Snow, snow, and more snow.” Stippled like a Christmas card, Ft. Sill’s 93,000 acres shivered beneath the colorless camouflage and bore silent witness to a relentless invasion of millions of crystalline paratroopers. Teased by the wind, down they swirled, effectively protracting the skirmish between inclement weather and the intrepid soldiers, hunkered down and preparing for battle. “Jinny girl, are you sure this is Oklahoma?”
Hidden to the east and far behind the storm, silhouetted hills awoke to dawn’s first refracted rays and splashed wayward clouds with water-colored gold, then amber-orange, and finally—for one brief, shining moment—a burst of brilliant red. God had said, “Good Morning.” On her knees, her eyes closed, Jinny said, “Amen.”
Thirty minutes later, mugs drained, forks clacked, plates emptied, and bellies filled as hungry soldiers gulped, gobbled, and gabbed while time simply evaporated. The officer of the day sat alone at his corner table relaxing, sipping hot cocoa, and reading the newspaper. Randy Staley–slim, trim, and topping-out at six-feet six inches–had been gifted with a brown skin tightly stretched over his shiny pate. His head roughly resembled a sausage with its chin curved forward–hence the nickname, Savannah Sausage. Bravo Company labeled everything and everybody, but Jinny was circumspect about which labels she allowed herself to repeat out loud.
“Jinny, the lieutenant wants you over at his table, pronto. Uh, uh, don’t look at him. Just back out of where you’re stalled and canter over there nice and easy like.”
“Very funny.”
“No, really, Jinny. Go.”
“O-o-o-o-kay, thanks, but this better be for real.” Jinny decommissioned her fork, pursed her lips, wiped her mouth, and climbed from the bench. “Don’t eat my apple.” Nodding, her companions huddled, nuzzled, and whinnied quietly as she made her way to the lieutenant’s paddock.
“You wanted to see me, Sir?” To be true to the present metaphor, she pawed the floor nervously.
Lieutenant Staley glanced up from reading the ARMYTIMES, stopped sipping, and swallowed hard. Captivated by the shapely brunette’s large, chocolate brown eyes, high cheekbones, thin lips, and gracefully sloping nose, his mouth fell open. “Huh? Come again, Corporal?”
“I was told you wanted to see me, Sir.”
“No. Well, yes. I mean, no.” Jinny’s beguiling smile momentarily left Staley speechless. Finally he stammered, “Someone’s pulling your leg, Corporal. Dismissed.”
“Yes, Sir. Excuse me, Sir.” Jinny’s eyes narrowed, she briskly executed an about-face and stared daggers. Her squad grinned like children posing for a snapshot at a birthday party after pinning a tail on the donkey. YOU. She holstered her hands in her pockets, scrunched her nose, clenched her bared pearly-whites and chomped at the bit, ready to rear up, gallop back, and scatter the herd. End of Metaphor?
“Hold your horses, Corporal.” The lieutenant eyeballed Jinny’ comely figure from behind. Warily, she rotated like an oven timer’s minute hand—ten-twenty-thirty-clicks, all without dinging.
“Lieutenant, I’m done here, Sir.”
“You’re done when I say you’re done, O’Dwyer. What’s your locker number?
“13, Sir.”
“Okay, number 13 SIR, today’s your lucky day. In thirty minutes you call cadence on our jog to the range. Talk tough. Talk loud. Got it?”
“Yes, Sir.” Jinny forgot to salute, lost her appetite, and forgot her apple; her shoes squawked at the worn linoleum as she raced out of the mess hall. The Lieutenant’s bewitched heart wasn’t far behind. It raced as if the morning jog had already begun.
Plowed clean, Wabash Road absorbed the pounding of one hundred and sixty boots as Bravo Company jogged along the ridge above the whited gunnery range. In measured cadences Jinny chanted the lyrical lingo. The company shouted it back. “Re-re-repeat after me—
Hey! Hey! Hey! Wha-da-ya say?
Gotta run, run, run–all night all day.
If I was voted in as President
I’d sell the White House and buy a tent.
Hey! Hey! Hey! Wha-da-ya say? Gotta march, march, march—all night all day. If I was promoted to the General’s chair I’d buy a pipe and grow some hair.”
Snow continued to fall, but Jinny stayed on her feet. The frigid air made her as hoarse as a cheerleader at the end of the third quarter, but she wasn’t winded. As her eyes took in the bleak landscape below the descending road, Jinny’s imagination overlaid it with translucent tissue paper etched with images of home. Instead of the range, she saw the Eisenhower Park Fairgrounds just west of Mud Creek in Abilene, which included: The band-shell, the rodeo arena, the race track, the skeletal, white-washed remains of concession booths, the observation tower, the pentagon-shaped boweries, and the stickered kiosk—all settled down for a long winter’s nap. Some greeting card.
“Company, halt.” Bravo Company came to a stop and stood at ill-at-ease. A keyless Schlage padlock, numbed by the cold, secured the entrance to the range–no custodian; no Captain Klopfer; no armorer; no trespassing. . “What now, Lieutenant Staley? Its bitter cold out here.”
“Okay everybody, listen up. Yes, the captain is late again–maybe because he’s three weeks from mustering out. And yes, it is colder here than inside a Kelvinator refrigerator, but you can still breathe. Don’t waste this opportunity to learn something that may save your life somewhere down range of this place. There are lessons to be learned here, even from bad examples. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, ‘yeah, I can learn how to be a bad example. Ha. Ha.’” Nobody laughed. “But if nothing else, you should learn how one person’s tardiness affects company morale. Right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And long before you are pinned down in enemy territory, you gotta learn patience. Right?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“RIGHT?”
“YES, SIR.”
“In this man’s army, leap-before-you-lookers lose. Watch where you’re going–even when you’re standing still. Control your thoughts and emotions. Focus. Train your minds to think ahead, to follow orders. Stay positive. Remember, idle thoughts fill cemetery plots. Don’t let that be your epitaph. Practice visualizing what you’ll do when something unexpected happens. And it will. Am I right?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Am I right?”
“YES SIR.”
“Your job is to learn to make better choices today than you did yesterday. Learn from your mistakes. Think, men . . . and women. Deal with every exigency as best you can. An exigency is an urgent demand. Don’t waste time thinking about how bad things are. You can’t buy good luck. You are patriots. You are warriors. You are brothers and sisters. Look after one other. People depend on you. Again, stay focused. Now fall out and line up by twos. The captain should be here presently.”
Like an icycle twenty minutes dripped, froze, cracked, fell, and stabbed before the clunk of a pinging engine heralded his arrival. The jeep stopped. The engine knocked erratically, and Captain Klopfer answered. “Okay Bozos, we’re here. Bail Out.” Two agitated aids—one the armorer, and the other, Corporal Myrna Clugg—jumped from the jeep but didn’t snap to attention. “At ease everybody,” said the leather-necked Captain. He oozed from behind the steering wheel like sludge oozes from a cold oil pan. “Clugg, why don’t you toss your wind-slicker on the windshield to keep off the snow till the end of our shift. Copy?” Shivering, she complied with the order. Klopfer had one overriding concern: Klopfer. He wanted everyone to know he was in charge for three more weeks—especially Bravo Company’s officer of the day, Lieutenant Staley.
“Ta, ta, ladies. I hope we didn’t keep you waiting. By now you should know the range clock runs on time—Klopfer time—my time,” he said, poking his chest with both thumbs. “Think of me as your practiced prodder.” He strode to the gate, dropped to one knee, and rammed a strip of steel into the key-way—well, halfway into the key-way. No fewer than six keys and several hundred shivers later the lock dropped open. The gate swung wide.
The captain pranced forward like Rudolph, but his nose was purple, not red. He rolled his shoulders back and forth like an over-weight fashion model strutting the runway at a show-off, but he had nothing else in common with the anorexic set. Oops! Wheels up and airborne, his engine cut out; he lost altitude—all of it—and landed flat on his back in the snow. Eighty soldiers, including Jinny, seized up. Some bit their tongues; most lost their composure. Feet stomped, arms waved, thighs were slapped, torsos rocked, tears flowed, and jowls guffawed—the best stress relief they’d had in three weeks. Even Lieutenant Staley couldn’t hold it back.
Jinny whispered, “I see what you mean, Sir.”
“Mean about what?”
“I see what you mean by ‘getting something good out of being patient.
Neither Clugg nor the armorer dared smile—on the outside. Klopfer fumed, clawed at the ice, regained his feet, and gnashed his teeth on Corporal Clugg. She hesitated, then said, “Oh, I agree, Sir, it wasn’t that funny.”
Klopfer twisted like a dishrag toward those who had enjoyed his calisthenic performance. “You-u-u-u-u.” He flipped a vulgar sign with his fisted hand, swung around, spread his arms like a tight-rope walker, and—trailed by his mealy-mouthed corporal and armorer—gingerly sidled down the slippery slope toward the base of the observation tower, forty-feet away and fifty feet tall. For a few minutes the old Captain felt small–smaller than a poodle’s puddle. At the base of the stairs, he snowplowed to a stop and punched a lighted button wired to a plastic box mounted waist-high. A stilted recording of his own voice sounded loudly over the public-address system. He loved to hear himself talk.
“Attention all incoming personnel. On my signal, march single file to the backside of the armory. The corrugated steel eve bottoms out at six feet overhead. If you are taller than five-foot eleven, duck. Listen carefully to these instructions: Belly up to but do not lean on the counter; hold up four fingers and a thumb. The armorer will distribute ear plugs—drop one finger. Next, he will distribute safety glasses—drop a second finger. Get the drill? When you receive a carbine, drop a third finger. Finally, you’ll be given a loaded magazine; now only your thumb should be extended. If you are missing any of your digits how did you get into the infantry? Everybody enlists with ten fingers because the United States Army is fully digitized. Get it? Otherwise, when the chips are down who can count on you? Now do you get it?”
Jinny groaned. The recording droned: “At the whistle, gear up and report to the platform. Find the numbered station that matches your range-tag, stand at ease, and await further instructions from the tower. Do not arm your weapons. I repeat, do not arm your weapons. Await further instructions from the tower. You may now proceed single file to the counter.
A whistle blew loudly, the recording fell silent, and the surly captain and his caboose commenced chugging up the snowy stairs like a 4-4-2 locomotive traversing Berthoud Pass in a blizzard. The faded green and white striped canopy covering the tower, like Klopfer and Clugg, showed serious signs of deterioration–all sagged in the middle.
Jinny lined up near the armorer’s counter and waited her turn. Once issued safety glasses, hearing protectors, a rifle, and a magazine, she went looking for her numbered station. Finding it was no easy task. The deck was covered with snow up to her ankles. After five minutes of foot-sweeping, she found, stood at ease on her number, and looked down. “Dipplewanger! Thirteen again. This must be my lucky day.”
Uninvited goosebumps partied on the back of Jinny’s neck, while overhead a cacophony of gulls, silently slapped at the dewy sky and flew non-stop toward Lake Lawtonka, . Jinny tracked their decent until a bass voice on her right flank expelled and ignited a breath of lethal gas– profanity’s blue flame– and singed Jinny’s soul.
“I know, I know. Sorry O’Dwyer, but I thought hell was supposed to be hot, not froze over. Can you still feel your toes?”
“Yes Lenny, but like you I’m as anxious as a fox in a freezer full of chickens.” Even the warmed-over exchange made Jinny shiver. As soon as Sergeant Klopfer and his corporal topped the stairs and disappeared beneath the canopy, another shuddering soldier cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled, “Yo—Captain Bligh—we’re freezing to death down here. If you don’t get your butt in gear, mutiny on the bounty will swing broadside and begin firing on your position in two minutes. TWO MINUTES.”
Lieutenant Staley snapped to attention and summoned up a stiff reprimand, but he was upstaged by a Tap, tap, tap on the tower microphone. It was Corporal Clugg. “Captain . . . Sir, sorry to bother you but is this microphone alive?”
Stomp-stomp-stomp-stomp. “Give me that dohickie, dumkopf.” Klopfer wrested the microphone from his assistant’s grasp, pushed from beneath the canopy, and stepped to the rail. “Attention soldiers on the line. Assume the prone firing position and wait for further orders. Period.” Pause. “You—number eleven on the line—why are you still standing there sucking your thumb? Dump your G.I.s on the mat—NOW.”
The befuddled recruit sat his fanny down in the snow, toppled backward like a freshly cut sapling, and splashed slush. Unable to manage his misery, he stiffened as if ready to be wrapped in discouragement, fitted for a sarcophagus, and mummified, all for please his master. But before the recruit and his rifle could roll over, Pharaoh Klopfer barked again. “HEY, you. Yes you, you rawboned roustabout—I ordered you to roll over on your stomach.” Klopfer’s nostrils flared; he leaned precariously forward so as to rest his pot belly on the rail, which forced a turbid stream of sanctimony from his mouth, followed by, “Yes, like that. Good dog.” Klopfer unhitched his belly from the railing and stepped back. Sag. “Okay, let’s get this shoot done. Soldiers on the line listen up. Seat the magazine firmly in your weapon, smack the bolt-catch with your left hand, and prepare to fire . . . number twelve—yes, you again—have you got wax in your ears, hot dog? . . . No, no, don’t remove the muffs.” The soldier death-rolled onto his back like a listless alligator and sat up again. His reply–unintelligible to Jinny–made Klopfer bristle like a porcupine.
“What do you mean your magazine ‘don’t fit’? Then go get one that DO fit.” The soldier’s facial expression betrayed his distress. He rendered a feeble thumbs-up, but before he could stand, Jinny slid to his side and tapped the loaded magazine home.
“Private Lister, you have a new friend,” she whispered. She brushed snow from his shoulders, his back, then smiled and returned to her station. But Lister still had a problem. With a plea for more help halfway out of his mouth, he pointed at his weapon’s open chamber, squinted up at Klopfer, and shrugged.
Klopfer vised his head between his hands. “Just smack the bolt-catch, son . . . you say what? . . . No, it’s not stuck, man. It’s on the other side of the rifle in front of the hand-grip. THAT DOES IT. THREE—TWO–ONE,” he boomed. Enough. Number eleven on the line, listen up. Remove the magazine, retract the bolt, pick up the round, drop your stuff on the counter, and get off my range. Comprendo little man? OR SHOULD I ORDER MY CLUGG-COMBO TO SHINNY DOWN THE FLAGPOLE AND GIVE YOU A CHEESY HUG BEFORE YOU GO? “
Captain Klopfer’s eyes darted back and forth twice before he yelled again. “Numbers fifteen and sixteen on the line—YES, YOU! Who in the blinkity-blank-blank gave you permission to speak? Mind your own blinkity-blank-blank business.” Jinny shuddered and defensively bunched her shoulders in an attempt to cover her ears, but profanity fell like saliva mixed with acid rain, splashed her face, and marred her sensibilities. Before she could shake off her angst, she looked down-range. Her mouth and eyes opened wide.
Uncle Albert! What the . . .
A sheet-metal cutout, welded to an over-sized truck tire, came cartwheeling across the open range without leaving tracks. Albert wore purple and white-checkered tights, cotton-tipped half-moon shoes, and a court jester’s pointy, checkered cap. His painted image paused momentarily, and Albert teetered upside down as if suspended in a fish bowl. Jinny’s thumb fled to her mouth to keep her dismay from going public. “Now I’m having day-mares,” she wailed through her teeth.
Albert mechanically came to life, bared his gums, and clumsily moved his lips. Jinny got the message. Don’t- get- caught- holding- the- bag. Then he vanished.
“Do we have a problem here, Corporal O’Dwyer?”
“Yes, I mean no, Lieutenant Staley. I was just thinking out loud.” Then, as if cued by someone reading the script, Corporal Clugg countered:
“Uhh, Captain K, we’ve got a problem..” Klopfer froze; his brows peaked; his forehead furrowed like ice cracking on a reservoir full of stupidity. Sensing a draft, he patted his posterior as would a woman applying makeup without a mirror. He gasped, Holy Crap, I’ve got a rip i my trousers. His colorful Batman underwear filled the void, and his leathery complexion shaded red as the pressure mounted. He turned around and there stood Corporal Clugg, half-covering her eyes.
“Sir, it’s not as bad as you may think, Sir. Try to control . . . “
Klopfer disappeared beneath the canopy, lost control, beheaded the microphone with the back of his hand, and watched in slow motion as it completed a one-and-a-half gainer before hitting the floor. Threatcon three. The amplified concussion imitated the blast of a .44 magnum, prompting four boys from Buffalo to bounce to their feet and hightail it toward the gate. At the same instant a few soldiers—including Jinny—propped to one knee and defensively aimed their rifles at the tower; others scampered behind anything they could find. The armorer locked his Dutch-door and ducked behind the unshuttered counter.
Unruffled, Lieutenant Staley stood in place. “Hold your fire, men.”
Men? Jinny grimaced.
Staley drew and brandished his sidearm at the men loping toward the gate. “The four of you get back here. Ten, nine, eight . . .” Four rattled soldiers put on the brakes, executed an about face, and with wary eyes on the tower returned to their positions on the mats. Staley approached each man, one at a time, and held up an index finger. “That’s once. That’s once. That’s once. That’s once.” He turned, cupped his hands toward the tower, and yelled: “You in the tower, who fired the gun? Lace your fingers behind your heads and step forward so we can see you.” Clugg intended to comply but shook so hard she couldn’t. Klopfer had bent to retrieve the battered microphone, and r-r-r-r-i-p–his pant-seams parted like the waters of the Red Sea.
“OH, MY. . . LAND!”
Klopfer smacked his head against the underside of a table and down he went. Clugg submissively laced her fingers behind her head, hustled to the rail, and cried, “I surrender, by my Captain is suffering from over-exposure, and he’s hurt.”
“Harrison, take a medic, get up there and find out what’s going on.”
Jinny tracked the soldiers’ rapid ascent. Rifles locked and loaded, they skipped every other step and, reaching the landing, they eased beneath the canopy and found Klopfer pushing up to his knees.
“Hands up. Don’t move. Who fired the shot?”
Klopfer, who had hatched a goose-egg, pushed his hands to his ears, bent forward, and rested his forehead on the floor, moaning and rocking back and forth, looking like a troubled soul pleading for clemency at the feet of the pope.
It took both Harrison and the medic to help the dizzy dullard to his feet. As he straightened up, Klopfer caught his breath, jerked free, grabbed at his back, looked at Harrison, and yowled, “Oh no, no, not you, too.”
The soldiers misunderstood and took offense. “What do you mean, ‘You two?’ Let’s go Harry.” Miffed, they let go of Klopfer’s outstretched wings and fluttered like fledglings down the steps to report.
Klopfer issued a mellow plea. “If you please, please.” Clugg assisted him to his feet so he could limp back to his cold, orange, plastic molded chair. He lay his head on the desk between his folded arms and said, “Look, Corporal, just do your job, okay? But here me now. if you ever leak what you just saw up here I’ll put you on report until every rat at this installation dies of natural causes . . . or until you do. Now stop staring at my underwear.”
Klopfer screamed, “COMMENCE FIRING.”
The soldier at station 13 fixed both chocolate brown eyes on the paper target. Even with the scope it looked like an RFD mailbox turned on end. Jinny made mental calculations, adjusted X and Y coordinates for wind, distance, elevation, and lined up the shot. She slowed her breathing and— pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop—emptied the magazine in seven seconds flat.
Another minute passed before the microphone squealed like a greased pig restrained by its tail at the Dickinson County Fair. “Sorry about that. ACHOO. Sniff, sniff. Unclear your weapons and collect your brass and return your stuff to the counter. Sank you.” Corporal Clugg had a cold–or she was crying.
After the announcement and unbeknownst to Klopfer, Clugg failed to disengage the microphone–that is, it was live. The Captain’s outlook on life had improved–he suctioned the binoculars to his eyes so he could oogle Jinny’s every move. By the time she had cleared the Colt M-4 for inspection, knee-bumped to her feet, bent over, collected the hollow brass, and returned her rifle to the armorer, Captain Klopfer had audibly squeezed a dozen filthy thoughts from between his lips. Drool ran down his chin, and everyone on the line below heard every word. “ Oogle, oogle, Miss McDugall; isn’t she just something? Clugg, come do your duty. I’m busy. ” Lustful pause. “Where did you go. sweetheart?”
“I’m standing right here, as ordered,” Clugg replied indignantly. The loud speaker grew lips. The listening audience grew even more attentive.
Klopfer looked up and growled, “Oh yes, of course, and then there’s you. Now hear this, NEVER say, ‘thank you,’ to the grunts, and NEVER apologize–it’s a sign of weakness. Now brush off your uniform, blow your nose, and go sit down. I’m busy. And oh, I almost forgot, order them to march downrange, collect, and sign their targets.”
Corporal Clugg narrowed her eyes, threw her arms in the air, doubled both fists, and slammed them down on the counter. “SO JUST WHO MADE YOU MY OLD LADY? YOU CAN GO TO HELENA IN A HAND-BASKET. DO IT YOURSELF, YOU LUSTFUL LETCH. I’ve got to take care of business.” She blew her runny nose and simulated the cry of a discomfited cow moose during the rut.
Lieutenant Staley looked apologetically at Jinny and then barked, “Let’s go.” Seventy-nine soldiers—some grinning, some disgusted– hoofed it down-range to collect paper. Jinny slogged silently through the snow and glanced left, then to her right. The line was straight enough to create the illusion of a company linked arm in arm—one unbroken chain of command. Exhausted puffs of steam assured her that all had achieved ignition—all but one. All were plugged into duty and pistons were firing, except for one sorry soldier–Private Lister. What lesson shall I take away from this bleak morning madness? The question was both telling and worrisome.
The paper target grew larger and larger. Twenty yards to go. Jinny– unaware that another pair of eyes had drawn a bead on the back of her head–grabbed up, chewed, and spat a handful of tasteless snow, then brushed, checked, and snugged the Velcroed patches against her uniform. She already paraded more emblems than clung to her 4-H denim jacket hanging in a closet back home: Rank (cap and chest), the flag (upper right sleeve), unit ID (right sleeve), blood type (right sleeve), surname (right breast), USARMY (left breast), BRAVO (left sleeve). Soon a pewter insignia—its emblem a target centered within a wreath of laurel leaves and joined at the bottom by a knot hosting two rings, attached to a free-swinging bar—would designate her as a sharp-shooter.
A disagreeable slurp-slurp—someone siphoning cola from a twenty-four-ounce jumbo-sized cup—stalked Jinny from behind. Heavy footfalls telegraphed a red-alert to the small gaggle of goosebumps huddled on the back of her neck, but she stayed the course. Jinny seldom looked back. It made her homesick.
“How’d you do, Jinny?” It was Mugs Laughlin and Melbourne Keats, jocular members of her squad. Before she could reply, Melbourne’s eyebrows poked him in the forehead.
“Uh oh. You got company, Jin. Come on Mugs, let’s go.” The friends briskly stepped off twenty paces then turned back to watch the fireworks. “Why is the Colonel closing in on Jinny? Do you think she’s in trouble?”
“I dunno, but we better move on. See? He’s giving us the evil eye.”
“Well, give it back.”
“Don’t press your luck. Let’s go.”
“Yes, you two move on and tend to business,” commanded a booming voice. Jinny tensed as if someone had just stuck a piece of dry-ice down her neck; she reeled around and there he was. Big Foot. In the flesh. She stared first at the slushy size 14s, then pushed the button labeled, oh boy, and elevatored her eyes from the basement—one floor at a time. She stopped three floors above the mezzanine. Big Foot’s baby blues looked down from the seventh floor.
“Yikes. I mean, Colonel Robertson.” She snapped to attention. “Sir.” She saluted.
“At ease, Corporal.”
That might be easy for you to say. He was built like a Kansas City Chiefs corner-safety—minus the helmet—and tall enough to hook his chin over the goal-post crossbar. At least that was Jinny’s first take of the man. “I said, at ease. Hand me your target, soldier.”
“Yes, sir.” What have I done to deserve this?
He steadied the target between both hands and held it up to the morning light. “Uh, huh. That’s fair shooting. But how come there’s only one hole at dead center? You fired ten rounds. I count nine holes.”
Jinny replied, “Permission to speak, sir?”
“You just did, Corporal.”
“Yes, sir.”
Big Foot gave Jinny the once over—then the twice over—focused on her tags and pretended to see her name for the first time. “At ease, Corporal O’D-w-y-e-r. Yes, I asked you a direct question, so speak up, I don’t have all day.”
“First, sir, I need to explain that I pre-qualified out here last week. Second, I usually hit where I aim, Sir. With all due respect, my groupings were deliberate, Corporal, uh, I mean Colonel Robertson, Sir.”
“I only count nine holes, Corporal.”
“The tenth hole trailed the ninth through the center, Sir.”
“So, you fancy yourself a good shot?” No reply. “Was it luck?”
“No, Sir.”
Colonel Brendon Robertson bristled. “Tell me something, soldier. Where did you learn to shoot? And speak up.” He handed back the target and looked at his watch. “Don’t be impertinent, and don’t make me ask you twice.”
Talk about impertinent. “Uh, I guess growing up on a farm outside Abilene helped, Sir. When I wasn’t working or in school I did a little shooting—well, a lot, actually. I often hunted with my older brother, Conor. He joined the army, too, but for me shooting straight came naturally, I guess.” My knocking knees aren’t natural. I hope he doesn’t conclude there’s nobody home.
“You’re from Kansas, right?”
“Yes, sir. And my brother’s in training at Benning, hoping to qualify as a Ranger.”
“No, he flew out yesterday. He ‘pre-qualified,’ as you put it. You’d of had a hard time waving goodbye seeing as you’re a thousand miles short of Cusseta, Georgia. Am I right soldier?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell me this, Corporal O’Dwyer,” Colonel Robertson continued, “Why in the hell do I have two FBI agents smelling up my office and wasting my time?”
GULP.
Follow me.