Novus Schola

By Charles Hampton

For good and evil, science advances at a dizzying pace. David Lee Hunter, a young marine combat correspondent, must find and destroy a hidden conspiracy that uses new technology to control the minds of powerful government officials. If he fails, America's freedom will be lost forever.

 

Senior FBI agents fear their leaders already have been converted. So, they turn to someone outside the bureau for help. They approach David Lee Hunter, a newly discharged marine combat correspondent who works for the Washington Investigative News Daily (the WIND). He agrees to help.

During his investigation, David meets and falls in love with computer researcher Angela Bel Geddes, the "smartest, most beautiful woman on planet Earth." His main problem? Live long enough to marry her.

The WIND takes off like a powerful locomotive but quickly becomes a high-speed bullet train. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mystery Mansion Books
• Release date: May 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223544302

Book preview

NOVUS SCHOLA

Charles Hampton

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Mystery Mansion Books

About the Author—

Born in Arkansas and raised in New Orleans, Charles Hampton wrote his first story at age nine about Thor and his mighty hammer. Since then, he has published several million non-fiction words, including news and sports stories, several hundred trade-magazine article and many gee-whiz science articles.

During his career, he has been musician, sailor, oil-field roughneck, newspaper reporter, aerospace public relations representative, and advertising executive. In January 2013, he retired after serving for 15 years as editor and principal photojournalist for a successful business trade magazine. Daniel Don’t Die! was his first published novel. To date, he has produced three other works: Wind Storm, a near-future science-fiction thriller, How to Murder a Ghost, a paranormal science-fiction thriller, and his non-fiction book for writers, Writing Great Stories. He has three other new books in the works, so watch for them.

Charles Hampton, whose full name is Charles Hampton Bush, says, "As a home-based, self-employed writer I have raised a family and put four kids through school. . .all by pecking on my computer. One complaint, though. The hard part about working at home all these years has been the terrible commute. . .from my bedroom office to the coffeepot!

When asked whether he’s related to President Bush’s family, he says, Nope. My earliest ancestor arrived in America as an indentured servant. My first name comes from the old English word ceorl", which means free man. I’ve tried hard to live up to that definition."

Visit Charles at his website: www.cbhampton.com.

Also by Charles Hampton —

Daniel Don't Die!

How to Murder a Ghost

Writing Great Stories

Copyright © 2023 Charles Hampton Bush

All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means— except for brief passages used for purposes of review in a newspaper, magazine, journal or online review service—without the prior written permission of the author.

Published by Mystery Mansion Books™

Brea, CA, USA

To all those who struggle to succeed and never quit!

I am sculptor

I am clay

What shall I

Make of myself today

Charles Hampton

one

THE DAY WAS DARK, MISERABLE and cold, even for January. It was still drizzling rain as Marine Lieutenant David Lee Hunter pulled into the carport assigned to his apartment. The dash clock said three PM. He had become a civilian three hours ago, and he hoped the horrible weather wasn’t a dark omen foretelling the rest of his new life.

David cut his old Chevy’s engine and looked back through the rear-view mirror. A crazy notion that an ominous black Cadillac with dark-tinted windows had followed him home still gnawed at his gut. It had pulled away from the curb as soon as he left Fort Meade. Then, almost casually, it followed him, slowing when he slowed and speeding up when he did. It was spooky and made no sense. If they were following him, they obviously weren’t trying to hide it.

Or maybe I’m being paranoid, he told himself. Why would anyone bother to follow him? He doubted anyone in the civilian world even knew he existed. He had spent most of the past twelve years in the marines, moving around the world from one assignment to another. The middle east three times, southeast Asia twice, the Fiji Islands, and Okinawa once, and now, two years teaching at the Fort Meade combat journalism school. Was his notion just imaginary or was it real?

He lifted a brown cardboard box sitting on the passenger seat beside him. It contained everything he had accumulated while teaching at Fort Meade. Pencils, rubber bands, paper clips, letter opener, flashlight and his now useless desk nameplate. Junk. Time to dump the junk and start a new life.

Suddenly, a flash of headlights from the street lit the interior of his old Chevy. He let go of the box and looked back. It was the Caddy. The big car rolled past like a slow-moving shark cruising for food. He sensed someone inside the vehicle peering toward him through the dark windows. He wasn’t being paranoid, after all. They had followed him.

Curious to know the reason, David shoved open his door and climbed out of the car. A blast of freezing air hit his face and crawled down his collar. He ran toward the street. The Caddy squealed away. With rain peppering him like icy gnats, he stopped at the curb and looked down the street. It was a dark void. No car. No tail lights. They must have turned into a driveway or a side street.

Puzzled, David stood on the curb, undecided about what to do, but then reality set in. He was getting soaked, and he was freezing. An early weather forecast had predicted temperatures would drop below thirty degrees by late evening. His trembling body told him it had arrived early. He hurried back to his car, grabbed the junk box, and ran to the apartment building’s front entrance. He elbowed his way through the door and hurried to mailbox 203, nestled among those of the other apartments. He peeked in. Three envelopes. Was one of them the answer to his job application at the Virginia Weekly News Herald?

Cold water dripped from his hair onto his neck. He shivered and hurried to a narrow stairway leading to the second floor. The mail could wait. He didn’t want to start his new life with a rotten cold.

Twenty minutes later, wearing dry clothes and feeling much better, he was sitting on the apartment’s peeling Naugahide sofa, holding a sizable shot of Johnny Walker Red. He lifted the drink and tossed it off in one quick gulp. Its fire burned like hot lava flowing down his gullet. He shook his head and growled one of a marine’s two most popular words. Shit!

He sat the glass on a small table next to the sofa and leaned back to think about the mysterious Cadillac. Why would anyone rich enough to own a Cadillac follow him? And, if they wanted to see him, why had they run when he approached them? It made no sense. All his friends were marines. In the civilian world, he was a nobody.

He ticked off the events of the last two days, looking for answers. Yesterday, he taught his last combat journalism class. His parting words to the eager marines facing him were, When you graduate from this school, you’ll be among the best-trained journalists in the world. But there’s one thing you should never forget. Bullets kill journalists, too. I have the scars to prove it. The line had brought an expected smattering of laughter and one marine had yelled, Hey, daddy, I wanna be just like you. That was yesterday.

Today, Saturday, he spent half the day visiting and saying goodbye to old friends. Three hours ago, he cleaned out his desk and ran a few errands. Now he was being tracked by someone in a black Cadillac. Why? And what next?

He laughed. There was no next. He didn’t know who they were or what they wanted. The next move was theirs.

For him, though, the next move was really simple. He had to find a job. He was no longer a respected instructor at the world’s finest journalism school. He no longer belonged to the greatest fighting force in the world. His lifelong goal of keeping his country safe had vanished. Three hours ago, he had become a nobody without friends or family. He was unemployed, and he belonged nowhere.

He looked toward the kitchen counter where he had piled ten rejections to applications at various newspapers around the area. So far, his efforts had not paid off, but he still had one application left unanswered. The answer might be in his mail slot. It was about time he got some good news. He rose and headed for the lobby. Why can’t eleven times, not three, be the charm? he thought.

In the lobby, he opened his mail slot and grabbed the three envelopes. One was a bill from the power company. One was junk mail from a used-car dealer. The third was what he had been waiting for, an answer from his last application.

Resisting the urge to rip open the envelope, he calmed himself. He would return to the apartment and open it over another shot of Johnny Walker Red. The swinging glass lobby entry doors clattered behind him, accompanied by a blast of cold air. He turned.

Mr. Hunter?

Two men in gray suits stood studying him. One was tall and lean, and the other was shorter and stocky. Both looked tough. but also frightened.

Yes. May I help you?

We’d like you to come with us, sir, the tall one said. He lifted his right hand. It held an old army forty-five automatic pointed at David’s gut.

David stuffed the mail back in the slot and locked the little door. He turned to face the two men. May I ask why? He kept his tone calm. Who are you?

We’re with the Glen Burnie police, sir. We have orders to take you in for questioning.

two

DAVID MOVED UNHURRIEDLY toward them. Something wasn’t right. They didn’t look like cops. They seemed nervous. And, cops didn’t pull their weapons without a reason. He stopped two feet from the man with the weapon. Do you have identification? Can you tell me what this is about? I’ll go with you, but I’d like to see your badges first, if you don’t mind.

The tall man eyed his partner. When he did, David stepped to one side, grabbed the forty-five near the butt, and twisted hard. The man yelped in pain and let go. Eyes wide in shock, both men raised their hands. David noticed they wore identical rings shaped like wedding bands made of dark metal. Odd. Maybe they were married.

That’s better, David said. Show me your badges, please.

We can’t, the short one said. We—we’re not cops. That was a lie.

David suppressed a growl. What’s this about? Tell me, and I might not call the real cops.

The men blanched and looked at each other. Mr. Hunter, please. Don’t call the police. He’ll kill us if you do. We don’t know what it’s about. We were told to take you to a location on the other side of Glen Burnie. There’s a man there who wants to talk to you.

Were you the ones following me in that black Caddy?

Yes, sir. The man arranged it to bring us here.

Can you tell me the identity of the man who sent you? Did he tell you to pull a gun on me?

No, sir. That was my stupid idea. I didn’t think you would come without it. I’m sorry, sir.

Were you going to shoot me if I didn't cooperate? David was trying to understand.

The short one blurted, Yes, sir. The man said if you don't come, we have to kill you.

David stifled a laugh. Better men than you have tried that.

Mr. Hunter, please don’t kill us, the tall one implored.

Kill you? Why the hell would I do that? Tell me who sent you, and I’ll consider letting you go. This was getting weirder by the second.

We don’t know who he is, the stocky one said. Honest. If we bring you to him, he’ll give us five hundred bucks each. We’re supposed to kill you if you won’t cooperate. He controls us and now he wants you. He won’t quit until he owns you or you’re dead.

Why are you so frightened?

Because he said he’d kill us if we failed.

This is the first time we’ve ever done anything like this. We had no choice. Please, let us go. We’re sorry.

Incredible.

David relaxed, his mind racing for the best way to handle the situation. The chunky man noticed the tension leave him and used that moment to do a head-down dive at his gut. David jumped back and brought the butt of the gun down on the back of his head. The man sprawled forward and landed with a cry on the tiled floor. He scrambled to his feet, and both men bolted through the front door, ignoring David’s demand for them to stop.

David followed and stepped outside to watch them hurry toward the black Caddy, which had returned to take them away. Their heads were down against the biting icy drizzle. A wind gust hammered him with icy drops that felt like cold pins hitting his skin. Suddenly, two loud cracks split the air, the distinct sounds of a thirty-thirty rifle. The heads of his would-be kidnappers jerked back, and both fell forward onto the wet sidewalk as the Caddy raced away at high speed.

David strained to read the license plate but failed. Freezing raindrops continued battering his face as he hurried to the bodies and dropped to his knees to examine them. The eyes and mouths of both men were still open. Pools of blood oozed slowly from under their faces to spread out on the wet concrete. He leaned close to be sure they were dead. They were. Rifle bullets through the brain always had that result.

Damn! he growled. He reached for his cellular phone. Not there. In his apartment.

David—! He recognized the scratchy old voice. Ada Maisel, an eighty-year-old neighbor who lived three doors down the hallway from him. He looked up.

Ada, face wrinkled in fright, was staring down at the bodies. Her hands waggled before her and she toppled toward the bodies. David lunged up just in time to catch her. She had fainted. He looked around. No one else was in sight. He needed his phone, and he needed to get her out of the rain. Only one thing to do.

He scooped her into his arms, surprised by how light her bony body felt. A heavy purse, still clutched in her hand, banged against his knees as he turned and raced back into the building and up the stairs to the second floor. At the top, he hesitated. His apartment or hers? He needed a phone.

A hand touched his cheek. A pair of overly made-up brown eyes grinned at him.

You can put me down now, David.

You okay?

Yes, thanks to you. It’s been years since a handsome young man held me in his arms. She giggled. I should faint more often. That was fun.

David chuckled and put her down. Ada, I have to call the police. Can you take it from here?

Of course. Thank you. She gave him a quick peck on the cheek and took off.

His brain buzzing with questions, he hurried to get his phone.

Welcome to civilian life, he muttered.

three

A POLICE CAR ARRIVED half an hour after David phoned. He hurried out to meet the patrolmen and explained what had happened. One officer took his name and told him to wait in the lobby for the detectives to arrive. Then he and his partner roped off the scene with yellow tape. One officer in a yellow slicker, the youngest of the two, stood guard, while the other one climbed back into the prowl car.

A short time later, an unmarked car arrived and parked behind the patrol car. Two plain-clothes detectives conferred with the cop on guard, and then ducked under the yellow tape to examine the body. The rain suddenly came down harder. The two men ducked under the tape and ran into the lobby.

Damn, it’s cold, the lead detective said. Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Hunter. Raindrops caught in his graying hair sparkled under the light. The rain had soaked the shoulders and lapels of both men’s suits. We were on the other side of town when the call came in.? He shook hands and introduced himself as detective sergeant Carl Franks and his partner, a tall black man, as Jackson Smith. Smith’s hand was huge and totally engulfed David’s own. He gave David a friendly grin.

I understand you reported the incident, Franks said.

Yes. You guys made good time getting here. Do you want to talk here or go up to my apartment?

Here. He gestured toward the crime scene. They may need us. Tell us what happened.

David relayed the entire sequence of events. When he finished, he said, That’s it.

Son of a bitch!! That’s bizarre, Jackson Smith said.

I agree, Franks said, frowning. Is that the forty-five you took from them? His eyes were on the weapon tucked in David’s belt.

Right. Sorry. He handed it over.

Franks sniffed it, seemed satisfied that no one had fired it, and retrieved a plastic bag from his pocket. He put the automatic in it and tucked the package away in a side coat pocket. Then he said, Mr. Hunter, do you really expect us to believe you don’t know those two perps or the man you say sent them?

Sergeant, what you believe is your business. I can only tell you what happened. Also, I didn’t say a man sent them. I reported that the two dead guys said a man sent them.

Franks shook his head in disbelief. You realize how weird this sounds? Why would someone you don’t know send two klutzes to kidnap you or kill you? And then tell you the man plans to kill them if you don’t cooperate? Can you explain that?

No.

Damn it, man. You’re not cooperating.

Sergeant, I’ve told you all I know. If you don’t believe me, There’s an eighty-year-old lady upstairs who can corroborate my story.

What’s her apartment number?

Two oh seven.

Franks nodded to Jackson Smith, who took off up the stairs. Franks watched him go and then turned back to David. He held up his smart phone and pushed a button. Start over, Mr. Hunter. And take it slow. I want to record it.

For your report?

Yes.

David told the story again, clearly and detailed. As soon as he finished, Jackson Smith came bounding down the steps into the lobby and approached them.

Franks frowned. So?

She told exactly the same story. The two vics came out of the swinging doors running, and halfway to the street somebody in a big black car shot them. She saw the whole thing. Hunter came out chasing them. He kneeled to examine the bodies. When she got close enough to see the blood, she fainted. Hunter carried her upstairs out of the rain.

You believe her?

Hell, yes. She’s a sweetheart. Asked me if I wanted some milk and cookies. He looked at David. She says you’re stronger than superman.

David laughed.

Franks shut off his recording. He looked at David. You’re a marine combat correspondent and you’re sticking with that crazy story, right?

I have to. Bizarre or not, it’s the truth. David understood the man’s frustration, but he was tired of this routine. He still hadn’t retrieved his mail. Look, if you think I’m involved in some kind of racket or this was some kind of gang hit, take me in. I’m a civilian now, and I have lots of time on my hands. We can play twenty questions all night if that will make you happy. Otherwise, I have things to do. He stuck out his hands for the man to handcuff him.

Carlton shoved his hands down. Not funny. I’m not accusing you of anything. Shit! This is nuts!.

David laughed. Who knows, sergeant? Maybe this is the start of a new trend in crime. Kidnapping for kicks. The detective didn’t laugh. David became serious. Okay, here’s the bottom line. I just completed twelve years in the marine corps. As far as I know, no one in the civilian world even knows I exist, but if you need character references, call my commander at Fort Meade.

"I’ll do that, Hunter.

I’d appreciate a call if you learn anything.

Dont worry. You are number one on our list. Carlton stuck out his hand to shake. His grip was firm and friendly, a gesture that said in spite of not wanting to, he believed David. You can go now. Thanks. The detectives went out to join the growing crowd of cops and the ambulance drivers.

David watched for a minute and then got his mail from box 203 and headed upstairs to his apartment to read and learn his fate.

four

SECOND DRINK IN HAND, he sat on the sofa and switched on a floor lamp that stood at one side. He eyed the envelope from the weekly newspaper. Was this the one? Or was it another rejection? He set his drink on the coffee table and studied the envelope. To hell with it, he thought. He ripped it open. It was either good news or bad news. Procrastination couldn’t change that. He pushed the strange events of the last three hours from his thoughts and read the editor’s answer.

Neatly and concisely written in dark blue ink, it said:

November 4, 20__

Dear Mr. Hunter,

Thank you for your recent application for a job with our paper. Your record of service as a Marine combat correspondent is very impressive as are your years teaching journalism at the Defense Information School at Fort Meade. Unfortunately, your qualifications are more than we require at this time. We have a small budget for this position, which means we most likely will hire a young journalism trainee.

All of us at the Virginia Weekly News Herald want to thank you for your years of service to our country and to wish you the best of luck in whatever endeavor you choose to pursue in the future.

Sincerely,

Alfred E. Guff, Managing Editor

Yeah, right.

He wadded the letter into a ball and tossed it across the room and over the kitchen counter. The letter’s tone was warm and fuzzy, but it was identical to the previous ten rejections he had received. Dear Mr. Hunter. Thanks, but no thanks. Sincerely. The truth was editors didn’t consider his combat ribbons relevant. And, why would they hire a retired combat correspondent when nice, predictable J-school graduates worked for a bag of peanuts? The eleven letters he received said they wouldn’t.

David remembered his whiskey. He lifted it toward the ceiling and spoke to it. What do we drink to now? he said. Hey, I’ve got it. Here’s to a dumb jarhead who thought he could make it as a civilian.

David hoisted the drink again, but stopped himself. That was a loser’s attitude. You’re never a loser until you stop trying. He just needed a fresh approach to getting a job. His bank account had enough money to keep him going for a year, longer if he was frugal. In a year, if he worked at it, he could find a decent job. And he was still alive and well despite his clumsy kidnappers.

He relaxed and proposed a different toast. Here’s to the man upstairs who took out those bad guys and let me live. Thanks, sir. Much appreciated. He tossed off the shot. It sent a warm, friendly glow down his throat. Whoa! he said.

Glad to be rid of the doldrums that had plagued him for a week, he grabbed the TV remote and aimed it at the set which was in a corner next to the kitchen counter. The set came on to a local news station showing an anorexic-looking male anchor with greasy black hair, a phony smile and wearing a dark blue suit and a blue dress shirt.

And now for a real exclusive, he said in a throaty announcer’s voice. Earlier today, our political correspondent, Jill Breland, caught up with President-elect John Carlyle just outside the Russell Senate office building. Word is she had inside information on the soon-to-be President’s itinerary because she was the only reporter on the scene. Great scoop, Jill. Here’s what happened.

The picture cut to Jill Breland, a skinny young woman holding a microphone, hurrying up the Senate office-building steps. Above her, a tall, dark-haired man in his late forties, wearing a beige overcoat and surrounded by six huge bodyguards was just starting down the steps.

Seeing the reporter, the two guards in front of the President-elect moved to intervene, but their boss waved for them to let her pass.

The reporter, shoving her mike before her like the bow ornament on a Viking long ship, called out, Senator, President-elect Carlyle! Jill Breland. May we have a moment? Please!

John Carlyle stopped walking and waited for the girl to climb a little closer. His face was thin, his nose sharp, his eyes deep set. The nan pinched thin lips into an amused smile as he tilted his head back and watched the reporter struggle to keep her balance. Puffs of steam blew from his mouth. It was cold in DC, too, David thought. When Jill Breland stopped, he smiled into the camera, then turned his attention to her.

I know you, Miss Breland, Carlyle said. How may I help you?

The girl, breathless and puffing steam from her rapid climb, steadied herself and said, Sir, our viewers would like to know how you feel about your landslide election last week. You were elected in what amounts to the greatest landslide ever. How do you account for such a victory, sir?

Carlyle’s tight smile exploded into a grin. We expected it to be a big win, he said, but we didn’t realize just how big it would be. The people of this country are sick and tired of their wishes being ignored by Washington politicians and bureaucrats, and they spoke out loud and clear. They wanted a President who owed nothing to anyone, except the people themselves. As you know, my net worth is north of fifty billion dollars, and I self-funded my campaign. I refused to accept financial aid from anyone. I’m beholden to no one but the voters. The American people like that. Carlyle’s smile vanished. His face became serious, hawkish. Broadcast this to the people, Jill. I’ve been given a historic mandate, so I’m giving both parties fair warning. When I make a promise, I keep it. Corruption in this town is a spreading cancer. Once I’m sworn in, Washington will change whether the power brokers and lobbyists like it or not. The congress and the huge bureaucracies will work with me or they will pay a huge price for non-cooperation.

Senator, what does that mean? What price will they pay? That sounds, well, menacing. The reporter obviously was discombobulated, but maintained her smile.

John Carlyle’s own smile returned. You’ll just have to wait and see along with everyone else, he said. Now, I’m sure you’ll excuse me, I have a tight schedule.

Wait, please, one last question. During your campaign, you said you intended to be the real education President. Could you elaborate on that for our viewers?

Sorry, Jill. Not now, but I will say this. I promised to deliver a million or more computers to public and private schools at the lowest price possible. And, as I said, I keep my promises. I’m sure you’ve heard me say that under my Presidency there will be an end to ignorance in this country. An ignorant electorate is a serious danger to our constitutional government and to our freedom.

But how will you do that, sir? Others have made such promises and failed. What will be-

Sorry, Jill. I have to go. I have another appointment. No, wait. He handed her a business card. I like you, Jill. You’ve got gumption. Call me for another interview.

John Carlyle motioned to his guards, and the two men in front, one big and black and one even bigger and white, moved to usher the diminutive girl away. Her head seesawed between watching her feet and the approaching wall of men.

Senator, thank you! she called. I’ll phone you. Thank you. The screen cut to the studio.

Well, that was a very interesting bit of reporting, the anchor said, smiling straight into the camera. His co-anchor, a woman with long, flowing blond hair said, It sure was, Sean. John Carlyle strikes me as a very determined man. What do you suppose he meant by saying Washington will change whether they like it or not?"

A loud bang on the apartment door startled David. He hit the mute button and rose. Who could it be at this hour?

five

DAVID JUMPED to his feet and started for the door. Then he stopped and yelled, Hang on! Had they returned for another try? He hurried to the kitchen and grabbed a long butcher knife. He went to the door and put his eye to the peephole. The grizzled face looking back was older, but almost as familiar to him as his own.

He opened the door and grinned. The old sergeant hadn’t changed a bit, except for a lot more bushy white hair.

The sergeant’s gaze traveled from his face to the knife in his hand. Hey, Lieutenant. You gonna carve me up for dinner or invite me in?

Sarge! Hell yes, come on in. What are you doing here? Scuttlebutt was you retired and moved to California years ago.

I did. Packed my sea bag and moved back here last week.

David, at six-two, was a full head taller than Marine Master Sergeant Jack Murphy, a man nearly forty years his senior, and the man who had been his first instructor at DINFOS. The Sarge had more combat ribbons than anyone else David knew.

The sergeant’s blue eyes twinkled as he stepped past David into the room.

Damn, kid, you had me worried. What’s with the cutlery? Thought for a minute you forgot your ol’ Sarge. His voice was still strong, though now raspy. I hear you’re a butter bar now. Should I salute you or kick your ass?

David laughed. Butter bar was a derogatory term for second lieutenants and ensigns. Forget that, Sarge. We’re civilians now. Grab a seat. How about a drink?

I’m for that. The Sarge plopped down on the sofa. Whaddaya got?

Well, we got Johnny Walker straight and warm, and Johnny Walker on the rocks. Name your poison.

Straight and warm. My bones ache, and I’m freezing my ass off. Looks like we’re in for a rotten winter.

David hurried into the kitchen to pour drinks. He couldn’t stop grinning. The Sarge, for gosh sakes! He couldn’t believe it. He wasn’t alone, after all.

Hey, kid, you didn’t answer me. What’s with the knife? You in some kind of trouble?

No trouble, Sarge. Had a couple of weird visitors about three hours ago. Wanted to take me to meet someone.

Meet who?

I don’t know, but they changed their minds when I took their piece away from them. Pretty weird.

You mean they tried to kidnap you?

That was the idea, I think. They were like scared kittens. I sent them packing. On the way out, somebody killed both of them with a 30-30 rifle.

Damn. How’d you get their gun?

I reached out and took it.

You’re right. Weird. Did you call the cops?

Yeah. They left about half an hour ago.

And?

Well, they sort of bought the story. An old lady down the hall corroborated my story.

It’s bizarre,

That’s what they said, too. Let’s forget them, Sarge. David walked around the counter with the drinks. You’re looking pretty fit for an old jarhead living the life of luxury for the last nine years. What have you been doing with yourself?

Mostly being bored to death, Lieutenant. But that’ll change now. I got a job. Which is why I’m here. I— Jack Murphy stopped to take the drink David offered.

David pulled a cane-bottomed chair from against a wall and sat across from him. He hoisted his drink and said, To old wars and old friends.

I’ll drink to that, kid.

They both sipped their whiskey, and then David said, Sarge, seriously, what are you doing here? I’m glad to see you, but you were the last person I expected.

Yeah, I bet. The sergeant swigged the rest of his drink. I’ll be honest with you, David. I came here for two reasons. When I learned today was your separation day, I thought you might need a friend. Some guys like me figure things will be great when they get out, only to face a big letdown. You spend most of your life in the corps, then you’re an orphan with no buddies, and, in my case, no family. I stayed drunk for a week when I separated.

David nodded. Sarge, I’ve felt that, too. It hit me hard when I realized I’m nothing but driftwood until I can find something useful to do. And I’ve had doubts about being able to cut it in the civilian world.

The sergeant growled in disbelief. You gotta be kiddin’ me, Lieutenant. You joined up when you were seventeen, and now, twelve years later, you’re a decorated officer in the world’s greatest fighting force. And you’re telling me you’re worried about making it? Maybe you’re not as smart as I thought.

David smiled. Relax, Murph, I’m okay now, except—

What?

Well, I thought I’d have a job by now, but it seems combat correspondents aren’t in much demand by the press these days. David shrugged. It doesn’t worry me, though. I’ll find something. I’m a determined cuss.

Jack Murphy laughed. Yeah, which is why I still count you as the best reporter I ever trained. If you got orders to take a hill, you took it. You came back with the story, too. I checked your record. You deserve that butter bar. I’m glad you’re handling separation without stress. It can be tough.

Unused to praise, David reddened. You said you have two reasons for this visit. What’s number two?

Right. What do you know about General Ramsay McKay?

The Ram? I’ve heard of him, of course. What marine hasn’t? But I’ve never met him. He was a legend.

Not was. Is. He’s still alive and kicking. How’d you like to meet him?

David stifled a laugh. Murphy was serious. That’s the wrong question, Sarge. The real question is, why would he want to meet me? I’m just a dumb grunt with a gold bar. Come on, what’s this all about?

Jack Murphy’s face spread into a big Irish grin. Told you I have a job now. I’m a gopher for the general. He sent me to get you. He wants to meet you, Lieutenant.

Why?

Above my pay grade, kid. Generals aren’t in the habit of telling their plans to lowly sergeants. But he hired me, so I do what he says.

David took the Sarge’s glass and headed to the kitchen for refills.

Better belay that, son. The general wants to see you tonight. You don’t want to show up drunk. The sergeant glanced at his watch. Six-fifteen. If we leave now, we can be there by eight o’clock. What say?

Eight! You’re serious, aren’t you? David stored the whiskey away under the counter. His thoughts were spinning. That’s a long drive. Where does he live?

Little jerkwater town called Potomac, Maryland. Quite a place.

David rinsed the glasses and shoved them into the dishwasher. Why tonight? What’s the rush?

You got me, bud. All I know is he wants both of us to join him for dinner at eight.

Whose idea was that?

"His. I’m just his