And if that idea proved to be ill-founded, she would adapt.
She had learned that from her father and her friends. To survive, to get what you needed, you had to adapt.
The road levelled out and she began to pedal again.
41
FORT HOOD, KILLEEN, TEXAS ADMINISTRATIVE DIVISION
Polished floors, fresh paint on the walls and crystal-clear windows filled the Territorial Capital Building of Texas, formerly US Army III Corps Headquarters, with an unnaturally pure level of sunlight. Caitlin’s saluting arm got a workout on the approach to the building, greeting one Texas Defense Force soldier or officer after another. She essayed a casual salute, not sloppy, but not parade-ground perfect either. Good enough to do the job. Those she encountered seemed respectful. Then again, she was dressed in almost the exact same uniform as the TDF troopers. By the time the soldiers figured out she was a fed, it was too late to retract the salute or try on any disrespectful behaviour.
Once indoors, the saluting stopped, for which Caitlin was grateful. Like all formality, it grew to be a tiresome exercise.
‘Kate,’ Musso said. He pointed at her standard-issue BDU hat.
‘Oh, sorry. Thanks,’ she said, removing her cover.
Small, stupid mistakes like that would be her undoing. She killed soldiers, but she didn’t live around them, her husband being the sole exception, and Bret was long past caring to maintain a soldierly disposition. She stowed her hat before the overly hung-over Ty McCutcheon could notice the gaffe.
As soon as they were inside, she began taking sight pictures of the building’s layout. She had blueprints of the original design, including the security net, courtesy of Echelon field services, but there had been some structural and quite a bit of cosmetic work done since the Blackstone administration had moved in. She noted as best she could where the fundamental layout had been changed, and where the obvious surveillance devices - CCTV, infra- red traps, motion sensors and so on - were to be found. The building was secured, but no more than she would have expected of a civilian government facility, which is what the Territorial Capital Building was, in spite of the military trappings. The main defences seemed to be the two civilian guards at the concierge station.
As they travelled deeper into the HQ, she found civilians intermingled with the soldiers in about equal numbers, all wearing the same combination of business casual. It was wrapped a little more tightly than in Seattle. Many suits, but not all with ties. There were far fewer nose-rings and statement tee-shirts, but again the vibe was no different from the Federal Center in Temple. Musso fitted right in, at least in appearance. Caitlin was the odd one out as they arrived in a large, wood-panelled anteroom.
A civilian secretary, an African-American woman, stood up and smiled in greeting. ‘Good morning. The Governor will see you. Ma’am, may I take your coat?’
Caitlin processed her surroundings while taking off her field jacket. ‘Yes, ma’am, thank you.’ She tagged a slightly more sophisticated motion sensor in a corner of the ceiling, alarms tied into the windows and an inert magic eye guarding the entrance to Blackstone’s inner office. Again, nothing special.
After handing over their coats, they made their way in to a large, comfortable space, recently hacked out of the old building layout. It smelled of fresh paint and high-quality coffee, roasting on a sideboard next to a silver tray piled high with fresh bread rolls, smoked salmon, and pastries. There was no filing system to be seen. No computer on his desk. No signs of a wall safe.
‘Oh, the Governor has just stepped out,’ his secretary said. ‘I’m sure he’ll be back momentarily. Please make yourselves comfortable. Can I pour you some coffee?’
‘No, we’ll be fine, thank you,’ replied Musso.
The secretary left them.
An array of framed photographs, plaques, awards and certificates hung along a wall of what appeared to be highly polished cherry. In one image, a backdrop of burning oil wells bracketed a young group of officers standing on top of a blackened Iraqi tank. In another photo, a smiling Colonel Blackstone shook hands with Bill Clinton without a hint of the reserve evident in the officers around him. A third photo, a faded colour image, showed a pair of oldsters pinning a set of lieutenant’s bars on a very young man.
At the centre of the wall was a shadow box filled with a substantial collection of ribbons, qualification badges and division patches. Musso didn’t waste a second glance at the wall, perhaps because he had seen it all before. Caitlin took the opportunity to inspect the whole display more closely, as it afforded her an opportunity to walk around the office and scope it out.
Ty McCutcheon sidled up next to her and removed his sunglasses. ‘Impressive career. Enlisted at eighteen for Nam and ended up as a Ranger. You’ll have to forgive him for that.’
‘Not a fan of the 75th Regiment?’ she asked.
‘I was air force once upon a time, like you, Colonel,’ McCutcheon replied as if that explained it. ‘Drove me a Warthog. The General, though, he’s the real deal. Rose from the ranks the old-fashioned way. By killing those in need of it. Did his time and got a slot at Officer’s Candidate School. First in his family to go to college, you know.’
She did know, but said nothing.
‘Did well there,’ McCutcheon continued. ‘Third in class. Picked up his commission and then they sent him off to college.’ The Governor’s aide pointed up at the framed Bachelor of Arts in political science from NYU.
A toilet flushed at the far end of the office, followed by the sound of running water.
‘And the rest is a very boring story for the most part,’ a new voice called out. ‘Don’t let Ty blow too much smoke up your ass on my account. It feels nice, but the Surgeon General says it’s bad for you.’
Caitlin turned, expecting to find George C. Scott or Jack Nicholson growling lines of hand-crafted dialogue at her. The only other general she’d had recent experience of, aside from Musso, was a newly retired General Stephen F. Murphy, who had taken up a deputy director’s chair with Echelon in Vancouver. Murphy did indeed growl, never smiled, and looked like he would genuinely enjoy crushing testicles with his bare hands. This man, the bogie man who exercised the fears and anxieties of half the country, approached them from his private washroom, looking like he should have been tending a garden somewhere. A bit too grey, a bit too round, a bit too soft at the edges, with a rather grand Roman nose and a twinkle in his eyes. A friendly twinkle. The beard, less old navy than Santa Claus, only served to enhance the disarming warmth of his smile.
‘Jackson Blackstone,’ he announced, extending his hand. ‘Welcome to Fort Hood, Colonel Murdoch.’
Caitlin took his hand; a firm, somewhat calloused grip. ‘Thank you, Governor.’
‘My, that’s quite a grip you’ve got there, Colonel. You wouldn’t be an old chopper pilot, would you?’
‘No sir. Tennis.’
‘Ah, my wife is a fan. I’m afraid I’m not. Fishing is my personal obsession. One I don’t get to enjoy nearly as much I had planned to after hanging up my uniform.’
Blackstone spared a sideways glance for Tusk Musso, much the way a frustrated academic might look at a particularly dim student. ‘Musso,’ he said, ‘always a pleasure.’
The President’s unofficial ambassador nodded. ‘Blackstone.’
The Governor suddenly clapped his hands together, producing a sound like a rifle crack. ‘Does anyone have any interest in breakfast? I know it’s late but I haven’t eaten yet. Between my morning exercise and the blizzard of paperwork that follows me everywhere, I often don’t. But I saved myself a fine river trout. Caught yesterday, but not by me, I’m afraid to say. I’d been intending to save it for lunch. But it would make an excellent breakfast with some toast and avocado and a cup of fine Costa Rican robusta.’
Caitlin shook her head. ‘Negative, sir. We ate before we came on post.’
‘Colonel, please. Relax.’ Blackstone smiled. ‘You can step down from DEFCON 1. I’m not the ogre everyone makes me out to be. I haven’t had anybody dragged behind a gun carriage since I retired.’
McCutcheon was the only one who smiled. Caitlin maintained a studied neutrality, while Musso gave the Governor his stone face.
‘Damn, you know, this will be a very long morning if we have to stare each other down like this,’ Blackstone sighed. ‘How about a cup of coffee and a donut? Breakfast of champions. Would that suffice as a peace offering, Colonel? Initially? I’m afraid I gave up smoking some years ago, so a peace pipe is out of the question.’
Caitlin had to admit, she could murder another cup of coffee. She decided to give a bit. ‘Earl Grey all day does
