Mace looked around. There was no one but himself in the lobby. “Where are you?” Mace asked aloud. “Duty Officer, what’s your name? Why aren’t you out here?”
“I am an electronic duty officer, sir,” the voice replied. “If you need assistance at any time, please just make your request on your commlink prefaced with my name: Duty Officer.”
It was a damned machine? he asked himself incredulously. He was being polite to a machine? “There’s no one on duty here?” There was no response, so he rephrased his question: “Duty Officer, there’s no one on duty here?”
“I am on duty at all times, Colonel Mace. You may reach me anytime, anywhere, by commlink, by using the base tactical VHF or UHF frequencies or by telephoning the squadron number.”
He cruised the hallways of the squadron building, finding little. There were a few administrative offices, all locked; a briefing room that also looked unused; a TV lounge — the first room in this place, he observed, that had windows. The large plasma HDTV was tuned to an all-news channel. There were cafeteria-style tables and chairs, some sofas along the wall.
Mace felt ridiculous talking to no one but addressing it as “Duty Officer.” “Where’s my office?” he asked impatiently. When the system didn’t respond, he shouted, “Duty Officer, where’s my fucking office?”
“To the right, down the hallway, fourth door on the right, Colonel Mace,” the voice replied.
“Bite me,” he said. As he approached the door, he heard it unlock. There was an outer office, which had a desk, a computer, and shelves but appeared unoccupied, and then the door to his office; it, too, unlocked as he approached it. Pretty amazing, he thought. It appeared as if he was being continuously tracked and monitored. The computerized duty officer knew where he was, anticipated his needs, like unlocking his doors, and did it for him. He couldn’t wait to try it elsewhere and see.
And then he saw that his office was not empty. Inside, sitting at his desk, was Rebecca Furness.
He watched her rise to her feet, her lips parting as if she were going to say something, but then she decided against it, so he took that moment to let his eyes roam.
She was older, of course — so was he. She was tall and still athletic-looking, with plenty of curves that no baggy flight suit — rumpled and well worn, like McLanahan’s — could hide. She was cutting her brown hair shorter now — she’d always kept it long, below-shoulder length, when he knew her before — and it was darker than he remembered, with wisps of gray visible, but her almond-shaped eyes still had that sparkle, that energy.
“Hello, Colonel,” she said simply. Even with such a brief sentence, her voice was still clipped, impersonal. Rebecca Furness had always been, and probably would always be, all business. “I hope you don’t mind my using your office. We’re not exactly set up around here.”
“Hello, Rebecca. What a surprise.” He held out his hand to greet her. She took his hand and shook it firmly. Yep, all business, as usual. She’d once been nicknamed “the Iron Maiden”—maybe she still was; he didn’t know — because of her no-nonsense, businesslike attitude toward most everybody and everything. Still, they did know each other, and, yes, they had a history. But he remembered only one or two tender moments in the short time they’d had together.
He surprised himself by pulling her carefully toward him and turning the handshake into a friendly hug. There was a helmet bag or something on the floor between them — he had to reach out awkwardly to her. He thought it was only going to be a casual hug, one that old buddies might give to one another, so it didn’t matter that they couldn’t get close…
… but that thought faded fast when, before he knew it, the hug turned into an embrace, and the embrace morphed into a full-scale liplock of the kind that Daren hadn’t had much of an opportunity to do in a long time.
But just as quickly as it began, it ended. Daren felt her body and her lips tense, and he knew their personal little reunion was over. He backed away and searched her face. It was back to her businesslike facade, but he looked carefully and didn’t see any hint of anger — there was a little confusion, certainly no joy, but no rejection either. She seemed to accept the pure spontaneity of the act, allowed herself to enjoy it just for a moment, then pushed it out of her consciousness.
“Welcome to Battle Mountain, Daren,” she said, as if she couldn’t think of anything else to say — awkward silence number one. She motioned to a sofa set up against the wall in the office; he sat down and took a bottle of water from her that she retrieved from a small cooler as she took a seat in a chair across the coffee table from him. “Making yourself at home?”
“Rebecca, about Donatella’s…”
“It’s okay. You’re an adult — chronologically, at least — and that place isn’t off-limits.”
“I’ve never been in a brothel before.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“It’s okay, Daren.”
“I didn’t do anything!”
“Okay, okay,” Rebecca said. She couldn’t help smiling at his embarrassment, and they both felt the tension slowly dissolve. “You look great, Daren. Really great. Buff, I’d say.”
“Thank you.”
“Stopped hanging out in biker bars, I assume?”
“I ride into one every now and then,” Daren said. “You know, midlife crisis — a guy’s gotta have a Harley. But I cut out the beer and the pizzas. My cholesterol count and blood pressure were racing each other to see which could kill me first.” She smiled and nodded. “You look terrific, as always. I like the short hair, too.” There was the second of what it seemed would be many awkward silences. “Congratulations on getting your star,” he added quickly. “You deserve it. You always did.”
“Thank you.”
Awkward silence number three. Thank God, he thought, for the water bottles. “And now you’re the wing commander here. Congratulations again.” He looked at her seriously. “I must have you to thank for getting me this assignment.”
“Your record spoke for itself.”
“My record is crap and we both know it, Rebecca,” Mace interjected. “My last assignment as a brand-new full bird colonel was running an office that prepared audiovisual presentations at the Pentagon. I had more responsibility when I was a swing-shift manager at McDonald’s in high school.”
“We all have to pull our share of desk jobs.”
“Which one was yours — the bomb squadron in Reno or senior combat air-strike adviser to CINCPAC?”
“What is this — bitterness? Toward the Air Force? You’re not the type.”
“At least you still thought of your friends on your way up the ladder — nine years later.”
“Now we’re sinking into sarcasm and resentment against me, is that it? I advise you to drop that attitude right now, Colonel.” Daren fell silent and briefly lowered his eyes, his only concession to her rank and authority. “If you need a shrink to help you examine these feelings of resentment and rejection, Daren, we’ll find you one. But we’ve got a wing to run. Do you want some time to contemplate your navel and examine your feelings about your father, or do you want to come look around?”
He stood but did not move toward the door. She stood and watched him for a few moments. “Rebecca, you know that I’m grateful for whatever you did….”
“All I did was give them a name — the Air Force and General McLanahan did the rest,” Rebecca said. “You may have been stuck in some less-than-thrilling jobs, but you must’ve done something right, because you were picked to come here anyway. General McLanahan handpicks everyone who sets foot on this base. And all I know about you is what you say and what you do, Daren. Sometimes I wonder if I ever knew you at all.”