“Will we ever get to the point where we can live together as a family?” Sara asked as she killed the engine.
Kerney avoided Sara’s questioning look, removed Patrick from his child’s seat, hoisted him into the front of the SUV, and put him on his lap. The last thing he wanted was to start the weekend with an argument.
Sara put the SUV into reverse and smiled. “Don’t worry, I’m not picking a fight. Patrick has a brand-new book he’s been saving for you to read to him, and guess what? It’s about a horse.”
Patrick grinned and tugged Kerney’s hand. “It’s about a pony,” he said emphatically, “not a horse. I’ll show it to you.”
Kerney opened the door. “Let’s go, champ. I’ve got to see this book.”
As Sara drove away, Patrick scooted toward the cottage, urging Kerney to hurry. He followed Patrick up the path, delighted by his smart, self-confident son and disconcerted about Sara’s situation. Would new orders place her in harm’s way, separated from Kerney and Patrick for the duration?
Except for Kerney’s pending retirement all plans were now on hold. There was some solace knowing that at least he’d be free to be a full-time parent if circumstances required it. But the thought of not seeing Sara for an indefinite period of time was gut wrenching.
“Come on, Daddy,” Patrick said.
Kerney smiled and hurried to his son.
Brigadier General Stuart Thatcher delighted in keeping subordinates off guard and anxious. He routinely called his staff in for impromptu meetings or one-on-one confabs without specifying an agenda, and took great pleasure in making them wait interminably outside his office.
To deal with the man, Sara tried hard to control her feisty nature but at times found it impossible to do so. With appropriate deference to his rank she would occasionally point out to Thatcher that she would be better prepared to meet with him if she knew in advance what he needed to talk to her about. The suggestion always brought color to Thatcher’s cheeks.
Additionally, Sara had taken to asking Thatcher’s secretary to buzz her when the general was ready to meet, so she could work at her desk rather than waste time cooling her heals outside his office. Although it raised Thatcher’s ire, he couldn’t fault her working instead of waiting.
How Thatcher had earned his one-star rank had always confounded Sara, until she’d learned he was a third-generation West Pointer with a senior U.S. senator in his extended family.
Sara shared an office with three other officers. She sat at her cubicle desk and listened as her colleagues got ready to leave for the day. Twelve-to sixteen-hour workdays were not uncommon at the Pentagon. But when Friday came, everybody who wasn’t scheduled for weekend duty bailed out as soon as possible.
On her desk stood a photograph of Kerney and Patrick astride a horse at the Santa Fe ranch. From the grins on their faces both of them looked like they were in heaven. Sara marveled at how much Patrick and Kerney were alike in personality, temperament, and looks. They had the same square shoulders, gentle strong hands, and narrow waists. They shared a dogged determination to do things well and a capacity to be bullheaded.
Two sides of the same coin, she thought with a smile.
She said good-night as her office mates filtered out, wondering how long Thatcher would keep her waiting. An hour later, after she had cleared out some routine paperwork, Sara’s phone rang and she was summoned to Thatcher’s office, where she found him sitting ramrod straight in his chair, hands clasped on the obsessively tidy desk.
Sara snapped to and said, “Sir.”
Thatcher raised his egg-shaped head that was punctuated by a pointy nose, thin lips, and a seriously receding hairline. “You are to be held over at the Pentagon pending reassignment.”
“Sir, I am aware of that,” Sara said, wondering if Thatcher had called her in to repeat old news simply as a way to jack her around.
Thatcher forced a smile and waved her into a chair. “Of course you are. But I’ve been asked to determine if you’ll accept a TDY assignment in the training branch.”
Sara sat. TDY meant temporary duty. “What would the job entail, General?”
“You’d serve as a member of a special project team tasked with preparing an advanced military-police-officer curriculum for reserve and National Guard units. It must be accomplished in six months.”
Sara nodded, wondering why the training branch would be given a project that rightly fell under Thatcher’s purview.
“However, if you choose, you could remain in your present position until your permanent orders come through. That would allow you to take your scheduled thirty-day leave next month.”
“Sir,” Sara said, “would it be possible for me to start on the TDY project after my return from leave?”
Thatcher almost sneered with delight. “I rather doubt it. The assignment has the highest priority. What shall it be, Colonel?”
Stone faced, Sara parried Thatcher’s squeeze play. “If possible, General, I would appreciate it if you would query the training branch on my behalf to determine if I could begin the assignment after I return from leave.”
Thatcher shook his head. “I’m afraid I need a yes or a no from you, Colonel.”
Sara stood and snapped to attention. “With all due respect, you have my answer, General.”
“I doubt your answer will be well received,” Thatcher said. He looked decidedly pleased with the prospect of keeping Sara under his thumb for a while longer. “But I will pass your request along. You’re dismissed, Colonel.”
Sara saluted, did an abrupt about-face, and left Thatcher’s office. He waited a few minutes before dialing the number of the aide-de-camp to the vice chief of staff, who was organizing the special team.
“General Thatcher here,” he said when the aide answered.
“Yes, General.”
“I’m calling about Lieutenant Colonel Brannon.”
“Sir, will you hold for the vice chief?”
Taken aback, Thatcher said, “Of course.” He’d had no inkling of the vice chief’s personal interest in Brannon or the project.
Quickly, General Henry Powhatan Clarke came on the line. “What did the colonel decide, Stuart?” he asked.
“I believe Colonel Brannon would rather remain in her current position, sir.”
“What makes you say that?” Clarke asked.
“She seems quite satisfied here, General.”
Henry Powhatan Clarke knew better. As a four-star general recently installed as the vice chief of staff, he’d checked up on Sara Brannon without her knowledge. She’d been one of the best young officers to serve under him in Korea, winning the prestigious Distinguished Service Medal and a meritorious field promotion to her present rank. Under Thatcher, a man who should never have been allowed to pin a star on his collar, she was languishing, not being used to her full abilities.
“Did she turn down the assignment?” Clarke asked.
“Not in so many words.”
“What exactly did she say?”
“She asked if she could take the TDY assignment after completing her leave. I told her it was unlikely.”
“Did you, now? Well, you tell her I want her bright eyed and bushy tailed when she reports to the training branch after her leave is over.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where in the hell did you get this notion she had to start the job immediately?”
“I believe that’s what your aide told me, General,” Thatcher replied.
“Negative, Thatcher. My aide made the call to you from my office, and he said no such thing.”
“I must have misunderstood, General.”
“Indeed you did,” Clarke snapped. “When does Colonel Brannon start her leave?”
“In about two or three weeks, sir.”
“Very well. Before she departs, make sure you’ve done her efficiency rating and forward a copy of it to me immediately. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”