“You don’t have the authority—” Martin began, but Jordan cut him off.
“Do you want me to go to the President and get him to order it?”
Martin changed tack.
“Sir, those Delta Force records are—”
“Close of business today,” Jordan said.
Martin nodded.
“Certainly, sir.” He leaned forward and put his hands on Jordan’s desk.
“But I want something in return.”
“And that is?”
The chairman of the Joint Chiefs pointed at Boomer.
“I want him to go with me now. I don’t want him running around here causing trouble. He’s probably A.W.O.L., and I want him under the custody of the military.”
Jordan nodded.
“All right.”
“Wait a second!” General Maxwell exclaimed.
“You can’t do that.”
Jordan blinked.
“I can do any damn thing I want. Major Watson is military and as such is subject to the uniform code of military justice. We have to turn him over to the authorities sooner or later. I believe this issue has been resolved. I believe it will be best for all involved if we forget about everything that has happened the last several days.”
Boomer was numb. He felt like a detached observer watching everything play out like he wasn’t involved at all.
But when Martin escorted him to the door and two men in civilian clothes and military haircuts slapped handcuffs on him, he knew it wasn’t a dream.
Consciousness returned to Trace on a tide of pain. Her leg throbbed uncontrollably. The pain in her chest was dependent on her breathing, but that being an essential bodily function, it was inevitable. She was flat on her back, and as her eyes slowly came into focus she saw a white ceiling above her head. She carefully turned her head. The room was painted off-white and the cheap dresser and small desk indicated that it had once been occupied by a child. The blinds on the window were closed, and she could see gray light all around the edges. The door opened, and Trace smiled as Harry walked into the room holding a glass of orange juice.
“Glad to see you’re awake,” Harry said, setting the glass down on the small table next to the bed.
“How do you feel?”
“Lousy,” Trace said.
“More specifically?” Harry asked as he lifted the sheet and looked at the large white cast. Trace was glad to see that someone had cut open the leg on her jeans, cleaned them and put them back on her.
“Your leg?”
“Hurts like hell.”
“It’s been set. Should heal fine,” Harry said.
“Your ribs?”
“Same. They hurt.” Trace remembered the captain with the ax, and suddenly tears came to her eyes and she sobbed, the movement causing pain to explode and leading directly into a gasp.
“Easy now, easy,” Harry said, cradling her head in a massive hand.
“You been through a rough time, missy, and you done damn well, but we got some more work to do.
The tears and the feeling got to be held off for a while yet.
I know what you’re going through. First time I came back from a mission it hit me hard, but I only let it hit me when I was back, and we ain’t back yet.”
“The diary?” Trace asked.
“Yeah, the diary,” Harry said.
“I got it, and we need to get it in the right hands.”
“I know who needs to see it,” she said. She told him about Boomer and Skibicki and the entire situation in Hawaii and he nodded when she was done.
“Yeah, I know Ski. We served together, and I’ve been talking with him about this.” He rubbed his chin.
“They ain’t got much time. Today’s the fifth,”
“What about Colonel Rison?” Trace asked.
“The colonel’s gone, miss. We got to do this ourselves.”
He stood up.
“Wait a second.” He left the room and was gone for a while before reappearing with a phone in his hand. He plugged it into a jack in the wall.
“I got us a way to get to Hawaii, but we won’t get there until tomorrow.
Do you think you’re up to traveling.”
“I made it this far,” Trace said.
Harry handed her the phone.
“I think you ought to call Hawaii.”
Trace dialed and talked to Skibicki. She was surprised but relieved when he told her Boomer had gone to the authorities.
At least it was out in the open now. She told Skibicki about what had happened at West Point and where she was, then handed the phone to Harry, who walked out of the room, still talking to the sergeant major.
There was no packing to be done. Trace had only the clothes she’d had on when Harry had rescued her, with the addition of the cast on her leg and a tight bandage around her ribs. Harry had pulled up the blinds.
The snow-covered hills of the Adirondacks beckoned outside. It was as abrupt a change from the green of Hawaii as possible and Trace stared out at it, as her mind tried to work over all that had happened in the past few days.
She looked up as Harry came back in the room.
“How did you find me?” she abruptly asked, one of many questions that were flitting about her brain like unsettled demons.
“Find you?” he asked as he handed her the diary.
“At West Point,” she clarified.
“I got back in contact with Skibicki,” he said.
“He told me to put the word out on the NCO network to look for you. The MPS at West Point spotted you and I got a call.
I came there as quickly as possible and waited until you got uncovered.”
Trace wasn’t satisfied.
“Why didn’t you recover the diary?”
“I didn’t know where it was,” Harry said, checking her cast and adjusting a set of crutches for her height.
“Why not?”
Harry paused and looked at her.
“Because I was with the colonel and they knew that. All they’d have to do is snatch me, and one thing I learned a long time ago: everyone talks, all you have to do is apply the right pressure, physical or mental.”
After her recent experience. Trace could most certainly agree with that.
Harry continued.
“I didn’t know where the. letter was that the colonel gave you, but I imagine it was someplace that if anything happened to him, it would get into the right hands. Maybe there were copies of that letter.”
“Where’s the colonel?” Trace asked.
“I took him out of Philly and brought him back here.”
Harry pointed out the window at the snow covered hills.
“He’s buried where he always wanted to be buried. All I know now is we got the diary, and we got to get it to Hawaii.”
“You haven’t been very specific on how we are going to do that,” Trace said.
Harry cocked his head. Trace paused to listen. Even through the walls of the house she could hear a plane’s engine coming closer.
“How are they going to land?” she asked, pointing out at the snow-covered hills and trees.
Harry held out a hand, helping her to her feet.
“You’ll see. Let’s be getting outside.” Trace fumbled with the crutches, but Harry made it easier, tucking them under one arm and lifting her with the other. He’d given her a down vest to put on and she was grateful for it as they stepped outside into the front yard.
A twin-engine plane swooped in suddenly from over the hills to the south. Trace stared in amazement as it slowed and came to a hover directly overhead as the wings themselves rotated up, pointing the massive propeller blades up into the sky. She’d seen pictures of the V-22 Osprey but never been near one in person. It was much larger than she had imagined, and she was impressed with the way it slowly settled down into the driveway, the blades kicking up snow and causing her to duck her head and shield her eyes. The plane had no markings identifying it and Trace wondered who owned it — the last she had heard the military had opted not to purchase the multipurpose craft, a move violently opposed by the Special Operations community.