Michael McGarrity - Hermit_s Peak

The contents of the report, along with a letter and attached orders from the secretary of defense, had prompted his request to have Maj.

Sara Brannon report to him.

A knock at the open door made General Clarke look up. He smiled and moved to the front of his desk.

"Come in. Major," he said, gesturing toward the two army-issue, metal straight-back office chairs that, by design, made long sit-down sessions almost unbearable. Clarke liked short meetings that got his people up and moving as quickly as possible.

"Thank you, sir," Sara answered as she sat in the butt-numbing chair with more grace and ease than Clarke would have imagined possible.

She watched as the general gathered papers from the desk and sat across from her. He had pale blue eyes, a round face that belied his toughness, and close-cut, thick brown hair that curled slightly at the ends.

Sara met his gaze directly.

Clarke knew that Maj. Brannon was an exceptional officer. Any man who only saw her good looks-her sparkling green eyes, strawberry blond hair, and the mischievous line of freckles across her nose-would be seriously underestimating her.

"We finally received a conclusive Intelligence report on the sniper operation," General Clarke said.

"A North Korean diplomat defected and confirmed the assassination plot was mounted by a fanatical element within the North Korean officer corps. They wanted to force Kim Jung II into a war with South Korea."

Sara nodded and waited.

"The three snipers had orders to kill the South Korean president, the secretary of state, and me." Henry Powhatan Clarke smiled.

"Personally, I like to think that shooting an American four-star general would have pushed us into a war."

"I'm glad that didn't happen, sir," Sara said, smiling back.

"So am I, Major. I understand you've been asking my chief of staff about the status of your request for promotions and commendations for your team."

"I have, sir."

"I like an officer who goes to bat for her people."

"They've earned the recognition. General," Sara said.

"Agreed, Major," General Clarke said, as he put some papers in Sara's hands.

"Each enlisted rank gets a meritorious promotion and the Army Commendation Medal.

Additionally, the wounded men receive Purple Hearts."

"That's good news, sir," Sara said breaking into a smile as she scanned the orders and citation documents.

"There's more," General Clarke said, handing Sara another sheet of paper.

"At the request of the secretary of state, and upon the recommendation of the secretary of defense, you are to receive the Distinguished Service Medal."

Stunned into silence, Sara read the citation. Finally, she raised her glance.

"I don't know what to say."

"Congratulations, Colonel Brannon."

"Excuse me?" Sara said incredulously, forgetting protocol.

General Clarke laughed.

"We couldn't promote everyone else on the team and leave you out, now could we? I can't think of anybody in your academy class who is walking around as a light colonel."

"A few are on the short list. General."

"Well, you'll have seniority over all of them. You'll get orders for your next duty assignment within the week. You're going home early."

"Where to, sir?"

"After you report from leave, you'll be attending the Command and General Staff College at Fort Leavenworth."

"I wasn't scheduled to attend C and GS until next year," Sara said.

"We can't have a highly decorated, new light colonel running around without her C and GS College ticket punched," General Clarke replied with a warm smile.

"You'll need it in your personnel jacket for your next promotion to full colonel. Considering that you kept the North Koreans from sending me home in a body bag it was the least I could do."

"Thank you, sir."

"No sweat. Colonel. Meet me at the Officers' Club tonight at twenty hundred hours. I'll pin on those silver oak leaves and douse them with beer, as tradition demands."

Til be there. General."

General Clarke stood and walked to his office door.

"Any time you want to return to my command. Colonel Brannon, just give me a holler. I want nothing but stud officers serving with me, and I don't give a damn what gender they are."

Sara stood outside the headquarters building in the drizzle paying no attention to the enlisted personnel who walked past snapping off salutes. She recovered her composure and started moving in the direction of G-2, across the street. A convoy of troop carriers held her up.

Sara remained on the sidewalk after the convoy rumbled by, trying to calculate the miles from Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, to Santa Fe. She guessed it to be seven hundred miles. It certainly put Kerney within striking distance.

She smiled as a thought crossed her mind. They had been writing to each other more frequently as the time for her to rotate stateside grew closer, making plans for a visit. Maybe she'd just show up in Santa Fe unannounced and early.

Sara's smile turned into a slightly wicked grin. She had hammered her sexuality into submission by working eighteen-hour days and avoiding even those men who were not off-limits under the current sexual relations policies. Avoiding the whole sex issue had been the most realistic way to survive with her career intact in a combat-ready command, and she was damn tired of abstinence.

A young soldier gave Sara a salute and a sidelong glance as he passed by, and Sara wiped the grin off her face. The cloudy day had turned cold. Sara zipped up her fatigue jacket, yearning for the dry desert heat that she'd bitched so much about during her tour of duty at White Sands Missile Range.

She stepped off the sidewalk and hurried to find her Field Intelligence and Reconnaissance Unit squad leaders.

She wanted to be the first to tell her people about the promotions and citations before word leaked out from other sources. Then she'd finish her workday and celebrate after General Clarke pinned on the silver oak leaves that evening.

It was, It. CoL. Sara Brannon thought, one of the best days in her ten years as an officer in the United States Army.

Kevin Kerney sat in the passenger seat of Dale Jennings's truck with th e window rolled down, while his old friend from the Tularosa Basin drove down a San Miguel County dirt road in Northern New Mexico, about fifty miles due east of Santa Fe.

It was an unusually warm and pretty early April morning, but Kerney wasn't paying any attention to the weather or the vistas. His thoughts were on Erma Fergurson.

Erma was his mother's college roommate and life long friend. When his parents died in an auto accident over twenty-five years ago, Erma became one of the few people left in Kerney's life with a link to his boyhood on his family's Tularosa ranch.

Erma taught art at the state university in Las Cruces for almost forty years. After her retirement, she became one of the most renowned landscape artists of the Southwest. She'd never married, never had children.

Kerney had last seen Erma in November on a visit to Las Cruces. in her seventies, she remained a head-turner. She was vibrant, vital, elegant, and classy. They went out to dinner, reminisced about Kerney's parents, and talked about his college years when Erma served as his surrogate mother.

A massive stroke had killed Erma in early February, and now Kerney was about to take his second look at the ten sections of high country ranch land she had left to him. He'd known that Erma owned property she once used as a summer retreat. But the size of it-6,400 acres-came as a complete surprise, as did her bequest of the land and the old cabin that stood on it.

Kerney glanced quickly at Dale, now the last living person connected to Kerney's childhood years on the ranch. Dale's arm rested on the open window and he steered the truck with one hand. His fingers were blunt and calloused, and his long forehead, covered by the bill of a cap pulled low, hid his thinning hair. His closely cropped sideburns showed a hint of gray and his face was weathered from years working in the scorching sun of southern New Mexico.