Уильям Дитц - Battle Hymn

Sloan laughed. “You got two out of three right. I won’t say which ones. Suffice it to say that I made it through, matured a bit, and went to grad school.

“How about you? According to one of the magazine articles I read, your father wanted you to attend West Point, but you entered OCS instead.”

“True,” Mac replied. “Dad pushed me, and I rebelled. But after taking some time off after college, I felt the pull. I guess the army is in my DNA. So I joined, but I did it my way, and it pissed him off. That and the fact that I sided with Mom prior to her death.”

Sloan nodded. “I’m sorry, Robin… I wish things had been different for you.”

The White Hawk had started to descend by then. Mac saw a curving driveway, a nicely kept farmhouse, and a handsome barn. All surrounded by shade trees and closely cropped grass. Cornfields stretched off into the distance. “It’s beautiful,” Mac remarked.

Sloan looked pleased. “Thank you. I thought about selling it at one point but decided not to. And a good thing, too… Now I have a place to go when the presidential gig is over.”

Sloan was thinking about the future. A future without war. Mac tried to imagine it. What would she do? Who would she be? And what part, if any, would Sloan play in answering those questions? The ground came up to meet them, and there was a gentle thump as the chopper touched down.

“Come on,” Sloan said as he freed his seat belt. “I’ll say hello to Tom. Then, assuming you’re up for it, we’ll take a walk.”

Benson wasn’t the only person who was waiting for them. Four Secret Service agents were present, too, all of whom were sporting identical sunglasses, barn coats, and jeans. They formed a protective barrier around Sloan and stood facing out.

Benson was wearing a Levi’s jacket, blue tee, and jeans. His gray hair was short, and there were creases around his eyes. Sloan took care of the introductions. “Robin, this is Tom Benson. Tom, this is my friend Robin Macintyre.”

Mac could feel the calluses as Benson’s hand closed around hers and could see the curiosity in his blue eyes. He’d known Sloan for a long time, after all… And had been friends with Sloan’s parents.

Sloan had chosen to omit any mention of Mac’s rank, thereby dropping any pretense that she was there in some sort of official capacity. That felt good. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Benson… Sam is a big fan of yours.”

The praise caused Benson to beam. And as the men chatted about the corn crop, Mac circled the house. It was interesting to see Sloan in his natural element. And that, Mac realized, was his plan. He wanted to convey a sense of his actual persona minus the presidential trappings. It was helpful, even if he wasn’t a farm boy anymore and never would be. Because, like it or not, Secret Service agents and a certain amount of notoriety would follow him for the rest of his life. “There you are,” Sloan said as he came up behind her. “Are you ready for that walk?”

Mac was wearing expensive half boots purchased the day before and hoped they would survive whatever Sloan had in mind. “Sure,” she said. “Lead the way.”

“Every kid needs a hideout,” Sloan said, as they entered a field.

It had rained the day before, and the ground was soft. Mac felt her boots sink in. “That’s true,” she agreed. “Especially if you have a big sister.”

They were strolling between rows of corn by then. The plants were only waist high, and the tightly wrapped ears of corn were only half the size they should have been. “So you’ll appreciate my fort,” Sloan said. “It’s a place where imaginary Indians and pirates couldn’t touch me. There it is… Straight ahead.”

The cottonwood was standing all alone and impossible to miss. Massive branches twisted and turned as they sought the sun, and thanks to the shade that the tree’s canopy threw, the ground beneath the cottonwood was nearly bare.

“Dad wanted to cut it down,” Sloan told Mac, as they paused to admire the tree. “He said we should plant corn there. But Mom said ‘no.’ She said the tree belonged to me and that I was the only one who could kill it.”

Mac looked up at him. “And you didn’t.”

“No,” Sloan replied. “I didn’t. And I never will.” He pointed. “Look up there… Can you see the platform? I built it.”

Mac could see the platform. And she could see something else as well. She could see the essential goodness of the man standing next to her. Was he perfect? No. But neither was she.

Their first kiss was a tentative thing… little more than a gentle touch. Then Mac felt the pull she’d experienced before, and they kissed again. The second contact was more insistent and, had they been somewhere more private, would have led to further intimacies.

The moment was so compelling that neither of them was conscious of the Secret Service agents who stood with backs turned, staring out at the cornfields. Then something crashed through the foliage above them and clattered to the ground. Sloan turned towards the threat. “What the hell is that ?”

“I’m sorry,” one of the Secret Service agents said. “An unauthorized device entered the area… So one of our interceptor drones fired a burst of microwaves at it.”

Mac went over to look at the device. The drone was about three feet across, had four motors, and was equipped with a camera. There were no visible markings on the device, but it didn’t require a genius to know that it belonged to a TV network. Mac made eye contact with the agent. “Could a drone like this send a live feed?”

The agent nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

Mac turned to Sloan. “You know what this means.”

He nodded. “We’re busted. For real this time. Are you sorry?”

Mac remembered the kiss. “No. Never.”

Sloan nodded. “Me either.”

“I need to rejoin my unit. Especially after this. Before the shit hits the fan.”

“Yes,” Sloan agreed reluctantly. “That would be best.”

Then he turned to the agent. “Head back to the helicopter… And take the rest of the detail with you. We’ll be along shortly.”

Murphy looked like he might refuse, seemed to think better of it, and spoke into his sleeve. All of the agents disappeared. Sloan took Mac into his arms. “Let’s try that kiss again… Maybe we can get it right this time.” They did.

HOUSTON, TEXAS

General Bo Macintyre looked up at the sky. It was blue, and the sun was shining. How long had it been since he’d seen that ? A month? At least. And now, on his wedding day, ol’ Sol was making an appearance. That meant Kathy was happy. And when she was happy, he was happy. Or happier, since a state of giddiness wasn’t possible for someone of his temperament.

Bo went to the back of the Land Rover to get the groceries Kathy wanted. Most of it was items they already had, like mixed nuts, chips, and dip. But Kathy was concerned that they might run out. The sun was out, so more people would come. That was her logic. But Bo figured it would work the other way. People would want to play—and anyone who could bail out would do so. As for the rest of them, meaning the other members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, they were screwed. Bo grinned. He’d been there and done that.

Bo carried the groceries up to the back door, turned the knob, and entered the kitchen. Guests would arrive soon, and the caterer was hard at work. The caterer turned to look at him. “Kathy says it’s time to get dressed. Or else.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bo said as he took an appetizer and popped it into his mouth. “Yum! Prawns rolled in bacon! Save ten of those for me.”

“You’ll have to negotiate that with the boss,” the caterer replied. “Those kind of decisions are above my pay grade.”