Hermit's Peak (2 page)

She had put her people in for commendations and medals, but hadn't heard a word back through the chain of command. Perhaps the incident would be buried so deep that there'd be no recognition of her team's outstanding performance. Such a morale-buster wouldn't make the rest of her tour any easier. She would have to think of ways to keep the unit's performance at a peak.

Sara looked at her wristwatch again. She had five minutes before her meeting with General Clarke. She put on her fatigue jacket and walked across the street to the headquarters building.

 • • • 

Upon assuming command of Combined Forces in Korea, Gen. Henry Powhatan Clarke had taken one look at his senior staff dressed in their Class-B headquarters uniforms and issued his first order, making fatigues the duty dress of the day for all personnel regardless of rank or assignment. As commander in chief of a combat-ready army, Clarke wanted the staff that would run the war and the line soldiers who would fight it dressed, equipped, and prepared to respond at a moment's notice.

It was the first of many changes Clarke made to hone his army to a high state of readiness.

In a rare exception to his own policy, General Clarke had worn his Class-A uniform to work. His schedule for
the day included a meeting with the United States ambassador and senior members of the embassy staff. Of all the ribbons he wore above his left jacket pocket, his most prized was the Good Conduct Ribbon, awarded only to enlisted personnel. Serving in Vietnam at the age of twenty, Henry Powhatan Clarke had won a competitive service appointment to West Point, and had graduated in time to return as platoon leader during the 1968 Tet Offensive.

At his desk, Clarke thumbed through the Defense Intelligence Agency report that had been delivered to his quarters late last night by a special Pentagon courier. 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 bodybag, 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.”

“I'll 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, Lt. 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 the 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 lifelong
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.

Dale ranched near the Tularosa, on land handed
down through three generations. He'd been Kerney's closest neighbor and best boyhood friend.

They passed through the village of Ojitos Frios. An adobe church and a cluster of homes—some of stone and others coated with cement or plastered with stucco—sat among irrigated fields that rimmed the base of flat-topped Tecolote Peak. The small valley seemed frozen in the late nineteenth century.

“What is this place?” Dale asked as he drove through the settlement.

“What?” Kerney asked.

“What's the name of this place?”

“Ojitos Frios.”

Dale glanced at Kerney with amused brown eyes.

“What's so funny?” Kerney asked.

“Cold Springs, huh? If we find one, maybe I'll give you a good dunking to wake you up.”

“I'm here,” Kerney replied.

“Not hardly,” Dale said. “You've been off in dreamland since I rolled up to your door early this morning.”

Kerney laughed. “I guess I have. I still can't believe Erma put me in her will.”

“That lady loved you like a son,” Dale said. Up ahead a fast moving stream ran across a dip in the road. He dropped the transmission into low gear and rattled the truck through the water, keeping an eye on the trailer hitched to the truck.

The trailer held two horses Dale had brought up from his ranch in the San Andres Mountains. One of the animals, Soldier, was a mustang Kerney had trained and later named in honor of his dead godson, Sammy Yazzi.

Sammy had been murdered while serving in the army at White Sands Missile Range, on land that once belonged to Kerney's family. Working with Sara Brannon, an army officer at the base, Kerney solved the crime, and the men responsible for Sammy's murder were dead.

Even though Kerney had given Soldier to him, Dale always planned to return the horse. Now, maybe soon he could.

Across the stream, the road curved and climbed the crest of a small hill that opened up on overgrazed grassland. Along the streambed Dale could see deep erosion furrows, a sure sign of poor range management.

“Where exactly is this mesa you now own?” Dale inquired.

“A little farther down the road,” Kerney answered, starting to feel a bit antsy.

Only three weeks had passed since he'd been informed of Erma's bequest of the land and the cabin, and due to the demands of his job as deputy state police chief, he'd been able to manage just one quick trip up from Santa Fe to look over his unexpected windfall.

What Kerney had seen looked promising. The foot of the low mesa held rich grassland, and a live stream wandered near a ramshackle cabin. But most of the land was on the mesa, and Kerney didn't have a clue what to expect in the high country.

With Dale supplying the horses and coming along for the ride, Kerney planned to see it all before the weekend ended.

The road turned east then north as the valley
widened, and a long ridge line popped up, dense with trees that climbed steep slopes. Beyond, the Sangre de Cristo Mountains rolled back into the horizon, peaks still capped in deep snow.

“That's my mesa,” Kerney said, when the cabin came into view.

“That's a pretty dinky mesa,” Dale replied, tongue in cheek.

“Don't be a spoilsport,” Kerney said. He directed Dale through the open gate and got out of the truck as soon as it came to a stop.

Dale eyed the cabin from the cab of his truck. Old stone walls sagged under a rusted, pitched tin roof. The front door and small windows were boarded up with scrap lumber. It looked completely useless.

He heard the sound of hoofs on metal and left the truck to find Kerney leading the horses out of the trailer and down the ramp.

“In a hurry?” Dale asked as he reached for Pancho's halter. Pancho was his best trail horse, sure-footed and with endurance suited for long rides. Soldier stood nearby, pawing the ground and shaking off his confinement in the trailer.

“You bet I am,” Kerney said, reaching for the riding tack in the trailer storage compartment.