Nothing but Trouble (8 page)

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.”

“And let Colonel Brannon know ASAP that she’s good to go as the team leader of the TDY assignment.”

The line went dead before Thatcher could respond. His hands were sticky with sweat. He dropped the receiver in the cradle, rubbed a hand through his buzz-cut hair, stared at the palm print on the desktop, wiped it dry with his shirtsleeve, and let the reality sink in that he’d screwed up big time with the new vice chief.

Sara eased to a stop in the driveway of the Aurora Heights cottage, killed the engine, and sat behind the wheel, trying to purge the last of her negative feelings about her meeting with General Thatcher before she went inside. She didn’t want to start the weekend with Kerney ranting and raving about her boss.

She gazed at the small brick house with its pitched shingled roof, gabled second-story windows, and formal pilasters that bracketed the front entrance. She loved the house, loved the man and boy who waited for her inside, loved the fact that Kerney had bought it for her and Patrick. It was the first true home she’d lived in since the day she entered West Point.

Inside, she called out to Kerney and Patrick and got no response. On the kitchen stove a pot of spaghetti sauce simmered, one of Kerney’s specialties he frequently fixed when he came to Arlington. She walked to the small enclosed back porch, heard the sound of Patrick’s laughter, and looked out through the screen door to see father and son playing baseball. Patrick stood with a small plastic bat on his shoulder, watching Kerney chase down a large rubber ball that rolled across the lawn.

“Home run!” Patrick said.

“Home run,” Kerney echoed, returning with the ball. He lobbed it underhand to Patrick, who swung and missed.

The last of Sara’s snit about the meeting with Thatcher washed away as she watched her husband and son at play for another minute, before stepping to the bedroom to change out of her uniform. Last night, anticipating Kerney’s arrival, she’d shaved her legs and taken a long soak in the tub. She dressed in a pair of shorts that accentuated her legs and pulled on a scoop-necked short-sleeve top that revealed the tiniest bit of cleavage.

In the kitchen Patrick and Kerney were at the table, reading Pablito the Pony. Sara nuzzled Patrick’s cheek and stroked the back of Kerney’s neck.

“Are you just now reading the book?” she asked.

“For the third time,” Kerney said, glancing at Sara. “You look yummy.”

“Yummy means good,” Patrick announced as he turned the page.

“Can you hold that thought until later?” Sara asked.

Kerney grinned. “Easily. How did your meeting go?”

“Okay.”

Patrick poked his finger on the book to get Kerney’s attention. “This is where Pablito gets his hoof stuck in the fence, Daddy.”

“Right you are,” Kerney said.

“I’ll get the noodles started,” Sara said, “while you men finish reading.”

The phone rang. Sara went to the living room and answered. Kerney paused, hoping it wasn’t the Pentagon calling her back to work. She was still on the phone when he finished reading the story. He closed the book, sent Patrick off to his bedroom to put it away, and found Sara in the living room, her eyes dancing with excitement.

“Good news?” he asked.

“I’m staying at the Pentagon for at least six more months,” Sara said, “in a new temporary assignment, with a new boss.”

“What’s the job?”

“I’m supposed to develop a military-police training course for reserve and National Guard units.”

“How did you pull that off?”

Sara shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“Does this mean your leave is canceled?”

Sara snuggled up to him. “No way. We’re still going to the Bootheel with you to play Hollywood cowboy.”

Kerney grinned with relief, held her close, took in her scent. “Well, for now, that’s another piece of puzzle solved.”

“For now is good enough for me,” Sara replied.

“I’m hungry,” Patrick said, as he bounded into the living room and grabbed his parents by the legs.

After a great weekend with Sara and Patrick, Kerney returned to Santa Fe late Sunday night, caught a few hours of sleep, and arrived at work in time to convene an interagency planning meeting for the upcoming Santa Fe Fiesta.

Every year in September the city celebrated the Spanish reconquest of New Mexico with pageantry, religious services, music, dances, parties, and the public burning of Old Man Gloom. It was a time when a good number of the citizenry got drunk, started fistfights, brawled in bars, vandalized property, fought with spouses, drove under the influence, and occasionally shot or knifed each other. Additionally, the birthrate in the city always spiked nine months later.

Santa Fe’s finest hated fiestas so much that many officers counted their years to retirement by the number of remaining celebrations they would be forced to work before they turned in their pension papers.

The meeting, held in the council chambers at city hall, brought together supervisors and commanders of all local, county, and state law-enforcement agencies, plus fire department, EMT, county jail, and hospital ER personnel. Working through the full agenda took the whole morning. Decisions were made on the streets to be closed and manned by uniformed personnel, where first-aid stations would be set up, how many personnel would be assigned to saturation foot and roving traffic patrols, the number of plainclothes, undercover, and gang-unit teams that would operate during the long weekend, and where DWI checkpoints would be established.

After setting SWAT command-and-control protocols for crowd and riot control, the meeting moved on to a discussion of what bars, liquor establishments, and convenience stores would be targeted for alcohol sales to underage drinkers, and how transportation to the jail and hospital would be coordinated.

Kerney brought the meeting to a close with a word of thanks and the announcement that he would be on vacation during the fiesta, leaving Larry Otero, his second-in-command, in charge. Because his pending retirement was now common knowledge in all the cop shops, the news was greeted with a lot of grins, head shaking, and friendly catcalls.

When the last of the group dispersed, Kerney stopped by the mayor’s office and left word that he would stay on as chief until the new administration came into office. At the personnel office he picked up the application for pension forms that needed to be submitted at least sixty days in advance of his retirement.

Paperwork in hand, Kerney left the building. In six months he would become a civilian. For many cops retirement was a difficult milestone. But with Sara and Patrick in his life Kerney felt ready and eager for the future. He smiled at his good fortune as he walked to his unit.

In preparation for the tech scout Kerney read up on the history of the Bootheel, a part of New Mexico he’d never really explored. He also surfed the Internet for information and bought some maps of the area to study. In 1853, under the Gadsden Treaty, the United States bought from Mexico over twenty-nine-million acres along the border for a paltry ten million dollars. The land purchase stretched from the Rio Grande to the junction where the Colorado and Gila Rivers joined. The deal had been struck by the government on behalf of the railroad barons, who wanted a southern route to California. Thanks to political patronage a new international boundary was surveyed and the Bootheel was born.