Chapter 1

Some Years Ago

...

"I won't hurry you," she said nervously.

She had stepped in front of me on the street, which forced me to stop walking. She was about five-foot-six, slender with medium breasts. Her hair was blonde—almost white—and her eyes were deep blue. Her skirt and blouse were blue and had seen better days. The top three buttons of her blouse were open showing a good amount of naked chest.

Her complexion, where I could see skin, was flawless and her teeth were a brilliant white. If she smiled, she would be a beauty,

However, there was no smile. She was nervous, almost scared, as she continued, "You can take as much time as you want, Captain."

"I'm a Lieutenant," I answered abruptly.

I was pissed and had been in that state of mind for almost three weeks—and now some hooker calls me a captain and wants some action.

The events leading up to me staring at a German hooker speaking English with a slight accent had taken five years. My asshole father had left my mom and me years ago never to return. My mom struggled to put me through high school and we both knew there was no money for college.

When I was a senior in high school they had a vocation day that I attended. A US Army recruiter occupied one of the booths. We talked and he explained how the Army would put me through college—at least tuition, board and books—with the "only" requirement that I take some required military courses during college, give the army a month of my time each summer, and then serve a four-year enlistment. And to sweeten the proposition, they would make me an officer.

It wasn't the greatest proposition in the world—the war was on and thousands were being killed, although it now looked as if we would be the eventual victors—but it was the only deal that I could get. I thought "The guy is probably lying through his teeth, but going to college is better than being the last guy shot in the war."

I signed on the bottom line.

College was acceptable—booze, broads, books, and the Army in about that order, although if I were lucky, at times the broads edged out the booze. The four years passed quickly, my grades were pretty good, and I was anxious to leave the academic environment that had become boring.

I had no complaints during those four years with the single, serious exception that my mom never saw me graduate—she died in my last year; other than some distant relatives on my mother's side of the family, I was now completely on my own.

Languages came easily to me. I had taken German during high school and then four years of French in college. My army counselor at college—Major J. C. Jackson, USAR (retired)—had periodic review meetings with me. At one session he said, "Dave, after graduation you're going to Officer's Basic School and then you'll receive your commission as a second lieutenant. With your facility with foreign languages I'm going to recommend that the Army use that talent in the intelligence field."

"Why intelligence, Major?"

"As I said, your ease with learning new languages is a definite plus in the intelligence field. But second, when the war ended the OSS, which was our foreign intelligence branch, was immediately disbanded. It didn't take long for our government to realize that they had made a mistake, so they created the CIA two years ago.

"The CIA has been slow to organize and train their agents. Army Intelligence stepped into the void, since it is now apparent that our need for foreign intelligence is a very high priority.

"So does that sound like a good career field for you?"

I said the obvious, "It's a whole lot better than being a grunt officer in the field with people shooting at you.

"Can I ask a question, Major?"

"Fire away, Dave."

"The war is over. The army is having a huge reduction in force, and yet guys like me are going into the army while many others are being forced out. Something doesn't make sense?"

"Dave, you're both right and wrong. During the war promotions came quickly in the officer ranks. At the end of the war the army released eighty percent of their enlisted personnel. When they looked at the officers they found a large imbalance. There were way too many field-grade officers—majors through Colonels—to command a vastly reduced military. However, it was the opposite for the company-grade officers—lieutenants and captains—their ranks had been depleted in the fighting and as soon as the war ended, those that survived rushed to return to civilian life. The result was that the army had too many field-grade officers and too few company-grade officers. That's why you're in the program."

"Why don't they just make the majors do the job of the lieutenants?" I asked.

He chuckled at my naiveté. "Dave, after a couple of years in the real world, you'll be able to answer that question yourself. Until then, get ready to have a gold bar pinned on your shoulder."

Officer's Basic School was easy—a repeat of my monthly sessions during each summer at college. The Army agreed with my counselor that I should be in Intelligence, so they sent me to a six-month Army language school located in California. Unfortunately, the language was Korean.

I politely pointed out to the army that I was pretty good in German and French to which I was not very politely told that "We aren't at fucking war with Germany any more, and the French don't know what war is."

Six months of intense language training in California had me pretty competent in speaking and reading Korean. I waited for my orders during the last two weeks of language school. The orders arrived and the army showed me what a wonderful sense of humor it had—I was posted to Germany!

I politely pointed out that I just had spent the last six months learning Korean. It was somewhat harshly pointed out that our German unit was short bodies and that Eastern Europe and Russia were now considered our biggest threat—the Berlin Airlift had just ended and our government now viewed Eastern Europe both as a political battle, and also as a military threat.

"What changed in the last six months?" I asked.

My argument fell on deaf ears and ended with the sarcastic comment that the single gold bar on my shoulder meant that a lowly second lieutenant should salute and say, "Yes Sir" to orders when they are received.

Three weeks later I was in Germany. I walked into the commander's outer office and found a staff sergeant reading the newspaper and sipping coffee. I explained that I was reporting in and asked if I should report now or come back later.

The Sergeant looked me over, chuckled and said, "Hang tight, Lieutenant. I think they want to meet you now and get it over with."

He walked into the next room and came out a minute later. He shook his head sadly and pointed to the open door. I marched in and saw a captain and a first sergeant sitting at a conference table on either side of a lieutenant colonel.

I took a position of attention, saluted since I was reporting for my new duty, even though we were indoors, and did the military thing, "Lieutenant Wheeler, reporting for duty, Sir."

My new boss was the Battalion Commander named Weldon. I remained at attention as he read my file. As he read, his face turned redder and redder. Finally, he looked up at me and asked, "How much Russian do you speak?"

"None, Sir."

"Then what the fuck are you doing here?"

"Following orders, Sir?" I suggested.

Barely keeping his temper in check he said, "We are a Russian intelligence battalion stationed in Germany. You have high school German that you haven't used in years and speak no Russian. The French hate us, but they don't fight, and Korea is down the road a piece. Do I have that right, Lieutenant? In other words, what fucking good are you to me?"

Since there was no good answer to that question, I remained silent.

Finally, realizing that I was a second lieutenant who probably could find his ass only after two or three attempts, he introduced me to my immediate boss, whose name was Captain Myer, and told the three of us to get out and get me squared away. He would try to get me transferred to anywhere outside his command, but he told me that the odds were that he was stuck with me.

As we stood outside the office, Captain Myer winced and said, "You caught him at a particularly bad time, Lieutenant. In the last month we lost our three most valuable intelligence officers to civilian life, and you're their replacement.

"This is First Sergeant Franklin. I've asked him to advise you how to take care of all the little stuff. When you're done, take the rest of the day off. I will see you in my office tomorrow morning at 0800."

As the Captain walked away I turned to Franklin. It was obvious he had been in the army for many years; I guessed him to be in his mid-forties. He looked like he just stepped out of a recruitment picture with his uniform perfect in every detail. His body posture gave the impression that he was tough as nails.

A master sergeant and a first sergeant have the same enlisted rank, but the difference is that the first sergeant is the life-blood of the company. First sergeants provide discipline and counsel to the enlisted men in the company; instructs other sergeants on their duties; advises the commander; and assists young company-grade officers, like me, how not to be an asshole or fuck up on the job.

A master sergeant you call "Sergeant," but a first sergeant is addressed as "First Sergeant." Once an unspoken agreement is reached you can also call him "Top," which signifies he's the top enlisted man in the company.