"Right here, Corporal," Smith replied, returning the salute.
"A call came in for you at base camp, sir, from the officer of the day at Main Post." She produced a piece of white notepaper from the breast pocket of her BDUs. "As soon as possible you are to call this phone number. He indicated it was very important."
Smith accepted the slip of paper and glanced at it. That was all that was required. The number was one that Smith had long ago committed to memory. It was not so much a phone number now as an identifier and a call to arms.
Smith refolded the paper and stowed it in his own pocket, to be burned later. "I'll need to get back to the fort," he said, his voice flat.
"That's been arranged for, sir," the courier replied. "You can take the quad down to base camp. They'll have a vehicle waiting for you."
"We'll take care of your gear, Colonel," the instructor interjected.
Smith nodded. It was likely he wouldn't be back. "Thanks, Top," he said, extending his hand to the noncom. "It's been a good program. I've learned a great deal."
The sergeant returned the solid handgrip. "I hope it'll help, sir...wherever. Good luck."
The highway leading down to Fort Lewis snaked through the forested foothills of the Cascades, passing a series of small towns undergoing the economic conversion from logging to tourism for their sustenance. The sixth-largest Army post in the United States, Fort Lewis served as the primary staging facility to America's defense commitments in the North Pacific and as the home base for the Army's cutting-edge Stryker brigades. Scores of the massive eight-wheeled armored fighting vehicles could be seen occupying the post motor pools and rumbling down the access roads to the firing ranges.
The fort also served as home for the Fifth Special Forces Group, the Second Battalion, Seventy-fifth Rangers, and a squadron of the 160th Special Aviation Regiment. Thus, the members of the base cadre were well acquainted with the requirements and necessities of covert operations.
The officer of the day didn't ask questions when Smith checked in at the headquarters building. He had been advised to expect this sunburned and bearded stranger in sweat-stained camouflage. He had also been ordered by the highest of authorities to grant Jon Smith every possible assistance.
In short order, Smith found himself seated alone in a headquarters office with a secure communications deck on the desk before him. He dialed the contact number without consulting the note he had been given. On the East Coast of the United States a phone rang in a facility the public believed to be a private yacht club in Anacosta, Maryland.
"Yes." The answering voice was a woman's, toneless and crisply professional.
"This is Lieutenant Colonel Jon Smith," he said with careful deliberation, not for the human at the far end of the circuit but for the voice identification system that would be monitoring the call.
The device's verdict must have been favorable, for when Maggie Templeton spoke again it was with considerably more warmth and animation. "Hello, Jon, how's Washington? The state, that is."
"Very green, Maggie, at least the half I've been in. I gather you and the bosses have something for me."
"We do." The professionalism crept back into her voice. Margaret Templeton was more than Fred Klein's executive assistant. The widow of a CIA field operative and a veteran of her own years at Langley, the slender, graying blonde was, for all intents and purposes, Covert One's second in command. "Mr. Klein wants to brief you personally. Are you set up to receive hard copy?"
Smith glanced at the desktop laser printer connected to the secure deck, noting its glowing green check lights. "Yes."
"I'll start sending you the mission database. I'm putting you through to Mr. Klein now. Take care."
"I always try, Maggie."
As the desk printer started to purr and hiss, the phone clicked, and Smith visualized the connection jumping from Maggie Templeton's integrated workstation/office with its bristling array of computer and communications accesses to that second, smaller, starker room.
"Good morning, Jon." Fred Klein's voice was quiet and instinctively controlled. "How's the training going?"
"Very well, sir. I only have three days left to go on the course."
"No, you don't, Colonel. You've just graduated. We need to put that training to work right now. A problem has developed that you are uniquely positioned to deal with."
Smith had been bracing for this ever since receiving his contact notification. Still, he had to suppress