Which offered the opening I'd been waiting for. "Why are you here? Have you got a piece of this case?"

"Why are you here?"

"Ladies before gentlemen."

"Oh… now you're a gentleman?" It wasn't that funny, but she laughed.

I should mention why I asked. Bian Tran's tan- and loam-colored outfit was not your ordinary feminine attire, but a desert-style camouflage battle dress uniform with Uncle Sam's Army embroidered above her right breast.

The Army uniform can be both illustrative and informative. For instance, the insignia on her right collar-crossed dueling pistols- designated her a member of the Military Police Corps, which might have something to do with her presence here. And from the gold leaf on her other collar, she was a major, with the combat patch on her right shoulder indicating she had a full combat tour under her belt, and had done her part to secure Western civilization, such as it is.

Regarding the person inside the uniform: thick, straight hair, parted down the middle, black in color, and shoulder length, as per regulations, which not all women follow. Eyes large, black, Asiatic in cast, with arched eyebrows that were slyly expressive. I estimated her age at about thirty-young for her rank-so she probably was very good at her job, and there was a warm intelligence in her eyes.

"I asked why you're here," she said.

Vietnamese by name and by race, though her English carried no hint of an accent, in fact was flawless-idiomatically correct, native in tone and inflection, and so forth. Light on the makeup and, if you're interested, as I sometimes am, no wedding band, just a practical black plastic runner's watch, tiny gold West Point ring, and a plastic-wrapped dog-tag chain around her neck.

All in all, I thought Bian Tran was an impressive specimen of soldierly attributes-fit, wholesome, and freshly scrubbed; ready to launch a volleyball on the beach, or a fire mission on an enemy village, whichever the occasion calls for.