“Can I see some ID, sir? Driver’s license?”

I got up pretty damn early for this crap. Three hours driving separated his home in the Georgia Piedmont from Fort McPherson, Georgia, home of the Army’s Forces Command. Perched just off of Interstate 75-85, the green lawns and numerous brick structures hid a mass of secure buildings. Since it commanded all the combat forces in the Army its secure meeting facilities were top-notch but the press hardly noticed it. If a large number of military and civilian personnel suddenly congregated in Fort Myers, Virginia or Nellis AFB it would be noticed; places like that were carefully watched but not Fort McPherson. Serviced by Hartsfield Airport, the largest in the United States, and covered by Atlanta’s notorious traffic, the only people who noticed the gathering were the carefully selected soldiers acting as military police. But, while the soldiers had been carefully selected, they had not been selected from the ranks of MPs.

“Thank you, sir,” said the somber gate guard after a thorough study of Mike’s driver’s license and face. “Take the main road to a ‘T’ intersection. Turn right. Follow that road to Forces Command; it is a gray concrete building with a sign. Go past the main building to the guard shack on the left. Turn in there and follow the MP’s direction.”

“Thank you,” said Mike, dropping the Beetle into gear and taking the proffered ID.

“Not at all,” the guard said to the already moving Beetle. “Have a nice day.” The Delta Force commando in an MP uniform picked up a recently installed secure phone. “O’Neal, Michael A., 216-29-1145, 0657. Special attention Lieutenant General John Horner.” For a moment the sergeant first class wondered what all the fuss was about, why he was wearing rank three grades inferior to his real one. Then he stopped wondering. The ability to quell curiosity was a desirable trait in a long-term Delta. Damn, he thought, that guy looked just like a fireplug, then dismissed him from memory as the next civilian car pulled up.