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The slender, not quite twenty-two year-old man, his espresso colored hair gently tossed about by a light breeze, bent down, picked up his cap and placed it back on his head as he straightened his five foot nine inch frame. Smiling, he looked once again through clear, grey-brown eyes at each of the gold bars that now adorned the epaulettes of his crisp uniform. MACO Academy graduation was over and the newly commissioned second lieutenant, anxious now to start his career, began heading off the parade ground along with a few dozen other graduates, unaware that he was being watched.
As he neared the edge of the field, a tall, stocky man with graying temples, dressed in civilian clothes, approached him. "Roger Kennison?"
"Yes, I'm Ca...I'm Lieutenant Kennison."
"Come with me please," the man intoned, more insisting than asking.
Looking directly into the man's cold-steel eyes, he countered, "That depends. Who are you?" The lieutenant, head tilted slightly, eyebrows raised, was instantly wary. "May I see some I.D.?"
"I have a letter of introduction from the Academy Commandant," he responded, as he took a document from his inside jacket pocket, unfolded it and handed it to the wiry lieutenant.
Kennison looked the letter over for a few seconds, then, looking back at the man, he said, "I know Brigadier Tambul. This does appear to be from him." Then, returning his gaze to the document, he continued, "Special Operations, eh? Mister Graves, is it?"
"Just Graves. Right this way. I have transportation waiting," he said gesturing toward an air car hovering just above the runners' track a few meters away.
* * * * *
Graves stopped his vehicle in front of an unremarkable older white stucco building on J avenue in National City just south of San Diego. The trip took less than eight minutes. Both men exited the car and walked up onto the overhung porch that fronted the rectangular-shaped former residence. The older man thumbed a button on a remote control device in his right front trouser pocket and the dark-stained oak door, framed in flagstone, swung inward. Graves extended his left hand and Kennison led the way inside.
The room they entered was anything but residential. The oak door was plating for one made of ten-inch thick steel. Though not readily visible, the entire structure was encased in steel. Filing cabinets lined the entire room. Graves led the lieutenant down a narrow hallway to a small room in the back. Inside was a large steel desk with a cushioned chair behind it and three folding gray-steel chairs in front. The walls were painted egg-shell white, as were the walls in all the rooms.
Pointing to the center folding chair, Graves said, "Have a seat. Both men sat down. The older man then removed a thick manila file from a drawer in his desk and opened it.
"My two-oh-one file," Kennison asked, a bit incredulous.
"I have my own copy," Graves replied matter-of-factly, his eyes on the file. Then, after a moment's pause, he looked at the younger man and began speaking in controlled, even tones. "Your record at the academy both physically and academically is most impressive. You did well in sprinting, excelled in long distance running. You set several academy records in sniper training by significant margins. Your math scores are in the ninety fifth percentile. You have an uncanny aptitude for both intelligence and counter intelligence. Your teamwork rating, your language skills, your leadership skills, all are excellent. Above all you're incredibly resourceful. It's no mystery why you finished fourth in you graduating class, lieutenant."
"Which begs the question: why me," he asked with honest sincerity, his eyes focused on Graves. "Why not one, two or three?"
"That is the question, isn't it," he said rhetorically. Then, focusing hardened eyes on Kennison, he asked, "Have you ever killed anyone?"
"No," was the curt reply.
Graves leaned in closer. "Ah, but could you," he asked. Prodding.
Kennison kept his eyes focused Graves'. "That depends," he responded.
"If your commanding officer gave you an order to kill a particular individual, could you kill that individual," Graves asked, insistence in his voice.
Choosing his words carefully, the young lieutenant answered, "If my commanding officer gives me an order to kill, I will kill."
Graves leaned back in his chair and looked skyward for an instant, the edges of his mouth curling slightly. Then, quickly returning his gaze to Kennison, he said "I think you're what we're looking for. I would like you to be available to us for a most important special operation."
"You got my interest," the young officer replied. "Consider me available," he continued, showing the older man the merest hint of a sly smile.
Standing and reaching across the desk, Graves shook Kennison's hand. "It'll be good having you on our team," he said. "I'll have someone return you to your quarters."
* * * * *
Second Lieutenant Roger Kennison flipped open his secure-channel communicator. A masculine voice at the other end said, "Yes, what is it?"
"You were right, sir. I was contacted."
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