For the first time Geoff saw Craig Lowell as an officer. For as long as he could remember, he had known his cousin was in the army. But he had rarely seen him, and never before in a uniform. He wasn't exactly an expert on the army's doodads, but he recognized some of the things pinned to Craig Lowell's uniform: the pilot's wings, the Combat Infantry Badge, and the Purple Heart medal, with the little gadgets that indicated his kin had suffered wounds on a number of occasions. And there was row after row of ribbons, more than Geoff remembered seeing on most of the officers he had seen here.

The lieutenant colonel's silver oak leaves he recognized. His kin did not rank as high as the regimental commander, but he outranked the battalion commander, the bastard who had put him in here and who was probably going to send him to prison.

"What happened to your hand?" Lowell asked.

"It's broken in several places, Colonel," Geoff said.

"Apparently you've had adequate treatment for it."

"Yes, sir."

"Are you in pain?"

"No, sir."

"Why did you beat up the sergeant? Beat up, as opposed to punch."

"I lost my temper, sir."

"What did he say to you that made you lose your temper?"

"He didn't say anything; he hit me."

"He hit me, sir."

"He hit me, sir."

"Any witnesses?"

"No, sir."

"You would be expected to accuse the sergeant of landing the first blow," Lowell said. "Why do you think he did that?"

"Because the ignorant bastard thought he could get away with it," GeQif said.

"Geoff, it is also a violation of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, 1948, to refer to a noncommissioned officer in dimespectful and/or obscene terminology," Lowell said. "The next time I hear you do it, I'll charge you with it. Do I make my point?"

"Yes, sir. May I ask what it is you're doing here, Colonel?"

When your mother heard that you're about to go to the Federal Penitentiary at Leavenworth, she grew hysterical to the point where your father felt it necessary to summon a physician. Your father reacted to this by telephoning our senators. Fortunately, I was able to turn off the senators."

"Excuse me, sir, I don't know what you mean by that."

"When it became known to the members of your courtmartial that there was what is known as congressional interest in your case, they would feel honor-bound to throw the book at you," Lowell said. "We're not at war, so they couldn't sentence you to death. But in peacetime, what you're charged with is punishable by life imprisonment. What that really means is that you would probably pull six months at Leavenworth. At that point you would be offered a chance at rehabilitation that is presuming good behavior, of course. That's sort of basic training, extending over a period of six months, right in Leavenworth. Presuming successful completion of that, you would be offered the chance to enlist for three years, and your offense would be expunged from the records."

"They only drafted me for two," Geoff said.

Lowell decided to forgive the omission of the term sir.

"If you were not selected for rehabilitation, or declined it, yob would probably come up for consideration for parole toward the end of your fifth year of confinement," he went on conversationally. "Your status would be that of a paroled felon, which means that you could not have a seat on the stock exchange or for that matter own a shotgun or get a driver's license. After several years on probation, depending on who was in office, we could probably get you a pardon, and you could resume your normal life."

Geoff said nothing.

"Now, your attorney has promised you that the army always makes enough mistakes so that he can get the conviction reversed on error," Lowell said. "Well, cousin, you can treat his promise as bullshit."

Geoff looked at him in genuine surprise.

"I talked to that sonofabitch last night," Lowell said. "I was disappointed in you. I thought that by now you would have learned that the primary motivation of lawyers is not justice but money. You never feed a bird dog before you take him hunting, and you never pay a lawyer before he's done what you're hiring him to do."

"He demanded a retainer," Geoff said, and remembered to add "sir."

"He smelled money," Lowell said. "He doesn't have any idea how much, but he figured that if there was a colonel in the family, there was probably another fifteen hundred to be had. He asked me for it. I fired him, of course."

"You had no right to do that!" Geoff said.

"See if you can get this into your stupid head, Geoff," Lowell said. "You are in no position to tell me what I have any right to do. I am very fond of your mother. I will do what I can for you because of what I feel for her."

"Yes, sir."

"That com-pone shyster did not tell you that the Judge Advocate takes very particular care not to make any technical mistakes when the local legal civilian hotshot appears on the scene. And contrary to what you might think, all lawyers in the army are not stupid."

Geoff was white in the face.

"Cousin Craig," he said, "what the hell am I going to do?"

"Now we're down to Cousin Craig," are we?" Lowell asked. "I suppose that's an improvement over a surly sir."

"I didn't mean to sound surly, sir."

"You will be defended at your court-martial by the army lawyer appointed to defend you," Lowell said. "He will try to get you off on your self-defense plea. I don't think he will get away with that, but he'll try. I'll come down here just before the trial and suggest to him that we paint you in court as a spoiled rich kid to whom the army posed such a culture shock that you lost control. I will suggest to him that he plead with the court that because you were pushed beyond your limits, a lengthy sentence would not be in the public interest.

"When your trial is over and goes through the local review process, we will get letters from your priest, the headmaster at St. Mark's, and whoever else your father can beg them from, saying what a saintly character you are. That may induce the commanding general here to cut a couple of years off your sentence. The more we can get off, the better."

"Oh, Jesus!" Geoff Craig said.

"And at that point, we'll call in some competent lawyers experienced in this sort of thing, and we'll appeal your sentence all the way up to the Court of Military Appeals. With a little bit of luck, we'll have you out in eighteen months or two years."

"Two years?" Geoff Craig asked.

"That's presuming you don't get in any more trouble in the stockade," Lowell said. "You had better be the ideal prisoner."

"Two years!" Geoff Craig repeated.

"Be happy if it's only two years," Lowell said.

"But all I did was defend myself!"

"So you say," Lowell said. "But you're going to have to convince the court of that, and my estimate of your chances of doing that range from very slight to none."

He stood up and went to the door and knocked on it.

"Take your punishment like a man, Geoff," Craig Lowell said. "You did it, and you're going to have to pay for it."

He nodded curtly at Confinee Craig and walked out of the room.

Station Hospital Fort Jackson, South Carolina 0940 Hours. 11 December 1961 "Base, this is One-Seven," the military police sergeant said into the microphone of his Motorola police radio.

"Go, One-Seven," the military police dispatcher replied.

"I think we got that Hertz rent-a-car MP Five is looking for. It's parked at the hospital."

"Is the subject in it?"

"Negative, negative."

"You're sure it's the car?"

"Affirmative, affirmative. We checked it out. It's unlocked, and the rental papers are on the driver's seat. The name checks out, but it doesn't say anything about him being an officer. Same name, bat it says he's vice-chairman of the board of some company."

"Hold on, One-Seven," the military police dispatcher said.

There was a delay of several minutes.

"One-Seven, Base."

"Go ahead, Base."

"MP Five is en route to join you. If subject tries to leave the hospital, you are to detain him until MP Five arrives on the scene."

"Understand MP Five is en route?"

"That is affirmative, affirmative."

"Roger, Base," the MP sergeant said.

MP Five, who was the Deputy Provost Marshal, arrived in the hospital parking lot at the wheel of the Provost Marshal's staff car (though PROVOST MARSHAL rather than MP was painted on the trunk and doors, it was otherwise identical to an MP patrol car) just as Lieutenant Colonel C. W. Lowell came out of the hospital entrance and started toward his car.

MP Five, Major J. William Hasper, Jr." MPC, was a roly poly little man of thirty-five with a carefully tended pencil-line mustache. With the exception of white MP leggings, he was wearing MP accouterments.

"One moment, please!" he called out as he opened his door and Craig Lowell opened his.

He walked quickly to Lowell.

"May I see some identification, please?" he demanded.

"Doesn't anyone at Fort Jackson salute or say sir'?" Lowell asked.

The MP major considered that a moment, and repeated: "May I see some identification please?"

"You salute me, Major, and call me sir," and I will show you my identification," Lowell said. "And then you will show me yours, because I want to make note of the name of an MP major who displays such an appalling lack of military courtesy."

MP Five lost his temper.

He gestured angrily toward the two MPs who were standing beside Patrol Car 17, and they came over at a trot.

Trained by long habit, the MP sergeant saluted. Lowell returned it crisply.

"Good morning, Sergeant," he said. He looked at the Major. "Your men display fine military courtesy, Major."

"Now I'll see your identification, if you please," MP Five said.

Lowell made no move to comply.

"Sergeant!" MP Five snapped.

"Sir," the sergeant said, "may I see some identification, please?"

"Certainly," Lowell said, and handed him his AGO card.

The MP sergeant looked at it, looked at Lowell, and then handed it to MP Five.

MP Five paled.

"Colonel, there's apparently been some sort of misunderstanding," he said.

"Now that you know who I am, may I see your AGO card, please?" Lowell asked. Red-faced, the major produced it. Lowell took a notebook, wrote down the name, and then handed the AGO card back.

"Now I would like an explanation of this extraordinary episode," Lowell said.

"Colonel, would you wait here for just a minute, please?" MP Five said.

"If you wish," Lowell said.

MP Five trotted to his car and spoke on the radio. Then he came back.

"Colonel," he said, "Colonel Saner's compliments, and would you please follow me to Colonel Sauer's office?"

"Who is Colonel Saner?"

"Colonel Sauer commands the Eleventh Infantry Regiment. sir."

"What an extraordinary coincidence," Lowell said. "Just the man I was going to see."

(Four) Headquarters Eleventh Infantry Regiment (Training) Fort Jackson, South Carolina JOOS Hours, 10 December 1961 Colonel Fritz J. Saner, Infantry, was short, barrel-chested, and crew-cut ted He was wearing fatigues. They had been tailored to his body and were stiff with starch. Sewn above the breast pocket were embroidered representations of the Combat Infantry Badge (Second Award) and senior parachutist's wings with two stars. The circled A of Third Army was sewn to his left sleeve at the shoulder, and the Indian head of the Second Infantry Division to the shoulder of the right sleeve. Regulations permitted the wearing on that sleeve of the shoulder insignia of the division with which the individual had served in combat.

Colonel Saner had the choice of wearing the insignia of the Second Infantry, a battalion of which he had commanded in Korea; the Eighty-second Airborne Division, a platoon and a company of which he had commanded in War II; and the Ninety-sixth Infantry Division, a company and a battalion of which he had commanded in War H. This move from the Eighty-second came about after he'd caught a couple of Schmlesser rounds in the leg at Anzio. He had to be reassigned when he got out of the hospital and couldn't pass the jump physical.

Colonel Sauer had been around the army awhile, and although he was fully aware that the Eleventh Infantry Regiment (Training) was neither the Sixteenth Infantry Regiment of the First Division, or the 505th of the Eighty-second, it was a regiment of the United States Army, and he was the regimental commander, and he didn't have to put up with some chair warming sonofabitch of a Pentagon flyboy nosing around in his affairs without even the simple goddamn courtesy of coming to the regiment and announcing his business. It was Colonel Fritz J. Saner's intention to burn the ass of this sonofabitch as it probably had never been burned before.