DEADLY DILEMMA by Dan Stratman (story read aloud .txt) 📗

chair behind his desk. The large chair looked as if it could swallow him whole.

Colonel Wilmer stepped forward, stood at attention, and began his report. “Sir, I have determined what—”

McNeil held up a hand, stopping the colonel in mid-sentence. He lifted the lid on an ornately carved wooden box and pulled out a Winston Churchill-size Cohiba Esplendido. McNeil had a friend in Washington smuggle the expensive cigars into the States in a diplomatic pouch. He meticulously trimmed the end then lit it with a gold-plated lighter. Without saying a word, he waved for Wilmer to continue.

“Yes, sir. As I was saying, I’ve determined what happened this morning.”

McNeil leaned forward and pounded his fist on his desk. “Someone is going to hang because of this screwup, and it sure as hell isn’t going to be me.”

“Of course not, sir. This regrettable incident happened because Master Sergeant Holmes failed to check the SD card before he inserted it into the computer.”

McNeil cocked his head. “So, you’re saying it’s your NCOIC’s fault?”

“Absolutely, sir. It’s inexcusable he wouldn’t have checked the card first.”

After deftly navigating the cutthroat world of military promotions for decades, McNeil knew exactly what was motivating Wilmer’s explanation. “What do you recommend I do about this, Colonel?”

“I would never presume to think that I would have a better solution than you, sir.” He stared at his shoes and shifted his feet. “The thing is…”

“Spit it out, Wilmer.”

“I’m afraid anything less than a court-martial would send a dangerous message to your troops, sir.” He looked up. “They might wrongly assume you are weak. It’s not true, of course, but you know how quickly groundless rumors can spread on social media these days—and at the officers’ club.”

McNeil leaned back in his chair and took a deep draw from his smuggled cigar. He let it out slowly. The acrid smoke curled up toward the ceiling like a poisonous snake. “Have the paperwork ready for my signature by the end of business today.”

Relief washed over Wilmer’s face as he exhaled. “I took the liberty of preparing the legal paperwork before I came over, sir.” He opened the folder. “It’s ready for your signature.”

“How efficient of you,” the general said derisively. He snatched the folder out of Wilmer’s hand, opened it, and scribbled his signature on the document. McNeil waved away the backstabbing Wilmer. “Now get the hell out of my sight.”

He scampered off before the general could have a change of heart.

With the simple stroke of a pen, the exemplary career of Master Sgt. Mark Holmes had been destroyed.

The intercom box on the desk buzzed. Lola’s irritating voice crackled over the small, cheap speaker. “General, your boss is on line two.”

McNeil sat up straight in his chair and flipped a switch on the box. “Did he say why he was calling?”

“Yeah, he did.” The sound of gum chewing overlaid her response.

“Well…?” McNeil shot back with exasperation at her attempt to play games.

“He wants to know your favorite color.”

McNeil hit the switch on the intercom so hard he broke it off. He took a few deep breaths to calm himself then picked up his phone. “General Rayburn, I was expecting your call.”

“What the hell is going on at your base, McNeil!”

His rebuke was so loud, McNeil had to pull the receiver away from his ear a few inches to prevent hearing damage.

“I just got off the phone with the president. The friggin’ commander in chief! He ordered me to come to the White House first thing tomorrow morning with a full explanation. I sent you to Cheyenne to clean up that mess, not nuke North Korea!”

“Yes, sir. I understand, sir. You’re completely justified in being angry. I’ve done a thorough investigation and was shocked myself at the incompetence on display this morning. The command post NCOIC is the man responsible for this fiasco. I assure you; it’s not going to go unpunished.”

“You’re damn right about that!”

“I just signed the paperwork authorizing a court-martial for him. I will forward it, and a complete explanation of what happened to you by this afternoon, sir.”

General Rayburn hadn’t gotten to the rank of four-star general without learning how to play the blame game. He needed a high-ranking scalp to show his boss. “It’s too late to dump your ass now, McNeil. The rollout of the new Minuteman IV at Warren is just three months away. But once the weapons system is up and running, the Air Force will no longer be needing your services.”

Rayburn slammed his phone down.

General McNeil had just learned the harsh lesson that knives cut both ways.

Chapter Eight

Cyndi rolled into the dark parking lot of the badly misnamed Front Range Riviera apartment complex. Daylight savings time had ended a few weeks ago, and the long, frigid nights had begun.

She pulled her silver Honda Accord into a spot in front of her building and tossed her go-bag into the back seat. Dressed in civilian clothes again, the young woman—responsible for commanding the most devastating weapons the world has ever known—looked like any other local. Cyndi flipped the hood of her parka up and gathered the four plastic grocery bags sitting on the front seat. When she opened her car door, the incessant Wyoming wind tore the handle out of Cyndi’s hand. The only thing that prevented the wind from ripping the door off its hinges was the side of the car next to her. Dings from wind-blown car doors were so common in Wyoming that drivers didn’t even bother leaving a note. Cyndi hefted the grocery bags out of the car and headed up the sidewalk.

Across the parking lot, two ranch hands wearing faded jean jackets and muddy Red Wing boots lurked in the cab of a rusted F-150. The driver, sporting a mullet under his oil-stained baseball cap, tossed an empty beer can out his window. His passenger propped the plaster cast covering his right arm on the window ledge and tipped his cowboy hat down over his eyes.

The driver caught sight of Cyndi as she