Part 12 (1/2)
On the mats, Mr. Church was addressing the line of men.
”Gentlemen,” he said slowly, ”congratulations for making it through the testing process. Welcome to the Department of Military Sciences.”
The men said nothing, though one or two of them nodded. It occurred to Bliss that they might not all be military. Some had more of that bearing while others had the more streetwise demeanor of cops.
”You've been briefed on the kinds of threats that the DMS was formed to confront,” continued Church. ”There is no other domestic agency empowered or equipped to deal with that level of technological danger. You will be the front line in a new phase of the war on terror, and make no mistake-we are very much in the business of stopping terror. The fall of the Towers initiated a new era in Special Operations. Much will be expected of you. Everything, in fact, except the possibility of failure. And before you think that my last comment is glib, it isn't. The DMS is both a first-response and last-defense organization. We will accomplish both. Failure to stop the kinds of threats we know are coming will likely result in catastrophic loss of life and incalculable damage to America and its people.”
All eyes were on Church. Bliss knew that each of these men could tell-as she could tell when she first met Church-that he was not given to exaggeration or swagger. He was not that kind of person, and that made his words far more chilling.
Church gestured to the woman who stood behind him. She was medium height, fit, with short dark hair and brown eyes. No rings, no jewelry. ”This is Major Grace Courtland, late of Barrier and the SAS. Some of you will have heard of her record in the SAS.”
Bliss watched the men appraising her. Most of the men's faces were wooden; one or two showed an unintentional sneer of contempt.
”Major Courtland has been seconded to the DMS and I have appointed her as the senior field agent. Henceforth you will answer to her without question. She will train you and together you will form the first DMS field unit, designated Alpha Team. Are there any questions?”
There were none but Church and Courtland watched their eyes. Bliss could see when Courtland spotted one of the sneers, even though the man in question-a bruiser with a row of fifty-caliber rounds tattooed around his ma.s.sive biceps-tried to clear his face of all emotion. Courtland pointed to him.
”What's your name, soldier?” she asked in a clipped London accent.
”Staff Sergeant Ronald McIlveen, ma'am.”
”Step forward.”
His face was like granite as he took a single step toward her. He was well over six feet in height and loomed above the Brit.
”You don't want to take orders from a woman, do you?”
”Ma'am?” he asked, clearly trying to sidestep the question.
”I said, if I gave you a b.l.o.o.d.y order, would you take it?”
”Yes, ma'am.”
”Any order?”
There was only a moment's hesitation. ”Yes, ma'am.”
”Really?”
”Yes, ma'am.”
”I don't believe you,” said Courtland. ”In fact, I think you're a s.e.xist p.r.i.c.k who thinks women are for s.h.a.gging and not fit to stand in the line of battle.”
The man stood absolutely rigid, eyes locked on the middle distance.
”Well, answer me.”
”I will follow orders, ma'am,” he said, though it sounded false even to Bliss, who had never been part of the military.
”Will you indeed?” Courtland stepped close. The overhead lights threw his shadow across her, and she looked tiny and frail. ”What if I ordered you to hit me?”
The soldier blinked. ”Ma'am?”
”I didn't stutter, Staff Sergeant. I asked if you would follow my order to hit me.”
”I cannot strike a superior officer, ma'am.”
”So, then you're refusing a direct order.”
”No ... I mean...”
”Hit me, staff sergeant.”
”I ... ...” began the sergeant, then he shut his mouth and froze into a statue. The other men in the line looked variously angry and amused.
Major Courtland snapped her fingers. ”Sergeant Dietrich.”
Church's bodyguard instantly stepped forward. ”Major,” he said crisply.
”Draw your sidearm.”
He did it without question or hesitation.
”Did you hear my order for Staff Sergeant McIlveen to strike me?”
”Yes, Major.”
”I will repeat that order, Sergeant. If he does not strike me, or if you believe his strike is either deliberately weak or deliberately misaimed, you are to kneecap the effing c.u.n.t. Is that clear?”
”As gla.s.s, Major.” Dietrich raised his Glock and pointed it at McIlveen's left knee. Dietrich's hand was as steady as a statue.
”Ma'am,” protested McIlveen.
Courtland looked up at him. ”Prove to me you'll follow a woman's orders. I want you to punch me in the face. I want you to knock my effing teeth out. I want you to break my effing neck, you effing overgrown c.o.c.k. Do it right now.”
Bliss's breath caught in her chest. She grabbed Hu's hand and squeezed it.
The big sergeant had no choice, so in the absence of retreat he attacked and swung a punch that was powered by his entire body. All his ma.s.s and muscle, all his confusion and anger, all his training and skill. He threw it fast and he threw it well, right at Grace Courtland's jaw.
And then he was falling.
Bliss couldn't understand what had happened.
There was a confusion of movement and Major Courtland's left hand seemed to blur. The meaty after-echo of impact bounced across the floor a split second before the big man dropped heavily to his knees, his hands clamped around his throat, his face turning a dreadful red. Courtland stepped sideways and hit him again, the side of her balled fist crunching into McIlveen's skull just behind his ear. His eyes rolled up and he flopped face-forward onto the floor and lay as if dead.
Mr. Church sighed and brushed lint from his sleeve.