All the Wrong Moves (22 page)

Okay, okay! You want the truth? The mere thought of another report of loss or damage to property in government custody broke me out in hives.

Mitch had to flash his badge and I had to toss out wholly fictitious facts and figures about DARPA’s weight in the civilian community before we sprang EEEK from the Marana police department’s evidence locker. To tell the truth, I think the only reason we regained custody was because no one on the police force had any idea how to fire up his computers or what they’d do with him if they did.

His shipping container had been demolished in the explosion so Mitch and I reprised our role as cyborg chauffeurs. We drove back to El Paso with EEEK strapped into the back seat of my rental car.

Our first stop was Mitch’s place, where I insisted on putting him to bed and spent the rest of the day playing nurse. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the me-doctor, you-hot-hot-hot-nurse kind of play I’d been dreaming about.

Between my periodic checks of his bandages and temperature, we both made phone calls. Mitch, to his supervisor and the assistant DA handling the Armstrong case. Me, to my team and—gulp!—my supervisor.

I won’t bore you with the details. Suffice it to say my phone’s video screen showed Dr. Jessup round-eyed with disbelief while I recounted my latest series of disasters. His red bow tie bobbed convulsively. Sweat glistened like silver tears against his dark skin.

I hung up convinced he would work either his immediate transfer back to the civilian sector or my immediate transfer back to the air force.

MY gloomy prognostication appeared to come true less than two weeks later.

Both Mitch and I were both back on the job. The hole in his shoulder had healed enough for him to return to duty. My bruises had run the gamut from ugly purple to ugly yellow to gone.

I was in my office on Fort Bliss, struggling to make sense of an invention that purported to transform ordinary grains of sand into acoustical transmitters, when Dennis rushed in.

“You’d better come down to the conference room, Lieutenant. Like, now!”

I’d never seen him so agitated. I was out of my chair before he’d spit the last word out.

“Why? What’s happened?”

I had instant visions of Penn stabbing an anti-Global Warming protestor with one of her hair implements or Rocky succumbing to hysterics over a failed test run.

“Just haul your butt to the conference room,” O’Reilly panted, already out the door.

I shoved away from my desk and followed him down the hall. Heart pounding, I rushed inside and immediately skidded to a surprised stop.

The room was full. Civilians and military. Army, air force and a few scattered marines. My team stood aligned against one wall. Mitch, Paul Donati and several people I didn’t recognize leaned against the other.

The fact that Mitch gave me a grin eased my half-formed fears of another disaster. The sight of Dr. J at the head of the conference table brought them crashing back.

“Sir! What are you doing on Fort Bliss?”

“It’s come to my attention that I’ve been remiss in making visits to my teams in the field.”

I wanted to ask what idiot had brought that to his attention. Heroically, I managed to refrain.

“Please come forward, Lieutenant Spade.”

I edged past my team, hissing as I went. “What’s this about? Any of you guys know?”

Their responses ranged from a stoney look (Sergeant Cassidy) to a shrug (Dr. Rocky) to a nod from Pen and a smirk from Dennis. I blinked twice when I saw EEEK propped in a corner at the front of the room.

Someone—I’ll bet my next two paychecks it was O’Reilly and his warped sense of humor!—had arranged EEEK in the pose I remembered all too well. One metallic ankle was hooked nonchalantly over the other. His composite arms were crossed. An air force flight cap tilted at a jaunty angle on his electronic brow. A silver eagle was pinned to the cap.

Colonel EEEK. God help us all!

Thoroughly discombobulated now, I joined Dr. J at the podium. Funny. I’d never noticed he’s at least four inches shorter than I am. Or that his eyes were the same shade of warm chocolate as mine.

Probably because he’d been sitting down the few times we conferred . . . and usually regarding me with a combination of caution and nervousness. I caught glimpses of both emotions before he turned to address the gathering.

“Ladies and gentlemen, as I’m sure you know, Lieutenant Spade heads up Future Systems Test Cadre-Three, based here on Fort Bliss. FST-Three’s mission is to test inventions for the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency.”

My esteemed supervisor paused, cleared his throat, and forged on.

“FST-Three has faced some enormous challenges in recent weeks, including the loss of their lab and most of their test equipment.”

I soared between wild hope and crushing worry. Had Dr. J made the trip to West Texas to announce he’d found funding for replacement equipment and FST-3 would soon be fully operational again? Or was he shutting us down?

I was surprised at the hole that last thought punched in my heart. It’s true I complain constantly about being deported to the backside of nowhere to work with my motley collection of geeks and eggheads. Also true, said geeks tend to howl with laughter at morning confab when reviewing some of the absurd projects submitted for our review.

Yet I know that deep inside, every one of us on the team nurses a secret hope we might actually contribute a significant enhancement to the safety, security or performance of U.S. military personnel. Why else would we troop out to Dry Springs once a quarter? Why else would we put up with each other’s odd and occasionally repulsive idiosyncrasies? Praying for good news, I tuned in closely as Dr. J continued.

“FST-Three also came close to losing its team chief,” he intoned solemnly. “That extraordinary sequence of events is why I’m here today. Dr. England, will you read the citation, please?”

Startled, I swung toward Pen. She stepped forward, her sturdy figure draped in its usual layers of natural fibers, and flashed a wide smile.

“My pleasure, Dr. Jessup.”

Feet shuffled and shoulders squared as the rest of the people in the room came to attention.

“Citation to accompany the award of the Joint Service Commendation Medal to Lieutenant Samantha JoEllen Spade,” Pen read solemnly.

Stunned, I listened while she described in somewhat extravagant terms my actions in helping to uncover and shut down an illegal arms-for-sale operation that crossed international borders.

Only after Dr. J had pinned a bronze medal suspended from a pretty blue ribbon to my breast pocket did he—
finally!
—announce he’d secured another CHU and funding for replacement equipment. FST-3 could truck on out to Dry Springs again in three to four months!

A round of applause followed these momentous announcements. Then Pen invited everyone to FST-3’s end of the hall for iced tea and wheat germ cookies.

“You might want to take a pass on the tea,” I murmured to Dr. J before he yielded the floor to my co-workers and associates. As they filed past, I shook hands and received hearty congratulations from everyone. Including Paul Donati.

“Look, I know I came down a little heavy at times, Lieutenant.”

“A little?”

“Now that the dust has cleared, I’ve been asked to tell you the Bureau appreciates your actions in breaking this case.”

Ha! I just bet they did.

Mitch was the last to approach. We’d seen each other a couple of times since the shoot-out. Purely platonic visits, given the severity of his wound. Now that he was out of bandages and off painkillers, though, I had great hopes for our next session.

I saw those hopes reciprocated in his grin as he glanced at the ribbon dangling from my breast pocket.

“Nice hardware.”

“I think so,” I replied smugly.

Laughing, he hooked a finger in the V of my uniform shirt and tugged me close. His lips brushing mine, he murmured an invitation.

“Want to get together tonight for a private celebration?”

“You bet!”

I vaguely recalled one of my instructors at Officer Training School lecturing us on PDA. In military lingo, the acronym stands for Public Displays of Affection. If you’re up there in the cerebral stratosphere with Pen and Rocky you might think it refers to Photo-Diode Array.

When Mitch bent and covered my mouth with his, I put my own spin on the acronym. I’ll let you figure that one out for yourself.