62 Beginnings: Garrison

Chapter 1

Private Craig Garrison, blond, handsome and intelligent, looked down at his hands clasp in his lap. The black and white striped cotton 'uniform' he wore matched the vertical bars on his cage in the Virginia stockade. He had come a long way in his almost ten years in the United States Army; from 2nd Lieutenant to Captain, to Major, to Private. All because he hadn't been able to control his temper.

It didn't matter the colonel he had hit was in the wrong. It didn't matter that the outfit hadn't been massacred by German forces on the arrogant whim of the senior officer. Craig had broken one of the Army's cardinal rules. And it didn't matter that same officer had been stripped of command and was already in prison for giving the same order to another group in another battle that had resulted in the deaths of every single soldier. Garrison had been tried and convicted before the colonel's trial and the verdict stood. Now Craig waited for the guards to come get him. Today was the day he was to be shipped to the military prison at Fort Leavenworth.

A few minutes later, the rattle of keys in the locked door just down the hall from him, alerted him. Three armed soldiers walked down and stopped in front of his cell. There was no last-minute reprieve. Garrison stood calmly with a stoic face as he was shackled and cuffed and led from the building to a waiting prison truck. A casual glance around told him General William Garrison had not come to see his son off. It did not surprise him.

GGG

Craig did not know what he had expected in a military prison, but it wasn't this. Apparently, the majority of military criminals had the same larcenous background as regular criminals. Facing a ten-year sentence and the loss of his military career, Garrison decided to fine tune the knowledge he had gained in his teen years from his Italian uncles who were more of a 'family' than just blood. It wasn't that he wanted to follow this way of life, but learning anything kept his mind active.

Most of what he learned was from listening and watching. His cell mate was a former bank robber from the west coast who had been drafted into the service. He had mistakenly thought security would be a little laxer on an army base than in a bank, so he had gone after the payroll in a colonel's office. With a gentle nudge and an expression of interest and admiration for bank robbers, Craig soon had the man talking about his past successful robberies and how he had accomplished them.

Another man in their cell block had tried to run a Black Market ring with supplies purloined from the base he was on. One of his partners had become greedy and been caught, spilling his guts to the tribunal board in a plea bargain that took down the rest of the team. The number one rule was never take on partners. When he learned Garrison knew something about confidence games, he happily took the young man under his wing and taught him more.

Inevitably, there were fights. Craig never started them, but if somebody brought trouble to him, he taught them not to try it a second time. He had boxed at West Point and learned street fighting from his Italian cousins. For the most part, he minded his own business and kept to himself, with the exception of a few of the inmates.

It had been a long two months when one day two guards came to his cell, shackled him and told him he was going to see the warden. A quick glance at his cellmate, Mel, told him the man was as confused as he was. Garrison had not been in a fight for the past two weeks and there was nothing else worth reporting.

The chains seemed to clink overly loud as he was escorted down the concrete walkway, past the double line of barred cells. There were cat calls and occasional words of encouragement from the inmates in the cells they passed. Jim, the confidence man, frowned when he passed. Well, whatever was going to happen, it would make a good story when he got back. What Craig didn't know was that he would not see these men again.

He was escorted into Warden Halleran's office. The mid-fifties, slightly graying weary-eyed warden looked up and eyed Craig with some vague curiosity.

"Release him," said the warden.

"Sir?" The guard was surprised. They never released a prisoner in the warden's office unless the convict was being freed.

"I said release him."

"Yes, Sir."

Craig held perfectly still, a closed expression on his face, as the guard removed the cuffs and shackles. His expression did not change as the man stepped back and looked askance at the warden. He was told he could leave.

Hallaran waited until the door closed behind the guard before leaning back in his chair with hands tented in front of him. "There are civies on the chair over there next to the bathroom." He nodded toward a chair by a door. "Go in and change. Take your time."

"Yes, Sir."

This didn't make sense either. If he was being transferred to another facility he would have stayed in his striped suit. As he headed for the clothes, the warden's next sentence made him barely hesitate.

"You have friends in high places . . . Lieutenant Garrison."

Craig did not look at him, but picked up the clothes and went into the bathroom, closing the door. He changed into the clothes and used the facilities with some small amount of enjoyment. It was the first privacy he had in two months.

Lieutenant? Obviously, he was being released. Dad? A little slow, but it was the only explanation he could come up with. He chewed on that with mixed feelings. Anything to get out of here, but the price was going to be accusations of nepotism for himself and the General. Besides, it put Craig into a position of owing his father. That was always an intolerable situation. With a flick of the handle, Craig watched the excrement of this place symbolically swirling down the drain. A tiny smile tweaked one corner of his mouth. Setting his features back into the closed look, he walked back into the office, setting the neatly folded 'uniform' on the chair and walked back to stand in front of the warden.

Hallaran was just finishing signing some papers and pushed them and the pen toward Garrison. Craig read and signed the papers.

"Your release," said the warden. "You will be transported to the air field and put on a plane to Virginia. Someone will be waiting for you there. I don't know why and I don't know if you know why. I don't have that kind of clearance. And - - - I don't want to know. This entire incarceration has been expunged from you record. It didn't happen. You have records stating you were in a base hospital recovering from injuries received in battle in North Africa." Hallaran stood up. "Morrison!" he called out. The door opened and the guard looked in. "Take this man to the air field." His attention went back to the clean-cut young man in front of him. "And Garrison, try to stay out of trouble."

"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir," said Craig before following the guard into the hall.

Hallaran sat down at his desk. These were strange times and the military was doing strange things, like releasing a prisoner and erasing his past. He shook his head and went back to his business.

GGGGG

Craig stopped at the top of the steps leading down to the ground. He squinted around in the dimming light of evening and spotted the military car on the edge of the tarmac. It had a white star painted on the door and a tall, ram-rod straight man with what looked like grayish hair was standing beside the car, looking right at Garrison. He recognized the build and stance immediately. With a sigh of reluctance, Craig straightened his shoulders even more and walked down the steps, moving across the tarmac to meet his father, General William Garrison, of the War Department. Reaching the older man, Craig snapped a salute.

"Just get in the car," ordered Will, not returning the salute.

The corporal standing by the front fender moved quickly to open the passenger door for the two officers. The younger Garrison climbed in and slid across the seat to make room for his father. The General sat beside him, displeasure radiating off him in waves. Craig waited for the door to close.

"Your doings, Sir?" he asked with almost an accusatory manner.

"Partially." Will looked straight ahead. "We'll discuss this later."

The ride into Washington, D.C. seemed long in the uncomfortable silence in the car. The newly reinstated Lieutenant found they were winding though streets that became residential and tree lined. There were old brownstones along narrow avenues. Finally, the car double parked in front of an old red stone building with steps leading up to an ornate wooden door. It looked like the rest of the steps and doors lining the concrete sidewalk, made slightly uneven by the roots of trees that were probably the General's age. It was difficult to see much more in the darkness with no streetlights. Blackout rules were firmly in place. Not a bit of light shown from any of the doors or windows.

Will got out when the door was opened for him. Craig followed. Still nothing was said. They climbed the steps and waited while Will removed a set of keys from his right pants pocket and fitted one into the lock. With a click, the door opened and they entered a hall behind blackout curtains. The hall had that smell of old building and cigarette smoke. A well kept up hardwood floor led to a finely polished wooden staircase. Double doors were open on the left, leading to a drawing room. Craig couldn't call it a living room. It did not have a lived in feeling. The antique furniture and décor lent an air of show to the room. Will flicked an overhead light on before moving directly to the dry bar in the back corner.

"How do you take your bourbon?"

"Neat," replied the younger Garrison, looking around. Typical his father did not know how he drank his liquor.

The place was austere and definitely lacked the touch of his mother; but then Craig doubted his mother had ever been here. Mistresses yes, wife no. Glasses clinked and Craig stopped his perusing when Will turned and walked back to hand him a glass of clear brown liquor, neat and a double. The young Garrison took a healthy sip of his, suppressing the desire to toss the entire drink down his throat at once.

Will walked to an overstuffed chair and sank into it, placing his glass on an antique wooden side table. He picked up a pipe and a pouch of tobacco and began building a smoke. Craig sat down and watched him while taking small sips of the good grade bourbon. Satisfied, the General lit the pipe and took a soothing puff. The smell almost immediately reached Craig and brought back memories of his childhood. Everybody else in the rural area where they lived rolled their own cigarettes. The pipe had seemed exotic to the young boy; just as exotic as the man who only showed up a couple times a year and never stayed long. Just long enough for Josie Garrison to end up pregnant. It wasn't until Craig was in his teens that he realized his absent father only thought of his mother as a brood mare.

"Craig!" His father's voice was irritable.

"Yes, Sir." Craig must have missed the older man talking.

"You are wondering why I got you out of Leavenworth."

"I'm sure you have a very good reason . . . Sir." The faint touch of sarcasm earned him a glare.

Will continued. "I took that hare-brained scheme of yours to General Newman. Sam thought it was brilliant." His tone indicated he was not of the same opinion. "He in turn presented it to the higher ups. They think it's worth a try. And the only one they can think of to set it up is the man who came up with the idea."

Craig was surprised. He thought it was a good idea, but had doubted anyone else would. Now his father had his full attention. The bottom of the liquor glass rested, forgotten, on his thigh.

"Your record has been purged. There is nothing showing the altercation with Col. Brinson. Nothing about your incarceration. You are back as a lieutenant because those in special forces cannot have any higher rank, for their own safety." Will took a sip of bourbon. "Tomorrow we'll go to my office. Lt. Martin will take you to a meeting with the other generals. It's a work meeting. For the next couple weeks you'll fine tune your plan and in between sessions, you'll be taken to prisons to interview the type of men you seem to think are what you need for this group. Sam has been looking at prison records for the past two months and has narrowed it down to about twenty men who are presently incarcerated."

Craig nodded. He kept his face impassive while the rest of him wanted to give a shout. They had bought it and he was going to set it up. He'd make it work. Given the right men, he'd make it work.

Will Garrison finished his drink in silence. His eldest son had turned out to be a disappointment, just like the rest of his sons. He supposed he would have to call that adopted Indian boy his son too. That one had gone into the Air Force. Garrisons came from a long line of Army men. Their neighboring Gallaghers flew airplanes. Will was fully aware his oldest son could fly anything that had wings. Preston Gallagher had taught him. That was probably where Montgomery had learned too. The youngest boy, Kelly, was also a wild one. He had hopped a train at age twelve to go to Great Falls because he could. Then there were the girls. Craig's twin, Cynthia, was more of a man than his boys were. Teresa, the middle one, had adored her father until she had reached her early teens. Then her attitude had turned to disdain. She had disappeared one summer and gone barnstorming with the Gallagher brood. Another summer when he had come home for a short vacation, she had disappeared again only this time with a horse, pack horse and dog. She was gone for a month. Girl knew the trails, marked and unmarked through the National Park better than he knew the streets of DC. Her present living situation was another problem that would have to be taken care of eventually. Christine, the youngest girl, had been the only decent one of the children. That was until her middle sister had enticed her to New York and now she was living with the brother of the man Teresa was living with. Enough of the disappointments.

"I have work to do," Will said to his eldest 'disappointment.' "Your room is upstairs, first on the right. Breakfast is at six o'clock. There's a uniform in the armoire. We have to be at the War Department by oh-eight hundred. We leave here at oh-seven-fifteen sharp. See that you're ready."

"Yes, Sir," replied Craig with military formalness. Nothing had changed with the old man.

Craig waited until the General had left the room before tossing the remnants of his drink down his throat. He rose, placed the glass on the bar and walked out and up the carpeted staircase to find his room. It too was ornate. The big four-poster bed took up the majority of the room. He wandered over and pushed on the quilt-covered mattress. It gave like soft down. Better than the bunk he had in Leavenworth, but he would probably have trouble sleeping on it as soft as it was.

Wandering over to the armoire, Craig opened it to find a freshly pressed and creased uniform hanging from the rod. His lieutenant's bars were in place. At least they had made him a first lieutenant. It still wasn't enough to please his father. Nothing much did. His crossed rifles and parachute pins were also on his jacket with the 'lettuce' he had accumulated before his incarceration. What he didn't see were the two medals he had received for bravery in North Africa. Probably revoked. Somewhat satisfied, Craig closed the door.

Garrison walked back to the bed and pulled the covers back. Stripping down to his skivvies, he lay down, pulled the covers over himself and turned the bedside lamp off. Lying on his back on the soft mattress, he stared up in the dark at the ceiling. He did not know why he continued to try to be what his father wanted. Nothing he did was ever good enough and anything he tried was futile. The rest of the Garrison offspring had little use for the old man, so why couldn't he give it up? He had no answers to that. Tomorrow maybe he could begin work on his project. As much as he had been sure he would not sleep on the soft bed, he drifted off.

GGGGG

Bright and early the next morning, Gen. Garrison strode into his office, followed by his son. Lt. Martin sprang from his desk chair to attention. Will gave a haphazard salute back.

"Lt. Martin, this is my son, Lt. Craig Garrison."

Craig stepped forward and shook the outstretched hand of the medium build dark haired man who was probably close to his own age.

"He'll be working with myself and Gen. Newman until further notice. What do you have for me?"

Lt. Martin gathered up a stack of papers and handed them to the general. "You have a 1000 meeting with Gen. Olson, and at 1400 with Gen. Eisenhower and the African-European committee. And Gen. Newman is waiting in your office, Sir."

Will took the papers with a nod and went into his office, thumbing through the phone messages and letters, and not looking to see if his son was following. With a sigh, Craig stepped forward. He caught a glimpse of grin from Lt. Martin, who was well versed in the ways of the General.

"'Morning, Sam," said Will absently.

"'Morning, Will," replied the tall gray-haired man from a couch along the left wall, a stogie clamped in his teeth and two stars on his shoulders. The general eyed Craig up and down. "So is this your reprobate son?"

Craig had just snapped to attention. He took umbrage at that remark, but did not allow it to cross his face.

"Yup, that's him," said Will, dropping the papers on his desk and taking his seat. "Lt. Craig Garrison, General Sam Newman."

"Relax, Boy," said Newman.

Craig took that to mean 'at ease' and went into the wide–legged stance.

"Oh, sit down," grumbled the Major General. "It's too early in the morning for all that starch and circumstance."

Craig took a seat in a chair in front of his father's desk. This man was a bit of an enigma. Already he understood this wasn't your run-of-the-mill two-star general.

"So I finally get to meet the creator of this hare-brained idea of using convicts against Hitler."

It wasn't 'hare-brained' as far as Craig was concerned. He chose not to reply. This man outranked his father and that knowledge stilled his tongue. Brilliant blue eyes studied him. Just the barest hair this side of insubordination, blue-green hazel eyes studied the man back.

A big grin split around the stogie. "Thought for a minute that place you supposedly were not in had taken all the wind out of your sails, Boy. You're going to need big ones to pull off this team you suggested. Looks like you might still have them." Gen. Newman took a puff on the cigar and changed tactics. "You're going to be working with me on this set up. I'm your link to the upper brass."

Which upper brass was that going to be, wondered Craig. He didn't think he would get much higher than a two-star if he was working with his father. Actually, he would be happy if his father wasn't involved. Craig allowed a small smile to cross his lips. "When can we get started?"

"Now's as good a time as any, Garrison." Gen. Newman rose and nodded toward the door. "Come with me. "

Craig stood and followed the man out of the office with nary a glance toward his father. He didn't see the old man shake his head. Convicts. Will wondered how low his son was going to sink. Still, it was a damn good idea; crazy, but a damn good idea. The boy had imagination anyway.

GGGGG

The two men went down the hall and turned right at another hall. They passed people of all ranks, men and women, before reaching an open door at the end of the hall on the left. Gen. Newman walked through the doorway into an anteroom, a bit smaller than Gen. Garrison's office. The other difference was a woman at the desk.

"Alice, this is Lt. Craig Garrison. He's your new CO," introduced Newman.

The young woman with the brown shoulder length nicely coiffed hair rose from her chair. "Welcome, Lieutenant."

"Alice," returned Garrison. "Nice to meet you."

"You too, Sir." She shifted her attention to the general. "Anything I can get you, Sam?"

Garrison was surprised at the familiarity. Obviously, besides the shirtwaist dress instead of a uniform, the woman was an independent contractor.

"Coffee," said Newman, tone not that of an order. He turned to Craig. "Coffee, Son?"

"Yes, Sir." He had a feeling he was going to need it.

"How do you take yours?" asked the girl pleasantly.

"Strong, black with two sugars," said Newman teasingly.

Alice shook her head. "I know how you take yours. Lieutenant?"

"Black, Ma'am."

The girl skirted around her desk and went out the door with a "two coffees coming right up."

Garrison shook his head. Alice reminded him of his middle sister, Terry. They could have been sisters in a previous life. Gen. Newman had continued on into what would be Garrison's office. Again, smaller than his father's, but it still had room for file cabinets, a desk, a small conference table, and a rather uncomfortable appearing couch along one wall. There were two padded chairs in front of the metal desk. The best part was a window behind the desk that overlooked grassland and a marshy area of the Potomac River.

"This is yours for now," said Newman. "When we're in here without other officers, you can call me Sam."

"Yes, Sir." A glance from the older man had Craig add, "Sam."

Newman went over to the table and stubbed the last of his cigar out in an ashtray before pulling out a chair and taking a seat. There were files and books and stacks of papers on the shiny wood table top. A can with an assortment of pens and pencils was between the general and the chair to his left.

"Have a seat," said Sam, nodding to the empty chair. "We might as well get started on this creative, cockamamie plan of yours."

Craig removed his jacket and loosened his tie, tossing the jacket on the couch before sitting down. He pulled a pack of Lucky Strikes from his shirt pocket and a book of matches; offering a cigarette to the general, who accepted it, before taking one for himself. Craig struck a match, lit Sam's cigarette and his own, and took a deep drag, aiming the smoke toward the ceiling.

"I have had Alice and some of the other non-coms do some research on the prisons in the United States. I have a list of prisoners who might fit the kind of men you are looking for."

Sam pulled one of the folders to him and removed a few papers from it, pushing them in front of Garrison. Craig scanned the top sheet. Names and locations were typed on it. He perused the rest of the sheets, noting the names were divided into groups by the 'occupation' of the convicts.

"Those stacks of folders contain dossiers on each of the men on that list. They are in order by their trade."

Garrison looked at the four stacks of files with something akin to hunger. It finally sunk in this was actually happening. They had listened to him and, from the sounds of it, bought it.

"We want you to narrow it down to three men in each trade. When you have that figured out, we'll send you to the prisons to interview the men. Once you have chosen your men, we'll send you to England. Allied Command in London will decide where they want your base to be located. You'll have a week to get the base set up before the men are brought over. "

Craig turned his head to look at the general. "How about training? I can't just take them in on the first mission without them being suitably trained."

"No," agreed Sam. "Between yourself and the army staff assigned to you, you will be able to teach them what they need to know and get them in shape."

Craig nodded. "Any idea what kind of mission it will be or where?"

Sam shook his head and blew smoke toward the ceiling. "That will depend on when you and your men are ready to go in." He pointed to some other files. There are maps and information on locations in England. You weren't stationed there so you'll need to familiarize yourself with England, France, Germany and the surrounding countries. You may be sent anywhere. How are your language skills?"

Craig gave a flight frown. "I'm fluent in German. Almost fluent in French. Speak Mexican pretty fluently. Some Russian and Italian."

"We'll get some refresher lessons set up for you."

They worked together through two hours, three cups of coffee and a half pack of cigarettes each. Needs for the group were anticipated and explored. Alice was quiet and efficient as she fetched files, coffee and typed up requisitions. At the end of two hours, Sam had to leave for the same meeting as Gen. Garrison. Craig was finally left alone with his files. The location of the base wasn't important as long as it was close to Allied Command. That would not be finalized until the team was set up.

Craig pulled the pile marked 'Confidence Man' to him. In his mind the confidence man would be his most important team member. He would be able to get them in and out of places. It had to be someone fluent in several European languages. Someone very adept at what he did. Garrison opened the first file. As he neared the bottom of the pile, he wasn't impressed. These were mostly small time hoods. With two files left, he wasn't sure he would find the right man. Maybe they could negotiate with England for someone familiar with Europe. The second to the last dossier wasn't as bad as the previous ones, but still not what he wanted. He wanted someone as skilled as Jim in Leavenworth, but Jim was too old and had not been overseas.

With an almost defeated sigh, Craig opened the last file. Victor Borghese, known as the Actor. Thirty-nine years old. An Italian and American citizen. In and out of jails and prisons since he was a teen. Most of the time, he had talked his way out by bribing guards. He had gotten past judges and juries with charm and lack of evidence; until the last incarceration. He had been caught in flagrante delicto with his partner's wife. Everybody and their brother had come out of the woodwork saying the man had done the crimes they had been convicted of. Borghese knew his way around Europe and was multi-lingual. If that wasn't enough in itself, the psychologist report on the finest confidence man in Europe and America was revealing, and totally fabricated. Here was Garrison's confidence man; in Alcatraz. Apparently 21 miles of shark infested water between the island and San Francisco was the only deterrent to Borghese's escaping. The only questions were could Garrison keep him from escaping the group and could he maintain leadership over someone ten years his senior? The file was placed with the previous one, as the men he would interview.

Getting a pad of paper and pencil, Garrison began writing the questions he would ask in his interviews. What had the man done in the past? What would he do in a variety of situations? What more capabilities did he have? And, in the case of Borghese, had he really stolen the Monet from the Louvre in 1935; though he doubted he would get an answer.

Craig didn't realize how long he had been working until Alice slipped inside with a covered plate and set it beside him on the table.

"I hope you like roast beef," said the young woman.

"I grew up on a cattle ranch," grinned Garrison. "I love beef."

He lifted the cover off the plate to find a hot beef and cheese sandwich and potato chips. Apparently the Army officers ate well.

"How much do I owe you?" he asked, not assuming the meal was free.

Alice shook her head with a bounce of her hair. "Nothing. I set up a charge account for you."

"Thank you," said Craig. He looked questioningly at her. "Did you get something for yourself?"

She smiled. "I brought a sandwich from home. It's on my desk."

"Well, tomorrow get yourself some lunch here and put it on my bill."

"Thank you, Lieutenant," she smiled brightly. Glancing at the handwritten notes in front of the officer, she pointed to them. "Would you like me to type those up for you?"

Garrison picked them up and handed them to her. "I'll need twenty of the ones with the questions," he said with a slight hesitation.

"Not a problem, Sir," Alice said as she took the papers. "I'll type up the first set and then take it to be mimeographed."

Garrison nodded and the woman moved away. "Alice." When she stopped and looked back, he put on his most charming smile. "What do I have to do to get you to call me Craig, like you call Gen. Newman Sam?"

"It's nice to meet you, Craig," she said impishly. Then her tone turned stern. "Only in this office though."

"Of course." He grinned as she turned away and he watched her figure appreciatively as she walked out of the office.

He had already noted there was no wedding ring. However, if he was staying at his father's house, it would put a damper on things. He doubted the General would look kindly on his son dating his secretary. Craig's father did not seem to look kindly on any of his kids.

Enough of that. Garrison reached for the next stack of files; this time of safecrackers. He needed someone who could get into safes, vaults, and banks, among other things. This stack of dossiers was taller than the one of confidence men. The findings weren't much better. Most of the men were in prison more than they were out of it. One, a Charles Coletti, had the added grace of being an explosives expert. Eventually, he had a smaller stack of possibilities. Going through those a second time, he narrowed it down to three men. The prisons they were in were scattered across the country. He was going to be doing a lot of traveling.

Absently taking bites of sandwich in between sips of coffee from a cup that was kept constantly full by Alice who slipped in and out of the office silently, Craig pulled the next stack of dossiers to him. Second-story thieves and pickpockets. He needed someone adept at getting in and out and lifting things that needed to be heisted. There were several who might fit the bill. Only one had been to Europe. A Rodney Grainger had been born and raised in England and Ireland. He had been in and out of trouble since childhood. This man was currently in Sing-Sing. Next of kin was a mother in New York, also an English citizen. Grainger had found the time somewhere to get his U. S. citizenship. His reputation was having absolutely no scruples. This dossier went on the short list.

Next was the stack labeled hot car artist. There were several in that stack, but most were in jail for petty crimes. Still, there were three who could hotwire cars and had driven getaways. Two were versed in engine repair. That would come in handy. One was an American Indian. Craig wondered how that would look in Europe. Maybe they could pass him off as a Spaniard. This young man, Rainey Sands, had been in trouble from the time he was a child. He was adept with a knife to the point of murdering a prison guard in a jail break. That hadn't turned out well. Garrison didn't need a killer, he needed someone who could fix and drive cars. He started to put Sands' dossier on the discard pile, but his hand hesitated and he dropped it on the save pile. For the life of him, Craig did not know why.

Garrison had neatly pushed his files back and straightened, stretching his arms over his head to relieve tightened muscles in his upper back, when Gen. Newman walked in.

"How far did you get?" asked the General.

"I have them narrowed down to two or three each," replied Craig.

"Good," said Sam with a nod of his head. He smiled insincerely. "The big shots want to meet you. They want to hear more about this scheme of yours. They sent me to fetch you."

A two-star errand boy, thought Garrison. The twinkle in the blue eyes that watched him told him otherwise. Craig rose and straightened his clothes, retrieving his jacket from the couch where it still lay.