Soldier X. Major Isabella Swan, army psychologist, is swiftly climbing the ladder of success when a confidential letter and a clandestine meeting change everything. Her newest patient proves to be the most challenging question in her new life.
Disclaimer: Everything in the Twilight universe belongs to Stephenie Meyer.
AN: Because it was fighting to get out. Get it? Soldier X? Fighting to get out? Okay, shutting. Thank you edward-bella-harry-ginny (ebhg) for reading this and making corrections and suggestions!
Ch. 1. Confidential
I was secretly pleased by the sound my heels made as I walked swiftly down the hallway. The floors were polished cement speckled with tan stones and waxed to perfection. My dress heels made a very satisfying clip as I approached my office. My office. In the Pentagon. I had worked like a dog since I was sixteen years old to reach this point in my career. Twelve hard years of work and I had reached as high as I could go considering my age and years of service. You could call me Major Isabella Swan or Dr. Isabella Swan, Ph.D., Psychology. Either one was correct, but I actually preferred Major Swan. The Ph.D. had been a piece of cake compared to what it had taken to get me through basic training and beyond, so the rank was more precious to me than the education. I was exactly where I wanted to be doing exactly what I wanted to do. I had now had my office for exactly one week, the same length of time I'd had my new security clearance. If called upon, I now had enough clearance that I could provide counseling for POTUS. I was sure my invite to the Oval Office would come any day. Not.
I entered the receptionist's area and told Angela good morning. She looked crisp in a white blouse and black skirt.
"Good morning to you, too, Major Swan. Here's your mail." She handed me a stack of envelopes, including one marked "confidential." I took the stack and just smiled and nodded at her, trying my best to appear nonchalant. Sure, I got confidential communiqués every day.
I walked back into my office, closed the door, and sat down at my desk. My first impulse was to call Dr. Molina. My Ph.D. advisor had been there for me even when I hated his guts during the fourth rewrite of my thesis. While he was a civilian, his work with PTSD and servicemen had made him quite familiar with military protocol. Unfortunately, sharing confidential information with civilians was frowned upon. I took a few moments to stare at the imposing envelope.
I decided to quickly go through my other mail while I waffled about the envelope. Other than a memo about a staff meeting, there was nothing of impact on my schedule. Which left me back where I was five minutes earlier. Staring at the envelope. Hey, maybe it was just patient files; those were confidential.
I opened it carefully, using the dull metal letter opener which had come with the office, along with a giant metal stapler that I thought might have been around during World War II and a three-hole punch which only worked on one piece of paper at a time despite weighing about 10 pounds. My requisition for a computer had not yet gone through all the "proper channels."
Okay, now I was distracting myself by thinking about my poorly equipped office.
The envelope held a single sheet of paper, letterhead from the Office of the Director of Special Forces. My presence was requested at an interview tomorrow morning, 0800. A car would be sent to my apartment, yada yada. I could barely process what I was seeing. Why an interview? For what? I wasn't stupid enough to believe that the request was anything less than a command. As it had come in a confidential envelope, I wasn't even sure who I could tell. Luckily, I had a schedule which included limited rounds of my patients. My hours in the Pentagon itself were limited. I could go on this "requested" interview and not have to account for my whereabouts. Was that what was expected?
Feeling extremely foolish, I filed the letter in my patient files, with a fake name "F. Conner." For Con-Fidential. I honestly didn't know what to do with the thing. I took the envelope out to the front office and shredded it. Surely someone would eventually give me a manual on protocols, but I was just too new to this game.
Angela was the assistant for me and two other professionals, Major Mike Newton, an orthopedist, and Major Tyler Crowley, a psychiatrist. We were on a team of military medical professionals preparing to recommend counseling protocols for soldiers returning from duty, both those injured in the line of duty and those who had "merely" served their term. So much had happened in recent years to raise awareness of the difficulties of returning to civilian life after a tour of duty that we had been convened to plan for improved protocols and services.
The job was not glamorous, but if we were successful, I would be fulfilling a dream I'd had since high school. We were still collecting data and drawing up tentative strategies. It would probably be 6 months before our final plan was ready to be presented, and we were just 3 cogs in a much bigger machine. Angela was not a cog at all; she was practically an axle. I had only been in the office for a week, and I loved her so much I thought I should be shopping for engagement rings.
"Major Swan? You know you can leave anything you want shredded in your "to be shredded" box? It's right inside your door, next to the recycle box." Angela was chastising me in her gentle way.
"Oh, you're right. Sorry. I'll keep that in mind." I was new enough that random acts of stupidity were still forgiven. Like yesterday when I had jammed up the copier down the hall and Angela had reminded me that I wasn't really supposed to touch it.
Our door was flung open, and Major Newton stepped into the office, glanced around, and burst into song, his arms outstretched as he hammed it up. "Way down upon the Swan-ee River!" He put extra vibrato into his "ee," and when he finished the impromptu performance, he tossed his cap at the hat tree in the corner. As usual, his hat hit the rack and promptly fell to the floor with a soft thud. I was unable to stop my left eyebrow from climbing a fraction. Angela snorted and shook her head, returning to typing at her computer.
"Oh, come on, ladies. That was both witty and amusing." Maj. Newton radiated self-confidence with his eager smile. Even his blonde hair radiated self-contentment.
"You're half right," muttered Angela under her breath, causing me to cough with suppressed amusement. Mike was an excellent orthopedist; I had counseled some of his patients while he worked with providing them with appropriate prosthetics. He had a wonderful manner with patients and a great capacity for compassion. He was startlingly awful with women.
The door opened again and Major Crowley entered. He was about ten years older than I was; psychiatry takes a darn sight longer than a masters in counseling and Ph.D. in psychology. While Mike was awkwardly eager with women, Tyler was very smooth. He was divorced already, and the scuttlebutt I'd heard was that his wandering eye had been the primary cause of ending his marriage. I didn't know if the rumors were true, and I didn't know him well.
"Anything going on?" Tyler asked with confusion.
"No, just Major Newton's audition tape for American Idol. Although there is a staff meeting at ten hundred," I informed Major Crowley.
"Crap! I had plans. Why don't they give us more warning?" Mike was annoyed.
"Um, we got an email last week and a reminder memo this morning," I pointed out. Mike had scheduling issues which Angela did her best to solve. I left the three of them to discuss the uselessness of the scheduled staff meeting and went back into my office. I had a pile of paperwork to sort through. I soon lost myself in work, avoiding any thoughts of the letter currently burning a hole through my mental filing cabinet.
Leaving the Pentagon via the Metro at the day's end, I happily headed for the downtown station which would lead me back to my apartment. I'd been settled in my new place for only two weeks and at work for only one, but it felt comfortable and exciting at the same time. I was used to frequent moves; the three years it took to get my Ph.D. was the longest I'd stayed in one place since my high school years. I settled in my middle seat of the metro car listening to the warped audio belt out announcements of each upcoming station. I had surreptitiously probed Mike and Tyler during separate coffee breaks, but I could get no sense as to whether either of them had received surprise confidential requests for interviews. Of course, I hadn't exactly been clear with my vague questions.
I continued my meditation all the way through my 3-block walk to my apartment. I climbed stairs to the third floor (there was an elevator but I preferred not to use it) and unlocked my door. I flipped the hallway light switch, and nothing happened.
"Son of a biscuit eater!" I still didn't like actual swear words, a relic of my life with my dad. Charlie never used the "real" words at home, and his quiet rejection of vulgarity had become a part of my own lifestyle. I stumbled half way down the dark hallway and flipped the kitchen light. Nothing. I was still new to the apartment, so I knew I wouldn't be able to find my flashlight drawer without some ambient lighting. I headed for the living room window to pull the shades, figuring that even after dark, I'd get enough from the street lights to see around the room.
"Stay where you are, please, Major Swan," commanded a smooth male voice from where my couch sat under the windows in my darkened living room.
I froze in place.
"Don't worry, I'm not here to injure you in any way."
"I hope you'll excuse me if I don't trust you. You have broken into my apartment." Luckily, my voice was steady. I thought I could get back into the hallway and out the door before he could catch me. I stood poised for flight, waiting to see how this would play out. I could faintly smell cigarette smoke; it was too faint to suggest he had smoked in my apartment, but he was definitely a smoker.
"Today you received a confidential communication."
I stayed silent. Did I deny? Confirm? Refuse to confirm or deny? I was not a spy; I was a psychologist. Maybe this was a test to see if I deserved my new security clearance?
"You will go on this interview. You will do your best to obtain the job offered."
"Why are you here, telling me these things, and who are you?" I decided that was neither a confirmation nor a denial.
"Who I am is irrelevant. What I can do for you is what you should want to know. I can ensure that your proposed protocols are implemented. Everything you want to see happen for our returning servicemen will become a reality."
I was stunned. A little voice in my head murmured "Faustian bargain." I didn't want to ask what he wanted in return, but I had to.
"What, exactly, are you asking for?"
"All you need to do is your job. Occasionally I will require information. You will not have to compromise your work in any way. I just need to know observations you make during your work. And in return, you will get everything you desire, from a passed resolution in the military to funding from Congress for the new plan."
Everything I desire. Faustian indeed. I didn't need to be told that an offer of this magnitude required an equal sacrifice on my part. He could promise that Congress would pass a funding bill? He couldn't be a foreign agent. I was so out of my depth that I doubted I could break the surface.
"I don't even know what I'm being asked to do here. There is no way I can agree to this, whatever this is, and there is no way I can outright refuse you. I have no information."
"I'll be back. Just accept that I'm a patriot, and your work for me is work for your country. Now, go back to your bedroom and wait ten minutes before you come out."
I stumbled down the hallway to my room. I sat on my bed in the dark, and, after what I guessed was ten minutes, all the lights in my apartment came on. I heard the whirring sounds of the refrigerator compressor starting up and the beep of my answering machine turning on. My reflection in the dresser mirror showed the terror I had been through, my eyes wide and my face shiny with perspiration. I absently pulled my hair out of its bun. The adrenaline which had pumped through my system for the last 15 minutes was burning out, and I was starting to crash.
I went out to the living room on shaky legs. I could still faintly smell the aroma of cigarettes and a cologne I couldn't place. Nothing appeared out of order. I checked my front door and found it to be fully locked, even the deadbolt thrown. I put the chain on, although I suspected it would be no help against Mystery Man. I could feel hairs standing up on the back of my neck. Whoever this man was, he could get to me anytime, anyplace. The message was clear in the form of delivery, if not in the message itself.
I stripped out of my uniform and stepped into the shower. After showering and dressing for bed, I set my alarm for 5 a.m. and fell into a deep slumber of escape.
AN2: This was a short, introductory chapter. I hope to follow up soon, but Acts of Aggression (yes, I know, chapter 1 is still not posted) is still my priority. This idea keeps fighting with AoA, so I just thought I'd type it when it was giving me trouble. If you feel like commenting on the stupidity of starting two multi-chapter fics at nearly the same time, feel free!