The First Gentleman of the United States

1

The Joint Select Committee Convenes

The image of the president's body lying on the floor next to her bed was shocking. She had been in office less than five months; hardly time to make the Executive Residence her own. Alongside her was the body of secret service agent Henry ‘Bruce’ Lee, the hero of the attempted assassination of President Daniel Troup two years before. Somewhere, along the chain of custody, someone had leaked this photo to the media, and now it was being seen on every news bulletin and in every newspaper and blog. It was all anyone could talk about. The country’s most popular president since Kennedy, along with the hero of the US Secret Service, were both dead.

Michael O’Rourke—Mick to his mates—was in his US Army uniform at his lawyer’s insistence. He stared at the picture of his dead wife on the front page of the Washington Post that lay in his lawyer's open briefcase. Embarrassed, his counsel quickly closed it. He did not want his client any more nervous than he may already be, although he did not appear to be nervous at all. In fact, it was quite the opposite. His client, the one accused of assassinating America’s first female president and her secret service agent, appeared calm. This worried the veteran lawyer and his firm. His client’s cool demeanor may not work in their favor, especially today as the whole country was baying for the death penalty which, it seemed, may well be the sentence.

No. In fact, Mick’s sang froid, would serve neither of them well.

The Joint Select Committee was to hear testimony today. Mick and his lawyer sat in a part of the marble hallway partitioned off from the public by rope barriers. US Capitol Police stood guard, maintaining order. The media, thirty yards down the hall, were stumbling over themselves trying to get just the right picture. So much for social distancing.

A few other men and some women stood in small groups nearby. They were to testify before the committee also, most likely about his alleged role as a member of a foreign intelligence service. Mick watched them. Some were obviously lawyers; a couple were FBI, proudly wearing their ID badges for all the world to see. Others were less obvious but probably from some other branch of the ‘three-letter’ intelligence community. CIA possibly… or perhaps NSA. He thought he recognized one person who had attended a Department of Homeland Security meeting at the White House. It was hard to tell when everyone was wearing masks in this new age of Covid. So, who knows?

What Mick did know was that no matter how smart he might look in an army uniform, the bruises could not be hidden. The beatings he had suffered at Fort Leavenworth while he was in federal prison, at the hands of both guards and inmates, had left him with deep lacerations and heavy bruises, which now had that yellow and green tinge. They did not heal quickly.

Soon, two dark-suited men and an officer from the Capitol Police emerged from the hearing room and stood next to Mick and his counsel.

They’re ready for you, said one man with venom. His hatred was almost tangible. Though Mick could not see his mouth behind his mask, he could almost imagine the sneer on his face.

Mick’s lawyer began gathering his papers and said to him, Are you ready? Just remember everything that we’ve discussed, just be honest and say as little as possible. We don’t want them doing some creative editing on the news. Single word answers: ‘yes’, ‘no’.

The army officer stood up, his uniform slightly askew, favoring his good ankle. He looked down at his counsel, still seated and still gathering his notes. He spoke in his Australian accent, the only thing that really gave him away as not being from the States.

You know, back in colonial Australia, we had these guys known as bushrangers. They’d be the same as outlaws in the American west, he said. "They’d rob stagecoaches and hold up banks and post offices, and generally make a nuisance of themselves, that sort of stuff.

This one bushranger, Ned Kelly, made an iron suit that was bullet proof, which was pretty smart. But he didn’t make iron pants, which was pretty dumb. When the troopers went to arrest him, he came out shooting… so they shot him in the legs. He went down, was arrested, and was sentenced to hang.

The lawyer listened, wondering where this was going.

Well, before they put the noose around his neck, his final words were, ‘Such is life’.

What’s the point? asked his lawyer.

We only have a brief stay on this planet. You can’t tell what life is going to throw at you or where you’ll end up, came his fatalistic response.

With that, Mick straightened his uniform, tugging down on his tunic, and then placed his hat under his left arm. He motioned to the two dark-suited men and the man in uniform and swept his arm towards the huge mahogany doors that led into the chamber.

Shall we?

They were led into the chamber, and what seemed like a hundred cameras started following him. He tried not to limp, but his fractured ankle was not healing well and probably never would. The crowd, on either side of the aisle, watched them walk towards the witness table, in front of which thirty or so men and women with cameras knelt, snapping away. The accused, his image being beamed around the world, was an injured man trying to hide his pain and trying to maintain some semblance of dignity.

On the podium behind a long table sat twelve members of the US Congress, senators and representatives, chosen for this committee. They each sat behind nameplates, appropriately separated, looking very serious and watching the group as intently as the audience in this chamber… and the millions around the world! All the committee-members sported an American flag on their masks. Cameras clicked, sounding like a nest of rattlesnakes in the pit before the podium.

Mick and his counsel were led to their table and took their place behind two chairs. The Australian leaned towards his lawyer, who seemed to be the only person on his side and whispered, It would be good to have some iron pants right now.

Major Michael O’Rourke, would you raise your right hand, demanded a man in a uniform holding a bible.

Mick whispered to no-one in particular as he raised his hand ready to take the oath, Such is life.

2

Inauguration Day—Beijing

Five months earlier…

The Beijing winter had its grip on the city. It had been a cloudless day, but the ever-present smog leached any color from the sky, leaving it a washed out gray. As the multitude went about their lives looking forward to a subdued Spring Festival, when the country would welcome in Chūn Jié, the lunar new year, the bitterly cold north wind snapped at the faces of the ‘faceless’ millions. And the cloudless gray day would soon succumb to the dark and starless night. The less fortunate that were unable to find warmth or shelter, or who were suffering the effects of the virus, would not see the new year’s celebrations.

But at just before 1:00 a.m., in this particular room of Zhongnanhai—the old Imperial Palace that was now the headquarters of the Chinese Communist Party—the General Secretary of the People’s Republic, Jaw-Long, sat in comfortable shirt and slacks. Surrounding him were high-ranking military officials from the People’s Liberation Army, and a few button-suited bureaucrats from the Central Committee. The air was warm and the atmosphere electric in this room in which only the most trusted and senior members of the Party were allowed. Some sat, some stood, but all were watching the TV upon which they saw the president-elect of the United States take the podium to receive the oath of office.

On the other side of the world, Washington DC, like Beijing, was in the grip of winter, and like in Beijing, the sky of the US capital was cloudless. But the Washington sky did not suffer from smog like in Beijing, and it sparkled a brilliant blue on this inauguration day. The puffs of mist from the mouths of the unmasked bore evidence that it was icy. However, the people who had gathered in front of the Capitol Building did not seem to mind because they were about to witness history being made.

The camera panned over the crowd. Women, wearing scarves, beanies and mittens, were crying with joy, for about to be sworn into office as the most powerful leader in the free world was a woman. Many wore the same mask that the president-elect had made famous. Others wore no mask, showing their defiance of the virus. After a tumultuous campaign full of emotion and angst, and against the backdrop of a deadly pandemic, America’s first female president was to be inaugurated with her new husband by her side. He was a foreigner but who captured the hearts of Americans during the campaign. And though he was Australian, it was for love that he gave up his army career and his life in Australia.

This romance had captivated the world in general, but particularly in the States where the new ‘first couple’, a term that had been coined even long before the election, had featured on the covers of tabloids and tell-alls; and on E News as often as it did on Fox News, such was its entertainment value.

The defeated Democratic Party candidate and his supporters complained that the sobriquet ’the first couple’, was an unfair advantage during the campaign. It, like the engagement and the wedding, was as fabricated as a mind-numbing reality TV show. And like reality TV, the masses lapped it up. The Democrats grumbled that these ‘Republican stunts’ were manufactured to ‘polish a tarnished brand’.

Be they Republican stunts or not, they worked!

Even though the representative from Georgia had already proven her credentials and had served her constituency well—just as she had served the country well as an air force officer—it was only those who were politically interested that understood what a good candidate she actually was. The great masses of the disinterested were captivated by the story, not the politics. But this was how the politically disinterested became the politically involved. The voter turn-out was testament to that.

The tabloids and the news shows pushed the romance to spice up their political coverage. It was almost a fait accompli that she would win the popular vote against the old white man and his black female running mate. It didn’t seem to matter that her views and policy intentions were sound, rational and more unifying than those of the incumbent president, or those proposed by her opponent. The public was more interested in the fairytale, not the facts. For America, this was the closest they had to a royal romance. And not since the days of Camelot had there been a positive feeling about the next administration.

Now, in the cold January air in Washington DC, women wept, and the crowd waved the Stars and Stripes. Even a few Australian flags could be seen standing out in the crowd just for good measure, showing their support for the soon-to-be First Gentleman of the United States.

* * *

The Chinese officials in Zhongnanhai watched the TV with anticipation as the camera focused on this man, this non-American, soon to be the husband of the President of the United States. The General Secretary watched him intently and, taking a bottle of champagne, poured himself a glass.

Tonight, one of our own will go to sleep in the White House. He held up his glass toasting the scene on TV where the oath of office was being given.

The president-elect made her solemn oath to protect and defend the US Constitution, and when she uttered the words, …so help me God, the moment had finally arrived. A woman had just assumed the 46th Presidency of the United States.

The outgoing president had been very subdued for the past week. Rarely had he tweeted his displeasure, which was very much out of character. This may have been at the insistence of the Republican Party, or, as was preferred, the ‘GOP’, the ‘Grand Old Party’. Suffice it to say that his vitriol—that had been a hallmark of the campaign—ceased after Thanksgiving, leaving a peaceful December.

Now, as President Troup stood on the steps of the Capitol Building to see a woman, almost half his age, assume the office he so desperately wanted to keep, he did not even try to force a smile. His annoyed and somber face spoke volumes.

The Army band played the ruffles and flourishes, and soon the familiar sounds of ‘Hail to the Chief’ boomed while the crowd cheered.

She mounted the podium and waited for the band to stop and the crowd to calm itself. Around the country, and around the world, millions waited for this woman’s inaugural speech. Would it have the gravitas of a Churchill or Kennedy oration?

My fellow Americans, she began, the crowd hanging on every word.

"As president I would like to honor and thank our servicemen and women, past and present, who have made countless sacrifices for our nation, with so many making the ultimate sacrifice so that we may live in a free and open society. In times of peril, we look to our God, and we look to our allies and friends, and we, as a freedom loving people, draw strength from both.

Now, as I take the office as President of the United States, I am aware of the challenges the world has placed before us, and the trials we face as a nation. But I am heartened by the steadfastness of our people, and of the strong and deep bonds we share with the allies of America. And it is in that spirit that I would like to honor one nation in particular, Australia, a country that has stood by the United States in every time of our greatest need, by making this act my first official act as Commander-in-Chief. (In Australia, at 5:00 a.m. Eastern Summer Time, cheering could be heard in those houses that were watching.)

With that, an army general standing nearby stepped forward with a small wooden box. The crowd that had gathered in Washington for this ceremony was murmuring so loudly that it could be heard on the podium. The president looked at her husband. She indicated to him that she wanted him to come forward and to take a position next to her. Turning to the crowd and the cameras, she made sure that the microphones would capture her words.

May I ask the First Gentleman of the United States to step forward.

Mick had to think for a second. The title ‘First Gentleman of the United States’ had been used many times in passing, and in briefings, and in the media, and in countless gags and spoofs by stand-up comedians and comedy shows leading up to this moment. It had become something of a joke; a reference to a fictional person. But now it was real. The president had just summoned him forward by that title. He took position next to her. She looked up at him and smiled. Was this a photo opportunity for the world to go with the president’s first address? An image, and a speech, that would go down in history? If so, it was a great idea. He had to refrain from putting his arm around her waist, even though the urge was so great.

Mister O’Rourke, please raise your right hand. He stood there, momentarily bewildered at what was happening. He had helped his wife with her inauguration speech, much to the chagrin of the Party’s speechwriters, and he was expecting her to make what would be history-making words, words over which they had both labored. But that was not happening. Instead, the president was going ‘off-script’ and was asking him to step forward and to prepare to take an oath. The crowd and dignitaries continued their confused murmuring. This was definitely not what they were expecting during this momentous occasion.

Then it dawned on him what was happening! His face turned from a quizzical expression to one of great seriousness and solemnity when he realized what was about to take place… when he realized what she meant when she said, her first act as Commander-in-Chief. His back stiffened instantly, and he came to attention. His right hand shot up, elbow bent at a perfect ninety-degree angle, just as Jack Nicholson’s had done in the movie A Few Good Men. The general opened the little wooden box to reveal two small, bronze metal badges in the shape of oak leaves.

Repeat after me: ‘I, Michael John O’Rourke, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office in which I am about to enter. So help me God.’

The president recited the oath perfectly. It was obvious that she had rehearsed it many times. Mick had no hope of remembering it verbatim. One of the aides whispered the oath sotto voce, just loud enough for him to hear. He repeated it while the crowd watched in awe. In Australia, those that had stayed up to watch the event also watched in amazement, especially his former army comrades. Never before had America, or the world for that matter, seen such a spectacle, and the Democratic Party cynics cried foul once more. One could almost hear them yelling at their TVs ‘…another Republican stunt!’

…that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter. So help me God, said Mick, snapping his arm down and standing at attention. He paused, his breathing shallow, trying not to move. The general held the box for the president who took the two oak leaf clusters and, reaching down gently, took her husband’s hand and placed them in his palm, giving his hand an affectionate squeeze. He was in civilian attire, so pinning them on him would be inappropriate.

May I welcome you, Major Michael O’Rourke, into the United States Army and ask that you faithfully serve the flag, the president and the people of these united states.

The newly appointed Major O’Rourke, US Army, remained at attention sporting a serious countenance. He then saluted his wife, his Commander-in-Chief, who was smiling proudly… and the crowd went nuts.

Thank you, Madam President, he said for the whole world to hear. I shall.

She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek… and the crowd cheered wilder.

In the warm room in Beijing, at 1:05 a.m. China Standard Time, the generals, admirals and bureaucrats could not but hide their joy. The man in the comfortable shirt and slacks was smiling.

And so now we own America, he said.

3

On the Barbie

Dothan, Alabama. Three years earlier. Before the virus.

Mick bounded up the six or so stairs, the wine bottles clinking in his hand. The night air was heavy after the rain. At the top he pressed the doorbell, checking his appearance in the window’s reflection. He looked up and down the street, still wet from the storm earlier in the evening. A small coupe cruised by, its tires making that ‘wet road hiss’ as it passed.

In a parked car nearby, a man smoked a cigarette, reading a magazine. He looked Asian, which was unusual here in rural Alabama. Mick caught his eye and raised his chin in acknowledgment, the way men do with each other as if to say ‘w’sup?’ The Asian fellow merely looked at him and nodded and started the car and drove away.

The door opened and Ben, smiling, welcomed him. Hey buddy, he said, beaming. Thanks for coming. Ben put his hand on Mick’s shoulder and ushered him in, calling out to his wife, Mickey’s here, honey!

Ben was dressed casually, not really befitting the dinner party being thrown. Jeans, a T-shirt that had obviously been worn at some time while he had been painting, boat shoes and no socks. He was immediately berated by his wife.

Sweetheart, said Jessica, the attractive strawberry-blond with just the hint of some laugh lines near her eyes and carrying just a little bit of weight that seemed to complement her, "will you please get dressed!"

Jessica, or Jess as she preferred, rolled her eyes and turned to her dinner guest smiling and, after rubbing her hands on her apron that protected her beautiful, cobalt blue dress, reached out to draw him in for a kiss.

"Michael. Thanks for coming. At least you know how to dress for dinner," she said and pecked him on the cheek. Jess never called him Mickey like Ben and his other American friends. She preferred to call him Michael.

Don’t get too close, she said. I’m covered in flour. She smelled of Crisco and fried chicken. She was exquisite.

Mick offered her the bottles.

Oh, thank you. You’re a doll. BEN! Please get dressed! Honestly!

Ben was Mick’s ‘stick buddy’ from years before. They were both army helicopter pilots and, as is often the way in military flight training, two trainees are paired up with one instructor. They would compare their performances; study together; quiz each other; and encourage each other. They would share in each other’s successes and provide solace when things were not going as well. Strong bonds of friendship would often form between stick buddies, and in this case this is what had happened.

Michael O’Rourke—nicknamed ‘Mickey Rawk’ by his American friends in a misspelled and mispronounced homage to the Hollywood actor—was a Major in the Australian Army. He had come to the United States five years before to train on the giant twin-rotor Chinook helicopter at the US Army’s School of Army Aviation at Fort Rucker in southern Alabama. After qualifying he headed back to Australia to fly them for the Australian Army.

Benjamin ‘Ben’ Theodore Johnson the third, was a second-generation US Army warrant officer, a Chief Warrant Officer Grade 4, a CW4 or ‘dubya 4’, whose father had been a chopper pilot during the seventies. Ben was only three years old when his father was killed in a helicopter crash in the aftermath of the invasion of Grenada. He was piloting a UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter for the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment when it crashed off the coast of the island. His body was never recovered. Years later, Ben would be flying the same type of helicopter, UH-60s, at the same base going through the same training, just as his father had done twenty-three years before. After flying the Black Hawk for seven years he began his conversion training to the twin-rotor Chinook at ‘Rucker’ where, as a Chief Warrant Officer Grade 3, he was paired with an Australian Army captain, also a trainee. Their friendship grew from there.

Though Mick was the more senior, the formalities associated with rank were often dispensed with between stick buddies, and particularly between the Chief Warrant Officers and the commissioned officers. The latter knew precisely how important the former were to a capability and an appropriate amount of respect was afforded their significant expertise, even at the cost of military formality.

But Mick and Ben had not had to contend with that. They were stick buddies from two different armies under training. That was five years ago, and they had been friends ever since, separated merely by a continent and the Pacific Ocean.

After the death of his father, Ben’s mother left Savanna in Georgia and moved back with her parents in Maryland. His grandparents had had a significant impact on his life. He was handsome in the typical American boy-next-door look. Fair-haired with a crooked smile and good build, although he was also sporting a small ‘pot’ belly that could only really be seen if his shirt was a little tight. He was relaxed and thoughtful and had married his third girlfriend—a family friend also from Maryland—who had been studying business at Georgetown University in Washington. Their romance blossomed when he was on temporary duty at Weide Army Airfield in Maryland after his grandmother had set them up. From there he was posted to other units while Jess remained in DC and Maryland. It was a long-distance marriage for four years and they hated it. She completed her studies, including a post grad, but decided to follow her husband regardless of where his military career took him. She had had dreams of attacking the corporate world… but decided that she’d prefer to be the supportive wife to her army officer husband. This didn’t really impress her parents, but they had a soft spot for Ben, so it could have been worse.

Now, five years after becoming friends, and after flying for their respective armies, both had returned to Alabama, and both were now instructors teaching the next generation of army pilots to fly. Ben was posted to Fort Rucker and was living in the nearby town of Dothan. Mick’s exchange posting with the US Army was for two years, and when he and Ben found out they would both be at ‘MotherRucker’ together for those two years, they were both delighted.

Mick was at Ben’s place two or three times a week and tonight Jess was holding a dinner party. Of course, their favorite Australian had been invited. Mick, however, suspected that she had other designs.

He looked around. He was the last to arrive and soon Jess was leading him by the hand to the guests milling on the back deck. He could not help but feel as though he was being led to his doom… or more precisely, an embarrassing and clumsy set up with some equally unfortunate single female friend of Jess’s. Jess and Ben had no kids. It had been a hard pill to swallow seeing as how she had given up a business career in the hope of living an interesting life as a service wife and mother. Now she had to be content with being a service wife: no kids; no career… but she was happy with her friends, which included her husband’s Aussie mate, Michael, who was now her ‘pet project’.

In the garden there were some kitsch ‘tiki’ torches. While they seemed be a throwback to the seventies, they actually created a nice atmosphere in the warm and humid Alabama night. The cicadas were singing their trill song now that the rain had stopped (it reminded him of home) and fireflies glowed and disappeared near the bushes lining the backyard. Ben had emerged and put on some music: Sweet Home Alabama to start… the stalwart song of this once Confederate state. It was the ‘Alabama anthem’ and it seemed to waft through Dothan’s suburban streets every Friday and Saturday night without fail.

Mick looked at the other guests. Five women; four men. Yep! This was a set up.

Which one, Jess? he asked her. She turned and smiled at him. She put on an affected, unauthentic southern accent, totally unconvincing from a yankee.

Wah sir. Ahm sure ah don’t know what you mean.

I can count. I’m here to even out the numbers, he said. So, which one is she, Jess?

Jess merely smiled and took him into the crowd of couples and introduced him. All the guests were very polite and were interested in the fact he was Australian. Some said that they would ‘put another shrimp on the barbie’ for him and laughed at what they thought was a funny joke for an Aussie. Mick didn’t have the heart to tell them that that TV commercial never aired in Australia and so it was only popular in the US. Oh, and it was more than two decades old! But he let them have their fun.

They were watching the news bulletin about the attempted assassination of President Troup the day before. He had been at a rally in New England when a gunman with a pistol rushed the podium, firing. One of the secret service agents overpowered him but was shot in the process. The bullet was not stopped by the agent’s bullet-proof vest. Fortunately, it was a small-caliber pistol and the agent’s injuries were not life threatening. The TV news showed him being taken away in an EMT ambulance and he was now being hailed a hero.

Some of the guests were discussing the agent, Henry Lee. It was obviously an anglicized name as he looked Chinese, possibly Korean. Apparently, according to the news, his colleagues nicknamed him ‘Bruce’ after the movie star and martial arts expert. (What was it with the Americans and their movie star nicknames?) His face was on every news bulletin and a somber President Troup would bumble through his interviews trying to articulate his admiration for the secret service agent.

Jess interrupted the TV and the talk of the assassination to introduce Mick. One of the women seemed to be intrigued by the images of Troup and Agent Lee and was transfixed by the news story. Jess interrupted her fascination with the story so she could present her Australian friend. She was an attractive woman with almond-shaped eyes and medium-brown hair. She had a slim build—fit and athletic—around thirty, it was hard to say. Her ethnic background and physique made her look younger than she was. Her eyes were a light brown, almost green color and her skin had a touch of Naples yellow to it that gave the appearance of a healthy tan. She was stunning. It was as though Mick was making his debut to society and was being presented, like a débutante, at a cotillion.

4

The Debut

Leigh Buchanan, I would like you to meet Michael O’Rourke. He may have an Irish name like yours, but he’s from Australia.

Leigh held out her hand. Oh, I know you are from Australia, she said. Jess has been talking you up since she concocted this sham dinner party.

Jess protested, and even appeared to blush slightly… as though her perfect plan had somehow been discovered.

I figured as much, said Mick. I mean it wasn’t half obvious, he said looking accusingly at Jess, before turning back to his hostess’ friend. I’m pleased to meet you, Leigh.

Actually, she replied, my friends call me Maye. That’s my actual name. Leigh is my middle name. Please call me Maye, and she held out her hand.

Mick shook it. Her skin was soft, but her grip was not limp. She smelled wonderful. Jess beamed. Her matchmaking seemed all but complete. Both Maye and Mick gave her a look of exasperation… as if to say, We know what you’re trying to do. But if Jess recognized that look they both gave her, she didn’t seem to care. She continued to smile inanely until she saw her husband appear in an outfit that, in her opinion, was totally inappropriate… and in a flash she was gone to wreak havoc in his life, or perhaps to dress him herself.

Jess tells me you’re instructing at Rucker. Chinooks? said Maye as she took a sip of her wine.

Yes. I’m posted to the Chinook training battalion of the 223rd Aviation Regiment as a foreign exchange instructor. I have about another year-and-a-half here, then back home to Australia, he said. They were both distracted by Jess and Ben discussing his outfit. Perhaps discussing is not the right word because that infers a two-way exchange.

What do you do? he asked.

I work in DC, she answered quickly. It seemed she had the answer ready to go, as though she got asked that a lot.

Are you a beltway bandit? he asked, referring to the nickname of businesses and lobbyists that had offices on Interstate 495, the Capital Beltway. It was a uniquely Washington term.

Her smile lit up the room and her head cocked letting one of her earrings dangle, revealing themselves amongst her long hair.

How do you know what a beltway bandit is? That’s very obscure for a foreigner to know.

Oh, I know a little about a lot of things, he said smiling. Actually, I just know trivia.

Well, I’m impressed!

Their talk was interrupted as Jess came out and began ushering the guests inside. She came over and, interlocking her arms into theirs, led them both to the table.

I’ve got you two sitting on either side of me, she said, still beaming.

5

Smooth

In actual fact, the dinner was quite enjoyable. Ben had grilled some ribs and Jess had done some chicken and the wine was flowing.

Jess had proven to be surprisingly restrained in her matchmaking. Mick had expected her to be shameless, but for some reason she had not. In one way that was a shame, for Maye seemed to be reluctant to open up. She was polite; a good conversationalist, but the conversation was more about her asking questions of Mick than the other way ‘round. And when Mick tried to get her to talk about herself, she was not as forthcoming. She adeptly deflected some topics and concentrated on others. She was considerate, charming and intelligent—not to mention extremely attractive—but it seemed that she was not too inclined to speak much about herself, or what she did.

But what he did discover about her intrigued him. She was formerly a pilot in the US Air Force and flew C-130 Hercules transport aircraft. Originally from San Francisco she was stationed in Georgia at Dobbins Air Force base for a few years and got to like living in Georgia. She bought a house just north of Atlanta, and now that she was no longer in uniform that is where she called home when she was not in DC. Oddly enough, Maye was Ben’s friend first, having met in the Officers’ Club while they were both stationed at a joint military base in Texas, but Jess and Maye had formed a very strong friendship since. It seemed that Maye wanted to distance herself from having too many military friends after she had left the air force, so Jess was a good mix between civilian life and military life. And both being childless while everyone around them had begun starting families, well that just made their friendship stronger. Jess would often go to DC when Ben was on an exercise that took him away. It gave her a chance to visit her parents and friends in Maryland, and spend some ‘girl time’ with Maye in Washington.

Mick got the impression that she had previously been in a serious relationship, possibly married, but that relationship had ended. From some clues and looks exchanged between Jess and Maye, he suspected that domestic violence may have played a part. But as far as what job she did now, when pushed, she would merely say, I sort of do a bit of troubleshooting for key stakeholders that my organization represents. I engage in a lot of customer relationship building.

Mick knew something strange was going on. Every now and then, when he asked Maye a personal question about her life now, he could see Jess give a furtive glance towards her or Ben… as if it was a touchy subject. Mick knew better than to push it, although it did make the conversation somewhat stilted.

So. Maye, he said looking into her brown-green eyes, you seem to be reluctant to tell me exactly what you do, so I won’t ask. All I can think of is that you’re some sort of spook… or possibly in the witness protection program, he said jokingly.

You got me, she said. I’m on the lam after killing a guy in Tucson! I had to kill him… he was asking too many questions.

Even though this dinner was a blatant setup, Mick was enjoying himself, and particularly this intriguing woman.

6

Not So Smooth

Around midnight Mick decided to head home. After the dinner, and plenty of wine and cosmopolitans, the girls had thrown off their shoes and were dancing to a Sophie B. Hawkins’ song screaming to each other ‘Damn! I wish I was your lover!’ The sober husbands now had to contend with their drunken spouses but would, perhaps, get lucky later that evening… or if they weren’t so lucky, they may have to hold back their wives’ hair as they threw up into the toilet.

When Mick went to leave, the wives came up and each gave him a big, and perhaps even slightly inappropriate, hug. They all then returned to the living room to turn up the music and start dancing while their husbands merely waved and shouted their goodbyes across the room returning to the heated discussion as to whether the Atlanta Braves had a chance this season.

Standing off to the side, patiently waiting her turn to say goodbye, was Maye, who had stayed sober. While we both know that this was a set up, she said, it was really nice meeting you. I hope we get a chance to meet again when I’m next in Alabama.

How often do you come down from DC, asked Mick. He was kind of hoping she would say ‘often’.

I spend most of my travel time in Georgia when I come down from DC to see our stakeholders, she said. It’s a three-and-a-half-hour drive to here from Atlanta, so I don’t regularly come to Dothan… but when I can, I do.

That’s a shame that you’re not often here, he said. Maybe next time I can get more details of that guy you killed in Tucson, he said with a grin.

Maye smiled. Mick could see how exquisite and exotic she looked.

Maybe I’ll tell you how I got rid of the body, she said, but you have to buy me lunch first!

If I also buy you dinner, will you tell me how you beat the rap? asked Mick.

"Lunch and dinner? You’re on, Aussie!" She held out her hand. While the other women were giving hugs, Maye offered a goodnight handshake along with a beautiful smile. Mick was pleased about that. The hugs were fake, but Maye had taken time to wait to say her goodbye away from the others. A handshake meant she wanted to leave a dignified impression… and while he would have liked to have felt her body against his, and smell her perfume, he was glad that all that was being offered was a hand. He took it and, almost without thinking, kissed it. As soon as he had done that, he regretted it. How cheesy! How sophomoric! He immediately apologized.

I’m sorry. That was such a stupid thing to do. That was so corny. He took her hand and gently shook it. It was nice meeting you. Have a good trip back to DC, he said and turned for the door, escorted by Ben just as Jess spirited the beautiful Maye away.

What the fuck was that? asked Ben. You kissed her hand! That was pretty lame, dude!

Mick merely shook his head, disappointed with himself.

"Yeah, that was pretty lame."

Ben laughed and put his big, meaty hands around the shoulder of his Aussie mate and pulled him in.

But she’s hot, huh? They stopped to look at her, now talking to Jess who was sporting a full glass of wine and being very animated. Ben shook his head admiring Maye and said, I would totally hit that, he said. Too bad I can’t now!

Mick watched her smiling at whatever Jess was saying, admiring her long straight hair and gorgeous figure. Who was this mystery woman? Maye gave Mick a quick glance and, seeing him looking at her, flashed him a smile.

Yeah… she’s something, alright, said Mick, enthralled.

7

On the Tarmac

Mick stood on the edge of the airfield tarmac watching the return of the gaggle of aircraft; the afternoon’s wave of flight training as army pilots—some experienced, some brand new—learned the complexities of the Chinook. Even though he was himself very experienced, he still watched with awe at these huge and ungainly machines dancing in the air, his stomach reverberating to the slap of the rotors.

The Alabama heat was oppressive. Humid and hot, just like back home in northern Queensland. The sun cooked the concrete which, in turn, baked the air. A Chinook taxied to a nearby parking spot shimmering in the heat haze coming off the concrete, and after a couple of minutes its massive rotor blades wound down. Soon, the two pilots emerged from the cargo ramp at the aircraft’s rear and walked towards Mick as the crew chief and aircrewman tied down the blades and readied the aircraft for the maintenance team.

One of the pilots was Ben. He had just finished the day’s instruction and was taking Mick out for a drink at the Officers’ Club. Soon, after the post flight de-briefing and paperwork, they were driving down the base’s roads towards the O’s Club, a cold beer and some hot wings.

8

The Officers’ Club

The cool air-conditioning of the club instantly took the edge off the stifling Alabama heat. Around them, other officers mingled, some with their families and kids. Ben went to the bar and Mick sat in a booth as one of the young girls chose a song on what would once have been called a ‘juke box’. Soon the latest boy band’s lollipop music was blaring, totally out of place amongst the many military uniforms and olive-green flying suits in the club.

Ben returned with two beers.

Hey man, he said, reaching to the vacant table nearby to grab its bowl of pretzels and nuts. Jess wants to know if Maye has called you. She gave her your number.

Mick, on hearing this, became a little excited.

I hope you don’t mind that she did that. I mean, I was supposed to ask you and I totally forgot. She did it anyway, I guess.

He took a gulp of ale and grabbed a handful of pretzels, trying to seem nonchalant about it.

Yeah, that’s fine. She can call me if she wants to, he said. He didn’t want to appear that he was excited at the thought of speaking with the woman who had so intrigued him.

Mate, I have to ask you: what’s her deal? What does she do? Mick took a gulp of his beer, trying not to look too interested, but he was eager to know more about this woman.

She works for the government, said Ben, almost cagily. "I’m not sure exactly what her day-to-day job is, but she spends a lot of time in Georgia. In fact, she’s heading to Atlanta later this week and wanted to catch up with Jess on the weekend. If