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From: nostrumo@nienor.s.bawue.de (Nostrumo)
Subject: TG: Duty, Honor, Country     by  Brandy DeWinter  (1/8)
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Hi.

  As far as I remeber this story was not posted yet, but if I'm
mistaken it will be a nice repost :). The title says everything.

  As always: I DIDN'T write this story and haven't any claim to it. If
you have some useful hints or some good comments, your mail is welcome.
Flames, you know, will be piped to /dev/null.

  If you are an author and wish to remain anonymous or just try to
avoid the replies to your work. I offer you the chance of posting your
stories and collecting the response for you. This offer only stands
for story postings and for nothing else.

Enjoy the story.

Ciao
	Nostrumo

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> cut here with a sharp knife <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<




Duty,  Honor,  Country


                                                        by  Brandy  Dewinter




1.  Chapter -    Tradition?


The lines of uniformed bodies stood patiently in sunlight brightly
magnified by reflections from the acres of concrete ramp. They had
little choice, orders were orders. Private Sanford "Sandy" Beech, a
nineteen year old recruit in the infantry regiment, swayed a little in his
position near one end of the second rank, almost nodding off despite
the sweltering heat and the constant irritation of sweat dripping into
his eyes and trickling down his back. Unlike some of his colleagues in
uniform, Beech was reasonably well educated. He hadn't been able to
afford to go to college, hence his current "job". But he had been
blessed with parents who challenged him far beyond what public
schools required. At least, they had until they were wiped from the
earth by a drunken driver, another contributor to his present situation.
As he stood there feeling the sweat make his uniform gradually
disintegrate into a shapeless mess, he was reflecting on the history of
this particular military drill and how useless it was in today's army, a
thought that had been coming to him more and more as they waited.

      Infantry inspection in ranks had started out when regiments were
raised and paid by their colonel, who was in turn paid by the general
(or more often prince) who had raised the army. The general would
inspect each man to make sure that the count claimed by the colonel
was correct and that none of the men were blind, or too diseased, or
too crippled. It also helped if each man had at least some sort of
weapon and either the colonel or the general would have to solve that
problem for the ones without. In time, when movement of blocks of
men became part of tactics, forming and holding lines became an
important military skill and a precise formation became part of the
inspection criteria. By that time, uniforms within a regiment had
become standardized though each regiment was unique. The general's
inspection in that era was to ensure that he could recognize the
regiment's uniforms well enough to direct it properly. That, in
conjunction with the military obsession for order and discipline, led to
inspection for neatness and a high boot polish, items not really helpful
in combat except as an indication of willingness and discipline to
follow orders. That willingness was indeed a military virtue, but
standing for over an hour in the hot sun on a burning plain of concrete
was hardly a vital combat skill. And now, uniforms were standardized
army-wide, weapons were issued from government arsenals, tactics
were based on highly-flexible formations and training would weed out
the physically inadequate. All of which made inspection in ranks
either uselessly boring (to those who couldn't or didn't use the time to
think) or actively irritating (to those who did). Beech would rather
have been challenged by some sort of combat exercise if he was going
to get hot and sweaty anyway.

      Finally the troops heard the whopping sound of an approaching
helo. Sergeants surreptitiously glanced down their ranks to make sure
none of the soldiers were turning to gawk at the clattering machine,
but the unit was well- trained and held formation properly. The
Blackhawk sat down a hundred yards in front of the formation in a
shower of dust and gravel from the supposedly clean ramp and dirtied
up the once-spotless uniforms even more thoroughly. The Colonel
stiffened into a correspondingly even more rigid posture at this
additional insult to his men, but he, too, was well-trained and held his
place until the swirling rotors flattened out and quit pushing air and
dirt around. Then he stepped forward to the doorway as it slid back.

      From where the men stood in formation it wasn't possible to
make out the insignia on the first man out of the helo, but it was clear
that he was wearing neat but not new camo BDUs, softened by wear
into a cooler and much more comfortable uniform than the formal
Class A uniforms of the regiment. He was surprisingly small, inches
shorter than their colonel, and slender. In addition to the more
comfortable uniform he was wearing bright aviator sunglasses, a
violation of enlisted uniform standards that was another irritation to
the men squinting in the sun. They forgot about him in the next
instant, however as he turned to help the other VIP occupant of the
helo. She, even from a hundred yards away decidedly she, needed the
help. Her tight, short skirt and spindly high heels made even the short
jump down from the helo an impossibility without aid. Six hundred
men from the regiment would have volunteered to help her down in a
heartbeat, five hundred and ninety six because they would have done
almost anything to get close to such a gorgeous creature, and the
other four to keep up appearances with their straight comrades in
arms. With that woman around none of the men were paying enough
attention to the officers to notice the quiet argument that had begun
even as the woman was helped to the ramp, but their attention was
jerked back to their own Colonel when the surprising order barked out.

      "All men, remove your jackets and stand easy."

      Now, that was a surprise. In the first place, you never took your
jacket off for an inspection, and in the second, stand easy? Inspection
in ranks was always done at attention. What was going on here?
Officers, Beech snorted to himself. They never make sense. But, like
the other men he removed his jacket and hung it over his arm. While
the troops were shuffling about the camo'd officer and his lady
companion were making their way to one end of the first rank. For
this formal (at least it started out formal) inspection the men had
been arrayed in order of height, with the shorter men on the ends and
the tall ones in the middle. The inspecting officer actually examined
the first men he came to, looking them over carefully and making
comments to the woman. A few were asked their names, a
semi-surprising event since generals sometimes did that as a means of
demonstrating interest in the men being inspected, however false or
transient. Surprisingly, though, in these cases the woman wrote the
names in a small notebook as though it actually mattered.

      When the . . was he really a general? He wasn't wearing any
rank insignia. . . reached the taller soldiers he seemed to lose interest,
walking quickly past. Only at the other end of the first rank, once
again comprised of shorter men, did he seem to pay attention. Beech
waited in the second rank, near one end due to his 5'7" height. When
the . . . general . . . got to him he stopped and looked him over very
carefully. Beech couldn't quite make out the whispered comments to
the woman, but her eyes met his for a second and showed approval. If
Beech could have figured out what she liked in him, he could have sold
it for a week's pay to the men around him, but her eyes showed only a
hint of amusement to go with her approval, revealing no particular
interest.

      "What's your name, soldier?" the general asked in a smooth voice
devoid of the expected parade ground rasp.

      Snapping to attention, awkward while holding his jacket, he
shouted, "Sir! Private Sanford Beech! Sir!"

      At the general's nod, the woman wrote it down in her book and
they passed on. Was it his imagination, or had that vision of feminine
loveliness actually smiled at him when he barked out his answer? Oh,
please come back and smile at me again, say something to me, inspect
me in ANY way that you want, Beech silently prayed, but the group
moved on. The rest of the inspection proceeded in the same
mysterious vein, close attention only to the shorter soldiers, particular
attention to the ones like the general and Beech who were slender,
virtually ignoring anyone even approaching six feet in height. In less
than fifteen minutes, though they had waited in ranks for almost two
hours, the inspection was over. The Sergeant Major barked out an
order to put their jackets on again and come to attention, then gave
yet another inexplicable, or at least unexplained, order.

      "The following men will report to Hangar 12 immediately," he
announced, then began to read from what must have been the list
made by the woman.

      Beech heard his name called along with about a dozen others and
proceeded to the hangar. The rest of the regiment was dismissed
behind him and the strange inspection was officially over.

      A dozen men, plus or minus a few, seemed lost in the enormous
hangar. In keeping with the sacred army tradition of
"hurry-up-and-wait", they stood around aimlessly. Beech noted that
one of the men in the group was one of "them", a homosexual. As far
as Beech was concerned consenting adults could do whatever they
wanted in private, but that philosophical position didn't help him
when he tried to figure out how to react to "them" personally and so
"they" made him uncomfortable. He certainly didn't want to
encourage "them" and tried to keep interactions on a proper,
professional, but distant basis. He also never let one get behind him in
the shower. That was part of the problem. Adults could do what they
wanted in private, but in the army there was no privacy. None of the
other straight men among the dozen in the hangar wanted to get too
close to the one . . different . . man so there was a clear space around
him, another problem in an organization that depended on group
cohesion and camaraderie. Beech noted that his nameplate read, Fox,
and that triggered a memory that his name was Tim, or Jim,
something like that. Next, Beech looked for some more acceptable
object to occupy his mind while they waited and saw two MPs hulking
by the door to some sort of office in the hangar. But the big MPs also
made him uncomfortable. They all seemed to have this sneering,
angry attitude, sort of a "Just give me any excuse and I'll ram my
billy club so far up your ass you'll taste it" arrogance. In his mind
they were all bullies. Who'd want to go into that sort of specialty
anyway? Beech had seen his share of bullies. He'd always been short
and slender, and no one would ever call his features "rugged". In high
school, he had faced the unpleasant choice of wearing his hair short
and looking like a wimp, or wearing it long like everyone else and
looking effeminate. He had chosen long hair, eventually liking the feel
and swing of it enough to let it grow below his shoulders. It had
caused him problems, though, with honest, sincere people mistaking
him for a girl throughout his life until the army took care of his hair
length choice for him, along with most other choices. Unlike the kindly
mistakes his appearance caused, bullies had always called him "sissy"
when they didn't call him worse things. In true "self defense" he had
investigated martial arts. Beech had soon found out that his hands
were too small and bone structure too light for real karate, unless he
wanted to build calluses so heavy he wouldn't be able to bend his
fingers. However, he found in aikido the style he needed. It focused on
using an opponent's momentum against them rather than on striking
attack. By the time he graduated from high school, no one was calling
him sissy any more, at least, not more than once.

      His reverie on Reasons To Hate Bullies was winding down when
one of the MPs called out, "Attention!"

      The call was echoed with, "At ease," so fast none of the troops
had time to complete the motion. Turning around, they saw the
general and his lady friend entering the hangar. The tapping of her
delicate heels echoed in the open space, unimpeded by more than the
faintest breathing from any of the spellbound men within the room.
Even the striding general made no sound as he glided with surprising
grace across the floor of the massive building.

      "Let's all go into the briefing room, shall we?" he asked. A
courtesy of course, since a request from a general compelled obedience
almost as irresistible as the ultimate motivator, an order from a
sergeant.

      "Make yourself comfortable," the general ordered. The group
which had seemed so small in the huge hangar now crowded the small
office as though their numbers had been multiplied several times over.
There were enough chairs, though, once the general and the woman
walked to the front of the room near a speaker stand.

      "I've asked you all here to offer you a chance to volunteer for a
special, vitally important mission," he began. "It is very highly
classified and will involve significant hazard and personal discomfort. I
know that doesn't sound like much of a recruiting pitch, but I must
emphasize how crucial this is to the security of our nation and the
safety of our people. I will also tell you that I will be part of the team.
I don't consider this an impossible assignment, but it will be more
difficult than anything you have ever done."

      Not much of a recruiting pitch, indeed! All of the soldiers were
more than familiar with the time-honored adage never to volunteer
and this seemed like as good a case as any for following that tradition.
One of them spoke up.

      "What's in it for us, General?"

      "I'm not a general," he corrected the man. "I can tell you that I
am on special assignment with orders from the President himself and
can effectively outrank any general around. That is an indication of
how important the President considers this mission. My own rank and
background are classified. Only those who volunteer will be told. Now,
as to your question. Nothing. If we succeed, you will never be able to
tell anyone what we accomplished. You won't get promoted. You
won't get medals. There's nothing in it for you except the knowledge
that you've helped in a mission so critical it may mean the difference
between life or death for millions of people. Or it may not. We'll be
trying to avert a danger that may not even be real. However, we think
it is real, terrifyingly real, and we must do what we can to protect our
country. The question is, do you want to be part of that 'we' ?"

      Sometime during that hopelessly depressing speech, Beech had
partially tuned out the "general". The woman had finally removed her
sunglasses and Beech realized she had brilliant green eyes to go with
her corona of auburn hair. He felt himself falling into those eyes. He
had only seen eyes that clear and deep green in one other situation,
whenever he looked in a mirror. They captivated him, providing a
linkage to the beautiful woman that began to tickle his mind with
fantasies of other closeness, other sharing. Her eyes had roamed the
group impartially at first, but his staring drew her gaze to him just as
his gaze was trapped by her. Those emerald jewels showed a hint of
amusement at his open admiration, but also a hint of . . . what? . . .
desire? Did he imagine it or did were her eyes sending a message of
personal request to volunteer for this ridiculous mission? What could
possibly be so important?

      Beech pulled his eyes away and looked at the camouflaged officer
again. He hadn't removed his sunglasses. They were decidedly
non-standard, almost wrap-around and completely hid his eyes, even
his eyebrows. His voice was still smooth and soft, his message still
hopelessly tied to outdated patriotic concepts.

      "I'm not going to use the 'duty' phrase to get you to volunteer. I
want you to understand that we will be asking you to do things that
are far above and beyond the call of duty, at least, of the duty you
already owe by joining the army. Once you're part of the team, your
duty to your teammates will be greater than any ever required of
ordinary soldiers. You can withdraw now with honor intact. No
stigma will be attached to those not continuing from this point. Your
country needs you, though, your friends, your neighbors, even
strangers. Will you help me help them?"

      What did motivate soldiers like these? In olden days, the hope for
glory could make men take incredible risks, but the officer had ruled
that out. Duty to comrades was a powerful force, elevating ordinary
men to extraordinary levels that they knew were not strictly required
of them. A soldier's sense of duty was part of what separated him
from civilians, even when no sergeant was watching. The "general"
had carefully ensured that the men knew their consciences could be
clear on that issue, though. Honor? The type of honor that mattered
was always internal, regardless of who was watching. Just why had
they joined the army in the first place? Was it always just another
job? Did they want to find out what they were made of, measured
against a standard that civilians couldn't even understand? Country.
The general had certainly pushed that button. Was it enough?

      The slender officer who was still "the general" in the minds of the
men nodded unobtrusively to one of the MPs at the door, who
immediately hollered, "Attention!"

      With conditioned reflex the group of men jerked to their feet.
The general quietly said, "All right. Those who are not going to
volunteer may leave now."

      Beech was ready to leave with the rest but happened to glance at
the woman one last time, one possibly fatal time. Her sparkling green
eyes were made even brighter by incipient tears. Though there wasn't
a single specific change from the gentle amusement of before that
Beech could have pointed out, her expression was now worried, afraid
that the entire group would leave. Beech found himself falling into the
bottomless depths of those eyes instead of moving for the door, until
finally he realized that only three of their original dozen remained in
the room and the door was being closed behind the exiting MPs. And
that he was one of those three. So was the homosexual soldier, Tim
Fox. That made Beech even more uncomfortable because he knew in
his heart he always thought that "they" wouldn't be as brave as "real"
men, despite the history he knew of the sacred band of Thebes. Yet
here this "person" sat, volunteering for a hazardous mission without
apparent reward. The final volunteer was a blond soldier Beech knew
only as "Carp", a nickname from the "Clumsy Carp" character in the
comic strip. He had a reputation for being really hard working, really
motivated, and really clumsy. His nameplate read Anderson, but that
didn't trigger any further memories for Beech.

      "Excellent," smiled the general. "Please, sit down again. Let me
be the first to thank you for your patriotism. As of right now, you
have all earned a nice letter of commendation from the President
himself. It will be placed in your personnel file and I expect it will
make a difference when you come up for promotion, or for
consideration at a special school you want. Congratulations."

      Then he continued in a much less pleasant tone, though his voice
was still somehow soft and smooth, "But as of right now you also have
one last chance to back out, no penalty, no questions asked. You'll still
get your letter. However, we are about to give you your first briefing.
Once you receive it, you will be held to the strictest standard of
secrecy you can imagine. If you ever breathe a word of this, I'll see
that you're thrown under the worst stockade in the military, and you'll
never come out. You'll be passed your food through a hole in the wall,
and the orders to the guard will be that when the food is untouched
for 10 days in a row, the hole will be sealed. Don't make the mistake
of thinking I'm joking. If you don't think you can maintain that level
of secrecy, leave now."

      None of the volunteers left, but all looked decidedly
uncomfortable, wondering even more what they had gotten themselves
into. Beech's eyes had again been drawn to the woman, but when he
heard the general's threat, he whispered to himself, "The man in the
iron mask." She understood his comment, knew that he understood
the reference, and smiled at him. This time there was no doubt. She
had certainly smiled, and certainly at him. What could they ask him
to do that was too terrible for that sort of reward? When it was clear
that none were leaving the general regained his pleasant smile and
stood up, quickly motioning the men to keep their seats.

      "All right, let me introduce myself and my companion. I actually
am a General, General Merlin. I lied to those others because we never
tell anyone outside our circle anything that might give them even a
hint of our mission, or of the people involved. My permanent rank is
major, but the President has promoted me to two-star rank for the
duration of this assignment. It should come in handy when we deal
with administrivia and bureaucrats. That's besides the authority I
have as his representative, which is also real. My lovely companion is
Constance McLean. She's what we call a subject matter expert, for
part of your training."

      "Over the course of the next year, more or less, we'll be training
you in several specialized skills for the mission. You're not the only
regiment we've recruited from, but you have had the best response.
With your additions, we now have enough to enter full-time training.
We'll turn you into masters of unarmed combat, with agility you
wouldn't believe is possible. We'll turn you into master thieves as well,
with skills in lock-picking and alarm neutralization. More than any of
these, though, you'll have to learn to disguise yourselves. Each of you,
from the time we reach the base, will form an entire new persona, one
unrecognizable to your best friends. That is the key to this mission.
Connie will help you in this area, and I am a testimony to how
effective her skills are."

      With that the officer stood up, removed his wrap-around
sunglasses, and pulled off his beret. To the absolute shock of the three
new volunteers, the "general's" eyes were as beautiful as any woman
ever born. High, carefully- shaped brows highlighted luminous blue
eyes, themselves framed by long dark lashes and shining pearlescent
shadow. As he pulled the beret away from his head, blond curls
cascaded down around his shoulders, bobbing softly as they settled
into position.

      "You will need to be able to disguise yourself as women to
accomplish this mission. That is why we chose only those who have a
slight build and are relatively short. Further, you will need to be
beautiful women, sensual, desirable, totally believable. I won't tell you
just why, yet, but it is as important to this mission as any other skill
you will learn. It is also the most highly classified part of your
training. As of now, you are committed. If you wash out of the
training, you'll be put in a deep hole until the rest of the team
completes their mission. One of the key mission objectives is that the
target never know we were there. If word gets out that the US Army
was training female impersonators, our entire mission is compromised,
not to mention any team members who are still in place. Do I make
myself clear?"

      The soldiers were too amazed to speak, but that question was so
standard following formal orders that their automatic responses took
over and all nodded. Their mouths hung open, their eyes bulged out,
but they nodded.

      "Right," said the general as . . he? . . tucked his long hair back
under his beret and replaced his mirrored sunglasses. "Let's get
moving. The helo is standing by."




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