Sentimental Journey Read Online Free PDF Page B

back offices.
    “He’s not alone, Captain.”
    J.R. stopped and turned.
    “Lt. Colonel Harrington from HQ is with him . . . ”
    Great. Two horses’ asses together in one room. He threw the toothpick into a metal ashtray and wondered what was up. If it was his lucky day, then he’d be getting an assignment. Out of there. Finally.
    If it wasn’t his lucky day, well, he could be doing anything from touring some congressman around the batteries to representing the U.S. Army as a hog judge at the nearest country fair.
    There was, however, one job he knew he wouldn’t be doing again. Based on camp scuttlebutt, Langdon wouldn’t order J.R. to escort his lush young wife, Adele, again anytime soon.
    J.R. gave the door a firm knock. Langdon’s voice came through the door, a command to enter. J.R. walked inside.
    The colonel’s office smelled of old coffee, cigar smoke, and dogmatism.
    Langdon looked up, his face unreadable. He stubbed out his cigar, and they went through the routine, J.R. saluting two men he did not respect. Oh, he supposed Harrington was all right, if you could stand a pansy-assed, stiff-necked boot-licker of the first order.
    Langdon gave J.R. an icy look.
    J.R. returned it unflinchingly.
    The colonel was about five inches shorter than he was, had light brown, graying hair and a deeply receding hairline. When you looked at his forehead, you saw that hairline formed an M, which made you think he had joined the wrong branch of service. He should have been a leatherneck.
    “Sit down, Captain.”
    The instant he sat down Langdon rose. It was a calculated move; now Langdon could look down at him. J.R. watched his commander walk over to the west window, his back to the room and his hands clasped behind him as he stood there—the little shit—milking the moment.
    A fly buzzed around J.R.’s head. He ignored it, but looked up—a search for hebetude. The old metal ceiling fan spun lazily overhead and ticked like a timing device counting off tension in seconds. Outside the door, you could still hear the aide’s frenetic typing, then the sharp, final ring of the typewriter bell. Less than a second later the carriage return slammed over to the left side of the machine with a plangent rattle.
    Langdon waited a long time before he faced him again.
    J.R. counted six more rings of that typewriter bell. He knew this game. The colonel had played it often enough for J.R. to wonder if it was in the goddamn rule book.
    “It seems that the State Department has a little problem, Captain, and according to a staff memo Lt. Col. Harrington bought down from HQ, your name keeps popping up as the man they want to handle it.”
    He was getting an assignment from HQ. Something from over Langdon’s head.
    Thank God and GHQ
    “You’ve heard of Arnan Kincaid?”
    “The genius who heads the scientific research at Wynberg-Kincaid Labs?”
    “That’s the one,” Lt. Col. Harrington piped in.
    J.R. just looked at him. Harrington was an annoying weasel, like the one in that nursery rhyme, the one who popped his head up from a bush every few minutes. Harrington did it just to make sure you remembered he was there.
    “Rumor has it Kincaid’s working for the government.” J.R. aimed his comment to Langdon just to piss off Harrington. “But as far as I can tell, no one wants to confirm that information.”
    “Consider it confirmed.” Harrington’s voice was smug in the way of those who liked it when they knew things others didn’t. He was a surefire security risk, the kind of man whose ego wouldn’t let him keep his mouth shut.
    Langdon shot Harrington a sharp look, then turned back to J.R. “Kincaid is working on a top secret project. But he’s not the problem.”
    “What is?”
    “Not what. Who.” Langdon crossed back over to the desk and sat down. “Kincaid has a daughter. Kathryn. She disappeared almost two weeks ago.” The colonel held out a hand toward Harrington, who flipped open a briefcase, riffled through