“Yes, sir,” Cass said miserably. “Eagles spin the way. Hooah.”

“All the way. That’s more like it. All right, then, let’s review the apparent facts. You went beyond the perimeter of operations, broke regs by permitting a civilian to drive a military vehicle, did something to provoke the locals-hold on, let me finish-and in the process nearly lost a United States congressman. A congressman known for being outspokenly critical of our presence here. And who is known to have a certain reputation with the…female of the species.” Captain Drimpilski pondered a moment. “As you can see, there are a few layers to this onion.”

“Is the captain implying,” Cass said, suddenly dry-eyed, “that the corporal was having sex with the congressman? In a minefield?”

“No, I personally do not believe that.”

“Do they?” she said incredulously.

Captain Drimpilski cleared his throat noncommittally. “What I know is that discussions are being held even as we speak. In Washington, D.C., at the Pentagon. And at the White House. I am given to understand that the secretary of defense himself is taking part in these discussions. While I am not privy to these discussions, it is my general understanding that they are not arguing over whether to award you the Distinguished Service Medal or the Medal of Honor. By the way, there are approximately fifty members of the media outside this facility, all of them extremely eager to interview you.”

Cass was not one for self-pity, but she couldn’t help reflecting that eighteen months ago she was at home in Connecticut opening a letter saying she’d been admitted to Yale and she was now lying wounded in an army hospital in Germany, responsible for the mutilation of a member of the United States Congress and listening to what sounded like a preamble to her court-martial. She began to laugh. She couldn’t help it.

“You all right?” Captain Drimpilski said.

“Fine. Fine. So when’s the firing squad?”

Captain Drimpilski stood. “I’ll stick around, see what can be done.” He patted her on the knee. “You get some rest now, Corporal.”

“Captain,” she said as he was leaving.

“Yes?”

“The corporal was not having sex with the congressman in a minefield.”

“Noted.”

The next day, off morphine and wishing she weren’t, Cass watched CNN and saw Congressman Randy being wheeled off a military air transport at Andrews Air Force Base outside Washington. A large crowd awaited him. His mother was there, along with the entire Massachusetts congressional delegation. Randy gave a thumbs-up gesture-which would be replayed a thousand times-as he was bathed in the flashlight from dozens of cameras. People waved American flags. A welcome banner read, WELCOME HOME, HERO! Cass noted the presence of the secretary of defense and various Joint Chiefs, including the chairman. The secretary’s demeanor, not normally jocund, resembled that of a man chewing aluminum foil. She became aware of the reporter saying, “Congressman Jepperson was wounded when the vehicle he was being driven in went off the road and onto a mine. From here he will be transferred to…”

Was being driven in? Had she heard correctly?

Cass was not left to speculate for long. That afternoon, the colonel returned, this time alone. He closed the door and sat beside Cass’s bed. He handed her a clipboard. There was a sheet of paper on it, with a line at the bottom.

“It’s your request for discharge.”

“From the hospital?”

“No, Corporal. From the army.”

Cass tried to sit up. “Sir, though my mind is kind of clouded up with morphine, I do not specifically recall requesting a discharge.”

The colonel gave her a meaningful look. “Does the corporal recall being offered a choice between court-martial for negligent endangerment of a civilian, punishable by up to twenty-five years in military prison-and an honorable discharge for personal reasons?”

So there it was. “Now that the colonel mentions it, I do recall something of that nature. Perhaps the morphine caused amnesia.”

“It does that. Sign here, here, and here.”

“Shouldn’t I first consult with an army lawyer?”

“Cohane,” the colonel said with just a fleck of sympathy, “there were those who wanted your flayed hide nailed to the front door of a certain five-sided building in Washington, D.C. Were it not for Captain Drimpilski and Congressman Jepperson, the crows would by now be feasting on your remains. I’m putting it explicitly, but I want to make everything clear for you. Do I?”

“As designer water, sir.” Cass sighed.

As the colonel walked away, she said, “Do I get a Purple Heart?”

Chapter 6

There were no crowds or WELCOME HOME, HERO! banners for ex-corporal Cassandra Cohane.

People seemed unsure how to respond to her, whether to wink (Banging a congressman in a minefield? Party down, girl!) or disapprove (you slut) or evince sympathy (Well, thank heavens you’re alive, but no more minefields for you!). By the end of the first week home, Cass had dyed her lovely blond hair a shade called “Mississippi Mud,” bought clear prescription-type glasses, and spent hours in front of the mirror attempting to make herself unrecognizable even to her mother. She went to the library and looked up articles on cosmetic surgery.

Her mother’s eyes widened as Cass emerged from the bathroom after one session of home makeover.

“Well?” Cass said.

“You look…Gosh, it’s good to have you back.”

“Mother. I did basic combat training. I can kill a man with my hands. Tell me. I can take it.”

“You look lovely, darling. Just like that movie actress.”

“Which movie actress?”

“The one who was arrested for shoplifting. Her mug shot…I mean, she’s very pretty.…”

In due course, a letter arrived from the Department of the Army saying that under the terms of her discharge, no, Cass was not eligible for tuition assistance. Indeed, the Yale admissions office did not sound in any great hurry to have her matriculate. Cass reentombed herself in her room for a week, watching the ceiling and television in equal proportion.

One day her father telephoned. Her mother knocked and entered, bearing the cordless phone as though it were something that had been retrieved from deep within a septic tank.

“Sug? Hey! How’s my girl?” He sounded California hearty, as though his veins coursed with pomegranate juice. They had not spoken in a year and a half.

“I’m great,” she said.

“Hear you had a little accident over there.”

“Yeah.”

“What were you doing driving in a minefield?”

“Long story, Dad.”

“Well, you sure had us worried.”

“Us?”

“Yeah. That’s what I’m calling about. Primarily I was calling to see how you are. But secondarily”-this was how engineers talked; by the end of the conversation, he’d be up to “duodecimally”-“I’ve got news. I’m getting married…You there?…Sug?”

“I’m here.”

“Her name’s Lisa. She’s fantastic. She can’t wait to meet you. I’ve told her all about you.”

“Dad…”

“Yeah, Sug?”

“Hang up.”

“No prob. I’ll call you in a few days. It’s going great out here. I’m going to be sending you some money. Soon as I can. This time it’s gonna happen. We’re on target. Love ya.”

No prob?...?Love ya? This wasn’t how he used to talk in Connecticut.

She went back to staring at the ceiling. Ceilings can actually be interesting, if you stare at them long enough. With the right drugs, they’ll outperform the Sistine Chapel.

One afternoon three weeks into her self-immurement, she turned on the television and saw Congressman Randy arriving at the Capitol building for his first day back at work. Another huge crowd awaited him. A large banner proclaimed the return of an AMERICAN PATRIOT. He emerged from his car on two crutches, gave his now signature thumbs-up gesture, and caused a roar of applause from the perhaps five hundred people waiting for him on the steps of the Capitol. She had to admit, it made for pretty good TV. It’s not every day that a politician is hailed as a living hero.