Duly Constituted Authority

1

Headquarters, 1st Marine Expeditionary Force (MEF), Camp Pendleton, California

Whap! The slap came unexpectedly. And it hurt. A woman had never slapped Capt. Donald DeSimone, USMC. Until now. What the hell did you do that for?

Because of what you said. Lieutenant J.G. Carla Costanza, USN, glared at him, eyes blazing, hand ready to strike again.

"For cryin’ out loud, all I said was you have a nice body. Does that deserve a slap? He held his hand to his face. It still stung.

You're damn right, Captain, and I'll slap you again if you ever say something like that to me!

DeSimone walked away, hand still to his face, muttering under his breath. Lousy bitch.

What? What did you say?

But the captain had turned the corner. Costanza glared after him for a moment and then went into her office. She picked up the telephone. Colonel Riker please.

Marine Training Battalion, Parris Island, South Carolina

Private Darla Wiggins, USMC, was trying her hardest but it was not easy. This was her third try to get over the obstacle but she had failed each time. She lay on the ground, under the wooden contraption, waiting for the inevitable wrath of the Drill Instructor. This particular DI was a black gunnery sergeant -- known throughout the Corps as a gunny -- named Gerald Gore. The troops equated his last name with his thirst for blood -- their blood.

Private Wiggins, whatever are you doing under my obstacle, taking a nap?

She lifted her head, her eyes filled with tears. I -- I can't do it, Sir.

What? Did you say 'can't?' Private Wiggins? Did I actually hear that word?

She looked back down, knowing whatever she said at this point would merely exacerbate the situation.

Stand up, Wiggins. Go 'head. She started to rise but not fast enough for Gunny Gore. That's it, Wiggins, take your sweet time. The troops behind you have all day. He turned to several Marines waiting to mount the obstacle. Don't we, children?

Sir, no sir! They shouted as one.

You see Private Wiggins, you're holding up the parade. Now get up, damn it!

Finally she righted herself, wiping dirt off her uniform with one hand and brushing away a tear with the other.

I didn't say you could clean yourself, did I Wiggins?

Sir, no sir. It was more of a blubber than a response.

His voice grew louder. What did you say, Wiggins?

She coughed it out. Sir, no sir!

His pockmarked face was two inches from her nose. Now what did I hear you say before, Private Wiggins, something about 'can't?'

She sniffed. Sir, I can't get over that thing.

What? Say again?

I said I can't get over that thing!

You know you're supposed to start and end everything you say to me with 'Sir,' Private Wiggins, don't you? Now he was shouting.

Her eyes opened wide, her nostrils flared. Sir, yes sir, and I still can't over that goddamned thing, sir!

Gore was actually surprised by her vehemence. He started to explode and then caught himself. Smiling, he said in a lowered voice Well, so you can't. Whatsa matter, little girl miss her mommy and her daddy? Miss yo' dolly, too? Little candyass . . . Private Wiggins, assume the position!

She hesitated for a moment, and then remembered what that meant. As quickly as she could, she got down into the pushup position, her weakened arms barely able to hold her up.

Now give me twenty-five! As she started to count off, Gore turned to the waiting trainees. Now the rest of you maggots will attack this obstacle and if one of you happens to fall on poor Private Wiggins that will be too damn bad, won't it?

As the other trainees struggled to climb over the obstacle and continue the course, Wiggins tried to do her pushups. One, two, three, four, I love the Marine Corps, she shouted between grunts, hoping someone's boot didn't catch her on the upstroke. She managed to complete five pushups and collapsed, face down. Gore lowered his head in disgust.

I believe you owe me a few more, Wiggins. No response except for sobs. Gore turned to the trainees. Okay, ladies, take ten. The trainees gratefully headed to the break area, most of them dropping on the ground from exhaustion. Some of the female trainees shook their heads in sympathy but they could do nothing.

Gore knelt next to the sobbing young lady, mouth close to her ear. You wanna go back to your momma now?

She wiped a tear. I thought we were supposed to look out for each other.

Gore snorted. You think I'm gonna give you special treatment because you're black? Well think again, Wiggins, think again! This is the United States Marine Corps, and I am a goddamned Drill Instructor, and you are just a sorry-ass, good-for-nothing trainee. And I don't give a good goddamn what color you are! Do you hear me Wiggins? No response. He stood up. On your feet!

She stood slowly, trying to muster up as much dignity as she could under the circumstances, but she looked like what she was, a scared, tired little girl.

Now his nose was less than an inch away from hers. Maybe your black ass doesn't belong in my beloved Marine Corps, 'djever think of that Wiggins?

She started to speak but stopped.

He cocked his head. Were you going to say something? Do you think I'm being unfair, Wiggins?

She bit her lip.

Wanna turn me in for racial discrimination, Wiggins, or perhaps sex-yoo-al har-ASS-ment? he asked, deliberately exaggerating the words.

She closed her eyes.

Get over there with the others, sorry-ass . . . move!

She ran to the group, sobbing all the way. Gore looked after her for a moment and shook his head. The Marine Corps had been the last holdout but the political pressure had been too much. Finally, Marine Basic Training had gone co-ed, much to the displeasure of drill instructors such as Gunny Gore. He walked over to the group, about one-quarter of which was female. Two more cycles and my ass is out of here . . .

US Army Infantry Training Center, Ft. Benning, GA

Private First Class Randy Amiot carefully took aim at the target, his chin melding into the side of the M-16A2 as he slowly squeezed the trigger. The weapon barely moved as he let off four quick rounds, looking up after the last shot. How’d I do?

Staff Sergeant Geraldo Jerry Rodriguez lifted his field glasses and examined the paper target downrange. Nice grouping, Amiot, all four right on target. He lowered his glasses from his weather-beaten face. Yep, I’d say you’re ready to represent the battalion in the competition next month.

How about another clip?

Nope, that’s it for today.

Amiot stood up, adjusting his helmet on his head as he did so. How’s come, Sarge?

Because you fired your quota.

But I only fired two clips! I think I need more practice, Sarge.

Rodriguez stood with his hands on his hips. Sorry, that’s it for today. Clear your weapon and sling arms.

But why, Sarge?"

Private Amiot. I know you want to practice some more and I would like for you to practice some more. But we have only so much ammunition and so you have to stop practicing today. Got it?

Why, we runnin’ out or something?

That’s the fact. Our esteemed government up in Washington has decided butter’s more important than guns.

Huh?

Rodriguez shook his head. They’ve cut our budget and we have to conserve ammo. Understand?

No shit! Well, how ‘bout just one more clip? I really would like to . . .

Private Amiot! Clear your weapon and sling arms! Do you understand?

Dejected, the red-faced Amiot did what he was told. Yes, Sergeant.

As the two left the firing range, Rodriguez lit a small cigar. Good kid, he thought. Actually likes to shoot and wants to keep training but I can’t let him because we’re short on fuckin’ ammo.

Sergeant Rodriguez?

Yeah?

What’s gonna happen if we have to fight a war? You think we’ll have enough ammo then?

The sergeant stopped and took a puff. Son, now you didn’t hear this from me you understand, but if I were you, I’d write your congressman and ask him that question, ‘cause, I’ll be damned if I know.

2

Colonel Harold W. Riker, USMC, took in the sight of Captain DeSimone standing at attention before him. He had been much like him once -- young, vigorous, energetic -- horny. Now it was time to play the old man. He had just given him the obligatory ass-chewing. DeSimone had remained passive through it, standing straight and occasionally saying Yes sir, or No sir, as appropriate. Riker had made sure his staff had heard his tirade. Now he closed the door to his office and returned to the chair behind the mahogany desk. Sit down, Captain.

DeSimone sat, facing his superior. Now tell me, Donnie, what the hell happened between you and Costanza.

Man-to-man, sir?

Of course.

DeSimone relaxed a bit and leaned forward. Colonel, first of all, I'm single and she's single. And attractive. So I asked her out, several times. She kept saying no. Anyway, I'm the type of guy who hates to take 'no' for an answer and I guess she thought I was too persistent. Finally, after the umpteenth rejection she asks me why I want to date her so badly and, well, you know what I said. He lowered his head.

You said 'because you have a nice body.'

Yes, sir.

And she slapped you.

Yes, sir.

That's it?

That's it. Yes, sir.

No pinching her ass, grabbing her boobs, calling her a slut, nothing like that?

God no, sir. Nothing like that. He paused. Sir, when I walked away I said something like ‘lousy bitch’ under my breath but I don’t think she heard that. But I never grabbed her or even touched her. I may be horny but I'm not stupid. I was just frustrated at that point and that's why I said that. I guess it wasn't appropriate but I hardly expected a sexual harassment complaint.

You sure she didn’t hear that last remark?

She said something like ‘what did you say?’ but I didn’t answer. I just walked away. What are you supposed to say when someone slaps your face, ‘thank you, ma’am, may I have another?’

Riker drummed his fingers for a moment on the desk as he pondered the facts in the case. "Donnie, off the record now, what do you think is happening here? I mean really happening? Has she got it in for you for some reason? Did you piss her off on a date once, or what? And don’t worry, what you tell me stays in this room."

Sir, I‘ve never dated Lieutenant Costanza. Haven’t even bought her a cup of coffee. No, other than this incident she never had it in for me as far as I know. Hell we don’t even work together very much. What I think is happening is that, frankly, she’s Navy. And she’s a product of the `post-Tailhook’ generation so she’s overly sensitive -- or something. He shrugged.

Riker nodded. He remembered the Tailhook incident, back in ‘91, where some Navy types got a bit out of control in a Las Vegas hotel. Some female officers got caught up in some off-color shenanigans that resulted in a flurry of sexual harassment complaints. A few Navy high rollers had been canned for that fiasco, some merely because they had been present. Riker remembered the big deal the press had made about it. Well, nobody said life was fair. He thought about it a little more and made his decision. Captain DeSimone, I’ve decided to give you an oral reprimand which, I’m sure you remember, consisted of that ass-chewing I administered a few minutes ago, and that will be that. Now, once again, off the record.

Sir?

"Watch your ass, Donnie. Give this gal a wide berth. I don’t have to tell you the military is watching all this stuff real carefully these days and a guy can get himself in real trouble. Now, needless to say, I don’t condone sexual harassment or any kind of harassment for that matter. There’s no place in this man’s Corps for crap like that. On the other hand, I really don’t think what you did constitutes real sexual harassment so I’m going easy on you. But I can only do so much. If she comes back with another complaint, I’ll have to throw the book at you. Unless of course you can prove she’s full of bull, but that’s difficult to do in these cases. You understand?"

Yes, sir. I’ll forget all about dating her. In fact I’ll keep all contact with her to strictly business.

Good. You’re a good officer and I’d hate to see your career screwed up over some piddly-ass stuff like this. I’m going to have to call in Costanza and tell her what was done to close the book on this and that should be that. He rose from his chair prompting DeSimone to do the same.

Thank you, sir. I appreciate your comments and I assure you this will not happen again.

‘That’s all I can ask, Captain, dismissed." The two men saluted each other and, after DeSimone departed Riker sat down to consider the next order of business.

The US House of Representatives, Washington, D.C.

Congresswoman Doreen Latourette, D, Louisiana stood in the well of the House and held up a piece of paper. How much time do I have?

The Speaker Pro Tem answered. The gentlelady from Louisiana has five minutes remaining.

I would like to read to the House from a letter I received recently from a young lady from my district who earlier this year enlisted in the United States Marine Corps. Now this young lady, one Private Darla Wiggins from Bogalusa, is currently undergoing Marine basic training at Parris Island, South Carolina. She has written and told me that she has been the target of unfair treatment at the hands of certain male personnel at that camp.

Congressman Fred Baxter, Jr., R, Texas closed his eyes. Oh shit, here we go again.

Latourette continued. Private Wiggins, who is an African-American, tells of some of the most depraved treatment and language. And why? Because she had a little trouble completing the obstacle course which, I might add, is constructed in such a way as to put people with less upper body strength, such as women, at a distinct disadvantage. Let me read you some of her--

Will the gentlelady yield? It was Baxter.

She ignored him. Let me read you some of her letter. ‘Dear Representative Wiggins: I am writing to tell of you of the grossly unfair treatment I have received at the hands of my Drill Instructor. I enlisted in the Marine Corps--

Will the gentlelady yield? Baxter hated using the word even as he said it. After all, he thought, isn’t lady the feminine of gentleman? But the House had its formalities, no matter how ridiculous.

She finally gave in. For what purpose does the gentleman from Texas wish me to yield?

For a question.

Then I will yield, but I reserve the balance of my time.

The Pro Tem piped up again. Without objection so ordered. The chair recognizes the gentlemen from Texas for a question.

Baxter got up. I might remind the gentlelady from Louisiana that Marine basic training is not intended to be a picnic. The purpose of the training--

Latourette turned to the Chair. That is not a question, Mister Speaker, I said I’d yield for a question.

The Pro Tem wielded his gavel as several voices were raised as once. I would remind the gentleman from Texas to limit his remarks to a question.

Baxter shook his head. Fine. Does the gentlelady from Texas realize that Marine basic training is intended to weed out the weak sisters from the rest -- he realized he’d made a faux pas as soon as he said it -- of the troops? It’s not supposed to be a picnic, it’s supposed to . . .

The expected explosion came. Latourette could barely conceal the anger her voice. ‘Weak sisters?’ What is that supposed to mean? Is the gentleman insinuating that women have no place in the Marine Corps? Mister Speaker, I demand an explanation of that remark!

Before the Speaker could respond, Baxter spoke up. Hold it, hold it, I meant no offense. It was just an expression. What I meant was that the wheat has to be separated from the chaff, so to speak. Basic training is meant to separate those who cannot physically or mentally hold up to stress. It’s training for combat, for God’s sake.

Latourette stood facing him, hands on hips. Did it ever occur to you, Congressman Baxter that perhaps the training is unfairly biased toward the male gender?

Sex, he responded.

I beg your pardon?

The male sex. Gender is a grammatical term which is used in the wrong context here.

She was becoming infuriated. Please answer my question, Congressman Baxter.

The Pro Tem turned to a clerk. I forget who has the floor. The clerk shrugged.

Baxter went on. If the gentlelady is intending to further weaken the already weakened standards of our armed forces because some little lady couldn’t hack it, I would have to say, with all due respect, that she will find some stiff opposition from this side of the aisle. And probably on her side of the aisle too.

Latourette’s anger got the best of her as she sputtered. Why of all the -- I don’t believe what I’m hearing -- Mister Speaker . . .

Several voices joined hers.

Mister Speaker!

Point of order!

Will the gentlelady yield?

The Pro Tem finally slammed the gavel down sharply. The House will be in order. The gentlelady from Louisiana has the floor.

The gentlelady in question finally calmed down a bit and continued where she had left off. As I was saying, Private Wiggins goes on to detail the most demeaning and I must say, unfair treatment of her at the hands of her drill instructor. I quote-- She proceeded to read portions of the letter, describing Wiggins’ experience with Gunnery Sergeant Gore -- though she did not mention him by name -- with repeated statements of the overall unfairness of the obstacle course as well as other aspects of the training. Latourette ended with an impassioned plea for fairness in the training given in the armed forces. And so, Mister Speaker, I will introduce a bill which will insure that men and women are given equal treatment when it comes to military training and that people like Private Darla Wiggins are not treated in such a disgraceful manner.

Her speech produced quite a bit of applause, especially from the more liberal members of the House (most of whom were on her side of the aisle), and an almost equal amount of groans from some on the other side. Baxter turned to Congressman Bill White of Kansas.

’Gender norming.’

What?

They call it ‘gender norming.’ Making the standards lower so women can meet them. But it’s another ‘BOHICA.

White smiled and shook his head. ‘BOHICA?’ What’s that?

It’s an old expression government employees use a lot - 'Bend Over, Here It Comes Again.’

3

Moscow, Russia -- The Kremlin

The aide gently opened the door to the president’s bedroom intending to wake the old man as he had on most mornings for the past three years. Usually he would walk over to the big window facing the president’s bed and draw the curtains, letting in a shower of light, and usually the president would wake up and say Good morning, Sasha. The president had stopped sleeping with his wife long ago, so there would be no invasion of privacy.

On this day Sasha drew the curtains and waited for the words which, this particular morning, did not come. Aleksandr Bakunin, affectionately called Sasha by the president, walked over and stared at the old man who appeared to be fast asleep. Sasha waited a few moments and decided simultaneously that the president probably had a bit too much vodka last night and that he, Sasha, would let him sleep some more.

Some thirty minutes later, Sasha checked on him again. The old man’s position had not changed nor had his facial expression. Gingerly, he touched his president’s arm but there was no response. He touched the forehead but it was cold. Sasha anxiously started shaking the old man, throwing decorum to the wind. Nothing. He rushed to the telephone. This is Sasha, send the doctor in immediately! It’s . . . it’s the president. I think he’s -- just send in the doctor. Hurry!

In a very few minutes, several doctors and aides, as well as his wife who had been sleeping in an adjoining room, surrounded the president’s bed. The chief doctor tried to take his pulse. Still nothing. His eyes met those of the president’s wife. I’m sorry but I believe he is no longer with us.

The wife, a small woman named Ekaterina, sobbed quietly as the rest of the people talked in hushed tones. Sasha merely lowered his head.

Grigory Mihkailovich Goldunov, president of the Russian Federation, heir to the leadership of the old Soviet Union, was dead.

On the other side of the world, Goldunov's American counterpart sat in the living room on the upper floor of the White House, in the part that tourists never get to see. His wife sat across from him dressed only in her bathrobe, her dirty-blonde hair piled up on her head. Merilee Ramsey regarded her husband as he sat in his favorite chair, reading The Washington Post. Tall, handsome, athletic, with his just-now-graying hair combed straight back, accenting his steely-blue eyes . . . and he was the president of the United States. I think I did all right when I picked him. After a moment she said What ‘cha reading?

Oh, the latest crap the opposition is saying about me.

Anything special, or the usual vile, filthy innuendoes and ridiculous rumors?

Well, I’m supposed to be the head of the most scandal-ridden, immoral, and incompetent administration this country’s evah experienced. Other than that, nothing special. He smiled that infectious and disarming smile of his.

Is that all? Who’s saying all that?

The usual.Senator Bell?

The one and only.

She wrinkled her nose. Why does that old fossil continue to carp at you? What does he expect to gain from it?

Are you kidding? He wants my job?

Your job? Why he’s at least sixty-five, isn’t he?

He put the paper down. Merilee, we’ve had olduh presidents. Remember Ronald Reagan?

She rolled her eyes upward. How could I forget?

Well, the senior senator from Arizona is still youngah than Reagan was when he took office. And he’s wanted this job for a long time. As a mattah of fact, he’s probably a shoo-in for the nomination. His Boston accent was coming through loud and clear as it did when he got wound up. And I’ll tell you something else, he cahn’t be dismissed all that easily as an opponent, let me tell you. A buzzer sounded and he immediately picked up the phone. Ramsey. A pause. Hmmm. I see. Okay, keep me posted as to new developments, will you? Thanks. He hung up. It seems something’s up in Moscow.

What?

We don’t know for sure, but something might have happened to President Goldunov. It’s not confirmed yet, the Ambassador thinks he might have died.

Hmmph. Probably drank himself to death. She noticed him staring off into space. What are you thinking about, attending the funeral in Moscow?"

"No actually, I was wondering what would happen over theah if he is gone."

She frowned. Well, nothing terrible I hope. We’ve finally managed to get that damned defense budget cut. I’d hate to see another Cold War situation.

He looked up at her. We?

Theodore Ramsey, aren’t I a part of this administration?

That smile again. Of course, my deah, of course. Well, hopefully the democratic process will prevail. He picked his newspaper up again, trying hard not to display the depth of his anxiety. But he was not fooling his wife who watched him as he thumbed through the pages. She knew him too well.

Five seconds.

Benson Williams regarded his colleagues around the table as he waited for the red light to go on.

Three, two, one, you’re on.

Williams gazed at the camera through his wire-framed glasses. "Good evening and welcome to World In Review. My colleagues tonight are Marissa Spencer from the Times, John Terella from the Post, and of course Neal Tomlinson from News of the World.com. I’m Benson Williams, your host. We have a lot to talk about tonight so let’s get started, shall we? Marissa, let’s start with you. What do you think will happen to relations between the US and Russia in the wake of the death of President Goldunov?"

Spencer crossed her legs under her green dress, trying her best to look thoughtful. Well, Benson, that depends entirely on who follows him of course. No surprise there. If Nosenko takes over, we might see a stronger Russia and a bit more of the old US-Soviet rivalry, but I don’t think he’s a Communist at heart. Golovkin, on the other hand . . .

Williams broke in. Marissa, for the benefit of our viewers, we are talking about Russian Defense Minister Gennady Nosenko and head of the Russian Socialist Union Dimitry Golovkin.

"Yes, well the RSU is really the old Communist Party of the Soviet Union for all intents and purposes. The RSU controls a large number of seats in the Russian parliament, the Duma. We don’t know of course just how dedicated this group is to restoring the old USSR but they’re certainly to the right of Nosenko."

To the left you mean, said Terella.

Whatever.

Tomlinson spoke up. Benson, there’s no doubt that the ascendancy of either Nosenko or Golovkin will mean a Russia which will be a bit more truculent. Certainly Golovkin presents the bigger problem for us, although I doubt seriously that we will see a return of the Cold War.

Spencer eyed him coolly. How can you be so sure, Neal? This guy’s a dedicated Communist as far as we can tell.

Tomlinson smiled. "I’m glad the Times has a man inside the Kremlin allowing you to be so sure of that Marissa. In any case, Russia doesn’t have the means any more to pose a threat the way the USSR did."

Williams turned to Terella. What about it John? Does your newspaper have a spy in Russia too?

Terella chuckled. No, not quite. But I think Marissa may be closer to the truth unfortunately.

In what way?

Well, we’re seeing potential enemy regimes, or at least rivals, flexing their muscles all over the world. Not to mention the apparent resurgence of extremist, leftist parties in places like Italy and France. And the way this president’s cutting our defense budget, well . . . and don’t forget terrorism.

Tomlinson cleared his throat. Oh, here he goes again. John, I don’t think we need to get into your ‘September 11th’ argument. You know the threat’s lessened. Saddam Hussein, Isis, and al-Qaeda are long gone. And you also know we’ve got bigger domestic fish to fry.

Before Terella could respond Spencer chimed in. Neal, you’re not paying attention to what’s going on in the world.

How so?

"First of all, in spite of waiting for years for China to ‘mellow,’ it’s still communist and stronger than it’s ever been. Hong Kong was supposed to remain capitalist and look what happened. Now Taiwan’s about to bite the dust the same way. Pakistan, India, and Iran all have nuclear weapons, and so does North Korea and no one’s done a damn thing about it. You know, if Golovkin does take over in Russia, I wouldn’t be surprised if North Korea tries to resuscitate the old Moscow-Pyongyang alliance. And how do we know Al-Qaeda and the others are really finished?"

At that, everyone started to speak at once causing Williams to break in. All right, I see we’re not going to solve this one. Let’s take a break for our sponsors and, when we come back, we’ll discuss the recent goings-on in the congress with the ever-perplexing issue of gender-norming in our nation’s armed services.

As the bright lights temporarily dimmed, Terella reached for a water glass. "That ought to be fun."

4

Lieutenant J.G. Sandra Costanza was furious. She stood in front of Col. Riker; her hazel eyes open wide, legs apart, hands on her hips. "Sir, do you mean to tell me that all you’re going to do is give Captain DeSimone a tongue-lashing? That’s ridiculous.

Normally Riker would jump all over a junior officer addressing him in this manner but he knew the potential for this case to become a major thorn in his side so he was treading lightly. At ease, Lieutenant. Correction, I already gave him a tongue lashing, and a severe one. What would have me do, demote him? Fine him? Send him to jail?

She maintained her aggressive stance. This is a clear case of sexual harassment and you know it, Colonel. I must demand justice, sir.

He tried to keep his temper in check but it was getting difficult. He took a deep breath. Lieutenant, sit down. Please. She sat. Lieutenant, perhaps Donnie is guilty of being a bit aggressive in asking you for a date, but this is hardly a case of sexual harassment, at least not in my book. He didn’t demand you sleep with him in order to get a promotion, he didn’t grab you, and he didn’t insult you, right?

He said I have a nice body.

That sounds like a compliment to me.

He also called me something else under his breath.

What?

I don’t know, I couldn’t hear it.

Well how do you know he called you a name?

Because of the tone of his voice.

Which you couldn’t hear well. Okay, let’s give you the benefit of the doubt. Let’s assume he swore at you under his breath. As I understand it, this would have been right after you slapped him, right?

So?

"So, what the hell would you expect him to do?"

Colonel, you know why I slapped him.

Yes, yes, he said you have a nice body.

Precisely.

You slapped Donnie just for saying that?

Of course! She said it as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

Riker eyed her sitting there, legs crossed under the Navy white skirt. She was very attractive. Did it ever occur to you that he told you that you have a nice body because, well, you have a nice body?

How dare you? She shook as she said it.

He raised the palm of one hand. Take it easy Lieutenant. Can’t a man tell a woman that she’s attractive anymore without being crucified for it?

She stood, hands back on her hips. Colonel Riker, I can see that this conversation is totally useless. You’re part of the ‘old boy network’ and you guys just have to stick together. ‘Donnie’ indeed! I suppose he calls you ‘Harry.’ You think you’re going to get away with this, don’t you? Well, I’m going to raise this issue to whatever authority I have to in order to achieve justice. And your name will figure promptly. She turned on one heel and started to head out.

Lieutenant! The shout stopped her in her tracks. Did I dismiss you? Turn around and face me, Lieutenant, and at attention!

Slowly she gathered herself together and turned around, standing at attention. Riker came out from around the desk and stood in front of her. Now listen to me, you spoiled Navy . . . brat!

He almost said another word beginning with a B.

You may be a Naval liaison officer but you still answer to me and the last time I checked I’m still a colonel, you understand that?

She stared straight ahead. Yes, sir.

Lieutenant, no one here is trying to cover up anything. All we have here is a guy wanted to take you out and maybe he was a little persistent when you said no. So he makes what was, at best, an off-color remark. So you slap him. Frankly, Lieutenant, if I were he I would have slapped you back! In any case, I counseled Captain DeSimone and he assured me that nothing like this would ever happen again. But that’s not good enough for you. You want to rake a good officer over the coals just because your feelings were hurt, isn't that right Lieutenant?"

She turned her eyes toward the floor and said nothing.

Good God, Lieutenant, you women want to be in combat. If you can’t handle some guy making an off-color remark, what the hell will you do when you face the enemy? Cry? Throw a temper tantrum?

Costanza’s facial muscles quivered as she fought with everything she could from screaming at the man.

Well?

I . . . I have nothing further to say, sir.

He came closer, standing inches from her face. In a controlled, low voice he spoke between clenched teeth. I know your type. You’re a sexual harassment complaint waiting to happen. You’ve got a chip on your shoulder because some guy once called you a ‘broad,’ or perhaps some other guy slept with you on the first date and then didn’t call you after that. So you take it out on the next guy that comes along who looks at you cross-eyed. And that happened to be Captain DeSimone. But I won’t play along by ruining a guy’s career so you’re going to escalate it. You’re going to complain to the Inspector General, or the Base Commander. Or you’ll write your congressman. Well, go ahead, Lieutenant Costanza, do your worst. I don’t give a shit anymore. I’ve had enough! They stood there, nose to nose, silently, contemplating each other with barely concealed contempt. Finally he stood straight up and said, Dismissed!

She left quickly without saluting or saying anything. He watched her leave and returned to the back of his desk. Colonel Harold William Riker, United States Marine Corps, clipped the end off a maduro-wrapped, Churchill cigar he had removed from the humidor on his desk. As he watched the smoke drift upward he considered what would probably happen next. Oh well, he had over twenty years in service and could retire at any time. What could they do to him? Still, he knew the proverbial Shit was about to hit the proverbial Fan.

The particular turd to hit that fan, however, was not the one he expected. The very next day, Colonel Riker received a call from his executive officer, a major named Lee Raven.

Sir, have you seen the morning paper?

Shit no, major, who has time to read the paper?

Well, you’d better check out this one. I’ll bring it in

For a moment Riker wondered if Costanza had already contacted a local reporter and told her story. Damn, this is all I need. But it was another story that Raven pointed out in the newspaper. The ramrod straight, shaven-headed Raven stood next to the desk as his boss read the