by T. Hammond
I smiled at his droll teasing, understanding for the first time why, besides the last name of Frost, he earned the nickname of Iceman. His delivery was a cool monotone. Matched with his odd speech pattern of dropping words, it would be hard to tell if he was serious or not. I knew he was joking only because of the outrageousness of his declaration. Without any visual clues, if the subject matter had been vague, I wouldn’t have been sure of his intent.
“Don’t encourage him,” Bas chided me. Oops, I must not have concealed the grin fast enough.
“I appreciate the warning, Frost. I’ll be sure to care for Teresa like the treasure she is.” He pressed a soft kiss to my forehead. “A word of warning though: if you make a move on my woman, I’ll show you how old and out of shape, trumps young and cocky.”
“Message received, sir.” I could hear the underlying amusement in the other man’s tone. I knew there was maybe a year’s age difference between the two men, and Bas out-bulked Frost by at least forty pounds. Bastian’s six-three height, coupled with his two-hundred thirty pounds of pure, rock solid muscle, made the out of shape old man under me, a daunting opponent.
The tapping of dog claws against glass signaled Red’s return from his rounds. The members of the security team had been good-natured about wandering up from the basement each night, or early morning, when they observed Red on the monitors. These simple courtesies, like drying him off after his rounds, endeared each member of the Team Red escort unit to me. Red wasn’t mind-speaking at the moment, he probably thought I was still sleeping, but I heard his ecstatic doggie moans from the back door as he was briskly toweled.
“Good work tonight, Top Dog,” the Mustang praised. I smiled at hearing Red’s nickname. When he discovered the Wild Horses had call names for each other, he decided he should have one too. I don’t know which of the men came up with Top Dog, but Red was proud to have, what he referred to as, a call sign. “Come down to the basement ‘n keep me company, Red. Snag a cookie for yourself on the way—you earned it.”
“The pheromones are awfully thick in here,” my dog mentally shared as he followed Frost toward the kitchen.
Smart-ass dog.
With my head, once again, resting on Bastian’s chest, he resumed the long stroking motion down my spine. I could feel his body going lax, in that boneless way he did before dropping off to sleep. “I’d assumed you could have applied at any time to become a warrant officer, after you completed your first twelve years of enlisted service. This is the first time I’ve heard you could have been an officer,” I said, a hint of question in my tone.
David had explained a Mustang was an honorary nickname for warrant officers, recognizing their advancement through the enlisted ranks, unlike their thoroughbred counter-parts, commissioned officers, who gained rank with a college degree. The term mustang implied a wild animal, with stronger survival instincts; more capable for having worked his, or her, way up due to their skills. Warrant officers were selected on the basis of hands-on experience and merit. Senior enlisted men with at least twelve years in service, and a technical specialty, could apply for warrant officer to a selection board comprised of their peers. It wasn’t until I spoke with Russ about the Mustangs he hired for Wild Horse Security, that I discovered an enlisted soldier with at least five years’ experience, who later earns his or her commission as an officer, also qualified as a Mustang. The common denominator was that whole “rising through the ranks” thing, I suppose.
“David implied you didn’t apply to be a warrant officer because you were busy on the satellite mapping project, and preferred working in the field with the men. But, you need a college degree to be an officer, don’t you?”
“I managed to take the occasional night course, and got a bit of college credit for the work I was doing on the project,” Bas responded. “I graduated a few years back.”
First I’d heard. I don’t think Janey or his parents were aware either, or I’m sure someone would have said something. “What was your major?”
Long pause, long enough I wasn’t sure he was going to answer. “Dual M.S. degrees, actually,” he finally admitted, giving me the impression he was self-conscious. “Applied Physics and Cyber Security.”
I thought about it for a moment. “You know this means you’re every woman’s perfect man, right? Beauty, bravery, brawn, and brains? Add to all that, you are patient and respectful—and you’re pretty much irresistible.”
“You don’t seem to have a problem resisting my considerable charms,” he retorted, wryly.
“It gets harder every day, Bastian,” I admitted softly, lifting my fingertips to brush the edge of his jaw, placing the pads of my fingers against the light, over-night beard to stroke my thumb over the longer bristles of his goatee. “I really appreciate how tolerant you’ve been while I work out everything in my head. I’m glad you recognize I need to see David face-to-face to…”
“Babe,” he placed a fingertip across my lips, “I understand. Truly. Do what you need to do. Take all the time you need. I’m not going anywhere. I’m content falling asleep like this every evening, even if there are a dozen chaperones traipsing through the house. I enjoy our quiet talks, and holding you as we fall asleep. I’ll still be here when you’re ready.”
He then proceeded to break the Cardinal Rule of Morning Kisses for the second time in ten minutes. As my lips parted beneath his, I just couldn’t rally enough effort to protest.
Chapter Two
The smell of coffee woke me. There was no scent of cinnamon this time, and I wondered anew at how in the heck Bas usually managed to extract himself without waking me up. Whispered voices from the direction of the kitchen suggested there were at least four people congregated around the forty-cup coffee machine we purchased in September. Last week, Bas added a second coffee station in the Cave. Our coffee budget could probably support a small village in a third-world country.
Outside, I could hear the faint, yet unmistakable, sounds of heavy machinery. Russ and his architect quickly determined a single-level basement would not be large enough for the computers, living quarters, firing range, and recreation areas needed for his projected body count in the Compound. One level soon morphed into two, and unlike my home, extended under the garage, adding five thousand square feet. By moving more of the facility underground, security was enhanced, almost impenetrable. On top, a modest house based on my home’s floor plan, will provide a residential illusion.
When the weather report’s ten-day forecast projected rare forty-degree weather, Bas was on the phone with Colonel Spencer to beg the use of earth moving equipment from Fairchild Air Force Base. It was his intention to take advantage of the mid-winter thaw to begin excavation for the Compound. Fully supporting the alliance between PreClan and the Wild Horses, the Colonel not only came through with the needed equipment, he also diverted a large squad of combat engineers from their Army maneuvers in Yakima to assist us in digging. Assist us, ha! Russ pointed a finger where he wanted the hole, and the Army took over and made it happen. I felt sorry for the twenty-five men literally camped at the opposite side of the property, but one of the soldiers informed me it was still freezing in Yakima; this reassignment was a welcome change from the winter maneuvers they had been doing. Red told me a few of the Army engineers were referring to the Compound as Mustang Ranch, a reference to the infamous Nevada bordello, which I found hysterical.
A couple nosy neighbors wondered about the fuss on the far end of our thirty acres, which abutted the wildlife sanctuary. One of the soldiers invented some crazy story about erosion threatening the blue heron nesting sites, and our property being the only access point where they could reinforce the cliff-side. I’m not an engineer, but it sounded plausible to me, and seemed to satisfy the neighbors. Since our road is a dead-end street, and PreClan and I own all of the land west of my house, on both sides of the road, random visitors were not an issue. We only had to address the concerns from residents in the three houses east of me. I can’t blame them for wo
ndering about the increased traffic and heavy machinery, but they soon lost interest. It probably didn’t hurt that all the military-types, camped under the trees, meant our street was probably the safest in the entire state, maybe the country.
We are expecting another storm front tomorrow or the next day. The temperatures are supposed to drop below thirty again, but we will be more than a week closer to finishing the Compound. Thanks to Colonel Spencer, we now have a private workforce, capable of discretely hiding an undertaking of this scope.
Once again, we are bypassing the legality of building inspections. We applied for permits, but the sub-levels were not on the submitted plans, and we are not planning to declare the intended use of the property. We aren’t anticipating a surprise building inspection this far off the beaten track, or during this time of year. However, if we can get the underground portions done between bouts of snow and freezing temperatures, it will improve our chances of concealing the true nature of the structure, in the springtime, when the inspectors finally venture out of their heated offices. We are counting on military intervention for approvals, but only if needed.
Bastian’s electrical certification would be essential, and it turns out a few of the Mustangs have contractor licenses as a part of their work for Wild Horse. I’m not sure of all the details, I have to admit, I zoned out when they started talking about floor joists, plumbing, fire retardants, and trusses. The work was being done properly. Our avoidance of inspections not an effort to circumvent building codes; we were trying to ensure secrecy for the classified work which would be done there. Oh, and Gil is friends with a supervisor in the building inspection division. Another ex-Marine like him, who’s willing to overlook many of the discrepancies, as long as proper codes are utilized during the building process. Truth be told, the structure will be more than sound; overbuilt according to the planning I’ve heard.
As I came more fully awake, courtesy of the coffee aroma saturating my sinuses, I replayed the past two weeks in my mind. Since the meeting with Russ, a steady migration of Mustangs began moving from southern California to eastern Washington.
Russ’ first order of business was to assign six men who would function exclusively as PreClan’s security detail. The grounds would be patrolled and the house security consoles watched 24/7 by these men who were dedicated to guarding the property while the military contract was in its critical stages. Six additional men became the first trainees for Bas and David’s program; they would cross-train with the first group to gain rudimentary knowledge of the PreClan software before advancing to the intricacies of the system as it is used in military applications.
Russ originally hesitated to bring so many people up from San Diego before the Compound was ready, but the need for security was undeniable. Bas elected to begin training a half-dozen people to help with installations and upgrades, as David would be unavoidably overwhelmed. For the next few months, David’s focus would be Marcia’s cancer, and helping his son adjust to both life in a new city and the impending death of his mother. The more people who trained, the faster the software could be integrated with the current military computer systems. Eventually, the goal was Bas would only be required to personally oversee the most delicate aspects of each set up and install.
Second on Russ’ agenda, was assigning men to Team Red. I originally thought the guards would feel resentful to be overlooked for the more prestigious PreClan detail, but each of them were quick to assure me they volunteered specifically to work with Red and me. Frost put it succinctly last night; if I was safe, David and Bas could concentrate on their task without worrying about my well-being. Fritz and Dex had worked with us before, so they were aware of the mind-speaking capabilities Red and I shared. Jaspar and Frost (who pulled me aside and politely requested I stop calling him Chris) learned about our mind-speak secret after they signed on as our escorts.
Bas, Russ, and I were planning a mind-sight demonstration for the Team later this morning. After a few heated discussions, Russ for, and Bas against, I broke the tie which determined Team Red’s detail should be aware of our talents—all of them—so they could better protect us. I argued, if I inadvertently exposed the vision sharing aspects while we were on a mission, it could sidetrack our security team. Better to have them watching people paying too close attention to Red and me, than have them distracted watching me to figure out something which puzzled them. We’re hiking down to the fish hatchery after breakfast, out of sight from cameras and drones, and in the opposite direction from the campsite of Army combat engineers, to show our escorts exactly why Russ insists we be closely guarded.
I yawned and stretched, relaxing into the cushions for a few more minutes of peaceful contemplation before the hustle and bustle of a new day. The voices in the kitchen quieted, indicating my wakening state was noted by the men. After a moment, the comforting low hum of their voices resumed.
It had been quite challenging to billet the additional people. Since sleeping quarters are shared, and there was a total lack of personal privacy, Russ decided he wouldn’t accept women to the project until the Compound was completed. A sleep rotation was posted, to make the best use of the ten bunk beds, and assorted cots, in the Cave. None of the men complained about crowding or the shortage of personal space, they willingly gave up basic creature comforts for an opportunity to be part of the project. Bas told me there was a waiting list of men and women who volunteered to relocate. These Mustangs had no idea what they were signing on for; they had only Russ’ assurance the project was important to national security, and that was good enough for his people. Each Mustang applying for transfer was agreeing to a minimum two-year commitment to a project we would not disclose until they arrived. I found their trust, and dedication to Russ, humbling.
Footsteps approached the sofa. The scent of coffee preceded the subtle ceramic tap of the cup being placed on the low table in front of the couch. “Morning, Teresa. This is Jaspar,” the Mustang said, needlessly identifying himself—I never developed the tactile acuity needed for brail, but I knew voices well. “Once you swing to a sitting position, your mug will be in front of your knees, six inches from the edge. Dex, Henry, and Gregg are in the kitchen with me. It’s almost oh-six hundred.”
“Thanks, Jaspar,” I replied. “Morning, guys!” I called out a little louder. Stifling another yawn against the back of my hand, I rolled to a seated position. “Hellos” echoed back to me, but I barely heard them over the cracking of my jaw. It was becoming a habit for one of the guys to pour and deliver a cup of coffee if they noticed my hand was empty. I originally protested I was capable of getting my own mug, but they explained it was a courtesy they extended to each other also, so I shouldn’t feel I was getting special treatment.
“Red took Tank outside about fifteen minutes ago.” Jaspar’s voice faded a bit, as if he turned away from me while speaking. My guess he was looking out, through the sliding door, was confirmed when he continued, “Looks like they’re playing a rousing game of fetch with an overlong branch. Would you like me to call them in?”
“No thanks. I’ll sit here and enjoy my coffee in peace. I’m still trying to wake up.” I lifted my mug toward him, “This should help. Thank you.” I took my first sip of the day. Heaven. At a sudden burst of puppy barks, I smiled, imagining Red getting to the stick first, and mock-fighting Tank, who always tried to steal it away. Henry told me yesterday, that Red usually picks up the stick at one end, dipping the opposite end low enough for Tank to hold on so they can fetch in tandem. This teamwork approach by my smart dog hasn’t quite caught on with the younger pup, who likes to tug and test Red’s imperturbability.
The whisper of Jaspar’s shoes across the carpet indicated he returned to the kitchen. The murmur of their voices faded in my mind, as I resumed my train of thought prior to Jaspar bringing me my morning java fix.
Seventeen Wild Horses in the house, eighteen, if we counted Russ, meant a sudden need for more bed space below. Henry had willingly given up his room in the Cave t
o move into the newly converted bedroom between Bastian’s and mine. The small room had been a rarely-used office with a bookcase, a lone desk, and computer. It was the only place left to move him to without bunking him with Bas—which we had considered, as David, Marcia, and Wes were due on Sunday, so family space was at a premium. Bas and I decided we needed our personal space. I was pretty sure Bastian and I would eventually share a physical relationship, but I wasn’t ready yet and I refused to rush things for the sake of convenience. Logical or not, I needed to close the final chapter with David first. Bas told me his and David’s programming is at a complex stage; they need the quiet they could no longer get in the Cave with so much activity going on. The desk from Henry’s room was moved to Bas’ where he now had two desks side-by-side in preparation for working with David again.
David and Marcia would share the official guest room, where we installed a second bed. Bas came up with the idea of having Wes sleep downstairs with the Mustangs. Bastian, and Henry who seconded the idea, thought a nine-year-old would love the novelty of hanging out in the Cave. Gregg had hung blankets around one of the lower bunks to make a “fort” in preparation. I remembered how much Janey, Bas, and I had enjoyed blanket forts when we were growing up, and thought it was a splendid idea. No one said it, but I’m sure we were all thinking Wes would acclimate better if he wasn’t upstairs watching his mom’s slow deterioration. The constant activity would keep him occupied and distracted.
