ain. The throbbing roar they made was monotonous
enough to be dulling, but too loud to be soothing . . .

Rather to his surprise, the second landing woke him up. He hadn't
realized he'd managed to sleep again, and he grinned at himself as he
exited the aircraft.

The air here smelled as fresh and clean as the newly-fallen snow, so
good it'd be a shame to waste it. Odeon waved away the SO car that
pulled up, walking to the terminal instead. By the time he'd made
arrangements for a room in Visiting Officers' Quarters, his luggage,
the single small bag that, with what a command van held, was enough for
an SO man for half a month, was waiting. He claimed it, made his way
through shift-change traffic to the VOQ, and checked in.

He went to his assigned room, intending to shower and get a few hours'
rest. Boris had said Joanie would be brought here once she was
stabilized; that could be today, if the doctors decided to fly her in,
or up to a week if they decided she could tolerate surface travel.

He'd just gotten the shower temperature right, though, when he heard
the four sharp knocks on his door that meant official business. With a
muttered "Damn," he turned the water off, wrapped a towel around his
waist, and went to the door. Couldn't a man even get a shower without
being interrupted? "What is it?" he asked the young man in Medical
Corps green when he opened the door.

The medtech looked at the clipboard he held. "Captain Michael Patrick
Odeon of Royal Enforcement Service Special Operations?"

"Serial 263819. Yes." Odeon swore to himself. Formal identification
meant the leave he'd planned to use helping Joanie was over, in favor
of some special duty.

The tech extended the clipboard. "Captain Cortin has asked that you be
the one to represent her interests while she is under treatment, sir.
Would you sign here, please?"

Chuckling, Odeon took the clipboard and scanned the form it held. He
should have expected this; trust Joanie to think of his leave time,
have him assigned to what he would be doing anyway. Then he frowned at
the length-of-assignment block: Indefinite. That was bad, tended to
indicate Boris' field diagnosis of spinal injury was right. He found
the signature block, wrote his name in the small precise script he was
continually kidded about. "Is there any word on her condition or when
she'll be here?"

"She will be on a special medevac flight from Middletown, sir, due in
at 1815