War of Eagles

FORTY

Liz Gordon left General Carrie’s office to check her E-mail and her voice mail. She had her PowerBook under one arm and her coffee mug in the other hand. Between them was a heart that was drumming just a little more than she would have liked, and a shortness of breath that alarmed her.

Liz did not know whether the cause of her anxiety was the topic of her own employment or something else. Liz knew that she would have to undergo the same kind of scrutiny the others were getting. What the psychologist did not know was whether she would be part of that selfevaluation process or not. It would be interesting to see how the general handled that.

Interesting and possibly humiliating, she thought.

Liz had never seen her own dossier. The file was only available to the director of the NCMC and to the head of Human Resources. But Liz knew one thing that had to be there. Because of the potential one-strike nature of the offense, Paul Hood would have been obligated to record it.

Liz swung into her sparse office. The safe, familiar surroundings allowed her to relax a little. Liz did not have, nor require, nor want a human assistant. The Chips Family did everything for her. That was how she anthropomorphized her computers. Her former roommate, an artist, drew little Post-it faces for her to affix to her office equipment. The blue pen drawings were the various foodlike avatars of the microprocessor. Potato Chip stored her audio messages, Corn Chip stored her E-mails, Paint Chip managed her calendar, and the infamous Buffalo Chip held sway over her personnel files. Blue Chip kept track of her budget here, which was easy. Except for occasional outside consultants, there was no budget beyond her salary. Black ops files, including profiles of foreign and domestic leaders, were the province of Chocolate Chip. Those files were comaintained by her and Bob Herbert.

The Chip Family did their work without prompting and without taking time off. They even replied with a variety of messages, spoken and typed, when Liz was away from her desk.

For a psychologist it was a mixed blessing. There were never any disputes, just an occasional ailment that Matt Stoll and his team could easily repair. But there was also no human interaction, no laboratory experiment she could follow day after day. When she was a student coming to terms with her own nontraditional life, Liz would turn outward and watch others as if they were a living soap opera. The drama was satisfying, and her prediction rate for how people would react and how situations would evolve was exceptionally high.

Liz would be returning to General Carrie’s office for a working lunch. She was happy for this respite, not because she needed a break from the profiling and reviews, but because she needed more coffee and her nicotine gum.

She also needed a short break from Morgan Carrie. Thinking about the general caused her breath to shorten again. And this time it had nothing to do with whatever was in Liz’s dossier.

Damn that, she thought.

The thirty-five-year-old woman put the PowerBook and mug on the desk and plopped into her swivel chair. She landed harder than she expected and nearly fell backwards. Her arms shot out in front of her.

Balance, the woman thought as she sat up. She pulled a square of gum from its wrapper and pushed it into her mouth. She did not have equilibrium at the moment. She took a breath, brushed curly brown hair from her forehead, and tried to distract herself by scanning her E-mail. The words flashed by without registering. Her heart began to speed again.

The general was an impressive woman. After Paul Hood and his dull consensus management style, Carrie’s ability to make a strong decision, whether informed or intuitive, was refreshing.

Is that all it is? Liz asked. Refreshing?

Liz stopped going through the E-mail. She would only have to do it again later. She poured black coffee from the pot behind her. The morning brew was bitter. She did not care. She winced as she took a sip, then resumed chewing her nicotine gum. Feeding one habit while crushing another.

Shit, Liz thought angrily. Her life made no sense. She had ended one relationship because it was too much to handle. Now her imagination was flashdancing into another that would never be. And even if it could, it would be a professional disaster. As a psychologist, she knew she was being reckless. Unfortunately, she was also a human being. Understanding the problem and being able to do something about it were very different things.

Liz grabbed her mug and went back to the general’s office. The only way through this was straight ahead. She once had a fast crush on a teacher at college. She would deal with this as she dealt with that: as long as she did not think about anything but her job, she should be all right.

Bugs had sent out for sandwiches. Liz sat back down and opened her egg salad. Carrie had selected roast beef. Liz’s heart had slowed, but not much. The general was looking at the computer monitor when Liz arrived. Liz poked her gum on the edge of the wrapper before she ate.

“There is only one person we have not talked about,” Carrie said.

“I know,” Liz said. Her heart was at maximum. She felt exposed, not just because of whatever Hood had written but where the questions might lead. She had to trust that Carrie would recognize and respect the boundary between the professional and the personal.

“Paul Hood had very little to say about you,” Carrie pointed out.

“As I said, Paul did not think much about what I had to contribute,” Liz replied. But “very little” was not “nothing.” The psychologist was anxious as she waited for what had to be coming.

“He does mention a conflict between you and the late Martha Mackall,” Carrie said.

There it is, she thought with an anxiety that settled in the small of her back. “What did Paul say?”

“That Ms. Mackall formally requested you and she attend separate briefings,” Carrie said. “She rescinded the request the same day.”

“There was a little accidental tension between us.”

“Paul wrote that Ms. Mackall initially found your presence a ‘complete and irreconcilable distraction,’ ” the general replied. “Those are strong words for a little accident.”

“Martha was a strong woman.”

“Paul writes that he denied her request, which resulted in her withdrawing it,” Carrie said. She looked at Liz. “Do you want to tell me what that was about? It’s your call.”

“I believe in full disclosure,” Liz said. She set her sandwich down and hunched forward. “Martha was convinced that I had made an amorous advance toward her.” The word amorous snagged in her throat, a lump of truth she could not easily get around.

“Did you?”

“No. But there was a moment, General — it was stupid, I admit,” Liz said, “and it was completely inadvertent. We were all about to go upstairs to Andrews to greet Striker’s plane from North Korea. Martha and I had been working very closely for — Christ, it was about thirty-six hours straight. What happened was that I forgot myself. I blanked, literally. There was a woman standing next to me, I was tired, and I thought she was my roommate. I put my arm around her waist and pulled her toward me the way I do—did—with Monica. Martha freaked.”

“Did you explain?”

“Of course, and I apologized. But we were with Bob and Darrell and others, and Martha was very image conscious.”

“Was Paul there?”

“No. She went to him when we got back. Paul smoothed it over, but Martha still wanted it recorded as a one-strike situation. Paul refused.”

“Kind of him. He could have used it to close down your position.”

“I know. I always appreciated that,” Liz said.

“But I understand Martha’s point of view, too,” Carrie acknowledged. “Her complaint was her form of cover your ass. The glass ceiling for women is tough enough. For gay women, it’s worse.”

“Yes,” Liz said. She wanted desperately to ask how Carrie knew that. Maybe another time.

Carrie closed the file and took a bite of sandwich. “Okay. HR says there has been no change in your personnel file for seven months.”

“Correct.”

“That was when you changed your insurance form from a domestic partnership to a single.”

“Right,” Liz replied quietly. The alarm in her back was now a small tickle.

“In other dossiers you remark on the impact of marriages and divorces — extensively in the case of Paul Hood. But there is nothing about yourself.”

“There was nothing to say.”

“Nothing that would affect your work, the way you wrote about Paul’s divorce or Darrell’s marriage?”

“No.”

Carrie regarded her. She chewed slowly, her mouth closed, her jaw making strong, purposeful motions. It seemed connected to the general’s thought process, as if she were mulling something over.

“All right,” Carrie said. She clicked the file shut.

That’s it? Compared to the scrutiny the others had received, Liz felt she was getting off easy.

“Are you sure you’re all right with this?” Liz asked as her heart slowed.

“I wouldn’t have said so if I weren’t,” Carrie assured her. “Are you?”

“Sure,” Liz said.

“If you’re concerned, I do not think there was anything wrong with what you did. In fact, I am a bit resentful that it is in your file at all. If you had put your arm around Lowell or Matt, no one would have mentioned it.”

Liz appreciated the support, though it missed the point. She would not have put her arm around any man by accident.

It also did not change the fact that there was something about General Carrie that Liz found very appealing. The confidence was a large part of that. Monica Sheard had been an extremely insecure, anxious woman. Liz had been drawn to her talent and her sensitivity, but the artist’s low self-esteem and jealousy drove them apart. Since the breakup, Liz had not dated and, like Hood and Herbert, had spent most of her time at Op-Center. She had once remarked, not in jest, that the intelligence community would benefit if it were comprised entirely of people who had lost their significant others.

Carrie shifted the subject to the second tier of workers, men like Bugs Benet and Kevin Custer in Elec-Comm. Part of Carrie’s goal was to find individuals who could multitask in a crisis, such as the EMP bomb attack on Op-Center. Liz’s profiles of the team during that crisis were a valuable guide for Carrie. Former serviceman and MIT graduate Custer — a distant relative of General George Armstrong Custer, through the general’s brother Nevin — seemed in particular to catch and hold Carrie’s eye.

The palpitations and self-imposed pressure waned as the day grew older. Carrie and Liz hit a comfortable groove that gave her a good feeling about her future here, and also the future of the NCMC.

It also allowed Liz to focus on professional matters instead of personal issues.

For now, anyway.