Mirrored Man: The Rob Tyler Chronicles Book 1 (6 page)

Greg was taken aback slightly by the
senator’s candor, but he recovered quickly. “It's best if we
maintain protocol and keep a low profile, so just Greg will do
please, Senator.” Gesturing toward the car, he asked, “Shall we
go?”

“Lead the way … Greg.” Kitchens walked to
the passenger side. “But, if it's gonna be Greg for you, then it's
gonna haf'ta be Kevin for me. You know, low profile and
everything.” Kitchens winked. He knew the idea of a United States
senator trying to maintain a low profile would be rather amusing to
most.

“Yes, sir … Kevin.” The name nearly caught
in Greg's throat.

“Look,” Kitchens said as he placed a hand on
the hood and quickly recoiled, scowling at the sun-beaten metal.
“I've only had this job for a few months.
I
haven't even
gotten used to the title yet. And I don't much care for pomp and
circumstance either.” Climbing in, he noticed the golf bags and
added, “You got a date, Greg?”

“Sir?” Greg's face screwed up at the
unexpected question.

Kitchens nodded toward the back seat. “The
clubs. When's tee time?”

“Oh, those. No, sir. I mean … I don't have a
date. The clubs are a gift for you and your wife, sir.” Greg turned
his sometimes too-attentive eye to the senator's hand, noting the
absence of a wedding ring.

“A gift?” Kitchens’ confused look spoke
volumes.

“From the base commander, General Stillman,”
Greg answered, suddenly interested in the senator’s marital
status.

Kitchens thought for a moment. “A gift from
the general.”

“Yes, sir. What's your handicap?”

The senator stared at the clubs. “My
what?”

“Your handicap? How's your game?”

A half smile intruded on Kitchens’ scowl. “I
don't play.”

“A politician who doesn't play golf? That
seems unlikely.” Greg winced internally. He had spoken before
thinking and immediately wondered if he had offended the
senator.

“Nope,” Kitchens replied without missing a
beat. “Do you?”

Greg sighed, sensing that there was more to
this than a simple misunderstanding. “Um, well, yes, sir. I do. As
a matter of fact, I was on my high school team. How about your
wife? Does she golf?”

Glancing from the clubs to Greg and back
again, Kitchens asked, “Are those nice clubs?”

Greg couldn't decide if the senator had
ignored the question or simply hadn't heard it. Determining that it
was best just to let the subject drop, he replied, his smile
genuine. “Taylor Made? Yes, sir. I've heard they are very good
clubs. And the bags are custom made with Air Force colors. Very
nice.”

“Oh yeah?” Kitchens’ shrug showed his
disinterest in the clubs. “Of course, I ain't sure about this. I am
new to it all, but those may be just outside the guidelines, as far
as the value of 'em. I may not be able to accept 'em.”

As he climbed behind the wheel, Greg watched
the senator’s expression change from consternation to stoicism.
So much for light conversation.
“Well, I'm sure the general
will be disappointed if you don't.” It was all he could think to
say. He decided to change the subject. “I'm at your disposal for
the duration, sir. Is there anywhere you'd like to do or anything
you’d like to see while you're here? I think the air museum just
added a few new things.”

“No, thanks. I didn't come for the grand
tour. Let's just get on to the main event.” Kitchens pulled a
folder from the portfolio.

“Yes, sir,” Greg said mechanically, turning
onto the service road. “But they're not expecting us until 1200
hours.”

“Just a short once over before lunch? Well,
they may have to adjust their schedule just a bit.” Kitchens
grinned at the prospect.

Greg wasn't able to contain a smile.
What
a sight this should be
.
Doctor Tiong, Mister Meticulous,
thrown off of his schedule in the middle of his inventory!
“Yes, sir.”

“Kevin,” Kitchens corrected.

“Kevin,” Greg repeated, a bit more
comfortably than the first time.

As they rode, Kitchens slid some papers and
a pair of reading glasses from the folder. Slipping the glasses on,
he read aloud, glancing occasionally at the sights as they passed.
“Major Gregory,” he began, grinning again as he studied his driver,
''Greg William Mathers, M.D. Princeton High School, class of '96.
Wright State College class of '99, where you started out studying
to be a nurse and then you transferred to Ohio State where you
entered medical school.” Pursing his lips, Kitchens asked, “How'd
that happen?”

Greg's eyes were glued to the road as he
shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
Should've expected this.
“Well, I always wanted to get into medicine and Wright State has a
pretty good nursing program. Then, in the middle of my junior year
my great-uncle passed away and left the family some money. My dad
had a friend at Ohio State—”

“And the rest, as they say, is history,”
Kitchens finished for him.

Smirking, Greg said, “Well, it was that or a
Corvette.”

“Medicine is a noble career field, Doctor,”
Kitchens assured him.

Their eyes met as Greg responded. “Yeah, but
have you ever driven a Corvette?”

Kitchens’ widening smile helped Greg to
relax a bit. “You graduated in the top five percent from Ohio State
and entered the Air Force this past fall.” A frown replaced his
smile. “Ohio has both Army and Navy ROTC programs, right?”

Chuckling, Greg relaxed even more. “I guess
they couldn't make up their minds.”

“So, why the Air Force?”

“Well, I started in the Air Force rot-c
program at Wright State before I transferred. They helped pay the
bills, too. So, I figured I owed them. Besides, I didn't wanna be a
grunt or a squid-eatin’ swabbie.”

“Squid-eatin’ swabbie?” Kitchens’ laugh
startled Greg to such a degree that he nearly drove into the
curb.

“Yes, sir.” Greg's tone was almost
apologetic.

Shaking his head in amusement, Kitchens
continued. “Okay, so you were assigned to Robins and Project Pine
Tree on twenty-four May, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And since then, you've done … what?”

“Well, other than inventory—”

“I'm sorry,” Kitchens interrupted. “It was
rhetorical.” Flipping through the pages, he added, “I
see
what you've been doing here. My question is, why are
you
doing it? You're a doctor, for cryin’ out loud. You should be off
someplace”—his right hand swept toward the window—“doctorin'
somebody. You ain't a supply sergeant. Why are your talents bein'
wasted here?”

Greg relaxed visibly as he heard a bit of a
change in Kitchens' accent. “I have no idea, sir. All I've been
doing is shining a chair with my”—pausing, he noted the senator's
dubious stare—“pants,” he finished, a bit less crudely than he had
originally intended.

Kitchens’ smile nearly took in his entire
face. “Well Greg, at first glance, I'd say your assignment here is
a serious misallocation of an extremely valuable military
asset.”

“Yes, sir,” Greg replied, trying hard not to
smile.
I think I'm starting to like this guy.

“So, my question to you is, why do
you
think that they have you stationed here?”

Uh oh!
What's he looking for,
here?
Greg found an expectant look on Kitchens’ face.
I take
it back.
I hate this guy.
Biding his time, he feigned a
distraction and took a deep breath, deciding to go with his
original answer. “I have no idea, sir.”

After an uncomfortably long pause, Kitchens
said, “Well, we'll just have to find out won't we, Greg?” He
continued studying the documents. “Relax. I just like to know who
I'm dealing with. I'm new to all of this too, remember?”

Greg’s shoulders drooped in defeat.
“Senator, I really don't know how much help I'm gonna be to you,
sir.”

“I'm here to evaluate the operational
validity of Project Pine Tree. Not you, Greg,” Kitchens assured
him. “What that means is, I'm gonna decide if it's worth it or not
to invest the”—he paused, flipping to the desired page—“one hundred
twenty six point eight million dollars a year into it.”

Stiffening immediately, Greg stifled a gasp.
Wow. I need a raise!

“Now, that might sound like a drop in the
bucket, and it's only about three F-35s, but these things do add
up.” Kitchens looked up to notice that Greg had driven past the
guard shack, exiting the base. “Um, Greg, if I'm not mistaken, we
just left the Air Force base that I'm visitin' today.”

“Yes, Senator. We've left the base. The
facility is offsite.”

“Offsite?” Kitchens repeated incredulously.
“Offsite where?”

“There's a facade off of highway ninety-six
near the Ocmulgee River. A duck blind.”

Kitchens' eyebrows arched in wonder. “A duck
blind?”

“Yes, sir. It's less than ten minutes away,”
Greg assured him.

“Really,” Kitchens said in growing
amusement.

Studying the senator, Greg added, “It's a
pretty good duck blind, sir.”

Doubt overshadowed Kitchens' smile. “Better
than an Air Force base, Greg?” A moment later, he began to chuckle.
Then, noticing Greg's quizzical glances, he began laughing out
loud.

They rounded a cloverleaf and continued down
the highway. Looking across the road to his left, Kitchens admired
the vintage American and foreign aircraft displayed around the
campus of the Air Force museum. At its center, a B-1 bomber was
parked next to the entrance to the main building. “Pretty
birds.”

“If you'd like to, Senator, we can tour the
museum before you leave. They have a very nice World War II
exhibit, I hear,” Greg suggested hopefully.

Kitchens returned his attention to the
papers in his lap. “No thanks. Seen it.”

The look on Greg’s face rested somewhere
between shock and anger. “You have? Have you visited Robins before,
Senator?”

“Kevin,” Kitchens corrected him again. “Low
profile, right?”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

The sounds of the road droned on. Greg had
already resolved himself to the fact that some questions would
remain unanswered. But not this one. “Have you, sir?”

Kitchens, engrossed in the documents,
responded to Greg vaguely. “Sorry?”

Greg shifted his position again. “Visited
the base before?”

“Uh huh.”

“Okay,” Greg nodded, with a hint of
frustration in his tone. “I hadn't been informed that you were
familiar with the area.”

“Well, I ought to be. I was mayor of Warner
Robins for six-and-a-half years before I ran for the senate,” he
said, matter-of-factly.

Shaking his head, it was Greg's turn to
laugh.

“Relax, Greg. Have you seen Kitchens Office
Supply on Watson Boulevard near the Walmart?”

Having spent very little time in town, he
lied. “Yes, sir. I think so, sir.”

Kitchens gave Greg his attention. “It’s
family owned. Mama still runs it. Well, ever since I became mayor
she's run it. I ran it for a while after college. I know pretty
much everybody in town. The locals, anyway. It's hard to keep up
with all the Air Force personnel comin' and goin'.”

Greg couldn't contain a smile.
This guy!
A U.S. senator, vice chairman of the Appropriations Committee,
mayor of Warner Robins and a local business man to boot? What was
up with all the “low profile” crap Tiong advised me about?
“So
… low profile?” The question hung in the air between them.

Eyes smiling, Kitchens said, “Could be …
challenging.”

“Outstanding.” Greg said it out loud, though
it was meant mostly for himself. At least his comfort level was
increasing. He no longer felt it necessary to try to impress the
man.

Turning his attention back to the road, he
saw their destination appear in the distance. “We'll be arriving at
the facility shortly, sir. Oh, I almost forgot. General Stillman
asked me to invite you to a late lunch. She said that it was your
choice. Whatever you'd like.”

Kitchens’ surprise was visible, but Greg
chose to ignore it.

The relationship that had existed between
Kitchens, the civilian community's political leader and her, the
military authority in an Air Force town, had been stressful when he
was mayor. Kitchens had no illusions that his recent appointment to
the SASC would give him any leverage with the woman, at least when
it came to personal matters.
Well
,
she did get me the
clubs. I guess I owe her a lunch.
Smiling again, he took a
moment to mull over his choices. “Tell Paulette I’d love to. I'll
meet her at White Diamond. There ain't no barbecue like that in
D.C.”

“
SHE LOVES ME,” JUNE
said with just a
hint of an accent in her almost melodic voice, something akin to
South African, but not quite. As she stared intently at the central
computer screen among the trio of monitors occupying her desk, the
corners of her mouth were curled into the slightest of smiles.

“Of course she does,” Don said with a tiny
sliver of condescension in his tone. He drew his rubber band back
and fired another Gummy Bear projectile at her from his desk in the
corner of the room.  “But, just think of the ethics, Doctor!
After all, she is your patient.”

Doctor June Phillips sat at her desk, which
rested in the middle of the other desks in the corner of their work
area. The office area occupied only one quarter of the space in the
gymnasium-sized room. The various pieces of office equipment were
set neatly in place, most of which were black in stark contrast to
the white floor, walls, and ceiling of the lab.

Both of its occupants wore identical green
hospital scrubs, the only clothes allowed inside the clean
environment. The bland garments only added to the sterile feel of
the place. When the team had arrived eight weeks ago, relocated
from their lab at McMaster University School of Medicine in
Hamilton, Ontario, the equipment had been carefully arranged in the
center of the room. In short order, at June's insistence, the
workspace was moved into the corner to allow for the installation
of a basketball hoop.