resignation and shook her head. 'Three years at the Academy and all

you can do is behave like kids on a junior school tour."

'It won't happen again, sir,' said Steve. He allowed himself a brief

smile. 'I guess we were both kinda bowled over by The Lady."

'Save that pretty boy charm for barrelling squabs, Brickman,' snapped

Kazan. 'And you can put away those teeth. If I see 'em again, you'll

be picking 'em up off the floor. Got that?"

Steve's face became a mask of stone. 'Loud and clear, sir!" 'Good."

Kazan drew their attention to the diagonal rank stripes on her arm.

'See these? They're to remind you of three things." She laid a finger

on the top stripe. 'First, that I'm your section leader. Second, when

I shout, you jump.

Third, I don't take any shit - especially from wet-feet.

Comprendo?"

'Yess-SURR!!" chorussed the two wingmen.

Kazan dismissed them with a jerk of the head. 'Okay. Get your asses

over to Block Eighteen."

Steve and Gus gave Kazan another precisely synchronised salute and

doubled away. 'One of those,' muttered Gus, as they ran.

Kazan's voice floated after them. 'Yeah! One of those!" The two

young wingmen reached Block 18 with one minute to spare. They paused

outside the door to recover their breath, then walked in to join the

crowd of nearly three hundred men and women that were settling down on

the rows of chairs. Rick Fazetti leapt up and waved them over to where

he and fellow graduate Webber had saved two seats for them.

'We just met our section leader,' muttered Gus. He roiled his eyes as

he edged past them.

'Did you see she had five stars?" hissed Fazetti.

'Yeah,' said Steve. 'One for each guy she's eaten alive."

Each star, in fact, represented one twelve-month operational tour. One

more would earn her a Lucky Six - a double golden triangle on her lower

sleeve - a call from the White House, and lunch with the

President-General.

As Steve sat down, Kazan walked in casually and took her place with the

other section leaders in the front row.

'How old do you think she is?" said Webber.

Gus White shrugged. 'Five tours ... she must be at least

twenty-two."

Steve stared through the rows of crew-cut heads to where Kazan sat with

her back to them. 'Anyone know what the "J" stands for?"

'Jodi,' hissed Fazetti. 'Jodi Kazan."

Okay, Jodi, thought Steve. You want to play it tough.

We'll see how tough you are ...

There was no doubt about the physical strength of the man who stepped

up onto the platform at the front of the briefing room. He was a big,

barrel-chested guy with hands big enough to squeeze your head like a

lemon. He had a deeply tanned, aggressive face set on a powerful neck,

yellow hair cropped close to the scalp, and he was dressed in olive

drab fatigues with one broad diagonal red stripe on each sleeve, and a

stetson bearing the star and bar badge.

The crewmen fell silent as the man positioned himself beside the

lectern with his feet apart, and his fingers round the ends of a short

gold-topped switchstick. It looked like a deluxe version of the sticks

carried by DI's at the combat academies.

The man surveyed the room. 'So ... we meet again.

Mostly the same, tired old faces I see." He pointed his stick at a

nearly bald-headed man sitting a few rows from the front.

'Tino's back again without getting his haircut ' There was a ripple of

laughter from the veteran TrailBlazers in the room.

'- and the rest of you are still laughing at my tired, old jokes. Keep

at it. Flattery'Il get you nowhere but there's no harm in tryin'.

However - since we have a batch of wet-feet shipping out with us for

the first time, maybe I'd better introduce myself." He cast his eyes

towards the back of the room and upped the volume a little. 'The name

is Buck McDonnell - sometimes referred to in the dead of night as Big

D. I'm the Trail