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I
headed
for
the
barracks
of
the
supply
division
that
had
accompanied
U
.
S
.
Special
Forces
.
Five
minutes
after
crossing
into
the
U
.
S
.
side
of
the
base
,
I
came
to
a
spot
guarded
by
only
one
soldier
.
She
was
twirling
a
monkey
wrench
in
her
hand
.
The
pungent
scent
of
oil
drifted
in
the
air
,
swamping
the
ocean
’
s
briny
tang
.
The
ever
present
drone
of
men
bustling
about
the
base
had
receded
.
In
the
darkness
of
the
barracks
,
the
steel
weapons
humanity
used
to
strike
down
its
enemies
were
enjoying
a
short
nap
.
The
woman
with
the
wrench
was
Shasta
Raylle
,
a
civilian
tech
.
Her
pay
was
at
least
on
par
with
a
first
lieutenant
.
Way
above
mine
,
at
any
rate
.
I
’
d
snuck
a
look
at
her
papers
:
height
,
152
centimeters
;
weight
,
37
kilograms
;
visual
acuity
,
20
/
300
;
favorite
food
,
passion
-
fruit
cake
.
She
had
some
American
Indian
blood
in
her
and
wore
her
black
hair
pulled
back
in
a
ponytail
.
If
Rita
was
a
lynx
on
the
prowl
,
Shasta
was
an
unsuspecting
rabbit
.
She
belonged
at
home
,
curled
up
in
a
warm
,
cozy
room
watching
vids
and
stuffing
her
face
with
bonbons
,
not
smeared
with
oil
and
grease
on
some
military
base
.
I
spoke
as
gently
as
I
could
.
"
Hello
.
"
Shasta
jumped
at
the
sound
of
my
voice
.
Damn
.
Not
gentle
enough
.
Her
thick
glasses
fell
to
the
concrete
floor
.
Watching
her
look
for
those
glasses
was
like
watching
a
quadriplegic
tread
water
.
Instead
of
putting
down
the
monkey
wrench
and
feeling
for
them
with
both
hands
,
she
groped
in
vain
with
just
the
one
.
Not
exactly
what
you
’
d
expect
from
someone
who
’
d
graduated
top
of
her
class
at
MIT
,
developed
some
of
the
most
advanced
military
Jackets
at
her
first
defense
industry
research
post
,
and
then
,
for
an
encore
,
leapt
into
the
UDF
as
the
crack
technician
assigned
to
a
particular
gunmetal
red
Jacket
.
I
bent
over
and
picked
up
her
glasses
-
more
like
a
pair
of
magnifying
lenses
that
had
been
jury
-
rigged
together
.
"
You
dropped
these
,
"
I
said
,
holding
them
up
where
I
hoped
she
could
see
.
