Once Lost (A Riley Paige Mystery-Book 10)

Once Stalked (A Riley Paige Mystery-Book 9)

PROLOGUE

Colonel Dutch Adams looked at his watch as he strode through Fort Nash Mowat, and saw that the time was 0500 hours on the dot. It was a brisk, dusky April morning in Southern California, and all appeared as it should.

He heard a woman's voice yell out sharply ...

"The garrison commander is present!"

He turned in time to see a training platoon snap to attention at the female drill sergeant's command. Col. Adams paused to return their salute and continued on his way. He walked a little faster than before, hoping not to attract the attention of other drill sergeants. He didn't want to interrupt more training platoons as they gathered in their formation areas.

His face twitched a little. After all these years, he still wasn't quite used to hearing female voices snapping out commands. Even the sight of mixed-gender platoons sometimes startled him a little. The Army had definitely changed since his own days as a teenaged recruit. He didn't like many of those changes.

As he continued on his way, he heard the barking voices of other drill sergeants, both male and female, calling their platoons into formation.

They don't have much punch anymore, he thought.

He could never forget the abuse spewed by his own drill sergeant so many years ago—the savage invectives against family and ancestry, the insults and obscenities.

He smiled a little. That bastard Sergeant Driscoll!

Driscoll died many years ago, Col. Adams recalled—not in combat as he'd surely have preferred, but of a stroke brought on by hypertension. In those days, sky high blood pressure had been an occupational hazard of drill sergeants.

Col. Adams would never forget Driscoll, and as far as Adams was concerned, that was how things should be. A drill sergeant ought to make an indelible imprint on a soldier's mind for the rest of his life. He ought to present a living example of the worst kind of hell a soldier's life had to offer. Sergeant Driscoll had definitely had that kind of lifelong impact on Col. Adams. Were the trainers under his command here at Fort Nash Mowat likely to leave that kind of impression on their recruits?

Col. Adams doubted it.

Too damn much political correctness, he thought.

Softness was now even written into the Army's training manual ...

"Stress created by physical or verbal abuse is non-productive and prohibited."

He scoffed as he thought of the words.

"What a load of crap," he murmured under his breath.

But the Army had been moving in this direction since the 1990s. He knew he ought to be used to it by now. But he never would be.

Anyway, he wouldn't have to deal with it much longer. He was a year away from retirement, and his final ambition was to make brigadier general before then.

Suddenly, Adams was distracted from his musings by a puzzling sight.

The recruits of Platoon #6 were milling around aimlessly in their formation area, some doing calisthenics, others just idly talking among themselves.

Col. Adams stopped in his tracks and yelled.

"Soldiers! Where the hell's your sergeant?"

Flustered, the recruits jumped to attention and saluted.