fraction of those supported by the 96th Fuels Management Flight. The fighter wing on the other side of the base flew sleek F-15s. In addition, the transient aircraft that stopped at Eglin gulped down millions of gallon of fuel each year.
Babcock parked at the rear entrance to the Fuels Management building and hauled out his samples. When Jess’s Mustang pulled up behind his truck, he punched in a cypher code.
“The lab has its own entrance. We can go in here.”
“I’d better let your lieutenant know I’m here,” Jess told him, mindful of protocol. “I’ll join you in the lab in a few minutes.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She walked around to the front of small building. Jess had toured Building 89 during her initial orientation and visited several times since. Even so, the trophy case crammed with awards and citations from the American Petroleum Institute impressed her all over again. The 96th fuels operation had won the API award for best in command for seven of the last eight years.
Passing under a shield depicting a snarling panther, she saw that the fuels officer wasn’t in and moved to the adjoining office. A glimpse of the occupant through the glass partition stopped her in her tracks.
The fuels superintendent bent over his desk, his legs braced wide and his fists balled on the littered desktop. His mouth was a thin, tight slash, his face as white as the newspaper spread across his blotter. From where she stood, Jess couldn’t make out the details of the picture that held his intense concentration.
“Mr. Petrie?”
Billy Jack Petrie jerked around. When he spotted Jess, his skin seemed to blanch even more.
He had good reason to be nervous, she supposed. She hadn’t minced words when she’d reminded him of his responsibilities as Sergeant Babcock’s supervisor.
“Are you all right?” she asked, taking a step into the office.
“I’m fine.” His fist closed over the newspaper. Wadding it into a tight ball, he tossed it into the dented metal wastebasket beside his desk. “What can I do for you, colonel?”
“I was down at the docks observing the off-load. I wanted to let the lieutenant know I was in the building. I’m going to watch Sergeant Babcock perform the initial analysis.”
“Why?” the supervisor asked swiftly. “Don’t you trust him?”
Don’t you trust me? was the question that hovered in the air.
“Obviously I trust his skills,” Jess replied, “or I wouldn’t have allowed him to remain in his present position.”
“You don’t think he’s been drinking, do you? I’ve been on him like ticks on a coon dog, and haven’t seen any…”
“No, I don’t think he’s been drinking. I just want to observe the tests.”
Straightening, Petrie seemed to collect himself. He was a tall man, lean and rangy, with a shock of coal black hair that belied his age and years of service. He took in her heated face and her sweat-drenched fatigues and extended a grudging offer.
“You’d better cool down some before you go into the lab or the fumes will get to you. There’s a pop machine in the break room. Can I get you something to drink?”
“A cold Coke would be great.”
She reached in the pocket of her fatigue pants for her wallet, but Petrie waved aside her money.
“I’ve got it.”
When he disappeared down the hall, Jess’s glance snagged on the wastepaper basket. With a quick look over her shoulder, she retrieved the wadded newspaper. The grainy, black-and-white photo on the front page of the Daily News caught her notice instantly. Centered in the picture, a T-shirted man smiled benignly at a crew of what looked like volunteer construction workers.
Local minister, shown here directing a Habitat for Humanity project, will be missed.
Jess read the caption twice before moving to the article that followed.
Forensics experts at the Florida Department of Law Enforcement have tentatively identified the body recovered from Harry’s Bayou last Friday as Reverend
Babcock parked at the rear entrance to the Fuels Management building and hauled out his samples. When Jess’s Mustang pulled up behind his truck, he punched in a cypher code.
“The lab has its own entrance. We can go in here.”
“I’d better let your lieutenant know I’m here,” Jess told him, mindful of protocol. “I’ll join you in the lab in a few minutes.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She walked around to the front of small building. Jess had toured Building 89 during her initial orientation and visited several times since. Even so, the trophy case crammed with awards and citations from the American Petroleum Institute impressed her all over again. The 96th fuels operation had won the API award for best in command for seven of the last eight years.
Passing under a shield depicting a snarling panther, she saw that the fuels officer wasn’t in and moved to the adjoining office. A glimpse of the occupant through the glass partition stopped her in her tracks.
The fuels superintendent bent over his desk, his legs braced wide and his fists balled on the littered desktop. His mouth was a thin, tight slash, his face as white as the newspaper spread across his blotter. From where she stood, Jess couldn’t make out the details of the picture that held his intense concentration.
“Mr. Petrie?”
Billy Jack Petrie jerked around. When he spotted Jess, his skin seemed to blanch even more.
He had good reason to be nervous, she supposed. She hadn’t minced words when she’d reminded him of his responsibilities as Sergeant Babcock’s supervisor.
“Are you all right?” she asked, taking a step into the office.
“I’m fine.” His fist closed over the newspaper. Wadding it into a tight ball, he tossed it into the dented metal wastebasket beside his desk. “What can I do for you, colonel?”
“I was down at the docks observing the off-load. I wanted to let the lieutenant know I was in the building. I’m going to watch Sergeant Babcock perform the initial analysis.”
“Why?” the supervisor asked swiftly. “Don’t you trust him?”
Don’t you trust me? was the question that hovered in the air.
“Obviously I trust his skills,” Jess replied, “or I wouldn’t have allowed him to remain in his present position.”
“You don’t think he’s been drinking, do you? I’ve been on him like ticks on a coon dog, and haven’t seen any…”
“No, I don’t think he’s been drinking. I just want to observe the tests.”
Straightening, Petrie seemed to collect himself. He was a tall man, lean and rangy, with a shock of coal black hair that belied his age and years of service. He took in her heated face and her sweat-drenched fatigues and extended a grudging offer.
“You’d better cool down some before you go into the lab or the fumes will get to you. There’s a pop machine in the break room. Can I get you something to drink?”
“A cold Coke would be great.”
She reached in the pocket of her fatigue pants for her wallet, but Petrie waved aside her money.
“I’ve got it.”
When he disappeared down the hall, Jess’s glance snagged on the wastepaper basket. With a quick look over her shoulder, she retrieved the wadded newspaper. The grainy, black-and-white photo on the front page of the Daily News caught her notice instantly. Centered in the picture, a T-shirted man smiled benignly at a crew of what looked like volunteer construction workers.
Local minister, shown here directing a Habitat for Humanity project, will be missed.
Jess read the caption twice before moving to the article that followed.
Forensics experts at the Florida Department of Law Enforcement have tentatively identified the body recovered from Harry’s Bayou last Friday as Reverend
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