"Miss Temperance Brennan?"

Brennan, along with everyone else in the room, looked up from her typewriter at the sound of her name. The rhythmic tapping sound of fingers on keys slowly faded to silence. The uniformed corporal who stood in the doorway obviously didn't know her by sight, as his gaze skimmed the faces of all of the typists sitting in neat rows behind their clunky black machines. She raised one hand to get his attention.

"It's Dr. Brennan, not Miss."

The corporal looked down in confusion at the note in his hand. "Uh, well, this here says Miss so . . ."

"Never mind her. She puts on airs, like that fancy college education matters when our boys are dying overseas." Mrs. Bridges, the grey-haired termagant who ran the typing pool as if it were a Dickensian workhouse, hurried over and snatched the paper from the hapless young man. Eyes wide with surprise, her free hand fluttered over an ivory cameo pinned to the neck of her blouse. "Oh my. This is from General Cullen. He wants to see you, Miss Brennan."

The metal legs scraped against the floor as Brennan pushed her chair back and got to her feet. She steadied herself with one hand resting lightly on the desk beside her typewriter. All too aware of the stares directed toward her, she looked instead at the corporal.

"Why would General Cullen ask to see me?"

The corporal pokered up with indignation and grabbed the note back from the unresisting hand of Mrs. Bridges. "The general doesn't answer questions from the typing pool. Come with me."

Mrs. Bridges piggybacked on his peremptory order. "Well, go on, girl. Don't keep him waiting! And none of that 'doctor' stuff either," she hissed, as Brennan passed her. "You're just Miss Brennan when you get up there, you hear me?"

Brennan ignored the old woman and hurried by. The clip of her heels couldn't mask the wave of talk that followed her out of the room.

The soldier waited ahead, his impatience showing as he waved her on. "Come on, put some giddy-up in those gams. The general doesn't like to be kept waiting."

She circled around a group of uniformed officers who cat-called and whistled as she passed, and pretended not to hear the offers of everything from a cigarette to a night on the town. All around, busy offices bustled even more as enlisted men by the dozens carried out furniture and boxes of files. The noise was a constant roar, and the smoke rising from the cigarettes and cigars of smoking men hung like a cloud everywhere.

It was somewhat quieter when they climbed up three flights of stairs to the Administration level. The corporal pointed her toward a closed door and then sat down at a small desk just outside it. "Go ahead," he said. "He's waiting."

Brennan approached the door with an unusual sense of wariness. No one - especially not a lowly typist - had ever been called to the upper offices. She spared one quick, fleeting wish that she'd taken the time to check her lipstick, then smoothed her skirt over her hips, squared her shoulders and knocked.

"Come in."

The gruff, no-nonsense voice matched the face of the man she'd only seen from afar as he marched through the building. General Sam Cullen, lean, with thinning gray hair and hazel eyes that turned the color of mud when he was angry, had been a fixture in the Army long before the United States officially entered the war after Pearl Harbor. Now, two years later, he was more entrenched than ever. Rumour had it that the business of packing and moving happening on the lower floors was solely due to his efforts to move Army headquarters from the crowded Munitions Building to new offices in the just-constructed Pentagon. Uncertain whether the general would expect a salute from a civilian employee of the Army, Brennan simply came to a stop and stood as straight as she could.

"General Cullen. I was told you wanted to see me."

Cullen gestured curtly to one of two chairs placed in front of his desk. The rest of the office matched his personality; the walls were painted a utilitarian white, the filing cabinets were gunmetal grey and except for the obligatory photographs of a wife and daughter and a framed diploma from West Point on the wall, the room was unadorned. "Yes, thank you, Miss Brennan - -"

"Dr. Brennan."

"Excuse me?" General Cullen was clearly not accustomed to being interrupted. Heedless of Mrs. Bridges' earlier warning, Brennan's chin rose as she held his gaze.

"I'm Dr. Brennan, not Miss Brennan. I hold two Ph.D.s from Northwestern University - -"

He cut her off, opening a thin folder lying in front of him and shifting through a few type-written pages. "That's right. Says here that you're not a real doctor, though. You're just some kind of egghead scientist. Is that right?"

The crass insult felt like a test. Brennan remained stoic and expressionless. "I am a scientist, yes."

"But you're sitting in the Army's typing pool pecking out requisition lists for the quartermaster."

Brennan's chin inched up further. "I came here to study forensic anthropology at Georgetown University. The Ph.D. program has unfortunately been put on hold until after the war. I needed a job so . . . Yes. I'm working in the typing pool."

The clipped words belied the sense of outrage she still felt at the cancellation of her degree program, simply because the male students had rushed off to join the war effort. Cullen, however, picked up on the resentment simmering beneath the explanation.

"Another Ph.D.? You collecting diplomas or something?" He wasn't interested in answer, and waved her to silence when she opened her mouth to speak. He leaned back in his chair and regarded her steadily, twirling a fountain pen between his fingers. "Mrs. Bridges tells me that you reorganized all the work that comes in down there."

Somewhat irritated at his autocratic manner and surprised that her bad-tempered supervisor had mentioned her at all, let alone in terms that might be considered favorable, Brennan frowned. "I merely made a few suggestions for improving the efficiency of our day."

"She said you drew diagrams."

Brennan felt heat rising in her cheeks. "Visual aids can be helpful when it comes to explaining new processes."

"Well, I need someone who knows how to get things organized." Cullen reached for a folded newspaper sitting on top of a thick red folder. He opened it, then turned it so it was facing Brennan. "Have you seen this?"

She glanced briefly at a headline that screamed EIGHTH AIR ACE PILOT BOOTH CRASH LANDS RECORD 17TH MISSION! WALKS AWAY FROM PLANE IN FLAMES! The grainy photo that accompanied the article showed a hunched figure running from the fiery wreckage of a B-17 bomber. Brennan shivered, an uncontrollable movement that took her by surprise, and shoved the newspaper away.

"No, I don't read the papers."

Cullen's eyes sharpened. "Why not? You're not some kind of pacifist, are you?"

Brennan shook her head. "No, I'm not. I simply hear enough about the war during the work day. I've found that the information printed in the newspaper is often incorrect or fails to match what I've heard here."

"Huh. Well, you should read this one." He pushed the newspaper back toward her, along with the thick red file. "Along with all of this other stuff. I'm re-assigning you to the War Finance Office, over in Treasury, starting tomorrow. That pilot, Captain Booth, we're bringing him home to recover from this last batch of injuries, and after that, he's going to help us sell some war bonds. Treasury doesn't have the staff for another campaign so they asked for somebody to help plan the tour, and that's you. The doctors think he'll be ready to head out in about six weeks, so that's how long you've got to get everything in order."

Brennan stared at him in shock. "Excuse me? I have a job already. You can't just . . ."

"I think you'll find that these . . ." General Cullen tapped the pen in his hand against the stars that lined the collar of his khaki brown shirt. " . . . mean that I can."

"But why me?" Brennan asked helplessly. "I have no experience with this sort of work."

Cullen shrugged. "Since you have two Ph.D.s, I guess you're smart enough to figure it out. Plus, I've done some asking around. You don't take any guff and you don't seem to be looking for a wedding ring. That's the kind of girl I need handling this. The Captain won't respect some headquarters pencil-pusher who's never seen action telling him what's what, and I don't need some dame losing her head over his pretty face when she should be concentrating on how to sell more bonds. You'll do the trick."

Brennan shook her head, surprised and a little overwhelmed by the suddenness of it all. "I . . . I don't know what to say."

"Start with 'yes, sir,'" General Cullen said, before he pushed his chair back and stood up, signaling an end to their meeting. "Congratulations, Miss . . . Dr. Brennan. You've been promoted."

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This idea has been keeping me up at night. Hold on to your hats, you're in for a fun ride! :-D