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RESTRICTED:

    OFFICER EVALUATION REPORT (OER)
    DEPARTMENT OF THE NAVY, MARINE CORP BRANCH.

    Subject: FARRINGTON, WILLARD, E.
    Grade: 0-7/DOB 13 FEB 48. SERVICE #220-76-1455
    Spouse: (DECEASED)
    Children: ONE (F/ADOPTED)
    Other Living Relatives: NONE

    DE: DETACHMENT 4,
    UNITED STATES AIR FORCE
    AERIAL INTELLIGENCE COMMAND
    FORT BELVOIR, VIRGINIA.

    DUPLICATION OF THE ENCLOSED IS PUNISHABLE BY DEATH VIA AIR FORCE REGULATION 200-2 AND U.S.C. 797 OF THE INTERNAL SECURITY ACT.

    TOP SECRET
    _______________________________

    A personnel photograph was fastened to the left side of the folder, and staring up from its glossy surface was the face of General Willard Farrington.
    A hand closed the folder. A sputter was heard. Bold typeface on the folder’s manila cover read:

    OPERATOR “ A ”

    It was General Rainier’s hand which closed the MILPERS folder, and it was his voice which muttered, “God damn, ” a moment later.
    Another officer—a major—sat in the room, submerged in darkness. He was a Tekna/Byman liaison field agent; hence his name was classified.
    “Jesus,” Rainier said. “Who would’ve thought something like this would happen?”
    “It all went so well for so long, sir,” the Major responded. “Perhaps we took the circumstances for granted.”
    Rainier looked up testily. “Yeah, I guess we did. The guy’s been doing it for more than ten years without a hitch.”
    “Yes, sir, but remember the retrieval time table. We don’t have another ten years. We don’t even have ten months.”
    “And you’re telling me there’s no alternate?”
    A slight crack in the Major’s voice betrayed his nervousness. “N-no, sir. Given the highly critical criterion, not to mention the most recent Presidential amendments to AR 200-2, it was deemed too sensitive a risk to have a fully briefed and fully trained alternate on line.”
    Rainier strummed his fingers on the desk. “I’ve never heard anything so reckless and ill-advised in my life. Matters like this should never be disclosed to these ludicrous temporary occupants of the White House.”
    “You can be sure, though, sir, that the President hasn’t  been briefed on the QSR4 data.”
    “Thank God.”
    It was just a figure of speech, of course. General Rainier didn’t actually believe in God. From where he sat, the lone desk lamp projected the shadow of Rainier’s head onto the wall. It looked like a halo, and here was Rainier, the angel with no God. Instead his shrine was the Pentagon, and his church the most restricted warrens of the NSA. Technology—and death—were the only gods he could trust. He was probably the most powerful man in the United States’ military, but it was all unofficial: an angel of might but with no wings. Only the jaded halo.
    “And we do have a contingency, sir,” the Major added as if to offer some consolation. “No one prepared, but at least—”
    “You have someone in mind is what you’re saying.”
    “Affirmative, sir.”
    The chair creaked when Rainier leaned back. He spoke with his eyes closed, struggling against a headache. “He’s the best we’ve got?”
    The Major stepped forward into the smudge of light and picked up the MILPERS folder labeled OPERATOR “ A ” . He inserted it into the feed slot of a Gressen automatic paper-pulverizer.
    “He is now, sir.”
    The machine whined for a split instant, then disgorged its powder into a burn bag.
    Presto—gone,  Rainier thought. He wondered how many real lives he’d disposed of just as efficiently.
    Next, the Major set down a second folder, this one labeled:

    OPERATOR “ B ”

    General Rainier opened the folder to glance down at a personnel photo of a lean-faced, hard-eyed white male in his forties.
    “The candidate’s name is Jack Wentz,” the Major augmented. “He was promoted to general O-7 two days ago. He’s been Top Secret/SI with eleven suffixes for more than twenty years, and he’s our senior restricted test pilot. He’s also got more black