Free The General's Daughter by Nelson DeMille

among the historical motivators for frontline troops.”
    As she spoke, a slide projection screen behind her flashed images of ancient battle scenes taken from old prints and paintings.
     I recognized “The Rape of the Sabines,” by Da Bologna, which is one of the few classical paintings I can name. Sometimes I
     wonder about myself.
    Captain Campbell continued, “The objective of psychological warfare is to chip away at these motivators, but not to tackle
     them head-on, as they are often too strong and too ingrained to be changed in any significant way through propaganda or psy-ops.
     The best we can hope to do is to plant some seeds of doubt. However, this does not crack morale and lead to mass desertions
     and surrender. It only lays the groundwork for stage two of psy-ops, which is, ultimately, to instill fear and panic into
     the enemy ranks. Fear and panic. Fear of death, fear of grotesque wounds, fear of fear. Panic—that least understood of all
     psychological states of mind. Panic—a deep abiding, free-floating anxiety, often without any reason or logical basis. Our
     ancestors used war drums, war pipes, bloodcurdling shouts, taunts, and even breast beating and primal screams to induce panic
     in the enemy camps.”
    The image on the screen behind her now looked to be a depiction of a Roman army in full flight, being chased by a horde of
     fierce-looking barbarians.
    She continued, “In our pursuit of technical excellence and high-tech solutions to battlefield problems, we have forgotten
     the primal scream.” Ann Campbell hit a button on the rostrum and a high-decibel, bloodcurdling scream filled the room. She
     smiled and said, “That will loosen your sphincter.” A few men in the classroom laughed, and the microphone picked up some
     guy saying, “Sounds like my wife when she climaxes.” More laughter, and Captain Campbell, reacting to the remark, laughed
     too, an almost bawdy laugh, completely out of character. She looked down a moment, as if at her notes, and when she looked
     up again, her expression had returned to business and the laughter died down.
    I had the impression she was playing the crowd, getting them on her side the way most male Army instructors did with an off-color
     joke or an occasional personal comment. Clearly, she had reached out and touched the audience, had shared a moment of sexual
     complicity and revealed what was beneath the neat uniform. But only for a moment. I turned off the VCR. “Interesting lecture.”
    Cynthia said, “Who would want to kill a woman like that? I mean, she was so
alive.
So vital and so self-assured…”
    Which may be why someone wanted to kill her. We stood in silence a moment, sort of in respect, I suppose, as if Ann Campbell’s
     presence and spirit were still in the room. In truth, I was quite taken with Ann Campbell. She was the type of woman you noticed,
     and once seen, was never forgotten. It wasn’t only her looks that grabbed your attention, but her whole demeanor and bearing.
     Also, she had a good command voice, deep and distinct, yet feminine and sexy. Her accent was what I call Army brat—a product
     of ten or twenty duty stations around the world, with an occasional southern pronunciation taking you by surprise. All in
     all, this was a woman who could command the respect and attention of men, or drive them to distraction.
    As for how women related to her, Cynthia seemed impressed, but I suspected that some women might find her threatening, especially
     if their husbands or boyfriends had any proximity to Ann Campbell. How Ann Campbell related to other women was, as yet, a
     mystery. Finally, to break the silence, I said, “Let’s finish this business.”
    We went back to our search of the study. Cynthia and I both went through a photo album we found on the shelf. The photos appeared
     to be entirely
en famille:
General and Mrs. Campbell, a young man who was probably the son, shots of Daddy and Ann in mufti, uncle and aunt types,