Free Honor by Janet Dailey Page A

problem.
    He pulled up a chair to a small table whose varnish had worn off at the angles, and tore the bag down one side, removing a takeout container that held his lunch: a split roll heaped with pulled pork barbecue, with sides of coleslaw and mac-n-cheese. The ramshackle roadside joint it came from didn’t look like much from the outside, but the crowded parking lot and lines of customers were his idea of a recommendation.
    He didn’t like to eat alone either. Linc reached for the remote he’d left on the table and switched on the TV, keeping the volume low. A news announcer nattered on about this and that. He wasn’t really listening. The sloppy but delicious sandwich got most of his attention.
    Linc devoured it, then used up about five napkins to wipe his hands. He picked up a plastic fork to get started on the sides when a photo appeared onscreen. He’d seen it before. On Kenzie’s laptop.
    “Next up,” the announcer intoned, “a local hero will be remembered today. We’ll be right back with the story of Frank Branigan.”
    The soldier’s face filled the screen for a few seconds before several commercials played. Linc finished his lunch and cleaned up before the anchor started off with that faked business of stacking papers and laying them down without even looking at them.
    Linc listened. He wondered if Kenzie was too. She might have switched on the TV to keep her company over at Christine’s empty apartment. He could call her there, but he’d taken the hint about her needing downtime. Besides, she might be at the hospital or keeping one of the Corellis company.
    The screen insets showed Frank Branigan in uniform, then a few family snapshots. Then a photomontage.
    His coffin, arriving at Dover Air Force Base in Delaware, carried down the ramp of a C-17 by a team of soldiers in white gloves. A waiting mortuary van. The family, standing at a distance on the tarmac near the huge plane, too far away for their faces to be identifiable.
    The process of a dignified transfer—the official term—had begun. No newshounds allowed close in, no live footage of the transfer permitted at all. The privacy of the grieving relatives was well-protected, Linc knew.
    The army mortuary would prepare and dress the body for burial. Then Branigan’s remains would be taken by hearse to a private funeral home. Kenzie would go to the funeral, he expected. He didn’t know if she’d want him there.
    He clicked off the TV to observe five minutes of silence for a man he’d never known.
    It wasn’t enough to show the respect that Frank Branigan deserved.
    It was some time later when he turned on CNN. They were featuring new developments in the ongoing conflict, explaining the terms of unconventional warfare, including rapid deployments of smaller units, improved equipment, and so on.
    Different talking head, same war. Soldiers got shot no matter who was talking. Linc wasn’t cynical about it. The dangers the armed services faced weren’t abstract.
    He watched the broadcast, mentally filling in the inevitable blanks. Project 25, his current assignment, involved developing relational matrixes for ground intelligence gathered on multiple fronts. It just might get the GIs and the generals out of there and back home sooner than anyone seemed to think. However, it didn’t qualify Linc as a hero, local or otherwise.
    Which was okay. Being more or less invisible suited him fine.
    Linc got up and switched off the report, tossing the remote onto the bed. It slid off, landing on the formalwear that still lay sprawled on the floor like a body outline at a crime scene. He reached down to grab it, and gathered up the clothes while he was at it, slinging them over the back of a chair.
    Enough housekeeping. He needed to check in—that wasn’t optional. Project 25 personnel had some leeway in terms of where they worked, and face time wasn’t that high a priority. Still, everyone’s hours and output got tracked, and he wasn’t exempt from