The Echo of the Whip by Joseph Flynn Page B

the places he likes to spend his personal time. If I’d wanted to steal his book, I would’ve tried to subvert someone near if not dear to him.”
    “Your list will be a good start,” Tall Wolf said.
    Turning to McGill, Mira said, “Ed was never in the military, but he’s one of those guys who’s a big fan of the men and women who are. Always makes sure to advocate for big budgets for the Pentagon. I don’t know of anyone in particular Ed might have used, but the military trains people to have all sorts of interesting skills, don’t they?”
    “They certainly do,” McGill said.
    He knew right then he would have to intrude on Welborn Yates’ holiday in England.

Austin, Texas
    The unofficial motto of the capital of Texas was: Keep Austin Weird.
    Eugene “Gene” Beck certainly did his part. Three days a week he laced up his running shoes with the intention of running a marathon distance: 26 miles, 385 yards. Didn’t matter what the weather was. The only thing that could stop him was … a woman, a bar, a broke-down car. Anything that might become the lyric for a country-and-western song.
    Gene collaborated with a dozen musicians who called Austin home.
    He didn’t read musical notation or play an instrument, but when he handed over a page of verses and a chorus he’d whistle the way he thought the tune might go. Sometimes his collaborators would confess they didn’t share his vision, and that was okay. But nobody ever tried to rip off one of his songs. Claim it as their own creative product.
    The reason for hewing to straight deals with Gene was people invariably got the feeling he was the kind of guy, if you got him mad, he might take you out into the hills and grill your liver over a campfire. Eat it while you had just enough life left to watch him do it.
    Not that he’d ever threatened such a thing. It was just a feeling people got, should they ever do anything to displace his usual genial nature. His normal good spirits were evinced by the way he’d whistle merrily as he strode mile after mile on Travis County blacktop.
    Local motorists would wave to him as they passed by. They weren’t bothered by the sight of the gun holstered at the small of his back or the knife in the sheath on his right calf. That was just a man exercising his Second Amendment rights as well as his body. Nothing weird or scary about that for Texas.
    In fact, more than a few women, young and old, blew him kisses as they motored by. He’d written a song about them. Called it “Highway Honeys.”
    Beck was an Air Force vet, had planned to get trained in aircraft maintenance and take his skills into the private sector when his hitch was up. But that plan, while practical, failed to engage his imagination. He decided he wanted something with more sex appeal. Something you could tell the ladies and, eventually, your grandkids about and make them all say, “gee whiz.”
    He applied for training as a Combat Controller, one of the USAF’s special ops positions.
    Among other things, Combat Control Teams seized enemy airfields for use by American forces. They also pinpointed enemy targets for U.S. pilots and ground commanders. To achieve some of their goals they might become “bike chasers.” Airmen tossed dirt bikes out of cargo planes, and the combat control guys followed. Chutes popped for both the machines and the men and they hit the ground rolling.
    How cool was that? Enough to fire Beck’s jets, that was for sure. He aced the FAST, fitness and stamina test. He was lean but strong as a “wild animal,” according to his evaluation. He could run forever and stay awake and functional for days on end. Better yet, he seemed to inspire other men to find unsuspected reserves of the mental toughness the job required.
    Soon enough, Beck was pegged not just for his desired posting but also for an officer’s commission and a leadership role.
    Until, that was, it was pointed out to him that in certain battlefield environments complete