The woman nodded. “No, I guess we can’t,” she said, recognizing the finality of Stryker’s statement. “Well, I must join the senator. I see him looking for me.” She held out her hand. “Good luck, Steve.”
Stryker took it. “And you too, Millie.”
That night, in his quarters, Stryker lay on his cot, staring at the ceiling.
He remembered what Birchwood had said, and whispered it aloud, “Her ass is an axe-handle wide.”
He smiled . . . and the smile became a grin . . . and the grin became a laugh.