Read The General's Daughter for Free Online Page A

fiberboard men with rifles. These lifelike targets have replaced the old black silhouette targets,
     the point being, I suppose, that if you’re being trained to kill men, then the targets should look you in the eye. However,
     from past experience, I can tell you that nothing prepares you for killing men except killing men. In any case, birds were
     perched on many of the mock men, which sort of ruined the effect, at least until the first platoon of the day fired.
    When I went through infantry training, the firing ranges were bare of vegetation, great expanses of sterile soil unlike any
     battlefield condition you were likely to encounter, except perhaps the desert. Now, many firing ranges, like this one, were
     planted with various types of vegetation to partially obscure the fields of fire. About fifty meters opposite of where I was
     standing on the road there was a pop-up silhouette partially hidden by tall grass and evergreen bushes. Standing around this
     target and vegetation were two MPs, a man and a woman. At the base of the silhouette, I could make out something on the ground
     that didn’t belong there.
    Colonel Kent said, “This guy was a sick puppy.” He added, as if I didn’t get it, “I mean, he did it to her right there on
     the rifle range, with that pop-up guy sort of looking down at her.”
    If only the pop-up guy could talk. I turned and looked around the area. Some distance behind the bleachers and the fire control
     towers was a tree line in which I could see latrine sheds. I said to Colonel Kent, “Have you searched the area for any other
     possible victims?”
    “No… well… we didn’t want to disturb evidence.”
    “But someone else may also be dead, or alive and in need of assistance. Evidence is secondary to aiding victims. Says so in
     the manual.”
    “Right…” He looked around and called to an MP sergeant. “Get on the horn and have Lieutenant Fullham’s platoon get down here
     with the dogs.”
    Before the sergeant could respond, a voice from the top of the bleachers said, “I already did that.”
    I looked up at Ms. Sunhill. “Thank you.”
    “You’re welcome.”
    I wanted to ignore her, but I knew this wasn’t going to be possible. I turned and walked onto the rifle range. Kent followed.
    As we walked, Kent’s stride got a bit shorter, and he fell behind. The two MPs there were at parade rest, pointedly looking
     away from the ground upon which lay Captain Ann Campbell.
    I stopped a few feet from the body, which was lying on its back. She was naked, as Kent had indicated, except for a sports
     watch on her left wrist. A few feet from the body lay what we call a commercially purchased undergarment—her bra. As Kent
     had also said, her uniform was missing from the scene. Also missing were her boots, socks, helmet, pistol belt, holster, and
     sidearm. More interestingly, perhaps, was the fact that Ann Campbell was spread-eagled on her back, her wrists and ankles
     bound to tent pegs with cord. The pegs were a green vinyl plastic, and the cord was green nylon, both Army issue.
    Ann Campbell was about thirty and well built, the sort of build you see on female aerobic instructors with well-defined leg
     and arm muscles and not an ounce of flab. Despite her present condition, I recognized her face from Army posters. She was
     quite attractive in a clean-cut way, and wore her blond hair in a simple shoulder-length style, perhaps a few inches beyond
     regulations, which was the least of her problems at the moment.
    Around her neck was a long length of the same nylon cord that bound her wrists and ankles, and beneath this cord were her
     panties, which had been pulled over her head, one leg of the panties around her neck, so that the cord did not bite directly
     into her neck, but was cushioned by the panties. I knew what this meant, but I don’t think anyone else did.
    Cynthia came up beside me, but said nothing.
    I knelt beside the body and noted that the skin appeared waxy