The Identity Mine

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Major General Frederick J Thompson drove south along US Highway 27, the dawn sunshine flickering through the trees in a hypnotic dance that usually caused him to squint but now merely mesmerized him. The whisper of the tires along the asphalt hummed in his ears, a gentle lullaby that numbed his thoughts and caused his limbs to relax until he was barely holding on to the steering wheel as he eased down the off ramp toward the massive US Army training base nestled in Georgia’s rolling hills.

A veteran of two Gulf Wars, Thompson was an iconic figure in the US Army, his square jaw and bright blue eyes framing a wide, silvery moustache that adorned his upper lip like a pair of twisted bayonets. Without conscious thought he followed the Old Cusseta Highway to the security checkpoints at the entrance to the base, saw two armed soldiers awaiting him, their rifles gripped at port — arms. One of the soldiers raised a gloved hand and stepped out into the road before a set of barriers, and Thompson slowed his vehicle and eased his window down.

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