“Trooper Alana Brackin reporting for duty as directed Sir.”

Captain David Jenkins looked up from where he sat, rigid behind his dark Cherry wood desk: its top lacking of even the smallest clutter. In front of him stood a Michigan state trooper, her dark-blue police uniform neatly pressed.

Jenkins eyes, starting at her head, slowly made their way down.

With her high cheek bones, jet-black hair, brown almond eyes and tanned ski,n she looked to have just stepped off the cover of a major modeling magazine. Add to this her five-foot-ten evenly proportioned frame and it was enough to make men stop whatever they were doing and give her their undivided attention.

“At ease Brackin,” said Jenkins, doing his best to seem unaffected by her beauty. “Take a seat.”

Trooper Brackin placed her personnel file on Jenkins’ desk, made a military about-face and went to a nearby chair.

Jenkins opened her file, read a few lines and said, “I see here that you graduated at the top of your class.”

“Yes sir,” snapped Brackin, her back straight as an arrow.

The captain quickly thumbed through the rest of the file, pausing momentarily to focus on some particular sentence or paragraph. Closing it, he stared at Brackin with unblinking eyes.

“You can forget most of the stuff they taught you in the Academy. Your real training will start now. You’ll be assigned a field training officer, a veteran, who will, I hope, keep you alive until you’re off probation.”

“Yes sir.”

“That will be all Brackin, report to the front desk for assignment.”

Brackin, in one fluid movement, rose from the chair, did a smart about-face and left the room.

Jenkins closed his eyes, shook himself: opening his eyes he fought to focus on the report before him.
Dale Sayer, a ten-year veteran with the state police, entered the squad room: ducking to clear the top of the doorway.

“Trooper Brackin, you’re with me today. My name is Sayer, Sergeant Dale Sayer.”

“Yes sir sergeant,” said Brackin, grabbing a black equipment bag from a chair.

“Don’t call me sir, I work for a living,” said Sayer, a scowl turning the corners of his mouth downward.

“Right sergeant,” said Brackin.

Brackin, dwarfed by Sayer, walked to an awaiting patrol unit: freshly washed and waxed, its dark blue paint mirroring their approach. Brackin started for the passenger side.

“Oh no. You’re driving,” said Sayer, throwing her the keys. “I believe in ‘total immersion’ right from the starting gate.”

Brackin, showing no sign of intimidation by Sayer’s announcement, slid behind the steering wheel.
Starting the powerful interceptor engine, she methodically checked the functionality of equipment: radio, siren and overhead. Reaching across with her right hand, she drew the seat belt against her upper torso and slid its silver buckle into place.

“Well let’s go fight crime,” said Sayer, a slight smile visible.

At 5:00 P.M. Brackin and Sayer were two hours into their shift, uneventful so far. Suddenly the radio broke squelch.

“Fifty-five-sixty-six from five-five.”

Sayer’s huge hand instinctively went for the mike, but then retreated. Brackin picked the mike up, keyed it and replied, “Five-five from fifty-five-sixty-six, go ahead.”

“Fifty-five-sixty-six, we have a report of an armed robbery at the Pri-Mart in Bangor. Bangor P.D. won’t be in-service until 7:00 P.M. so could you start that way?”

“Ten-four five-five. Is there a description of the suspect?” Brackin asked.

“A lone white male, thirty to thirty-five, five-foot-eleven, one hundred ninety pounds, short cropped brown hair: a blue-steel revolver in his possession. The suspect was last seen eastbound on M-43 from Bangor in a black Chevy F-250 pickup.”

“Ten-four five-five. We’ll be en route from 52nd Street and M-43.”

Sayer turned on the overhead and activated the siren as Brackin’s foot unleashed the power of the V-8. Brackin slowed for a set of curves, then gave it more gas as the car entered the configurations. Sayer nodded his approval of her driving skills. Coming out of the curves, they approached C.R. 215 just in time to see a black Chevy pickup, heading east on M-43. The vehicle turned left onto C.R. 215. Sayer grabbed the mike. “Five-five from fifty-five-sixty-six, I believe we have the suspect vehicle in sight. It just went north on C.R. 215 from M-43.”

“Ten-four sixty-six. I’ll start some backup your way.”

Brackin slowed, turned the corner and accelerated. The black pickup increased its speed: it was no match for the interceptor, however, and Brackin closed the distance rapidly. Entering the tiny village of Breedsville, the pickup blew through the four-way stop at C.R. 215 and C.R. 380, turning west. Brackin stayed within a few car lengths. Sayer radioed the current position and direction of travel. At the west limits of Breedsville, the pickup went across a slightly raised set of railroad tracks, momentarily leaving the pavement; then coming down, the undercarriage shooting sparks at the harsh contact.

“There’s the county,” Sayer said, seeing the overheads of an approaching patrol car from the west.

The pickup suddenly left the road, plowing its way through a grassy field. The soil, soaked with past heavy rains, brought the truck to a halt: its rear tires spinning wildly as the driver tried to move ahead.
Brackin slid the patrol unit to a stop alongside the pavement and was out the door before Sayer. Sayer, fighting with his safety belt, roared, “Son-of-a-bitch!”

The driver of the truck opened his door, exited, turned and fired a wild shot at Brackin, then fled toward a row of blueberry bushes. Brackin, pistol in hand, ran toward the driver: overtaking him just as he started to disappear into the first row of four-foot shrubs. Putting her pistol back into its holster, she launched herself the last few feet, landing on the driver’s back. Grabbing the man’s right hand, she wrested the revolver from his grasp and threw it several yards away. With her left knee now on the driver’s neck, she forced his face into the muck. When Sayer arrived seconds later, with the responding deputy, both huffing and puffing, the driver was in custody.

Fighting to regain his breath, Sayer said, “Damn Brackin, would’ve been nice if you’d saved us some.”

Back at the Post, while Brackin typed away at the report, Sayer sipped at his coffee: telling two fellow troopers of how Brackin apprehended the robber.

“I’m telling you she was out of that car like a bolt of lightning. I never saw anyone run so fast. Hell, my fat ass was still yards away when she slapped the cuffs on that idiot.”

“Yeah, well one arrest doesn’t prove she’ll be able to handle herself,” said trooper Jeff Miller, just off his ninety-day probation.

“I didn’t say it did,” replied Sayer. “But it beats the hell out of your first day, rolling the squad on that high-speed chase. I still get backaches from that one.”

Miller shook his head, then headed for a refill: glad to get away from any further conversations about his first day out.

Brackin walked from a nearby office, report in hand.

“Here sergeant, it’s all done.”

“You’re shitting me!” said Sayer, taking the report. “Where the hell did you learn to type so fast?”
Sayer read through the report. “Damn, not even a typo.” After initialing it, he handed it back to her.
Sayer looked at his watch. “Well Brackin, let’s get our stuff out of the patrol car, it’s time to go home.”

Brackin’s second day on the job found her and Sayer being sent on a domestic assault, at the start of their shift. Sayer knew the address; he’d arrested the husband before for carrying a concealed weapon. The man resisted, and if not for having trooper Ron Verdonk with him, a Golden glove’s boxer, he might have received more than the black eye he sported around the Post for the next two weeks. The man was big, at least six-four and weighing two-hundred-eighty pounds of solid muscle.

Sayer filled Brackin in on what to expect.

“This one’s yours, I’ve got your back,” he said, as the squad pulled into the graveled drive.

The two officers took a position, one on each side of the entrance to the home. Brackin rang the doorbell.

“Police, open the door!” she said loudly.

“We don’t need you, so get the hell out,” replied a male voice.

“Open the door now!” screamed Brackin.

Heavy footsteps, the door opened slowly: only a couple of inches.

“Everything is fine here, so get off my property,” a man’s voice said from the small opening.

The door started to close, Brackin’s heavy-duty boot stopping it. Brackin put her shoulder against the door and it flew open, Sayer lunging inside. A fist, as thick as a five-pound ham, struck Sayer in the face: an immediate geyser of blood erupted from his nose.

Sayer fell backward, landing hard against the wall: no longer able to see. Covering his face with his hands, he felt smashed cartilage in his nose.

Brackin, meeting the assailant’s charge, threw a punch into the big man’s solar plexus. The man stopped in midstep, air forced from his lungs. Groaning, he cursed and threw a powerful punch: deflected by Brackin’s left forearm. A second lightning strike to the man’s lantern jaw produced a sound like a large tree limb snapping. The man bellowed in pain.

Sayer’s sight was slowly returning and he made out two struggling forms on the floor. He heard the familiar sound of handcuffs rachet into position. The assailant continued to struggle, but with his hands locked behind his back and Brackin’s weight against him, it was a futile attempt. Brackin looked up from her prisoner, seeing a battered female slowly step from a bedroom door.

“Are you right ma’am?”

In a shrill shaky voice the woman replied, “Yes.”

“Would you mind getting my partner a towel?”

Moments later Sayer had stopped the flow of blood and he could see clearly again. The female who brought him the towel was bruised and holding a napkin against a split lip, but she wasn’t seriously injured. Sayer went to the man on the floor, grabbed his handcuffed wrists, pulling him to his feet. The man cried out in pain as the metal cuffs bit into his flesh.

“I’ll take him to the squad and call the Post. You get a statement from the victim.”

After getting medical care for their prisoner’s broken jaw and Sayer’s smashed nose, they lodged the man at the county jail for domestic assault: assault on a police officer and resisting arrest. Back in the patrol car Sayer said, “I have to hand it to you, you saved my ass tonight. I just need to know one thing, how the hell did you do it? You kicked the shit out of that asshole.”

“I’ve taken some classes in martial arts,” Brackin replied.

“Well, all I can say is you’re one kick ass woman and I want you to know that it’s an honor to have you as a partner. I really mean that.”

Brackin looked at sergeant Sayer and smiled. “Thanks sergeant.”

A few minutes later Sayer was receiving taunts from trooper Miller and two other older veterans.

“Hey sarge, you really beat the hell out of that guy’s fist with that ugly mug of yours.”

Sayer looked at Miller. “Very funny Miller, kind of reminds me when I pulled that woman off you after she’d nearly scratched your eyes out. Remember that? What was she, about five-foot-three? Maybe one-hundred ten pounds soaking wet?”

The veteran standing next to Miller let out a loud guffaw. Sayer went to the squad room, finding Brackin just taking a seat at the computer.

“I’ll do this one Brackin. You go out there and show a few of those martial art moves to Miller, he needs them.”

At the end of the shift Brackin went home, to a one-bedroom apartment: took off her uniform and carefully hung it up. She then went to her bedroom, and lay on her bed with her face toward the ceiling. With her right hand, she grasped an electric cord, guiding its end to a connector on her right side. She then lay on the bed, waiting for the beep that would signal she was recharged.

A closed-circuit TV monitor carried Brackin’s image to a control room managed by people in white lab coats.
A man in the control room said, “So far it appears our prototype is a success.”

No one in the control room noticed the faint smile on Brackin’s lips. A thought made its way through circuit boards and processors inside Brackin’s titanium skull. “Yes, a new age for the female is about to open.”

In a nearby closet, unknown to Brackin’s creators, was a miniaturized continuous power source that Brackin built. It would soon replace the primitive recharge system supplied by her designers.