The Cadet (25 page)

Chapter Twenty-Two

“Dark Moon”

February, 1957

United States Air Force Academy

Lowry Field, CO

A man that studieth revenge keeps his own wounds green.

—Francis Bacon,
Essays
, “Of Revenge”

The knock at the door came before first call. Rod barely heard it over the screaming minute caller. The doolie’s voice warbled as though he were double-timing in place.

Rod yelled for whoever had knocked to enter the room, once again reading the short, strange letter that had come in the mail. Typewritten and unsigned, the letter simply warned him to watch his back. That was it:
Watch your back.

The paper seemed a higher quality than the blank sheets they sold in the cadet store. He held the letter up to the light; it had a faint watermark on it. Rod squinted and could barely make out the words “Dean of Faculty.” That’s weird—the paper must have come from stock used by the faculty; but anyone could have picked that up.

He threw the letter down and turned to see the Officer of the Day waiting for him. A tall captain wearing a sash and a wheel cap filled the doorway.

Rod stood. “Good morning, sir!”

“Mr. Simone?”

“Yes, sir.” He didn’t recognize him; he must have been a new staff member.

“Mr. Simone, you are to report to the Deputy Commandant’s office immediately after lunch. Uniform is Class As. You have been excused from your afternoon classes.”

“Yes, sir.” Rod felt his heart beat faster. This was serious. It was nearly impossible to get out of any academic classes, as the Dean and Comm were continuously vying for cadet time.

“Carry on.” The officer turned to leave.

Rod stepped forward. “Sir, may I ask a question?”

“What?”

“Sir, do you know what this is about?”

“The Deputy Commandant doesn’t explain his orders, cadet. Do you have a problem with that?”

Rod swallowed. “No, sir.”

“Very well. Carry on.”

“Yes, sir. Good afternoon, sir.”

When the officer left, Rod’s shoulders sagged.
What in the world is going on?

***

Chapter Twenty-Three

“It’s Not for Me to Say”

February, 1957

USAF Academy permanent site

Colorado Springs, CO

I want that glib and oily art to speak and purpose not;

since what I well intend, I’ll do’t before I speak.

—William Shakespeare,
King Lear
, I:1

“General McCluney?”

“Yes?” Hank turned from the construction boss and put down a site map. The man standing in front of him wore a brown fedora, a red plaid jacket, a white shirt, a stringy black tie, brown pants, and rubber boots that were covered with mud. He carried a notebook that instantly marked him as press.

The man stuck out his hand. “General, I’m Tony Rafelli, with the
Denver Post
.”

“Mr. Rafelli.” Hank shook hands formally, then said to the construction boss, “Give me a few minutes, would you, Sam?” Hank handed him the site map.

“Yes, sir, General.” The foreman nodded while casting a wary eye at the reporter. “I’ll be by the dining hall.” Squaring his hard hat, he rolled up the site map and walked briskly away to join a host of uniformed Air Force officers inspecting the site.

Melting snow from Sunday’s storm had turned the construction area into a mess. The crisp air was filled with humidity—highly unusual for Colorado—and the tinge of fuzziness in the air made the site look like an impressionist’s painting.

Balancing on his cane, Hank turned back to the reporter. “What can I do for you, Mr. Rafelli?”

“Tony. Please call me Tony.”

“How can I help you?” Hank pointedly ignored the man’s attempt at familiarity. Tony Rafelli wasn’t the usual contact from the
Denver Post
, and he’d never heard of him. “I don’t recall anyone scheduling a tour today. Where’s Kenny?”

“Kenny’s working a story at the School of Mines.”

“So you’re covering for him?”

“Kind of.” Rafelli motioned to a gang of construction workers unloading plates of aluminum from a flatbed. Crisscrossed girders jutted up from the ground where the plates would be set. Stacks of marble and granite towered over other workers, waiting to be laid into the ground. “How’s it going, General?”

“What do you mean?”

“I understand the project is spending too much money on extra material.”

Alert, Hank narrowed his eyes. “Extra material?”

“Like that marble over there. Frank Lloyd Wright has said the marble is a travesty. He says it’s too expensive and it won’t go with the architecture. In fact, Congress is going to hold back this year’s appropriation until your costs get under control.”

Hank frowned. “Where did you hear that?”

“A reliable source—an upstanding person in the community.”

“I see. And what else did this person have to say?”

Rafelli raised his chin. “This person also says he has proof you’re taking kickbacks, and you’re in this for your personal gain.”

A smile played on Hank’s lips. “Do you see that man over there?”

The reporter put a hand up to his eyes and squinted. “The one who just left us?”

“That’s right,” Hank said. “He’s talking to Colonel Stoltz, the head of the construction project. Stoltz keeps track of every penny spent out here and is in daily contact with both the Pentagon and our Congressional liaison. There’s not a rivet, nail, or screw on this site that isn’t accounted for.”

“But what about this marble?” Rafelli said. “This person says that you personally chose it, and not the contracting officer. That’s illegal, General.”

Hank felt his face grow warm. “I personally gave my word that the marble would be used to line the Terrazzo, and that’s all. My involvement ended there. The quarry was going to be closed, and the owner wanted to get out of the mining business. If I hadn’t of stepped in, we wouldn’t have any marble at all.”

“Even if Frank Lloyd Wright says it’s an abomination?”

“Mr. Wright’s a very smart man. And Mr. Wright is certainly well respected in the architectural community. But as you know, this design is not Mr. Wright’s. It has passed muster with the American Institute of Architects, as well as Congress and nine other review committees.”

“So you don’t care what Mr. Wright has to say?”

“It doesn’t matter what I care. As far as the Air Force is concerned, this matter has been put to rest. What Mr. Wright says is not germane to this project.”

Rafelli scribbled notes, then looked at the stacks. “That’s a lot of marble.”

“The Terrazzo’s a big place. Have you seen the design?”

Rafelli waved him off and instead started walking toward the huge collection of marble. Annoyed, Hank waited a moment, then hobbled in pursuit.

Construction workers walked on top of the pile as they worked, carefully trying to not put down their boots too quickly, lest they break the inch-thick slabs.

Reaching the stone, Rafelli patted the massive stack. “How much is there?” He turned and ran his hand up and down the pile.

Hank spoke as he caught up. “Over twenty tons. The most Dakota marble ever assembled in one place.”

“I’ve heard some talk—”

“From the same source, I take it!”

“I’ve heard you ordered far more than you’ll ever need.”

“I can show you detailed construction plans and acquisition orders for every single tile,” Hank said, trying hard to keep his voice steady. “They are a matter of public record, but the negotiations and final profits for the material cannot be released.”

Rafelli watched two cranes by the mesa that slowly lowered girders into the excavations of the dormitory foundation. A worker with a yellow hard hat, his t-shirt smeared with mud, directed the crane operator with waves and shouts. “My source also said that you not only personally approved the most expensive parts of this construction, but that you are getting kickbacks from the subcontractors.”

“Kickbacks?” The reporter was getting under his skin, but unless he answered the man’s accusations, he knew it would show up in print. “Do you have any proof?”

“Not yet, but he said you are getting two percent of the profit. That’s one of the reasons why the construction costs are exceeding the original estimate. I checked with the DA’s office,” he looked at his notes, “and the assistant DA, Darius Moore, said that if you’re hiding something, they’ll prosecute you.”

Trying to keep his temper in check, Hank watched the construction workers. Thousands of men swarmed over the campus, each attending to a specific job, coordinated like bees being ordered about from a central hive.

Although the Academy wasn’t supposed to be open for another 18 months, the excavation was complete. Now it was simply a matter of putting the building blocks together: accepting delivery of steel, marble, aluminum, glass, wood, and all the associated pieces, and fitting them together like a giant puzzle.

Simple in the sense that this was the biggest, most expensive construction project since World War II.

“I don’t have anything to hide. These allegations are all lies, and you should know better,” Hank said.

“Oh, yeah?” Rafelli put down his pen.

“You just told me your only evidence is from this unknown source of yours. If I’ve refuted his allegations, then it’s my word against his. Do you have any other proof?”

Rafelli hesitated, then lifted his chin. “Yeah, plenty.”

“If you print these unsubstantiated allegations, you’ll cast doubt upon my character. Then your so-called source will always be able to dredge up suspicion about my behavior, or my motives.”

Rafelli snorted as he wrote in his notebook. “What are your motives, General?”

Hank waved his cane. “Look around you. There are 6,000 workers here employed by 52 contractors. They’ve moved over two and a half million cubic yards of earth to level this mesa and prepare the cadet athletic fields. They’ve built two miles of retaining walls, and before this project is finished, they’ll build over 32 miles of roads and six bridges. Who in their right mind wouldn’t want to work out here, to be a part of history? Especially when it will train young men to defend our nation?

“That’s my motive, Mr. Rafelli. To be part of this, and to insure it doesn’t fail. I hope that satisfies you and your paper.” He turned and hobbled away.

Rafelli called after him. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”

Hank turned. Balancing on one foot, he pointed his cane at Rafelli. “Lad, this is my life. I have a son who is a second year cadet up at Lowry, and I’m going to make sure his class graduates from this site.”

“General, wait.” Rafelli stuffed his pad in his pocket and jogged to Hank. “These allegations will cause Congress to hold a hearing, and the congressional staff already says they’re disturbed by your improprieties. And my source is powerful. Very powerful, no matter how innocent you say you are.”

Hank pointed his cane at the reporter. “Then why are you going to print it?”

Rafelli started to speak, but he looked quickly around, as if he were suddenly afraid that someone was watching him. “Go to hell. I’m a reporter.” He drew himself up, and without saying a word, he strode away.

As Hank watched him leave, it hit him that the whole incident smacked of George Delante. It fit with Delante’s previous shady efforts to sway the Academy Site Commission, and even that foolhardy attempt to blackmail him with that bleached blonde prostitute—even though Hank had never been able to prove it.

But Delante had been keeping a low profile, so why would he do this? And why now? Was he really behind it? It just didn’t make any sense.

***

Chapter Twenty-Four

“Gone”

February, 1957

United States Air Force Academy

Lowry Field, CO

It is better to die on your feet than to live on your knees.

—Delores Ibarruri, Speech, Paris, Sep 3rd, 1936

Mitchell Hall resembled a madhouse as doolies screamed answers to questions machine-gunned from Rod’s classmates. Their yelling mixed with the sound of utensils clattering against plates and the squeaky wheels on meal carts, but Rod didn’t participate in the training. His mind was on why he had to see the Deputy Comm and that weird letter he’d received.

He left Mitchell Hall as soon as the upperclassmen were dismissed. Hurrying back to his room, he kept his hand down in a
V
, flashing the “two” sign to quiet doolies who greeted him. He was anxious to learn why he had been summoned.

He changed into his Class-A jacket, straightened his tie, and made his way to the Admin building. He swallowed hard as he approached. Just walking inside brought back bad memories of that first day, an eternity ago, when he in-processed.

There’d been no reason for him to visit the Commandant of Cadets offices—General Stillman was one of those people whom you seldom saw and tried to stay away from; yet here he was.

His heels clicked against the wooden stairway as he trotted to the second floor. At the end of the hall and encased in glass was a huge model of the new F-100 fighter. Paintings of airplanes lined the wood paneled walls, ending at a door at the end of the hall. Entering the vestibule by the model, Rod saw a sergeant sitting behind a desk in the middle of the room. A door in each wall led to offices set off to the side.

“Excuse me,” Rod said, “I’m Cadet Third class Simone—”

The sergeant leaned forward and peered into an office to his right. “Just a moment.” He stood and knocked once on the door. “Colonel? Cadet Simone is here.”

“Send him in,” came a voice from inside the room.

The sergeant nodded, “Go on in, son.”

“Thank you.” Feeling as if he were about to enter a lion’s den, Rod took a deep breath. He squared his wheel cap under his left arm and stepped into the office. “Sir, Cadet Third class Simone, reporting as ordered.” He held his salute and stared straight ahead, while at the same time trying desperately to inspect the room with his peripheral vision.

A polished, wooden table twenty feet long sat in front of a walnut desk. Four officers sat at the table with the Deputy Commandant behind his desk; Rod’s AOC, Captain Justice, sat stony face next to the Deputy Comm.

Rod rigidly held his salute. Five against one.

The Colonel whipped up his hand and returned the salute. “Stand at ease.”

Rod clicked to parade rest.

The Deputy Commandant moved a sheet of paper from the front of his desk to the middle. He read from it formally. “Cadet Simone, you have been summoned to a Commandant’s Disciplinary Board for going OTF—Over the Fence—from the cadet area on Sunday. Since you marked your honor card “unauthorized,” you will not be brought up on an honor violation before your classmates. However, being absent from an authorized duty location is a major offense, and after you serve your punishment, this may serve as grounds for dismissal if it is determined that you are unfit for service as a cadet. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” Rod’s head reeled at the charge, but he didn’t expect this amount of severity from going OTF. He knew he was guilty—he’d done it that Sunday when he’d left the cadet area, to be alone and think things over before turning in Fred. At the time he thought that no one had noticed—no one but Fred. But it had come out during Fred’s Honor Board, and now he had to account for his action. He wouldn’t lie.

The Deputy Comm looked up from the paper. “Do you dispute the allegation?”

Rod stiffened. “No, sir.”

“Very well, the order at hand is to determine a punishment.” He turned to Rod’s AOC. “Captain Justice?”

“Yes, sir?”

“What is your assessment of Cadet Simone?”

“Sir, Cadet Simone is one of my top cadets, a leader. He stands out in the squadron.”

“In your opinion, is he a man we would want to have in our Air Force?”

“Absolutely, sir. With a few more years of training and maturity, I would be proud to serve with him.”

Rod wavered. It was the first time he’d heard Captain Justice say anything positive about anyone. Rod just wished he could have heard it in a more pleasant forum.

“Very well,” the Deputy Commandant said. “Gentlemen, after hearing from Captain Justice and reviewing Cadet Simone’s record, what say you?”

A major leaned forward. “Colonel, as this is the first incidence of OTF, I urge you to deal with it strongly—if nothing else than to send a clear message to the Cadet Wing that going over the fence will not be tolerated. You’re setting an important precedent.”

The Colonel questioned the remaining officers. He nodded, scanned another sheet, then looked up. “Cadet Simone.”

“Yes, sir.” Rod stiffened.

“I give you the maximum penalty of one hundred twenty hours marching with your rifle on the tour pad, and one hundred and seventy five demerits. You are placed on attitude probation and will begin your punishment immediately. If you obtain another 25 demerits, you will meet a Show Cause board of officers, where you will have to prove why you should not be dismissed from the Academy. Do you understand?”

Rod drew in a breath, trying to keep his voice steady. “Yes, sir. I understand.”

“Dismissed.”

“Yes, sir.” Rod saluted. “Good afternoon, sir. Good afternoon, gentlemen.” Turning on his heel, he left the office, feeling lucky to still be a cadet. Like the Colonel pointed out, he hadn’t committed an honor violation; otherwise, he would have been hauled before an honor board and found guilty, just like Fred. And instead of facing 120 hours on the tour pad, he’d no longer be a cadet.

O O O

Rod switched the heavy M-1A rifle from his left shoulder to his right. His shoulder was sore where the rifle rested on his uniform.

Reaching the end of the fifty yard-long drill pad, Rod executed a perfect “about face,” and started marching for the opposite end. He marched back and forth at 60 counts a minute, a perfect thirty inches per step under the bored supervision of the SOD, the Senior Officer of the Day. It was an exercise in monotony. He’d only marched two and a half hours today, resulting in a total of sixteen hours toward his one hundred and twenty hour punishment.

Cadets swarmed from the playing field, heading back to the dorm to shower before the evening meal. They kept away from Rod, walking well away from the tour pad.

Rod decided that for all he had to do—class work, cleaning his room, and the hundred other details expected of cadets—this was the worst possible punishment: making him waste his time, setting him behind in everything. Even worse, he had the time to think about it. Whoever had thought up this macabre punishment was seriously ill in the head.

Reaching the end of the tour pad, Rod executed another flawless turn. He glanced over at the SOD sitting in a glass enclosed guard shack. Cadets streamed around the shack like a rock parting water in a stream. The officer was talking on the phone, focused on something more important than watching Rod. A fleeting thought raced through Rod’s head of doing a goose-step, but the consequence of being caught—and receiving another twenty-five demerits—quelled his sudden desire.

The senior officer of the day was still in deep conversation. Rod prepared to execute another turn when someone called his name.

“Rod! Rod, it’s me!”

Rod turned his head minutely and saw Sly’s grinning face. He snapped his head forward and said out of the corner of his mouth, “Are you crazy? You’ll get us both in trouble.”

“The SOD is bored silly. Besides, I had to let you know what I just heard.”

“What’s that?”

“Your dad testified before a Congressional hearing today. Senators and everything! The papers are going crazy reporting allegations of kickbacks.”

Rod felt his face burn red. “Kickbacks? I don’t believe it.”

“Well, anyone who knows your old man doesn’t believe it either. There are rumors he was set up. Someone must have had it in for him, had it big.”

The thought startled Rod. The fact that he was even marching tours gave him pause that he, too, had been set up.

In fact a few other things were going on that didn’t make sense, such as receiving that unsigned threat to “watch his back.” He didn’t have any proof, but the whole matter reeked of Fred Delante.

He caught a glimpse of the SOD hanging up the phone. “Thanks,” he said. “Fill me in later. Now get lost. Looks like the SOD is finished.”

“Right. Good luck.” Sly melted back into the stream of cadets.

Rod rigidly executed another about face, looking like a stony-faced robot. But underneath the emotionless exterior, his mind raced. Had his dad really been set up? His father would never accept a kickback.

Or would he?

Hank had certainly tried to give the impression of being a straight arrow. Rod couldn’t remember how many times Hank had lectured him on the necessity of doing the right thing, avoiding even the perception of an impropriety, except when it came to his own personal life and having an affair, Rod thought bitterly. The memory of that night in Washington, DC still burned in his mind, and Rod couldn’t shake the seed of doubt that it had planted.

Because if Hank would risk a fling with a prostitute, would he also risk accepting kickbacks? And if he’d risk taking kickbacks, then what else would he do? What else would he lie about?

Just how honest was his father? Or was it all a façade? Everything seemed to hinge on that one night in Washington, DC when Rod had looked through the peephole and caught his father being groped by that woman in the hallway. His father couldn’t deny that had happened; and if he’d lie about that, then what else would he do?

Even Fred had had the nerve to bring his father’s infidelity up during that aborted fight at the Honor Board; that had been especially painful since Rod had confided in Fred about the incident when they were doolies.

As Rod marched on, he grew more angry and confused with every step.

***