The Cadet (32 page)

Chapter Thirty-Three

“Hard Headed Woman”

June, 1958

Summer before First class Year

Colorado Women’s College

Denver, Colorado

FIRSTIE (n.)—That immortal having superhuman powers and disposed to acts of great wonder and cunning; a First classman.

—Contrails

“Daddy, this is Rod Simone.” Tightly clasping Rod’s hand, Julie pulled Rod to her father. The long hallway in the Colorado Women’s College student building was lavishly decorated with red and blue streamers, tables of hors d’oeuvres on white tablecloths.

Her father held out a hand. “Edward Phillips. Pleased to meet you.” Tall, with gray peppering his black hair, Julie’s father was lean, tan, and impeccably dressed. His blue pin-striped suit looked as if it had been fit by an expensive tailor, and every detail—from the white shirt, maroon tie, and even his shiny brown shoes, complete with gold tassels—presented the appearance of someone who carried himself with absolute self-assurance.

“How do you do, sir?” Glancing over Mr. Phillips’ immaculate appearance, Rod felt suddenly self-conscious of his own blue blazer with its prominent USAFA patch.

Mr. Phillips turned and introduced his wife. White-haired, smiling, and petite, Mrs. Phillips held out a gloved hand. “Rod. Finally.” She was adorned as well as her husband, and wore a long black dress populated with tiny sequins, high heels, and her white hair was piled high on her head.

Rod momentarily thought he’d be expected to take a knee and kiss her ring; but when she smiled, he said, “Mrs. Phillips, I’m very glad to meet you.”

“It’s so nice of you to attend Julie’s graduation,” Mrs. Phillips said. She placed both of her hands on Rod’s. “I’m sorry your father and mother couldn’t have joined us.”

“Father had to testify at a hearing on Academy construction overruns, and mother joined him back in Washington. They both send their regrets they weren’t able to come today, but if the new Academy site is going to open on time he had to put a few issues to rest.”

Julie stepped up and slipped an arm around his waist. “The cadets are moving to Colorado Springs in August. It’s been General McCluney’s dream for the past decade to see the first class reside at the permanent site.”

Mr. Phillips cleared his throat. “We’re happy that you joined us, Rod.”

Mrs. Phillips put her hands together, changing the direction of the conversation. “You have such beautiful weather in Colorado. I didn’t accompany Edward when he brought Julie out here last fall.”

“They say if you don’t like it, wait ten minutes,” Rod smiled. “So we should enjoy the outdoor festivities while we can.”

A waiter carrying a tray of drinks approached. Mr. Phillips picked up a glass of champagne and handed it to his wife, then to Julie before offering a glass to Rod. He held his own high in a toast. “To the Colorado weather which, like our daughter, changes every ten minutes.”

“Edward!” Mrs. Phillips turned to Julie. “He’s proud that you’ve completed university, darling. And so am I.”

Mr. Phillips sipped his drink and held up his glass to Julie. “And if you can complete law school, I’ll be even prouder.”

Julie glanced at Rod. “Actually, that fits in well with our plans.”

“Really?” Mrs. Phillips turned her attention to Rod. “How is that so?”

Julie slipped her arm around Rod. “We’ll both graduate at the same time.”

Rod noted she carefully avoided saying graduating from law school.

“I thought you were a senior, Rod.” Mr. Phillips motioned the waiter to recharge his glass.

“He is,” Julie said with pride in her voice. “He’s well-positioned to win a national scholarship, either a Rhodes or a Guggenheim.”

Rod interrupted, “After graduate school I’d have a year of pilot training. By then Julie will be finished with, uh, school.”

“I suppose there aren’t many major patent law firms in places like Minot, North Dakota, are there?” Mr. Phillips said, looking at Julie.

“But there are in LA,” Julie said. “March Field is close to the city and has fighter jets. Rod thinks he can get assigned to fly one.”

Mr. Phillips coughed, then took his glass from the waiter.

Mrs. Phillips put her hands together and said brightly, “You kids have plenty of time before you decide what you’re going to do with the rest of your life. Why don’t we find the banquet room?” She steered them away from the entrance and across the packed hall.

As they moved through the crowd, someone grabbed Mr. Phillips’ hand. “Ambassador! How do you do, sir?”

Rod glanced at Julie’s father.
Ambassador?

Mr. Phillips drew himself up. “Hello, Clinton. Nice to see you again.”

“Will you be here through graduation?”

“Yes. We’re flying out the day after.”

“Back to Geneva?”

Mr. Phillips laughed. “Hardly. That’s far in the past.” He turned and introduced his wife. “Fran, Congressman Winchell.” Mrs. Phillips held out her hand.

Almost as an afterthought, Mr. Phillips said, “This is my daughter, Julie … and her, ah, friend.”

“How do you do, sir.” Rod shook hands, feeling giddy.

The Congressman fingered the Academy patch on Rod’s jacket. “What’s this?”

Julie stepped in and clutched Rod’s arm. “He’s a senior, sir, at the Air Force Academy. And he’s one of their top cadets.”

Rod felt a swell of pride at Julie’s support.

Congressman Winchell slapped Rod on the shoulder. “Outstanding! Congratulations, young man. We have a lot of hope riding on your institution. I spent a lot of political capital to bring it here.” He turned to Mr. Phillips. “Your daughter has snagged a winner, Edward. Don’t let her lose him.”

“I won’t,” Julie said; she pulled Rod close.

Mr. Phillips smiled thinly and patted the Congressman on the back. “Thank you Clinton. I’ve been called to dinner. Cigars later?”

“Indeed.” Winchell nodded at them. “Good evening, ladies, cadet.”

Julie dragged Rod along as they made their way to the banquet room. She turned to urge him on. “Are you all right?”

“Ambassador Phillips?” Rod said. “And Congressman Winchell?”
What type of circle is Julie from?

She tugged him on, looking pained. “Rod. Really.”

Rod stopped. “Why didn’t you tell me that your father’s an ambassador!”

“Oh, that? I told you we lived in Switzerland for a few years. It’s really no big deal; he’s just Daddy to me. Why?”

He thought for a moment. “I don’t know.”

“Then neither do I.”

“But still, an ambassador.”

“Your father’s a general! And you will be too!”

Rod felt flush. He caressed her arm, stunned that she had so much faith in him; and it felt great. He smiled. “Let me make lieutenant first.”

Rod watched Mr. Phillips, Ambassador Phillips, move through the crowd as an icebreaker plowing through thin ice. Ambassador or not, the man did have a commanding presence. So maybe it was better that Rod hadn’t known; maybe he might have been too nervous to meet him.

“I’m not sure your father likes me,” Rod said.

“Don’t mind daddy. He’s used to dealing with generals and congressmen, movers and shakers. He’s probably mystified at me introducing him to a real live cadet. Someone wholesome for a change, instead of some beatnik.”

“For a change?” Rod couldn’t tell if she were joking or not. “What’s your father going to do when he discovers you don’t want to go to law school?”

“I’ll worry about that when I have to.” She looked at him for a moment, then pulled him close, kissing him on the cheek. “Silly. Let’s eat.”

Following Julie’s parents, they wound their way to the sound of clinking silverware and glasses.

O O O

Later that afternoon Julie dropped him off at Lowry.

The place was somehow different. Maybe it was because of the parallel lines he now wore on his cadet rank, signifying that he was a Firstie; or maybe it was because he knew they’d be moving to the new site in Colorado Springs within a few weeks of returning from their summer programs.

Or maybe even he was just growing weary. Without Julie at CWC, he’d have to grind out his final year alone; he hoped their long distance relationship would work.

Once back at the cadet area, he quickly packed his blue duffle bag and joined the rest of his class who had assembled at the edge of the cadet area. They loaded onto blue Air Force buses that chugged them to the Lowry flight-line, where they boarded a C-97 transport for the flight to Langley AFB in southeastern Virginia, by the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay.

After spending their first summer touring SAC bases and seeing the strategic core of the Air Force, the cadets were now going to be exposed to the radical world of the fighter pilot, complete with their hot new F-100 supersonic Super Sabres, the first operational jet to exceed the speed of sound in level flight; the same jet he and his father had seen that day so long ago back at March AFB.

And after waiting three years since entering the Academy, it was finally time for him to fly what he considered a real plane—a fighter jet.

***

Chapter Thirty-Four

“Who’s Sorry Now”

June, 1958

Old Ebbitt Grill

Washington, D.C.

The better part of valour is discretion.…

—William Shakespeare,
Henry IV
, Part One, V:4

The legendary restaurant at 675 15th Street NW was steps away from the White House and had served powerbrokers for years. Senators, lobbyists, ambassadors, heads of state, political appointees, generals, and admirals had all met in the dark woodened establishment to negotiate and come to agreements.

But Mary McCluney didn’t feel as though she were practicing power politics, although to her the stakes were just as high.

On the table sat a bottle of sauvignon blanc in an ice bucket, partially wrapped with a white tea towel; three crystal glasses half filled with wine were set with the table accouterments; two manila envelopes lay next to her on the red leather seat. Everything was in place, if she could only keep her nerves.

A stir swept through the room and the low murmuring grew quiet. Peering through the darkened room, Mary spotted the object of her appointment.

She purposely kept her seat even as her companion stood to greet the buxom, blonde lady that swayed toward their table. Heads turned at the attractive young woman, her sexy demeanor giving a stunning first impression that rocketed throughout the restaurant.

But as the woman approached, Mary noted inconsistencies: discolored and dark roots betrayed that her hair was dyed; makeup failed to cover wrinkles around her eyes, elevating the initial impression of her age from late 20s to early 40s; from the way she stooped slightly forward, it was obvious she hadn’t grown up with those massive breasts, so they were in all probability silicon-laden implants; and her pink single-piece dress was tight and faded, revealing its age and her ungenteel appearance.

The woman stopped before her. “Mrs. Smith? I’m Barbie Mitchell.”

Mary held her out a white-gloved hand and nodded. “How do you do, Miss Mitchell.” She nodded to her companion. “This is Kevin. Won’t you please join us?” She smoothed her flowing, blue flowered dress and matching vest. “It was so kind of you to come.”

Barbie sat and picked up the glass of white wine. She looked from Mary to her companion as if to size them up. “I usually don’t meet with my clients beforehand. I assume you have the payment?” She took a long sip.

Mary fumbled in her purse and withdrew a thick cache of bills wrapped in a rubber band; Barbie swept up the money and it disappeared down the front of her dress.

Mary said, “This is new to us. We’d like to get to know you better before we, well, meet at the Hays-Adams …”

“Yes,” Barbie smiled. “I usually don’t work couples, so it’s new to me as well. What questions do you have about our appointment?” She took another long sip of wine.

Mary pushed a large manila envelope across the table. “One of your past clients recommended you. We just wanted to confirm that you’ve worked with him before.”

Barbie opened the envelope and pulled out an 8 x 10 black and white picture. Her eyes lit up as she studied the photograph. “George Delante! My, my. Yes, of course I know that rascal. I get a visit from George a few times a year.” She pushed the picture back in the envelope and finished her wine; Mary’s companion refilled the glass.

“You see him here in DC?”

“Not always. New York, Philadelphia, Miami—my rates include travel and expenses, and George always pays top fare. For the best, you know. That’s why he always comes back,” she smiled, “as I’m sure you’ll discover.”

“Yes … we’re looking forward it,” Mary said. “Now you’ve worked with George for how long?”

“Over ten years,” Barbie said, her words slightly slurred. She leaned forward and whispered, “I was just in my teens back then.”

Mary nodded and tried not to roll her eyes.
In your dreams.

Barbie played with an earring as she took a drink. “Any other questions?”

Mary pulled out the second manila envelope. “There’s one other client who recommended you.” She held her breath as she passed it across the table.

Barbie put down her glass and pulled the photograph out of the brown paper sachet. She frowned. “I don’t recall.”

Mary leaned forward. “You might have met him ten years ago at the Hays-Adams; George may have introduced you.”

“Oh, that’s right.” Barbie placed Hank McCluney’s picture on the table. She laughed. “The general with a cane. The old coot didn’t contract with me; George set me up. Said it would be easy money.”

“Was it?”

“Are you kidding? I threw myself at him all night at the reception, and couldn’t get him to make a pass. George even took me up to the old guy’s room but the general wouldn’t invite me in. I practically seduced him in the hallway. He must have been queer or something.” She placed a hand at the top of her cleavage. “I mean, really, who could resist these?”

“Not too many, I’m sure,” Mary said in a monotone.

A waiter in a white coat approached the table. “May I offer you ladies and gentleman a menu?”

“No, thank you,” Mary said. She turned back to Barbie as the waiter stepped away. “Did anything else happen with the general?”

Barbie pulled back. Her voice tightened. “Yes. That’s the only time that bastard Delante stiffed me. Refused to pay anything because I didn’t get the old general in bed.”

“I see.” Mary sat back in her chair. “Do you know why he wanted you to sleep with the general?”

Barbie blinked. “Why, no. I don’t believe I do.”

“Did George want you to do anything else—embarrass the man, make a recording of him, take his picture?” Mary said.

“Well, George said that when I got the old man into the room I should have my clothes nearby, in case I needed to get out of there fast.”

“Why do you think he said that? Was he planning on busting in and surprising you and the general, catching him in the act?”

Barbie narrowed her eyes. “What’s this all about? Do you think I’m a weird-o or something?” She looked around the restaurant, as if suddenly suspicious. “Why are you asking all these questions? And … just who are you?”

Mary pushed back from the table and stood. Her companion buttoned his suit coat and joined her.

“I’m the general’s wife,” Mary said. “And this is Mr. Anderson, a private detective and retired federal prosecutor. I’ve known of this little charade for years—my husband told me the night he returned from Washington, DC that he suspected that George Delante had tried to blackmail him, but he never had proof. Until now.”

Barbie Mitchell darted her eyes from Mary to the detective as though she were processing the events. With shaking hands she poured another glass; wine slopped onto the table. She raised the crystal to her lips. “You don’t have anything on me. I’ll deny everything and say you tried to entrap me.” She smiled. “You see, I’ve done my homework. The best succeed in this business. That’s why you’re called marks, dearie.”

Mary leaned over the table and spoke with a quiet burr. “And that’s why Mr. Anderson has been recording this little session, lassie. See the microphone clipped to his tie? This will be a very enlightening addition to my husband’s closed-session testimony to Congress.”

Barbie’s nostril’s flared; her wine glass thumped to the table.

As Mary started to leave she turned to Barbie and felt sudden pity for the woman. Perhaps if she was given another chance, an opportunity to turn herself around. The woman was on the north side of forty and this lifestyle would break her sooner than she would ever imagine. She searched Barbie’s face, hoping for any hint of regret.

Barbie glared defiantly, and she looked as though she might make a scene.

It was no use.

Mary would have had compassion if the woman would have had shown a shred of remorse; show something, anything that she was sorry, or at least that she regretted nearly ruining Hank’s reputation. But there was no sign that she’d ever change.

Mary lifted her head. “And by the way, that money I gave you earlier should just cover the wine and tip. I’ll let the maȋtre d’ know you’re picking up the bill—dearie.”

***