The Cadet (5 page)

“Sir, I, I—” the candidate sputtered, at a loss for words.

“What’s your name, mister?”

“Jakes, sir. Cadet Candidate Sylvester Winston Jakes.”

“Sylvester?” Justice moaned. “You have got to be kidding me! What kind name is that? Are you sure you’re a cadet candidate, Jakes? With a name like that you belong at Yale or Harvard, not the United States Air Force Academy.”

“Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. I mean—”

“Shut up and sit down, all of you.” Justice waved a hand around the table, then motioned for the candidates at the tables on either side of him to sit as well.

A swarm of waiters converged on the table, depositing huge plates of steaming fried chicken, mashed potatoes, brown gravy, green beans, and coleslaw. They sloshed metal pitchers of milk and red juice on the table.

Justice said wearily, “Pass up the food. Officers are served first.”

Sitting at attention, Rod passed the platter of fried chicken to the front of the table. His stomach growled in hunger.

It seemed as if the brawny officer had eyes in the back of his head. During the meal, Captain Justice corrected each candidate for every infraction imaginable: starting to eat before everyone was served, sitting too close to the table, sitting too far from the table, allowing food to drop onto their lap, chewing with their mouth full, taking too big of a bite, not looking at their plate, not sitting with their back straight and their chin tucked in, not asking permission to take another helping … nothing slipped past Captain Justice’s eyes.

Rod didn’t get in more than three mouthfuls before they were called to attention and ordered to leave Mitchell Hall to continue their training. As they left, he tuned out the shouting, and focused on why he’d wanted to be here.…

O O O

Sitting on the hood of his adoptive father’s car outside of March Air Force Base, Rod held a hand to shield the glare from the sun. He squinted; two flashes of silver gleamed in the air. A distant whine grew louder, escalating to an ear-aching shriek.

“What’s that?” Rod said. He pointed to two small swept-wing jet fighters making a tight spiral in the air.

Hank had to shout over the growing noise. “F-100 Super Sabres.”

“I thought March was a bomber base!”

“They’re from TAC’s 479th Fighter Day Wing, America’s first supersonic fighters. But they’re just toys, lad. Toys. The real power of the Air Force is in heavy bombers.”

“Yeah, but look at them!” Rod breathed hard. He jumped off the car, his eyes wide as he followed the nimble jet fighters, turning as they spiraled down. “Aren’t they neat!”

The F-100 fighters screamed overhead as they completed their tight combat landing pattern. Wheels unfolded and locked into place beneath the sleek, silver jets. Rod and Hank put their fingers in their ears to muffle the sound from the jet engines.

Craning their heads around, they watched the fighters fly in tight formation less than a hundred feet above them. Sunlight glinted off their silver paint and the Air Force emblem.

One of the jets suddenly peeled off from the landing pattern, retracted its landing gear, and flipped upside down. Accelerating upwards, a long line of fire erupted from its engine. The blast rolled over the car in an explosion of noise.

Still flying upside down, the fighter zoomed toward the three-story glass control tower sitting at the edge of the runway. Rod saw the people inside suddenly dive for the floor as the fighter jet screamed by, just missing the building. The jet waggled its wings.

“All right!” Rod said. He pumped his arm in the air.

The upside-down jet pulled into a tight turn and flipped upright. Wheels extended from inside its fuselage as it eased onto the runway in a slick, perfect landing.

Rod staggered back, his eyes wide and short of breath. “I want to do that!”

“That dammed showoff could have killed someone,” Hank snapped. Long columns of shimmering, hot air trailed behind the fighters as they taxied across the tarmac. Their engines dopplered down. “They ought to ground him for gross poor judgment.”

“I’d give anything to fly a fighter!”

“
What?
”

Rod pointed to the small jets just approaching the base operations building. A crowd of people streamed from the control tower and ran toward the jets. “Didn’t you see them turn? Or how fast they flew?”

“No son of mine is going to fly a fighter,” Hank said in a low voice.

Rod lifted his chin. “Why not?”

“Because they’re too dangerous, that’s why. Don’t you remember those people killed at Farnborough? That fighter pilot was a bloody showoff!”

“It wasn’t the pilot’s fault, it was a defective plane!” Rod felt his heart race.

“Fighters have only one engine and if it goes out, the pilot is as good as dead. It’s an unsafe, stupid way to fly. And besides, fighter pilots are arrogant.”

“Why even be a pilot if all you’re going to do is to fly straight and level?” Rod said. “That’s boring! You might as well be a bus driver!”

Hank reddened. “I said, fighters aren’t safe. This discussion is closed.”

Rod balled his fists, standing his ground. “A bomber can’t maneuver like a fighter!”

“And you’ll never fly them if you know what’s good for you!” Hank said. He eased off the hood of the car and used his cane to walk over to the door.

Sliding onto the seat, he engaged the mechanism which allowed him to use his good leg to drive; he started the engine. “Damned fighter pilots think they own the world,” he said. A minute passed and Rod made no effort to get into the car. Hank rapped on the window, “Get in the car, laddie. Now!”

Not replying, Rod started jogging the 15 miles for home, toward San Bernardino.…

O O O

Standing rigidly at attention outside the barracks, Rod watched Captain Justice out of the corner of his eye as the officer looked over the line of cadet candidates. Justice walked up and down the ranks, tugging at a belt, pulling the rim of a cap low over a candidate’s eyes, tucking in the back of a shirt, ensuring shoulders were pushed back and down, picking lint off their khaki shirts, straightening ties, and most importantly, taking his index finger and pushing their chins as deep into their chests as possible.

In the distance the methodical beat of a bass drum thumped away, keeping time to a military march. The music seemed to come from somewhere around the corner.

In spite of Captain Justice’s comments, Rod thought they looked impressive; they had spent the last two hours falling in, lining up, and falling back out again. The next, and most important, test of their limited training was yet to come: if the candidates could march together, he knew that they wouldn’t be the motherless scum that Captain Justice had somehow thought that they had evolved from.

Looking as if his eyes might bulge from his socket, Captain Justice strutted up and down the line of candidates, inspecting minute details of their uniform. As the sound of a bugle blasted from the speaker horn, Justice shouted, “Bravo Squadron, atten’hut!”

Rod pulled his chin in even tighter. He had thought they had already been at attention, so he didn’t know if Justice’s command was more of a reaction to the bugle, or if the man really thought that the candidates could pull themselves up any straighter.

“Remember that sound, gentlemen,” Justice said as he walked up and down the line. “That’s known as First Call. In five minutes another bugle will announce Assembly, and the Wing will be at attention, waiting further orders. For the next year you gentlemen will be in place before First Call, and no later, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir!” Bravo squadron answered as one.

“The time between First Call and Assembly will be used to ensure that all Basics are present and to correct any gross discrepancies in your appearance. Prior to First Call, you will stand at attention and study your book of Basic Cadet Knowledge. Your mission in life is to memorize this book. You will perfectly recite all quotations and facts. You will be judged by how well you know this knowledge. Attention to detail is a defining attribute of an officer, and you will be motivated as such. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir!” As they prepared to march, Rod wondered about the emphasis that Justice put on memorization. He had always had a good memory, so it shouldn’t be tough to memorize cadet knowledge, whatever that was. He didn’t have time to ponder the forewarning as Captain Justice nodded his head in time with the distant drumbeat.

“Bravo, forward harch.” Keeping in time with the music, Justice fell in step beside the squadron as they made their way to a runway adjacent to the academy area.

The music grew louder as they marched. Rod didn’t dare look around, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw the metal stands erected around the runway, jammed with people. His parents were out there. A military band stood smartly at the far end of the area. As the sounds of “Stars and Stripes Forever” thundered over the field, the squadron picked up their step. It seemed that everyone held their heads a little higher and marched with more pride to the stirring music. All they needed to top off the moment were bagpipes.

The crowd cheered as they wheeled into view. The people in the stands struggled to their feet, clapping, whistling. A wave of emotion rolled over Rod as they marched in front of the crowd. He didn’t dare turn his head and look for his parents—he knew they were out there, but he didn’t want to incur Captain Justice’s wrath, for he knew the officer wouldn’t hesitate to make corrections, no matter where they were.

They snapped to a stop next to Alpha Squadron. Rod forgot about the yelling and screaming that he had been subjected to over the past five hours. In front of him people cheered, waving flags and handkerchiefs, clapping and whistling, holding signs that read: WE LOVE CADETS!

Airplanes roared overhead, one after another, saluting the festivities. A C-97 Stratofreighter lumbered low over the field, followed by an enormous B-36 Peacemaker escorted by a screaming flight of four F-100 fighters. Honor guards from the Army and Naval academies marched smartly past in review, their flags and guidons flying in the wind.

The physical gap between the crowd and candidates was not more than a hundred feet, something that Rod could have easily breached in a few seconds; but the emotional gulf that separated him from his parents seemed to widen even as he stood. Adoration flowed from the crowd, as a siren calling him to military life. It was a final sound of encouragement, a memory that would define his transition into something from which he would never return. Waves of clapping rolled over him, and he basked in the moment.

The band stopped in the middle of a stanza as the last of the cadet wing marched into place. The crowd grew quite with the sudden silence. A group of officers stepped to the center of the field.

Words echoed from loudspeakers as the chaplain gave the invocation. Rod tried to concentrate on what was being said, but he was overwhelmed by the images around him: the flag quietly flapping from the flagpole; a stunning blond girl in a white dress holding a hand over her eyes as she searched for her candidate boyfriend; two small boys off to the side, shooting marbles by the stands.

Rod felt transfixed, as if he was observing the ceremony from afar and not participating. The Secretary of the Air Force started the dedication speech by reading a congratulatory letter from President Eisenhower. He caught snippets of the words:

“We now stand at the crest in that upward climb. At last, the uncertainties, the turmoil of the past have given way to a great national institution dedicated to the leadership of United States airpower.… The Academy is a bridge to the future, gleaming with promise of peace in a stable, sane world.… Our airpower has kept the peace … it is keeping the peace, God willing, it will keep on doing so. This Academy we are founding today will carry forward that great effort.…

“With feet firmly planted in the solid center of the United States and with eyes on the stars, the Air Force Academy will move onward to a rendezvous with destiny.”

Secretary Talbot moved away from the podium as the crowd rose, clapping. Rod recognized Colonel Stillman, the Commandant of Cadets, as the colonel stepped forward.

“Candidates of the first Academy class, raise your right hand and repeat the oath of allegiance after me.” The 306 young men raised their hands in unison.

“Having been appointed an Air Force cadet in the United States Air Force, I solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter. So help me God.”

The new basic cadets slapped their hands down to their sides as a red, white, and blue-painted four-ship formation of F-84F Thunderstreak fighters from the Thunderbird squadron roared low over the crowd. A wave of applause washed over them. Rod had never felt so proud in his life.

After the chaplain gave the benediction, the band struck up the national anthem. The basics marched off, away from the cheering crowds and toward the cadet area.

Giddy, Rod felt he hovered three feet off the ground as the last remnants of the celebration faded behind him. Ahead, the cadet area seemed to beckon him onward. And as the world he had known disappeared behind him, he approached his new life with 305 of his classmates, renewed in his energy and motivation to survive, and succeed.

***

Chapter Four

“Rollin’ Stone”

July 11, 1955

Red Rocks Amphitheater

Denver, Colorado

Grab a chance and you won’t be sorry for a might have been.

—Arthur Ransome,
We Didn’t Mean to Go to Sea

Hank McCluney turned his thoughts away from the Academy and studied the stage, now filled with Boy Scouts from La Junta, Colorado. Dressed in authentic Koshare Indian garb, they danced to the beat of drums and Native American chants. They moved deftly in a circle, darting in and out of shadows, making the outdoor performance seem mystical.

The wooden benches surrounding the stage were packed with honored guests and dignitaries from the Academy dedication ceremony; they had been bussed from a massive barbecue to the outdoor amphitheater immediately after Rod’s swearing-in ceremony. The stars shone brilliantly overhead, burning bright in the thin, cold Colorado air, looking as diamonds glittering in the clear sky. The air was crisp and biting.

A sheet of massive red sandstone rose up around the stage, creating a natural amphitheater. Wooden benches were set on a steep hill with sandstone guardians on either side of the aisle. It was the perfect setting for the perfect ending of a perfect day.

Hank McCluney put his arm around his wife as she pulled a blanket tightly about them. Although she was a head taller than he, she moved her head to his shoulder. She still wore her green Coachman dress and white gloves, looking out of place in the casually dressed crowd, but she always dressed well and carried an air of elegance about her.

Hank kissed her head. “Pence for your thoughts, lass.”

She snuggled up against him, not looking up. “They say his education will be worth over forty thousand dollars.”

“I can’t stop thinking about him, either,” Hank said, admitting where his own mind had been drifting. “I just hope he learns not to be so impulsive. Or obstinate. That will get him dismissed more than any other reason.”

He had thought parting with Jean-Claude would be easier than this. Leaving Mary during the War had been tough, but they’d both known they wouldn’t go through the experience alone. The whole nation had been behind them then, and in many ways it had been easy to be apart, even though they both knew there was a chance he wouldn’t return. But at least everyone shared in the experience, from Speedy Beaumont, his wingman in combat, to the ladies’ circles back in San Bernardino.

Now they were alone. Tonight, once the last speech had been given, the last tickertape floated to the ground, and after the janitors had cleaned up the spilled drinks, he knew that Jean-Claude would still be at Lowry Field, with three hundred of his classmates; and it was Rod now, not the little boy he’d rescued in France so many years ago.

It shouldn’t have been a big deal, but with the anticipation that had built up over a decade of struggling to establish the Academy, it was as though he had climbed the world’s largest mountain, and once reaching the top, was suddenly left with nothing more to do. He just wished that Rod and he had parted on better terms.

Mary spoke into his coat. “How hard would it be to stay another day, change the train tickets and sightsee, so we wouldn’t have to leave so soon?” Rod’s departure had hit her hard—this wasn’t the independent woman he’d known all his life. She’d been that way since they’d married, a no-nonsense Scottish girl from the east Texas town of Tyler. They’d known each other for years, from two families of a dozen who’d emigrated from the Lowlands to work the newly discovered oil fields. She wasn’t afraid to set him straight, to speak her mind. And when she knew what she wanted, she wasn’t one to ask; she just did it. Rod really was like her: persistent, yet impulsive.

A surge of memories tugged at Hank. Rod had been with him years ago at General Fairchild’s review of the siting options for the Academy.

He’d always enjoyed taking Rod with him on such trips, but he wished Rod hadn’t been with him that last night at the Hay-Adams Hotel in Washington, D.C.; the lad was too young to be exposed to hardball politics. Thank goodness Rod hadn’t seen that woman forcing herself on him; Hank had known immediately that George Delante was behind it, blackmailing him for insider information, but Rod would have never understood.

Rod was just too damn stubborn for his own good, not to mention brash and impetuous; but unlike Mary, the lad reacted without thinking. He’d known that ever since Rod had killed that German. So Hank knew that if he was ever going to turn things around with the lad, then he had to be patient.

But with Rod starting his new life, he may never have the chance.

Hank whispered, “It shouldn’t be too hard to change our tickets. People do it all the time.”

Mary said, “I’d like to see some of the places you wrote about when you were on the Site Commission: Garden of the Gods, Manitou Springs, Pike’s Peak.…”

Hank pulled her close. “We won’t be able to see him until next summer, even if we stayed. And don’t worry about Rod. I’m sure they’re taking care of him.”

She looked up sharply. “This isn’t about Rod, husband. This is about me.”

***