Word of Honor

by Nelson DeMille

  “Yes.”

  “Was it pleasant?”

  “It was revealing.”

  “Will he help us or hurt us on the stand?”

  Tyson replied, “We actually hit it off all right. But you know how writers are. They think they have a special relationship to the truth. I’m sure even Wally Jones believes that, or he’d have gone to court to have himself legally declared a cockroach.”

  Corva said, “Things are so rigged against us, Picard’s testimony can’t hurt. I don’t want an eyewitness up there who can be cross-examined. But I’ll take a chance with Picard and not raise any objections to his testifying. It should be interesting if not enlightening.”

  “Could be.”

  Corva went to the closet and got his raincoat. “I’ll speak to you tomorrow. If you recall why Brandt would like to see you in Leavenworth, please let me know.”

  “I’ll think about it. What amazes me is why you and Harper don’t just accept the most logical explanation for Brandt’s actions. He was tired of living with the damned thing.”

  “Did he participate in the incident?”

  “No. No, he didn’t. But like me, he was a little ahead of the rest of the boys in education and maturity. And he was not infantry like the rest of us. He was trained as a healer. So he was particularly sensitive and upset. And now he wants to do the honorable thing. He wants justice.”

  Corva nodded thoughtfully. “That is what he will say, won’t he?”

  “Yes, that is what he will say. He will also say he respected me and I respected his work and having to testify against me is the toughest thing he has ever done in his life and he feels very badly for me and wishes it didn’t have to be this way. But it’s best for everyone if the truth is finally told. And so forth.”

  Corva buttoned his raincoat. “But deep down he hates your guts so bad that when he thinks about you he can taste the bile in his mouth. He has wished you dead a thousand times, and at the Strawberry Patch, he did something . . . something . . . and in the last twenty years, he has fantasized about smashing your face with a rifle butt or throwing you in a tank full of leeches. Right?”

  “Most probably.”

  “And one day . . . he sees this inquiry in the locator section of the First Cav newspaper and takes it as a sign. He throws caution to the wind, doesn’t consider the ultimate consequences to himself if this comes to light, because his judgment is completely obscured by hate. And he spills his guts to Andrew Picard. And I’ll bet by now he feels very ambivalent about what he did. It got a little bigger than he thought. He’s ecstatic, of course, to see you being crucified, but he realizes there is some danger to himself as well. Right, Ben? He was an accomplice to this cover-up too. Meanwhile, Ben Tyson has figured out a way to finally settle the score. Right, Ben?”

  “What do you mean, Vince?”

  Corva pointed his finger at Tyson. “You know fucking well what I mean. I mean that you intend for the trial of Benjamin Tyson to also be the trial of Steven Brandt. Right?”

  “You’re very bright, Vince, even if you are Italian.”

  “And you’re very, very vindictive for a coolheaded WASP, Ben. Christ, a Sicilian would wait twenty years to carry out a vendetta, but . . .” He shook his head. “I think you’re nuts. But if this is what you want . . . you must want it bad. Bad enough that you did damned little to fight your recall to duty, damned little to show Harper you were a victim of a man who hates you, and damned little to try to make a deal with the government. Now I see your motive.”

  Tyson handed Corva his umbrella. “You may be partly right, of course. But it’s all rather complex. I need this court-martial for me too. Capice?”

  “Sure.” Corva opened the door. “Well, it’s still two hundred dollars an hour and double for court time even if you are nuts and even if you are enjoying yourself.”

  “Hardly that, Vince, and I’m still counting on you to save me in the end.”

  Corva laughed without humor, turned, and left, calling back, “Sign in at post headquarters. Now!”

  “Thanks for lunch.” Tyson closed the door, turned, and stared at the empty room. “Yes. Brandt and I will take each other down together; but only one of us will rise again.”

  CHAPTER

  39

  Ben Tyson put his coffee cup on the white tablecloth and looked out the picture window of the Officers’ Club dining room. White sea gulls soared against the gray sky, dived, and skimmed the whitecaps of the choppy Narrows. “Birds are free.”

  “Very profound,” observed Corva as he helped himself to Tyson’s toast. He looked up from his omelet and commented, “That uniform is hanging a little loose on you, Lieutenant.”

  “I’ll see my tailor.”

  Corva pointed at Tyson’s ribbons with his fork. “What is that there? Is that the gook cross?”

  “Yes, the Vietnamese Cross of Gallantry. We don’t say gook anymore, Vince.”

  “I know that.” Corva swallowed a forkful of eggs. “Odd, isn’t it? Wearing an award given by a country that no longer exists. Does that mean the award no longer exists? Makes you think.”

  “About what?”

  “About the transient nature of things we think are forever. About Babylon and Rome, Carthage and Saigon.”

  “Ho Chi Minh City.”

  “Precisely.” Corva went back to his breakfast.

  Tyson poured more coffee. He asked, “Did you get a medal for valor?”

  Corva nodded slowly. “Bronze Star.”

  “Tell me a war story.”

  Corva said, “There are two versions of that story. One version got me the Bronze star.”

  “And the other version?”

  “Would have got me . . . well, anyway, it had to do with tunnels. Tunnel complex near Dak To. Gooks would narrow the tunnels at some points so only gooks could get through. Well, I’m gook-sized. So I belly into this tight fucking hole, slithering like a worm, a silenced forty-five in one hand. Dark as hell, right? So I snap on my miner’s lamp to take a quick look, and I’m face-to-face with Charles.” Corva put sugar in his coffee.

  Tyson said, “You’re not going to tell me the rest, are you?”

  Corva smiled mischievously. “No. No war stories.” He leaned toward Tyson. “Do you know why the Italian Army lost in World War II?”

  “No, Vince, why did the Italian Army lose in World War II?”

  “They ordered ziti instead of shells.”

  Tyson lit a cigarette. “I don’t get it.”

  Corva shrugged. He looked around the dining room. “Do you know who’s behind you? Don’t look.”

  “How many guesses do I get?”

  “Having breakfast on the far side along the wall are Colonel Pierce, Major Weinroth, and Captain Longo.”

  “What are they eating? Babies?”

  Corva observed, “We’re going to have to share this dining room with them for some time if they hold the court-martial here at Hamilton. If you run into them in the club, be aggressively sociable—‘Good morning, Colonel. Captain, do you have a light? Major Weinroth, may I suggest you visit the post beauty parlor?’” Corva laughed. “Well, don’t say that. But you know what I mean. The Patriots’ Bar is a little tight, and so are the urinals in the men’s room, and you’re going to be rubbing elbows with these people.”

  “Maybe they’ll take a liking to me. Do you think Major Weinroth will use the men’s room urinal?”

  “Quite possibly. And I think Pierce and Longo squat to piss. Point is, Army facilities for courts-martial are such that I’ve seen a lot of awkward encounters. I mean, here’s this guy Pierce trying to put you away for life, and you find yourself squeezed into a corner of the bar with him. Same goes for the prosecution witnesses and our witnesses. You and the dirty half dozen might run across Brandt or Farley.”

  Tyson nodded.

  “Farley is in a wheelchair so you can’t touch him.”

  “Can I beat the shit out of Brandt?”

  Corva rubbed his nose thoug
htfully. He said, “Do what you feel you have to do to Brandt if your paths cross. I can’t tell you what to do.”

  Tyson looked toward the dining room entrance. Corva followed his gaze. Standing at the door waiting to be seated was Karen Harper. With her was a handsome older man in uniform.

  Corva said, “That’s the Article 32 investigating officer, Colonel Gilmer. And the broad looks familiar too.”

  “We don’t call them broads anymore.”

  “Right. What’s wrong with me this morning?”

  The hostess was escorting them to a table near Tyson and Corva’s, but Colonel Gilmer said something to the hostess. She pointed to another table near Pierce. Gilmer shook his head, and after some discussion he and Harper found a neutral corner.

  Corva said, “Christ, somebody ought to brief the staff here.”

  Tyson watched Karen Harper sit in the chair pulled out for her by Gilmer. As Gilmer came around to his chair, she looked at Tyson, and their eyes met across the room. She smiled first: the sort of brief but intimate smile old lovers pass to each other in restaurants when they are with their new lovers.

  Tyson put on a smile he hoped was passable, though he didn’t know how he felt toward her.

  Corva nodded to Karen Harper and Colonel Gilmer. Corva said, “He looks as uptight as he sounds on the phone. I’m going to have fun with this guy.” He added, “She is a beautiful woman. I wonder why she never married. Probably fucks her brains out.”

  Tyson said coolly, “You really are a Neanderthal this morning.”

  “I know. I’m psyching myself.”

  Tyson glanced at his watch. “It’s a few minutes after eight. What are we supposed to do for the next hour?”

  “I’ve arranged to have a conference room at our disposal. Here in the club. We’ll sit and chat. And at precisely five to nine we will enter the fittingly named Stonewall Jackson room. By noon we will be back here for lunch.”

  “Why don’t you get fat? You eat like a horse.”

  “I weigh two hundred pounds. But it’s all muscle.” Corva stared across the room at Colonel Pierce for a while.

  Tyson said, “I want to see what they look like.” He turned in his chair at the same time Pierce looked toward him. Tyson didn’t turn away, but Pierce did. Tyson looked back to Corva and commented, “They look grim.”

  “That’s how prosecutors are supposed to look; like they are doing society’s dirty work.” Corva asked, “Did you hear from Marcy this morning?”

  Tyson shook his head. “She never calls when she’s traveling on business. I don’t call her when I’m traveling either. It’s a rule.”

  “What kind of rule is that?”

  “The kind of rule some couples who travel eventually discover.”

  Corva bobbed his head slowly. “I don’t know if I would want my wife traveling. Is that insecure?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m an old-fashioned dago.”

  “That’s your problem.”

  “Is your mind on this hearing?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Corva finished his coffee. “Let’s go.” He motioned for the waitress, and for some reason got all five of them, plus three busboys and the hostess.

  There was a stillness in the dining room as the hostess stepped forward and spoke. “Lieutenant Tyson, we all would like to wish you the best of luck and to let you know it has been a pleasure serving you, your wife, and son these last few months. We want you to know that we all think you are an officer and a gentleman.” She led the small group in a brief round of applause.

  Tyson stood and to his surprise felt a lump form in his throat. He reached out to the woman and gave her a spontaneous hug and a peck on the cheek. She blushed and said, “Oh . . . my. . . .”

  Tyson said hoarsely, “Thank you all so much.”

  Corva started another round of applause, and this time a few of the diners joined in. The staff bowed in unison, turned, and left.

  Tyson remained standing. His eyes fell on the table where Pierce, Weinroth, and Longo sat. They were eating their breakfast with exaggerated obliviousness. On the opposite side of the room, Colonel Gilmer studied the breakfast menu with intensity. Karen Harper gave him a quick wink.

  Corva stood. “How does such a snob like you inspire such loyalty in the masses?”

  “I’m handsome.”

  “Yes, like Billy Budd. They hanged him, though.” Corva picked up his briefcase. “Well, I don’t see a chit, so I guess there is such a thing as a free breakfast.” He led the way out of the dining room.

  They made their way to the northeast corner of what had been the old fort and approached a heavy oak door. Corva said, “I have to go upstairs and pick up some paperwork. Go on in. There is supposed to be coffee and pastry laid on. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He turned and walked quickly away.

  Tyson stepped up to the door. He didn’t know who or what was behind the door, but it wasn’t just coffee and pastry. He glanced back and saw Corva disappear around the corner. He opened the door and recognized the room.

  It was an old powder magazine with walls of reinforced concrete, painted a nice beige now, with a royal blue carpet on the floor.

  The room was dimly lit by a floor lamp, but an odd glow emanated from the ceiling which Tyson knew was a result of the ceiling being constructed of glass rods embedded in thick concrete; a means to let the daylight in so oil lamps did not have to be used in the powder room.

  They were all sitting at a round table, drinking coffee, eating, and talking in low voices. A miasma of cigarette smoke hung in the air, enhancing the feeling that he’d stepped into a dream.

  Tyson shut the door behind him. The talking had stopped, and the men sat self-consciously in silence, fidgeting with cigarettes and coffee cups.

  Paul Sadowski smiled and stood. He bellowed, “Ten-hut!” The other four rose hesitantly and stood, not at attention, but not at ease either.

  Tyson took a few steps into the room. Sadowski, he saw, had gotten huge. His hair was thinning, and he sported a mustache that looked like two arched caterpillars. He was wearing what had to be the last leisure suit in the country.

  Tony Scorello was thin as ever, but had sprouted a thick black beard to replace the hair that was missing from his nearly bald pate. Tyson wouldn’t have recognized him except for the big brown doe eyes. He was well dressed in gray slacks and navy blazer but wore, in place of a tie, a heavy gold chain.

  Louis Kalane looked remarkably the same, his Polynesian features having become, if anything, more handsome. He had a full shock of jet-black hair and wore a taupe-colored suit of worsted wool in a style that Tyson had never seen in New York.

  Lee Walker hadn’t changed much either, though the seventeen-year-old that Tyson had known was now a little taller and a little more muscular. Walker wore a maroon polyester suit with a spread-collar shirt.

  Hernando Beltran looked very old, and it took Tyson by surprise. His face was puffy, and beneath the finely tailored pearl-gray suit lurked a fat man. Beltran sported gold rings and a Rolex oyster. He was smiling from ear to ear, showing a gold-capped tooth.

  My God, thought Tyson, how do I look to them?

  Sadowski stepped forward as if this had been rehearsed. He came to an exaggerated position of attention, sucked in his stomach, puffed his chest out, and saluted. “Sergeant Sadowski reports, sir!”

  Out of old habit, Tyson wanted to remind him that the “sir” came first in the American Army, and last only in old British war movies. Instead Tyson returned the salute without comment. He said, “At ease.”

  Sadowski reached out and took Tyson’s hand, grasping it firmly and pumping his arm.

  Tyson wished Corva was in the room—not so Corva could share this moment with him, but so Tyson could beat the shit out of him. Tyson gave Sadowski a warm look. “How you doing, Ski?”

  “Fine, Lieutenant.”

  “Ben.”

  “Ben.” He laughed. “Sounds funny.”

  Tyson
walked to the table, and Beltran grasped him by the shoulders. “You borrowed twenty dollars from me, amigo. With compounded interest that is now two million dollars.” He laughed deeply.

  Tyson shook his hand. “Cómo está, amigo?”

  “Oh, you speak Spanish now?”

  “No, Puerto Rican.” He patted Beltran’s stomach. “How are you going to carry an M-60 with that?”

  Beltran laughed as he patted his own stomach. “Good living. I own half of West Miami. You come down, and I show you a hell of a time.” He winked.

  Tyson turned to Lee Walker. “How you been, Ghost?”

  “Not too bad, Lieutenant—Ben. I don’t own half of nothing, but if you come down to Macon, I’ll take you bird shooting. You still good with a shotgun?”

  “We can find out. I’d like that.” Tyson moved around the table to Louis Kalane and took his hand. Tyson pulled at the lapel of his elegant suit. “You dealing dope again, Pineapple?”

  Everyone laughed.

  Kalane smiled abashedly. “Just got lucky with them turkey mainlanders. I run tours. Come check it out.” He added, “You look pretty nifty yourself, Lieutenant.” He grinned. “Where’d you get all those medals?”

  “You don’t remember that war?” Tyson moved to Scorello. They shook hands, and Scorello mumbled, “Nice seeing you again.”

  Tyson replied, “Same here, Tony. You’re living in Frisco, right? Great town.”

  “Right. I work for the city.”

  “How long have you had that pussy tickler?”

  Scorello forced a smile. “Long time.”

  They all stood in silence awhile, then Tyson said, “Thanks for coming,” though of course they had little choice. He said, “I didn’t know any of you would be here.” He thought that Corva must have switched tactics. He asked, “Are you testifying today?”

  Beltran spoke. “No, no. Mr. Corva just asked us to come and say hello to you. A little reunion.” He added, “But we will be back for the court-martial to testify.”