The Circle of Sodom

by Pat Mullan

  Tennessee

  Lt. Colonel George McNab was out of breath when he led the column of twenty-seven men and three women into the compound. Not as indestructible as I used to be, he thought. At fifty-six, Colonel McNab was trim , lean and agile. His erect bearing made him seem taller that his five foot eleven inches. He still looked in better shape than the rest. They had just returned from a three day field trip and the Colonel had put them through a gruelling survival game in the local hills. Their jungle fatigues were crumpled and muddy and they slumped under the weight of their backpacks and bed rolls. Disciplinarian to the end, the Colonel called them to attention and into formation in the center of the compound. It was 10:00 a.m. He took their salute and then dismissed them, saying that there would be a debriefing at 13:00 hours in the community center.

  High up in the mountains of Tennessee, Lt. Colonel George McNab, Christian, hero and highly decorated Vietnam veteran was preparing for Armageddon. McNab headed one of the most visible militant elements of the new puritan politics that was spreading throughout the United States. His Millennium Covenant Community was centered in two hundred acres. At least fifty homes and a community and worship center were completed. Numerous other houses were under construction. There was no information on how many people comprised the Millennium Covenant.

  McNab and his Millennium Covenanters were armed with every conceivable weapon. They had made solemn pledges to defend each other and their neighbors against the ravages of Armageddon that they believed to be imminent.

  The official US Government car was parked outside the Colonel's front door. He'd recognize that car anywhere. Senator Sumner (Sam) Hardy. Must be important. Sam wouldn't come here otherwise, thought McNab.

  "George, it's so good to see you", said Senator Sam as the Colonel entered, "they told me you'd be back any minute so I hung around for awhile."

  "You're a little out of your way, aren't you, Sam?" said the Colonel.

  "I had to be in Nashville on Senate business and I needed to see you on a matter most urgent. I couldn't entrust this to anyone else, George," said Senator Hardy. The Senator was a neat man, about five ten, and impeccably tailored. He was the junior Senator from Virginia, an attorney and expert on international law by profession. The years he'd spent in London with the family law firm had left him with an unflinching loyalty to English tailoring . His suits were Saville Row and his shirts were tailor made for him by Turnbull and Asser on Jermyn Street. The Senator could trace his ancestry back to the Daughters of the American Revolution. He was only forty-five but his black hair was already thinning on top. His father and grandfather had been bald in their fifties. The Senator expected the same. His complexion was sallow and he wore his favorite rimless glasses. People often remarked how much he looked like the photos of Woodrow Wilson. The Senator always assured them that there was no family relationship. Not that he didn't have Presidential aspirations. Senator Sumner Hardy had more than aspirations. He fully intended to be President by the year 2000. He had been the independent Presidential candidate of the religious right the last time. Testing the water. Building a support base around the country. Biding his time for '96 and 2000. In the meantime the Senator was building an apparatus of power, one that would make him President, if not by popular election, then by dictate of the chosen, by pledge of the Covenanters. In 1992, his religious right supporters had won control of a number of school boards in California and Oregon. By 1994, they were being swept into office throughout the U.S.A. In many cases they softened their hard right religious beliefs to gain popular electoral support from the disaffected. They had formed a solid fifth column of power across the nation. Just waiting for Senator Sam to summon them to the defense of the righteous.

  "OK, Sam. Let me have it," said the Colonel, still in his command voice.

  "Zach's got a serious problem. I'll be frank with you. He's being blackmailed over an indiscretion in his past," lied the Senator.

  "Hell, if the skeletons came out of any of our closets, we'd all be blackmailed. What's the big deal?"

  "It's more than that. The blackmailer is a former colleague. A retired Major. He's threatening to expose Zach in some memoirs he says he's writing."

  "A traitor. A renegade. If there's anything in this world I can't stand, it's one of us turning against our own. A court martial. Then a firing squad. That's what we'd do with a traitor if we were at war."

  "But we are at war, George."

  "You're damn right, Sam. We sure are."

  "Will you take care of it, George?" It was an order, not a question.

  "With pleasure. Just give me the details. Our colleague will be returning from London in a couple of week's time. His people are experts at this. "

  "Make sure they confiscate any memoirs. I want them brought directly to me. No-one else sees them. Is that understood, George?"

  "You bet. It's as good as done, Sam."

  THREE

  Gloucester, Massachusetts

  Sal stood looking at the boat's wake, just a ripple disappearing on the smooth surface of the water as soon as it appeared. He was not a seaman. In fact, he'd never learned to swim. Even though the seas were calm and the skies unthreatening he did not feel as safe as he did on dry land. But it was very beautiful out here in the morning. They were heading out to sea just off the coast of Gloucester, Massachusetts. Nick, his 'brother' on this assignment, had practically grown up at sea. His immigrant forbears had been Greek sponge fishermen in Tarpon Springs in Florida. Nick was at the wheel and they were beginning to pick up speed. He estimated that they should rendezvous with their target in twenty minutes.

  Harry Whiteside had been riding at anchor for about two hours. He had shut off the Whitey's engine three miles out, far enough away from everything to give him the sense of solitude that he desired. It was a good morning for writing. The memories flowed freely and fully. He wrote with a gold Cross felt-tip, a present from Ruth on his last birthday. Holding it beween his finger and thumb made her seem close to him. The tip was smooth and the ink flowed easily. He liked that too. That was important to him. There seemed to be a synergy between the pen, his hand, his head and the page; a symbiosis that brought forth words and images and memories. Memories and images that weren't consciously there until he made that vital connection: pen to paper. That's why he didn't use the word processor when he was writing. That symbiosis didn't happen when he was sitting at the keyboard. Fingers to keys to Intel chip didn't work. Only pen to paper. He had paused in his writing to contemplate all of this and to watch a lone gull that was circling overhead. The water lapped gently against the side of his boat, a soothing sound. Time to get up and stretch, do some exercise. Maybe go for a swim. It was late morning and getting warmer. He scanned the horizon on all sides, spotting a vessel heading out to sea. His briefcase lay open on the deck beside him so he gathered up all the pages of his manuscript, put them inside and closed the briefcase. Just in case a page blew away although there wasn't even a breeze. He didn't lock the briefcase. He'd probably do another hour's writing after his swim and then head home. Ruth would be expecting him. He took off his clothes, stacked them neatly, and put on his swim trunks. Then, still watching the other boat approach in the distance, he started his ten minutes of stretching exercises.

  Their engine had begun to splutter and cut out as they neared the boat anchored up ahead. They could see a man on the deck. He appeared to be doing exercises. The spluttering engine had attracted his attention. He had stopped exercising and was standing watching them approach. As they drew abreast, the engine gave its last splutter and died. Nick tried, in vain, to force life back into it. Finally, he gave up. They were near enough to the other boat to read its name. The Whitey. The man was still on deck. Nick yelled across:

  "We're in trouble. Do you have ship-to-shore?"

  And the man yelled back:

  "Yes, I do. Do you need to use it?"

  Nick yelled back that he did. The man agreed and Nick crossed over in the dingy, leaving Sal behi
nd.

  Sal watched expectantly as he saw Nick climb on board the other boat. The man met him and they exchanged greetings and words of introduction, it seemed. Nick thrust out his right hand. They shook hands. Then the man turned around leading the way towards the cabin. That's when it happened. Nick grabbed him from the rear. The man resisted strongly but Nick had already stuck the disposable syringe deep into his muscular tissue. Within seconds he had lost consciousness and collapsed at Nick's feet.

  Nick was barely out of breath from his brief struggle. The old man was fit. But not fit enough for Nick who prided himself on a Jack LaLanne built body. Without the drugs, the old man still wouldn't have stood a chance. He found a life jacket, put it on the old guy, inflated it, and then dumped him overboard alongside the dingy. Looking around, he spotted the briefcase, opened it, took the manuscript, and left the briefcase lying open on the deck. Back in the dingy, he started up the outboard motor, grabbed the old man and towed him back to his own boat. Sal was waiting to help him winch the old guy aboard. Their engine sparked to life and they sailed back the way they came, leaving the Whitey sitting alone at anchor.

  The Senate Office Building

  Washington

  The Senator thought that the Federal Express dispatch rider could easily have been cast as Brando in the Young Lions. Blond, Aryan looking, standing at attention outside his office door, motor cycle helmet tucked firmly between his ribcage and his left arm, he waited motionless for Nora to return with the Senator's signature of receipt. Senator Hardy accepted the square package emblazoned with the Federal Express delivery logos. Easily recognizable. He didn't examine it. Just signed for it. He received important papers periodically in this manner. Nothing unusual. Unless you considered Brando. That was unusual. It was only after Brando had left that the Senator picked up the package to open it. He tried to read who had sent it but the words were blurred. He ripped the package open and extracted another package wrapped in plain brown paper. "Totally Confidential" and "For your Eyes Only" were hand printed in black indelible ink on this one. It was the size of legal paper and felt as though there were at least a couple of hundred pages in it. The Senator made this assessment as he cut through the binding with his scissors.

  It was a manuscript, hand-written on yellow legal paper. The cover page answered his question. It stated, simply: Reminiscences of an Army Physician by Henry Whiteside.

  "Sam, burning the midnight oil again?" jostled Senator Holden as he poked his head around the door of Senator Sumner Hardy's office on his way out of the Senate Office Building.

  "Jess, it goes with the territory. I'm speaking on this latest appropriations bill in a couple of days. It's the most screwed up proposal I've ever seen. I think the Democrats are living in 'Cloud Cuckoo Land'!," replied Senator Sam Hardy.

  "Well, you won't get any argument out of me on that one. Gotta go. See you tomorrow. Get outta here before midnight, at least!"

  "Thanks, Jess. I know you have my welfare in mind. God! What did I just say? Welfare! Another piece of madness. 'Night, Jess." But Senator Jess Holden was already well out of hearing. Which suited Senator Sumner Hardy just fine. He got up and turned the key in his office door, sat down behind his desk and selected a small desk key from the bunch that he always kept in his pocket. Reaching down to the right, he opened the large filing drawer in his desk and retrieved a plain, brown paper package. He took out the contents and started to read at page one hundred and fifty-three: the reminiscences of Major Henry Whiteside. This was the third night that he'd stayed late to read the Major's memoirs and he planned to finish them tonight.

  Two hours later he had finished the manuscript. He tilted his chair into a reclining position and leant back, staring at the ceiling, a favorite posture when he was in deep thought. He started to review what he had just read. Especially the chapter and notes that dealt with the surgical procedure Major Whiteside had performed on General Walker.

  The Major dwelt, at some length, on his personal dilemma. He had promised the General confidentiality. And he had exacted the same commitment from the senior medic who had assisted him, Owen MacDara. But the Major had clearly been troubled all these years by that strange event. And he had begun to feel that there was some sinister aspect to it. He had convinced himself that General Walker was vulnerable. Vulnerable to some growing internal menace. That's exactly the language he'd used in his notes. During his research, he'd come to believe that there were forces inside America that were fed up with the direction of the nation. He felt that these same forces were prepared to act. How right you were, Major, thought Senator Sam.

  The Major's notes implied, on the one hand, a sense of paternalism towards the General and, on the other hand, a clear sense of patriotic duty towards America. So it was unclear if the Major would have broken his promise of confidentiality. His notes were quite ambiguous regarding his intent. But extremely clear regarding his fears.

  But it was the detailed notes on the subject that held the Senator's interest. The Major had described that evening at the 53rd MASH in graphic detail, including the names of the people involved. There were only four, including the patient. That left the Major, the attending paramedic, Owen MacDara, and the medic who had taken over from him, Murphy Armstrong. The Major noted, parenthetically, that he doubted if Armstrong knew what had happened that evening. Well, that's just too bad, Mr. Armstrong. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  The Senator decided that these loose ends must be cleaned up. The General's past must remain in the past.

  Zachary Walker didn't know what to believe. Senator Sam has assured him that Major Henry Whiteside's disappearance at sea was an unfortunate accident, but as the Senator had said :

  "It's an ill wind that blows no good, Zachary," and then stood back as though he expected to hear an echo of that pronouncement. The Senator liked the sound of his own voice.

  "The Major was a man of blind integrity. We talked. I don't know if we'd have been successful in getting him to lay off. That's the plain, God's honest truth, Zach. He was a stubborn man. His death has done us all a favor."

  That conversation had happened a week ago and Zachary Walker was still troubled. He couldn't get the Major out of his mind. Somehow his past was unraveling, he felt.

  He remembered.........

  His family and friends thought that he had it made. He was graduating High School at the top of his class and he had been elected to the National Honor Society. It was Prom Night and his date was the most desirable girl in school, Hillary Jarvis. All the guys had invited Hillary. Zach couldn't believe his good fortune when she accepted his invitation. Blonde, bedroomy blue eyes, full sensuous mouth, high cheek bones, dimples, cleavage that tantalized and legs so perfectly formed that both men and women looked back at her as she passed on the street. Hillary knew all this, of course.

  Zach had hired a limo for the evening. Big deal for an eighteen year old. He picked Hillary up at her home at eight. She was stunning in a sheer black evening dress, off the shoulders and suspended only by her ample breasts. Her parents greeted Zach like a member of the family. They were also leaving to attend a business dinner with Mr. Jarvis's law partners.

  The limo dropped them off at Hillary's house at midnight. Her parents had not come home yet and Hillary invited Zach inside. She led him into the family room, that cosy unpretentious space with big soft couches, stereo, lots of books on the shelves and the weekend's newspapers on the floor. A plush black sheepskin rug lay on the floor in front of the large red brick fireplace. She took Zach's jacket and he undid his maroon cummerbund and sank into the couch. Hillary had turned the lights on low and now she picked up the remote control and the voice of Elvis filled the room.

  She walked towards him, kicking her shoes off on the way and sank to her knees on the black sheepskin rug. She held out her right hand inviting him and, it seemed to Zach, commanding him. He obeyed. Her mouth found his and her tongue darted inside. Her lips yielded and she fell back onto the sheepskin
rug as Zach pulled the top of her dress down over her breasts. He nuzzled his face into them and marveled at the size of her nipples with the dark rings and little bumps that surrounded them. He gently took each nipple between his lips and teased them until they were firm. Hillary had undone his belt and pulled down his black dress pants. She tried to reach him but he pressed harder into the rug preventing her hand from discovering that he couldn't get it up. Zach was lucky. He was saved the embarrassment. They heard her parents car approaching on the gravel driveway that led up to the house.

  Zachary Walker had never made it with a girl even though he'd tried. He felt attracted to them but he could never consummate anything. The only real sex he had had was with Charlie Pettigrew. But he had become disgusted with that. He stopped seeing Charlie when he was fifteen. He didn't think he was homosexual. He felt he'd been used by Charlie. But in the last three years he didn't know anymore. Sometimes he felt sexually attracted to other boys.

  Zachary's confusion about his sexual orientation led him to isolate himself from others. He devoted all his spare time to his affair with the army. When he received his appointment to the U.S. Military Academy at Westpoint Zachary Walker had become a singularly focused, confident young man. He had suppressed his sexual nature.

  At least he thought he had. Until he met Joy-San Park that Saturday night in the Officers' Club at Camp Red Cloud in Korea. She had a special Eurasian beauty, the progeny of a liaison between a Korean mother and an American father during the Korean war. Zach would learn this later. That Saturday night he was drawn irresistibly to her like a moth to a bright light.