The Jefferson Allegiance

by Bob Mayer

  During the Civil War, the Union seized Lee’s land and began using it for a pressing need: burial sites for the thousands of war dead. It had seemed darkly appropriate to someone in the Union to surround General Lee’s house with Union dead.

  Ducharme hunched his shoulders, bitterly resenting the pounding in the back of his skull. It was worse than it had been in a while and this journey had a lot to do with it. Stress, the therapist at Walter Reed had warned him a few years ago after he’d woken from the induced coma, was something to be avoided. He’d shrugged it off, telling her a Special Operations soldier’s constant companion was stress and then he’d gone overseas on another deployment, into the land where the beast that raged in his chest felt at home once more. But she’d said there were other kinds of stress. He knew now she’d meant this: the unbearable stress that is closest to the heart. The beast had kept it at bay, but its true calling was now a half-world’s plane ride away.

  Ducharme stopped at the fresh grave and stared down at it. There was no official marker yet, just a small plate indicating the plot designation. He glanced at the number on the plate and the number he’d written on the margin of the map. On target as always. He was surprised to feel little, neither sorrow or guilt, both of which he had anticipated, but he was learning that he could not anticipate how he would feel any more. Everything was new and everything wasn’t good.

  This was-- with a sharp intake of breath, Ducharme realized he couldn’t recall the name of the man buried here. He couldn’t remember his cousin’s name, his brother-in-arms for over two decades. A low hiss escaped his lips as he placed his hands against the back of his head and pressed in a panic. He shut his eyes and his forehead furrowed as he forced himself to enact the memory strategies he’d been given in rehabilitation.

  He could see his cousin. Numerous images in a variety of places around the world. Roommates in Beast Barracks at West Point, bonding under the bombardment from screaming upperclassmen. Drunk on the beach during summer leave in Florida between Plebe and Yearling years, trying to convince some sorority sisters to come back to their motel. The monotony of Airborne school at Fort Benning. The thrill of graduating West Point, throwing their hats into the air. The harshness of being Ranger buddies. Serving together in Iraq. Afghanistan. After all that, to die so senselessly here in the United States under circumstances Ducharme was determined to ferret out because the beast had been whispering to him ever since General LaGrange’s call to come home.

  “Charlie,” Ducharme said, sinking to his knees. “Charlie LaGrange.”

  Uttering the name cracked the emotional wall inside his chest and he felt as if he’d been punched in the heart.

  “What the hell happened, my friend?”

  He was losing control. Routine. The therapist had pounded into him that routine was a route back to stability and even memory. Reaching under the black coat, Ducharme drew out his silenced MK-23 Mod O pistol from a holster in the small of his back. He slid the magazine out of the handle, pulled the slide back, removing the round that had been in the chamber. He placed those on the frozen ground. Then, staring at the mound of dirt, his hands moved quickly, field-stripping the gun by feel, laying the pieces out in order next to the magazine and bullet. He was done in a few seconds. He paused, his breath puffing out into the cold air, then just as quickly re-assembled it.

  He continued to disassemble and reassemble the gun, hands moving in a flurry of action, eyes on the grave as if he could see the occupant. The repetitive action was focusing his mind. On the fifth attempt the slide slipped out of his cold hands to the frozen ground and he came to an abrupt halt, breathing hard.

  Ducharme bowed forward, head almost touching the ground. “I’m going to uncover what happened, Charlie. I’m meeting your father in just a little bit and find out what he couldn’t tell me on the satellite link. I’ll get to the bottom of this. I swear.”

  The words were taken by the chill wind of the winter storm and blown across the stones, broken, splintered and then gone. Ducharme felt the beast restless inside him even as he was surprised to find that tears were flowing. He straightened, wiping the sleeve of his coat across his face. He knew the man buried here would have laughed at the tears, cracked a joke. Easy going Charlie LaGrange, always could be counted on for a laugh, up until he died in his car four days ago. According to the General, the police had labeled it an accident, but something was wrong from the cryptic way the General had contacted Ducharme and recalled him from Afghanistan. The fact the General had sent Kincannon to meet him at Andrews Air Force Base raised more questions than it answered, because it was apparent the General had not confided in the sergeant major, yet sent him as added security. Against who or what, had yet to be revealed.

  Ducharme reassembled the gun one last time, slowly, methodically, making sure there was no moisture on any of the moving parts that would cause it to freeze up in the cold. Bad form and possibly fatal. He put the round back in the chamber, not approved for amateurs, but he was no amateur, and slid the magazine in. He was slipping it back into the holster under his coat when he heard the crunch of footsteps on the frost. He swung around, weapon at the ready, finger on the trigger.

  Four tall silhouettes were backlit by the glow of Washington.

  Ducharme removed his finger from the trigger as he saw they wore Dress Blues and three had archaic, but more than effective, M-14 Rifles at the ready. The fourth had a pistol in his hand. He stepped forward and raised the pistol in a sure grip. The other three, despite the ceremonial garb, spread out tactically.

  The lead man spoke. “Sir. We demand you respect the grave of our fallen comrade.”

  Ducharme lowered the pistol.

  The man warily walked toward him, weapon still at the ready. “What’s your purpose here, sir?”

  “Visiting,” Ducharme said.

  “Cemetery’s closed after dusk, sir.”

  “I returned from overseas just an hour ago.” He nodded toward the grave. “I’m visiting a friend.”

  In the light reflected through the snow he could see the man’s face. “May I see your identification card? And please holster your weapon. My men have live ammunition in their rifles.”

  Ducharme slid the pistol back into its holster and pulled out his identification card. The man held up a mini-mag light and flashed it on the card, then briefly at Ducharme’s face, causing him to wince.

  “Colonel,” the man nodded at him.

  Ducharme made out the crossed rifles on the man’s lapels indicating he was branched Infantry. Three gold bars and three gold rockers on the sleeves indicated his rank. The rows of ribbons on the Dress Blues, starting with the Silver Star, topped a colorful tale of combat and bravery read only by those who knew what the little pieces of cloth meant.

  “Master Sergeant.” Ducharme gave the man the respect he was due. “What are you and your men doing out here?”

  “Our duty, sir.” He nodded over his shoulder. “We’re the off-shift for the Tomb. We had an incident of vandalism on a recent grave by those extremists who protest our deceased heroes in the name of their God over gays in the military. It will not happen again.”

  The determination in the Master Sergeant’s voice indicated it absolutely would not happen again. They were the Old Guard, the 3rd Infantry, and the oldest unit in the United States Army. And God help any who tried to cross their line.

  Another figure loomed out of the darkness and the Master Sergeant reached for his pistol as the other three Old Guard swung their rifles about.

  “At ease, men,” the newcomer drawled. “Just a friend of the Colonel.”

  “Sergeant Major Kincannon.” Ducharme introduced the newcomer. He was a tall, whipcord of a man, his face lined and wizened, indicating many years spent out in the weather. His voice was laconic and seemed on the edge of finding something to laugh at. He was also one of the most effective and ruthless killers in Special Operations, a man born in violence and never far away from it.

  “We got to go
, Colonel,” Kincannon told him. “The General will be waiting for you.”

  “Give me a minute,” Ducharme said.

  “Roger that,” the Sergeant Major replied. He went over to the Master Sergeant and engaged him in quiet conversation.

  Ducharme knelt at the foot of the grave and reached inside his jacket and shirt to a chain that hung around his neck. The pain in his head was almost unbearable, a jackhammer full of deep twisting shadows he dared not even try to shed a light on. He pulled on the chain until a small leather pouch appeared along with his dog tag. He opened the drawstring and emptied two bulky rings into his palm. One had a smooth black stone of hematite, the other a single diamond set in the center. Ducharme reached underneath his coat, feeling for the knife secreted in the center of his back. He gripped the rough handle and drew out a six-inch long commando knife. It wasn’t a large, gladiator-type Rambo knife. Thin, both sides of the blade were honed razor sharp. It was designed for one purpose: killing.

  Except Ducharme stuck it into the frozen ground, the blade slicing into the grave, parting the frozen soil. He dug a shallow hole. He placed both rings into the hole, then covered it up, tamping the dirt back into place. He slid the dirt-stained knife back into the sheath. Ducharme stood and looked down at the marker. He came to attention and saluted.

  “I will get the truth.”

  Ducharme was surprised to feel the pain in his head subside, as if high tide had been reached and it was now washing away, leaving clean sand, waiting for the sun to rise. Not likely.

  He turned and walked toward the Sergeant Major. “Take me to the General.”

  Kincannon nodded, his rawhide, weather-beaten figure stiff in the blowing snow. “The General told me to give you something right after you came here.” He reached inside his long black coat and pulled out a small package wrapped in cloth.

  Ducharme unwrapped the cloth, recognizing it as oilcloth, a waterproof fabric that had been superseded long ago. Inside was a circular piece of wood with a hole in the center and a card taped to it. Ducharme recognized the name on the card instantly: his uncle, Peter LaGrange—the General. The disk was old. Etched on the rim were letters. Ducharme tried to read if there was a message, but quickly concluded there was just the 26 letters of the alphabet, randomly positioned. On one flat side the number 26 was lightly carved.

  “What is it?”

  “No idea, sir.”

  Ducharme rewrapped the disk in the cloth and slid it into his pocket. He moved forward. “Why did the General want you to give this to me now, when we’ll be meeting shortly?”

  “That aint the sort of question I’d be asking the General,” Kincannon said. “He tells me to do something, I do it.”

  “He say anything?”

  “No, sir. Just told me to give that package to you.”

  “Let’s go.”

  *************

  Across the Potomac River in Washington DC, the growing darkness and thick swirling snow almost obscured the dark red object resting on the copper plate capping the Zero Milestone, due south of the White House. Drawing closer, the old man, pale in the freezing January cold, blanched as he realized he was looking at a human heart on top of the waist-high, stone marker. Rising steam fought with climate and the warmth won, indicating that the heart still yearned for its owner. The man halted, startled as much by the living voice as the newly dead heart.

  “Did you bring me flowers?”

  The old man turned in the direction of the sensuous voice, in one hand holding a half-empty bottle of cognac, in the other three roses. A short, wraith-like figure followed the voice, her long black cloak matching the darkening heart behind him. Her face was hidden by a hood, all but the piercing eyes and the look. Perceptive people would recognize the look; that this was a person without a soul, without a conscience. The man was perceptive. His fate was sealed, but like all mortals, he refused to accept it.

  “You are not Lucius.” His shock caused him to state the obvious.

  “I was sent in his place. I assume you brought the Jefferson Cipher rod and your disks.” She came to a halt a few paces away. “Should I call you the Philosopher Chair?”

  The wind blew cold across the man’s scalp, no longer covered by his once thick hair. It hurt for him to stand tall, his body bent with the years, but he did so to face her. “You assume incorrectly.”

  “About which?”

  “I do not have the rod or the disks.”

  “But you are the Chair.” A statement of fact, but he felt compelled to respond anyway.

  “Yes.”

  “The Philosopher you were to meet gave me his disks.”

  “You lie.”

  The woman pulled back her hood, revealing short blonde hair and an angelic face, incongruous with the absolute darkness in her eyes. She cocked her head slightly and stared as if he were some crossword puzzle to be solved: difficult, but one she would still do in ink, then discard, to move on to the next challenge. “Where is the Cipher rod and your disks?”

  “Where is your master, Lucius?” he demanded.

  “I am here in his stead.”

  He shook his head, glancing at the heart. “I am to meet Lucius and negotiate a deal. Things have gone too far. We must work out a compromise to keep the truce and--”

  “I don’t make policy,” the woman cut him off.

  The Chair looked left and right, his guts now as cold as his skin. A dim set of headlights made their way down 15th Street, but the brutal winter storm was keeping almost everyone at home or inside. They were inside their own enclosed snow globe.

  “No one is coming to rescue you,” the woman said. “The compromise I offer is a quick and honorable death in exchange for the location of the Cipher rod and your disks. And the names of the two remaining Philosophers.” She drew back her cloak and revealed a short, Japanese-style sword strapped to her waist. She drew the wakizashi in one smooth motion as she came within striking distance.

  The man tried to stand tall in the face of the weapon, but his legs trembled. “So you don’t have the disks.”

  “I will find them,” she allowed, signifying he’d called her bluff. “The Philosopher who was to join you here died bravely and without giving up his secrets, but I know there must still be a way to find his disks. President Jefferson would have prepared for such a possibility. I will grant him his genius.”

  The old man held his ground and met her gaze, even as his heart pounded wildly in his chest. On her coat was a bronze eagle medallion dangling from a small tricolor ribbon. “You are an apprentice to the Society of the Cincinnati? I didn’t know they allowed women into their ranks.”

  “I will be the first.”

  He shook his head. “Behind the times as always. Our first woman was elected in 1789.”

  “Not as a Chair, I’m sure,” the woman said. “Not to the inner circle of your Philosophical Society. I will be on the inside of the Cincinnati.”

  “You’re wrong,” the Chair said, desperate to gain time. “We’ve had women in our inner circle. Our first female Chair was in 1904; the President’s daughter, in fact. You’re on the wrong side.”

  “I’m on the side I choose. The side that gives me what I want.”

  “And what is that?”

  “This.” She brought the blade close to her lips, almost kissing it.

  Coldness spread through the Chair’s body.

  She extended the sword, holding it steady at eye level. “The location of the Jefferson Cipher rod and your disks, and the names of the last two Philosophers. I will make it easy. You will depart this mortal coil peacefully.”

  “But is it really the Cipher you seek, or what the Jefferson Cipher leads to?” He was trying to buy time with his babbling, which shamed him, but he couldn’t stop it.

  Her face was expressionless, as if carved out of unblemished white marble. “I was ordered to find the Cipher.”

  He leaned over, putting the bottle down along with the roses.

  She looked down.
“What are those?”

  “All these years we have been in opposition and you still know so little.”

  “I know enough to have met you here. And to have already interdicted the Philosopher who was to join you here. It is I who hold the power here.”

  “You hold the sword, not the power.” He gave a bitter laugh, beginning to accept his fate, an inch at a time, much as he would accept the sword. “On the wall of the Thomas Jefferson building in the Library of Congress is inscribed the appropriate adage for this stand-off: ‘The pen is mightier than the sword.’ It has been so for a long time. The power you seek—“ he shook his head—“it’s the core of our Republic. Its very existence has kept the country in balance for over two centuries. You will not gain it with violence.”

  “I’ve found violence to be quite effective,” the woman said with flat affect. “Where is the Cipher?”

  He stood once more. “You know I will never tell you.”

  She cocked her head once more. She wasn’t solving a puzzle now; more inputting data like a computer and then processing it.

  “What is your name?” he asked, still stalling for time, giving inches but not feet. Yet. Despite the blizzard, there was a chance someone would see them.

  She gave a low laugh, one that would have been appropriate in a bedroom with lights dimmed, but produced goose bumps in this situation. “The Society gave me a code name—the Surgeon.”

  “An odd designation.” He could not help but glance at the heart on the Milestone.

  “Four cuts to take the chest,” the Surgeon acknowledged. “But he experienced great pain before the end. I’ve studied the body and I know what causes pain. You don’t want to go down the same path he did. He spun a story about where his disks were and who his two fellow Philosophers were, but I knew he was lying and that cost him dearly.”

  “How do you know he was lying?”

  She stared at him. “One of my surgical specialties was facial reconstruction. There are forty-three distinct movements your facial muscles can make, which result in slightly over ten thousand possible facial expressions. I have learned to read many of these expressions, which you cannot control. Yours tell me there is some truth in what you say, but ultimately you are lying. Just as he did and he suffered for it. As you will now.”