For Love or Country

by Jesse Jordan

  Karli shakes her head, whistling. “Wow. When floaters will turn down free food just because of who you are, that's a sign you've made an impact. Which table is yours, anyway?”

  “D-33, the most popular table in the Corps. I even have a view of the Brigade Staff, they love trying to ignore me. Why?”

  Karli smiles. “I got a sneak peek at the menu for tomorrow's spirit dinner, they're serving cherry pie for dessert. Now, I'm all for maintaining my high social standing in the Corps as you know, but fuck if I'm not going to pass up a larger slice of pie, especially if I get to share it with my best friend.”

  “Thanks, my sugar contents are all yours,” I laugh. “So you're really not worried about getting yourself in trouble for talking to me?”

  “Not one fucking bit. When you and I were invisible little nobodies, the fucktards didn't give a shit about either of us. Why should that change just because you got to be infamous? I figure it this way, my fucking job is to keep your ass more or less sane for the next seven months until we graduate, at which point the two of us go off for sixty days of partying and fornication in the Bahamas. I haven't gotten laid in three years and some change, you owe me at least one cabana boy.”

  Karli's smile fades when she sees I'm not laughing, and she sits up. “Seriously babe, how're you doing? I mean, whatever else Ivan was, you do love him. And don't give me any bullshit about how his being a spy means you don't. I'm betting you think about him all the time.”

  Her words hit hard and I nod, blinking away the tears. “It's not the silencing that hurts, Karli. I can deal with that, and the nicknames, and the goddamn Russian flag I found taped to my door yesterday with a big heart drawn on it. It's that he's not here. I've tried to find out where he is, but other than telling me that he's in custody, I haven't heard anything. You know the Commandant's having me come to his house once a week now? Apparently, he's taking a personal interest in all this. I don't know what, he's being pretty nice about it, but it feels strange. I'm the only cadet besides the Brigade Staff who regularly sees the man, and it's not in his office either. I just... I miss Ivan, Karli.”

  “If it helps, I miss him too. Oh, not the way you do, but it made studying a hell of a lot more fun, I'll tell you that much. Have you tried writing him?”

  I nod, then shake my head. “Yes... but I don't really know what to say, so they keep coming off as stupid sounding to me. They won't give me an address for him, so I've given them to General Nelson, he says that he'll see what he can do. But at the same time Kar, I'm angry.”

  “That's a good start, admitting you're angry. Right?” Karli asks. “I mean, you're the psych major, you can tell me.”

  “It's supposed to be, and at least I'm putting it to good use so far.”

  “Oh?” Karli asks, sitting the rest of the way up and propping her chin on her hands. “You planning on taking over the world?”

  I shake my head, smirking. “No. But... come the Brigade Swim Open, they're going to learn just how much anger and motivation the fucktards are giving me. I plan on taking five medals. The hundred in each stroke, and the two hundred IM.”

  “That's a lot of anger, Christina. Is that enough for you to let it all out?”

  I shake my head, and open my footlocker, taking out a black bag and tossing it to her. Karli opens it, taking out a set of bag gloves, and sees the name written on the label. Vasushenko. “It helps too, Karli. It helps a lot.”

  The pool area is nearly silent when I come out for my third race. They tried booing me the first time, it didn't work, I won the one hundred freestyle in a Brigade Open record time. They were sullen the second time, when I won the butterfly by two body lengths. Now, they're silent. I know Karli would cheer for me if she could, but she's been assigned Central Guard Room duty. That's okay, it just helps me.

  I see Major Locker, he got promoted over Christmas break, he's become something of a mentor over the past few months, and he gives me a nod. We talked about it two nights ago, when I went into the boxing room to hit the bags some. “Christina, the thing you have to do is stoke the fires just to the point of losing control. Even more than boxing, swimming is about keeping control. You lose it, and your form will go all to hell, and you’ll lose speed. So stoke that fire, get it white hot if that's what you need, but you keep it in control, so that when you hit the water, it becomes a turbine for you and not an explosion.”

  “How can I tell the difference?” I asked, unwrapping my hands. “I have a lot of anger, sir. I mean, ask anyone who has to spend all of Christmas break on post because their TAC says that going off post is a security risk, you'll find someone pissed off. I had Christmas dinner with the Comm in the mess hall, the other folks stuck here wouldn't eat at the same table as me.”

  “You'll know how much anger to use, Christina. I've seen that as you've worked here and in the pool.”

  His words come back to me now as I take the starting blocks for my weakest stroke this year, the breaststroke. The other girls are all giving me looks, seeing if fatigue is starting to set in, but I won't give them the pleasure. I've been dealing with their ostracism for months now, I'm hard as a rock, harder than steel, and I can do it.

  The gun goes off, and I explode off the blocks, hitting the water with the familiar shock. I kick hard before surfacing, grabbing a quick breath before starting my routine. Up, breathe, down, pull hard and kick, up, and repeat. I'm focused, I don't know where the other girls are but it doesn't matter, the wall's coming up. I touch and pull in tight, turning to dolphin kick hard again, pulling hard towards the far wall, my back starting to ache but not as much as my heart. The fire inside me burns away the ache, and I'm left pulling hard, driving hard, not caring as the oxygen starts to bleed away and I'm left with just a tunnel down which I can see, the wall is ten meters away, five, one, I reach....

  “And the winner, in lane five... Christina Logan,” the announcer says almost dejectedly. There's no cheers, no applause from the Corps, and even most of the non-cadet crowd does little more than clap politely as I vault myself out of the pool and wipe my face, exhaling sharply and blowing the water out of my mouth. I hold up two fingers, my message clear before I walk off to the rest area, where I lay down on the deck, willing my body to recovery. I've only got fifteen minutes before my next race. I know that there aren't going to be any favors done for me by the announcers or other competitors, no slow medal ceremonies or long announcements to delay that countdown.

  Major Locker comes over and squats down, handing me a sports drink. “You know you're pissing them off.”

  “Good,” I huff, sitting up and leaning against the wall. “I want them pissed, Major.”

  “Why?” Locker asks. “Why in the name of hell would you piss off the entire Corps of Cadets?”

  “Because they've been pissed off at me for months now. That's not going to change if I win one, five, ten, or a hundred medals. Hell? I'm living in it, sir. They won't even have me room with anyone now, I'm the first and only female cadet in the history of West Point who lives by herself. But, by pissing them off, I do one thing for sure.”

  “What's that?”

  “Their fire is out of control. They're hitting the water and exploding. And I need them to blow up if I'm going to win the two hundred IM. So I'm going to keep pissing off the Corps and my competitors. Let them get a taste of what I live with every day of the week, ever since Branch Night. Let them taste my Chemical burn.”

  Locker studies the fire in my eyes for a moment, then nods. “Okay, Christina. Then go prove your point.”

  The backstroke is easy, I slack off a little and win by only half a second, recovering my wind for the IM. My entire body is aching as I step up onto the starting blocks for it, but the fire is still inside me, and I let it ratchet up another notch as I look up at the Corps, their stony faces mixed with anger and resignation, and for some, a wild hope that I can be shut up this time. That maybe after four races, someone can salvage a bit of something from the way I've embarrassed them.
On command I drop into the water and position myself on the wall, holding onto the starting blocks as we get ready for the backstroke.

  I explode again at the gun, pushing myself harder this time than I did during the one hundred back. I don't have the wind and muscle left for a paced race like I did last year, I've got to beat them down and break them mentally before I make the turn for the freestyle, I've got to let them think that even Michael Phelps couldn't catch me.

  I make the first two turns clean, and kick off the wall for the butterfly, my shoulders screaming at me with every slapping drive of my arms. I don't know the time, I don't care, I'm just grabbing as much air as I can into my lungs as I move, my eyes focused on the wall in front of me. There's nobody nearby, I can sense that much by the calmness of the water in front of me, and I touch, pushing hard with my legs as I surface for the last fifty meters. Putting my head down, I skip breaths in order to not break my momentum, getting that extra smooth stroke in between. It's something I practiced in my sprint training, and I use it now, even though my lungs are about to explode in my chest and my fingers are numb. I can barely feel my feet, but I only have a few more meters to go, I reach out... finally.

  I know I've won even before I turn and see the other girls still meters behind me, and I can count to three before the second place girl touches down in lane six, the others close behind her. I'm out of the pool before the announcer can get on the mic, sitting down on the starting block, peeling off my goggles and cap. You can hear a pin drop as the announcer picks up the microphone. “And the winner... in a new pool record... Christina Logan.”

  I look up at the electronic scoreboard for the first time, blinking in shock. A pool record? Those are reserved for the NCAA athletes, most of the pool records aren't even held by cadets, but visitors from other schools who set their times in meets against West Point. But it's official, the score board blinks my time over and over, and I look over at the record board next to it. I laugh as I see that I may have actually done something the Corps would like. The 200 IM record I replaced was set by a girl from Navy eight years ago.

  Go Army. Beat Navy.

  Not that there's any applause.

  “You called for me, sir? I just got your email.”

  Captain Douglas, in his first year of being a TAC, looks up, his face stony. “I did. Have a seat, Logan.”

  It is the one thing I have blamed Captain Douglas for more than anything else since Ivan was arrested. I understand that this is the sort of situation that probably never happens in anyone's career. They for damn sure don't cover it in TAC School, or whatever they go through before they take over their jobs. At least, I can't imagine a PowerPoint presentation entitled, What To Do If Your Cadet Is A Foreign Spy (Or Is Dating One).

  But Douglas has handled it piss poorly in my opinion. First, allowing the company to silence me. Even now, a week from graduation, the Corps won't talk to me. Except for Karli. Hell, even the Plebes are now at the point of floating at meal times instead of sitting at my table. I've spent three weeks now literally eating by myself. And to top it all off, he's going along with it, calling me only by my last name like I'm some sort of unrecognized Plebe, having me room by myself, all of it. But that's okay, I'll get through this.

  I sit down in the chair across from Douglas' desk and fold my hands in my lap. I'm still in my class uniform, I just got done defending my psych final paper and haven't had time to change clothes yet. “What's up, sir?”

  “I received notice from Colonel Renquist today, the Pentagon's sent word down that there's a problem with your situation,” Captain Douglas says, fingering an envelope on the desk, rolling his jaw. He's quite a jaw roller, and you can normally tell by the size of the rolls and how often he does it what sort of mood he's in. “Your security clearance has been revoked.”

  “Excuse me?” I ask, anger flaring inside me. “I've been put through the wringer for seven months since Ivan's arrest, and the Pentagon still doesn't think it can trust me with the vital secrets of how to be a platoon leader in the Chemical Corps? What a bunch of bullshit.”

  Captain Douglas looks up, his nostrils flaring in surprise. I still don't curse often, but I've started doing it more than I did when I was a happy little Plebe. Looking back, I guess I wasn't happy even then, but now at least I can honestly say what's causing the most hell in my life. “Be that as it may, your security clearance has been rejected. Which puts the Academy in a pickle.”

  “How?” I ask. “I've done my end of the deal, sir. I passed the classes, I've cooperated with every request that has been asked of me. I've done my duty. I've served with honor. Now what do they want?”

  “The problem is, Logan, the Army can't send you to Chemical School without a security clearance. But you are correct, you've passed everything the Army has asked you to do, although the spitefulness in which you passed your last APFT by the exact minimum standards, to the point of standing on the other side of the finish line for the run until the last second angered a few people.”

  “I didn't see you complaining when I-1 could brag of having five gold medals in the Brigade Swimming Open, sir. Even if it did come from the silenced, unwanted Splash.”

  Douglas winces a little at my use of my nickname, but his face hardens a moment later. “Be that as it may, you’ve earned a commission in the Army. But the Army can't send you to Chem School, and to be quite honest, none of the other branches want you. So you're being reassigned to the Army Reserve. I don't have word on your unit yet, or what you'll be doing, but that should come by the end of the week.”

  I nod, trying to control my temper with iron will. Is this how hard it was for Ivan, being surrounded by enemies and having to control yourself so strictly? No wonder he came off as cocky, he was trying not to destroy everyone in sight. “Anything else, sir?” Douglas shakes his head, and I stand up, saluting. “Good afternoon, sir.”

  Douglas returns the salute sloppily, already probably wishing I wasn't in the room. “Dismissed.”

  Later on I tell Karli, who is visiting me in what she jokingly calls my 'bachelorette pad.' I've already stripped out most of what I don't want to take with me, I don't have a lot of mementos to keep from my four years at West Point. She looks at the picture of me that I laminated and taped to my bookshelf, one of the pencil drawings that Ivan made. “Hey, it could be worse,” she jokes. “I mean, at least they aren't just kicking you out and making you pay back for the whole four years.”

  “They can't, at least if they follow the rules,” I note, putting another paper into the cardboard box that I'm going to haul down to the big dumpster outside Bradley Barracks in the morning. “If they throw me out for this, they get nothing. Hell, who knows, maybe I'll sit in a recruiting office for the next five years shuffling paperwork.”

  “Or you could make coffee at the White House. You know the President can always use a little intern action, I've heard.”

  I laugh and toss my military history book into the box, where it joins most of my other texts. “The President's old, Karli. I seriously doubt sexually harassing an intern is on the White House agenda.”

  Karli shrugs, smirking. “It has before. But seriously Chris, you had to expect something like this to happen. The fucktards always have some trump card they can play against people like us, it seems.”

  I nod and sigh, going over and sitting in the windowsill of my room, looking out on the quad below me. Karli missed out on medical school, the Army felt that her stellar academic record wasn't as important as her supposedly poor military bearing, so they’re forcing her to go into Military Intelligence. It still stings for her. “Karli, you know what angers me the most out of all this?”

  “That you don't get to go hang out at Fort Leonard Wood for the next year or so?” Karli asks, then grows serious when she sees that I'm not smiling. “What?”

  “I'd hoped... I remember when I joined I-1, you said that I'm one of those that gets crapped on, but then comes back, believing in all that Duty, Honor, Country spiel
that we hear every day. I even almost said something to Douglas about it today. Karli, I've done my duty. I've done it with honor. So why is my country turning its back on me? Why did the bastards have to win?”

  I can't help it, I'm crying, and Karli comes over, holding me as I sob against my only friend's shoulder, comforting me as best she can. “I know, Chris. I know. But you can't let them win in the long term. Promise me, no matter what, you're not going to let them win.”

  “Why?” I sniff, wiping my nose. I leave a wet spot on Karli's PT shirt, and she looks down, laughing it off softly. She grabs the washcloth from my sink and dabs the spot with warm water before turning around.

  “Because you're the reason that I think this place exists. It's not for fucktards like the Brigade Staff. It's for people like you. You're that gem that this place is supposed to find, the person who believes it in her bones and in the very fiber of your soul. The sad reality is that the Corps’ lost sight of its mission. Hell, maybe it never had it. I suspect that every few years, maybe every year, someone like you comes through, and they get crushed, chewed up and spit out by the Army because the Army doesn't know how to handle them or how to use them until the shit hits the fan. You're the type of person the United States needs when a 9/11 happens, or a Pearl Harbor, and the people are hiding under their beds, scared and reaching for any fucktard that is going to offer them a little bit of blind hope. You're the one who stands up despite being scared and remembers the Duty, Honor, Country that this place is supposed to be espousing.”

  “And if the country forgets or ignores that?” I ask, and Karli shakes her head.

  “Even Rome had to fall eventually, my friend. I suspect it happened when they forgot or ignored the ancient versions of Christina Logan running around Italy back then.”

  I wipe at my eyes, and hug Karli again. “I love you, Karli. You're the sister I never had.”