by Doug Beason
The shoulders in the room simultaneously heaved, the tension broken. It was apparent that although no one had shown emotion during the reading of the verdict, and as tough as it had been for the cadets to try one of their own, everyone realized that a cancer had been excised from the Wing.
***
Chapter Twenty-One
“Blue Monday”
February, 1957
Colorado Springs, CO
Revenge his foul and most unnatural murder.
—William Shakespeare, Hamlet, I:5
George Delante knew it wasn’t rare for Colorado to have such mild winter nights. The snow had melted two days after the blizzard, and the night sky was crisp and clear. Moonlight reflected off the sheen of ice covering the road—black ice they called it, because it covered the asphalt so thinly that you couldn’t even tell the ice was there until your car slipped and skated down a hill.
George swirled the ice in his scotch. It was his second two-finger drink, and he felt a warm glow as the alcohol hit his stomach. Damn mild winter. And that was great for people working outdoors.
At this pace, the Academy construction would be finished on time, and his subcontractors would pull in their bonus from the Air Force. Of which he would receive a neat twelve percent, two percent over the authorized profit.
It was easy to juggle the books and hide the difference from that idiot Hank McCluney, even though the old general was a pain in the butt, nosing around the construction site. It had taken months to call in favors and position that moron Jim-Tom Henderson to be the dummy front man; he’d rather have used anyone else, but since Jim-Tom and he already shared land ownership, this was the fastest way for him to covertly retain control. Jim-Tom may be president of High Country Construction on paper, but George Delante called the shots. He ran the operation, and he kept the kickbacks.
The company was back on its feet, and so was he.
And it was about time, clawing his way back from bankruptcy after losing the proposed Academy site near Fort Carson. If it weren’t for that McCluney bastard deep-sixing the southern Colorado Springs site in favor of the present northern location, he’d be the richest man in Colorado. The old general should just kick the bucket and leave him be. At least the SOB would never bother him again.
Now if he could just do something about Jim-Tom’s joint ownership of that thousand-acre parcel east of the Academy. He smiled, remembering how he’d acquired his share of that land by having Jim-Tom’s whore-of-a-sister sign it over—but he didn’t have anything to hold over Jim-Tom, so he’d had to live with having that idiot as a partner.
He had plans for that parcel. Big plans. An upscale community, a private golf course—all with a great view of the Academy butting up against the Rampart Range. There were plenty of Air Force officers he could sell that property to and rake in the bucks; he’d already sold some land to some young faculty members.
He pulled on his drink and leaned against the fireplace. Piñon from New Mexico crackled on the fire, filling the room with sweet smoke. Three logs would last the night; a hundred and fifty years to grow, three hours to burn.
The noise of a car pulling up to the house broke his mood. He scowled. “Who the hell is that?” It was probably one of his subcontractors, coming by to tell him they were running behind, even in this near perfect weather. Except for that snowstorm last Sunday, it hadn’t snowed for a month. They should be weeks ahead of schedule.
George padded to the door. Yanking it open, his face grew slack at the sight. “What the hell are you doing here?”
His son carried a single suitcase. Dressed in civilian clothes, Fred pushed past his father and entered the house; his voice caught. “Pay … the taxi.”
“Taxi?” It took George a moment for things to click through the scotch-induced haze. He stuck his head out the door. A squat man wearing a red beret sat in the taxicab on the front driveway. Its flag up, the meter was still running.
“What’s going on?” George said. Cold air tumbled into the house.
Fred choked back a sob. “Could you … pay the damned taxi? I’ll explain in a moment.”
“Crap,” George said. He pulled a wad of bills out of his front pocket and slipped them out of his money clip. He thrust them at his son. “Here, and don’t tip him more than a dollar.”
Moments later George poured another drink while he waited for Fred to use the bathroom. The toilet flushed and Fred stepped in the room, tucking in his shirt; he rubbed his eyes.
George gulped his drink. “I thought you had classes.”
“I … did.” Fred’s eyes were red and dried tears mottled his face.
“Where’s your uniform?”
“At the Academy.”
George slammed down his drink. “What happened?”
“I … I lost everything!” Fred lowered his head and started to sob.
George strode over and shoved him roughly on the shoulder. “Shut the hell up! I just paid for a forty dollar cab fare. Stop your sniveling and stand up like a man. Are you going to tell me what you’re doing here?”
Fred straightened; he stepped back and glanced at the kitchen. It was dark, and his mother had gone to her bedroom. “You … have any beer?”
George blinked. He motioned with his hand. “In the fridge.” Moments passed as he waited for Fred to drain half the can. “Okay, talk,” he growled.
Five minutes later after Fred finished his story, George slammed his drink down on the table. “That bastard! That son-of-a-bitch. I knew I could never trust a McCluney.” He stomped back and forth in front of the fire. A picture of Fred dressed in his cadet parade uniform jiggled on the mantle while George paced back and forth. Another picture of Fred standing in front of an American flag flipped over and fell to the floor, breaking the glass.
In frustration, George picked up the broken picture and hurled it into the fireplace. It shattered, and the frame smoldered against the hot bricks.
Elizabeth Delante stepped into the living room, her hair in curlers. She tightened her bathrobe about her. “George!” She tilted her head at the broken picture in the fireplace; her eyes widened at her husband, his tie undone, his white shirt crumpled.
Finally she noticed her son. She raised her hand to her mouth. “Oh, my. Fred, are you all right? What happened to your face? It’s bruised.”
George strode to the kitchen table. He picked up his scotch, drained it and poured himself another glass, straight. “Your son is fine,” he said. “He’s a free man now. But those dammed McCluney bastards—” his hand shook. “I knew I couldn’t trust them. They’ll pay for this. Everyone last one of them.”
He shot down half the drink and picked up the black phone sitting on the kitchen counter. Pushing the rotary as hard as he could, he forced the instrument to run through a staccato of clacks as he dialed the number. When he finished dialing, the line clicked and a ring burred.
It rang again.
Again.
And again.
George felt his face grow warm, his breath quicken as no one answered. Damn idiot; he knew he was on call, no matter what time it was!
Finally, a sleepy voice came over the line. “Denver Post.”
“Rafelli?”
“—who, who is this?”
“Who the hell do you think it is? Now listen up. I’ve just learned that the Academy construction project has some serious problems.”
“—what, with Congress?”
“No, you nitwit. With fraud. Kickbacks. Misappropriation. Bribery. Waste and abuse of government money. You need to do some digging on the senior military officer overseeing the project on-site. Everything points to him. McCluney.”
The voice on the line sounded alert. “Do you have proof?”
“Of course I have proof,” George said. “But I can’t reveal my informants; they’d be fired.”
“But I can’t just assume—”
George raised his voice. “Do I have to do your work for you? Dig up the expense reports, the
amount of marble, aluminum, and other materials he’s ordered. Compare those amounts to the authorization bill, the blueprints, and construction estimates. Darius Moore at the DA’s office can tell you what to look for.”
“That’s a lot of material. Can’t you give me another point of contact, someone who has access to those files?”
George fumed. Lazy ass bastard! He was paying Rafelli far too much. He needed more of a bulldog, a hard charger who had more initiative than this guy. That’s what happens when you hold someone on retainer so long and don’t call them into action.
Wait—there was someone who might be able to help, someone who had a real axe to grind. It was that young Captain he’d met, one of the first to buy into his new development. He’d complained about McCluney lacking vision and not knowing how a real military Academy should work, like West Point. And he was an insider. That’s the kind of guy he needed on this.
George turned around in the small kitchen and lowered his voice. “Contact Captain Whitney. He’s a professor at the Air Academy who should be able to get access to that information—but be discreet. And don’t forget to contact Darius Moore; he can tell you what causes the most legal damage. But keep my name out of this, understand?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Delante.”
“Now get on it, or you can expect that chunk of change I send you every month is going to stop!” He slammed down the phone. Stupid-ass reporter. He’d better nail McCluney’s ass to the wall; what else did he think he was being retained for?
So far Rafelli had done a half-decent job, putting spin on articles and giving him just the right publicity to help his construction company; but he’d better start flinging mud at McCluney and not connect this with him … or he’d have hell to pay. No one screws with George Delante. No one. Or that will be the last thing they ever do.
He grabbed his drink and drained the glass. Slamming the glass on the table, he turned to the living room. In the fireplace, flames licked at Fred’s picture. The American flag in the picture slowly turned brown, then quickly black before it burst into flames.
Soon, nothing remained of the Academy picture or any emotion in the Delante men as they gazed into the fireplace, except for smoldering embers.
***
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Dark Moon”
February, 1957
United States Air Force Academy
Lowry Field, CO
A man that studieth revenge keeps his own wounds green.
—Francis Bacon, Essays, “Of Revenge”
The knock at the door came before first call. Rod barely heard it over the screaming minute caller. The doolie’s voice warbled as though he were double-timing in place.
Rod yelled for whoever had knocked to enter the room, once again reading the short, strange letter that had come in the mail. Typewritten and unsigned, the letter simply warned him to watch his back. That was it: Watch your back.
The paper seemed a higher quality than the blank sheets they sold in the cadet store. He held the letter up to the light; it had a faint watermark on it. Rod squinted and could barely make out the words “Dean of Faculty.” That’s weird—the paper must have come from stock used by the faculty; but anyone could have picked that up.
He threw the letter down and turned to see the Officer of the Day waiting for him. A tall captain wearing a sash and a wheel cap filled the doorway.
Rod stood. “Good morning, sir!”
“Mr. Simone?”
“Yes, sir.” He didn’t recognize him; he must have been a new staff member.
“Mr. Simone, you are to report to the Deputy Commandant’s office immediately after lunch. Uniform is Class As. You have been excused from your afternoon classes.”
“Yes, sir.” Rod felt his heart beat faster. This was serious. It was nearly impossible to get out of any academic classes, as the Dean and Comm were continuously vying for cadet time.
“Carry on.” The officer turned to leave.
Rod stepped forward. “Sir, may I ask a question?”
“What?”
“Sir, do you know what this is about?”
“The Deputy Commandant doesn’t explain his orders, cadet. Do you have a problem with that?”
Rod swallowed. “No, sir.”
“Very well. Carry on.”
“Yes, sir. Good afternoon, sir.”
When the officer left, Rod’s shoulders sagged. What in the world is going on?
***
Chapter Twenty-Three
“It’s Not for Me to Say”
February, 1957
USAF Academy permanent site
Colorado Springs, CO
I want that glib and oily art to speak and purpose not;
since what I well intend, I’ll do’t before I speak.
—William Shakespeare, King Lear, I:1
“General McCluney?”
“Yes?” Hank turned from the construction boss and put down a site map. The man standing in front of him wore a brown fedora, a red plaid jacket, a white shirt, a stringy black tie, brown pants, and rubber boots that were covered with mud. He carried a notebook that instantly marked him as press.
The man stuck out his hand. “General, I’m Tony Rafelli, with the Denver Post.”
“Mr. Rafelli.” Hank shook hands formally, then said to the construction boss, “Give me a few minutes, would you, Sam?” Hank handed him the site map.
“Yes, sir, General.” The foreman nodded while casting a wary eye at the reporter. “I’ll be by the dining hall.” Squaring his hard hat, he rolled up the site map and walked briskly away to join a host of uniformed Air Force officers inspecting the site.
Melting snow from Sunday’s storm had turned the construction area into a mess. The crisp air was filled with humidity—highly unusual for Colorado—and the tinge of fuzziness in the air made the site look like an impressionist’s painting.
Balancing on his cane, Hank turned back to the reporter. “What can I do for you, Mr. Rafelli?”
“Tony. Please call me Tony.”
“How can I help you?” Hank pointedly ignored the man’s attempt at familiarity. Tony Rafelli wasn’t the usual contact from the Denver Post, and he’d never heard of him. “I don’t recall anyone scheduling a tour today. Where’s Kenny?”
“Kenny’s working a story at the School of Mines.”
“So you’re covering for him?”
“Kind of.” Rafelli motioned to a gang of construction workers unloading plates of aluminum from a flatbed. Crisscrossed girders jutted up from the ground where the plates would be set. Stacks of marble and granite towered over other workers, waiting to be laid into the ground. “How’s it going, General?”
“What do you mean?”
“I understand the project is spending too much money on extra material.”
Alert, Hank narrowed his eyes. “Extra material?”
“Like that marble over there. Frank Lloyd Wright has said the marble is a travesty. He says it’s too expensive and it won’t go with the architecture. In fact, Congress is going to hold back this year’s appropriation until your costs get under control.”
Hank frowned. “Where did you hear that?”
“A reliable source—an upstanding person in the community.”
“I see. And what else did this person have to say?”
Rafelli raised his chin. “This person also says he has proof you’re taking kickbacks, and you’re in this for your personal gain.”
A smile played on Hank’s lips. “Do you see that man over there?”
The reporter put a hand up to his eyes and squinted. “The one who just left us?”
“That’s right,” Hank said. “He’s talking to Colonel Stoltz, the head of the construction project. Stoltz keeps track of every penny spent out here and is in daily contact with both the Pentagon and our Congressional liaison. There’s not a rivet, nail, or screw on this site that isn’t accounted for.”
“But what about this marble?” Rafelli sa
id. “This person says that you personally chose it, and not the contracting officer. That’s illegal, General.”
Hank felt his face grow warm. “I personally gave my word that the marble would be used to line the Terrazzo, and that’s all. My involvement ended there. The quarry was going to be closed, and the owner wanted to get out of the mining business. If I hadn’t of stepped in, we wouldn’t have any marble at all.”
“Even if Frank Lloyd Wright says it’s an abomination?”
“Mr. Wright’s a very smart man. And Mr. Wright is certainly well respected in the architectural community. But as you know, this design is not Mr. Wright’s. It has passed muster with the American Institute of Architects, as well as Congress and nine other review committees.”
“So you don’t care what Mr. Wright has to say?”
“It doesn’t matter what I care. As far as the Air Force is concerned, this matter has been put to rest. What Mr. Wright says is not germane to this project.”
Rafelli scribbled notes, then looked at the stacks. “That’s a lot of marble.”
“The Terrazzo’s a big place. Have you seen the design?”
Rafelli waved him off and instead started walking toward the huge collection of marble. Annoyed, Hank waited a moment, then hobbled in pursuit.
Construction workers walked on top of the pile as they worked, carefully trying to not put down their boots too quickly, lest they break the inch-thick slabs.
Reaching the stone, Rafelli patted the massive stack. “How much is there?” He turned and ran his hand up and down the pile.
Hank spoke as he caught up. “Over twenty tons. The most Dakota marble ever assembled in one place.”
“I’ve heard some talk—”
“From the same source, I take it!”
“I’ve heard you ordered far more than you’ll ever need.”
“I can show you detailed construction plans and acquisition orders for every single tile,” Hank said, trying hard to keep his voice steady. “They are a matter of public record, but the negotiations and final profits for the material cannot be released.”
Rafelli watched two cranes by the mesa that slowly lowered girders into the excavations of the dormitory foundation. A worker with a yellow hard hat, his t-shirt smeared with mud, directed the crane operator with waves and shouts. “My source also said that you not only personally approved the most expensive parts of this construction, but that you are getting kickbacks from the subcontractors.”
