The Cadet

by Doug Beason

  “Kickbacks?” The reporter was getting under his skin, but unless he answered the man’s accusations, he knew it would show up in print. “Do you have any proof?”

  “Not yet, but he said you are getting two percent of the profit. That’s one of the reasons why the construction costs are exceeding the original estimate. I checked with the DA’s office,” he looked at his notes, “and the assistant DA, Darius Moore, said that if you’re hiding something, they’ll prosecute you.”

  Trying to keep his temper in check, Hank watched the construction workers. Thousands of men swarmed over the campus, each attending to a specific job, coordinated like bees being ordered about from a central hive.

  Although the Academy wasn’t supposed to be open for another 18 months, the excavation was complete. Now it was simply a matter of putting the building blocks together: accepting delivery of steel, marble, aluminum, glass, wood, and all the associated pieces, and fitting them together like a giant puzzle.

  Simple in the sense that this was the biggest, most expensive construction project since World War II.

  “I don’t have anything to hide. These allegations are all lies, and you should know better,” Hank said.

  “Oh, yeah?” Rafelli put down his pen.

  “You just told me your only evidence is from this unknown source of yours. If I’ve refuted his allegations, then it’s my word against his. Do you have any other proof?”

  Rafelli hesitated, then lifted his chin. “Yeah, plenty.”

  “If you print these unsubstantiated allegations, you’ll cast doubt upon my character. Then your so-called source will always be able to dredge up suspicion about my behavior, or my motives.”

  Rafelli snorted as he wrote in his notebook. “What are your motives, General?”

  Hank waved his cane. “Look around you. There are 6,000 workers here employed by 52 contractors. They’ve moved over two and a half million cubic yards of earth to level this mesa and prepare the cadet athletic fields. They’ve built two miles of retaining walls, and before this project is finished, they’ll build over 32 miles of roads and six bridges. Who in their right mind wouldn’t want to work out here, to be a part of history? Especially when it will train young men to defend our nation?

  “That’s my motive, Mr. Rafelli. To be part of this, and to insure it doesn’t fail. I hope that satisfies you and your paper.” He turned and hobbled away.

  Rafelli called after him. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”

  Hank turned. Balancing on one foot, he pointed his cane at Rafelli. “Lad, this is my life. I have a son who is a second year cadet up at Lowry, and I’m going to make sure his class graduates from this site.”

  “General, wait.” Rafelli stuffed his pad in his pocket and jogged to Hank. “These allegations will cause Congress to hold a hearing, and the congressional staff already says they’re disturbed by your improprieties. And my source is powerful. Very powerful, no matter how innocent you say you are.”

  Hank pointed his cane at the reporter. “Then why are you going to print it?”

  Rafelli started to speak, but he looked quickly around, as if he were suddenly afraid that someone was watching him. “Go to hell. I’m a reporter.” He drew himself up, and without saying a word, he strode away.

  As Hank watched him leave, it hit him that the whole incident smacked of George Delante. It fit with Delante’s previous shady efforts to sway the Academy Site Commission, and even that foolhardy attempt to blackmail him with that bleached blonde prostitute—even though Hank had never been able to prove it.

  But Delante had been keeping a low profile, so why would he do this? And why now? Was he really behind it? It just didn’t make any sense.

  ***

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “Gone”

  February, 1957

  United States Air Force Academy

  Lowry Field, CO

  It is better to die on your feet than to live on your knees.

  —Delores Ibarruri, Speech, Paris, Sep 3rd, 1936

  Mitchell Hall resembled a madhouse as doolies screamed answers to questions machine-gunned from Rod’s classmates. Their yelling mixed with the sound of utensils clattering against plates and the squeaky wheels on meal carts, but Rod didn’t participate in the training. His mind was on why he had to see the Deputy Comm and that weird letter he’d received.

  He left Mitchell Hall as soon as the upperclassmen were dismissed. Hurrying back to his room, he kept his hand down in a V, flashing the “two” sign to quiet doolies who greeted him. He was anxious to learn why he had been summoned.

  He changed into his Class-A jacket, straightened his tie, and made his way to the Admin building. He swallowed hard as he approached. Just walking inside brought back bad memories of that first day, an eternity ago, when he in-processed.

  There’d been no reason for him to visit the Commandant of Cadets offices—General Stillman was one of those people whom you seldom saw and tried to stay away from; yet here he was.

  His heels clicked against the wooden stairway as he trotted to the second floor. At the end of the hall and encased in glass was a huge model of the new F-100 fighter. Paintings of airplanes lined the wood paneled walls, ending at a door at the end of the hall. Entering the vestibule by the model, Rod saw a sergeant sitting behind a desk in the middle of the room. A door in each wall led to offices set off to the side.

  “Excuse me,” Rod said, “I’m Cadet Third class Simone—”

  The sergeant leaned forward and peered into an office to his right. “Just a moment.” He stood and knocked once on the door. “Colonel? Cadet Simone is here.”

  “Send him in,” came a voice from inside the room.

  The sergeant nodded, “Go on in, son.”

  “Thank you.” Feeling as if he were about to enter a lion’s den, Rod took a deep breath. He squared his wheel cap under his left arm and stepped into the office. “Sir, Cadet Third class Simone, reporting as ordered.” He held his salute and stared straight ahead, while at the same time trying desperately to inspect the room with his peripheral vision.

  A polished, wooden table twenty feet long sat in front of a walnut desk. Four officers sat at the table with the Deputy Commandant behind his desk; Rod’s AOC, Captain Justice, sat stony face next to the Deputy Comm.

  Rod rigidly held his salute. Five against one.

  The Colonel whipped up his hand and returned the salute. “Stand at ease.”

  Rod clicked to parade rest.

  The Deputy Commandant moved a sheet of paper from the front of his desk to the middle. He read from it formally. “Cadet Simone, you have been summoned to a Commandant’s Disciplinary Board for going OTF—Over the Fence—from the cadet area on Sunday. Since you marked your honor card “unauthorized,” you will not be brought up on an honor violation before your classmates. However, being absent from an authorized duty location is a major offense, and after you serve your punishment, this may serve as grounds for dismissal if it is determined that you are unfit for service as a cadet. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.” Rod’s head reeled at the charge, but he didn’t expect this amount of severity from going OTF. He knew he was guilty—he’d done it that Sunday when he’d left the cadet area, to be alone and think things over before turning in Fred. At the time he thought that no one had noticed—no one but Fred. But it had come out during Fred’s Honor Board, and now he had to account for his action. He wouldn’t lie.

  The Deputy Comm looked up from the paper. “Do you dispute the allegation?”

  Rod stiffened. “No, sir.”

  “Very well, the order at hand is to determine a punishment.” He turned to Rod’s AOC. “Captain Justice?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “What is your assessment of Cadet Simone?”

  “Sir, Cadet Simone is one of my top cadets, a leader. He stands out in the squadron.”

  “In your opinion, is he a man we would want to have in our Air Force?”


  “Absolutely, sir. With a few more years of training and maturity, I would be proud to serve with him.”

  Rod wavered. It was the first time he’d heard Captain Justice say anything positive about anyone. Rod just wished he could have heard it in a more pleasant forum.

  “Very well,” the Deputy Commandant said. “Gentlemen, after hearing from Captain Justice and reviewing Cadet Simone’s record, what say you?”

  A major leaned forward. “Colonel, as this is the first incidence of OTF, I urge you to deal with it strongly—if nothing else than to send a clear message to the Cadet Wing that going over the fence will not be tolerated. You’re setting an important precedent.”

  The Colonel questioned the remaining officers. He nodded, scanned another sheet, then looked up. “Cadet Simone.”

  “Yes, sir.” Rod stiffened.

  “I give you the maximum penalty of one hundred twenty hours marching with your rifle on the tour pad, and one hundred and seventy five demerits. You are placed on attitude probation and will begin your punishment immediately. If you obtain another 25 demerits, you will meet a Show Cause board of officers, where you will have to prove why you should not be dismissed from the Academy. Do you understand?”

  Rod drew in a breath, trying to keep his voice steady. “Yes, sir. I understand.”

  “Dismissed.”

  “Yes, sir.” Rod saluted. “Good afternoon, sir. Good afternoon, gentlemen.” Turning on his heel, he left the office, feeling lucky to still be a cadet. Like the Colonel pointed out, he hadn’t committed an honor violation; otherwise, he would have been hauled before an honor board and found guilty, just like Fred. And instead of facing 120 hours on the tour pad, he’d no longer be a cadet.

  O O O

  Rod switched the heavy M-1A rifle from his left shoulder to his right. His shoulder was sore where the rifle rested on his uniform.

  Reaching the end of the fifty yard-long drill pad, Rod executed a perfect “about face,” and started marching for the opposite end. He marched back and forth at 60 counts a minute, a perfect thirty inches per step under the bored supervision of the SOD, the Senior Officer of the Day. It was an exercise in monotony. He’d only marched two and a half hours today, resulting in a total of sixteen hours toward his one hundred and twenty hour punishment.

  Cadets swarmed from the playing field, heading back to the dorm to shower before the evening meal. They kept away from Rod, walking well away from the tour pad.

  Rod decided that for all he had to do—class work, cleaning his room, and the hundred other details expected of cadets—this was the worst possible punishment: making him waste his time, setting him behind in everything. Even worse, he had the time to think about it. Whoever had thought up this macabre punishment was seriously ill in the head.

  Reaching the end of the tour pad, Rod executed another flawless turn. He glanced over at the SOD sitting in a glass enclosed guard shack. Cadets streamed around the shack like a rock parting water in a stream. The officer was talking on the phone, focused on something more important than watching Rod. A fleeting thought raced through Rod’s head of doing a goose-step, but the consequence of being caught—and receiving another twenty-five demerits—quelled his sudden desire.

  The senior officer of the day was still in deep conversation. Rod prepared to execute another turn when someone called his name.

  “Rod! Rod, it’s me!”

  Rod turned his head minutely and saw Sly’s grinning face. He snapped his head forward and said out of the corner of his mouth, “Are you crazy? You’ll get us both in trouble.”

  “The SOD is bored silly. Besides, I had to let you know what I just heard.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Your dad testified before a Congressional hearing today. Senators and everything! The papers are going crazy reporting allegations of kickbacks.”

  Rod felt his face burn red. “Kickbacks? I don’t believe it.”

  “Well, anyone who knows your old man doesn’t believe it either. There are rumors he was set up. Someone must have had it in for him, had it big.”

  The thought startled Rod. The fact that he was even marching tours gave him pause that he, too, had been set up.

  In fact a few other things were going on that didn’t make sense, such as receiving that unsigned threat to “watch his back.” He didn’t have any proof, but the whole matter reeked of Fred Delante.

  He caught a glimpse of the SOD hanging up the phone. “Thanks,” he said. “Fill me in later. Now get lost. Looks like the SOD is finished.”

  “Right. Good luck.” Sly melted back into the stream of cadets.

  Rod rigidly executed another about face, looking like a stony-faced robot. But underneath the emotionless exterior, his mind raced. Had his dad really been set up? His father would never accept a kickback.

  Or would he?

  Hank had certainly tried to give the impression of being a straight arrow. Rod couldn’t remember how many times Hank had lectured him on the necessity of doing the right thing, avoiding even the perception of an impropriety, except when it came to his own personal life and having an affair, Rod thought bitterly. The memory of that night in Washington, DC still burned in his mind, and Rod couldn’t shake the seed of doubt that it had planted.

  Because if Hank would risk a fling with a prostitute, would he also risk accepting kickbacks? And if he’d risk taking kickbacks, then what else would he do? What else would he lie about?

  Just how honest was his father? Or was it all a façade? Everything seemed to hinge on that one night in Washington, DC when Rod had looked through the peephole and caught his father being groped by that woman in the hallway. His father couldn’t deny that had happened; and if he’d lie about that, then what else would he do?

  Even Fred had had the nerve to bring his father’s infidelity up during that aborted fight at the Honor Board; that had been especially painful since Rod had confided in Fred about the incident when they were doolies.

  As Rod marched on, he grew more angry and confused with every step.

  ***

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “Love Letters in the Sand”

  June, 1957

  Beginning of Second Class Year

  19,000 feet over California

  O tiger’s heart wrap’d in a woman’s hide!

  —William Shakespeare, Henry VI, part III

  Rod lounged back in the sprawling C-97 aircraft, feeling as though he were the luckiest cadet alive. Finals were over, and having finished marching his tours, he had three weeks of leave ahead of him before he attended the Army’s parachute school in Georgia.

  Earlier that day he’d caught a hop at Lowry on a Military Air Transport Service space-available flight to Travis, with the sole purpose of seeing Barbara at her dorm.

  He’d made the decision to surprise her just last night. Captain Ranch had told the new Second classmen about the free military flights that flew out of Lowry AFB, and on a whim, Rod had decided to forgo spending his short summer vacation at his new home in Colorado Springs and instead deadheaded on the first flight out to California.

  The last time Barbara had written she said she was attending summer school. Rod had been disappointed that she didn’t have time to visit, but he understood that her first priority was graduating with honors. With his own intense schedule he didn’t dwell on not seeing her; but when the space-available opportunity came up for him to fly to California for free, Rod couldn’t pass it up.

  He changed out of his cadet uniform when they landed at Travis and caught the blue shuttle bus that made the daily run to the Alameda Naval base. On the way he gazed out the window at row after row of bushes that lined the road, all covered in brilliant red, yellow, and blue flowers. The smell of warm summer air spilled into the bus. The trip brought back memories of when Fred’s father had driven them back to Travis after staying in San Francisco, and of that magical night he’d spent with Barbara.

  Arriving at the sprawling Navy Base, he hitc
hed a ride into town and impatiently waited at the shiny new bus station until he caught a Greyhound bus to Palo Alto.

  The Stanford Terrace hotel was exactly one mile from Barbara’s dormitory. He dropped off his bag in the room, and after scrutinizing a map, hiked across campus. He could barely believe that only this morning he had checked out of his squadron area.

  Now, less than 24 hours after hearing about the space-available flight, Rod was about to see Barbara for the first time in a year. Boy, would she be surprised!

  His hands grew slick with sweat as he hurried for the dorm, anticipating the moment. The memory of her was so vivid he couldn’t believe it had nearly been a year since he’d seen her. He was filled with so much energy he could barely contain it.

  On the way he passed buildings with red-tiled roofs, towering palm trees, and flower-lined bike paths. Students strolled aimlessly throughout the campus; one couple stepped inside a clearing hidden by a high, thick row of green shrubs planted along the path, for a private tête-à-tête. It seemed like a mystical world, secluded from reality.

  He slowed as he started to overtake a young, slim, blonde woman who was walking past an older, bearded man along the path—and suddenly, his knees grew weak when he realized it was her. Barbara. He felt giddy at the sight.

  It seemed almost too good to be true. He thought he’d have to wait until later in the evening to perhaps meet her in the lobby, or see her when she returned from studying. And now, here she was in front of him, walking to her dorm.

  He stopped and focused on the way she tossed her long, blond hair; the way she moved her slender legs; her soft, swaying motion … then he realized that she wasn’t overtaking the bearded man at all, but that she was walking next to him.

  The man was impeccably dressed in a white suit. Rod couldn’t see his face, but he was older than Barbara, perhaps a professor, and they walked together much closer than Rod would have thought appropriate for just being friends.