Chasing the Son

by Bob Mayer

When Greer didn’t respond right away, Chad was screaming, spittle hitting the plebe’s face. “Answer, rat!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “’Yes, sir’ what?” Chad said. “Yes, my family’s not good enough?”

  “Sir, I do not understand.”

  Preston laughed. “I’m sure he doesn’t.” And then Wing was there in Dante’s Den, pinging down the hallway and entering the showers.

  “Give me the note,” Jerrod demanded.

  “Against the wall!” Chad screamed. “Present arms.”

  In a flash Wing was next to Greer, rifle held upright in front of him.

  “Are you cold, Wing?” Jerrod demanded.

  “No, sir.”

  “I’m cold,” Jerrod said.

  “Are you dirty, Wing?” Chad asked.

  “No, sir.”

  “I think you’re dirty,” Chad said. “I think you’re a scummy piece of shit. A fucking mongrel.”

  A flash of anger passed across Wing’s face, exactly what sadistic upperclassmen dug for when hazing. It meant they’d gotten to the rat, touched him emotionally. It was usually the beginning of the end for the rat who displayed it.

  Preston leaned close so only Wing could hear. “You’re worthless, Wing. You don’t belong here. Why don’t you go home to China? Or the ghetto? See, that’s your problem. Who are you, Wing? Where do you belong? Do you even know?”

  A muscle in Wing’s jaw quivered in anger, but his lips were sealed.

  “I can tell you where you don’t belong,” Preston said. “Here.”

  Meanwhile, Chad had gone along the wall, turning on the hot water, leaving a small space for the two rats. As the scalding water poured, steam began to fill the showers.

  Jerrod went over to a bench in front of a row of lockers then sat down, bottle in hand. “Whoa, guys.” He missed the look of disgust that passed over Preston’s face at his expression of weakness.

  “Chad, old boy,” Preston said. “Welcome the rats to Dante’s Den.”

  And Chad began to run the two rats through the manual of arms. Every time they made the slightest mistake, he harangued them. Even when they were correct, he screamed. It was a lose-lose situation.

  Meanwhile, Preston sat down next to Jerrod. “You doing all right, old chap?”

  “Bit lightheaded,” Jerrod said. He held out the bottle. “I think I’ve had enough.”

  Preston took it, but didn’t indulge. “You have to think ahead, Jerrod. Plan far, far ahead or you will go nowhere in life. My great-grandfather knew that. He didn’t plan for himself. He planned for generations ahead.”

  Chad’s screams echoed off the wall. The sound of water splashing from the showers was loud, magnified by the enclosed space. The steam was so thick one could barely see three feet. Chad and the two rats weren’t even visible.

  Jerrod didn’t quite understand why Preston was regaling him with his family history and the future. He just wanted to get through this evening.

  “My grandfather planned for me,” Preston said. “My father has done well. Granted. But we can go higher. The Kennedy’s were like that. They might have been bloody Yankees but they were bloody smart Yankees. Joe planned for his boys. He was Ambassador to England, but he wanted more for his family.”

  Jerrod opened his mouth to point out that in the end things had not turned out very well for the Kennedy’s, but he knew Preston well enough not to interrupt.

  “My family has a plan and I am the culmination.” Preston stared at Jerrod through the mist. His eyes were gleaming. He held up the bottle. “That’s why I can’t drink. It makes a man weak.”

  “I feel weak,” Jerrod joked, but Preston barely heard him.

  They were both startled as Wing and Jenrette came hustling by. Their rubber raincoats were stuck to their bodies, their faces drenched in sweat. Their rifles were held out from their body, parallel to the floor. Chad was right behind them, screaming. Wing, blinded by steam and sweat, ran right into the wall and Jenrette bounced into him. The two fell in a tumble.

  Chad stopped by Preston and Jerrod. He grabbed the bottle from Jerrod and took a deep swig. “You two going to help? I’m as worn out as they are.”

  “You’re doing a great job, Chad, old boy,” Preston said. He tapped Jerrod on the shoulder. “Up to it?”

  It was as much a challenge as a question.

  Jerrod struggled to his feet, sweat pouring down his face, his golfing shirt soaked through. “Sure.”

  Chad immediately plopped down on the bench, bottle in hands. He took another deep drink. They could hear Jerrod yelling at the two rats, his voice breaking occasionally. But they were out of sight, somewhere on the other side of the shower room.

  “Turn the showers off,” Preston said to Chad.

  The football player checked his watch. “After Taps now. We probably should shut down.”

  “We’re just beginning,” Preston said. “Now for the real test.”

  Chad peered at him quizzically but when nothing more was forthcoming, he got up off the bench with a grunt and went around the walls, turning off the hot water. As the water stopped pouring, Jerrod’s attempts at hazing became clearer. He was continuing the close order drill, but fumbling the commands, which caused the two rats to fumble their responses, which made Jerrod even more frustrated.

  Preston ignored everyone. He took a key out of his pocket and slid it in a padlock on one of the lockers. He opened it and pulled out two sets of Army-issue body armor vests, along with Kevlar helmets that had clear visors attached to the front.

  “Gentlemen!” he yelled, stopping Jerrod in mid-haze. Both rats slammed back against the tile, chins tucked in tight, weapons back at present arms.

  Preston indicated the vests and helmets. “Gear up, rats.”

  Wing’s mouth opened to ask a question. But Jenrette moved quickly forward, grabbing body armor and helmet. He put his rifle down as he slipped the vest over his head.

  “Help him,” Preston ordered Jerrod.

  Wing finally reacted and moved forward to grab the other set.

  Jerrod was fastening the Velcro straps, making sure the body armor was tight around Jenrette. Chad moved to help Wing gear up without being told. He jerked on the straps extra hard, causing Wing to exhale in pain.

  Everyone was sopping wet from both steam and sweat. When the two rats put the helmets on and fastened the chinstraps, the clear visors misted up.

  Preston didn’t care.

  “Attention!” he yelled.

  The two snapped to.

  “Order arms!” The butts of the M-14s thudded onto the tile floor as they brought them down to their right side.

  “Fix bayonets!” Preston ordered.

  Again, Wing hesitated, while Jenrette went right to it. Preston knew that Jenrette’s father had probably told him of this tradition, thus he wasn’t surprised. It was all new to Wing. And hopefully, after this evening, Wing would be old news to the Corps.

  Jenrette’s bayonet clicked into place and he resumed order arms.

  Wing fumbled with his bayonet, almost dropping it after removing it from the scabbard. He missed putting the hole in the hilt over the barrel the first time, earning a scream of derision and curses from Chad. Wing finally managed to get it right, clicking the blade in place.

  The chrome-covered knives weren’t very dangerous; the chrome muted the edge into something thicker than a butter knife. Still, they did come to a point. Legend in the Corps was that someone had passed out during a parade while in formation and spitted himself on the bayonet of the man behind him.

  But it was just a legend and no one knew if it had really happened.

  Both Wing and Jenrette didn’t seem that far away from passing out from their ordeal.

  “Gentlemen,” Preston said. “There is a tradition in the Corps. It is called the Quick and the Dead. Because, as you were taught, there are only two types of bayonet fighters: those who are quick, and those who are dead. Which are you?”

  “The Quick, sir!
” they screamed, their voices muted by the faceguards.

  Preston smiled. At least they remembered the correct response from their abbreviated bayonet training of the past weeks.

  “Face each other, gentlemen, weapons at the ready.”

  Wing and Jenrette squared off, rifles held tensely in front of them, angled up and across their bodies. The mist was slowly dissipating, but visibility was still only about ten feet and the temperature had to be just breaking three digits. Add in the water on the visors, and the two rats were almost blind.

  Which was part of the ordeal.

  “On guard!” Preston yelled. “A touch of the tip counts as two points. A touch of the down blade as one. No other points are counted, old boys. Attack!”

  Chad let out a loud rebel yell as Jenrette thrust. His bayonet tip hit Wing in the stomach, not much power behind it, and the body armor stopped it.

  “Two for Jenrette,” Preston said.

  “Get your head out of your ass, Wing!” Chad screamed.

  Jerrod had slumped back down on the bench, alcohol and heat taking the better of him.

  The two rats took stock of each other. Wing weakly thrust and Jenrette easily parried it.

  “Don’t fuck around and play patty-cake with each other you little shits!” Chad screamed. He got up next to Wing, screaming at him. “Attack! Attack, you little shit or I’ll beat the crap out of you myself. You fucking mongrel dog. Which one was the nigger? Your mother or your father? Not that is matters. Nigger or chink, both are scum.”

  Wing surprised everyone by swinging the butt of his rifle in an arc, part of bayonet training, but one they hadn’t expected here as everyone tended to get focus on using the blade, even though they’d been taught the entire rifle was a weapon at close quarters. The butt hit Jenrette’s helmet on the side with a solid thud, sending the larger rat staggering.

  “Fucking A!” Chad screamed.

  “Get up,” Preston hissed at Jerrod. “This is Jenrette’s forging. He’ll remember this the rest of his life.”

  Jerrod forced himself to his feet as Jenrette shook his head, trying to clear it from the blow.

  “Follow up, Wing!” Chad screamed. “Didn’t they teach you to finish your opponent off?”

  Wing’s head turned toward Chad, perhaps trying to understand what he’d yelled, and Jenrette took advantage, poking Wing in the belly once more with the tip of his blade.

  “Two for Jenrette!” Preston announced. “You’re losing bad, Wing. You lose and we will bring you back down here to fight someone new every night until you can win.”

  “Blood!” Chad screamed. “Blood makes grass grow. Blood, blood!”

  “It’s tile,” Jerrod muttered, unheard by anyone as Chad continued the chant.

  Wing thrust widely, aiming for Jenrette’s head. It was a mistake as Jenrette parried as he’d been trained, and followed through with a slash, hitting Wing on the shoulder with the edge of his blade. Wing howled in pain, even though no skin was broken.

  “I’m sorry!” Jenrette cried out, lowering his rifle. “I’m sorry, Wing!”

  The sorries didn’t get through, but the pain did. Wing went crazy, thrusting, then slashing in a flurry of moves. Jenrette backed up, forgetting to bring his rifle up, until he hit the tile wall. Chad was on him.

  “Defend yourself, maggot,” Chad yelled. “There’s no goddamn sorries!”

  “What are you doing?” a new voice yelled, and there was Harry Brannigan in his shorts and athletic shirt.

  Chad grabbed Jenrette, who dropped his rifle, by the raincoat and tossed him toward Brannigan, who backed up, hands raised defensively as Jenrette tumbled into him and they both fell to the floor.

  Preston picked up the rifle and removed the bayonet.

  “Brannigan!” Preston yelled.

  Brannigan got to his knees, Jenrette on his back in front of him.

  Preston tossed the knife to him and Brannigan caught it instinctively by the handle. And then Preston jumped on top of the rat, using both hands to grab Brannigan’s hand holding the bayonet and aim it as they fell down on top of Jenrette with their combined weight.

  The chrome tip hit Jenrette’s exposed neck, puncturing flesh, then into the artery. Blood pulsed out onto Brannigan as Preston rolled free.

  “Holy shit!” Jerrod screamed.

  Brannigan was frozen for a moment, staring down at his classmate. He dropped the bayonet and pressed both hands against the wound, trying to stem the spray of blood.

  “What the hell did you do, Brannigan?” Preston asked, standing over the two.

  Brannigan looked up, confused. “You did it. You made me.”

  “He’s dying,” Preston said. “You killed him.”

  Brannigan was shaking his head. “No. No. I didn’t do it.”

  “Your hand on the knife,” Preston said. “Your fingerprints. You did it.” He turned to Jerrod. “Get the duty officer! Now. And an ambulance.”

  Jerrod raced out of the shower room for a phone.

  Chad was frozen, staring down at Jenrette lying in a widening pool of blood. Wing was cowering in a corner. Brannigan still had his hands on the neck, but the flow slowed, then stopped. A dullness appeared in Jenrette’s eyes.

  “You killed him,” Preston said. “They still have the death penalty here, Brannigan.”

  Harry Brannigan stared up at Preston Gregory for a few seconds and then he acted. He jumped to his feet and ran out of the shower room, covered in his classmate’s blood.

  Chapter Eleven

  Thursday Late Afternoon

  When Chad stopped, there was a short silence, then Chase spoke. “You didn’t tell the duty officer the truth?”

  Chad looked up. “Preston told us what to say. That Brannigan came in acting crazy. Grabbed Wing’s weapon. Took the bayonet off and threatened all of us. Killed Jenrette.”

  “And they believed that bullshit?” Chase asked.

  “It’s Preston Gregory,” Chad explained.

  “And it was you and Jerrod Fabrou backing him up,” Riley said.

  “You’re going to tell the truth to the authorities,” Chase said.

  Chad laughed bitterly. “What authorities? Preston’s family are the authorities. His dad’s a fucking Senator. And Fabrou’s dad runs Savannah.”

  “Why did Preston want to kill Jenrette?” Riley asked.

  Chad shook his head. “I don’t know. He’s always talking about his future. How he’s going to be the biggest thing ever. He never really liked Greer. All his money. I think he saw him as a rival.”

  “Preston took the opportunity that was presented,” Westland said. “There’s a certain type of person who does that.”

  “Like Sarah Briggs,” Riley said, looking at Chase. “She came up with a non-existent son in a flash, when it was to her advantage.”

  Dillon spoke up. “What about Jerrod? He was alive when I left him.”

  Chad grimaced. “He choked to death right in front of us. Preston said he could pin it on you right away. That your fingerprints would be on the nylon and on Jerrod’s ring.”

  “But you know the truth,” Dillon said. “You saw the truth.”

  Chad glumly nodded.

  Riley stepped forward. “We know what happened in the past. But right now that’s not the key thing. We’ve got to stop Preston and Sarah from whatever it is they have in the works. We’ve got to get Doc and Harry back from them.”

  Chad Senior had put his arm around his son’s shoulder as he began to sob, but Riley, Chase, Dillon and Westland ignored that. What was done was done.

  Riley looked over at Westland. “And you need to tell us what the hell is going on with you. Why are you here? Why do you have support? What is Cardena’s deal in all this?”

  Westland nodded toward the Mongin’s. “They don’t need to hear this.”

  “Hey!” Chase said, getting their attention. “Go home. And Chad, don’t get amnesia. You’re going to be telling your story again. The real story.”

 
“What about him?” Riley asked, indicating Dillon.

  “You still working for Mrs. Jenrette?” Chase asked. “Looking to kill my son?”

  “I’m looking for justice,” Dillon said. “Seems to me that’s pointed in a different direction now. I think we all have the same problem: Preston Gregory.”

  “Mrs. Jenrette is coming here tomorrow, isn’t she?” Westland asked.

  Dillon nodded. “They’re closing the Sea Drift deal. Preston will be back, too. And this Sarah woman too, most likely.”

  “He’s going to use us,” Riley said, indicating Chase. “He’s going to use Doc and Harry as leverage to put us on his and Sarah’s side.” He looked at Dillon. “But they don’t have any leverage on you, do they?”

  Dillon considered that. “He’s trying to pin Jerrod’s death on me. Seems that’s Preston’s M.O. But we’ve got Chad’s testimony; don’t we, Chad?”

  Chad reluctantly nodded.

  “I don’t like Preston,” Dillon said. “Didn’t like him from the first moment I met him. He tried to bribe me, tell me he could get me into the Ring.”

  “What’s that?” Riley asked.

  Dillon held up his hand, Institute ring shining. “It’s part of what they were doing that night with Greer Jenrette. Putting him through a rite of passage so he could join this secret inner circle of cadets and graduates of the Institute. The Ring. You have to be born to the right people to be chosen, but Preston offered it to me when I told him I was investigating Jenrette’s death. A bribe. I’m seeing this through.”

  Riley glanced at Chase, who nodded. Then Westland. She agreed also.

  “I wouldn’t go home,” Westland said to Chad Senior and Junior. “Preston might send someone looking. I’d hide out for the next day. Until this is settled once and for all.”

  The two hurried away to the pier and then got into their boat.

  “Now your story,” Chase said to Westland.

  Westland sighed. “You guys were Army. It’s a different deal where I’m coming from. I was CIA when we met, Dave. But a couple of years later I was recruited into another organization. One whose name doesn’t matter. But suffice it to say it’s not on the books anywhere. We did a lot of dirty work. Wet work. And once you go that deep in the black world, there really isn’t any retirement.” She lightly tapped the side of her head. “I’ve got too much in here for them to let go of me. It’s a life sentence. So when I wanted to pull the plug, I was given an offer that was essentially an ultimatum. Work for the Cellar when called upon.”