The Cadet (18 page)

“People make six hundred thousand dollars a year?” Fred said. “Doing what?” He pushed his wine glass to Roberto as the waiter approached the table.

“You name it. Oil, steel, or especially real estate, like myself. Doctors don’t do as well, but they and lawyers are on their way up. I’ll have you talk to Darius Moore at the DA’s office if you’re interested; he’s only an assistant DA, but he can tell you that it’s money that gets things done, pulls strings.” He held up his own glass to Roberto. The waiter carefully tilted the bottle and wiped up stray drops with a towel.

Mr. Delante motioned with his glass around the dining room. “How many people here are wearing military uniforms? None. I’m sure the officers are all in their clubs, enjoying their two-for-one specials, or whatever it is that they do nowadays. They can’t afford to frequent a place like the Fairmont.”

Rod took another sip. The wine was great, so smooth it was almost as if he was drinking water. Feeling emboldened, he frowned. “It sounds as if you don’t care for the military, Mr. Delante. Why did you encourage your son to go to the Academy?”

“He didn’t.” Fred gulped down his second drink and poured another glass of wine.

Mr. Delante was silent for a moment then quickly drained his glass. He poured more wine then studied the crystal goblet while speaking. “I’m a self-made man, Rod. Both my parents were invalids, after … after a particularly tragic car crash. We struggled to make ends meet and my parent’s condition disqualified me for the war. So I know what it’s like to have to work all the time, not have any money, and care for my folks when they couldn’t even feed themselves,” he looked up, “while other boys my age were off playing soldier, glorifying themselves, and returning as heroes. Who needs them?”

Rod felt his face grow warm. He glanced at Fred, but his classmate just stared at his plate. He said slowly, “I’m not sure my father thought he was playing soldier.”

Delante set down his glass. “Okay, granted, we may need the military. In fact, the land I own east of the Academy wouldn’t be worth more than a few dollars an acre if it wasn’t for the military’s growing presence in Colorado Springs. But it’s not a career for everyone.” He nodded at Fred. “Such as you, son.”

“That’s not right.” Fred put down his glass so quickly that wine sloshed out of the top. “You never wanted me to go to the Academy! You wanted me to follow in your footsteps, go into real estate.”

“I didn’t say that—”

Fred said. “You said the military wouldn’t be good for me.”

Mr. Delante reddened. “That’s not what I said—”

“Yes you did! Being a cadet was my only way out!”

Mr. Delante spoke with a bite to his voice. “First, I said a military career wouldn’t be good for you—not attending the Academy. Receiving a free, world-class education and leaving the military as soon as you can makes a lot of sense.

“Second, you’re a member of the first class of a major university. You’ll carry that prestige with you the rest of your life. Look at any West Point or Annapolis alumni who have made it big—they have networks all over the world; they take care of their own. Your Air Academy connections will be even bigger, and you’ll be primed for making money, or even better, going into politics. You could be the youngest Congressman in Colorado if you get that Academy degree.”

Rod sat back in his chair, his eyes wide at Mr. Delante’s sudden transformation. He had seemed so worldly at first, but now Rod didn’t know what to think.

Fred looked stunned. “What about defending the nation?”

Mr. Delante slammed down his glass and looked at him oddly. He said, “That’s the last reason I’d pick.” He lifted his head at the waiter. “Another bottle, Roberto.”

“Very well, sir.”

Mr. Delante turned back to the cadets; his voice sounded slurred. “Be realistic. If you want to go into the Air Force and pursue a nomadic lifestyle for 30 years, then you’ve made the right decision. The country needs patriots like that.

“But there are also those who will contribute to the strength of our nation by going into politics, business, law, or other professions. That’s why I’ll urge you to leave the military as soon as you can; exploit your Academy education. I imagine West Pointers do it, just as they may at Annapolis. Use your education as a springboard. Look at President Eisenhower. He did it!”

Rod started to speak but abruptly stopped; this wasn’t the time to get into it. He knew that Eisenhower was elected President for his wartime skills as the Supreme Allied Commander, and not because he used his education as a springboard; Rod bit his tongue, not wanting to incite another rant.

Delante pointed at Fred with his wine glass. “You get elected to Congress, and with my money, we can set up a Delante dynasty in Colorado that will rival the Kennedys.”

Rod shifted his weight and felt his face grow warm. It reminded him of how Sly was intending to use his Academy education, as a stepping-stone to round out his resume. It didn’t seem right.

Mr. Delante swept a hand around the Fairmont dining room. “The day will come when our country’s might will not be judged on the size of its military or nuclear arsenal, but on its economy. Incredible concept, isn’t it? So there’s nothing wrong with exploiting your Academy education. It just depends on what you do with it, and the style of life you choose to lead.”

He gulped the rest of his wine and peered around the room. “For example, compare those sophisticated young ladies,” he nodded to a group of stunning young women who were just being seated by the maȋtre d’, “to the farm girls you saw at Minot. Or to any of the cowgirls you’ll ever meet in Denver.

Rod followed his gaze. He saw four young women about his age and was struck by their beauty. They were elegantly adorned in long colorful dresses, pearls, flowing lace shawls over their shoulder; a blond, two brunettes, and a redhead. The blond tossed a handful of hair over her shoulder and leaned forward to speak to her friends.

Roberto stepped up with a newly uncorked bottle. After inspecting the bottle, Mr. Delante nodded his approval. Roberto filled the glasses and Mr. Delante raised his glass in a toast. “Roberto!”

“Yes, sir?”

“Those four young ladies that just entered the dining room.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Deliver a bottle of champagne to their table, compliments of these two gentlemen. And please pass along that these young men are cadets at the new United States Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs.”

“Very well, sir.”

Mr. Delante kept his glass high. “How many times can you do that at the Minot officer’s club?”

“Hear, hear!” Fred grinned and raised his glass.

Rod hesitated, but when the blonde turned his way and smiled, he forgot all about trying to argue with Mr. Delante and raised his glass as well, lost in her eyes.

O O O

The salmon lay delicately on a bed of long grained rice. A touch of hollandaise sauce and dill was on the side, next to asparagus spears, slivers of potato and greens. Rod felt the warm glow grow through the dinner. The wine and food tasted incredible.

Fred leaned back and belched. “Fast, neat, average—friendly, good, good!”

They both cracked up. Fred explained to Mr. Delante about the Academy’s Form O-96 that had to be religiously filled out at the end of every meal.

Roberto arrived holding a tray with one hand. He held the tray out to Rod. “Excuse me, sir. This is from the table of young ladies.”

Rod glanced at the table. The blond lifted her glass. The redhead giggled.

Rod nodded at the young women and picked up the napkin. “Thank you.” He unfolded it. Written in perfect script, in lipstick, was “9 PM—THE LOBBY?”

“What’s it say?” Fred grabbed for the napkin.

Rod swept it away, lifting his glass instead to the girl’s table. He nodded and smiled at the blond, who returned his toast.

Fred looked back and forth, from Rod to the table of woman. “What’s that about?”

Mr. Delante rocked back in his seat and dabbed with his napkin at his mouth. He looked amused. “I think Rod has some good news.”

Rod turned to Fred and said in a low voice. “They want to meet us in the lobby in forty minutes.”

Fred’s eyes lit up. “All four of them?”

“Fat chance. The blonde and the redhead. What do you think?”

“The blonde—”

“I saw her first,” Rod said. “She’s interested in me.”

Fred didn’t argue. “Redheads are fine. Very fine.” He started cutting his steak with fervor. “I’m not particular, and besides, think she’ll enjoy my flying stories?”

Mr. Delante pushed his plate forward and said to Roberto, “Grand Marnier, make it a double. Neat.” He patted his chest and pulled out a cigar. “And make sure that table of young ladies keep their glasses filled with champagne, on me.”

“Yes, sir,” Roberto nodded as he left for the bar.

Mr. Delante took a long smell of the cigar, pulled a cigar cutter from his jacket, and delicately cut off the tip. Wetting it slightly, he lit the cigar. Blue smoke swirled to the ceiling. “Gentlemen, enjoy yourselves tonight. My treat.” He pointed the cigar at Fred. “And you, son, remember this lifestyle. Exploit the Academy, your education.”

They finished their meal and passed up dessert, opting instead to head straight to the lobby. The girls were still involved in intimate conversation. It appeared that they didn’t see the cadets leave, but moments after reaching the high-vaulted foyer, Rod spotted the blond and redhead stepping down the stairs.

Rod pulled himself up and straightened his tie.

The two girls looked elegant. The red wallpaper behind them accented their dresses. They moved past gold lined mirrors, paintings of old San Francisco and dark wood paneling before reaching the lobby area, gently swaying as they walked.

“Man, oh, man,” Fred breathed.

Rod felt his hands grow slick with sweat, and it was hard to focus. Wiping his hand on his trousers, he stepped up to the young ladies. “How do you do? I’m Cadet Rod Simone and this is my roommate Cadet Fred Delante.”

“Hello, Cadet Simone.” The blonde looked slightly amused as she shook Rod’s hand.

Her touch was soft and warm. The faint smell of perfume wafted from her.

“This is exciting,” she said. “I love your accent. Are you French?”

“No, we’re American,” Rod smiled.

“Thank you for the champagne. I don’t think I’ve ever met a real live cadet before.”

“Neither have I,” the redhead said. She said coyly, “I’m Trish Belmont. This is my friend Barbara.”

“Barbara Richardson,” murmured the blonde.

As Barbara looked them over, Rod was lost in her blonde hair and her intense, ice-blue eyes; they were the most amazing color he’d ever seen.

“What kind of cadets are you?” Barbara said. “The waiter was confused.” Her voice was low and incredibly sexy.

“Air Force,” Rod said.

Barbara ran a hand down his jacket. “I don’t recognize these uniforms.”

“They’re not actually uniforms,” Rod said. “We’re supposed to wear this when we’re off campus. And it’s the United State Air Force Academy. You know, the new military academy in Colorado?”

Trish frowned and looked at Fred. “Are you going to go to college when your hitch is up?”

Fred cocked his head. “Excuse me?”

“The Academy is like West Point,” Rod said, as tough as it was for him to make the comparison to the inconsequential trade school. “Or Annapolis, except it’s for the Air Force. It’s a major university.”

“So you take classes?” Trish said, still confused.

“Calculus, Economics, Engineering Mechanics, English, Chemistry, and Military Studies,” Rod said. “And that was just our first semester.”

“I’ve heard of it,” Barbara said. “What’s your major?”

“General engineering. We don’t have specific majors since the curriculum is so broad, just concentrations.”

“Fascinating.” Barbara put her arm through Rod’s and steered him to the lounge, leaving Fred and Trish behind. “You must be having an incredible experience there.”

“It’s been intense. Almost too much so,” Rod said. “Did you know that Cecil B. DeMille designed our uniforms?”

“These?” Barbara lifted an eyebrow.

“Not these. The ones we wear at school. In fact, his first designs were so outlandish that some of the officers proposed that we wear breast plates and shields, a take-off on the old gladiator, jock-straps and spears routine.”

Barbara laughed and drew him near.

As they left he caught a glimpse of Fred making small talk with Trish.
Good luck, roomie. You’re on your own now.

They found a corner in the lounge and sat in high-backed, red leather chairs that were next to a polished wood table and a brass floor lamp. Glasses tinkled in the background. People spoke in muted voices. An impressionist painting of two small girls holding hands, standing by a river, and dressed in summer dresses was behind Barbara.

Barbara flipped a handful of blond hair over her shoulder as she crossed her long, tanned legs. As she leaned forward, Rod caught a glimpse down her dress, and felt a sudden loss of breath when he saw the swell of her breasts.

He cleared his throat. “So, how do you know about the Academy?”

“If you want to fly, that’s the place to be.”

“That’s why I’m there. And how about you? Do you want to fly?”

She smiled. “I thought about it. But flying is a technical skill. I don’t want to be a bus driver.”

Rod felt mildly annoyed, so he changed subjects. “Where do you go to school?”

“Stanford, I’m a journalism major. We’re celebrating finishing our freshman year.”

“So are we, in a way. I mean that’s why we’re out here. And after Stanford?”

“I’ll head up to Seattle, or out to St. Louis.”

“St. Louis? After living near San Francisco? What’s out there?”

“MacDac. Besides writing for the trade rags, the cities near McDonnell Douglas and Boeing have the best aviation journalism jobs in the country. I want to make it to the top, and to get there I need to go where the action is.”

Rod nodded. “So you’re going after the big bucks.”

“No, I want to make a difference. And nothing is going to stop me.”

He blinked. “Make a difference.”