The Cadet (24 page)

Rod kept swinging as the cadets pulled them apart. They pinned his arms to his side as someone grabbed him in a bear hug, keeping the two away from each other.

The door slammed against the stop as it opened; Lieutenant Ranch strode into the room.

“Atten’hut!”

Rod stopped struggling, but kept a wary eye on Fred as the cadets slowly straightened.

Ranch glared around the room. “What’s going on?” He waited a moment, but no one spoke. He pressed his lips together as he assessed the situation, which was obvious from Rod and Fred’s heavy breathing, the disheveled uniforms. He nodded to himself.

“You heard the Chairman,” Ranch said. “Leave the room while the board deliberates. Do either of you have a problem with that?”

“No, sir,” Rod and Fred said, out of breath.

“Then carry on.” Ranch turned and exited the room, this time leaving the door wide open behind him.

“Sergeant-at-Arms, escort Cadet Delante to the Vice Dean’s office,” the Chairman said. He pointed at one of the Board members. “You. Escort Cadet Simone.”

Rod was taken back to the Dean’s waiting room, which served as a holding area for the witnesses. Fred was taken in the opposite direction.

Rubbing a tender spot on his head, Rod was glad that he didn’t have to testify against his roommate again. It had been hard enough enduring the sullen looks of betrayal from Fred the past few days. Still feeling nauseous, Rod just hoped that the ordeal would end swiftly.

It took an hour, but Rod was called back into the wood-paneled conference room.

They then waited for Fred to appear.

O O O

“Cadet Delante, remain standing.”

Fred looked straight ahead, a stony look on his face.

Rod sat at attention in the back of the room, trying to quell his anger at Fred.

The Chairman read formally from a sheet of paper. “Cadet Third class Delante, the Board finds you guilty of violating the cadet Honor Code on four accounts: stealing from your classmates; lying about your authorized status; lying about being in a car accident; and lying when confronted about the accusations.

“You have acted with egregious disregard for the spirit and the letter of the Honor Code. You have violated the trust of your peers. It is the opinion of this board that you are no longer fit to serve as a cadet at the United States Air Force Academy.”

The Chairman put down the paper. “We request your immediate resignation.”

Rod held his breath. He wasn’t sure what would happen if Fred refused, especially if Mr. Delante would stand behind him. For all Rod knew, Mr. Delante might bring in a team of high-powered lawyers and fight the decision. That would mire the Academy in controversy for the next decade.

Looking directly at Rod, Fred said, “You can have your damn resignation.”

“I take it that this is a formal request to resign?”

“You got it.” He kept his eyes locked with Rod, glaring.

“Very well,” said the Chairman. Rod broke his stare with Fred and noticed that the Chairman’s hands shook, but his voice was strong. “Sergeant-at-Arms, escort Cadet Delante to the Command Post. Retain him there until his squadron packs his personal items, then immediately escort him off the Academy grounds. The air police will escort him off Lowry Air Force Base.”

The Honor Board Chairman turned back to Fred. “Cadet Delante, you are forever banished from the United States Air Force Academy. As any other civilian, you are not allowed access to the cadet area, and you are never to return unless this Board finding is overturned, as your case will be submitted to the Secretary of the Air Force for final adjudication. Any items not packed by your squadron will be shipped to your home of record.” He paused, the act complete. “Mr. Delante, you are dismissed.”

Fred wavered, as if he was going to say something, but he simply clenched his fists. He finally gave each cadet an insolent look, then turned and left the room.

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.

***