The Cadet (41 page)

He felt his anger grow that George Delante would do something so despicable; Delante had known all the time what he had done to Rod’s father! And to think that he had even bought him dinner in San Francisco, that night he’d met Barbara! He turned to glare at Fred. Did he know about this as well?

George slowly shook his head and laughed, but it lacked force. “Nice try, Mrs. McCluney, but if Congress had any real evidence, then why did they drop my investigation? It sounds like Barbie Mitchell took someone for a ride, missy!” He looked at Hank with a triumphant grin.

Rod turned to his mother; she closed her eyes and slowly moved her head back and forth.

Hank turned to George and spoke with a quiet voice. “Mrs. McCluney is too much of a lady to tell you that it was she who obtained that evidence from Miss Mitchell; a former federal prosecutor taped her admission. It’s over, Delante. The evidence is overwhelming and you’ll suffer the consequences.”

George took a step backward. His eyes darted from Hank to Mary; he moistened his lips. “That whore is lying. You’re lying! Otherwise … otherwise why would Congress drop the case?”

“Because they’ve handed it over to a grand jury,” Hank said. “In fact, we learned today that a federal indictment will be levied against you, felony charges to defraud the government.” He narrowed his eyes. “And I’m sure they’d also want to know what you said about the alleged evidence that was found around my house; especially since Rafelli’s murder hasn’t come to trial. The court records are sealed, Delante. No one has access to them. Yet, you have detailed knowledge about evidence that only the police would know, or the DA’s office, so some may suspect you had a hand in planting it.”

George’s face turned red. He took several deep breaths and looked from Mary to Hank. He started to tremble as he jabbed the air with a finger. “You’d better watch your back, McCluney. You won’t have your little woman to rescue you next time.”

Rod straightened.
Watch your back.
He’d heard those words before.…

“There won’t be a next time,” Mary said. She brought up the hose. “On your way.”

George sputtered, then looked as if he were going to retort, but instead turned and tapped down the stairs. Fred followed, splashing in puddles of water.

Mary kept the hose pointed at the two as they left. Only when the door at the bottom of the stairwell slammed did she lower the hose. Her shoulders slumped.

Rod drew in a breath and looked at his parents. Mary stepped down the stairs and hugged her husband. Rod watched them for a moment, trying to comprehend all that had just happened. His back and side were sore from the scuffle with Fred, but it looked as though his father had not been injured during the fight.

How did George Delante know about the cane and boot prints? The police and DA would never have told him that, and as Hank said, it wasn’t in the public record; the assistant DA, Darius Moore, said so himself. If Delante stooped so low to blackmail his father, would he also go as far as illegally obtaining sealed court records … or even planting fake evidence? He remembered that his father had told him about misplacing his cane and ranch boot; had they and Mom’s shotgun actually been stolen and not lost?

Rod turned and stared, seeing his father in a new light. He’d been blinded all these years, relying on a memory of what he thought he’d seen in a dark hotel hallway when he was still a child.

He shivered, nearly overwhelmed by the thought that all these years he had doubted his father’s trustworthiness; his loyalty and faithfulness. And he remembered all the years when he had the chance but refused to listen.

But it was his mother’s tenacity that struck him the most—not only in standing up to Mr. Delante and Fred, but in her faith in Hank and their marriage, as well as her role in gaining evidence of his father’s innocence. He was sure she’d now pursue George Delante’s knowledge of the evidence in Rafelli’s murder like a bulldog.

His thoughts were shattered when Julie’s voice echoed down the stairwell. “Rod! Walk me around to the front of the building. There’s no way I’m going down these wet stairs.”

Rod stood still for a long moment watching his parents, then slowly started walking up the steps. His parents were still in an embrace; he squeezed his father’s shoulder as he passed.

Julie stood well back on the landing. As he approached she grabbed his arm and whispered, “And I thought you led an exciting life. I can’t wait to get married and meet the rest of your relatives!”

***

Chapter Forty-Four

“It’s Just a Matter of Time”

May 1959

Pine Valley Officer’s Housing

USAF Academy, CO

A useless life is an early death.

—Goethe, “Iphigenie” I:2

Smoke curled from a cylindrical barbecue pit grill as the seniors in Rod’s squadron gathered at Captain Ranch’s house for a farewell barbeque. To reminisce with their classmates they’d each brought an item that had been important to them over the past four years: Rod’s bagpipes, Sly’s golf clubs, Jeff Goldstein’s basketball, George Sanders’ origami collection, and one of Manuel Rojo’s red chile ristras.

Carrying a bottle of beer and dressed in blue slacks and a checked short-sleeve shirt, Captain Ranch looked as though he’d just stepped out of an ad in Gentlemen’s Quarterly, rather than presenting the spit-and-polish image of an AOC. Since he’d put off attending pilot training for a year, as weird as it might seem, their AOC would be their classmate in pilot training this coming summer.

Captain Ranch waved to Rod. “Over here!”

“Yes, sir.” Rod carried his beer bottle as Captain Ranch led him away from the group of squadron Firsties. Captain Ranch’s new home in Pine Valley was the first of a dozen to house officers assigned to the USAFA. The Rampart Range was a stone’s throw from his backyard.

Captain Ranch stopped by a Douglas fir. He sipped his drink, surveying the cadets. Sly, Manuel Rojo, and Jeff Goldstein played horse on a backyard basketball hoop; wearing his trademark cowboy hat, George Sanders juggled three bottles of beer while chewing on a wad of tobacco.

“Your class has come a long way, Rod.”

“Thank you, sir. I’m going to miss the guys.”

“So will I.” He pointed with his beer bottle to the row of new cars lined up along the street. “Who would have thought four years could go so fast?”

“It didn’t go by that fast, sir,” Rod said slowly. He remembered thinking that he’d be here forever. Especially those days trudging across the Terrazzo, when the snow blew so hard he couldn’t see the dorm through the blinding white, incredibly cold blizzards.

“You’ll forget the bad times—most of them, anyway—and remember the good. Memories tend to get better the longer you’ve been away.”

Rod sipped his beer. “I hope so.”

“I heard your father was cleared by the congressional investigation, and the DA as well.”

“Yes, sir. The El Paso County Sheriff has some suspects for that reporter’s murder. The investigation took a pretty rapid turn after the DA’s office fired Darius Moore and brought in a new prosecutor,” Rod said.
All catalyzed by Mom camping out in the DA’s office for a few weeks.
“Things have settled down quite a bit.”

“That’s great. Please give my regards to your father; I can only imagine the stress he’s been through.” Captain Ranch turned to him. “How’s Julie?”

“Fine, sir. We’re having a small family wedding. Her parents are flying in for June week, and Sly and I will be each other’s best man for our weddings. We’re holding them back-to-back, immediately after graduation.”

“Congratulations. Her pregnancy’s going well?”

“As well as expected. She’s not due for another few weeks.”

“And when do you start Stanford?”

A stinging memory of Barbara swept through Rod’s mind, but he pushed it away. He knew that she’d have graduated and would be long gone when he showed up. Besides, he had Julie now and would soon have a new baby.

“Two weeks after the baby’s due, then on to pilot training a year later, once I finish the master’s.”

“So Julie’s still in good spirits?” Captain Ranch said.

“Yes, sir.”

Ranch folded his arms and mused. “It wasn’t until this spring that I finally figured out she had been pulling Captain Whitney’s leg with her southern belle routine.”

Rod coughed. “She’s a free spirit, sir. That’s for certain.” His mind raced, wondering why his AOC was taking such an interest in her. “Is anything the matter, sir?”

Captain Ranch took another sip of beer. “I suppose you know Julie’s father is very well connected, both politically and militarily.”

“I didn’t know he was an Ambassador until after I met him. Is that a problem?”

Ranch shook his head. “No, it’s not. You and Julie are both of age, and I’m especially glad to hear that Ambassador Phillips will be coming out for the wedding.”

Rod looked puzzled. “I don’t understand.”

“A few months ago Ambassador Phillips contacted the Superintendent and tried to apply pressure to have him not allow you to graduate with your class … and to cancel the wedding. Conduct unbecoming an officer and gentleman.” He took a long pull on his beer. “It’s about her pregnancy.”

Rod felt a cold chill run through him. “Can he do that?”

“No. As long as you’re not married now, there’s nothing we can do, or should do, for that matter. You haven’t done anything wrong as far as the Academy is concerned.”

“Wow.” Rod slumped against the tree.

Captain Ranch finished off his beer; he pointed the bottle at Rod. “Be careful. You’re in a fishbowl, and believe it or not, things will only get worse after you graduate. Your class will hit the Air Force and everyone will be looking to see how well you perform and behave.”

Rod shook his head. “I didn’t know Ambassador Phillips would do that, sir.”

“Put it behind you. In another few weeks you’ll be a second lieutenant and off on your new career. Just hit the ground running.”

A wildly thrown basketball bounced their way. Captain Ranch stepped forward and scooped it up. He heaved it back and started for the house. “From that smoke coming from the grill I think I’d better help.” He put a hand on Rod’s shoulder. “Do the Air Force well. We’re lucky to have men like you.”

“Thank you, sir.” Rod waited for a moment, standing by the Douglas fir. His classmates laughed as George Sanders tried to hit a distant tree with a wad of chewing tobacco; they looked as though they didn’t have a care in the world.

In another week, they’d scatter to the winds, taking their common experience of the last four years with them. After working their way up from basic cadets to Firsties, once again they’d have to start over, but this time at the bottom of the rung in the officer corps.

It was tough knowing that he’d have to support a wife and baby while attending graduate school, and it didn’t help having an Ambassador engage with the Superintendent, meddling in his life. But these problems all seemed small with the relief he felt at finally coming to terms with his father. From that time Hank had rescued him as a little boy in France, to the advice he’d given him throughout the years, now that Rod was assured of Hank’s unwavering morals, he felt a deep, inner peace that he hadn’t felt for years.

Sly’s shout pulled him from his thoughts. “Hey, Rod, break out your pipes!” Holding a three iron from his bag of golf clubs, Sly waved him over. “Captain Ranch has some practice balls and I want to see if I can hit any mountain lions from his backyard!”

Rod grinned as he finished his beer and strode toward his classmates.

Thank goodness nothing could go wrong before he graduated.

***

Chapter Forty-Five

“Tragedy”

May 26th, 1959

USAF Academy Construction Site

Colorado Springs CO

He hath shook hands with time.

—John Ford,
The Broken Heart
, V:2

“You be careful up there. I didn’t preflight your aircraft, but my partner took care of everything when he topped off the fuel.” Jim-Tom Henderson patted Hank’s arm, then slammed the door shut to the small plane. He leaned into the window, his words twilling over his bushy gray mustache. “The winds are nasty this afternoon. And I don’t care if you flew in WWII, you stay away from those mountains!” He spat off to the side. “Personally, I’d wait until tomorrow, General. Those thermals are unforgiving.”

“Yes, sir,” Hank said. “But they’re closing the airspace in preparation for June week—there will be too many tourists and dignitaries in the area to fly tomorrow. If I don’t get up there now, I won’t be able to fly again until after my son graduates.”

The old airfield manager pounded on the door. “Then be careful, dammit!”

Hank chuckled as he gave Jim-Tom a wave.

The engine turned over and revved up to speed. Hank ran a finger over the dials. The RPM meter looked stuck. Strange. He gave it a whack and the needle sprang to the right. Grunting, Hank completed checking out the instruments. He planned on landing well before nightfall, but with the weather changing so fast in Colorado, he wouldn’t chance flying without his instruments.

He gave a thumbs up to Jim-Tom. The old man spat to the side, then stood at attention and held a salute.

Startled, Hank saluted back. It had been years since he had been given the honor. It brought back a flood of memories of him flying out of England: the smell of gasoline permeating the flight-line, the whirl of propellers, the RAF squadron leader open-hand saluting the Americans as they flew off to war. Jim-Tom was the type of guy who would respect that.

He taxied down the end of the runway, and pushed the throttle forward. Moments later, he rocked his wings over the airfield and banked for the new Academy site, performing one last flyover before Rod left.

Hank gripped the controls as he bounced around the cockpit. The air was choppy and the instrument dials flitted from one reading to another. He grunted, trying to keep the small plane steady as the engine sputtered, then caught.

The Academy rose up in front of him as shadows from the Rampart Range crept over the campus. Hank could see the taillights from the cars of the faculty and staff as they streamed down the Academy’s roads, looking like a river of red as they drove from the cadet area.

Hank banked the plane over the main campus, struggling with the yoke. As the plane turned, it suddenly dropped fifty feet, then just as rapidly rose a hundred. Once again the engine sputtered, but it roared back to life; the RPM meter fluctuated then settled down.

Although the sky itself was clear, he knew the air turbulence was caused by a superposition of forces: the last of the afternoon thermals—patchy, hot air—rising from the site; the cool mountain wind roiling over the Rampart Range; and the turbulent cross winds that swept around Pike’s Peak and tumbled onto the plain.

Hank wheeled high over the academic building. Incredible. He saw cadets marching across the Terrazzo, lining up for the flag ceremony at the end of the day. In a few minutes he knew a lone bugle would blow across the campus and the flag would be lowered and carefully folded, protected and stored for tomorrow’s new day. His son was somewhere down there; Hank wondered if Rod would see the plane and suspect that it was him.

June Week was coming quickly to the Academy. President Eisenhower and his wife Mamie had flown into Peterson Field on May 17th, less than three weeks before and had been escorted to the Broadmoor Hotel. The President had made a whirlwind tour of the Academy and had spoken to the cadets, apologizing for not being able to make it to the graduation.

A dream fulfilled. It looked so peaceful below him, serene and natural, as if the Academy had always been part of the country’s heritage—revealing none of the political fighting, the crowds demonstrating, the backstabbing, the congressional hearings, the maneuvering, and convincing that it had taken to establish the site.

He would have given anything to be a cadet. Instead, in some ways he felt like Moses, leading the Air Force to the Academy, but never being able to enjoy the fruits of his labor by living in the Promised Land. But he knew that next week when Rod marched onto the parade field for the very last time for his graduation ceremony, that he’d live the experience through his son.

Most importantly, because that row with Delante had finally cleared the air with Rod, he hadn’t felt this close to his son since that day he had been shot down over Cahors, and had rescued the lad from that burning inferno. And ever since the DA had suddenly pulled Darius Moore off the case, his life was finally back to normal—thanks largely to Mary.

But despite her admonishment for him to leave Delante be, he was looking forward to finding out just how George knew about the evidence, and if there was any connection between him and Captain Whitney. Someone must have motivated Whitney to provide Rod that driver and staff car against the Superintendent’s specific instructions.

Hank suspected Delante. He didn’t have proof, but he would after speaking to General Briggs about Captain Whitney’s behavior. He’d wait until Rod graduated so he wouldn’t pull the lad into it; still, it gave him satisfaction knowing that he would eventually tie up all the loose ends.

He swept over the site from the south for a final look.

He spotted movement.
Was that an intruder?
He flew lower.

Barely visible in the dusk, Hank saw that a car was parked at the bottom of the long ramp leading up to the campus. At the base of the Bring Me Men ramp, three men were kneeling in the empty parking lot. Their heads were bowed. It looked as if they were praying.
Praying?

The plane swept west over the quarter mile long cadet dorm, then bounced as he turned north and hit more turbulence over the athletic fields. He started to pull the plane around for one last pass, when a gust of wind drove him down. He struggled with the controls, forcing the small plane up as he fought the wind current. The plane shook violently and again the engine coughed. That’s strange, Jim-Tom had said his partner had topped off the fuel.

He banked, trying to turn east, across the athletic fields and away from the turbulence, when he felt the plane drop, as though a giant hand was pressing him down, squashing him to the ground.

A ridge of hills rose up before him. Scrub brush, pine, and Douglas fir whizzed by. A prairie falcon flittered past his windshield, nearly colliding with the plane when the craft tilted and flipped to the side.

Hank struggled to pull up, but the engine coughed and grew still, as if out of fuel.

He fought for control but the aircraft didn’t respond. The plane’s nose dipped. The cockpit was quiet, with only the sound of wind rushing past. He clicked the starter, but nothing happened.

In the still silence he heard the sound of distant artillery, the muffled booms of explosive rounds detonating around him; he smelled burning gasoline, wires sizzling, rubber smoldering; he saw faint lights from small, French towns below and the flash of exploding fuel tanks, and burning farm houses as he ordered his crew to bail out.…

With a start he heard the dull, screeching sound of his plane brushing against the tops of pine trees.

He saw the hillside at dusk, a silhouette of the Air Force Academy lighting up the sky for the very last time.

***