by Bob Mayer
The words echoed in her ears and she heard Boomer say them. It was something all Special Forces men seemed to have in common. Trace started as an explosion roared off to her left, bumping into Rison. He steadied her with his free hand. Smoke drifted across the field from the Navy cannon. The score was tied and the cheers from the brigade across the field were deafening.
"Who do you think is after you?" Trace asked, remembering the men in her living room.
"The Line knows about me, and it knows that I know about it. We have maintained a very uneasy truce over the years."
"How have you managed that?" Trace asked.
"My knowledge of The Line won't die if I die. In fact, the way I set things up, my knowledge becomes public knowledge, and The Line doesn't want that. A lot of people in many places would be hurt if information about The Line became public. However," he added, "it appears that you and your friends in Hawaii might have upset that delicate balance."
Rison turned his gaze back to the field. "I served twenty-one years. I was like you. Or like I think you might be," Rison amended, noting the ring on her finger. "I believed. I still do actually. In this country, that is. But I no longer believe in West Point or the Army."
He huddled close, his words a steady drumming on her ears, overlaid with the noise of the crowd. "I never even heard of the Line until I was in Vietnam. I arrived in country for my second tour in late 'sixty-seven. I was placed in command of the Special Operations branch of MACV- SOG. That's Military Assistance Group Vietnam, Studies and Observation Group. Basically every man wearing a green beanie in-country answered to me. And that's why The Line approached me."
"They never liked Special Forces. In fact, they hated us. Still do, I suppose. SF was Kennedy's baby, but until Vietnam got going hot and heavy, we weren't something the regular Army folks had to worry about. As commander of SF in Vietnam I had about 2,000 Americans under my command. But Special Forces' primary mission was to be a force multiplier. When you counted the indigs—indigenous troops that we basically trained and controlled—it was a whole different matter entirely and that's why The Line came to me."
He paused as the crowd cheered the Army fullback who broke through the Navy line and rambled for thirty yards before being dragged down from behind.
"There was a wide variety of people working under our structure. We had the CIDG—Civilian Irregular Defense Group—about 45,000 strong but pretty much worthless in a stand-up fight; our mobile strike forces, about 10,000 strong, and some of those were ass-kicking troops, mainly the Montagnards in the hills; and various other units we ran. I was in command of the third largest friendly force in South Vietnam behind the ARVN and the regular U.S. Army. And in 'sixty-seven and 'sixty-eight The Line needed our cooperation."
Rison seemed to return to the present, and he looked at Trace's attentive face. "You don't need to hear all that. Suffice it to say I was approached. They sent one of my classmates. He was a one-star. Assistant division commander of the Americal Division. I listened to his plans. He gave me all the details, but left it to me to figure out what the details added up to. Boy, that son of a bitch laid it on sweet and heavy and threw so much bullshit in to the air, I almost didn't see the big picture."
Rison's voice turned angry. "They were keeping the war going. That was it. That was their only goal. They didn't really want to win. They certainly didn't want to lose. The war was just too damn good to let go of. For the officers it was a career ticket punch, but this asshole justified it by saying that it kept our forces in 'fighting trim.' Jesus those were the exact words he used: 'fighting trim.' I wonder when the last time he went out to the field was. That war destroyed our Army. It destroyed it long before we pulled out in 'seventy-three."
"And, of course, there was all the money to be made manufacturing the gadgets to fight the damn thing. That they justified too. I found out Korea was the same. That's why I told you about finding my classmate. You can't test weapons systems adequately without a war, after all. And if a lot of those weapon systems, such as helicopters, happen to get destroyed and we have to pump more money into the companies making them, well, so much the better."
"And do you know how many West Pointers there are working in the defense industry? How many ring-knockers are sitting in boardrooms of companies that supply the tools we use to fight? And of course they justify it with reasons other than profits: got to keep those companies in business to keep our defense industry strong. We must 'maintain the structural integrity of our military-industrial capability.' That's what one of my classmates told me.
"That hillside in Korea was the beginning of the end for me, but it took me twenty years to find out. Vietnam was . . ." Rison paused and collected himself. "Skibicki can tell you what happened in Vietnam." He looked her in the eye. "Why do you want to know about The Line?"
"We think there might be something planned in Hawaii during the President's visit next week," Trace answered. "Maybe some attempt to discredit the Administration."
Rison snorted. "I wouldn't put it past the sons of bitches to kill the President." He ignored Trace's shock. "They think they're fucking God. Makes sense with all that's going on, the MRA and the cutbacks. I'm surprised they waited this long. You need proof right?"
Trace was glad that Rison was getting to the heart of the matter. His talk of Korea and Vietnam had frightened her. The thought that she was up against an organization that had controlled history shook her to the core and was far beyond the depth of the worst fears she had conjured up flying here. "Yes, sir."
The crowd was going crazy. Army had the ball, first and goal at the three. The wishbone was lining up, pointed toward the end zone.
Rison gave a broad grin, the first time Trace had seen the troubled look slip from his face. He handed her a sealed envelope. "You're going to have to go back to West Point. It's all there. What they were always afraid I would reveal."
His grin turned to a surprised look as the Army cannon boomed, celebrating the successful sweep into the end zone. A red splotch appeared on his chest and he sagged into Trace's arm. "Go!" he hissed.
Harry was there, lifting the colonel out of her arms, his eyes flashing around the crowd. "You'd better run, missy. They're here."
Trace turned helplessly, staring at the crowd that stretched up above her. Where was the gunman? She turned back. Harry had his arm around Rison, practically lifting him off his feet and was heading for one of the tunnels off the field. She spotted three men in long dark military coats making their way toward the two. She spun in the other direction. Two similarly dressed men were coming toward her along the Army sideline. There was no way out.
Trace sprinted forward and grabbed one of the female rabble rousers. "Old grad rocket," she yelled at the young girl, showing her her ring and pointing at her twelfth man sweatshirt. The rabble rouser caught the idea and relayed it to the other cheerleaders. "Old grad rocket!" they bellowed out through their megaphone.
Trace glanced over her shoulder as she stepped in among the rabble rousers. The two men were halted by her sudden noticeability. Trace put her arms at her side and faced the Corps which had just finished cheering the second Army touchdown of the day.
The head rabble rouser let out a long whistle through his sound system as Trace slowly brought her arms up over her head. She reached the top, then dropped them. The Corps roared out "BOOM!" She continued on, leading the cheer as best as she could remember, following the lead of the rabble rouser next to her.
"Ahh. USMA, Rah! Rah!
USMA, Rah! Rah!
USMA, Rah! Rah!
Hoo-Rah! Hoo-Rah!
AR-MAY! Rah!
Team! Team! Team!"
The Corps exploded in applause as the cheer finished, but Trace was at a loss. There was only so long she could hide in plain sight.
"Pass her up!" somebody yelled and Trace knew the way out. She ran forward to the four foot wall at the base of the stands, above which the Corps stood. Two large cadets leaned over and grabbed her, pullin
g her up. They lifted her overhead and Trace was passed overhead, floating above the Corps, supported by their arms.
She didn't even feel the hands that groped her. Her mind was numb, stunned by what had just happened. She rode above the field of gray dressed cadets to the top of their section. She staggered as she was put down on the ground. She spun about. Which way to go? The two men were trying to follow but they were hopelessly caught in the mass of celebrating cadets thirty rows below.
A walkway beckoned, leading outside. Trace instinctively headed for it. The roar of the crowd was muted as she went through the tunnel. Trace ran along the outside ramp that circumscribed the stadium, occasionally bumping into the wall, looking over her shoulder. She was operating on automatic, fleeing, not sure where to go or what to do. She just had to get away. Rison was shot and what he had told her about The Line was overwhelming.
"Just go," she whispered to herself. "Just go."
Exiting the stadium proved to be much simpler than entering—no ticket required. The game was still in progress and despite the Army lead, Trace knew the crowd would stay until the end, then disperse to tailgate and hotel parties all over Philadelphia.
She slipped out the same gate she'd entered the stadium, looking over her shoulder constantly for the men in raincoats. She paused on the sidewalk outside the stadium. Where had she parked? It took an effort for her to remember. Tenth Street. She looked back at the stadium. No sirens. No police. No ambulances. What was going on?
She felt her pocket as she moved quickly down Tenth Street, toward downtown Philadelphia. The envelope Rison had given her was still there. No time for that now. She turned right onto Oregon Avenue and spotted the rental car where she had left it. As she started the car, she again wondered why she wasn't hearing sirens heading to the stadium.
Trace started the car and turned right onto Fifth Street. Checking the rearview mirror she saw no one in pursuit. "Just keep going," she whispered to herself, her hands gripping the steering wheel with a death grip.
A sign beckoned for 1-95. It penetrated Trace's shock. North. Mrs. Howard was north along 1-95. West Point was also north but that was thinking too far ahead.
The white line on the side of the interstate was her focus. As each mile passed and she slipped out of the city limits of Philadelphia, her emotions slowed down and doubt crept in. Should she have run? What had happened to Rison? Was he dead? Did Harry get him out? Who were the men in the raincoats? Were they The Line?
Crossing the Delaware River into New Jersey, Trace had to stop at the rest area. She parked at the far end, away from the other cars. Leaning her head forward on the steering wheel, she collected herself.
After an hour, she was able to pull the map out of her bag and check it. Mrs. Howard was in a nursing home in Princeton, about ten miles north. Trace checked her watch. It should still be visiting hours. With a steadier hand she started the car engine.
CHAPTER 15
PRINCETON, NEW JERSEY
2 DECEMBER
5:12 p.m. LOCAL/ 2212 ZULU
"Visiting hours end at five," the nurse said, barely glancing up from her novel.
"I just flew in from Hawaii," Trace said. "Could I see Mrs. Howard for a minute?"
The nurse looked at her clipboard, looked at Trace, then stood. "Let me get Mrs. Johnson, my supervisor."
Trace fidgeted at the counter. She knew she should call Boomer and check in. Why had Rison said she would have to go to West Point? What was there? Trace knew she should have looked in the envelope he'd given her by now, but she just wasn't ready.
A distinguished looking black woman appeared at Trace's elbow. "Excuse me, I'm Mrs. Johnson, the shift supervisor. I understand you're looking for someone?"
"Yes, Mrs. Howard," Trace said, exasperated at the inefficiency, piled on top of what had happened today.
"Are you a relative?"
"No, I'm an old friend. I met her a couple of months ago and I was in the area, and I thought I'd stop by."
"Ah, that explains it," Mrs. Johnson said. She reached out and lightly laid her hand on Trace's arm. "I'm sorry to tell you that Mrs. Howard passed away last week."
"Passed away?" Trace dully repeated.
Mrs. Johnson glanced at the nurse and gently drew Trace away from the counter. "It was quite tragic. We think the fire must have started when Mrs. Howard fell asleep smoking in bed. We warn our patients about that, but there are some things you just can't control."
Trace didn't remember Mrs. Howard smoking. As a matter of fact, she remembered Mrs. Howard having an oxygen tank next to her bed and using it often throughout their conversation. Not exactly something congruous with someone who would smoke in bed. "This happened when?" she asked.
"Late Wednesday night," Mrs. Johnson said. "The body was shipped to New York. A distant cousin, I believe." She pulled out a notepad. "May I have your name please?"
Wednesday night. The men had broken into her house on Thursday morning, Hawaii time. That equaled early Wednesday evening East Coast time. Mrs. Howard's name and address had been in the notes that had been stolen from her desk.
Trace remembered what Boomer had said about coincidences. She turned and walked away from Mrs. Johnson, straight out the door, and got into the car and drove. If The Line was willing to kill an old lady in her sleep, this was not a place to be giving her name.
She didn't notice Mrs. Johnson standing at the doors, writing down the license number of her car as she pulled out of the parking lot. The woman then walked back to her office and retrieved a file folder from a locked cabinet. She checked a card clipped to the front of the folder and dialed the number.
When the phone was picked up on the other end, she spoke quickly, excited to be taking part in something she had seen only on television. "Agent Fields?" Getting an affirmative response, she rushed on. "Someone stopped in to see Mrs. Howard and I'm calling you like you asked me to. She wouldn't leave her name, but I did get her license number."
Mrs. Johnson relayed the number and then answered questions posed to her by the man on the other end, describing Trace and the car as best she could. She was a bit disappointed when the man hung up on her with only a curt thanks. She'd expected more from the nice young man from the National Security Agency who had taken Mrs. Howard's body and briefed her that this involved the country's security and to call him if anyone showed up inquiring about Mrs. Howard.
Twenty miles away, Trace stopped at the first motel she could find, numbly signing the guest registration and taking the key. She carried her bags into the room and locked the door, making sure the deadbolt and chain were on. She stripped off her clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor, then her sweatshirt on top. She turned the shower on, the water steaming hot, and stepped in.
As the drops pounded on her skin she remembered the old lady, lying in her bed with a comforter tucked up around her frail chin, telling her story of war fifty years ago and the death of a young husband whose picture was in a frame next to the bed. And now she was dead. The tears came and Trace pounded the wall in her mixture of grief and anger.
***
Trace pulled Rison's letter out of the pocket of the shirt she had worn under the sweatshirt. She was tucked up in the bed, the blankets pulled tight around her, the only light coming from the lamp on the nightstand. She could hear the rumble of traffic from the interstate. She'd tried calling Boomer twenty minutes earlier, but there'd been no answer at Maggie's house.
Trace slit open the top of the envelope and removed several pieces of paper. The cover letter was handwritten, the letters firmly formed.
***
I first became aware of the existence of a secret organization inside the Army in 1969 when I was in command of C.I.S. Special Operations forces in the Republic of Vietnam. I was approached by a classmate of mine—Brigadier General Matthew Broderine. The first two meetings I had with him at my headquarters in Nha Trang left me confused. I was uncertain why the assistant division command of the Americal Division wan
ted to talk to me and he did not make the purpose of his visits clear to me until our third meeting on April 12, 1969. In retrospect, I assume the first two meetings were to feel me out, although I would also have to say he did a very poor job of doing that based on the results of our third meeting.
I am attaching on the next page a verbatim transcript of that meeting. I normally taped all personal and telephonic conversations in my office after having had several unpleasant experiences with the CIA. The original tape of the conversation and all copies were stolen—but that comes later.
***
Trace turned the page to a slightly yellowed document.
RISON: Good afternoon, Bill. What can I do for you today?
broderine: Afternoon, Bob. Glad you could make time to see me.
RISON: You said something last time about my camps in your division's area of operations. Is there—
BRODERINE: Oh, everything's fine. Just fine. Actually, I was talking with the general in Saigon the other day and we were discussing you.
RISON: Discussing me?
BRODERINE: Actually, we were discussing the Montagnard issue.
rison: What issue?
BRODERINE: Oh, come on now, Bob. Don't play cute with me. We both know the ARVN would just as soon go into the hills and kill Montagnards as they would NVA. In fact they'd probably prefer killing your—what do you call them? "Little people"? We also have information that the Montagnards are stockpiling weapons and ammunition for what they think is the war after the war—their war for independence after the threat from the north is defeated. Some of the people in Saigon are very nervous about that and they've expressed their concern to the general.
RISON: And you're expressing it to me.
BRODERINE: The general did want me to feel you out on it.
RISON: On what exactly?
BRODERINE: He wants to know if you think there's a chance of the Montagnards going their own way.