“Do you remember when we used to dance to those records like ‘Earth Angel’ and ‘Stagger Lee’ and you used to hold me tight and I would put my chin on your shoulder and it felt like we were in another world, far, far away, like there was no one else on earth but the two of us, and we were so close we could feel each other’s hearts beating?”
He nodded.
“I want you to hold me like that again.”
They stood, and he held her close and she began to rock gently back and forth as if she could hear music and they were dancing and they were just kids again and nothing awful had yet happened to either one of them in their lives. In that moment he caught a fleeting glimpse of the future, even as they tried desperately to relive their past. He knew that without a doubt his youth was over, gone for good, and that from this moment forward, everything in his life would be different. He had tried the day before to put into words something that he had only begun to suspect, that the world was not a nice place, that men could not help themselves, that not even the gift of love could keep them from evil, that life would be a struggle to reconcile the goodness of love and the evil of existence, and that the struggle would never end. And then she stopped rocking from side to side, and she pulled gently apart from him, and she looked into his eyes, and he knew that she already knew all of this. There was nothing he could say to her, nor was there anything she could say to him, that would make a difference in their lives.
She touched his hand. “I’ll be going now. Thank you for everything.” She walked from the alcove out the door of Grant Hall onto Thayer Road, and he never saw or heard from her again.
General Slaight walked past the last gravestone on his way out of the cemetery, heading south toward his office. As he recalled, years had gone by before he realized that within the space of only a few moments in that alcove in Grant Hall they had left one world and entered another, and they didn’t need each other anymore.
***
ONE REASON General Slaight arranged to meet Congressman Chuck Thrunstone at Grant Hall in the alcove where General Robert E. Lee’s portrait was hung was that the congressman was a “Civil War buff,” a term loaded with meaning even in the genteel precincts of southern Illinois that the congressman represented. Slaight allowed him to discourse at length (and with severely limited historical accuracy, he noted) on the character and career of the general from Virginia who had attended West Point and entered the United States Army, only to make the choice later in his career to serve as the Commander of the Armies of the Confederacy against many of his West Point classmates in the War Between the States. Indeed, Thrunstone’s recitation of General Lee’s career had a ring of “those were the good old days, weren’t they?”
Slaight did not bother reminding the congressman that the good old days of General Lee were also the bad old days of slavery because the congressman made it quite evident that to his way of thinking, at least, Lee had not been saddled with command of an Army that suffered the ills the congressman believed faced today’s Army.
It was understood on the E-Ring of the Pentagon, in the office of the Chief of Staff of the Army anyway, that Congressman Thrunstone was a man distressed about what he liked to call the “direction” of the modern American Army. His unhappiness was thought by senior Army leaders to have been caused by the congressman’s conviction that such viruses as “political correctness” and “affirmative action” and “feminism” had infected the armed services, and none of the services was more guilty of these perceived shortcomings, not to say crimes, than the United States Army. Word was passed from the office of the Secretary of the Army to the office of the Chief of Staff of the Army to the office of the Superintendent of West Point that the congressman from Illinois was to be handled like a chunk of C-4 explosive with a short fuse. For perhaps the first time in the experience of senior Army commanders, the Chairman of the House National Security Committee was perceived to be hostile to their interests. This was a development that had come as something of a surprise to the Pentagon, especially considering that the Chairman was a very conservative Republican, a politician of a stripe on which the Army had always thought it could depend.
But the real reason Slaight chose the alcove in Grant Hall had to do with his own memories. Eschewing protocol, Slaight had arranged to meet the congressman unaccompanied by his aide or other Academy hangers-on. The congressman had of course made no such arrangements, and was attended by a woman in charge of his public relations; his congressional chief of staff; the head of the committee’s military liaison, by which was meant the chief-bringer-of-bad-tidings-to-the-Pentagon; and his chief legislative aide. A brace of black Lincoln Town Cars idled at the curb outside Grant Hall at the whim of the congressman, with his attendants milling about nearby. When the congressman was finished paying his respects to General Lee, Slaight led him out of Grant Hall and turned immediately up Thayer Road, walking north toward the Plain. The congressman’s staff lingered behind, fluttering around the Town Cars, wondering what to do. Where was that damn general taking him? Worse still, what was the damn general telling the congressman, and far, far worse than that, what was the congressman telling the damn general?
The scene that ensued behind them was what Slaight used to call a clusterfuck. The congressman’s staff was spazzing like plebes: Should they get into their cars and idle down the street at a discreet distance behind the Supe and their boss? Should they follow on foot, perhaps a bit closer, trying to hear what they were saying? Should they wait with the Town Cars until the congressman signaled them to follow? Should they take the unthinkable risk of interrupting him and come right out and ask the congressman what they should do?
As Slaight led the way down Thayer Road, chatting with Congressman Thrunstone, he knew exactly what was happening behind him, because it had been his intention to cause the clusterfuck and take advantage of the panic and indecision of the staffers. He wanted to remove the congressman from his handlers and quite literally have him to himself. The congressman, a voluble, garrulous sort with red cheeks and a huge shock of professionally coiffed and blow-dried silver-gray hair, was unaware of what was happening behind him. It was not his business to worry about his staff. It was their business to worry about him.
Thrunstone felt safe, because to his way of thinking, he was walking upon real estate owned by the federal government. As the Chairman of the National Security Committee, it was by rights his real estate, and the federal dollars upon which it depended were his federal dollars. As one of the chief congressional overseers of the federal defense budget, wasn’t he the man who was courted by the various interest groups seeking dollars from the defense budget? And wasn’t West Point, at this moment in its history, just another interest group pursing the almighty defense dollar?
He felt completely at ease on what was for him relatively foreign soil. Power had a way of doing that for you. You spent most of your life riding in cramped station wagons from an American Legion hall to a county fair to a country church potluck supper, shaking sweaty hands, eating fried chicken and barbequed ribs, listening to people complain about the quality of the blacktopping that in the last election had been promised for some county road out in a godforsaken corner of your district, and finally, after years and years and years of this, you found yourself with a polished mahogany gavel in hand presiding over the expenditure of 250 or so billion federal dollars, which you and only a handful of other good old boys like yourself had the power to dispense. What was it that Jewish guy said in that whacko movie a few years back? It’s good to be the king.
It was a nice morning. Later, there would be a football game. Up at Michie Stadium, West Point would play the congressman’s alma mater, the University of Southern Illinois. Between now and then, he had been assured, there would be lunch in the cadet mess hall. On a day like this one, with a relaxed schedule of hearty Army chow and rousing college football, what did the Chairman of the National Security Committee have to worry about?
Strolling across the Plai
n, the Superintendent and the congressman chatted about the upcoming football game. Southern Illinois was favored, by seven to eight points in some newspapers, and the congressman joked that if he was a betting man, he would have put some money on his alma mater.
“But of course as Chairman of the National Security Committee, you have to remain neutral, don’t you, sir?” the Supe joked back.
The congressman chuckled. “You’re not implying that I would deny funds to the Military Academy in order to gain advantage for Southern Illinois in a football game, are you, General?”
Slaight laughed out loud. A nerve, or perhaps several nerves, had been touched. “No sir. West Point’s football program is self-sustaining, as I’m sure you are aware.”
“Of course I am,” said Thrunstone. They were walking north along Washington Road, away from the area of barracks. Thrunstone glanced behind him. A few cadets were back there on the Plain, placing tiny flags that would help to position cadet battalions for the parade that day. Tourists could be seen out on Trophy Point, taking photographs of each other. It occurred to him for the first time that they were alone. “Where are we headed, General?” he asked.
“I thought you might like to visit the cemetery, sir,” Slaight said with a calm but direct tone. It was as much a command as a suggestion. “It’s not usually a part of the standard West Point tour, but I thought, with American Army personnel serving all over the world, and with a lot of our young men and women over in Bosnia and the Middle East, not to mention those who went to war in years past, that you might want to see where some of them have ended up, Congressman.”
There was quite a long silence, and they walked the better part of a block before Thrunstone spoke. “I wasn’t aware this was on the agenda established between our offices, General.”
“There was no agenda established between our offices, sir. There’s about an hour before the parade, sir. I guess you could say that we’re taking advantage of what we call free time here at West Point.”
As they walked further, Slaight pointed up Mills Road in the direction of the Jewish Chapel that had been built entirely with private donations. He pointed out several projects that the Academy had under way with the generous donations of West Point’s alumni.
“I attended the dedication of the Jewish Chapel. I’m aware the Alumni Association has a fund drive going on. It sounds to me like you’ve got a point to make, General,” said the congressman.
They had arrived at the drive leading to the Old Cadet Chapel, and Slaight stopped. “I know that you are very busy down in Washington, and that you don’t get a chance to get up here very often, sir. Your visits to West Point in the past have usually been in conjunction with the Board of Visitors, of which you were a member. As the new Superintendent of West Point, I’m curious about the purpose of your visit to West Point this time, and I figured if we took a walk and got a chance to know each other, you might enlighten me.”
A thin smile formed slowly on Thrunstone’s face. “General Meuller had a talk with you, did he?”
“No sir, he did not.”
“It was Kobe,” he said, referring to Secretary of the Army Thomas Kobe.
“No sir. I haven’t spoken to Secretary Kobe since I’ve been Superintendent.”
“Then you’re up here freelancing, General Slaight? You’re quizzing the chairman of the National Security Committee on your own?”
Now it was Slaight’s turn to smile. “The Army has seen fit to turn the leadership of the Military Academy over to me for the next three years, sir. I feel like it’s part of my duty as Superintendent to understand where West Point stands with the man who holds our purse strings. You are that man, Congressman. It’s in my interest to know who you are and what you stand for, and it’s in your interest to know who I am and what I stand for. That’s the way the game is played, isn’t it, sir?”
The congressman’s thin smile widened, and then he laughed out loud. “You know what? I like your style.” His eyes twinkled mischievously. “I wonder where the Army’s been keeping you, General.”
They strolled down the drive to the Old Cadet Chapel and ducked inside for a few moments. When they emerged, Slaight led the way into the cemetery and, guessing correctly that the congressman had never been there, pointed out a few graves. General Lucius Clay, buried just over there, commanded the Berlin airlift. General George Armstrong Custer, of the Battle of Little Big Horn, not far beyond. They strolled further. There was the grave of Colonel Bartley M. Harloe, who as an Army engineer built National Airport in Washington and most of the locks on the Mississippi River. They passed the grave of Arthur Bonifas, who had been an upperclassman in Slaight’s company when Slaight was a plebe. Bonifas had been killed by North Koreans on the DMZ in an incident that had passed out of many memories, but not from the memories of those who had known him. When they reached Lieutenant Walker Connolly’s grave, they stopped. Slaight told the congressman that the war in Vietnam had hardly begun when he had been killed leading a foot patrol in the delta. The congressman asked Slaight if he had known him, and Slaight replied, no, he had not. “I’ve known personally only a few of the men who are buried here, sir. But I know many of their histories, for their lives and their deaths are the history of West Point, and each in his own way, of our nation.”
Slaight noticed Thrunstone checking his watch and led the way out of the cemetery. When they reached the circular drive in front of the Old Cadet Chapel, the congressman’s Lincoln Town Cars were idling at the curb. One of the doors opened, and an aide jumped out. “Call for you, sir!” he shouted, holding a cell phone. Congressman Thrunstone excused himself and climbed into the backseat of the Town Car, and the aide closed the door. Thrunstone grabbed the phone, listened for a moment, grunted an assent, and handed the phone back to the aide. Then he reached over the front seat and grabbed the shoulder of the man sitting there.
“You’re supposed to be head of my goddamned Pentagon liaison, Wasserstein!” he barked. “You take this car and you and Ford get your asses back to Washington and work up a file on that son of a bitch. I want to know who he fucks, where he shits, and what color his goddamned turds are, you hear me?”
Wasserstein’s eyes blinked wildly. “Who, sir?”
“Slaight, goddammit!” said Congressman Thrunstone, pointing out the darkened windows of the Town Car at the Superintendent of West Point standing alone in front of the Old Cadet Chapel.
The door of the Town Car opened, and Thrunstone stepped out, his face bathed in a wide smile. “My wife wanted to know what I want for supper. Isn’t that funny? I’m up here at West Point, and she’s down there in Washington, and supper’s about ten hours away, and already it’s on her mind. I’m sure you know how it is with wives, General.”
“Yes sir,” said Slaight, “I know how it is.”
CHAPTER 25
* * *
JACEY CALLED Agent Kerry the morning after she discovered that Dorothy’s E-mail floppy disks had been stolen from her room and learned from his Military Police assistant that Kerry had been pulled off the investigation of Dorothy’s death temporarily to testify at a court-martial down at Fort Belvoir, Virginia, as an expert witness. He would be back after the weekend, the MP had said.
Her parents invited her to watch the Army-Southern Illinois game from the Supe’s box at Michie Stadium, but Jacey decided to sit with her company down in the cadet stands and was glad she had when Army trounced Southern Illinois twenty-four to six. It was great having a winning football team. Weekends at West Point became one long celebration. Spirits were high, and the whole Corps walked around the Academy sharing one huge grin.
She and Ash ran into each other on Saturday night after the game at the First Class Club, an informal gathering spot that served as a kind of adjunct officer’s club for seniors. He asked her if she wanted to go across the river for brunch on Sunday, but she passed. She wanted to believe the things he had told her in the parking lot of Building 720, but the theft of evidence from her room had p
ut her on edge.
Now it was Monday morning and Jacey was about to leave her room when she heard a knock on the door. “Come in,” she said.
Ash opened the door. He was wearing his class uniform. “I just wanted to wish you good luck this morning with Kerry.”
“Thanks, Ash.”
“I did some thinking about this stuff over the weekend. Whatever it takes, I’m going the distance, Jace. You just tell me what you need and I’ll get it for you.”
“Thanks.”
He hesitated for a moment, then stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind him.
Outside, a bright sun had warmed the area of barracks. Cadets were wearing light cotton jackets on their way to class as Jacey walked down Thayer Road to the Provost Marshal’s building.
Kerry ushered her into his office. His manner was blunt. “So what have you got for me?”
“It’s what I don’t have we should discuss first,” said Jacey.
Agent Kerry leaned forward in his chair and picked up a pen. “What do you mean by that?”
“Someone stole the floppy disks containing Dorothy Hamner’s E-mail from my desk drawer Thursday night.”
“Wait a minute. We took everything off her computer, including her E-mail. How did you come by this evidence?”
Jacey explained how Carrie had found Dorothy’s disks in her file box, how they’d gone through her E-mail messages, how she had traveled to Oneonta to see her mother and had retrieved Dorothy’s last E-mail message to her mother.
“What did it say?”
Jacey handed him a sheet of paper. “This is as close as I can recall it.”
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