The Cadet

by Doug Beason

  Which reminded him that this was going to be an expensive evening. He pulled out his wallet and counted his cash. That’s weird. He frowned. He must have spent more than he thought at the dance last night. He’d thought for sure he’d had more. A lot more.

  He turned in his seat. Sanders must have had fifteen different animal shapes in bills on his lap from his western origami. “Hey, George,” Rod said. “Can you spot me a ten?”

  “No problem. I’ve got plenty.” He picked up two of the folded bills, a crane and a snake, and gave them to Rod.

  “That’s quite a talent. Where’d you learn it?”

  “Picked it up from a couple of old ranch hands at the rodeo. Gotta keep your mind off worrying what bull you might draw while you’re waiting to be called to the chute.”

  “Thanks.” George had done such a good job making the animals it almost seemed a shame to unfold the money. Rod settled back in his seat and stuffed his wallet back in his pocket.

  The bus driver started the diesel engine. The huge vehicle spat smoke and groaned as the driver put the bus into gear.

  Just as they were ready to pull out, someone banged on the front door. Rod heard a muffled cry, yelling for the driver to stop.

  Rod straightened in his seat. “Is it Sly? Did he change his mind?”

  The door opened and the balding head of the Travis Protocol officer came into view. He struggled onboard with an armload of white boxes. “A couple of you cadets get down here and help me load these. Quickly now.”

  Rod sat down, disappointed that Sly hadn’t joined them. “Box lunches.”

  “Hey, they’re free,” Fred said. “That leaves more money for beer.”

  The cadets passed the boxes to the rear of the bus. After the gourmet meals they had been eating this trip, the typical box lunch of roast beef sandwich, apple, cookie, stick of gum, and carton of milk that had seemed so good when they were basics just didn’t have the same appeal.

  “Let’s go!” someone yelled. They stomped on the floor. “Go, go, go!”

  “Wait,” the Protocol officer said, lifting his arms for silence. “You forgot the most important part.” Reaching down, he lofted a case of beer over his head. “Gentlemen, compliments of the Wing Commander!”

  “All right!” The cadets cheered, clapping and stomping their feet. Fred put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. “More, more!”

  The Protocol Officer stepped out of the bus five more times to lug in a total of six cases of beer. Sweating from the exertion of carrying the boxes, the Protocol officer wiped a hand across his forehead. “You cadets listen up.”

  “Must have wanted to be an AOC when he was growing up,” Fred whispered.

  “You cadets have fun, but don’t open the beer until you’re off base.” The officer flipped a pair of bottle openers down the aisle. Fred reached up and snagged one out of the air. “For those of you staying overnight in San Francisco with a parent or a sponsor, be sure to be back at Travis by 1600 tomorrow afternoon. Wheels up for the return flight is at 1800; I guarantee that if you’re not here, you’re going to be left behind. And I don’t have to tell you what will happen if you miss your flight, do I?”

  The cadets laughed, then cheered again.

  “See you tomorrow. And remember, be careful. The bus will leave Fisherman’s Wharf, Pier 39, right at 0100 tomorrow morning for those of you not staying.” He waved and stepped off the bus as the cadets whistled their approval. “Have fun, cadets!”

  O O O

  Later that night

  Fairmont Hotel, San Francisco

  “I appreciate you inviting me to dinner, Mr. Delante.” Rod shook hands with Fred’s father; he felt dead tired after their class had hiked around most of San Francisco.

  Mr. Delante steered them toward the dining room. He took a moment to answer. “Yes … I’m glad that you could make it.” His faced tightened. “I don’t suppose your father has mentioned me, has he?”

  “Yes, sir, he has,” Rod said. “But he doesn’t say much about anything.” In fact, all he does is lecture. His father had told him about meeting Mr. Delante in Washington, D.C. when Rod had accompanied his father there to attend an Academy Site Commission meeting. And later, when Rod had asked him details of that meeting with Mr. Delante, his father had abruptly changed the subject. That seemed to happen every time the Delante’s were mentioned.

  Mr. Delante’s face relaxed. He lifted his chin. “Yes. Well then, your father and I have been, ah, acquainted for several years.” He stopped before a dark wood reservation desk.

  A young woman dressed in a formal white shirt and tie, a red vest and black pants greeted them. “Good evening, gentlemen. May I help you?”

  Mr. Delante’s voice brightened. “Reservations for three. Delante.”

  She consulted her book. “Yes, sir. Will you please wait for the maȋtre d’?”

  “Certainly,” Delante placed his hands on the reservation desk and leaned close to her. “I’d wait here forever if the maȋtre d’ is as intoxicating as you.”

  The woman didn’t bat an eye. “Yes, sir.”

  Mr. Delante turned to Fred and started talking as if nothing had happened. “Your mother wants to know when you’ll visit again, Fred.”

  Fred scratched behind his ear. “Gee, dad, I’m not sure—”

  “We’re only 70 miles away, but you might as well be halfway across the country. Your mother misses you.”

  “It’s tough to get out. Maybe my Third class year will be easier.”

  As the two chatted, Rod looked around the foyer into the restaurant. When they had walked to the Fairmont Hotel, it reminded him of one of the buildings in France—old and gray, yet majestic. But Fred had complained it looked like a slum.

  Inside, the hotel housed richly oiled wood, chandeliers, immaculately dressed porters, thick carpet, and the fresh smell of flowers mixed with the tang of cigar smoke. The Fairmont presented a refined image, an incredibly expensive oasis hidden in the quaint city.

  Both he and Fred were nattily attired in identical blue blazers with the Academy crest, Academy tie, gray pants, and mirror-shined shoes; but seeing ladies in long cocktail dresses and gentlemen in their black tuxedoes, Rod felt enormously underdressed.

  A short man with a mustache and slicked back hair clicked his heels at the entrance of the dining room. “Mr. Delante?”

  Mr. Delante ran a hand through his hair. “That’s me.”

  “This way, sir.” The tuxedoed maȋtre d’ bowed slightly and led the way. Mr. Delante strode in next, with Fred and Rod following.

  The maȋtre d’ stopped behind a table covered with an embroidered white tablecloth. Candles, fine china, polished silverware, and wineglasses were arranged in a setting for three. The table faced a large window overlooking downtown San Francisco.

  Below, cars traversed the street. Building windows were lit in random patterns. The city seemed alive, in motion, but it was weirdly quiet except for the tinkling of glasses, muted conversation, and the sound of silverware clinking against plates.

  “Does this fit your need, sir?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Mr. Delante slipped the man a ten dollar bill.

  The maȋtre d’ nodded curtly. “Enjoy your dinner.” He whipped cloth napkins from beneath crystal glasses on the table and positioned them on their laps. “I will be at your service if you need me, sir. Your table captain is Roberto and he will orchestrate your meal.” He clicked his heels in a salute. “Good evening, gentlemen.”

  A young man instantly appeared in his place. Within minutes they were presented with menus and an overview of the chef’s specials.

  Mr. Delante ordered a bottle of wine. Without lifting an eyebrow at the age of the two cadets, Roberto dutifully filled their glasses.

  Feeling a slight headache from the beer earlier in the day and dehydrated from their walk around historic San Francisco, Rod gulped his water before reaching for his wine.

  Mr. Delante lifted his glass. “A toast, to the good life
.”

  “The good life.” Rod cautiously sipped the wine. The first and last time he had had red wine was when Lieutenant Ranch had pulled them out of bed to recognize them early. The memory still made his head throb; the aftereffects of this morning’s beer didn’t help.

  “Better than Lieutenant Ranch’s rotgut red, hey roomie?” Fred looked coy.

  “This is good, Mr. Delante.” Rod took another sip. “It’s very smooth.”

  “The best wines are. They don’t have a bite like your cheap ones, which allows you to concentrate on the subtleties.” He swirled the wine in his glass and took a deep breath through his nose. “Blackberry, cinnamon, and a hint of chocolate. This is outstanding.”

  “I appreciate you inviting me to dinner, sir,” Rod said. “You really didn’t have to give me my own room tonight, either.”

  “When you visit San Francisco you should experience it on your terms and not the Academy’s. This isn’t an Air Force base after all.”

  That reminded Rod of their trip to Minot. “We saw my father last week.”

  Mr. Delante clouded over. “General McCluney?”

  “Yes, sir. He met Fred and me at Minot Air Base for dinner. They had a Dining-In for us at the Officer’s Club.”

  “That must have been … nice.”

  “Yes, sir, it was. But the Officer’s Club was nowhere as fancy as this.”

  “I can’t imagine too many Air Force bases having the amenities of a Fairmont, or even a Broadmoor. In fact, I’d be suspicious if they did. After all, your Officer’s Clubs are subsidized by taxpayers. Such as me.”

  “Yes, sir,” Rod said, sipping his wine. He felt a warm glow run through him. “My father says that benefit is part of the sacrifice, putting duty and country above making money. It’s the knowledge that we’re putting our lives on the line, doing our job.”

  “Commendable,” Mr. Delante said dryly. “And it probably makes sense when you’re young. But later you’ll find the adversities will be more difficult to endure. And it won’t be so easy when your classmates leave the Air Force and start making as much money in a week as you would all year.”

  “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?”