Spirit Mission

by Ted Russ

  “And he didn’t like that.”

  “Nope. Somehow he got a small cell of trusted guys to cycle a drone over the site. Since he’s CIA, the military has no idea what he is up to. Then he got in touch with Zack. The truth is, I don’t know exactly what he’s doing back there, but I know he’ll do whatever he has to do to help us succeed.”

  Pete chuckled. “Bunch of fucking pied pipers.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look at you three. The CIA guy talked a couple folks into helping. The Thayer Tactical guy talked a couple guys into helping, and you talked my dumb ass into helping.”

  “It’s kind of what they trained us to do.”

  “I just hope you West Pointers don’t all go bad at once. You could wreak some serious havoc.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ve all sworn to use our powers only for good.”

  Pete laughed loudly.

  “Your CIA friend, though, why is he doing this? All you guys are tight, but it seems like he’s throwing away a big career over this. I guess we all are, but it sounds like he’s got a lot further to go.”

  “Long story. West Point. We all go way back.”

  Pete nodded, and we drove in silence for a few minutes. I had to ask: “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because you and I go way back.”

  TWELVE

  JULY 1988

  The M1 tank leapt into view, sailing over a hill a quarter of a mile away. Dirt flew from its sides like sawdust from a massive chain saw. It rocked back and forth on its chassis, absorbing blows from the uneven terrain in a violent gallop as it raced downslope. It screamed toward us and at the last minute executed an abrupt hockey stop, skidding sideways and throwing rocks our way. Poised at a forty-five-degree angle to the bleachers we were seated in, its turbine engine spun reluctantly down and settled into a high-pitched growl. The dust cloud it had kicked up along the way caught up to it and swept over us. We inhaled the acrid combination of burnt fuel and Kentucky mud as we waited to see what would happen next. It was the most powerful machine I had ever laid eyes on. A fast, angular, low-slung, and massive killing beast. It was Armor Week at Fort Knox.

  Cadet Field Training at Camp Buckner is commonly referred to as “the best summer of your life.” That’s part truth and part rueful lie. Eight weeks of intense field training exposed the newly risen yearling class to all of the major combat branches. Plebe summer is narrowly designed to enable new cadets to fit into and survive the West Point system. The “real army” is a distant backdrop. Yearling summer has a more expansive charter. It is an orientation to the “real army” that enables third-class cadets to begin to think about where they belong and where they will spend their careers as officers. It includes driving tanks with armored units, building river crossings with combat engineers, and patrolling with infantrymen. Most of it takes place on the West Point military reserve at a site called Camp Buckner, which sounds idyllic but really isn’t. The decrepit World War II–era facilities bake in the summer heat.

  There is no saltier member of the Corps than a yearling. The emotional bounce of promotion from plebe status is shorter lived than anyone ever expects; rounding that corner is sweet. For most cadets, for the rest of their lives, there are days when they find themselves saying with genuine happiness and relief, “At least I’m not a plebe anymore.” Once the foreshortened perspective of just-get-yourself-to-recognition-day is lifted, a young yearling is able to measure how far he has yet to go and how low on the ladder he remains. There is a reason most refer to it as “yuk” year.

  The Fort Knox portion was the most memorable for me. But it wasn’t because of the impressive armor demonstration and training; it was because Bill and I left Fort Knox with a big problem, a Captain Eifer problem.

  After the armor training was complete, we got a day off before flying back to Buckner to continue the rest of our training. Bill arranged a diversion for himself and me. We snuck off post and spent a few hours drinking beer with a newly graduated lieutenant who had just posted to Knox. The lieutenant had invited a few girls over. We grilled and drank beer next to the pool in his backyard. It was a fun afternoon and evening; we almost felt like normal college kids. That night, though, Captain Eifer caught Bill vomiting outside the barracks; it was bad luck. Bill had gone outside to avoid waking people up.

  Eifer confronted Bill, who immediately confessed. But Bill made things much worse for himself when he refused to answer Eifer’s question “Did anyone else participate in this unauthorized activity?”

  “Sir, that is an improper question,” he responded.

  The fact that cadets live under an honor code is not supposed to be used against them, but it is an inescapable fact that the concept of honor and regulations are intertwined in their daily lives. Some cadets would say that there is often a cynical exploitation of the honor system to enforce regulations. The tactical department, charged with maintaining the good order and discipline of the Corps, is most often the culprit in the eyes of cadets. The academy, recognizing the potential for this practice to corrode the concept of honor within the Corps, actively discourages this behavior. Tactical officers are not supposed to line up groups of cadets, for example, and ask them directly if they are guilty of violating one regulation or the other. They are supposed to operate within the bounds of reasonable probable cause, and cadets are encouraged to speak up when they perceive a question to be improper. This is part of the extensive honor training cadets receive.

  The improper question is an important concept at West Point that underscores an unspoken hierarchy of cadet conduct; honor matters more than anything, and regulations are expected to be broken.

  Cadets break regulations every day, and there is a mechanism for dealing with those shortfalls. Quill is written, boards are held, punishments are dispensed, and time is served. In fact, a century man, a cadet who has served more than a hundred hours on the area, holds a certain status in the Corps and even among the officers of the tactical department. A century man has screwed up a lot, but he has paid the price. He has served the time. In the eyes of the system, he has been honed and chiseled and improved; he didn’t quit, and the academy did not quit on him.

  Honor is different and always has been. In the early years of the academy, honor was taught and maintained through an informal, cadet-enforced system. In 1922, Superintendent Douglas MacArthur formalized the Cadet Honor Code and its enforcement, establishing much of the structure and administration that is still in place today. It’s been tweaked a few times since, but the specifics and spirit of the system have not changed much from the original standard. The honor code has remained simple. Stark. Uncompromising. “A cadet will not lie, cheat, steal, or tolerate those who do.”

  Cadets hold honor above regs, just as the academy does. The same century man who willfully breaks regs again and again stops cold at the prospect of violating the honor code. Cadets have even been known to reject academy decisions of leniency in honor cases. A cadet found guilty of an honor violation who is not expelled faces the “silence.” No cadet speaks to them. No cadet eats with them. No cadet will acknowledge their existence. They are dead in the eyes of the Corps. This devastating practice drove all those who faced it to resign until the 1970s, when the administration worked to end it. It has since lost much of its effectiveness but is still sometimes invoked by an angry Corps.

  So the improper question is supposed to be a buffer between honor and regulations, but in practice, invoking the concept of the improper question is difficult. It requires the cadet to face down a superior commissioned officer who is typically already upset. This usually occurs when the cadet is alone with the officer and the difference in rank is most apparent. It takes a hardy constitution to tell the officer that they are wrong and need to back off. It takes balls. This was not a problem for Bill Cooper.

  Eifer had him dead to rights on drinking—Bill’s vomit was all the probable cause the captain needed. But when Eifer asked if anyone else had been involved, Bill dr
ew the line. He was not going to let Eifer use his honor to compel him to give me up as well.

  “Sir, that is an improper question.”

  Eifer was enraged.

  But Bill did not crack. I felt a terrible combination of relief and guilt, which grew as the summer dragged on. Bill was put on restriction pending a disciplinary board that would be held after the summer training was complete. Still, Bill did not waver.

  “Bill, it’s not worth it,” I often said to him.

  “No. I’ve thought about it. I don’t care what they do. I don’t have to rat anyone out. They got me. Fine. But I’m not giving up anyone else. Fuck him.”

  Finally, Buckner came to a close, and we cycled back to our academic barracks.

  * * *

  E4’s company area was relocated for the new academic year. The old Divisions were closed for extensive and much-needed renovations, so we would spend the year in the long wing of MacArthur Barracks. As I walked up the stairs and rounded the corner, I ran into the Guru. He was returning from the shower in his distinctive cadet robe.

  “Go naked, Cadet Avery. How are you?” He extended his hand.

  “Go naked, Guru. I’m good. How was your summer?”

  “Good. Airborne School and Cadet Troop Leader Training in Germany. Really enjoyed it.”

  “What kind of unit in Germany?”

  “An armored unit, of course. What other kind is there?”

  “I didn’t realize you were an armor fanatic, like Patterson.”

  “Patterson is a strange fellow, but his branch preference is spot-on.”

  “Where in Germany were you?”

  “Little town called Wiesbaden. I had tried to wrangle my way to Fulda, but the Eleventh ACR doesn’t do cadet internships. They take their East German border mission seriously. It was very cool nonetheless. How was Buckner?”

  “Oh, you know … best summer of my life.”

  “I heard about the unpleasantness with Cooper and Eifer.”

  “Not a good scene.”

  “Glad you weren’t involved. That is going to be a hefty slug.” He looked at me. I didn’t know what to say. After an awkward moment, he let me off the hook: “Not watching the march back?”

  “No. It’s actually pretty boring when you’re not a plebe.”

  “Agreed. Well, I’ll leave you to it. I need to get into uniform to be properly prepared for the new beanheads’ arrival.” He turned and continued on to his room.

  “What? No water torture in your robe?”

  “Nope. That was my preferred technique in the Divisions, but these long hallways are much less conducive to that method. Too many people pinging by, and you never know when an officer is going to come up on you. That spoils the mood.” He shook his head and continued on. It was still weird to speak in normal terms to some of the upperclassmen. There was a lingering edge to things. It was as if, at any moment, they would pounce and scream that it had all been a cruel joke, that plebe year had been extended.

  I straightened our room for about half an hour before Steven came bounding in. Steven Thompson was a tall, good-natured Montanan with a knack for math and engineering. He and I were rooming together this semester.

  “Here come the new cadets!”

  I heard hundreds of feet climbing the stairs against a backdrop of shouting upperclassmen. E4’s new batch of plebes was arriving; the feeding frenzy had begun.

  I stepped out into the hallway to observe as they burst out of the staircase carrying trunks and rucksacks. They staggered down the hallway toward the orderly room to find out their room assignments. Upperclassmen circled and harassed them as they went. When weaklings identified themselves through inaction or mistakes, they were culled from the herd. The weakened ones would be set to the side, where they would be devoured by two to three upperclassmen yelling, “The rest of you move out!”

  The centuries-old dynamic was at work. Upperclassmen did not expect perfection. Having taken every step that these new cadets took now, they understood that this was hard, that it wore you down, that fatigue and stress doused everyone in a fog; yet an instant and unwritten algorithm was at work, churning through both the obvious and the nonverbal data points pouring out from every new cadet. This one is not really trying hard. That one is simply too weak. This one doesn’t want to be here. That one thinks we can’t get to him. It was involuntary. It was pervasive, and it felt infallible.

  I scanned up and down the hallway, at once observing the scene and remembering it. Some of my classmates were tearing into new cadets. Turtle had selected a short, sweaty beanhead and was screaming in his ear. His words were straight out of last summer. I smiled as I headed down the hallway toward room 527.

  I had been assigned two new cadets for the semester. I knocked twice on the door and heard, “Enter, sir!”

  The two cadets stood at attention. “Sir, New Cadet Morris, Third Squad, Fourth Platoon, reports.”

  “Good afternoon.” I returned their salute. “Stand at ease. My name is Cadet Avery. I’m your team leader. I know things are nuts right now. Just focus on getting yourselves and your rooms squared away ASAP, and remember, tomorrow you need to have memorized your daily knowledge before morning formation. That means the New York Times, the meals, the Officer of the Day, ‘The Days,’ all of it. We will meet ten minutes prior to any formation in my room, so that I can be sure you’re ready. If you have any questions between now and then, come find me. I’m two doors down to the left. Any questions for me right now?”

  “No, sir,” said Morris.

  “Good. The heat will be bad until classes start. Just accept it. Focus on executing what you have been trained to do, and if you screw up, just take the heat and move through it without screwing up again. Multiple screwups in a row will kill you.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “One last thing: do you guys know the company greeting?”

  “Sir, the company greeting is ‘Go Elephants,’” said Morris.

  I shook my head in disgust. “God, I hate that Beast bullshit.” I looked at them and set them straight.

  The next day, Saturday, was the first real barracks inspection of the year. This first SAMI inspection after Reorgy Week was always a bitch.

  Every day of a cadet’s life is divided up into different expectations for the state of their room. Despite the fact that a cadet’s room is where they live, the closest thing they have in the cadet area to a private space, it is the first focal point of the tactical department’s developmental attention. The two primary divisions are “AMI” and “PMI,” which denote the a.m. and p.m. inspection periods. AMI is the worse of the two; the requirements are more stringent, forbidding any trash in the trash can and even naps. Cadets may not take a nap at West Point until after noon, at which time PMI begins. SAMI is a notch up from AMI and is in force on Saturday mornings until noon. It imposes all of the limitations of AMI with the added requirement that drawers, closets, sink vanities, and laundry hampers must be left open so that officers can assess the folded underwear, toiletry configurations, and other critical room specifications.

  The first SAMI of the academic year is always the classic “tone setter,” during which the tactical department declares itself. I looked in on my plebes’ room prior to the inspection. “Not too bad, guys, not too bad,” I said as I walked around. I ran my finger over the windowsill; it came back clean. I looked at Cadet Morris, asking, “How late were you guys up cleaning last night?”

  “Sir, lights-out is at midnight.”

  “Morris, what did you read in the New York Times today?”

  “Sir, today in the New York Times it was reported that after almost eight years of war and a million lives lost, a cease-fire between Iran and Iraq was reported to be holding. The truce was brokered by the United Nations and took effect today at seven a.m. local time. There—”

  “Cease work. Good. But talk slower, so you have more runway. Remember, if you spit out too much detail, you’ll have upperclassmen sharpshooting you on th
e small stuff. What did I tell you guys about reporting on the New York Times?”

  “Sir, you said read the whole article, but in reporting, try to stick to just the first sentence of each paragraph.”

  “Right. Anderson, what is for lunch?”

  “Sir, the menu for lunch is baked chicken patties, baby carrots, and fresh fruit.”

  I made a face. “What do you think about that, Anderson?”

  “Sir, I think the chicken patties are gross.”

  “Me, too. Seem more boiled than baked.” I turned and walked toward the door. I was pleased. They were good plebes.

  “Keep this up for the first few weeks of class, and all the upperclassmen will decide you are squared away and won’t bother you until after Christmas.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The room looks good. Just remember, SAMI is not over until twelve hundred hours. It’s only oh-seven-thirty now. Don’t do anything stupid. Stay in uniform, and for God’s sake, don’t take a nap.”

  “Yes, sir,” they said in unison.

  “Good luck. Report to my room immediately after SAMI to let me know how it goes.”

  “Go naked, sir.”

  “Go naked.”

  The inspection did not go well for E4. Steven and I got written up for “dust under bed” and “improper clothes hanger spacing.” We earned eight demerits each; it was not a great way to start the year. The firsties really got hammered, though. Captain Eifer hit their area about ten minutes prior to the end of SAMI. He got nearly every one of them but slammed the Guru particularly hard. He was in the shower and had left his uniform on his bed when Captain Eifer inspected. Having a uniform out of place like that during SAMI is a huge hit.

  After consoling Steven about our results for a few minutes, I checked on Morris and Anderson. They were unscathed. Plebes tended to do well on inspections since they had so many eyes on them all the time.

  I went to Bill’s room. Today was his disciplinary board. He was not back yet, so I sat at his desk. I didn’t have a good feeling.