The Line Page 8

  Boomer pulled out his wallet, laying a twenty on the bar to cover the beers. "I'd like to go someplace quieter if that's all right with you."

  Trace nodded. "We can go to my house."

  "Would it be possible for me to see a copy of what you've written so far?" Boomer asked.

  "I've got a printout at home on my desk. Why are you so interested in this?"

  Boomer shrugged. "No particular reason. It's just kind of strange." He took her hand in his. "Enough pondering the world's problems. We've got a lot of catching up to do."

  Trace leaned close, her shoulder touching his. "We certainly do. Why don't you follow me to my place?"

  11:23 p.m. LOCAL

  As if to release the pent-up stress of the past week. Boomer found himself wrapping his arms around Trace, pulling himself tight into her with a passion that surprised even himself. He could feel her moving with him. Then he felt her, a silky moist heat that felt so wonderful that he tried to stop her movements to savor the feeling a little longer. But the long slow spasms of pleasure shook him even as he held her in perfect stillness.

  Later, they took their time. Boomer grinned at Trace's soft sigh as he barely kissed each of her closed eyelids, then did the same to her breasts. She nuzzled up next to him, gently urging him, her slender fingers fondling his chest. He took her hand, kissed her fingers and lost himself in her body. He enjoyed pleasing her and spent a long time bringing her to climax.

  It was a perfect ending to a terrible week, Boomer thought, as Trace finally collapsed in his arms. He held her close, feeling her relax into sleep before allowing himself to drift into an uneasy slumber filled with visions of the hillside in southern Ukraine and the sounds of the screams of wounded men.

  "They done yet?"

  The man tapped the side of the night scope. "Yeah." He pulled back and turned off the power to the scope.

  "One of the perks of the job," the first man said with a grin.

  "Gonna be a shame to waste her," the second man said. "Who do you think the guy is?"

  The first man lay down and pulled his poncho liner up around his neck. "Somebody she works with probably. He's not important."

  "I hope they give us the word soon," the first man mused as he settled down for his shift whittling at a piece of wood with his knife.

  30 November

  5:30 a.m. LOCAL/1530 ZULU

  In the soft glow of the desk light, the words on the laser-printed pages stood out clearly. Boomer sat cross-legged on the carpet and read them with interest.

  11 JUNE 1930

  U.S. MILITARY ACADEMY,

  WEST POINT, NEW YORK

  The smooth marble felt cool to Cadet Benjamin Hooker's hand. He gazed up the shaft of Battle Monument to the stars overhead, then up the Hudson River where the hulking presence of Storm King Mountain loomed to the left, a darker black presence against the night sky. It was a view that never failed to raise a strong feeling of attachment and sentiment in Hooker's heart.

  ***

  Boomer shook his head. He'd seen that same view many times over his four years at the Academy and he couldn't quite say he'd had the same emotions. He continued reading, turning the pages as Trace's story unfolded. After finishing the last page of the second chapter, he put the draft of Trace's book down and glanced out the window at the dark ocean, then over at the bed where Trace was stirring. "What are you doing?" she asked sleepily, squinting against the small desk light he had on.

  "Looking at your manuscript," Boomer replied. "I had trouble sleeping."

  "Oh," she said, sitting up and leaning back against the headboard, her small breasts perfect in the morning light. She smiled. "I had a good time last night. You're an amazingly good lover for a guy like you."

  "It takes one to know one," Boomer murmured in her ear.

  She glanced at the glowing digits on the clock next to the bed. "You know what I mean by a guy like you, right?"

  Boomer wrapped his arms around her and sighed. "Yes, I do. I'm starting to wonder if I'm a guy like me." He'd caught her glance. "I know you have to go soon, but can I see you later? I need to be with you."

  Trace nodded. "You can stay exactly where you are right now. It's been a while since a man needed me. Just stay in bed and rest." She smiled and added, "You'll need it later."

  He cupped her breast and gently blew air across her nipple. "I'd love to, but I've got to make PT too and take a look at the message traffic. What time will you be in this evening?"

  "I'm usually back by 1800," Trace said. She made her way to the shower. "Care to join me?"

  Boomer stepped into the hot spray, his thoughts going back to a shower they'd shared so many years ago. He still hadn't told Trace what had sent him to Hawaii. He knew he wasn't authorized to do so.

  "I read the first two chapters of your manuscript," Boomer said.

  "What do you think?"

  "Good writing," he said.

  "I mean what do you think of the story?" Trace amplified.

  "Interesting. I assume the first chapter about Patton was what that old woman told you."

  "I made up the conversations, but basically, yes, that's what she recollected. It was strange to talk to someone who'd really been there taking care of Patton when he died."

  "I don't understand the second chapter, though," Boomer said. "What does some cadet in 1930 have to do with Patton in 1945? I know you have Patton mentioning Hooker in your first chapter."

  "Did you know that George Marshall was the deputy commander of the Infantry School at Benning from 1927 to 1932?" Trace asked in turn.

  "Of course," Boomer replied. "How the hell would I know that?" he asked. "It was there in your manuscript. And you still didn't answer my question."

  "I'm getting there. Did you also know that 160 members of the Infantry School during Marshall's tenure became general officers during World War II and that Marshall, as Chief of Staff, was the one man who made most of the personnel decisions in the war?"

  "Besides plumbing the depth of my ignorance," Boomer said, "do you have a point to make?"

  "My point is that a hell of a lot of power was concentrated in the hands of a few men during World War II, and most of those men were at Fort Benning during the years that Marshall was there before the war. At the start of World War II, West Pointers made up only seven percent of the officer corps. By the end of the war they were less than one percent. Yet three of three Supreme Commanders, seven of nine Army Group Commanders, eleven of twenty Army Commanders and twenty of thirty-one Corps commanders at the end of the war were West Pointers."

  "The old boy network," Boomer said. "Happens all the time. Why do you think the Masons have a handshake?"

  "Yeah, but if that old lady was correct, it's a little bit more than that," Trace replied.

  "Your own manuscript notes that Marshall was a VMI grad, not West Point. Doesn't that blow your theory?"

  "Not really. What better cover than to have someone like Marshall be the front man for The Line?"

  "Now you're thinking like a Special Forces operator, not an aviator," Boomer said with a smile. "What about this Hooker character?" Boomer asked again. "Is he made up? Where do you get him from?"

  "It's the name the nurse said Patton gave her," Trace said evasively. "If The Line existed, I think Hooker played a very special role in it. I'll show you what I mean later."

  "Have you shown the manuscript to anyone?" Boomer asked.

  "It's a long way from being done," Trace answered. "In fact those two chapters are the only ones written. I've got a lot of notes on what I'm thinking of writing. I sent off a synopsis and the first two chapters to a couple of publishers to see if they're interested. I'm not sure I'm ready to write four hundred or so pages without an idea first if the story is marketable. I do have to get to work," Trace added as Boomer's hands wandered.

  "OK, OK," Boomer said, pulling his hands away. "It's just that I can't resist."

  "Save it for this evening," Trace said, getting out and grabbing a tow
el.

  "Is that a promise?" he asked as he followed.

  "Written in stone." She dried off and then went out into the main room. Boomer watched her as she went over to a bookcase behind her desk. She pulled a thick, soft-covered book off the shelf. He recognized it immediately: the Register Of Graduates, published by the Military Academy Alumni Association. Trace tossed it at him. "Take a look at the class of 'thirty."

  Boomer opened the book up. He easily found the class of 1930. Trace had tucked in the appropriate page a Xeroxed copy of what must have been Hooker's graduation picture from his year's Howitzer, the cadet yearbook. Even with the grainy Xerox quality, Boomer was caught by the dark eyes. He put the photo aside.

  In the register each class up until 1978 was listed in class rank order; only with '78 did they get ordered alphabetically. Hooker's name was the second one listed in his class.

  Benjamin Ross Hooker

  B-ME 12 DEC 07: A-lge: FA: Rhodes Scholar 30-32: MA Oxford: OPD WDGS 41-45 (LM): BG 44: JA-MAG London 46-48: S & F USMA His 49-50: JA Secy Def 50- 52 (DSM): Prof History USMA (Head of Dept 53-68) (DSM): Ret 69 BG: Secy Offc JCS 70-74: UP USSECCON 75-present: 1221 Whispering Brook Dr. Springfield VA 45112.

  ***

  Since Boomer was also listed later in the book, he could make some sense out of all the acronyms and abbreviations that listed a man's life's work in one paragraph:

  Hooker was born in Maine on December 12, 1907. A-lge meant his appointment to West Point had come from the President as the son of a career military man. FA stood for field artillery, Hooker's branch of service. After Oxford, Hooker's next major assignment was in the office of the Operations Plans Division in the War Department—the people who had worked directly for Marshall and been the brains behind planning the entire U.S. war effort. Boomer was surprised to see that Hooker had spent the entire length of World War II in Washington. Most officers would have been fighting to get out and lead troops. That fact of Hooker's career at least fit with what Trace had written about him.

  Hooker had been promoted to brigadier general in 1944 and then went to London to work in the Military Assistance Group there after the war. Boomer wouldn't be surprised if that organization didn't have a lot to do with implementing the Marshall Plan in Europe.

  Then back to West Point as an instructor in the history department from 1949 to 1950. Then to a Joint Assignment with the relatively newly established Secretary of Defense's office. Then back to West Point for a second time, this go-around as head of the History Department for fifteen years.

  Hooker had retired in 1969, still at the rank of brigadier general, and had gone to work for the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Boomer assumed that was before legislation had been enacted requiring a certain amount of time before retired military could work in a civilian capacity for the Department of Defense.

  "What's USSECCON?" Boomer asked Trace, who was lacing up her running shoes.

  "I had to check. It's a private company called United States Security Consortium headquartered in Alexandria, Virginia," she said.

  "What does the United States Security Consortium do?"

  "I don't know. I got the name of the firm by calling around in the D.C. area, but that was it." Trace came over and pointed over his shoulder. "The interesting parts are the fifteen years he was head of the history department and the work he did for the Joint Chiefs. Hell, even what he did in the Ops division during the Second World War. This guy was in all the key places, but he always appeared to be a low-level player.

  "During his time as head of history at West Point, he was gone over eighty percent of the time, doing special missions at the bequest of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. He was in Vietnam in 'sixty-one for almost eight months, going around the country, checking things out, and then going back to the Chiefs and reporting to them."

  "Guess he didn't check them out too well," Boomer said, "or else we might not have gotten involved."

  "Maybe he did check the situation out very accurately," Trace replied.

  That startled Boomer. He considered the bio again. Head of one of the academic departments at West Point was a prestigious position. It held the rank of full colonel with automatic promotion to brigadier general upon retirement. "Hooker was promoted to brigadier general in 'forty-four," Boomer noted. "Did he take a drop in grade to go back to the Academy?"

  "Yes," Trace said. "For all the high-speed jobs he did, this guy was never promoted beyond one star. Very strange for a Rhodes Scholar who was second in his class and did the job he did during World War II. From looking at his career track I got the impression he deliberately kept a low-profile image in his career."

  Boomer put the register down and started putting on his PT uniform. "So, you still haven't answered my question. I would assume from what you wrote in your manuscript that this guy was a player in The Line."

  "I don't think he would be just a player," Trace said, grabbing the keys to her Jeep. "I think after a certain time period he was the number one guy in The Line—if it existed."

  Boomer pulled on his grey PT shorts. "Can you use a real person like that in a work of fiction? Won't you get sued or something?"

  "I'm just using his name in the draft. I'll change the name later on—make Hooker's character fictional. It just helps me in writing to use real names. Besides, when did you start worrying about the legalities of the publishing world?"

  Boomer followed her to the door. The anxiety he felt the previous evening during the drive to her house was returning. Boomer was a man who survived by his instincts, but he was used to real situations that deserved fear. This was something different. He pulled her close and buried his face in the hollow of her throat. "It's not legalities that concern me, it's you. I just don't want you to get hurt or rejected."

  Trace flashed a dazzling smile and kissed him on the tip of his nose. "The people, who can hurt me already have. That's the only good thing about losing what's most important to you—you can stop worrying about losing it."

  Boomer walked her to the Jeep. His words were lost in the engine noise. "I haven't lost it, Trace."

  CHAPTER 5

  FORT SHAFTER, OAHU, HAWAIIAN ISLANDS

  30 NOVEMBER

  6:45 A.M. LOCAL/1645 ZULU

  "Sergeant Major Skibicki," Falk said, raising his voice so the man heard him, "take charge of the formation!"

  Boomer looked at the senior NCO who walked to the front of the gray-clad phalanx of soldiers. Skibicki was a short man with a barrel chest and gray hair. His face had the leathery look of a man who spent most of his waking hours in the elements. Boomer noticed that one side of Skibicki's skull was slightly concave, and a nasty scar lay there under his thinning hair. The name sounded vaguely familiar to Boomer, and he tried to recall if he'd served with the sergeant major sometime in the past.

  Skibicki immediately began barking commands, moving people about until they had enough room between each soldier to do the exercises. Then they began: pushups, sit-ups, crunches—a whole regimen of muscle-numbing work. Boomer had thought he was in shape, but the older man put them through exercises Boomer hadn't done since he'd gone to scuba school several years ago. He noted Sergeant Vasquez at the front of the PT formation. She was quite an impressive figure in shorts and T-shirt as she pumped out pushups, the muscles in her arms rippling from the exertion.

  In twenty minutes, they were done. Skibicki reformed the unit and returned it to Colonel Falk. The XO gave instructions for the various ability group runs and dismissed the soldiers to finish the physical training on their own. He waved for Boomer to come over as the groups dispersed.

  "I'd like you to meet our sergeant major," Falk said, indicating Skibicki. "This is Major Boomer Watson. Major, Sergeant Major Skibicki."

  "Sir," Skibicki extended a callused hand. Boomer met the hard grip and they stared at each other for a second before the sergeant major let go.

  "Skibicki's the man you need if there's anything you want," Falk said. He pushed a button on his watch. "Well, I've got to g
et running." With that, the Colonel took off, his skinny legs carrying him rapidly away.

  "Where are you in from, if you don't mind me asking?" Skibicki said.

  "I'd prefer not to say," Boomer replied.

  Skibicki nodded to himself, accepting the sentence as a fact rather than a rebuke. Boomer figured Skibicki could find out more about him with one phone call using the NCO old boy network than he himself could tell him.

  Skibicki cocked his head like an old dog trying to remember a scent. "Was your father in the service?" he asked.

  Boomer nodded. "Yes."

  "Mike Watson? Special Forces?"

  "Yes."

  Skibicki nodded. "I thought so. I served with him in Vietnam. He was a good man. He saved my life."

  Boomer stiffened. He'd never met anyone who'd known his dad in Vietnam. He'd read the official notification of death and pored over the Medal of Honor citation numerous times, but the pieces of paper gave him little information. "Were you with him when he was killed?"

  Skibicki grimaced and tapped the left side of his head where Boomer had noticed the slight depression in the skull. "I got hit in the head during that mission. Damn near killed me. Now I got a steel plate. I was a young E-Five, full of piss and vinegar on my first tour with Special Forces. Your dad got me out of there still breathing."

  Boomer leaned forward. "I'd like to talk with you about my dad. I never really knew him or what happened."

  Skibicki nodded. "You were what—nine, ten?—when he died?"

  "Ten."

  "I remember him having pictures of his wife and son in the team house at the launch site. He was a good man." Skibicki idly rubbed the side of his head. "Are you sure you want to know what happened?"