PACIFIC PALISADES
2 DECEMBER
7:00 a.m. LOCAL/1700 ZULU
The satellite dish in Maggie's backyard shifted position slightly, then settled in place. Inside the house, Boomer sat on the couch and watched the pre-game show for the Army-Navy game.
The front door opened and Skibicki walked in, looking like he had not had a moment of sleep.
"What's up, sergeant major?"
Skibicki gratefully accepted the mug of coffee Maggie handed him. "Thanks. Nothing. Everything's quiet." He looked at the screen. "Let's hope Trace made it there."
"What's the plan for today?" Boomer asked.
"I talked to Vasquez. She's doing some more snooping." He threw a newspaper down on the table. "I noticed an interesting article in the back pages. We've been concentrating so hard in one area, we've lost track of some other aspects of this whole situation."
Boomer tore his eyes from the screen. "What do you mean?"
Skibicki sat at the table and Boomer joined him. "If there is a plot to get to the President, then what?"
"I don't think the plot is directly against the President," Boomer said.
"Just play along with me, then," Skibicki bargained.
"All right," Boomer said, "what if there is a plot to attack the President? What are you talking about?"
"I mean, what would their plan be after they got rid of the President?" Skibicki said. "They're not going to do this in a vacuum. If the President disappears or is killed, what happens?" He didn't wait for an answer. "The Vice President takes over. And guess where the Vice President is going to be this weekend?" He tapped the newspaper. "Vacationing on the North Shore of this island at the Turtle Bay Resort playing golf."
"No shit?" Boomer grabbed the paper. "Hell, he's arriving this morning." He looked up at Skibicki. "Maybe those guys jumping in this morning weren't going after the President. Maybe they had responsibility for a secondary target right where they came in."
Skibicki nodded. "That's why I got Vasquez checking the Intel nets. We may have had tunnel vision about this jump, thinking it was the main event, but it just might be the sideshow."
The sound of the football announcers filled the silence in the room.
"That sub," Boomer said, breaking the quiet, "the one Vasquez said her friend had on the SOSUS but wasn't listed in the Navy books. That might be part of this."
"Already thought of that," Skibicki said. "I'm having her do a complete check of the sea around the island. Not just what SOSUS has, but imagery from the Intelsat. I'd love to have her do a Keyhole look at the island itself to see if we could find where those jumpers and their boats went to earth, but doing that would raise red flags all the way to the Pentagon. Plus, I don't know if any of the Keyholes pass over here."
"A Keyhole look," Boomer said, referring to the latest spy satellite that could read the information off a cigarette pack, "wouldn't be much good here. They probably sunk the Zodiacs anyway," Boomer said. "If they're using F-470s, they can waterproof the engines, sink the boats, and then recover them when they need them using C02 canisters on board."
Skibicki nodded. "Yeah, and the guys on land would be deep under cover."
"You two can sit here and speculate all day," Maggie said, her attention on the TV screen, "but if your cute young friend doesn't get some solid information about The Line from this colonel of Ski's, you might as well be whistling in the dark."
The doorbell rang and Skibicki opened it. Vasquez walked in. She had a briefcase that she carried directly to the table and opened. The others gathered round.
"Got some strange stuff going on at sea," she began. "That unidentified SOSUS contact I told you about is closing in on the island. About two hundred kilometers due east now. Now there's a second submarine contact."
"Another unknown friendly?" Skibicki asked.
"Negative, sergeant major. This one is listed. The USS Sam Houston. I looked it up," she added. "It's a missile carrier."
"No, it isn't," Boomer interrupted, catching Vasquez by surprise. "The Sam Houston is an Ethan Allen Class sub. They used to carry Polaris missiles, but those are out of date now. The Sam Houston was taken out of service in the early eighties and reconfigured for Special Operations. They removed the missile control system and most of the empty missile tubes. Some of the missile tubes were converted to act as air locks for swimmer exit. It's also fitted to accept two DDS assemblies."
Seeing Vasquez's blank stare, Boomer explained. "DDS stands for dry dock shelter. It's something the Navy's developed to be mounted on the deck of submarines to carry SDVs—swimmer delivery vehicles. You can go directly from the inside of the sub into the DDS, and load up the SDV while maintaining an airtight environment."
"You can also use the DDS to lock out a large number of swimmers from the sub, all at the same time."
"Lock out?" Vasquez repeated.
"Exit the submarine while it's still submerged," Skibicki explained. "So this sub is one of the ones the Navy has modified for Special Operations?" he asked.
Boomer nodded. "After they retired the USS Greyback, the first Special Operations submarine, they converted the Sam Houston and the John Marshall, both Ethan Allen Class. They've also modified about eight of their Sturgeon Class to mount the DDS. I've done some work on the John Marshall," he added to explain his knowledge.
Skibicki considered the information and tallied it with what he knew from joint exercises on the island. "Navy Special Warfare Group One at Pearl has got two DDSs and four SDVs in a secure holding area, or at least they have space for them. They might be out there mounted on the Sam Houston right now."
The sergeant major slapped his palm on the table. "It makes sense. The Army guys get the land target, the VP, up on the North Shore. The Navy boys get the target in Pearl. They could get right up to the Arizona Memorial in an SDV. Hell, they can mount goddamn torpedoes on the Mark IX SDV. They can sneak into the harbor, stand off, and fire a torpedo and blow the shit out of everyone standing on the memorial."
"But I thought we were worried only about the Army?" Maggie threw in. "I thought The Line was from West Point."
"Shit, I bet they got a chapter at Annapolis," Skibicki growled. "They probably got one at the Air Force Academy too."
Boomer felt uncomfortable with all this talk of plots and assassination. It just didn't jive with what he believed and had seen in his time in service. But he also remembered pulling the trigger and killing those two men the other night and that didn't jive either. If he took away the blinder that told him the military would never do such a thing, then anything was possible.
Vasquez pulled out some satellite photos. "The sub ain't all, sergeant major. Take a look at that."
"What the blazes is that?" Skibicki said.
A massive ship floated in the middle of an empty sea. What appeared to be a huge oil-drilling derrick took up the entire center of the ship, towering over it. An Army helicopter sat on a landing pad on the stem. A broad wake behind it indicated the ship was moving.
Vasquez smiled. "I had to go to the library and do some research to find out. It's not listed in the current ship's logs down at Pearl. It's the Glomar Explorer."
"And what's the Glomar Explorer?" Boomer asked.
"You ain't gonna believe this," Vasquez said. "It was built in 1973 by Howard Hughes for the CIA."
"Say again?" Skibicki exclaimed. "To do what?"
"To recover a Russian sub that sank northwest of here."
"Start from the beginning," Boomer said, unsure of where, or even if, this new piece fit in the puzzle.
Vasquez consulted the notes she'd scribbled. "The Glomar Explorer was built by Hughes to mine minerals off the ocean floor. Or at least that's the cover story he told the press and even the people building it. It was constructed at York, Pennsylvania, and is over 200 meters long. They spent about 400 million of the tax payer’s dollars on the thing without the taxpayers knowing about it. To get it to the Pacific, they had to sail it around South America because it wouldn't fit through the Panama Canal."
"Anyway, it was actually built to be part of a secret CIA mission called Project Jennifer. While the ship was built on the East Coast, they built a companion craft called the HMB-1, Hughes Marine Barge, in California. It's about a hundred meters long and built like an underwater aircraft hangar."
"Underwater?" Boomer asked.
"The barge is submergible. It's got a giant claw, remote TV camera, and lights. It can dock with the Glomar in the well of the ship underneath the derrick. They went after the sub in 1973, and I couldn't find out whether they got it or not. One report says they got part of it. Another says they didn't. Whichever, the whole thing had to be scrapped after the press got a hold of the story."
"Why did they spend 400 million dollars trying to get a Soviet sub?" Skibicki asked. "You could build your own sub for that much back then."
"They wanted the cipher codes that sank with the submarine."
"What for?" Skibicki asked. "The Russians would have changed their codes once they realized they lost the sub."
"Apparently, the CIA wanted to decode back traffic that they'd recorded over the years but been unable to break. Get information on how the Soviet missile fleet operated."
"What a crock," Skibicki muttered. "Fucking CIA."
"So what's it doing now?" Boomer wanted to know. "Is it still working for the CIA?"
"I don't know," Vasquez replied. "I don't know if the barge is underneath the Glomar," she said, pointing at the imagery. "The wake looks funny, but I'd have to consult a Navy expert at wake interpretation and since there's only one guy who does that at Pearl and it's a Saturday and I'm doing this unauthorized—"
"I get the message," Skibicki said. "The important thing is, what is the Glomar Explorer up to now?"
"It's been docked out at Sausalito, California for over a decade. I read one account where the government, after the Cold War ended in 'eighty-nine, even tried to sell or lease it to the Russians to help recover their other lost subs. There was one newspaper report saying that it was bought by some civilian corporation and refurbished a year and a half ago."
"Who bought it?" Boomer asked.
"I couldn't find the name of the company."
Boomer looked at the picture one more time. "Again, the question is, what's it doing?"
"I don't know, but it looks to me from the imagery like it's heading for a rendezvous with that unidentified sub," Vasquez said.
"Not the Sam Houston?" Skibicki asked.
"No, the bogey," Vasquez replied.
"Possible explanation?" Skibicki snapped.
Vasquez paused, then gave her thoughts. "This unknown friendly sub, obviously it's highly classified, even more so than the Special Operations sub. I'd say this Glomar Explorer would make an excellent at-sea tender for a sub that never wanted to enter a harbor or even surface at sea where it could be seen. If the Glomar Explorer is carrying the HMB-1 barge, they could berth this sub with the barge underneath and carry out maintenance and resupply totally out of view of satellites or aircraft."
"The question is, what's so classified?" Boomer asked. "Some sort of cutting-edge technology stealth submarine? I heard the Navy was using some sort of floating barge out of San Diego to cover up their testing of a stealth surface ship."
"This sub isn't so stealthful," Vasquez pointed out. "SOSUS picked it up. And this barge is underwater, not floating."
"Then what is it?" Boomer repeated.
"I'll try to find out," Vasquez volunteered, "but it isn't going to be easy."
Boomer turned to Skibicki. "What now?"
"Maggie can monitor the phone in case Trace calls," Skibicki said. "Let's take a ride up to the North Shore and poke our noses around where the Vice President is. Maybe we can trip over something. If not, then we can go by the tunnel this evening and see what we can dig up. They have a copy of the President's classified itinerary in the vault. We can also see if we can get some more information on these vessels ourselves."
INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, OAHU, HAWAII
2 December
7:10 a.m. LOCAL/1710 ZULU
Special Agent Stewart had chased the sun from the east and lost only a little ground with a delay in Dallas-Fort Worth. He was met at Arrivals by Mike Newman, a member of the Second Team, the security detail for the Vice President.
Newman hustled him out of the airport and into one of the Service's vans, which had been flown to Hawaii aboard an Air Force C-5 transport. As he pulled out of the parking lot, Newman pointed at a file folder tucked into Stewart's side panel. "Got all your information there. We've already screened the threat list. Honolulu PD will pick up the four A's today and give you a call to confirm. They'll detain them for the duration of the Boss's trip."
"I'm taking you to the Royal Hawaiian. You've got one of the rooms on the fourteenth floor. The entire floor is reserved for the President. We're staying up on the North Shore at the Turtle Bay Hilton. The VP is taking in the golf course."
"The name of the Hawaii PD point of contact is in there," he continued. "He's a good guy. So is the local FBI rep. It's been pretty quiet."
"What about the military?" Stewart asked. "I've got to do the prelim for the President's speech at Pearl and I need to get a hold of whoever is in charge of security there."
He was uneasy about General Maxwell's request and had pondered it during the flight. He wasn't sure whether Maxwell was concerned about a physical threat to the President, which was the Secret Service's area of responsibility, or a political threat in terms of an embarrassing incident, which was the purview of the President's advisers. There was no doubt that there was bad blood between the military and the President, but Stewart had no idea what could come of it.
Newman pointed across Stewart's chest and out the window. "That's it right there," he said. Stewart looked out. He could see gray ships riding at anchor and a white building just off an island. "That's the memorial. The whole installation is a secure area. I'll give you the name of the Navy guy in charge." Newman laughed. "Hell, we're on a damn island. Security's been a piece of cake so far. Enjoy yourself."
Stewart leaned back in the seat and tried to do just that, but Maxwell's words stayed in his head. He cursed to himself. So much for having a good time. Stewart knew he wouldn't be able to relax until this whole trip was over.
PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA
2 December
12:30 p.m. LOCAL/ 1730 ZULU
Trace didn't think about needing a ticket to get into the stadium until she'd parked the rental car twelve blocks away and walked to Veterans Stadium. The game was sold out and the ticket booth locked and closed. It was a nice day for early December in Philadelphia. The weather was in the low forties and the sun was shining brightly.
Between the stadium and the Spectrum, she could see the Corps of Cadets lining up, 4,000 strong. To their left, the Brigade of Midshipmen was already beginning its march-on, entering the stadium.
Trace mingled in the civilian crowd near the stadium, searching for someone hawking tickets. She ended up paying fifty dollars in cash for an upper-level seat, a rather deep investment for a game between two non-nationally ranked teams. But, as Trace well knew, the Army-Navy game was much more than a simple football game. It was an event.
When Trace had entered West Point in July of 1978, the game in early December had been the first time she'd been allowed off-campus in the six months since entering Beast Barracks. At that time, the Academy had bussed all the plebes down to the game Saturday morning and back on the "vomit comet" that evening. In the few hours the plebes had between the end of the game and the mandatory bus formation to return, most tried to imbibe as much alcohol as possible at tailgate parties and local hotels, leading to a grim scene on the four-hour ride back up to New York.
From talking to more recent graduates, Trace had heard that the Academy had modernized slightly, allowing all cadets—even plebes!—the weekend off as long as they showed up for the march-on and game and weren't on disciplinary restriction.
The new freedoms being allowed cadets were bitterly protested by old grads of which Trace assumed she now was one. She didn't follow the old grad "make it as hard for them as it was for me" theory. After graduation, she had seen several of her classmates, unused to responsibility, since almost every aspect of their lives as cadets had been dictated, fail miserably when given the authority and responsibility of being platoon leaders in the Army. Trace had often wondered where and how the Academy thought the magical maturation from being a cadet to being an officer occurred. In her time they certainly had never treated her and her classmates as responsible, thinking adults prior to sending them forth into the Army.
Trace made her way into the stadium and began heading for the section Colonel Rison had indicated. The midshipmen had finished their march-on, done a few traditional cheers, and were now beginning to file off into their place in the stands. Trace noted that many of the naval academy students were drunk, unable to march in step.
Trace remembered carrying a bottle of Jack Daniels on the inside pocket of her dress gray overcoat to the game in 1981 and mixing the liquor with Coke in a can during the fourth quarter and sharing it with her roommate in the stands. The alcohol fuel helped explain the enthusiastic cheers of the Corps of Cadets in that game as time ran out and their side was being pounded by the Navy 33-6. Alcohol was one of the ways cadets dealt with living in a high-stress environment. And from intimate experience Trace knew that the stress was very real. In her first six months at the Academy, she had not had a period. Finally gathering her courage, she had gone on sick call to get checked. The doctor at the hospital had told her that such a thing was not uncommon among female cadets and advised her not to worry.
"The Corps of Cadets!" the speakers in the stadium blared as the announcer welcomed the Corps. "Duty, honor, country. The long gray line. From the United States Military Academy on the Hudson River at West Point. Distinguished cadets include Ulysses S. Grant. Robert E. Lee. Douglas MacArthur. George S. Patton. Dwight D. Eisenhower."
Trace wondered why they never mentioned Custer or Edgar Allen Poe who had managed a little time at the Academy. One of the pieces of knowledge she'd been required to memorize as a plebe was the answer to the question "Who commanded the major battles of the Civil War?" The answer, according to the Bugle Notes issued to every cadet was: "There were sixty important battles of the war. In fifty-five of them, graduates commanded on both sides; in the remaining five, a graduate commanded one of the opposing sides." Boomer had once half-jokingly told her that that helped explain why that war lasted so long.
Trace paused on the second level of the stadium and watched as the thirty-six companies that comprised the Corps of Cadets marched onto the field in large gray blocks. The announcer called out the brigade commander and his home town, then each regimental commander, every battalion commander, and every company commander as the designated unit took its place.
The midshipmen were still filing into the seats as the cadets began their rote cheers, something the entire Corps had spent three late afternoons the previous week practicing. One thing Trace had always found a bit amazing about West Point was the way enthusiasm was dictated. "Spontaneous pep rallies" prior to games were planned, which sort of defeated the entire purpose of the event. The last meal that the football team ate in the mess hall before a game was called "Joe College" night, where, in the mighty leniency of the powers-that-be, cadets could wear a civilian shirt with their uniform pants to the dinner meal. In some convoluted thinking, that small taste of normalcy was supposed to increase morale rather than increase awareness of the differences of Academy life from mainstream America. It was a tribute to the desperation of the Corps, that it did increase morale.
Trace listened as the 4,000 members of the Corps dutifully shouted out a less-than-spontaneous cheer written decades earlier, led by gold-and-gray clad rabble rousers:
"Away, away, away we go,
What care we for any foe?
Up and down the field we go,
Just to beat the Navy.
A-R-M-Y! T-E-A-M!"
Trace looked down and caught the guidon for Company I-1, her home for her first two years at the Academy. She'd survived the inferno, and after two years, during the scramble, where all third year cadets were reassigned to new companies, she'd been assigned to the last company in the Corps—I-4. She'd found life in 4th Regiment to be a bit more laid back, the only major problem being that as the last company to pass in review during a cadet parade, cadets from A-l were already back in their barracks, showered, changed, and up in the parking lots two miles away departing on leave while 1-4 was still saluting the flag while passing in review.
She continued to make her way around the stadium. The seat that Rison had indicated was right beside where the Corps of Cadets was to be seated, and when the cadets finished their cheers, they flowed into the stands, making her going slow. She halted, hand over heart, when the national anthem was played. As soon as it was over, she was caught in the reverse tide as cadets poured back onto the field to form a welcoming cordon for the team to come onto the field. Most of the cordon was made up of plebes who felt obligated to be out there, while savvy upperclassmen took the best seats in the stands during their absence.
Across the stadium, the welcoming cordon for the Navy team was more subdued, reflecting a less intense attitude by the seamen. Trace slipped her way through the crowd of cadets and halted short of her destination, scanning the crowd. She was standing in the aisle, next to row AA, so she counted up six more rows. A man with silver hair glinting out from underneath a black watch cap and wearing a long tan coat sat there, a blanket over his lap. His face had the complexion of worn leather, and his eyes were clear and blue. Those eyes were glancing about the stadium and they came to rest briefly on Trace, meeting her gaze, then moving on.
Trace edged her way into the cadet section, wanting to wait a bit and let all the seats be filled before approaching Rison. A cadet glanced at her civilian clothing, gave her credit for her twelfth man sweatshirt, but still confronted her. "Excuse me, ma'am, but this seating is for military only."
Trace pulled out her ID card.
The first class cadet backed off. "Sorry, ma'am."
The Corps exploded in cheers as the Army team appeared, running between the two walls of cadets that extended the length of the field. Trace glanced over her shoulder. Rison was watching the field. She edged herself into the crowd, determined to wait for the game to start before approaching him.
The Corps cheered again as Army's wishbone offense punched the ball into the end zone, giving their team a 7-0 lead. The cannon went off and the Corps broke into "On Brave Old Army Team."
Trace took the opportunity to slide through the crowd and reach the aisle. She started up toward the man she assumed was Rison when a hand gripped her arm. She spun around. "Easy, miss," the man who held her arm said. A solid block of human being, over six and a half feet tall, her accoster smiled, the bright flash of teeth easily visible against his coal black skin. His head was completely hairless and his skull was an ebony bullet. "You the one who wants to talk to the colonel? Major Trace?"
"Yes," Trace said, feeling the steel grip of his fingers relax not the slightest.
"You got some ID?" the man asked.
"In my wallet," she replied.
The man nodded down toward the field. "Let's get closer to the action."
"Hold it," Trace said, pulling back futilely. "I came to talk to Colonel Rison."
"He'll be talking to you, miss. But down there. And after I see some ID."
Bowing to the implacable, Trace allowed her guide to lead her down toward the field level. He flashed some sort of ID at the MP standing guard to the field, and then they were down there, standing on the Astroturf behind the far end of the Army bench and in front of the wave of gray that was the Corps.
"OK, let's see the ID," the man said, finally releasing her arm.
Trace pulled out her wallet and showed him her military ID. She was surprised when he pulled a small notepad out and checked her ID card number against a list. He looked over her shoulder and nodded. Trace turned and the man who'd been in the seat walked up, his blanket carefully folded and hanging over his left arm.
"Major Trace," he said, extending his right hand. "I'm Bob Rison."
"Sir," Trace said, not sure what to say.
"This is Harry," Rison added. Harry bowed slightly, but his eyes were looking beyond, scanning the crowd and the other people near around. "You'll have to excuse his manners, but he happens to be rather protective of our mutual welfare."
A beach ball floated by, was picked up by one of the Army rabble rousers and thrown back up into the stands. "So, what is it you wish to know?" Rison asked.
"What do you know about an organization called The Line?" Trace asked.
Rison gave a sad smile. "Young lady, that is like asking what do you know about American history for the past fifty years."
"The Line exists?" Trace said, leaning toward Colonel Rison.
He gazed out at the field, where the Navy team was making a counter-drive down the field. "Let me start from the beginning. My beginning. I graduated class of 'forty-nine. Went to Benning for Infantry Basic, then to Japan. I was with the 1st Battalion, 21st Infantry Regiment, Task Force Smith, first on the peninsula in South Korea when Truman committed U.S. ground forces in 1951."
"We got our asses kicked. We were understrength, undergunned, and no one gave a shit about us. We had nothing that could stop their Russian made T-34 tanks. Our bazookas just bounced off the front armor."
"I remember one afternoon after we'd counterattacked all day, retaking a hill we'd lost the previous night. I found one of my classmates on the hill. He must have surrendered, but we didn't yet know what that meant. The Koreans, and later the Chinese, they didn't think like us about things like surrendering."
"My classmate was naked; wrapped in barbed wire, arms to his side; they'd doused him in gasoline and set him on fire. Burned him alive. I had to cut his finger off to get his ring. I was amazed someone hadn't stolen it, but they must have missed it in the dark. The ring was the only way I was able to identify the body. After I got wounded the first time, I came back to the States and gave his widow the ring."
Rison held out his left hand. The fingers were bare. "I stopped wearing my ring then."
For the first time Trace noticed that he was holding something under the blanket. He caught her gaze. "Silenced .45." He smiled the same weary smile. "Just because I'm paranoid doesn't mean they aren't out to get me."
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, pulling 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.