Bob Mayer
The Line
PROLOGUE
The man in the high-backed chair was hidden in the shadows cast by the halogen desk lamp. A thin sheaf of laser-printed pages was the only object on the desk in front of him. A hand, the skin withered with age, slowly reached out and angled the first page so it could be read.
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 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.
That feeling was immediately followed with an uncertainty that had two causes. The first was that tomorrow he would graduate and be leaving his home for the last four years. The second was the written message he’d been given by a plebe earlier in the day. The words had been simple and direct: “trophy point. 2130 HOURS.” There had been no signature, but the paper was written on stationery from the office of the Commandant of Cadets.
Hooker momentarily played with the notion that the note was an elaborate prank set up by his classmates; but he knew he dared not be here, on the chance that the message was legitimate. Although why the commandant would want to see him at such a strange place and time left him at a loss.
Hooker knew he held a special place in his class of 241 cadets. He was ranked second in academic standing and was the fifth recipient of a Rhodes Scholarship in the history of the Academy. Tall and thin, with an angular face that most of the women coming to the Academy for hops found appealing, there was about him a sense of intellectual reserve and emotional distance from others that counteracted his physical attraction. He had straight brown hair that was at the very limit the regulations would allow — unusual for a man who otherwise followed every rule and regulation to the letter. His eyes were black, and when they focused on an individual they had the ability to make that person feel that they had 100 percent of Hooker’s attention. Many a long-suffering plebe had felt the power of that gaze during a hazing session in Hooker’s room.
Those same eyes flickered across the Plain to the barracks where his classmates were spending their last night as cadets. There was distinct feeling of excitement and anticipation in the air. Although Hooker shared in it, he had different expectations for the immediate future. While his classmates would go to various officer courses and then report to regular Army units scattered all over the world, Hooker was heading to England for two years of study at Oxford before becoming part of the “real” Army. Although the prestige of the scholarship was great, he was concerned about the possible negative effect those two years out of the active Army loop might have on his career.
“Good evening, Mr. Hooker.”
The voice caught Hooker off-guard, his thoughts already halfway across the ocean. He stiffened as he recognized the figure silhouetted in the glow of lights around the Plain.
“Good evening, sir,” he automatically responded.
Colonel William B. Kimbell’s physical appearance was in accordance with his martial reputation. West Point, class of ‘14, Kimbell had been blooded on the fields of Europe in the Great War, earning a Silver Star for gallantry. The colonel had been wounded three times, but each time had returned to the fight until peace had arrived before a fatal wound.
As commandant, Kimbell was in charge of the welfare of the Corps of Cadets, and because of that, ran every aspect of their lives outside the classroom.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Kimbell said, Hooker automatically knew that Kimbell was referring to the overall view — regardless of direction. To the north, the Hudson and Storm King framed a scene many artists had captured on canvas. To the east, across the river, lay Constitution Island, the far anchor point for the Great Chain that had been stretched across the river during the Revolution to stop the British from moving on it. To the west, at Plain-level, stood the cadet gym and above it and to the left, loomed the impressive edifice of the cadet chapel, overlooking the main Academy grounds, a slight concession by the planners that there might possibly be an institution more powerful than the Academy. To the immediate south was the billiards-table green surface of the Plain where Hooker had sweated through four years of innumerable parades. Beyond the grass were the barracks where the comraderie of four years of suffering had forged unbreakable bonds among the members of the class of ‘30.
“Yes, sir, it is.”
The commandant turned and started walking. Hooker immediately fell in step, half a pace to the rear as required by etiquette. They passed the links of the Great Chain that were displayed and halted behind a collection of old cannon barrels.
“Looking forward to Oxford, Mr. Hooker?”
“Yes, sir,” Kimbell glanced at him in the darkness. “It is an honor for the Academy to have had you selected for the scholarship.”
Hooker let that pass without comment. He reined in his emotions and focused on the present. There was a sense of something important about to happen — something beyond graduation and the beginning of a new life.
“Are you worried about missing two years of time in the field?” Kimbell asked.
Hooker wasn’t surprised that the commandant could guess his worry. Any officer would feel the same. “Somewhat, sir.”
“Somewhat?” Kimbell snapped.
“What does that mean?”
Equivocal answers were not acceptable at West Point.
Hooker had had that lesson beat into him from the first moment he’d disembarked the train four years ago. There he had been given the four answers a new cadet was allowed:
“Yes, sir; no, sir; no excuse, sir; sir, I do not understand!”
Hooker hastened to amend his mistake. “Yes, sir, I am concerned. While Oxford is certainly an excellent opportunity, nothing can replace spending two years with troops.”
“Hmmph,” Kimbell snorted. He reached into his dress uniform coat and pulled out a pipe and started filling it.
“I’ve watched you. Hooker. I’ve looked through your records and talked to your instructors and tactical officer. They say you like working alone. That you possess a mind of the highest caliber, but that your leadership ability might leave something to be desired.”
Hooker stiffened at the implied rebuke, because he knew it was true. He had a hard time dealing with subordinates who couldn’t keep up with his thinking. He had little patience for those who could not meet his high standards.
“Major Whittaker in Engineering says that you are the type of person who would rather deal with conceptual problems than with people,” Kimbell continued.
“Is that true?”
Hooker had already been chastised once for a vague answer.
“Yes, sir, it’s true.”
“Then two years away from troops won’t make much difference, will it?”
Hooker felt himself being controlled into a position, although he didn’t know what it was. “No, sir.”
Kimbell’s voice softened.
“You know, Mr. Hooker, we all can’t be at the head of regiments and divisions. The Army has other needs.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Especially in these hard times with all the cutbacks.
There are dark clouds on the horizon. Not many see them, but I think you do, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.” Hooker was surprised. Kimbell must have read his paper on German rearmament, otherwise why would he have made that comment? But why would the commandant be interested in a senior cadet’s history theme paper?