“When do you leave for England?”
Hooker wondered about the change in direction of the questioning but promptly answered.
“The tenth of July, sir. ‘ “Where are you sailing out of?”
“New York, sir.”
“Change it. Sail out of Savannah. I want you to go to Fort Benning before you leave.”
Hooker remained silent, waiting for the commandant to clarify his command.
“Do you know Colonel Marshall, the deputy commander of the Infantry School at Benning?” Kimbell asked.
“I heard him speak in March when he came up here, sir. The topic was—”
“Yes, yes,” Kimbell interrupted.
“I was at the lecture too. Marshall is a most fascinating man. He has some interesting ideas.” he added cryptically. “And he’s not even a graduate, did you know that?”
“I understand he graduated from the Virginia Military Institute, sir.”
“That’s correct. Not quite the same thing as the Academy but they do an adequate job with what they have,” Kimbell conceded.
“Indeed, it’s to our advantage that Marshall’s not a Graduate.”
Our advantage? Hooker thought. He felt a slight trickle of sweat run down the back of his stiff dress gray uniform coat.
Kimbell was looking up the river. “Marshall’s got vision, Hooker. He’s no fool. He was in the war with me and he saw what happened afterwards. Even with two years to prepare, we weren’t ready for France. We lacked the proper training, and we most certainly did not have the proper equipment. Many good men died because of that. And then we came back, and the first thing they did was gut the Army.
And we’re back where we were before the war, even worse in many ways.
“This Briand-Kellogg Act.” Kimbell shook his head. “As if by signing a piece of paper they can outlaw war. Hell, Hooker, I don’t like war but my job is to be prepared to fight and to win. Now the President signs this treaty and seems to think everyone else in the world is going to abide by it. Well, you and I know they will not. So it is our job to be prepared, no matter what those damn civilians in Washington think.
“They use the state of the economy as an excuse to justify what cannot be justified. The national defense must always be the number one priority. It cannot be tied to the vagaries of those fools on Wall Street. We must be beyond that.”
Colonel Kimbell let loose a few puffs from his pipe.
“What do you think. Hooker?”
Hooker didn’t have to think about his answer. I agree, sir. It’s our duty to defend our country and that means being as well prepared as possible in peacetime, as well as being ready to give our lives in war if that is required.”
Kimbell nodded. “Yes, but that first task is difficult, given the short memories of most of our politicians.” He reached out and tapped Hooker on the shoulder. “Colonel Marshall and I talked for a long time in March. He’s in a very good position at Benning. He’s in charge of all tactics instruction and not only does he see the students who go through the Infantry School, he also gets to know all the instructors.”
Kimbell turned back and faced Hooker. “Every few years we are going to select someone — someone special — among the Corps. Someone to do a different sort of job that will be very important.” Kimbell paused and Hooker felt his heartbeat slow down and time seem to stand still. He felt on the verge of a great destiny. One that had been written just for him.
I told you that not all of us can be at the front of the troops.
That’s why I want you to see Colonel Marshall. Why I’ve chosen you to be the first one. Colonel Marshall will tell you what is expected of you. What your country expects of you. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
Kimbell slapped Hooker on the shoulder. “Good. Good. Well, you need to go back to the barracks and get some sleep. You’ve got a big day tomorrow. The biggest day of your life so far, if I remember my graduation correctly.”
“Yes, sir.” Hooker watched as the commandant walked off toward the officer quarters on the northwest side of the Plain. Alone again with his thoughts, he realized that the past four years had prepared him for this moment. The rigorous academics, the physical conditioning, the hazing, the forge of high demands that had made him what he was. And now the future beckoned for him to serve his country — his army — in the way his abilities were best suited.
He didn’t know what Colonel Marshall would ask of him, but Hooker knew he was prepared to give all just as the 2,230 names inscribed on Battle Monument — the name of every officer and enlisted man of the Regular Army killed in the Civil War — had given all. He also understood from the recent conversation that the statue at the top of the monument, representing Fame, was not to be his lot. He was going to be asked to serve in another capacity and, while it brought a momentary rush of regret, he also accepted it with the same fortitude that had served four hard years on the Plain.
Hooker used his right hand to remove his class ring from his left ring finger. West Point was the first school in the country to adopt the use of class rings, beginning with the class of 1835. The Academy tradition was that while still a cadet, the ring was worn with the class crest turned toward the heart. After graduation, the ring is turned and the Academy crest is closest to the heart. Hooker turned the ring in the moonlight, watching the stars reflect off the black onyx stone, then he slipped it back on, the Academy crest turned in toward his heart.
“Fanciful but dangerous,” the old man muttered, removing his reading glasses.
“We have all copies?” he asked in a louder voice from the shadows, holding the pages up.
The aide had stood silently on the other side of the large wooden desk, unmoving while the pages had been read.
“We have all that were sent out, sir. The author still has the original.”
“Is this all of it?”
“That’s all that was sent, sir.”
“And this is being submitted as fiction?”
“Yes, sir. It’s just a book proposal right now. We believe that’s all that is written.”
The gnarled fingers crumpled the pages.
“You were right. This must be stopped.” As the old man threw the wad of paper toward the trash can, the light glinted off the black onyx set in the large ring on his left hand.
“We need to know where she got this information. Then take care of it and the author.”
“Yes, sir.”
CHAPTER 1
“One minute! Lock and load!”
In the glow of his night vision goggles. Major “Boomer” Watson could see the hand gestures reinforcing the words of his executive officer.
Captain Martin — one finger up, then palm slapping the magazine well of the AK-74.
The Soviet-made Mi-24 Hind-D shuddered as the pilots reduced airspeed and. crept even lower to the heavily wooded Ukrainian countryside, until they were flying less than twenty feet above the highest treetops. Boomer reached up and slightly adjusted the focus on his AN-PVS-7 night vision goggles, using the forward bulkhead separating the eight Delta Force troopers from the pilots up front as his reference point. In the green glow of the inner eyepieces, the other occupants of the blacked-out cabin showed up clearly, the men similarly outfitted in long Soviet-style overcoats, night vision goggles, AK-74s, and combat vests bristling with the tools of death.
Boomer knew the pilots were wearing their own goggles up front in order to fly the Russian aircraft well below minimum safety zones. He wasn’t overly worried. The pilots were from the top-secret 4th Battalion of Task Force 160—the Nightstalkers — and were more than proficient in their job of flying captured and “appropriated” foreign aircraft.