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 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 futiley.
“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, under gunned 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 MACVSOG.
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.