Still do, I suppose. S-F 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 S-F 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 in digs — 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 infighting 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 here. 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 notice ability Trace put her arms at her side and faced the Corps which was 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.