“Who came today?” She stood so they could make eye contact.
The general took a few deep breaths.
“Ike sent them.
Marshall’s hatchet boy… Hooker, he was in charge. Flew all the way in… from D.C. At least Beatrice kept… Smith out. That simpering ass-kisser.”
“Who’s Hooker?”
His voice was a whisper. “The Line.”
The nurse frowned.
“The Line?”
The general closed his eyes.
“I really am dying. I can feel it. The doctors said… I was getting better, but—” He paused, as if trying to collect his thoughts. “I said I was sorry… about your husband. I am. But it wasn’t… my fault.
Baum was sent out after… the damn gold… to get it before the Russians did. I had to take the heat… and make up that crap about the… prison camp when it all went to shit. Hell, I could have given them the damn money they didn’t need to try for the gold… we weren’t even sure where it was.”, “Gold?” The nurse asked.
“The Reich’s reserves and… all the crap those Hun bastards plundered. The Army found most of it… just two months ago. Then we… The Line that is… had to give it up… couldn’t keep it quiet. But the other find… outside Hammelburg… not much… about two million… that we got and kept… or should I say they got it.”
“Task Force Baum was sent out to find some hidden gold?”
The general glanced at her, his eyes taking in her youth.
“The world’s a hard place… the last four years have seen to that.
Dying on an expedition to… recover some lost gold is just one of thousands of… reasons people have died over the past years. No matter what the reason was… they were still fighting Germans. And they did a hell of job of killing Krauts all the way in to Hammelburg.
Shit, after all the crap I’ve… been through, here I am dying of a damn… broken neck from a car accident. But this… this stuff now this is going too far.”
“Why would this Line want gold?”
“They need money… for their plans.”
The nurse was standing still, as if afraid any movement on her part might derail his train of thoughts. “Tell me about The Line.”
21 DECEMBER 1945, EVENING
The nurse was coming out of the mess hall when she saw the crowd outside the west wing of the infirmary dissipating.
She made her way through to the door and showed her ID to the MP on duty.
Inside, three other nurses were gathered around the duty desk, speaking in hushed tones. She ignored them and looked down at the duty officer’s log. When she got halfway down the page, a single line entry caused a bitter smile to come to her lips’.
GENERAL PATTON DIED AT 1745, 21 DECEMBER 1945, WITH SUDDEN STOPPING OF THE HEART.
“Did you hear?” the head nurse whispered to her.
In reply the nurse held up the medical report.
“No, I meant about the autopsy.” The head nurse glanced around nervously.
“They’re not doing one.”
“So?” The nurse was distracted, her mind elsewhere.
“So!” The head nurse leaned forward and spoke in a conspiratorial tone.
“That closes the investigation. No autopsy, no investigation.”
The nurse had been secluded during Patton’s tenure at the hospital, doing nothing but work, sleep and eat. She had not bothered with the gossip that had flown about over the weeks.
The head nurse continued, feeling important with her information. ‘ “I talked to a captain in Criminal Investigation.
He told me that they were suspicious about the accident.
That it might have been a deliberate attempt on the General’s life. But now that there won’t be an autopsy, there’s no possibility of an investigation.”
“Who signed off on the release for the body without an autopsy?” the nurse asked, interested in who would want to keep the accident from being investigated.
“Some colonel from Washington. A Colonel Hooker.”
Major Benita Trace raised her head when the sharp buzz of the phone interrupted her, fingers paused above the keyboard as she prepared to continue her work. She stood, picking the portable up, and looked out at the ocean as she hit the on switch.
“Hello?”
A voice in a heavy accent was on the other end.
“Hey, sweetheart. Would ya like go to da Bronx zoo and see da boids and the toitles?”
A broad smile crossed Trace’s face.
“Boomer! Where the hell are you?”
“Well, that’s a good question. Can’t tell you exactly, since I’m not flying this dang plane, but somewhere about 35,000 feet over the Pacific, heading in your direction.”
“You’re coming here?”
“Yeah, my boss thought I needed some time off, so he wrangled me TDY orders to 4th TASOSC at Fort Shafter.”
Trace frowned as she read undercurrents in Boomer’s voice.
“Is something wrong?”
“No, nothing’s wrong. Listen, I’m on one of these credit card phones they got in the plane and I have no idea what this is costing me. I just wanted to make sure you were still in Hawaii. We should get together.”
“Absolutely. When are you getting in? I can pick you up at the airport.”
“My flight lands at 1030 but there’ll be someone from the unit at the airport to pick me up and take me over to Fort Shafter to get in briefed How about this evening?”
“Great. When and where?”
“Well, I can tell you the when, how about 1900? The where is up to you. It’s your island, not mine.”
“All right, I’ll make it as easy as possible. 1900 at the Hilton Hawaiian Village. You can’t miss it. It’s at the west end of Waikiki.
If you can’t find it, just ask. Meet me in the bar just off the main lobby.”
“OK. 1900, Hilton Hawaiian Village. The bar off the lobby. Sounds good.”
Trace was acutely aware of her racing heart.
“Hey, Boomer?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m looking forward to seeing you.”
His voice lapsed back into the exaggerated accent.
“Me too, sweetie. See ya tonight.”
The phone went dead and Trace slowly pressed the off button. She sat back down facing the computer screen, but her eyes were no longer taking in the words nor did she feel any inclination to write. Her brain swirled with mixed memories of the past.
She’d first met Boomer Watson at West Point in September of 1978. The incoming class of 1982, of which Trace was a proud member, had just finished their ten-day summer bivouac at Lake Frederick and marched back to the main post of West Point. With every mile the new cadets trudged from the lush mountains of the training area to the gray stone of the academic and barracks area, their anxiety level increased. They were leaving the brutal, two-month old cocoon of Beast Barracks for the unknown terror of the academic year.
“Three-to-one,” less than sympathetic upper class cadre members had chanted at the new cadets, referring to the academic year ratio where there would be three upper class cadets to every plebe as opposed to the survivable one-to-four ratio of Beast.
Trace was in First Company, and as such, was among the lead group to march past the Superintendent’s house under the cold eyes of massed upperclassmen on either side of the road just returned from their own varied summer training. After passing in review in front of the Superintendent, the company commander halted his troops in front of Eisenhower Barracks. With his back to the Plain, he looked over his young charges and smiled.
“The party’s over!
When I dismiss you, you are to pick up your duffle bags which are in Central Area and report to your academic year companies. You’ve all done well this summer. Keep up the good work in your academic year companies. Best of luck!
First Company, dismissed!”