The Line

CHAPTER 4

Boomer had a hard time finding a place to park his rental car until he realized that with the temporary military parking pass he’d been issued at Fort Shafter, he could park it in one of the restricted lots on Fort Derussy, right across the street from the Hilton Hawaiian Village.

In the less than ten hours he’d been in Hawaii, one thing that had already impressed Boomer was how strong a presence the military was “on the island. From Pearl Harbor and Hickam Air Force Base in the south center, to Schofield Barracks taking up most of the interior, to Port Derussy and the military’s Hale Koa Hotel staking claim to some of the most prime real estate in downtown Honolulu and along Waikiki Beach, there was no doubt that the U.S. military was the second largest industry in the islands after the tourism trade.

Boomer crossed from one industry to the other as he left the parking lot and neatly cut grass of Fort Derussy and crossed the street where an auditorium with bright signs advertised Don Ho’s Hawaiian Extravaganza at the Hilton Hawaiian Village. Directly ahead, he spotted the main lobby for the massive hotel complex. A piano bar beckoned off to one side and Boomer went in, scanning the tables. It was early and the bartender was watching a TV mounted at the end of the bar as he catered to the sparse crowd.

Trace was seated at the end of the bar and she waved him over, rising to greet him. She was dressed in slacks and a short sleeve blouse, a large shoulder bag was lying on a chair next to her. Boomer wrapped his arms around her and lifted her off her feet with an exuberant hug.

“Easy there,” Trace laughed.

“Nice outfit,” she commented.

Boomer let her down and turned, modeling the garishly colored shorts and shirt he’d bought earlier at one of the downtown markets.

“Pretty neat, huh?”

“It’s definitely you.” Trace pulled him down into a seat.

“So tell me, what have you been up to?”

“You first,” Boomer countered, not quite ready to get into his own story.

“Last time we talked you were still at Fort Meade. I got a postcard with your new address and number here in Hawaii a month or so ago, but it didn’t tell much. Where are you assigned now?”

Trace shook her head and her tone of voice indicated displeasure with her current assignment.

“USPACOM at Camp Smith.”

“Pacific Command?” Boomer repeated.

“What do you do there?”

“Public relations,” Trace said, as she signaled to the bartender. After ordering two beers, they turned back to each other.

“I didn’t know the Army had a public relations specialty,” Boomer replied.

“And even if they did, that isn’t what you trained for.”

“They don’t. Technically, I’m assigned as the assistant PA COM J-l — Personnel. But considering the Unified Commands don’t control people in peacetime, there isn’t too much for me to do other than sit around and dust off the war plans every once in a while. Thus my real Job of public relations for the PA COM commander. Once they saw that I worked in the public affairs office at Fort Meade before CGSC, I was doomed.”

“You couldn’t get a flying job?” he asked.

“The people in D.C. figured that this was a good opportunity for me to gain experience working at a unified command. Learn what the other services are about and all that good stuff. That’s the big push in the real Army now,” Trace said. “No aviation battalion commander is screaming for me to be in their unit. This assignment’s my latest exile.”

“What do you do besides work?” Boomer asked.

“I write.”

“Write?” Boomer repeated, surprised. His question had been more directed toward her personal life. This was an unexpected development.

“I’m working on a novel,” Trace said.

“Well, sort of a novel.”

Boomer grabbed the two mugs the bartender brought and slid one in front of her.

“Here’s to old friendships.”

They tapped glasses and were silent for a few minutes, each lost in their own thoughts and memories.

“So, what about you?” Trace asked, breaking the silence.

“If you tell me what you do, will you have to kill me?”

“Pretty close,” Boomer replied.

“Kill you, cut off your head, and lock it in a safe.”

“Sounds like I don’t want to know.”

“You don’t,” Boomer said.

“Something’s wrong,” Trace quietly said.

“I could tell by the tone of your voice on the phone earlier today. And you don’t look happy to be here in paradise or to see me.”

“I am happy to see you,” Boomer insisted.

“I’m just beat. I was in the air all night and I didn’t have much sleep before that.”

“In the air coming from where?” Trace asked.

“So what’s this book you’re writing about?” Boomer attempted.

Trace smiled.

“You’re not very good at changing the subject. Don’t they teach you guys a course on that at Bragg? The art of evasive conversation?” She didn’t expect an answer.

“I’ve only just started it. It’s about West Point.

Well, not exactly West Point. About a group of West Pointers who influence the country’s policies in favor of the military.”

“The infamous WPPA?” Boomer asked. When he had first come on active duty he’d never heard the term — West Point Protective Association — despite four years at the Academy. As far as Boomer could tell, the WPPA was an informal organization that existed wherever West Pointers scratched each other’s back.

Trace picked her words carefully as she answered his question.

“No, not exactly the WPPA. It’s about a secret organization called The Line that’s been in existence for over sixty years and really came into power after World War II Boomer was interested despite his own personal problems.

“So how’d you think this up?”

“I didn’t think it up,” Trace said. She leaned forward.

“Just before I left Fort Meade I was briefly assigned as Post Public Affairs Officer. While I was there we received a strange letter at the office. It was from this woman, Mrs.

Howard, who was a nurse in the European Theater during World War II. In the letter she claimed to have been one of the nurses assigned to General Patton after his accident in 1945.”

Trace paused in thought.

“To make a long story short, she claims that just before his death, Patton told her’ about this organization called The Line that had been formed in the late twenties. And that it was getting ready to really expand its power at the end of the Second World War. So I took her story and I’ve been trying to make a novel out of it. Sort of ‘whatiffing’ it out, as if it were true.”

“Why’d she send the PAO this letter?”

Trace shrugged.

“She was sending letters to a whole bunch of people — the Pentagon, Fort Lee, everywhere. I just happened to be the only person who read it and bothered to talk to her. It was a pretty wacko letter but I thought it was kind of interesting. Plus, she was this nice old lady living in this home out in the country. No family, no, friends. I guess I just felt sorry for’ her Boomer smiled, remembering Trace as the sort of person who took stray cats in even at West Point where it had gotten her in trouble.

“Do you think Mrs. Howard’s story was true?”

“I don’t know,” Trace said.

“Her mind wasn’t in the best shape. A lonely old lady reliving the past is not exactly an accurate source. But you know, ever since I started writing this, what she told me has really made me think twice.

I think I’ve been getting slightly paranoid.”

Boomer laughed. “We. have a saying in Special Forces:

“Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you.”

“Trace didn’t smile.

“There’s been so much strange stuff going on in this country in the last fifty years that it makes you wonder sometimes.”

“Stuff like what?” Boomer asked picking up his mug.

Trace pulled a newspaper out of her shoulder bag. “Lots of things look different if you simply assume a different perspective. Take today’s paper for example.” She ran her hand over some of the headlines of the late edition of the Honolulu paper.

“The MRA and the conflict between the Joint Chiefs and the President.

Hell, the Army Chief of Staff came within a hair of uttering statements about the President at that AUSA convention on Tuesday that he could have been courtmartialed for. Like that Air Force general last year who was forced to retire.

“Then there’s everyone in the defense industry and the Pentagon screaming about the President cutting out funding for development of the Hard Glass anti-ballistic missile defense system. The nuclear blast over Turkey last week certainly made that move seem unwise.

“Or these NATO inspectors that were ambushed the other day and killed in the Ukraine. It’s causing the President’s foreign policy regarding the START II treaty with the former Warsaw Block to be questioned even further. Congress is passing a special resolution to freeze the disarmament funding for the Ukraine after this latest incident.”

Boomer’s hand halted in midair, a small bead of condensation dropping off the bottom of the mug and splashing unnoticed.

“Let me see that.”

He grabbed the paper and scanned the story.

Boomer was confused.

“What connection do you see between this and your story?” he asked.

Trace shrugged. The Backfire incident, these inspector deaths, both were the worst possible thing that could have happened. The Pentagon didn’t want to send those people in, but the President overrode that at the urging of the State Department. Now there’s a big whiplash effect, just like the Somalia peacekeeping operation a few years ago, and we all saw what happened there. And this is happening just prior to the President coming here and making his MRA speech. You could certainly make a case that these incidents are not good for the MRA.”

“But what does that have to do with your novel?”

Boomer asked, his mind still on the article. | Trace smiled.

“Not much, really. I guess I’m just getting so used to writing fiction that I start playing’what-if with everything that goes on.”

Boomer put the beer down on the table.

“Do you think this Line is real?”

“I don’t know. I’m making the story up,” Trace said.

“But you didn’t make up the original idea,” Boomer noted.

“No, but like I said, this lady’s mind wandered quite a bit when I talked to her two months ago. She was pretty bitter. Her husband had been killed in the war when he was in Patton’s 3rd Army.”

“But you must have checked her facts. Was she a nurse on the staff that worked on Patton after he had his accident?”

Trace nodded.

“Yeah, that checked out.”

“So, I’m asking you again, do you think it’s possible that an outfit like this Line exists?”

Trace spoke slowly, as if considering her words carefully, picking up Boomer’s serious mood.

“I suppose it is possible. But I find it hard to believe that such an organization could be kept secret for so long.”

“How much have you written?”

“I’ve done some research and outlining, but I’ve only worked on two chapters.”

“And you’ve made it all up, based upon one interview with this woman?”

Trace nodded.

“I’m writing it with the fictional premise:

“What if it were true?” I’m going back over the past fifty years and looking at various events that West Point graduates were involved in and making some speculations using what she gave me. There are a lot of areas I’d really like to research in depth. Lots of intriguing premises, if you accept my initial one and believe even half of what she told me, but I don’t exactly have the time to do that. The stuff I did find scared me plenty.”

Boomer pulled out his wallet, laying a twenty on the bar to cover the beers.

“I’d like to go someplace quieter if that’s all right with you.”

Trace nodded.

“We can go to my house.”

“Would it be possible for me to see a copy of what you’ve written so far?” Boomer asked.

“I’ve got a printout at home on my desk. Why are you so interested in this?”

Boomer shrugged.

“No particular reason. It’s just kind of strange.” He took her hand in his.

“Enough pondering the world’s problems. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

Trace leaned close, her shoulder touching his.

“We certainly do. Why don’t you follow me to my place?”

As if to release the pent-up stress of the past week, Boomer found himself wrapping his arms around Trace, pulling himself tight into her with a passion that surprised even himself. He could feel her moving with him. Then he felt her, a silky moist heat that felt so wonderful that he tried to stop her movements to savor the feeling a little longer. But the long slow spasms of pleasure shook him even as he held her in perfect stillness.

Later, they took their time. Boomer grinned at Trace’s soft sigh as he barely kissed each of her closed eyelids, then did the same to her breasts. She nuzzled up next to him, gently urging him, her slender fingers fondling his chest. He took her hand, kissed her fingers and lost himself in her body. He enjoyed pleasing her and spent a long time bringing her to climax.

It was a perfect ending to a terrible week. Boomer thought, as Trace finally collapsed in his arms. He held her close, feeling her relax into sleep before allowing himself to drift into an uneasy slumber filled with visions of the hillside in southern Ukraine and the sounds of the screams of wounded men.

“They done yet?”

The man tapped the side of the night scope.

“Yeah.”

He pulled back and turned off the power to the scope.

“One of the perks of the job,” the first man said with a grin’ Gonna be a shame to waste her,” the second man said.

“Who do you think the guy is?”

The first man lay down and pulled his poncho liner up around his neck.

“Somebody she works with probably.

He’s not important.”

“I hope they give us the word soon,” the first man mused as he settled down for his shift whittling at a piece of wood with his knife.

In the soft glow of the desk light, the words on the laser printed pages stood out clearly. Boomer sat cross-legged on the carpet and. read them with interest.

Boomer shook his head. He’d seen that same view many times over his four years at the Academy and he couldn’t quite say he’d had the same emotions. He continued reading, turning the-pages as Trace’s story unfolded. After finishing the last page of the second chapter, he put the draft of Trace’s book down and glanced out the window at the dark ocean, then over at the bed where Trace was stirring.

“What are you doing?” she asked sleepily, squinting against the small desk light he had on.

“Looking at your manuscript,” Boomer replied. “I had trouble sleeping.”

“Oh,” she said, sitting up and leaning back against the headboard, her small breasts perfect in the morning light.

She smiled.

“I had a good time last night. You’re an amazingly good lover for a guy like you.”

“It takes one to know one,” Boomer murmured in her ear.

She glanced at the glowing digits on the clock next to the bed.

“You know what I mean by a guy like you, right?”

Boomer wrapped his arms around her and sighed.

“Yes, I do. I’m starting to wonder if I’m a guy like me.” He’d caught her glance.

“I know you have to go soon, but can I see you later? I need to be with you.”

Trace nodded.

“You can stay exactly where you are right now. It’s been a while since a man needed me. Just stay in bed and rest.” She smiled and added! “You’ll need it later.”

He cupped her breast and gently blew air across her nipple.

“I’d love to, but I’ve got to make PT too and take a look at the message traffic. What time will you be in this evening?”

“I’m usually back by 1800,” Trace said. She made her way to the shower.

“Care to join me?”

Boomer stepped into the hot spray, his thoughts going back to a shower they’d shared so many years ago. He still hadn’t told Trace what had sent him to Hawaii. He knew he wasn’t authorized to do so.

“I read the first two chapters of your manuscript,” Boomer said.

“What do you think?”

“Good writing,” he said.

“I mean what do you think of the story?” Trace amplified.

“Interesting. I assume the first chapter about Patton was what that old woman told you.”

“I made up the conversations, but basically, yes, that’s what she recollected. It was strange to talk to someone who’d really been there taking care of Patton when he died.”

“I don’t understand the second chapter, though,” Boomer said.

“What does some cadet in 1930 have to do with Patton in 1945? I know you have Patton mentioning Hooker in your first chapter.”

“Did you know that George Marshall was the deputy commander of the Infantry School at Benning from 1927 to 1932?” Trace asked in turn.

“Of course,” Boomer replied.

“How the hell would I know that?” he asked.

“It was there in your manuscript.

And you still didn’t answer my question.”

“I’m getting there. Did you also know that 160 members of the Infantry School during Marshall’s tenure became general officers during World War II and that Marshall, as Chief of Staff, was the one man who made most of the personnel decisions in the war?”

“Besides plumbing the depth of my ignorance,” Boomer said, “do you have a point to make?”

“My point is that a hell of a lot of power was concentrated in the hands of a few men during World War II, and most of those men were at Fort Benning during the years that Marshall was there before the war. At the start of World War II West Pointers made up only seven percent of the officer corps. By the end of the war they were less than one percent. Yet three of three Supreme Commanders, seven of nine Army Group Commanders, eleven of twenty Army Commanders and twenty of thirty-one Corps commanders at the end of the war were West Pointers.”

“The old boy network,” Boomer said.

“Happens all the time. Why do you think the Masons have a handshake?”

“Yeah, but if that old lady was correct, it’s a little bit more than that,” Trace replied.

“Your own manuscript notes that Marshall was a VMI grad, not West Point. Doesn’t that blow your theory?”

“Not really. What better cover than to have someone like Marshall be the front man for The Line?”

“Now you’re thinking like a Special Forces operator, not an aviator,” Boomer said with a smile.

“What about this Hooker character?” Boomer asked again.

“Is he made up?

Where do you get him from?”

“It’s the name the nurse said Patton gave her,” Trace said evasively.

“If The Line existed, I think Hooker played a very special role in it.

I’ll show you what I mean later.”

“Have you shown the manuscript to anyone?” Boomer asked.

“It’s a long way from being done,” Trace answered.

“In fact those two chapters are the only ones written. I’ve got a lot of notes on what I’m thinking of writing. I sent off a synopsis and the first two chapters to a couple of publishers to see if they’re interested. I’m not sure I’m ready to write four hundred or so pages without an idea first if the story is marketable. I do have to get to work,” Trace added as Boomer’s hands wandered.

“OK, OK,” Boomer said, pulling his hands away.

“It’s just that I can’t resist.”

“Save it for this evening,” Trace said, getting out and grabbing a towel.

“Is that a promise?” he asked as he followed.

“Written in stone.” She dried off and then went out into the main room. Boomer watched her as she went over to a bookcase behind her desk. She pulled a thick, soft-covered book off the shelf. He recognized it immediately: the Register Of Graduates, published by the Military Academy Alumni Association. Trace tossed it at him.

“Take a look at the class of ‘thirty.”

Boomer opened the book up. He easily found the class of 1930. Trace had tucked in the appropriate page a Xeroxed copy of what must have been Hooker’s graduation picture from his year’s Howitzer, the cadet yearbook. Even with the grainy Xerox quality. Boomer was caught by the dark eyes. He put the photo aside.

In the register each class up until 1978 was listed in class rank order; only with ‘78 did they get ordered alphabetically.

Hooker’s name was the second one listed in his class.

Since Boomer was also listed later in the book, he could make some sense out of all the acronyms and abbreviations that listed a man’s life’s work in one paragraph:

Hooker was born in Maine on December 12, 1907. AIGE meant his appointment to West Point had come from the President as the son of a career military man. FA stood for field artillery. Hooker’s branch of service. After Oxford, Hooker’s next major assignment was in the office of the Operations Plans Division in the War Department — the people who had worked directly for Marshall and been the brains behind planning the entire U.S. war effort. Boomer was surprised to see that Hooker had spent the entire length of World War II in Washington. Most officers would have been fighting to get out and lead troops. That fact of Hooker’s career at least fit with what Trace had written about him.

Hooker had been promoted to brigadier general in 1944 and then went to London to work in the Military Assistance Group there after the war.

Boomer wouldn’t be surprised if that organization didn’t have a lot to do with implementing the Marshall Plan in Europe.

Then back to West Point as an instructor in the history department from 1949 to 1950. Then to a Joint Assignment with the relatively newly established Secretary of Defense’s office. Then back to West Point for a second time, this go around as head of the History Department for fifteen years.

Hooker had retired in 1969, still at the rank of brigadier general, and had gone to work for the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

Boomer assumed that was before legislation had been enacted requiring a certain amount of time before retired military could work in a civilian capacity for the Department of Defense.

“What’s USSECCON?” Boomer asked Trace, who was lacing up her running shoes.

“I had to check. It’s a private company called United States Security Consortium headquartered in Alexandria, Virginia,” she said.

“What does the United States Security Consortium do?”

“I don’t know. I got the name of the firm by calling around in the D.C. area, but that was it.” Trace came over and pointed over his shoulder.

“The interesting parts are the fifteen years he was head of the history department and the work he did for the Joint Chiefs. Hell, even what he did in the Ops division during the Second World War. This guy was in all the key places, but he always appeared to be a low-level player.

“During his time as head of history at West Point, he was gone over eighty percent of the time, doing special missions at the bequest of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. He was in Vietnam in’ sixty-one for almost eight months, going around the country, checking things out, and then going back to the Chiefs and reporting to them.”

“Guess he didn’t check them out too well,” Boomer said, “or else we might not have gotten involved.”

“Maybe he did check the situation out very accurately,” Trace replied.

That startled Boomer. He considered the bio again. Head of one of the academic departments at West Point was a prestigious position. It held the rank of full colonel with automatic promotion to brigadier general upon retirement.

“Hooker was promoted to brigadier general in’ forty-four,” Boomer noted.

“Did he take a drop in grade to go back to the Academy?”

“Yes,” Trace said.

“For all the high-speed jobs he did, this guy was never promoted beyond one star. Very strange for a Rhodes Scholar who was second in his class and did the job he did during World War II. From looking at his career track I got the impression he deliberately kept a low profile image in his career.”

Boomer put the register down and started putting on his PT uniform.

“So, you still haven’t answered my question.

I would assume from what you wrote in your manuscript that this guy was a player in The Line.”

“I don’t think he would be just a player,” Trace said, grabbing the keys to her jeep. “I think after a certain time period he was the number one guy in The Line — if it existed.”

Boomer pulled on his grey PT shorts.

“Can you use a real person like that in a work of fiction? Won’t you get sued or something?”

“I’m just using his name in the draft. I’ll change the name later on — make Hooker’s character fictional. It just helps me in writing to use real names. Besides, when did you start worrying about the legalities of the publishing world?”

Boomer followed her to the door. The anxiety he felt the previous evening during the drive to her house was returning.

Boomer was a man who survived by his instincts, but he was used to real situations that deserved fear. This was something different. He pulled her close and buried his face in the hollow of her throat.

“It’s not legalities that concern me, it’s you. I just don’t want you to get hurt or rejected.”

Trace flashed a dazzling smile and kissed him on the tip of his nose.

“The people who can hurt me already have.

That’s the only good thing about losing what’s most important to you — you can stop worrying about losing it.”

Boomer walked her to the Jeep. His words were lost in the engine noise.

“I haven’t lost it. Trace.”