Political Suicide
PRAISE FOR ALAN RUSSELL AND POLITICAL SUICIDE
“A rocket ride of action, political intrigue, and suspense.”—San Diego Magazine
“A sharp thriller. Russell has us in the palm of his hand.”—Chicago Tribune
“Ingeniously imagined and skillfully told, Political Suicide must be included in any list of this year’s best thrillers.”—San Diego Union-Tribune
“Political Suicide takes off at light speed and doesn’t slow down until the unbelievably exciting climax.”—Midwest Book Review
“One of the best writers in the mystery field today.”—Publishers Weekly
“Russell makes it seem new all over again. He’s a skillful writer.”—Booklist
“Russell understands action and dialogue.”—Charlotte Observer
“A crime fiction rara avis.”—Los Angeles Times
POLITICAL SUICIDE
BOOKS BY ALAN RUSSELL
Gideon and Sirius Novels
Burning Man
Guardians of the Night
Lost Dog
Gideon’s Rescue
L.A. Woman
Hotel Detective Mysteries
The Hotel Detective
The Fat Innkeeper
Detective Cheever Novels
Multiple Wounds
The Homecoming
Stand-Alone Novels
Shame
Exposure
Political Suicide
St. Nick
A Cold War
Stuart Winter Novels
No Sign of Murder
The Forest Prime Evil
POLITICAL SUICIDE
ALAN RUSSELL
Three Tails Press
New York, New York
Copyright © 2003, 2019 by Alan Russell
All rights reserved. Please comply with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of this book in any form (other than brief quotations embodied in critical reviews) without permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Available in trade paperback and e-book.
Three Tails Press, New York, New York
For author contact and press inquiries, please visit alanrussell.net.
To the 1926 boys,
Mike Richter and Mark Russell.
It was a very good year!
CONTENTS
PRAISE FOR ALAN RUSSELL AND POLITICAL SUICIDE
BOOKS BY ALAN RUSSELL
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PROLOGUE
By agreement, the ten of us met in barracks that night. Tyler MacDonald, known by all plebes as the Mad Cow, had come down hard on one of our own, Lou “Bo” Bohannon. At West Point, when a cadet refers to a “cow,” he was talking about a junior, a second-class man. In the past, the only free time West Point cadets received was the summer between their sophomore and junior years, and their return was referred to as the time when “the cows came home.” Over a hundred years later, long after that summer tradition ended, juniors were still called cows. Even though MacDonald was now a firstie, his nickname from his junior year had stuck. The Mad Cow was one of those table commandants who seemed to think it was his duty to bedevil plebes. His dressing-down of Bo had managed to divide our ranks. Some of the members of our table were pissed off at Bohannon for managing to put all of us in the hot seat. To defuse the situation before any finger-pointing even started, I announced, “I’ve got it covered.”
Nine faces suddenly looked relieved. No one wanted to take on any extra burden. We were all stretched too thin as it was. The fourth-class system is designed to overburden plebes. Plebes are referred to as the fourth class, as in fourth-class citizens. Two months into our West Point experience, we all felt as if we were four months behind. Those who have lived through the United States Military Academy swear that there is a method to the madness of the fourth-class system. Like all cadets before us, we were overwhelmed with information and pushed to our limits. The system was supposed to get us ready for the chaos of war, even if most of the time its purpose seemed more designed to introduce us to the ways of petty tyrants.
Just to make sure I was absolutely aware of the consequences of my volunteering, Eastman said, “If you can’t recite the first two hundred words perfectly, the Mad Cow said our whole squad would be doing fatigue tour.”
“I said I’ve got it covered.”
Eastman still wasn’t satisfied: “He said it had to be a cold max.”
A “cold max” is cadet-speak for “without an error.” All I had to do was miss a word or two and all of us would suffer.
“I’m aware of that.”
During lunch, the Mad Cow had called upon our squad to demonstrate Plebe Knowledge. It’s a game upperclassmen love to play. Before arriving at West Point, we were expected to memorize a booklet entitled Bugle Notes, what we call the Cadet Bible. For some, that memorization was a daunting task. When called upon, there was no time to dwell on the subject, or collect your wits. Upon the order of an upperclassman, you had to immediately demonstrate your mastery of the subject by offering verbatim quotes.
Naturally, Bohannon had screwed up. Bo was my roommate. He was as nice a guy as you would ever want to meet; perhaps too nice for the United States Military Academy. Bo seemed to have a knack for drawing the attention and ire of upperclassmen. It was almost as if Bo had a KICK ME sign on his backside. Under the Mad Cow’s grilling, Bo hadn’t been able to recite Scott’s Fixed Opinion, a statement by Old Fuss and Feathers concluding that the West Point cadets were invaluable in the war between the United States and Mexico.
“I’m sorry, guys,” said Bo. “I really do know Scott’s Fixed Opinion. I just sort of choked when the Mad Cow stared me down.”
The sincerity of Bo’s apology made everyone shift a little. Bo was a fuck-up, but he was our fuck-up. I had heard one squad member describe Bo as “annoying and yet innocent, like a little brother.” That, I suppose, was the perfect summation of our relationship. The notion played on my guilt, but that was another story. Taking on the big-brother role meant that little brother’s fights became my fights.
My intervention and Bo’s contriteness changed the squad’s mood. Instead of culling off the weakest, we once again closed ranks.
“It’s the Mad Cow’s look,” said Anderson.
“Yeah,” said Eastman. “He hypnotizes his prey, just like a snake.”
“No,” said Wong. “It’s his voice.”
“He makes ‘pass the butter’ sound like DEFCON one,” I said.
We all laughed. It was much more satisfying having the Mad Cow in our sights than
Bo. None of us lingered, though. There was much too much that all of us needed to do, and I had a speech to memorize.
In the morning all the cadets gathered outside for breakfast formation. Our squad was assembled in our assigned spot. It’s a morning ritual, the cadets marching into Washington Hall, our footsteps timed to the beat of the drum that calls us to meals. Bo was marching at my side. He was looking guilty and contrite. “I saw the light under your bedcovers after lights out.”
“Better report me for an honor code violation.”
“It should have been me.”
I shrugged and said nothing.
“Did you get any sleep?”
I lied, another honor code violation: “Some.”
“I owe you,” Bo said.
“It’s part of the debt owed to the long gray line.”
I was quoting from the words I would soon be delivering. West Point was that long gray line. Two presidents, General Dwight D. Eisenhower and General Ulysses S. Grant, had graduated from the school. Among its other graduates were George Patton, Robert E. Lee, and Stonewall Jackson. Just as interesting, I think, are those West Point attendees who didn’t make a name in the military. Abner Doubleday, the man who invented America’s national sport of baseball, was a graduate, as was Buzz Aldrin, the second man to walk on the moon. Edgar Allan Poe attended West Point until he was thrown out. He must have found it a great environment for a horror writer. The painter James McNeill Whistler opted for oils over bullets, and when Timothy Leary told the world to “Turn on, tune in, and drop out,” he must have been rebelling against his days in the Academy. George Custer was also a West Point graduate. As for his questionable battle tactics, maybe they had something to do with the fact that Custer had finished last in his class.
There was no shortage of memorable figures who spent time at West Point, links in that long gray line.
We entered through the huge, oaken doors of Washington Hall. Like everything else at the United States Military Academy, history permeates the room. Along the walls are portraits of more than two centuries of past superintendents, their eyes fixed dubiously on this newest generation of soldiers. There is a huge mural showing a history of war, its trail marked not in blood but by weapons and famous warriors.
The Cadet Mess is a cavernous space. It would have to be. Every day four thousand cadets assemble for breakfast and lunch, finding their places at ten-person tables situated throughout three floors and five of the room’s six wings.
Once inside the hall, we removed our jackets and draped them over our chairs. Our hats were tucked away on a shelf. Before sitting, we waited for the command of “Take seats!” from the brigade adjutant. One “gunner” works at every table, making sure we have food, dishes, and silverware. There are also coffee and water “corporals” who make sure the table commandant receives his beverages of choice. Empty glasses are not tolerated.
Previous generations of plebes were forced to eat while sitting on the forward three inches of their chairs. They were required to take very small bites of food, and had to completely swallow each mouthful before taking another bite. Like an automaton, the plebe had to return his fork to the plate and place his hands in his lap between each bite. The new army has loosened those requirements, deciding malnourishment and starvation aren’t the best methods for creating future officers, but that doesn’t mean dining is pleasant. Nothing about your plebe year is supposed to be pleasant. The dining experience was like a five-year-old being forced to eat at his cranky grandmother’s house, with the kid having to wear stiff and starched clothing, not being allowed to squirm, talk, or laugh, and having to eat whatever was on his plate no matter how offensive it might appear. All that wouldn’t have been so bad if we didn’t have to face up to a cantankerous elder twice a day.
The Mad Cow let us get halfway through breakfast before beginning the torture. Like any good cat, he wanted to play with the mice before eviscerating them. As he looked around our table, heads lowered and turned.
“Wong!” he shouted.
Wong jumped to his feet. “Yes, sir.”
For most of West Point’s history, upperclassmen could get in your face, not even offering the separation of an eyelash. That had changed, and now there was an eighteen-inch distance they were supposed to abide by. The Mad Cow kept to the letter of the law, but those who looked on could feel the narrowness of the space, like an iffy DMZ.
He offered up a softball question first: “How many names on the Battle Monument, plebe?”
“Two thousand two hundred and forty names, sir.”
The Mad Cow looked around the table. If he couldn’t exactly get in our faces, he could get in our heads. “Bartkowski!”
Another member of our squad jumped up. “Yes, sir.”
“Tell me the Soldier’s Creed.”
“Sir,” Bartkowski said, “ ‘I am an American soldier. I am a member of the United States Army—a protector of the greatest nation on earth. Because I am proud of the uniform I wear, I will always act in ways creditable to the military service and the nation it is sworn to guard. I am proud of my organization. I will do all I can to make it the finest unit of the army. I will be loyal to those under whom I serve. I will do my full part to carry out orders and instructions given me or my unit. As a soldier, I realize that I am a member of a time-honored profession—that I am doing my share to keep alive the principles of freedom for which my country stands. No matter what situation I am in, I will never do anything, for pleasure, profit, or personal means, even beyond the line of duty, to restrain my army comrades from actions disgraceful to themselves and the uniform. I am proud of my country and its flag. I will try to make the people of this nation proud of the service I represent, for I am an American soldier.’ Sir.”
“Cadet Eastman.”
Eastman was on his feet in a flash. “Yes, sir.”
“Tell me, what do plebes rank?”
“Sir,” said Eastman, “the superintendent’s dog, the commandant’s cat, the waiters in the mess hall, the Hell Cats, the generals in the air force, and all the admirals in the whole damned navy.”
The time-honored response drew approval from everyone in earshot at Washington Hall. Denigrating the navy is always a crowd pleaser.
The Mad Cow nodded as a matter of dismissal. For a moment it appeared as if he was done with our table, but then he seemed to remember something.
“Yesterday a member of this table was delinquent in his Plebe Knowledge, was he not?”
No one at our table answered.
“That’s right,” said the Mad Cow. “Cadet Bohannon couldn’t accurately quote Scott’s Fixed Opinion even after others at this table tried to secretly prompt him. I took that as a group failure, and said I would come by later to announce the punishment. As I left the table, I announced, ‘I shall return,’ then asked Bohannon who had spoken those immortal words. I was aghast at his ignorance, and could not believe he did not know that it was General Douglas MacArthur who made that famous promise during World War Two; MacArthur, a West Point graduate whose name is synonymous with this institution; MacArthur, a former superintendent here; MacArthur, who on May 12, 1962, gave his famous farewell speech to the cadets of West Point; MacArthur, who memorized that speech, all two thousand words of it, at the age of eighty-two years. And so, the punishment seemed obvious.”
He looked us up and down. “Now, which one of you will be reciting those first two hundred words of General MacArthur’s farewell address?”
Like every other West Point plebe, I knew that the secret to survival was not getting noticed. In the face of upperclassmen, you did your best to be invisible. When confronted, you kowtowed, genuflected, and readily admitted that you were a miserable excuse for a human being, and the sorriest soldier that ever put on a uniform. By not presuming to be anything but a pissant, you could generally escape the wrath of your superiors.
Throughout cadet basic training, what most at the Academy call “beast barracks,” I had played the shorn and su
bmissive sheep. That was the safe way, a strategy practiced by all new cadets and plebes. As I stood up, I knew that my days of flying under the radar were past.
“Proceed, Mr. Travis.”
It felt as if all the eyes in the huge mess hall were directed my way. I took a deep breath and in an unsteady voice recited MacArthur’s opening remarks, which bespoke of his gratitude at being the recipient of the Thayer Award. MacArthur didn’t dwell on his medallion for long, and my voice firmed up as the two of us got beyond his preamble into the meat of his message.
“ ‘Duty, honor, country—those three hallowed words reverently dictate what you want to be, what you can be, what you will be. They are your rallying point to build courage when courage seems to fail, to regain faith when there seems to be little cause for faith, to create hope when hope becomes forlorn.
“ ‘Unhappily, I possess neither that eloquence of diction, that poetry of imagination, nor that brilliance of metaphor to tell you all that they mean.
“ ‘The unbelievers will say they are but words, but a slogan, but a flamboyant phrase. Every pedant, every demagogue, every cynic, every hypocrite, every troublemaker, and, I am sorry to say, some others of an entirely different character, will try to downgrade them even to the extent of mockery and ridicule.’ ”
The Mad Cow was reading the speech from a piece of paper. I had finished the required two hundred words, and a few more. He opened his mouth to announce that I had successfully memorized the required words, but I wasn’t done, wasn’t close to being done. I continued with MacArthur’s speech, and his assertion that those in these halls were the future custodians of the nation’s defense, and how it would be our duty to reach into the future, while at the same time not neglecting the past. As my recitation went on, our wing began to fill with faces. Cadets from around Washington Hall were taking leave of their tables to witness my speech. I raised my voice so as to reach all the new ears.
“ ‘And what sort of soldiers are those you are to lead? Are they reliable? Are they brave? Are they capable of victory?