The Cadet

By Doug Beason

“Timeless and absorbing. . . . An astonishing and authentic portrayal of the military academy experience.” —Jerry Pournelle, New York Times–bestselling, Nebula and Hugo Award–winning author of Lucifer’s Hammer

A military epic that chronicles the birth of the United States Air Force. The arduous training of America’s future leaders as they prepare to serve from the jungles of Vietnam to the deserts of the Middle East. The first in the Wild Blue U historical saga, The Cadet is realistic fiction based on factual events. Populated with empathetic, larger-than-life characters, this novel will appeal to prospective candidates, military members, and the reading public alike.
 
“I loved it. It’s brilliant. Once started, I was never really able to put it down.” –Jack McDevitt, Nebula Award–winning author of the Alex Benedict and The Academy series
 
“Doug Beason has distilled the first years of the Air Force Academy into a compelling and fascinating novel. . . .The closest and most intimate account that exists in print, with all the turbulence and exuberance captured through the lens of fiction.” —Lt. Gen Brad Hosmer, USAF (ret), #1 Graduate of the USAFA Class of 1959, Rhoades Scholar and USAFA Superintendent

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Apr 7, 2015
• ISBN: 9781614752905

Doug Beason

Doug Beason, PhD is a Nebula Award finalist whose work has appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies including The Wall Street Journal and Journal of Computational Physics. His book Science and Technology Policy for the post-Cold War: A Case for Long-Term Research was used as a textbook at National War College and the Air War College. A Fellow of the American Physical Society, Beason has worked on the White House staff for the President's Science Advisor under both the Bush and Clinton Administrations as the key staffer for space science and technology. As the Associate Laboratory Director for Threat Reduction at the Los Alamos National Laboratory, he was responsible for the programs and people that reduced the global threat of weapons of mass destruction. A graduate of the USAF Academy, Doug holds a PhD in Physics, and before moving to Los Alamos, completed a twenty-four year career as an Air Force officer, retiring as a Colonel. He has lived in Canada, the Philippine Islands, and Okinawa.

Book preview

Book Description

The Cadet, Book 1 of the Wild Blue U saga, chronicles the founding years of arduous training of America’s future leaders as they prepare to serve in such places from the jungles of Vietnam to the deserts of the Middle East. The Cadet is an accurate, historical saga of the Academy based on factual events—but populated with empathetic, larger-than-life characters that will appeal to prospective candidates, military members, and the reading public alike.

by Doug Beason

Kobo Edition – 2015

WordFire Press

wordfirepress.com

ISBN: 978-1-61475-290-5

Copyright © 2015 Doug Beason

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the copyright holder, except where permitted by law. This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover design by Janet McDonald

Art Director Kevin J. Anderson

Cover artwork images by Dollar Photo Club

Book Design by RuneWright, LLC

www.RuneWright.com

Kevin J. Anderson & Rebecca Moesta, Publishers

Published by

WordFire Press, an imprint of

WordFire, Inc.

PO Box 1840

Monument, CO 80132

Contents

Book Description

Title Page

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Author’s Note

Dramatis Personae

USAF Academy Abbreviations and Terms

The Coming American

Chronology

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 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

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

EPILOGUE

Bibliography

About the Author

Other WordFire Press Titles by Doug Beason

Dedication

To Cindy Beason—who met me when I was a cadet,

married me anyway, and supported me through everything.

Acknowledgements

The Wild Blue U saga was written over a period of 15 years and I received much help from reviewers, contributors of anecdotes, historians, former cadets and faculty members, editors, agents, friends, and a host of other helpers. As such, I cannot possibly thank everyone who has contributed to the saga as I’m sure I will leave someone out; but nevertheless, here goes: Kevin J. Anderson, Rebecca Moesta, Don Erbschloe, Vickie Erbschloe, John Silbersack, Matt Bialer, Lori Peterkin and her Book Club, Lisa Ice, Ken Zeringue, Vivian Trask, Don Shepherd, Elizabeth Muenger, Joe Gross, Craig Hendrickson, Mike Heil, Bill Sabol, Jeff Dotur, Harald Dogliani, Gary Ganong, Jim Parsons, Bob DeBerry, Hugh Gordon, Deane Burbank, Dick Halloran, Phil Gronseth, Curt McIntyre, Jim Mateos, Chris Jaremko, Yvonne Kinkaid, John Paul Fraser Fisher, Ken Henderson, Nelson O’Rear, Steve Whitehouse, Don Cole, Bob Duffner, and of course, Cindy Beason.

Author’s Note

The Cadet is a composite of over 60 years of Academy history, attempting to distill a wide spectrum of experiences that could not have possibly happened to just one cadet in a four-year period. And although this is a work of fiction, it is based on historical figures, events, and locations that are real; however, it is impossible to precisely reconstruct the thoughts and motivations of these historical figures and their actions. As such, the author has taken liberty to dramatically embellish historical events, and does not intend to denigrate—but only highlight and humanize—the significance of their actions. For example, George Delante did not exist; his actions did not occur. As another example, there was only one cadet squadron commander for Third Squadron in 1958; the fictional character portrayed is not related in any way to this person. In addition, only to dramatize the novel, some anecdotes may be out of chronological order or the venues changed (such as the CU mascot liberation; or the Class of 1959’s graduation ceremony being depicted on the parade field, instead of in Arnold Hall due to inclement weather; etc.). The sole purpose is not to make this novel a dry chronicle of historical fact, but rather to show the true excitement of establishing a major American landmark. Finally, there are a few terms and phrases used that may offend present day social mores, but these are only used to reflect the customs and social tones of a 1950s, post-Korean conflict, America.

Dramatis Personae

(Historical figures are denoted by ψ)

Jean-Claude (Rod) Simone

Marie Simone—Rod’s mother

Henri Simone—Rod’s father

Nanette Simone—Rod’s sister

Major General Hank McCluney—Downed pilot, Rod’s adoptive father

Mary McCluney—Hank’s wife, Rod’s adoptive mother

Sandy Allison—Rod’s high-school girlfriend in Southern California

Julie Phillips—Colorado Women’s College student, Rod’s girlfriend in Colorado

United States Air Force Academy—Class of 1959

Nino Baldacciψ—Cadet (Poughkeepsie, NY)

Fred Delante—Cadet (Colorado Springs, CO)

Jeff Goldstein—Cadet (New York, NY)

Sylvester Sly Winston Jakes—Cadet (Boston, MA)

Manuel Rojo—Cadet (Albuquerque, NM)

George Sanders—Cadet (Ft. Worth, Texas)

United States Air Force Academy

Master Sergeant William H. Coltrinψ—USAFA Non-commissioned OIC

Lieutenant General James E. Briggsψ—USAFA Superintendent

Raf Garcia—waiter

Lieutenant General Hubert Harmonψ—first USAFA Superintendent

Captain Samuel P. Justice, USAF—Air Officer Commanding (AOC)

Ben Martinψ—USAFA football coach

Mrs. Gail McComas ψ—Cadet hostess, 1955 to 1977

First Lieutenant Tom Ranch, USAF—Air Training Officer (ATO)

Brigadier General Robert M. Moose Stillmanψ—first Commandant of Cadets

Brigadier Henry R. Sullivan, Jr.ψ—Commandant of Cadets

Colonel Albert E. Stoltzψ—Director, Air Force Academy Construction Agency

Colorado Springs

George Delante—Land developer and construction magnate

Elizabeth Delante—his wife

Jim-Tom Henderson—Owner, Pine Valley Airport and George’s business partner

Margaret Henderson—his sister

Darius Moore—El Paso county assistant district attorney

Washington, D.C.

President Dwight D. Eisenhowerψ—U. S. President

The Honorable J. Edgar Chenowethψ—Colorado Congressman

Ambassador T. Edward Phillips—Julie Phillip’s father

Francine Phillips—Julie Phillip’s mother

Other Locations

Colonel Speedy Beaumont—Hank McCluney’s wingman in WWII

Carol Gutheinz—Colorado Women’s College student

Tony Rafelli—Denver Post reporter

Barbara Richardson—Stanford student

Wendy Shelby—Colorado Women’s College student

USAF Academy Abbreviations and Terms

Ac Call—Academic Call-to-Quarters, mandatory study time

AMI—Any Morning Inspection, usually less formal than a SAMI

ASAP—As Soon As Possible

AOC—Air Officer Commanding

ATO—Air Training Officer

AWOL—Absent Without Leave

Blow—To rest, or to kiss off

Bomb—To do extremely poorly

BOR—Base Of the Ramp

Buy the Farm—To crash

Cadet Wing—The student body of USAFA cadets

Canoe U—A small, inconsequential school (Annapolis), which forms a suburb of the capital of Maryland with a campus partly on land and partly in the Severn River

CCQ—Cadet in Charge of Quarters

Clank—To freeze up; to royally goof-up

CDB—Commandant’s Disciplinary Board

CIC—Cadet In Charge

Comm—Commandant of Cadets, a brigadier (1-star) general

Commshop—Commandant’s office

CQ—used in place of CCQ

Crash—A landing in which the vertical velocity is so great and the time spent in reducing it to zero is so brief that the acceleration and hence the forces acting become so great as to result in structural failure

Cretin—That person ill-disposed at doing acts of nominal coordination or acts requiring minimal thought

DF—Dean of Faculty, a brigadier (1-star) general

Doolie—That insignificant whose rank is measured in negative units; one whose potential for learning is unlimited; one who will graduate in some time approaching infinity

FIGMO—Forget It, Got My Orders

Firstie—a First classman, a senior (cadets in their final year at the Academy)

Fourth classman—Freshman (first year cadet, known as a doolie)

FORM 10—Cadet administrative form for documenting infraction of regulations

FUBAR—Messed Up Beyond All Recognition

GIB—Guy in the back seat

Ground pounder—A non-flying officer

Hyper—An ultra-military cadet that is focused on military bearing

Hudson High—a small, inconsequential school (West Point) on the Hudson River distinguished by over 200 years of tradition unhampered by progress

IHTFP—I Have Truly Found Paradise; equivalently, I Hate This Friggin’ Place

Intramurder—Athletic competition between squadrons; violent intramural sports

IRI—In Ranks Inspections

Magic—That name applied to the department of Electrical Engineering and all related hand waving activities

MATS—Military Air Transport Service

NCOIC—Non-Commissioned Officer-in-Charge

Nino Baldacci—That individual having entered with the class of ’59 and remaining until the present time never having been off academic probation and never having taken a privilege. He is a perpetual turn-back near and dear to all cadets.

ODP—Off Duty Privilege

OIC—Officer-in-Charge

OTF—Over The Fence, AWOL

PDA—Public Display of Affection

PE—Physical Education

PFT—Physical Fitness Test

Post—An order signifying to a subordinate that their presence is no longer needed

Rack—Bed

Rock—That superhuman who is free from female entanglements

SAC—Strategic Air Command

SAMI—Saturday Morning Inspection

SAR—Squadron Assembly Room

SDO—Squadron Duty Officer

Second classman—Junior (third year cadet)

SOD—Senior Officer of the Day

Staff Tower—The location in the cadet dining hall (Mitchell Hall) where Wing Staff eats

Supt—USAFA Superintendent, a lieutenant (3-star) general

TAC—Tactical Air Command

TDY—Temporary Duty

Third classman—Sophomore (second year cadet)

Trash Hauler—Transport pilot

Truck Driver—the pilot of a non-fighter aircraft with more than one engine (bomber or transport)

Two!—A command to return the cadet to what he or she had been doing

UCMJ—Uniformed Code of Military Justice

Wing Staff—Cadre of senior cadet officers that lead the Cadet Wing

Zoomie—That term by which a cadet is commonly known by jealous, and usually inferior, civilians

The Coming American

Bring me men to match my mountains,

Bring me men to match my plains.

Men to chart a starry empire,

Men to make celestial claims.…

—Samuel Walter Foss, at the base of the ramp leading to the USAFA cadet area from 1958–2003

The Cadet

Chronology

(Entries in italics are fictional)

1947: The National Security Act of 1947 established the United States Air Force (USAF) as a separate and equal branch to the Army and Navy.

1948: Officers and educators meet at USAF’s Air University to discuss the creation of an Air Force Academy, but they do not recommend a location.

1949: Air Force Secretary Symington creates an initial Site Selection Board, appoints war-hero Major General Hank McCluney as a member.

1949: Denver Post article by Tony Rafelli, West Point of the Air prompts Joe Reich, owner of the Swiss Chalet Restaurant in Colorado Springs, to convince the Chamber of Commerce to establish a committee to compete for USAF Academy.

1950: Real estate mogul George Delante procures several thousand acres in south Colorado Springs in an attempt to hold a monopoly on land proposed for a USAF Academy site.

1952: A Farnborough Airshow DH.110 crash kills 29 spectators; a heroic rescue effort led by recent West Point graduate Lieutenant Whitney motivates Jean-Claude Simone to attend the new Air Force Academy when it opens.

1953: The top three sites for the USAF Academy are identified as Colorado Springs, CO; Alton, IL; Geneva, WI. The Site Committee’s report is tabled after considering 580 proposed sites in 45 different states and traveling 18,852 miles.

1954: Air Force Secretary E. Harold Talbott appoints a new Site Selection Commission; members included Charles Lindberg and Major General Hank McCluney.

1954: In Alton, IL, and Geneva, WI, George Delante and other activists from Colorado Springs covertly participate in protests against the final Site Committee visits

1954: In Washington, D.C., George Delante attempts to blackmail Major General McCluney to influence the Site Selection Committee to pick Colorado Springs.

1954: The Site Commission dismisses the southern Colorado Springs site for the USAF Academy; George Delante is bankrupted by the decision.

1954: A last-ditch effort by the Colorado Springs Chamber of Commerce convinces the Commission to consider a far-north city site. Charles Lindberg pilots the Commission in a plane to inspect the northern Colorado Springs site.

1954: George Delante dumps his land in south Colorado Springs and deceitfully procures 1,000 acres of prairie east of the proposed USAF Academy northern site.

25 June 1954: Secretary Talbott announces the Academy will reside in Colorado

1954: USAF General Order No. 1 activates the USAF Academy and designates Lowry Air Force Base in Denver, CO as the temporary USAF Academy site

1954: Congress passes legislation to begin construction of the Air Force Academy in far northwest Colorado Springs

11 July 1955: The first class of cadets enters the United States Air Force Academy at Lowry AFB

Prologue

Comin’ in on a Wing and a Prayer

1943

Cahors, France

And how can man die better than facing fearful odds, for the ashes of his fathers and the temples of his gods?

—Horatius at the Bridge

The high-pitched wail of German air raid sirens startled Jean-Claude Simone from his restless sleep, as it had woken him every night for the past week.

The boy clutched a blanket and pulled it around his head. He waited for the distant rumbling of the exploding bombs to begin, a deep, growling reverberation that sounded as if a thunderstorm were rolling across the wooded French countryside.

Two nights ago the guttural booms had grown loud enough that he had felt the ground-shock from the individual bombs. He remembered his mother running upstairs to their bedroom.

Bending over to comfort his sister’s frightened cries, his mother had picked up his baby sister, Nanette, and clutched her tightly, whispering over the terrifying explosions that grew ever louder. It sounded as though a giant strode through their small valley, randomly dropping boulders as he crashed through their peaceful existence.

His mother held the baby to her cheek and ran a hand through her wispy brown hair, whispering as she rocked back and forth, watching out the upstairs bedroom window. In the starlight his mother’s silhouette reminded Jean-Claude of a thin reed of grass, gently swaying in the wind, yet never breaking as she comforted his sister.

His father had pounded up the stairs, carrying a rifle. His eyes were wild. He whispered, Are the children all right, Marie?

"Oui. His mother nodded toward Jean-Claude’s bed, a mattress pushed into the corner of the small room. See if he is awake."

Jean-Claude squeezed his eyes shut, pretending to sleep. As his father approached, he smelled the faint odor of garlic and olive. It was the smell of their small family restaurant on a warm summer day, when the wind would sweep the fragrance of cooking from the kitchen, and he would sit in the doorway watching Nanette in her crib.

Standing over the wood-stoked stove, Father would wipe a hand across his brow and move a sauté pan rapidly over the open flame as the smell of butter, onions, mushrooms, and pepper filled the room. Neighbors would sit in chairs outside the kitchen and laugh with his father as he prepared a meal for their small sidewalk café. Those were the days before the Germans, before the bombs.

His father had run a hand gently across his arm. Jean-Claude trembled, wanting his father to hold him, comfort him, and keep the booming giants from invading their house.

But Jean-Claude remained still at his touch. Six years old was too old to have his father hold him like a baby. What would Jacques and François say if they discovered that he had been frightened of the Allied bombs, or of the Germans as they arrogantly patrolled the town?

Tonight, as the rumbling grew closer, Jean-Claude kept his head buried in the blanket, waiting for his parents to come upstairs. He wished he hadn’t spurned his father’s comforting touch the night before.…

A shrill whistling made Jean-Claude tense. The sound grew louder.

He bent his knees up to his head. He heard a shout from downstairs. "Pa-pa?" An ear-splitting whistling—then something exploded in a terrifying roar.

Around him the house crumbled, falling as the walls blew away.

The floor dropped beneath him, crashing. He yelled as he fell, then bounced as his bed hit the ground.

Someone screamed, a distant, muffled moan.

Terrified, Jean-Claude sat up, his mouth so dry he couldn’t speak. His chest hurt. He drew the blanket around him and, through the smoke, saw a hole where the bedroom ceiling and floor had been just seconds before.

Fire licked at the collapsed walls. Splintered wood, torn wallpaper, pots and pans lay all around. Smells of oil, smoke, and burning wood filled his nostrils. Down the cobblestone street, people yelled, horns honked, air raid sirens wailed, and more bombs exploded.

The fire grew brighter, hotter.

He was outside, with nothing over his head. The roof was now a blanket of stars sprawled above like tiny pinpricks of light. Raw and splintered timbers jutted up around him. Only the back wall to the house stood standing.

In the kitchen the fireplace swayed, creaking as if about to fall. Round stones marbling its surface crumbled to the ground. In the distance a church bell clanged.

Tears welled in his eyes. Ma-ma, pa-pa!

He heard a whimpering wail. Nanette. Her tiny crib was on its side, turned over from the fall.

The wailing changed to coughing, as if Nanette had trouble breathing.

Ma-ma! There was still no answer.

Feeling as if he were going to choke from the smoke, Jean-Claude crawled to the end of his bed. Nanette! Nanette! But no one came to comfort him.

He pushed off the end of the bed and clawed through chalk and splinters. His hands hurt, and in the moonlight he saw blood, felt the wet slipperiness as he tried to push away timbers to reach Nanette.

A creaking sound cascaded to a roar, and the back wall collapsed. Ma-ma! He struggled to his feet and took an unsteady step, but he fell back. Debris showered him.

Then it was quiet, except for the growing sound of the crackling fire.

He twisted, but couldn’t move. A log from the back wall pinned him down.

Jean-Claude tugged frantically. Help! Help me, pa-pa!

The fire grew, feeding on the house, growling as it devoured his home. And now it was searching for him. Shadows danced crazily against the towering fireplace, and light glinted off the metal pans that were half buried in the fallen debris. Ma-ma!

As the fire encircled him, he closed his eyes. He couldn’t hear Nanette’s cries any longer, and since the explosion, he had not heard ma-ma or pa-pa at all.

He felt the fire’s heat against his face; he coughed from the smoke and remembered the time Jacques had caught a field mouse and had coaxed it into a cardboard box. Laughing, the boy had lit fire to one side of the box, and the mouse had scampered back and forth, throwing itself up against the far wall as it tried to get away. The mouse grew more frantic as the flames roiled higher. Finally disgusted at the play, Jean-Claude threw a stone at the box, knocking it over and freeing the mouse—now, his own home had been toppled and was burning, but there was no escape.

Help me, please!

A scraping sound came from behind him. He struggled to an elbow. Through the smoke Jean-Claude saw someone stagger into the house. The man was much shorter than his father.

His face lit by the fire, the man pulled himself over the fallen debris, favoring his leg. A bleeding gash ran across his cheek. Even in the dim light, Jean-Claude could see that the man had bright red hair. His brown leather jacket was dirty and torn at the sleeve. Oily sweat covered the man’s face in a sheen.

They stared at each other. Jean-Claude felt as if his heart were pounding loud enough for the man to hear.

The man spoke, but Jean-Claude couldn’t understand the words.

American, the man whispered in a strange accent.

Panting, Jean-Claude shook his head and tried to get up, but he couldn’t move.

Fire roared behind the man, feeding on cooking oil. The man wrapped his arms around the log pinning Jean-Claude down and pulled. The wood creaked, but didn’t move. The flames grew larger as they ran up a jutting timber. Something popped from underneath the debris, as if the blaze was trying to run under the fallen log. Wisps of smoke rose from the debris scattered on the ground.

The man shuffled around and gained purchase with his bloodied leg. Squeezing shut his eyes and with his face contorted in pain, the American grunted and lifted the log a few centimeters.

Freed, Jean-Claude rolled out from under the wooden beam. Scrambling to a crouch, Jean-Claude stared at the man as the timber crashed back to the floor.

The man opened his eyes and seemed to notice for the first time that flames were all around. Dragging himself up over the log, he grimaced and motioned for Jean-Claude to follow him out of the house.

Jean-Claude turned wildly and began digging through the debris. Ma-ma, pa-pa! Hot embers burned his fingers as he dug deeper into the pile. Where are you?

Strong hands grasped Jean-Claude around the waist and tried to pull him away.

Jean-Claude fought against the man, pounding with his fists. Standing free in the midst of his demolished house, Jean-Claude shrieked. Flames licked at his heels. To his left, a portrait of his family sizzled as the heat turned it black around the edges.

He couldn’t leave. Somewhere underneath this fallen rubble lay his mother, his father, and his sister, Nanette. He had to find them, help them—

A piece of burning wood fell from the fireplace. Jean-Claude jumped back and felt intense heat, almost landing in another wall of fire that crackled up from the demolished stairs.

The man motioned for him to follow.

Tears streamed down Jean-Claude’s face, unstopped by pride or a need to prove to others that he was too big to cry. Sirens warbled in the night. Searchlights stabbed through the sky, sweeping across the darkness.

Please, laddie! the man said, speaking with a crude accent. Hurry, now!

Down the narrow cobblestone lane three houses were on fire. Jacques’ home was completely leveled. The man limped to the center of the street and urged Jean-Claude to follow.

Jean-Claude stepped out of the house and held a hand to his eyes, shielding his face from the heat. What if his parents were still alive? His sister … she needed him—

Suddenly, the sound of a car honking pierced the night. Bullets fired and a motorcycle screeched around the corner. The American looked wildly around.

A German soldier pulled up to the house and dismounted from his motorcycle, leaving the motor running. He pulled out a pistol. "Kommen Sie hier!" He leveled the pistol at the injured man.

Jean-Claude felt his knees buckle. He had to stay quiet; he remembered his father cautioning him against ever antagonizing the Germans.

"Schnell!" The man cocked the gun.

Slowly raising his hands over his head, the American nodded with his head for Jean-Claude to run away.

Still terrified, Jean-Claude’s breath quickened. His hands felt slippery. What should he do? He couldn’t just stand there. The American had saved his life. He stooped and picked up a rock in the rubble the size of his hand; without thinking he hurled the rock at the German, hitting the blond-haired man on the shoulder.

The German whirled. Snarling, he aimed his gun at Jean-Claude.

Skipping on his good leg, the American leaped out and tackled the German. They rolled on the ground, wrestling for the pistol.

The American cried out in pain. Grunting, they struggled as the pistol skittered away, spinning to a stop next to Jean-Claude.

Jean-Claude stared at the weapon. It looked hard, metallic in the flickering shadow.

Terrified as the smoke thickened around him, Jean-Claude reached down and grasped the pistol. The handle felt cold. He had never held a gun before.

The German rolled on top of the American and straddled him. His fingers closed around the American’s throat. The American turned his head from side to side and made sharp choking sounds. He struggled to pry off the German’s hands.

Jean-Claude’s breath quickened; the stranger who had saved him was being strangled. He had to do something. But what? He couldn’t just let the man die. Pa-pa had said he was too young to even hold his father’s rifle, much less a pistol, but he couldn’t just stand there and do nothing.

Holding the weapon with both hands, Jean-Claude tried to aim. The gun wavered; he took an uncertain step forward and said, "Arrêtez!" but the men ignored him.

The German pushed down and the American gurgled; his hands fell to the ground.

Grimacing, Jean-Claude squinted and squeezed the trigger. The gun went off, kicking his arms up. His hands stung from the recoil.

A spray of blood shot from the German’s head and the man slumped over.

In pain, the American rolled from underneath the dead German. His eyes wide, he stared at Jean-Claude. Flames flickered from the burning house, casting wild shadows.

Jean-Claude dropped the gun. It clanked to the ground. Not fully comprehending what had happened, he took an unsteady step back. A sick feeling gnawed in his stomach; he leaned over and vomited. What had he done?

The American coughed and struggled to his feet. He limped over and picked up the Luger, then waved for Jean-Claude to follow. Come, lad!

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Jean-Claude looked around, but all he could see was the devastation of his home, and the flames growing larger. He took a step toward his house, but strong arms stopped him. No, laddie!

Flames rolled over the devastation as the remaining walls collapsed onto the ground. Jean-Claude raised a hand to shield his face as the heat pushed him back.

He had no one else to go to, and he didn’t know what to do.

Except trust in this man who had saved his life.

His legs shaking, he turned and followed the American.

And left his old life behind.

Chapter One

Sincerely

July 11, 1955

United States Air Force Academy

Lowry Field, Denver, CO

The purpose of the Fourth Class System at the United States Air Force Academy is to lay the foundation early in the cadet’s career for the development of those qualities of character and discipline which will be expected of him as an officer. These qualities must be so deeply instilled in the individual that no stress or strain will erase them from his personality.

—Contrails, The Air Force Cadet Handbook

Eighteen year-old Rod Simone’s emotions yo-yoed from a deep, sickening knot in the pit of his stomach to uncontrollable excitement as he anticipated becoming a cadet. He’d dreamt for years of attending the Academy and being a member of the first class at an institution that would rival West Point and Annapolis.

So why did he feel so nauseous?

He sat in the back of the rented ’55 Chevy as they drove past brown fields of tall prairie grass on their way to Lowry Field, temporary home of the new Air Force Academy. The rolling hills were punctuated by cattle, tails whipping flies off their backs. Houses dotted the side of the road; children played in yards, unconcerned that Rod’s world was about to turn upside down. The ride seemed to take forever.

Rod wished that he could be out on the range, not having anything more stressful to do than herding cattle. Or maybe back in Southern California with Sandy, taking her to the Disneyland Park that would soon open in Orange County. For some reason, dozens of alternatives filled his head, anything other than attending the nation’s newest military academy. But it seemed he’d wanted to go forever, ever since he’d accompanied his adoptive father on the trips to help establish the institution.

Rod straightened in the back seat and held up a hand at the light shining through the front windshield. Sunlight glared past his mother’s long hair, strands of red flying in the wind as she drove east on Sixth Avenue. Behind them, the Rocky Mountains were still ridged with snow from a late spring storm.

Hank McCluney twisted in the passenger’s side of the front seat. How are you holding up, lad?

Fine. Rod turned back to the side window, not wanting to talk.

Nervous?

He hesitated. No, sir.

Aye, Hank said, pulling his lips tight.

For a moment Rod thought Hank would lecture him. It reminded him of the time Hank admonished him after he had stood up to Robert, the much taller and overweight bully who had taunted him for his accent, making fun of his foreign name; or when Hank had demanded that he shouldn’t try to fly fighter planes; or even when Rod had seen Hank with that … that woman in Washington, D.C.

Why couldn’t Hank stop treating him as a kid? He still seemed to think Rod was that helpless French boy he’d rescued from a burning house. Didn’t Hank remember that he’d killed a man?

As if sensing Rod’s apprehension, Hank said, I used to get sick before going into combat. Every time I flew, I got the jitters, not knowing what to expect. I suppose the fumes I smelled on the flight-line yesterday made my stomach think I was flying again.

There were plenty of fumes yesterday at the airshow when Rod and his parents had joined the mob of 4,200 people at the Academy’s dedication ceremony. He’d stood on his tiptoes, wishing he was closer to the center of activity as CBS had covered the event on national TV; cadets from the Military and Naval Academies mixed with three- and four-star generals, government officials, and Hollywood starlets.

Rod had watched in awe as giant bombers thundered low across the sky, featuring a massive aerial display of lumbering B-36s and new B-47 jets, along with F-84 and F-86 fighters. The sky had rumbled with gleaming metal. He ached to be in the sky, to feel the plane respond to his touch and look out over a horizon a hundred miles away, to hear the jet engines whine as he swooshed through the air. It had all seemed surreal.

But today, all the pomp and circumstance and the excitement of yesterday didn’t make Rod feel any better. Now his stomach churned with uncertainty.

His adoptive mother Mary slowed the car as they approached a guard shack. A crowd of onlookers stood next to a fence. They partly blocked a blue sign with white lettering:

LOWRY AIR FORCE BASE

A young guard wearing sharply pressed khakis, a tan belt, and a blue-banded helmet stepped out of the shack. A pistol was strapped at his waist.

Light bulbs flashed. A man in a red plaid jacket and wearing a Press card stuck jauntily in the band of his hat ran in front of the car. He snapped their picture as they pulled to a stop, then leaned into the front window. "Tony Rafelli, Denver Post—"

Excuse me, sir. You’re obstructing traffic. The guard pulled the reporter back. He watched the reporter saunter away, then reached into the guard shack and picked up a clipboard. May I help you, ma’am?

Still blinking from the flashbulb, Mary McCluney straightened, her head high. My son is entering the Air Academy, she said with an effort. Jean-Claude Simone.

Got it. The airman made a check on the paper. He reached into the guard shack and pulled out a large white card with the words GUEST, EXPIRES 11 JUL 55 on it, and placed it on the dashboard.

Were you at the airshow yesterday, ma’am?

Aye, we were, Mary said.

Good. You’ll be going to the same location. He pointed inside the base. Follow the signs to the cadet area and Air Policemen will direct you to parking. Watch out for pedestrians and do not exceed fifteen miles an hour. Once you’ve dropped off your son at the administration building, be sure to be back at the viewing stands by 1530 for the 1600 parade and dedication. Do you have any questions?

Mary shook her head. Tears formed in her eyes; she tried to pull a green kerchief from her matching purse, but it caught and she quickly dabbed her face with a white-gloved hand. She smoothed her green Coachman dress with winged black collar and straightened in her seat.

Rod looked at her curiously; he hadn’t suspected she’d be moved. Normally, his adoptive mother was all business, much more so than his adoptive father; he didn’t know what to think.

Thank you, sergeant, Hank said. He leaned forward and put an arm around his wife. Are you all right, Mary?

She tightly gripped the steering wheel, a thin smile on her face. Aye, husband, she whispered. She drove slowly into the sprawling compound, inching up to the strict fifteen mile an hour speed limit. Just a wee dram of nerves.

Rod heard cheering as they drove onto the base. People lined the streets. They waved signs reading GOOD LUCK! and WE LOVE OUR CADETS!

The streets were meticulously clean. The lawn was cut razor close, looking as if a team of yard workers had been down on their hands and knees ensuring every blade of grass was the same height. Windows gleamed, yellow stripes on the road glistened, white paint on the curbs shone, and even a mothballed P-51 Mustang sitting by the side of the road on display looked as if it had been specially polished.

An Air Policeman directed them to a parking lot. When they stopped, Rod heard voices hoarsely yelling from beyond a cluster of white-painted wooden buildings.

Hank opened his door and rolled out of his seat. He stood erect next to the car and leaned on his cane, his brown fedora set perfectly straight on his head.

Rod’s mother ran a hand up and down his arm as they watched a group of young men line up outside one of the buildings marked Administration. Parents stood in clumps throughout the parking lot, quietly saying goodbye to their sons. Younger brothers and sisters ringed the family groups. Girlfriends cried openly, and Rod wished that Sandy had come with them so he could have said a final goodbye.

Do you have your belongings, lad?

Yes, sir. Rod reached down and lifted his bagpipes and khaki duffle bag. The instructions from the Academy information office had been explicit: except for a shade 84 summer dress uniform sent to him two weeks ago by the Commandant of Cadets, he would be issued all the clothes and personal items that he would need, including underwear. The instructions further admonished him not only to leave his clothes at home, but the majority of his personal items as well.

Although the summer dress uniform took up most of the duffle bag, the remaining space was filled with pictures of his adoptive mother and father, and a school picture of Sandy Allison, given to him the night before they had left on the train for Denver. From the noncommittal comments she’d written in his high school yearbook last May, he hadn’t given her much thought until the month before he had left for the Academy.…

He’d stopped at the store to pick up some groceries when he spotted her on a small ladder stocking shelves. She wore an apron over a blue blouse and tight, white shorts; she stretched up on her tiptoes, exposing tan, strong thighs, and he was mesmerized. She caught him looking and without thinking, he walked boldly forward, offering to help.

Afterwards, they spent every minute they could together: at the beach, cruising San Bernardino, going to movies. Sandy hadn’t given Rod the time of day until this past month. It was as if she had suddenly realized that because of his appointment to the USAF Academy, Rod was a celebrity in their small California town.…

Call us, Rod, his mother whispered. She was nearly as tall as Rod, and they both towered over Hank.

He’s not allowed to use the phone until after Basic Cadet Training, Hank said. He turned to Rod. Write when you can, lad. If you really want to fly as much as you say you do, then never forget why you came. It’s going to be tough, but remember the things that mean the most are the hardest to come by. You’ll have to live day-by-day. BCT is only two months long, but it will seem forever. He hesitated, then held out his hand.

Rod averted his eyes and tried to ignore the gesture. I grew up listening to how tough things were at A&M. Remember? From the way they had fought the last few years it wasn’t right to shake hands as if nothing had ever happened between them.

Aye, but this will be tougher. The Academy has to prove itself to the nation; especially with its first class of cadets. He continued to hold out his hand.

Rod picked up the duffle bag and slung his pipe bag over his shoulder. He stood at a nexus, ready to start a new life. He drew in a deep breath.

Hugging his mother, he turned to his father. He hesitated a long moment. He still couldn’t bring himself to act as if nothing had ever happened between them; he couldn’t even believe him, much less respect him.

I have to go. Rod turned and made his way across the parking lot.

Young men, teenagers like himself, shuffled in a slowly moving line outside of the two-story Administration building. They spoke in low, nervous tones as if something might happen any moment; the line seemed to crawl toward the in-processing center.

As he joined the line he noticed the reporter who had taken their picture as they entered Lowry interview one of the families; the reporter scribbled furiously on a small pad of paper —yes, sir, Mr. Delante. I understand. Yes, sir. I’ll make sure Fred’s full name is spelled correctly. You got it, Mr. Delante—

Speed out, candidates, barked a sharp, irritated voice from inside the building.

As the line moved inside, Rod turned and surveyed the parking lot. His parents stood by the car, Hank with one arm around Mary. A memory of Hank standing outside of Rod’s burning home in France swept over him, an overwhelming feeling of déjà vu—the warm smell of garlic and onion, customers laughing quietly, and the security of his parents while he tried to fall asleep … and he felt weak.

Rod had a sudden deep yearning for the open California freeways, driving with Sandy, carefree, laughing. He remembered them parking at Lake Gregory the night before he left. Stars blanketed the sky and the radio played Only You by the Platters as she slid into his arms; her hair smelled intoxicating, like a bouquet of fresh summer flowers. They’d talked about their life after he graduated, and how they’d travel the world with him flying fighters. She said she’d wait for him forever, and when they kissed she pressed up against him and he moved his hand under her blouse.…

Torn between wishing he’d shaken Hank’s hand and ignoring him, he stepped inside the wooden Administration building.

And left his old life behind.

Chapter Two

Sixteen Tons

July 11, 1955

United States Air Force Academy

Lowry Field, CO

I am an American fighting man. I serve in the forces which guard my country and our way of life.…

—from The American Fighting Man’s Code of Conduct

Next. The lieutenant sat erect behind a desk and scowled. The creases in the officer’s khakis were impeccably ironed and looked so sharp that Rod thought it might be possible to shave with them.

When Rod didn’t immediately respond, the lieutenant raised his voice. Speed out, candidate. We don’t have all day. You have an 1100 deadline.

1100? Rod knew that meant 11:00 a.m. in military jargon, but he had thought the dedication ceremony was at 4:00 p.m. and not at 11:00 a.m. Maybe he should run out the door and let his mother know the time so she wouldn’t miss the ceremony.

I said, move it, candidate. Are you deaf?

Rod stepped up to the desk. No, sir.

Without looking up the lieutenant said, State your name.

Rod stood straight and cleared his throat. Rod Simone.

The lieutenant scanned the sheet and frowned. There’s no Rod Simone here.

It may be listed as Jean-Claude Simone. My legal name change to Roderick came through last week.

The lieutenant made a check mark. Got it. Stow your stuff in the room on your right. Be sure to get a receipt, then fall in line with your classmates. Stand at attention when you are not moving and do not speak unless you’re spoken to. You have a lot to do today and we can’t afford to play twenty questions with every candidate. Did you get a good night’s rest?

Startled by the lieutenant’s rapid-fire question, it took Rod a moment to respond.

Well? Answer me, candidate.

Uh, yes, sir, I did. The sound of harried voices drifted in from outside.

Good. I hope you enjoyed it. It will be the last good sleep you’ll get for four years,