Rows of gold-star awards ate up all other wall space. And all other frames were taken over by staged photographs: Weston and a couple of ex-presidents, Weston with the governor of California, Weston with the mayor of Tiburon, cutting some bullshit charity ribbon. I looked at Mr. Glad-Hander, commanding from his leather chair and masked my derision. A lot of training went into that.
“At ease,” Weston finally growled, and I relaxed my stance. “Peter Anthony Davenport the Third . . .” Just the way he said it sounded like an insult.
While that lingered in the air, Weston deliberated over a selection of identical cigars, wedged together in a glossy humidor; their bands of gold flashed like rings. A worthy candidate was brought up to inspect with a critical eye before being run along the tip of his nose. It passed inspection, but I suspected I wouldn’t get off so easily.
“I’ve spent—wasted,” he clarified, “my morning reading the saga that is your file.” He snipped the end of the cigar while eyeing me like it was a euphemism for something else.
I kept my well-trained face smooth.
Weston abruptly stood—iron hard and pushing sixty—to stalk over and open a window. The vista beyond the seawall revealed sailboats, bobbing like bright bathtub toys, in the San Francisco Bay. Back at command post, he ignited his stogie with an ornate lighter before dropping it into a bowl. A loud ping! infiltrated the silence.
Then he scooped up the slick navy folder emblazoned with the Academy logo—a lion in mid-roar—and fixed his steel-blue eyes on me.
“I don’t recall,” Weston began again, puffing around to face me squarely, “in all my years, ever seeing a cadet get through The Elite Program while being such a screw-up.”
I had nothing to say and couldn’t speak out-of-turn anyway.
“Or be so goddamn stubborn. Or stupid depending on which way you want to look at it. Attempts to mitigate such behavior . . . have only been moderately successful.”
A chimney’s worth of smoke blew my way. This almost brought back my delinquent smirk because smoking, or tobacco use of any kind, was strictly banned for cadets. Junk food, too. Hell, sometimes, I even thought fun was banned here. Weston regarded me through the smoke, one eye at half-mast like he could figure me out better that way.
“You trying to get kicked out, Davenport?”
“No, sir.” Who did he think he was fooling? There was no escape (that didn’t require embalming or a lobotomy).
Weston poked his tongue around his mouth, deliberating. “Good to hear it. But in my experience, actions speak louder than words. Doesn’t appear like your heart’s in the program, son . . . worries me.” His eyes bored into mine while I tried not to look bored. “However, your training profile indicates that you are, indeed, a match for Missions. Despite your shenanigans, you seem to pass everything with flying colors. No easy feat.” A grudging admission.
“So you up for your first solo one?”
“Yes, sir.” I was on autopilot.
He nodded thoughtfully, surveying me as though he were sizing me up for a new suit he wasn’t sure I would fit. I stared at his mustache, noting it was groomed with an artist’s precision, and that it was the exact grizzled color and bristled texture of his crew cut.
“You’ve been handpicked for this job, Davenport,” Weston reminded me. “Tailor made for you, if you will. Should be a cake walk, but I don’t want you sleep-walking your way through.”
“No, sir.”
“Because I’m not taking any chances with this particular PGC—I have high hopes for him.” Weston picked up the photo of golden-boy, and my stomach seized, yet you’d never know it by looking at me. My face remained impassive as the Queen’s Guard. Next up for inspection: the photo of the girl. After assessing it for a long, drawn-out moment, he set it aside and rearranged some phlegm. “Should be a fun, quick one.”
I could’ve taken that a couple of different ways.
“But no screwing up. Whatsoever. Period. The end.” A fat, finger-wrapped cigar punch punctuated each sentence.
I breathed in through my nose, nodded my compliance. Didn’t think I could force out another yes sir.
The General must’ve taken this for subtle insubordination because he said, “You may not give a deviled dog about furthering your own career, but I’d hate to see Cadet Caruthers be painted with the same yellow paint brush when she doesn’t deserve it. She’s been hard at work on this mission for the last couple of months while you’ve been growing out your hair at the beach.”
“I was just recently called to duty, sir,” I reminded him while telltale heat crept up my neck. Bastard. That wasn’t even a veiled threat.
Yellow paint referred to a dishonorable discharge—very few and very conspicuous. The unchosen were plucked-out, their navy lockers painted over in yellow, a black DD slashed across the front for all to see. The reminders remained up till December 31, when sledgehammers were passed—baton like—into cadets’ hands to take turns beating down their lockers. Locker-bashing to ring in the New Year . . . funny how that good ole Academy tradition never made it into the brochure.
Weston considered me another moment. He’d already found a soft spot with Reese, now he was probing for more. “You should thank your lucky stars for your parents’ longstanding dedication to this organization or you’d have been out on your ass in Civilian Land a long time ago . . . after a brief pit stop through Siberia!”
I waited for the chill that was supposed to follow this threat.
“Need I remind you of the long arms and far-reaching powers The Academy has in this country?” Weston prompted. “In the world?
“No, sir.” He didn’t. I was all too aware.
“Then we understand each other?”
“Yes, sir.” Not a lot was needed here: some boot licking, a pair of ears, a dash of contrition.
“Because if you fail, I’ll personally bash in your locker and stamp your file with double D myself.”
“I won’t let you down, sir,” I capitulated, as we both knew I would. The Academy will always win . . . no matter who gets hurt in the process. The innocent civilian girl and her brother flashed in my mind. Bitter bile clogged my throat. I wanted to hock it out like a loogie—he gave me an impatient hand gesture—right on his boots. I relinquished the mission file to Weston, and he added it to the briefcase holding my first orders.
“Cadet Davenport, you are to report directly to the Ops Building at o-nine-hundred hours where Ranger will finish briefing you, give you your civilian ID, and any additional accoutrements needed for the success of this mission,” Weston finalized, clicking shut the briefcase and handing it over. “I highly suggest you finally live up to the potential bred and nurtured in you these past two decades.” He patted my shoulder. “I do hate wasting the valuable resources of the institution I’ve dedicated my life to.”
I wanted to shrug his filthy hand off but held myself tightly in check.
Weston was good at reading minds. And mind games. He leaned in to hiss in my ear: “However, if you do not succeed in bringing this PGC into our ranks forthwith, I will see to it that you are worse than ousted. You will be deployed . . . elsewhere, your parents will be demoted, and this blight will haunt you for the rest of your short life.”