The Jefferson Allegiance (2 page)

“What, sir?”

“Always a civilian in charge.”

“Yes, sir.”

Adams dismissed the soldier, his old hand fluttering in farewell. “Godspeed.”

Thayer left and the others came crowding back in. Adams turned his head and saw the morning light streaming in through the window. “Fifty years,” he murmured to himself, closing his eyes. “We never thought what we created would last this long. The United States. At least now it can start over if need be.”

His body shook and he felt the darkness closing in. He thought of the first time he saw Abigail. And then of all the time he had spent apart from her, working to make this new country come alive. He felt it had been worth it, but there was still much he regretted.

“Mister President?” Someone in the crowd leaned close.

He struggled to open his eyes. Too tired to even turn his head, he shifted his eyes, peering out the window. He saw Thayer on horseback, galloping away, the pouch bouncing on his back. John Adams, the second President of the United States, drew in a hoarse breath and spoke for the last time: “Thomas Jefferson survives.”

Chapter One

The Present

Gentle swells of snow-covered ground were graced by thousands of sprouts of stone that would never grow, arranged in perfect lines, as if the dead were frozen on parade. It was a formation at parade rest. Forever. The man standing at attention was a comrade in arms, vaguely sensing his life to be a mere formality before he too joined his silent brethren. Although he couldn’t quite grasp the birth and depth of that feeling and raged like the warrior he was against the hand he’d been dealt, some of the cards still face-down. The white covering made Arlington National Cemetery look peaceful, a blanket covering the violence that had brought most of the bodies here over the years.

Colonel Paul Ducharme was uncomfortable in his Class-A uniform. A black raincoat covered the brass and accouterments, which adorned his dress jacket, and a green beret covered most of his regulation, short, thick white hair. He was one of those men who ironically lost none of their hair to age, but, alas, kept none of its color. He absently touched the twisted flesh high on his cheek, just below his right eye, not aware of the gesture. His hand slid higher, pushing back the beret and rubbing the scars that crisscrossed his skull. Finally, realizing what he was doing, he shoved the beret back in place and moved forward. Always mission first.

His spit-shined jump-boots crunched on the light snow and frozen grass underneath as he marched forward. It was after official closing time, but Ducharme had entered through Fort Myer, parking in a small, deserted field adjacent to the cemetery. His old friend, Sergeant Major Kincannon, had given him access. Kincannon was somewhere out in the night, shadowing, a dark presence full of laughter and potential, and inevitably, violence.

Ducharme checked his guide map to pinpoint his location in the 624 acres of cemetery. He considered the place full of historic irony, given that it had originally been the estate of Mary Anna Custis, a descendant of Martha Washington. Custis married US Army officer Robert E. Lee, West Point graduate—the only cadet who ever graduated the Military Academy without a single demerit, a fact so odd that Ducharme, another link in the Long Grey Line, could never forget, nor could any scion of the Long Gray Line. Through the marriage she passed the estate—and her slaves—to Lee.

Their old mansion, the Custer-Lee House, now called the Arlington House to be politically correct, dominated the grounds, looking straight down Lincoln Drive toward the Lincoln Memorial across the Potomac. Thus, General Lee’s former house now looked toward the statue of the leader of the country he’d rebelled against. And come so close to defeating. If only Lee had not ordered that last charge at Gettysburg on the 3
^rd
of July 1863. Ducharme’s studies of that great battle had whispered to him that Lee only ordered Pickett’s Charge because he too had had trouble thinking clearly, sick from dysentery and exhaustion after years of battle. When the body failed, the mind could produce tragic results. Whether his studies were right or wrong were shrouded in the fog of history and would never be answered. As many never were.

Ducharme looked to his left and studied the mansion on top of the hill, which reminded him once more of General… Ducharme frowned and forced himself to keep from looking at the map for the name. In his mind appeared a picture of an old man with a large white beard, dressed in a grey uniform, sitting on top of a white horse.
General Lee
.

Good,
thought Ducharme. His therapist would have been proud. But there was no statue of Lee at West Point, their mutual alma mater, even though Lee had done the most with the least in combat against the greatest odds of any Academy graduate. Such was the cost of loyalty to state and betrayal to country and institution.

West Point did not tolerate betrayal.

Just as randomly, yet also connected, that name triggered, unbidden, Plebe Poop—relatively useless information he’d been forced to memorize his first year at West Point:
There were sixty important battles in the Civil War. In fifty-five of them, West Point graduates commanded on both sides; in the remaining five, a graduate commanded one of the opposing sides.

Probably why the war lasted so damn long.

Ducharme moved forward, his march going from the regulation cadence of 60 steps per minute to something much slower, as if the bodies in the ground were reaching up and wrapping their shadowy arms around him to whisper in his ear and hold onto him.

During the Civil War, the Union seized Lee’s land and began using it for a pressing need: burial sites for the thousands of war dead. It had seemed darkly appropriate to someone in the Union to surround General Lee’s house with Union dead.

Ducharme hunched his shoulders, bitterly resenting the pounding in the back of his skull. It was worse than it had been in a while, and this journey had a lot to do with it. Stress, the therapist at Walter Reed had warned him a few years ago after he’d woken from the induced coma, was something to be avoided. He’d shrugged it off, telling her a Special Operations soldier’s constant companion was stress, and then he’d gone overseas on another deployment, into the land where the beast that raged in his chest felt at home once more. But she’d said there were other kinds of stress. He knew now she’d meant this: the unbearable stress that is closest to the heart. The beast had kept it at bay, but its true calling was now a half-world’s plane ride away.

Ducharme stopped at the fresh grave and stared down at it. There was no official marker yet, just a small plate indicating the plot designation. He glanced at the number on the plate and the number he’d written on the margin of the map. On target as always. He was surprised to feel little, neither sorrow or guilt, both of which he had anticipated, but he was learning that he could not anticipate how he would feel any more. Everything was new and everything wasn’t good.

This was—with a sharp intake of breath, Ducharme realized he couldn’t recall the name of the man buried here. He couldn’t remember his cousin’s name, his brother-in-arms for over two decades. A low hiss escaped his lips as he placed his hands against the back of his head and pressed in a panic. He shut his eyes and his forehead furrowed as he forced himself to enact the memory strategies he’d been given in rehabilitation.

He could see his cousin. Numerous images in a variety of places around the world. Roommates in Beast Barracks at West Point, bonding under the bombardment from screaming upperclassmen. Drunk on the beach during summer leave in Florida, between Plebe and Yearling years, trying to convince some sorority sisters to come back to their motel. The monotony of Airborne school at Fort Benning. The thrill of graduating West Point, throwing their hats into the air. The harshness of being Ranger buddies. Serving together in Iraq. Afghanistan. After all that, to die so senselessly here in the United States under circumstances Ducharme was determined to ferret out because the beast had been whispering to him ever since General LaGrange’s call to come home.

“Charlie,” Ducharme said, sinking to his knees. “Charlie LaGrange.”

Uttering the name cracked the emotional wall inside his chest, and he felt as if he’d been punched in the heart.

“What the hell happened, my friend?”

He was losing control. Routine. The therapist had pounded into him that routine was a route back to stability and even memory. Reaching under the black coat, Ducharme drew out his silenced MK-23 Mod O pistol from a holster in the small of his back. He slid the magazine out of the handle, pulled the slide back, removing the round that had been in the chamber. He placed those on the frozen ground. Then, staring at the mound of dirt, his hands moved quickly, field-stripping the gun by feel, laying the pieces out in order next to the magazine and bullet. He was done in a few seconds. He paused, his breath puffing out into the cold air, and then just as quickly re-assembled it.

He continued to disassemble and reassemble the gun, hands moving in a flurry of action, eyes on the grave as if he could see the occupant. The repetitive action was focusing his mind. On the fifth attempt, the slide slipped out of his cold hands to the frozen ground and he came to an abrupt halt, breathing hard.

Ducharme bowed forward, head almost touching the ground. “I’m going to uncover what happened, Charlie. I’m meeting your father in just a little bit to find out what he couldn’t tell me on the satellite link. I’ll get to the bottom of this. I swear.”

The words were taken by the chill wind of the winter storm and blown across the stones, broken, splintered and then gone. Ducharme felt the beast restless inside him even as he was surprised to find that tears were flowing. He straightened, wiping the sleeve of his coat across his face. He knew the man buried here would have laughed at the tears, cracked a joke. Easy-going Charlie LaGrange, always could be counted on for a laugh, up until he died in his car four days ago. According to the General, the police had labeled it an accident, but something was wrong from the cryptic way the General had contacted Ducharme and recalled him from Afghanistan. The fact the General had sent Kincannon to meet him at Andrews Air Force Base raised more questions than it answered, because it was apparent the General had not confided in the sergeant major, yet sent him as added security. Against who or what, had yet to be revealed.

Ducharme reassembled the gun one last time, slowly, methodically, making sure there was no moisture on any of the moving parts that would cause it to freeze up in the cold. Bad form, and possibly fatal. He put the round back in the chamber, not approved for amateurs, but he was no amateur, and slid in the magazine. He was slipping it back into the holster under his coat when he heard the crunch of footsteps on the frost. He swung around, weapon at the ready, finger on the trigger.

Four tall silhouettes were backlit by the glow of Washington.

Ducharme removed his finger from the trigger as he saw they wore Dress Blues and three had archaic, but more than effective, M-14 Rifles at the ready. The fourth had a pistol in his hand. He stepped forward and raised the pistol in a sure grip. The other three, despite the ceremonial garb, spread out tactically.

The lead man spoke. “Sir. We demand you respect the grave of our fallen comrade.”

Ducharme lowered the pistol.

The man warily walked toward him, weapon still at the ready. “What’s your purpose here, sir?”

“Visiting,” Ducharme said.

“Cemetery’s closed after dusk, sir.”

“I returned from overseas just an hour ago.” He nodded toward the grave. “I’m visiting a friend.”

In the light reflected through the snow he could see the man’s face. “May I see your identification card? And please holster your weapon. My men have live ammunition in their rifles.”

Ducharme slid the pistol back into its holster and pulled out his identification card. The man held up a mini-mag light and flashed it on the card, then briefly at Ducharme’s face, causing him to wince.

“Colonel,” the man nodded at him.

Ducharme made out the crossed rifles on the man’s lapels indicating he was branched Infantry. Three gold bars and three gold rockers on the sleeves indicated his rank. The rows of ribbons on the Dress Blues, starting with the Silver Star, topped a colorful tale of combat and bravery read only by those who knew what the little pieces of cloth meant.

“Master Sergeant.” Ducharme gave the man the respect he was due. “What are you and your men doing out here?”

“Our duty, sir.” He nodded over his shoulder. “We’re the off-shift for the Tomb. We had an incident of vandalism on a recent grave by those extremists who protest our deceased heroes in the name of their God over gays in the military. It
will
not happen again.”

The determination in the Master Sergeant’s voice indicated it absolutely would not happen again. They were the Old Guard, the 3
^rd
Infantry, and the oldest unit in the United States Army. And God help any who tried to cross their line.