The Meeting Chapter 1, a ncis fanfic

Chapter 1

The idea for this story was originally inspired by the Robert Cormier novel, The Rag and Bone Shop. Anyone who's read that book will see that shows here, most of all in Chapter 3, where some text is actually borrowed straight from Cormier's novel. The name for the replacement for Honor Corps, The Vigils, that Nicholas Golan creates is lifted straight out of another Cormier novel, The Chocolate War- probably Cormier's best-known work. There is also a passage during Travis' interaction with the Superintendent that is lifted almost verbatim from an early chapter of Pat Conroy's novel The Lords of Discipline.

A meeting of some kind occurs in each of the three chapters, and I specifically meant to shift the perspectives around. I started out intending to write this as a quick ten-page work, but wound up making it about four times that length. I have some sympathy for everyone I feature in this story, and that sympathy, that sense of understanding, is a big part of what made this story so easy to write once I got it going. I wrote this story before it came out that Michael Weatherly was leaving the show. It was also before Tony learned he had a daughter, and thus the character's motivation to leave NCIS in order to give most of his attention to raising her. This story is thus set after Tony would have been out of federal law enforcement for a year and a half. So far I've kept the story the same, mostly for simplicity's sake.

Travis Phelps had possessed precious little enthusiasm for military schools of any kind since his days at Remington Military Academy in Tiverton, Rhode Island. He knew enough to realize that not all military schools were identical to RMA, and that most were probably very different. Unfortunately, his luck had landed him at a military academy that, however prestigious it was, however highly-ranked its academics and athletics programs were, also had a glaring flaw that a lot of people on campus knew about but nobody wanted to acknowledge.

Honor Corps. You learned not to even speak the words aloud pretty fast after arriving at RMA, as a staff member or as a cadet. It wasn't a good idea to talk about things that didn't exist. But for a bunch of guys who didn't exist, Honor Corps had done a fine job of bullying anyone they saw as unfit to wear the uniform of Remington- or the school ring. The boys of Honor Corps had a strictly-defined, fiercely-defended sense of honor, and if you drew their attention- there were a variety of ways to do it, some good, most bad- they would size you up and decide what they planned to do with you in short order.

For Travis, an overweight, hopelessly unmilitary boy with glasses, there had been little chance of evading their notice. Honor Corps didn't care that by the 1980's, most boys at RMA were not there by choice. They were fanatics about Remington and its way of life, and anyone who they saw as particularly disloyal or sloppy was to be "corrected". So they had gone after Travis almost the day he'd shown up. First insults and petty mockeries, then PT sessions conducted when only more friendly staff members were around to see. By the time he left, Travis could not have been happier to go. He'd managed to graduate, but just barely. Almost every night Honor Corps either paid him a visit, or intercepted him on the way to his room and took him to some dark spot on campus where they could mess with him without interference.

And this cruel, merciless treatment had been administered by some of the best and brightest in the entire Corps of Cadets at RMA. Sharp, highly driven and disciplined, and all good friends with one another, they were model cadets- the kind of whom Remington was proudest. Sometimes you even saw their faces in commercials, on promotional materials. And why not? They were Remington's best.

But for Travis, graduation did not bring all the things he'd hoped and thought it would.

Leaving the Corps of Cadets hadn't meant leaving the school, as it turned out. The endless bullying from Honor Corps had distracted Travis, or "Piggy" as he'd often been called, from his classes constantly. His grades, never the best, had suffered as frequent sleep deprivation and depression took their toll. By the point that the time for doing college applications rolled around, Travis didn't fill out a single one. He'd had no interest in going any farther. He just wanted out.

Travis had needed something to do, though, especially once his parents made it clear that he would need to move out before long if he wasn't going to college. With nowhere else to go, Travis had returned to Remington Military Academy. He'd gotten in touch with their Maintenance Department, starting as a part-time custodian. Ironically, at the same place where Travis had made such a lousy cadet and been punished for it constantly, he found a distinct knack for the janitor's kind of work. Travis picked up the tools of his trade quickly, and found himself moved into full-time work within two years. Content just to be left alone and collect a steady paycheck, Travis stayed on at RMA for nearly thirty years. He still hated the school, but he also feared it. And most of all, he continued to fear them- Honor Corps.

Things had started to change, though, when Private John Wallis, USMC, had been found murdered. The Naval Criminal Investigative Service had soon found evidence linking the killing to RMA, and Travis knew immediately that Honor Corps knew, and that they were very anxious to see the detectives go back where they had come from. Powerful as they were, there were people even Honor Corps didn't want to cross, and a federal law enforcement agency topped the list.

Travis knew far more than anyone at RMA thought he did. Even a lot of the staff thought he was a bit dumb, a good janitor but not much use at anything else. But behind his glasses and that pudgy frame was a remarkably capable mind, and the fact that Travis Phelps was so insignificant to so many at RMA was exactly what made him so knowledgeable.

There were certain kinds of people you just tended to ignore- people who blended into the background even when they were right in front of you. Cashiers, bag-boys at the supermarket- and very often, janitors. Travis blended into the background all by himself, but combined with his job, he could be damn near invisible sometimes. Raking leaves, cleaning windows, changing bags on a trashcan, his ears had little to do and took in much from their surroundings.

His eyes worked well, too, and had made sure Travis spotted Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo, Jr., recognizing him immediately despite not having seen him in 27 years. Travis had gone out of his way to find Anthony's cell phone number. He'd reached out to practically the only friend he'd ever had at RMA- Honor Corps had made sure of that- and had made a point of telling Tony and his partner as much as he could about Wallis, about Christine Sanders, and about Honor Corps and how much control they held over RMA. It had scared Travis to death, doing all that, because the boys in Honor Corps were extremely smart. They had friends, eyes and ears everywhere.

For each actual member, there were two informants. Whether or not they knew who they were passing information to, these boys were keeping Honor Corps up to speed on anything they found interesting. And old Travis "Piggy" Phelps, Class of 1987, ratting them out to a pair of NCIS agents would have interested them a great deal. Travis had risked so much in telling Tony what he knew- if Honor Corps had found out, getting fired would have been just the start of his problems.

But it had felt good to finally tell somebody- to break the taboo and say the name of that secret society for the first time in close to thirty years. Travis said as much to Tony when they met for dinner not long after the investigation ended.

The death of John Wallis, and Travis' uncharacteristic decision to take the risk of telling Anthony what he knew, seemed to boot him loose from the routine he'd fallen into for close to three decades. Travis seemed to see things differently, behave differently- even if in outwardly minor ways. But he did not live in fear of RMA anymore, or even of Honor Corps- not as much as he once had, anyway, and any progress was worth something.

It didn't even shake Travis back into his shell when he learned, through keeping his eyes and ears open, that Honor Corps had been disbanded. Some kind of power shift had taken place. The boys whispered about it, and you could see something was up in the way two boys- Ryan St. Esprit and Nicholas Golan, two top-ranking cadet officers in the Class of 2015, suddenly were swaggering around campus like they owned the place. And Cadet Lieutenant Colonel Lucas Craig, supposedly the big shot both officially and unofficially, suddenly didn't seem quite such a big shot anymore. In fact, he turned into something of a little shot, and Travis clearly came to understand that Golan and St. Esprit, already high up in rank, were now the real power in the Corps.

Travis also heard that there was no such thing as Honor Corps anymore. Somehow connected to the murder of John Wallis at the hands of another alumni and the death of Christine Sanders, Honor Corps had disbanded itself. The new name circulated amongst the boys soon enough, though, and by graduation set-up Travis knew what it was. Whispered by some with reverence, by all with a certain measure of fear, it was less than a rumor, more than a myth. Just a couple of words.

The Vigils.

After almost thirty years of working at Remington Military Academy, Travis finally decided he'd seen enough. If nothing else, he was beginning to fear that his luck would run out- that Honor Corps would discover the secret listener in their midst. That would cause him a lot of problems. And with Lieutenant Colonel Tanner resigning as Provost, one of the RMA faculty that Travis most respected was leaving. One way or another, it was time to go.

There was one upside, where Travis' fears about being discovered by Honor Corps were concerned. So far as he'd heard and seen, Nicholas Golan, the blond, handsome, athletic boy who looked so much like his father Mark, was not a big believer in physical violence. He liked psychological terror much better than physical, respected the power of the mind much more than that of the fist. And it made sense, too- after all, what else had the kind of power over the body that the mind did?

And best of all, Travis had a sense that the long gray line was not exactly happy with Nicholas and his friends disbanding a 74-year-old brotherhood and replacing it with a new one, however similar. Nicholas' pale face kept the strain well-hidden, but it was there if you knew where to look. He had a distracted, nervous air about him sometimes- you could tell something was on his mind besides college acceptance letters and graduation.

But Nicholas Golan's personal problems had no meaning to Travis. They just represented assurance that if Travis decided to bolt now, he could do it without a whole lot of fear that anybody would sense anything unusual. Things were changing at RMA, and staff normally turned in their retirement or resignation notices at the end of the year. So a month before graduation, Travis informed the President's office of his intention to retire after 27 years at Remington Military Academy.

Irony of ironies, he moved to Lexington, Virginia, and got a job as Head Custodian at the elite military college, the Virginia Military Institute. The job had come recommended by none other than Tony DiNozzo, who during another dinner meeting- this one in Boston- had slyly mentioned having "possibly" put in a good word for Travis at VMI.

Despite having no enthusiasm for the military lifestyle or for military schools, Travis had spent almost thirty years at one as a janitor. It was all he really knew. And besides, his initial research online about Lexington, Virginia showed very favorable results. It wasn't a big town at all; the only things really going on were VMI and a very old, very prestigious civilian college, Washington & Lee.

It was likely to be a significant change from New England and from the large port city that Tiverton was ultimately a part of. But change was welcome; Travis looked forward to doing something new and getting out of Rhode Island for the first time in decades. He looked forward to living in a quiet mountain town, where nobody knew or cared about zealot cadets and their secret codes.

Mostly, though, he was just glad to be leaving RMA.

Monday, November 20, 2017

"Phelps- good, I was hoping for a chance to talk to you."

Travis stiffened at the sound of that voice; it was deep, authoritative, roughened by years of hard use on the drill field, during morning PT runs, and in battle. It was four-star General Angelo Diaz, the 15th Superintendent of VMI and the first Hispanic Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. He was a living legend on the Post, as all Superintendents at the Institute seemed to be. Going all the way back to his days as an RMA cadet, where the boys with the highest rank had often been the ones Travis had most greatly feared, Travis instinctively feared authority figures. His first thought was an immediate assumption that he had done something wrong.

Standing up from the trash can he was cleaning out, Travis stood up on the front walk leading up to the George C. Marshall Museum, and promptly saluted the Superintendent. The salute was crisp and military- a leftover from both cadet days and years of working at Remington. The General returned the salute and regarded Travis for a moment.

"Mr. Phelps, I was just viewing the results of the work detail you led in Lejeune Hall on Friday, and that whole building looks outstanding, inside and out. I've been hearing good things about you from some other sources, too."

Whatever Travis had been steeling himself for, praise like this hadn't been it. He managed to keep from gawking in surprise, but just barely. Travis knew he should just smile, nod, shut up and let General Diaz move on, but he couldn't help himself.

"You've been hearing about me, sir?" he asked, polite but also curious.

The General nodded, and for the first time gestured to the lean, sharp-looking young man standing off to his left. He was dressed in the white duty uniform, black winter jacket worn over the white shirt, gray cap set firmly on his short-cut blond hair. Two crisp blue eyes regarded Travis with polite interest. He wore the number of his graduating class- 19- on a circular patch of the left shoulder of his jacket, and the gray, sewn-on insignia of the Regimental Sergeant Major.

"Oh, yes. The boys on Regimental Staff were particularly impressed with how well you did running the setup for Ring Figure. Cadet Sergeant Major Golan here was just telling me how pleased his classmates were with the Maintenance Department. Isn't that right, Mister Golan?"

The blond boy nodded emphatically. "Yes, sir. The custodial staff had everything shined up just right. Nothing got missed. My father's starting to think he might've made a mistake by going to Colorado Springs, sir."

General Diaz smiled. "Well, for an Air Force Academy man he's doing all right. Major General now, isn't he?"

"Yes, sir. Got promoted this past August. Commands the 8th Air Force out of Barksdale AFB."

"So, you see, Phelps, you're making quite an impression," General Diaz said, turning back to the veteran janitor. "I know your contract runs out at the end of next semester, but keep this up and you'll have no problem staying on. You're a credit to the Institute, and if all custodians in this country had the work ethic you do, we'd all be better for it."

"That was very well put, sir, if you don't mind my saying so," Golan said.

General Diaz did not mind Golan saying so; he was radiant and positively enchanted by Golan's oily compliment. Travis was abruptly seized by a passionate desire that if he ever was to attend a convention of flag officers, he would want nothing more than to run the Chapstick stand there, offering some small relief to the obsequious legions of asskissers who spent their days pandering to the egos of generals.

Travis had never been the kind of cadet or soldier who interested one of those imperious, intimidating eagles of war. He had always watched men like Diaz from a distance, as he had the President of RMA, another retired general. But even Travis had observed that somehow, for some reason, every general he had ever seen in his life required the presence and the gentle, insincere strokes of these self-serving acolytes of flattery, and Travis had never been able to understand it.

"Thank you, Mister Golan. Mister Phelps, please consider renewing your contract with us at the end of next semester. I've always got a spot on my team for men as dedicated as you."

"Thank you, sir," Travis managed to say. "I appreciate that. I'm glad to hear it."

"Carry on, Mr. Phelps," General Diaz said with a smile, and they exchanged salutes again as the General and the second-classman moved off, continuing to talk.

Travis' hands shook as he returned to his work, and it was five minutes before his heart-rate began to slow at all. The highest-ranking second-classman at the Institute hadn't recognized Travis, but Travis had recognized him.

The things that were said about him by other boys at Remington were almost a verbatim description of what he was said to be like today at the Institute. Sophisticated, intelligent, articulate and always a gentleman. A wild partier, and popular among the younger cadets for his willingness to play leader, mentor and protector. A master of drill and ceremony, Golan practiced both rifle and sword manual every day in front of his mirror. He was cordially disliked by his female classmates, and was known for being very friendly with the members of the "Old Corps", the all-male classes running from 1839 to 1997.

Known for being stern on the job but ultimately very caring when he wanted to be, Golan had nevertheless been brilliant in his inventiveness and extraordinary in his cruelty as he executed the mission of making life "very sad" for Christine Sanders.

She had collapsed under the strain, deliberately overdosing on pills and committing suicide. She had still been alive, just barely, when Travis had arrived, keyring jingling and toolbox rattling, to unlock her jammed door. But by the time the EMTs showed up and began the race to the hospital, the fight to save Sanders was already over.

It appeared that Honor Corps, as they so often did, had succeeded.

And their leader, the usurper of the mantle of Commandant and the creator of successor group The Vigils, had followed Travis here with a none-too-surprising choice of college. Upon seeing his nametag, hearing the word spoken, Travis had panicked inside- sure he'd be recognized. But if Nicholas Golan recognized the longtime janitor at his old military high school, he'd chosen not to say anything. There'd been no shift in his expression, just an outwardly polite, inwardly bored, "Go away and let me keep sucking up to the General" look that said he wasn't the least bit interested in Travis at all.

That was a relief.

There were some people who you wanted to regard you as no one special. Nicholas Golan was one of them. Travis knew this instinctively, would have known it even if he hadn't known a thing about the cadet. Past his sharp military bearing, beneath that smooth, handsome exterior, there was something off-center about him. Like a picture blurred slightly at the edges. He'd ignore you if he didn't think you important, but if he felt he had reason to- even one good reason- he'd destroy you. Things… happened around Nicholas Golan. It was whispered that he was an immensely dangerous person to cross, wielding exceptional amounts of power at a remarkably early age. And with his father's influence, connections, and military prestige continuing to grow, he was destined to go far in life.

And if he knew that Travis knew what he did, had seen and heard what he did, that he'd helped Tony with his investigation, Nicholas would not hesitate to 'arrange' some career disaster for Travis. And he wasn't someone you toyed with face-to-face; however much he disdained physical violence as a means of coercion, Nicholas Golan's lifetime of study in Marine Martial Arts and the Israeli's Krav Maga testified to his ability to do more than hold his own if attacked.

He had been a dangerous young man at Remington, and he remained one now. So much about him was the same it was almost eerie.

That same flawless attention to detail visible all over his uniform and person, that same outstanding military bearing and that same insatiable lust for rank and prestige. And from the looks of things, he was already on good terms with those in authority on Post, well on his way to another top posting on the Corps of Cadets' regimental staff for next year.

The incredible contrast of the life of this young man, and the life of the young woman he had helped destroy because it had been ordered, made Travis sick. It bothered him for the rest of his work day on Post, but as always, the stoic professional, Travis hid his feelings and did his job. But that didn't stop him from thinking about it.

Nicholas Golan was a Cadet Sergeant Major, a newly-christened member of the VMI brotherhood, a rising star in his class, son of an Air Force two-star general.

And Christine Sanders was just dead.

Travis Phelps was going to be 48 years old in just another couple of days. He could hardly believe he'd lived nearly 50 years at all, let alone almost all of them as a supporting member of the military school system of education. It had been completely against what he'd really wanted, but Travis knew no other world at this point. He was a 'lifer' in his own way, a man who had spent his entire working career as a military school janitor. It wasn't such a bad life, in its own way.

He got paid well, had steady hours and good benefits. He was treated respectfully by his superiors, subordinates and colleagues, and best of all there was no Honor Corps to fear at the Institute. Secret societies were specifically banned by the Blue Book, the text containing all regulations and specifications on things forbidden at the Virginia Military Institute.

And unlike most, Travis knew what to look for. What to listen for. And the whispered rumors of some higher power, some band of cadets who controlled more than the Regimental Commander did, weren't happening here. They hadn't been for either of the three years Travis had worked at VMI.

The cadets had plenty going on, of course. The barracks rumor mill was if anything more active at VMI than it was at RMA- and why not? There were 1,700 cadets here, versus 450 at Remington. That was a lot of additional scuttlebutt to go around.

You had a different crowd of cadets at the Institute, overall. All of the young men and women at this college were volunteers. Some might have been talked into it, or done it because this was the one college that would be paid for in full by their parents. Some were pretty cynical- putting up with a lot of hubris and military nonsense (in their eyes) for the luster of the VMI name.

But you still had the zealots, the military nuts, the fanatics about all things VMI. Some of them were probably the right type to be Honor Corps, if it existed here. Travis was very happy it didn't.

Seeing how seriously the Honor Code was taken here, how harshly VMI punished violators- expulsion was the only response if one was found guilty by the Honor Court- Travis had a distinct feeling that VMI would not tolerate the rule-bending and secret dealing that was so ordinary within Honor Corps.

They also had women here, too. Enough years had passed since the admission of women in 1997 that VMI had pretty much moved on, and the old guard had accepted it even if they didn't like it. At RMA, there were no female cadets anymore. Somebody had succeeded in changing that back.

It was important to remember that VMI was a state school, though, while RMA was private and thus not obligated to be coed. But VMI could go private if it wanted to. The Institute had a tremendous amount of support from graduates, close relatives of graduates, and many other friends and members of the VMI family. There was no shortage of funds at the Institute.

They had chosen to remain a state college after losing the courts battle in 1997, though, and hadn't looked back since.

As Travis drove home in his 2015 Chevrolet Colorado, the first new truck he'd ever bought and probably the last truck he would ever own, he actually managed to smile a little as he thought about it. After getting their way so completely at RMA, after being used to having no female cadets around for four years or more, any members of Honor Corps- or The Vigils- who had come to VMI must have been having a lot of fun dealing with female classmates.

Even superiors, sometimes, when Honor Corps/Vigil graduates came to VMI and started at the bottom again as Rats.

Honor Corps had always been fiercely traditional, and felt that girls, and women, were not supposed to be cadets at any of the historic military academies or colleges, because all-male was the way it had always been.

Not getting their way on this one had to be just killing them.

"Too bad," Travis chuckled, starting as he realized he'd spoken aloud. He shrugged and drove on.

At home, resting comfortably after a shower and change of clothes, Travis was stretched out on a sofa in the modest home he'd bought just a mile and a half from the Post just before moving to Lexington in 2015. He was proud of owning his own house. This might well be where he'd stay for a long time yet- out here in the mountains, far away from anybody who'd ever bothered him (though not their sons), Travis was beginning to think about, and look forward to, a nice, quiet retirement.

He was still thinking about that as he watched the evening news when his cell phone went off.

Reaching over to the end table to pick it up from underneath a warmly-shining lamp, Travis swiped in his password on the touch screen and held it to his ear. "This is Phelps."

"And how is Head Janitor Travis Phelps?" came a familiar wise-ass voice, light-hearted and just a little sarcastic.

"Hey, Tony," Travis answered, smiling a little in spite of himself. "And it's Head Custodian, actually."

"My sincerest apologies."

"Yeah," Travis said, chuckling and shaking his head as he stared at the evening news, watching it but not really watching it. "Has NCIS got a case in Lexington? Or is your boss bringing the whole office by the Post for a recruiting visit?"

"See, I'm not the only one who can be a wiseass, Travis."

"Learned it from you."

Anthony DiNozzo, Jr., laughed on the other end of the phone. "Well, now, I guess you did. How is it out there at VMI, Travis? They treating you all right?"

"Better than RMA ever did," Travis answered, immediately bypassing nearly 30 years of working there to refer to 1 year of going there. It might not have been entirely rational, and Travis didn't hate the people he'd worked for… but that's the way it was. He just never would like RMA or forgive it for the excesses he'd been subjected to there as a cadet.

"I don't doubt it," Tony answered, sobering up just as quickly. "I'm glad you could finally get out of there, Travis."

"I'm glad you helped."

"Well. Since I'm such a great guy and all, how about showing an off-duty agent around Lexington, Virginia? Word reached me that somebody's birthday is coming up next week."

Surprised Tony remembered, but a little touched, Travis thought for a moment. He had little family left, and not a whole lot of friends either. Really, the extent of his plans for his 48th birthday had been to take a paid week off, maybe go a couple miles away to West Virginia and stay at one of the state parks there.

But maybe he'd wait another day before actually leaving town. Why not? It was something to do, and Travis didn't want to discourage Tony, never the biggest "people person" himself, from reaching out to someone.

So he said, nice and casual, "Sure. How about dinner at The Boar's Head? It's one of the best places in town, and you don't have to wear a tie."

"Sounds great. Especially the tie part."