The Deal
Late April 1987
Mark Golan was glad he was graduating in the eighties. Remington Military Academy was moving to keep up with the times, and that meant a new, state-of-the-art camera system was going to be installed within the next few years. Cameras, up till now a relatively rare sight in the barracks, had been easy enough to either avoid or to fool- the ones here at the moment didn't have anything for night vision. Shut the lights off in the stairwell for 30 seconds, long enough for the guys to move through, and you'd be golden.
Computers, electronics- the coming, so-called "digital age" was surely going to just make the cameras at RMA more numerous and better at doing their jobs. Of course, they would only be as good as the men that watched them, but the TACs and overnight security guards were pretty good at Remington. Too many of them weren't Remington grads at all, let alone old Honor Corps members. Mostly, those men were of higher rank, part of the school's senior staff or administration. Having support on that level was vital, but you still needed to get past cameras and the TAC officers. And the men responsible for watching the barracks, for mentoring and supervising the cadets night and day, could be hard to get past unnoticed.
Getting past unnoticed- Mark had a feeling that in coming years that was only going to get harder. Cameras would get better, the ability to zoom back and re-watch sections of footage more precise. Staff who knew nothing of Honor Corps, or worse were unfriendly to its purposes, would be harder to work around. Not impossible, not for Honor Corps, whose members were some of the best and brightest at Remington and had been for decades. But their job would be harder, and more complicated. Mark felt a sense of relief, knowing he wouldn't have to be at Remington to deal with that.
Of course, he thought with some amusement as he weaved his way through the crowded halls, I bet the guys going to this place when locks were first put on the doors and when electric lights got put in all the barracks probably thought it would make their jobs a lot harder, too.
But if it had at the time, it didn't matter by now. Past classes' Honor Corps members had found ways to deal with the problems presented by new technology and changing times. The boys had found a way back then, Mark Golan and his boys had found a way now, and whoever came next would find a way in the future. Honor Corps had existed for nearly fifty years now. It wasn't going anywhere.
"Mister Golan!" A deep, rumbling voice that carried easily in the crowded halls called out. Mark turned to see Captain Tanner coming towards him. "Mister Golan," he said again, "Could you spare me a few minutes of your time, please?"
"I gotta get to class, sir," Mark said respectfully, thinking of the long walk he had uphill from the athletics and pool building, the John K. Pierce Gymnasium, where his fencing class was held, to the sciences building, Kusinis Hall. Cadets had five minutes between classes, and you needed every moment of that if your next class was on the other end of the post.
"Don't worry about being late, I'll write you a pass," Tanner said reassuringly. "Come on, I won't keep you long." He turned and started back down the hall towards his office, located just outside of the gym. Sighing inside, but knowing he'd just seen his one excuse turned aside, Mark Golan followed the big man into his office.
XX
Mark hadn't done much more than sit down in one of the chairs in front of Coach Tanner's desk when the man started speaking.
"Can you think of any reason Anthony DiNozzo would think Honor Corps was after him, Mister Golan?"
Oh, God, Honor Corps. Here we go, Mark thought, struggling not to smirk. Captain Tanner had evidently become one of those staff members or cadets who occasionally came along and became convinced, typically without any tangible evidence or reason, that Honor Corps was real. Those people were right in suspecting it was, which was why Mark had more than once taken just a little time out of his day to steer them far away from the truth. He didn't enjoy lying so blatantly; it went completely against the Honor Code. But it had to be done.
What other course was there? The Honor Corps had been the silent guardians of Remington Military Academy since the 1940's, when fear of Nazi or Red infiltration had driven a group of young patriots, boys too young to leave to fight in the war themselves, to form a band of cadets sworn to enforce the sacred tenets of the Code of Conduct when all other means had failed. They were no different from a small-scale version of the CIA, who by their very nature and purpose also had to operate in secrecy.
There was no reason to expect that the Director of the CIA would ever be dumb enough to answer honestly if you asked him to publicly reveal the Agency's operations in detail. It was no different, no different at all, with Honor Corps. The Honor Code was held sacred by all of the most devout cadets, the ones who had come to this school by choice or otherwise embraced it over time. And the Honor Code forbid lying.
But sometimes… exceptions had to be made. Because you had to. Because it was necessary.
Outwardly Mark just shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. "Well, sir, all I can say is DiNozzo's probably a little paranoid. Honor Corps doesn't exist, sir."
"Is that right?"
Mark nodded. "Yes, sir."
"So why does DiNozzo mention your name to me the other night, tell me that you run Honor Corps, and that you, personally, are after him?"
That one startled Mark Golan, and he took just a second to recover from his surprise. What in the hell had that little rat talked to the coach about?
But he kept his reaction calm and polite, once again, and simply replied thoughtfully, "DiNozzo and I aren't friends, sir. But I'm not 'after him', with all due respect. And neither is anyone else."
Captain Tanner nodded thoughtfully at that, sitting silently in his swivel chair a few moments. He reached into his pocket, dug out a folded-up piece of notebook paper, unfolded it and held it out over his desk. "Do me a favor, Mister Golan. Take a look at that and tell me what you think it means."
Leaning forward, Mark quickly got a jolt as his eyes recognized the handwriting. His handwriting. And it was all he could do to keep from breaking out in a panic-induced sweat when he began to read the words.
THE 8 REQUIREMENTS:
1. A candidate must be male.
2. No cadet whose loyalty to the school is in question, in any way, can be a member.
3. No cadet who is in his first year at RMA can be a member.
4. A member must be physically fit; there are no frail or overweight members.
atheist or agnostic can be a member; the Honor Corps believes in God.
6. A candidate must be a leading member of his class, someone who has shown
clear leadership ability and shows the promise of more in the future.
7. A member must have excellent grades, some of the best in his class. No mediocre
student can be a member.
8. A member must be one who, overall, clearly sets the standard for others to
follow. We are the hand-picked finest at Remington, personifying everything
the school stands for.
Mark abruptly jerked his head up, eyes narrowing as he glanced between the coach and the paper. He felt an enormous urge to grab for the paper, rip it out of the black man's hands, but he knew Coach Tanner. The man would just jerk it away and out of reach the moment Mark tried.
It took a few moments before Mark could even speak. "Wh…" he tried, then stopped. He tried again. "Where'd you get that?"
"This fell out of one of your notebooks when you left Fencing yesterday," Tanner said. "I saw it and picked it up, so I thought I'd better give it back to you." He paused. "Assuming this is yours."
Mark's heart was racing, and he knew he'd better choose his words carefully. He was on thin ice here.
"It's mine, sir, but it's for a- a play me and some friends are writing-"
"Don't bullshit me anymore, Golan." Coach Tanner's voice was hard and flat.
Mark just swallowed and gave a slight nod. "All right."
But Tanner's face relaxed after just a moment, and his voice lightened. He leaned back in his chair and regarded Golan. "I didn't ask you here to threaten you. I haven't copied this, and I am gonna give it back before you leave this office. But I'm here to tell you, Golan, that you and your friends had better stay away from the basketball team. DiNozzo's a talented player, and he's one of my guys." He paused, looking at the sandy-blond-haired teenager. "I look out for my guys, Golan. That's something I'm sure you appreciate."
"Sure," Mark managed after a moment; his voice was a bit hoarse. He was scared, sure, but he was also angry. At himself, if no one else, for fucking up and giving the basketball coach such a dangerous weapon to use against him. "Sure, Coach. I understand that."
"Then here's what I'm gonna ask. You stay away from my guys, stay off their backs. That'll keep me off yours."
Mark wanted to refuse. He wanted to tell Captain Tanner to go and shove it up his ass, because Honor Corps didn't make exceptions for anybody. Took shit from nobody, took orders from nobody. Who did this motherfucker think he was?
Golan was unable to keep a certain amount of annoyance from his voice as he replied, "Well, sir, I guess I don't have much choice, do I?"
"Damn right you don't," Tanner said, nodding in agreement. "Do we have a deal or not?"
"We do, sir," Mark replied.
"Good." Tanner folded the piece of notebook paper back up and handed it to Golan, who immediately shoved it into his gray uniform pocket. "I'll write you a pass now."
Mark Golan stood up, slowly coming back to himself. Calm, composed. In control again. When Coach Tanner handed him the yellow paper with his signature and a brief explanation on it, Mark started for the door, then turned back. "Captain Tanner, I may I speak freely, sir?"
"You may," the big man replied, looking back at him.
"Step lightly around Honor Corps, sir. It's better to leave some things alone."
"I thought you said Honor Corps didn't exist?" Tanner replied.
"It doesn't, sir. But I'm just giving you some good advice, sir, all the same." He hesitated, then added, "Sir, you should know that you're very well-respected in the Corps. We know that you're a good promotion prospect as well as the Board of Trustees does. Leave tradition alone. Let it have its place here like it should, and you could go far. You might even make Provost one of these days." Mark lowered his voice just a little, keeping eye contact with Tanner. "You can't afford to make an enemy of Honor Corps, sir. Or of me."
"Thank you for your directness and honesty, Mister Golan," Coach Tanner rumbled, his face impassive. "It takes great courage to express your views so man-to-man."
Is he mocking me? Golan couldn't tell. He was in shock right now, mentally recovering from almost having sunk the Honor Corps. Thank God it was Captain Tanner that found that damn piece of paper. If somebody- say that snitch, that piece of shit, Tony DiNozzo had…
"Thank you, sir," Mark said calmly. He even managed to smile. "Have a good day."
"You as well, Cadet Major."
Trembling, in something of a daze, Mark Golan walked out of Tanner's office as calmly as he could, and kept careful control of himself as he headed down the hall to the latrine. Once he got inside one of the stalls and shut the door, Mark dug out the piece of paper and slowly, carefully, tore it into tiny pieces. His hands shook as he did it. Writing things down- writing anything down- was strictly against the rules of Honor Corps, their own internal code of conduct. Mark had violated that, and he was Assigner, for God's sake!
It had only been because of the Initiation coming up in a few days. You had to have everything memorized, and Mark had just been making sure that he had it all correct. It had been a mistake write it down, though, a mistake to carry it anywhere outside of his room. Had Coach Tanner handed it to the Commandant's office, where they knew as well as anyone that cadet secret societies were strictly forbidden by regulations clearly stated in the Red Book, Mark could have found himself in a great deal of trouble. And even more when the rest of Honor Corps found out what he'd done.
Mark had shredded the paper to the point where it could never have been reassembled again. He dropped the remains into the toilet and flushed; it looked like swirling white confetti. Getting up and stepping out of the stall, Mark Golan forced himself to take a breath. What had just happened had been too close- much too close for comfort.
But it's all over now, he assured himself as he headed on to class in Kusinis Hall. It's okay, I handled it. It's over.
Unless Captain Tanner had copied the paper, after all. There was no way to know.
If he tries to break me, Golan vowed, staring hard into a mirror as his hands tightly gripped the porcelain sink, I'm gonna break him. If it's the last thing- the last motherfucking thing- I ever do.
XX
They came for him again that night, as they always seemed to on the nights when Travis Phelps, nicknamed "Piggy" for his poor shape and weight, needed sleep and rest the most. It was dark and they wore the caps of their gray-and-white full dress uniforms low over their eyes. Their nametags had been removed and pocketed, and they surrounded him, converging all at once as he made a doomed, pitiful effort at hurrying on towards the barracks.
"The gym," the one in front said simply. "Hurry up, Piggy. About-face. Let's go."
"Don't worry about it, Piggy," a boy to his left said. "It's nothing personal."
That brought chuckles, and a heavyset, strong-looking boy to Travis' right enthusiastically curled his left hand into a fist, punching it into his palm. "It is with me. I like doing this. It's for your own good, you know."
Finally the boy standing directly in front of Travis pointed towards the gym. "You gonna go yourself, or you want us to keep you an extra hour?"
Travis turned and started walking himself.
XX
There was nobody in the gym's basketball court; the wood-floored room was completely dark. Travis was escorted to the center of the room, told to stand at attention, and the boys, some of their breathing sounding labored under their ornate, none-too-comfortable full dress uniforms, left him suddenly. Their footsteps faded away and Travis could see nothing in the darkness. Even when his eyes adjusted he couldn't. They'd taken his glasses.
Footsteps off to the right, to the left, behind him. A few, many all at once, then nothing. A smacking sound, something hard hitting the wooden floor.
Two boys approached him, and from behind, one called out, "What's wrong, little Piggy? Can't you read rank? Salute the Commandant!"
The moment Travis rendered a salute, the gym exploded. The lights were thrown on, blinding him, but he could've sworn he saw the boys standing around all shielding their eyes, caps still low over their faces. Then the lights went off again and they charged, shouting and screaming, and as they circled like wolves surrounding prey, one kept a flashlight jabbed right in Travis' face.
Then it stopped. Flashlights snapped off, the footsteps of dress shoes fading into the dark.
A boy stood right in front of him, holding a rifle of metal and wood in his hands at port arms. Travis felt a terrible sense of dread, knowing this was just the beginning.
The boy addressed Travis, speaking in a low, urgent voice, his words coming rapidfire. "Say what I say, mister. This is a Smith-Carona-manufactured, thirty-aught-six caliber, Model 1903A3 Springfield rifle made in 1944."
Stuttering, struggling to remember all the words and say them in order, Travis managed to repeat it.
"This weapon weighs 8.0 pounds empty, 8.5 pounds fully loaded, 9.5 pounds when fitted with a M1903 bayonet."
Travis stammered some more, straining to say the words back, but he finally did it.
The boy threw him the rifle, and by simple, panicked reaction and nothing else Travis managed to catch it.
"Port arms!" the boy shouted, and Travis did it.
"Right-shoulder arms!" Shouted another.
"Left shoulder, arms!"
"Order arms!"
"Pre-sent arms!"
At first Travis was able to keep up, but they simply quickened their pace. Multiple boys shouted different commands at once. It went on, going faster and faster, Travis breaking into a sweat as he tried to do the impossible and keep up. It went on until the inevitable happened- Travis' arms, never especially strong, were simply unable to hold the Springfield any longer. He dropped it, one of the boys catching it just as the metal butt plate hit the floor.
That was all it took. They were on him. They swarmed in, screaming and yelling again, and this time one command rose clearly above the noise.
"Drop! Drop, you faggot!"
"I said fucking drop!"
"You piece of shit, this is school property!"
"Pushups! Pushups! Do it now!"
As Travis went into the front leaning rest position and started to push, a boy stood near him and planted his shoe between Travis' shoulderblades. It was the rapidfire speaker again, but this time he had one word, emphasized as he applied pressure to the planted shoe.
"Down."
They took nearly an hour.
XX
Travis was shaking when they finally called a halt, sweat raining off his face. He just collapsed to the floor, resting gratefully, and a boy knelt next to him, speaking softly in a voice somehow gentle yet filled with infinite menace.
"Your buddy DiNozzo's gotten lucky. He's gonna sail smooth clear to graduation. Both of you will. You keep your mouth shut, you'll have no more problems. None from us. Got it?"
"Yes," Travis managed, and he finally found the strength to stand.
The boy standing beside him rose as Travis did, and even in the darkness of the gym, Travis could've sworn he saw the gleam of a single diamond on each of the boy's uniformed shoulders. Insignia for a cadet major.
"But kid, if DiNozzo or anybody else hears a word about your little workouts with us, I'm gonna promise you something. We're gonna send you both home with your nuts in your pockets."