Da Nang, South Vietnam, US Military Base, 1967
The first thing to hit him as he stepped off the plane was the air. It was red tinted with dust; and fringed in a humidity that reminded Charles of Houston, where he grew up.
The second thing to hit him was the chaos. Sweaty GIs scrambling in every direction; loading, unloading, arriving, departing.
It took two nights for his stomach to settle; although the nerves remained on edge. He waited in the bunkers for the call that came sooner than expected.
"Private Marsden?"
"Here, Lieutenant Colonel!"
Charles hopped quickly off his bunk to stand at attention.
"Join Colonel Bunsen outside Bunker 8," his superior commanded, clipboard in hand. "You'll be helping to run patrols and ambushes from Hill 20."
"Yes, Sir!"
This was it. The moment for which he'd trained. He always knew he would join the Army; and, unlike his counterparts, he'd really had to fight to get there. He wasn't naturally athletic, built more for the desk than physical activity. But he was determined and driven enough to get the attention of his superiors. They eventually pushed him though the necessary training, deciding that what he lacked in physicality he more than made up for in brains.
He made his way through the busy base, side-stepping pallets and military supplies, avoiding the general hustle and bustle of morning prep; squinting to protect his sensitive eyes from a blast of air whipped up by a departing helicopter.
As he approached the group of five that would become his new unit, one young soldier stood out straight away. Charles hated him on sight. He was everything - tall, muscular, good looking - that Charles lacked and so desired to be; if only because such lack of features in himself, meant he was forced to work that much harder to achieve his main life goal.
He could already tell that the other men hung on the guy's every word. He had one of those broad smiles that lit up his face; and made his startling blue eyes sparkle. He had the kind of face that said 'like me, trust me' and so people did. People were like sheep that way.
Under one muscular arm he held a volleyball, the other was waving around as he instructed his team, "We gotta improve on our serving! Serving is where we lose points and it should be the easiest part of the game, right?" He noticed Charles standing to one side and smiled. "Hey there! You one of us?"
"One of you?" Charles asked with disdain. "If you mean am I part of this platoon, then yes. If you mean am I a marauding Neanderthal, then no."
Good Looking blinked at Charles for a minute and then burst out laughing. "Good one, my man! We need six!"
"Sorry?"
"Six?" The guy repeated, bobbing his head to the other side of the net where Charles noticed the other team outnumbered his unit by one person. The perfect eyebrows lifted forming perfect forehead creases that Charles was willing to bet could melt the heart of any woman.
Bastard!
"So, you in?" The boy raised the volleyball with both hands, ready to chuck it Charles's way depending on the response he got.
"Who's winning?" Charles asked.
"We are, of course!" The man replied, flashing perfect white teeth as he grinned. "9 to 3!"
Charles moved forward to join the game. In the back of his mind, he wondered what he was doing. He was terrible at ball games! Always had been. But he possessed a natural determination to win, to be the best. And this guy was just the sort to light that competitive fire within Charles.
He just wished his butter fingers hadn't dropped the ball after it was chucked his way.
His platoon laughed and moaned at the same time; obviously ascertaining that this small and weedy guy wasactually just as small and weedy as he appeared.
It made him hate Mr. Perfect even more.
"Okay people, line up over here!"
The voice of command was just that within a US Army Base. It was never questioned and always immediately answered. Charles left the ball where it had fallen to form into line and stand to attention; shoulder to shoulder with his new platoon.
"If any of you are bleeding from your game over here, you need to stand well away from me," the colonel joked. "I can't stand the sight of blood!"
He eyed them all for a time; really looking each of them up and down. He came to notice Charles and, although his expression didn't change, Charles could tell he was surprised. It was hard not to stand out, when the rest of your platoon towered above you.
"When I call your name, please respond in kind! Sanders?"
"Here, Colonel!"
"Abadie?"
"Here, Colonel!"
"Hibbing?"
"Here, Colonel!"
"Mayer?"
"Here, Colonel!" Good Looking responded; shoulders squared; face respectful.
"I've read your file, Mayer! You have an impressive record! I'm expecting a lot from you, soldier!"
"Yes, Colonel!"
Even the guy's voice was perfect, Charles scowled.
The colonel's head sharply turned in Charles' direction. "Do you have a problem, soldier?"
Shit!
"None, Colonel!" Charles replied, praying it would be enough.
"What is your name, Private?"
"Marsden, Sir!"
"You look like you have gas, Marsden. Do you have gas, Private?"
Charles tried to ignore the smirks he could see out the corner of his eye; as much as his platoon tried to hide them.
"No, Colonel!"
"No what?"
"No, I do not have gas, Sir!" Charles felt the heat rise up in his cheeks.
"Well," Col. Bunsen said, showing no change in emotion. "I expect you'll be able to wipe that idiotic look from your face then? Am I right?"
"Yes, Colonel!"
"Drop down and give me 20!"
Great!
As Charles struggled through his punishment, Bunsen finished the roll-call. Members of the platoon learned the final member of their group was the blonde-haired Webber.
Once Charles finished his 20 push-ups, and the squad was back in line, the colonel began.
"In case you're wondering, I'm looking for winners! Because that's what I am! I'm a winner! In fact, I'm very, very good at being a winner!" He eyed them all intensely again. "Anybody can be a winner! Anybody!" He looked down at Charles. "Although it does help to have some natural ability."
Shit!
"In my platoon, there are no weaklings... and definitely no idiots!" Bunsen moved down the line of soldiers. "Both those traits get men killed! And I don't know about you, but I'd like to survive through this Godforsaken war in tact! Am I understood?"
"Yes, Sir!" The entire platoon responded in unison.
"Alright! You men arenow my platoon. We are Bravo Company Twelve! We ship out at 010 hundred!" His expression changed into a frown when nothing happened. Then he shouted, "Move, move, move!"
They jumped and hurried off to collect their pre-packed and ready-to-go-at-a-moments-notice gear.
Charles's heart beat with determination. He would prove himself to Colonel Bunsen if it was the last thing he did.
…
Washington DC, Washington, Russell Senate Office Building, 2019
Luke Snyder and Noah Mayer weren't supposed to survive. That was the long and short of it. The death penalty should have taken care of them; sealing the truth forever within two wooden coffins.
Even when those blasted attorneys managed to negotiate life sentences instead; Charles wasn't concerned. Accidents happened all the time in prison. It was part and parcel of the political process. Sometimes people needed to be silenced for the benefit of the greater good.
The art of politics was very similar to the art of war in that regard. Casualties were unavoidable. And once you made that bid for the top, you soon realized that the price you'd have to pay to get there was your own soul. He had long ago resigned himself to eternal damnation.
Charles worked his way into a position where suddenly pretty much anything became possible. He discovered that as a US Senator, he was borderline invincible so long as the average Jack and Jill didn't catch wind of his activities. And indiscretions were pretty easy to cover up, when you had the FBI at your disposal.
Still, whenever he thought about the boy, he felt that acidic grate on his innards. This one hadn't been easy. Not only was Winston his closest friend, but he'd known Noah from birth, bouncing him on his knee; and teaching him to shoot while his father was working.
Noah was sweet and respectful. It was hard not to like the kid.
Winston had left him with no choice.
It had been a long time since he'd thought about Oakdale. His first reaction at the boys' escape was to panic. But over time, as they remained hidden and silent, Charles conceded the incident as over. It wasn't ideal; knowing they were out there still. But years passed without incident and so far the entire mess appeared stabilized.
So now it was strange that just as one of the missing boys resurfaced in Arlington, Texas, he should reach his desk to find thisparticular stuffed brown envelope waiting for him there.
He frowned down and sprawled the contents across his desk. The Washington Post indicated their intention to run a story in the next edition based on the enclosed documents; and asked him to phone the number provided if he wished to provide comment. Apparently, someone who wished to remain anonymous had sent the documents to the paper.
Marsh!
This was a potential disaster. Although the documents proved nothing on their own, questions could arise to lead reporters to the incident in Oakdale. That, coupled with the sudden reappearance of Luke and Noah on the FBI radar, would only light the fire of interest and spark trouble for Charles on a massive scale.
Shit!