Guardians of Honor:The Plebes

By J. E. Bandy Jr.

In the fight against terrorism, there is a thin line between what is criminal and what is necessary. After discovering through clandestine informants that a group of home grown extremists is attempting to use West Point as a training ground for its future leaders, the army fights back. To do so, the Academy recruits an unlikely heroinea shy but strong-willed female cadet named Casey Sullivan. Throughout the operation, Casey negotiates an ethical minefield between the high standards of the West Point Honor Code, her Christian convictions, and the demands of serving undercover in the morally ambiguous world of intelligence operations. Under the tutelage of Myra Washington (a West Point Tactical Officer), Casey assists the U.S. Intelligence Community and the Israeli Mossad in their race to stop the extremists.

The Guardians of Honor series takes the reader on a walk down the moral tightrope between honorable service to the nation and the tragedy of losing ones moral compass for all the right reasons. The fictional series is unique because it is the first to explore the U.S. Military Academy through the eyes of the female cadets and officers serving there, and because the underlying Christian message of hope is a positive one. Guardians of Honor: The Plebes is the first book in this groundbreaking series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Oct 8, 2013
• ISBN: 9781490802145

J. E. Bandy Jr.

J. E. Bandy, Jr. is an Intelligence Analyst with the United States Government and a former Naval Intelligence Officer. He is also an evangelical Catholic who hopes to inform, entertain, and inspire through his novels. He resides with his family in scenic Fredericksburg, VA. His favorite author is spy novelist John le Carre.

Book preview

GUARDIANS

OF

HONOR

39563.png The Plebes 39561.png

A WEST POINT FICTIONAL SERIES

J. E. Bandy, Jr.

39568.png

Copyright © 2010, 2013, 2016 J. E. Bandy, Jr.

West Point Cadet Chapel photo by Eduard Fàbregas Català

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

The views expressed in this novel are not necessarily those of the United States Military Academy at West Point, the U.S. Army, the Federal Bureau of Investigation, or the United States Government. The characters are completely fictitious, and any resemblance to actual people (living or dead) is purely coincidental.

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.westbowpress.com

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Scripture texts in this work are taken from the New American Bible, revised edition© 2010, 1991, 1986, 1970 Confraternity of Christian Doctrine, Washington, D.C. and are used by permission of the copyright owner. All Rights Reserved. No part of the New American Bible may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

ISBN: 978-1-4908-0213-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4908-0212-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4908-0214-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013912642

WestBow Press rev. date: 10/12/2016

Contents

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1   Cowboys

Chapter 2   Long Gray Line

Chapter 3   Snapping In

Chapter 4   Pawn Brokers

Chapter 5   Changes

Chapter 6   Greetings

Chapter 7   Friendly Strife

Chapter 8   Patriots

Chapter 9   Ghosts

Chapter 10   Mules and Goats

Chapter 11   Chestnuts

Chapter 12   Storm Tide

Chapter 13   Lucas

Chapter 14   One Hundredth Night

Chapter 15   Cliques

Chapter 16   Nags Head

Chapter 17   Poker Faces

Chapter 18   Operational Necessity

Chapter 19   Scar Tissue

Epilogue

Series Glossary Of Terms

DEDICATION

T HIS BOOK IS dedicated to my family, friends, and colleagues whose encouragement and support sustain me, as well as to Almighty God who’s ever present Spirit guides and enlightens me.

PROLOGUE

A YOUNG WOMAN anxiously ducked into the entranceway of a building in the shadow of the Smithsonian castle on Independence Avenue in Washington, DC. She was certain she was being followed but felt confident that she could still pull this off. All she needed was two minutes of good luck. The freezing December rain provided some cover as she waited in the semi-darkness for her contact.

The woman’s short blonde hair was covered by a powder blue, heavy knitted hat. She felt a gust of cold wind and lifted the collar of her Navy blue woolen overcoat to warm her ears and neck while she scanned the area—trying desperately to look casual. Three more minutes, she thought, checking her wristwatch. Across the street, an engine started. A few feet to her left, a woman laughed as she and a young man dashed for the door of a nearby art gallery. More rain, heavier now.

Spies, the young woman reflected—one part hero and one part villain—a perfect blending of the best and worst in all of us. My job as a spy-handler, she thought, is to thread the needle—to coach, cajole, and manipulate . . . to leverage relationships . . . to help the operative rationalize doing the unthinkable—on behalf of my country. I won’t even consider failure, she thought. I can’t. There’s too much at stake.

Few Americans realize how many foreign intelligence services operate in the DC area alone, she smiled. The place is virtually spy central. Key U.S. players have rules to avoid entanglements with lawyers and the Hoover hounds. But, those rules are an illusion, she thought. In the real world of covert ops, the only rules are: succeed and don’t get caught. But, we all have to settle with our maker in the end, the young woman concluded, and each must count the cost to his or her own soul. That’s the nature of intelligence—and the price of playing a role in the great game.

As she waited, nonchalantly leaning her 5'6" frame against a cold stone wall next to the building’s entranceway, the woman noticed a West Point cadet attempting to hail a cab. He was wearing the Academy’s traditional heavy gray overcoat, and his girlfriend’s flattered pride was evident even from that distance. Observing them, the woman was suddenly flooded with a torrent of memories and emotions. It was as if she’d been splashed in the face with a bucket of ice water—raw and electric. Has it been that long? She wondered. Have I drifted that far?

CHAPTER 1

Cowboys

H ER NAME WAS Casey Sullivan, and from the beginning the Academy thing had been her father’s idea. He had cooked it up over a few longnecks with his Texas Ranger buddies the year before. Ever since then, they had been writing letters, knocking on doors, and asking favors of everybody who was anybody in an attempt to get Case (as they called her) an appointment to the United States Military Academy. She might have actually appreciated their efforts, had any of them bothered to ask if she even wanted to go to West Point before starting their macho crusade. But, since they hadn’t, she resented them instead.

Casey thought that the entire notion of attending a service academy was probably her father’s subconscious way of compensating for never having had a son. So she let him spin his wheels. Her father promised to handle the paperwork if she would sign the documents and agree to a medical exam, a physical fitness test, and a preliminary interview. It all seemed harmless enough. Never in a million years did she think that he would actually succeed.

To begin with, Casey reflected, she wasn’t the army type. She despised exercise, hated all forms of regimentation, and couldn’t imagine herself leading anybody anywhere.

So when the letter arrived from Republican Senator Wayne Abington’s office to confirm her nomination, Casey was flabbergasted. Her mother was both speechless and visibly horrified. Her dad, on the other hand, was on cloud nine. Casey had never seen him so proud. Whether he was proud of her achievement or his own was another question. But one thing was certain: saying no to West Point’s biggest fan was not going to be easy.

There’s no way Dad! No. Way.

You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me, Case! her gruff, 6'2 father thundered. This is the opportunity of a lifetime. And you’re telling me you’re going to pass it up?"

That’s right, Casey answered.

Now, Bob, her mother interjected, maybe we should let Casey make this decision. After all, she’s the one who’s going to have to do all those push-ups.

Stay out of this, Sallie, Bob snapped.

Mom’s right, Dad—it’s my neck we’re talking about, not yours.

Be logical, Case, he persisted. These people are offering you a four-year, all-expense-paid ride, with a shot at a terrific career afterwards. When I was your age, I would have killed for a chance like this.

Great. You go, Casey quipped.

Case…

Read my lips: I don’t want to go in the army!

Don’t you think that a few push-ups are a small price to pay to guarantee your future? Bob pressed.

You just don’t get it! Casey countered, stomping up the stairs.

Over the years, Casey had come to think of her room as a kind of haven from the tempests of life. She had watched it evolve from a quiet abode for pretty dolls and stuffed toys into a makeshift shrine devoted to country rock stars and heroes of the big screen. Her walls were decorated with posters, concert ticket stubs, and an assortment of autographed glossy prints. Casey had once flirted with the idea of becoming a professional guitarist, but after her third lesson and several bruised fingertips, realized that music stardom would require far too much work.

Casey’s wardrobe contained a variety of shoes, belts, jeans, and trendy tops, as well as a couple of conservative business suits that her father had forced her to buy. Her dressing table was a hodgepodge of jewelry, medium-priced perfumes, and make-up items. Casey’s desk, which faced the window overlooking their spacious backyard, held a Bible, some family photos, a computer, and a cordless telephone. It was her private universe, and her parents had always respected it. Whenever she had a disagreement with them, which seemed to be happening more and more frequently, Casey would stomp in, lock the door, and listen to music until she felt better. This evening would be no exception.

Casey entered her room, fell angrily onto her bed, and put on her headphones, blasting hip-hop music until her seventeen-year-old ears couldn’t take it anymore. She was furious. She was stupefied. Her father actually expected her to go through with this half-baked idea of his. What a putz, she fumed. What an incredibly annoying, self-righteous putz! Out of all of the insensitive, lame-brained, appalling ideas that he’s come up with over the years, this is by far the worst. She was completely outdone.

The letter requested that Casey and her parents come to the senator’s Houston office at the end of the month for a meet - and - greet. Casey was sure it was going to be some kind of plastic grip-and-grin photo opportunity. The event would allow the senator to make political brownie points by accepting accolades and pledges of undying devotion from his loyal supporters. Of course, this devotion would come primarily from his grateful, star-struck, newly selected prodigies: Casey and some blue blood, rocket-scientist wannabe from No-where-ville, Texas. The situation was crazy—absolutely crazy. The more Casey thought about it, the angrier she became.

Casey’s mom, who always seemed to take the path of least resistance, suggested that they accept the senator’s invitation. To refuse would be impolite. Besides, if the Academy actually appointed Casey, she could always say that she appreciated their confidence in her, but that she had decided to attend a university closer to home. There was no shame in that, right? What a crock, Casey thought. Her mother’s weak-kneed defection meant that she was now out-numbered. And while dogged refusal was still an option, it also meant that life with her father would become a living nightmare. She also realized, as much as it galled her, that she still needed him if she ever hoped to see the Mustang convertible he’d promised to buy her when she graduated from high school.

Checkmate, Casey mumbled.

The senator’s office suite smelled of cigars and old money. When the Sullivans arrived, a good-sized group had already gathered. Casey immediately noticed the burly but distinguished-looking Senator Abington, a couple of nondescript staffers, and a trio of photographers milling about. She also took note of an army officer and an Asian kid who just had to be her counterpart. An older couple that Casey assumed were his parents flanked the young man. She also noticed several Texas Rangers huddled in a corner—friends of her father’s, no doubt. The entire suite was filled with laughter and polite, empty chatter. Casey hated when she was right.

The army officer spotted her first. All of Casey’s instincts told her to run far and fast. But, her father was blocking the door. She was trapped.

Hi! You must be Kelly Sullivan, the grinning, military mannequin said, extending a glad hand.

Uh, it’s Casey actually.

I meant Casey, and these must be your parents.

Bob Sullivan, her father interjected, and this is my wife Sallie. Pleased to meet you…

Mike Dierdorf, Academy Liaison Officer. I believe you met my predecessor during the interview phase.

That’s right.

Well, you two must certainly be proud of this lucky young lady of yours.

We sure are, they beamed.

Casey couldn’t believe it. Her parents were eating this up. She started to feel sick.

Here, let me introduce you to some people.

Lead on, Colonel, Bob answered.

Senator Abington, Dierdorf announced, allow me to introduce Casey, Sallie, and Bob Sullivan.

Well, hello there, the senator said, squeezing Casey’s hand between his massive paws while camera bulbs popped. I’m happy to finally meet you. We’re proud of you, gal, awfully proud.

It’s an honor to meet you, sir, Casey replied as sweetly as she could manage, trying desperately to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

I don’t mind telling you, when I saw your application package, I was impressed—mighty impressed. I turned to Harry here and said, ‘We’ve got to put this little girl on the bus.’ Isn’t that right, Harry?

It certainly is, sir, the senator’s yes-man concurred.

Well, my parents and I appreciate the faith you’ve put in me, Senator, Casey answered, impressed that she had managed to say it with a straight face. That Mustang was as good as in the driveway.

Casey, the senator continued, I’d like to introduce you to Thomas Tranh. He’s from Red Bluff and will be heading to the Academy with you, assuming all goes well.

How do you do? Casey asked, wondering where in the world Red Bluff could be.

Fine thanks, Thomas replied. Nice to meet you.

The Sullivans and Tranhs then exchanged handshakes amid a barrage of camera flashes.

Casey was next introduced to several high-ranking Texas Rangers. Each, she learned, had awesome connections. Each was a living legend within the law-enforcement community, and each regarded Casey as one of their own. Although never verbalized, it was clear to everyone present that these grizzled old cowboys were the ones actually responsible for Casey’s nomination. She thought that her dad would positively burst with pride. And that, Casey reflected, was not a good sign. Maybe I should have opted for dogged refusal after all, she thought.

Ladies and gentlemen may I have your attention? the senator’s aide called out from behind a lectern at the head of the room.

If you’ll gather around, the senator would like to make a few comments off the record. Senator?

Thank you Harry, the senator mumbled as he stepped up to the polished wooden stand.

Casey felt like a fool—a fool in a pinstriped suit, pretending to be somebody she wasn’t. She despised her father for this.

We are gathered here today, the senator began, "to honor two courageous and patriotic young people: Casey Sullivan and Thomas Tranh."

The crowd cheered, flashbulbs popped, and the Texas Rangers hooted and whistled.

Amidst a generation of drug abusers, moral compromisers, and liberal lifestyle sympathizers, these two splendid youngsters have made the choice to work. They offer this State, this country, and the world a fine example of the best that Texas has to offer.

If I’m the best that Texas has to offer, Casey thought, we’re in a lot of trouble.

Allow me to illustrate, the senator elaborated. Thomas Tranh is the youngest son of hardworking Vietnamese immigrants. In the face of tremendous obstacles, he has mastered the language, achieved a superior academic record, and has been offered several—several—aerospace engineering scholarships to some of the most prestigious universities in the nation.

I knew it, Casey mumbled, a rocket-scientist.

As the daughter of a highly decorated Vietnam veteran, who now serves as a Texas Ranger, the senator continued, "Casey Sullivan is no stranger to patriotism or self-sacrifice. She has outstanding SAT scores. She has been selected for the National Honor Society, as well as Who’s Who among American High School Students. She has worked on her high school newspaper and annual staff. She was president of her school’s photography club, participated in several high profile running events for charity, and she managed to do much of this while holding down a part-time job."

What on Earth has Dad been telling these people? Casey wondered. Sure, everything that the senator was saying was technically correct. But, as far as she was concerned, none of her achievements had been nearly as noteworthy or altruistic as they were making it appear. Somebody had done a major spin-job.

I consider these splendid youngsters, the senator prattled on, to be among the rising stars of the Lone Star State. And, I consider it a personal privilege to honor them here today.

Once again, the crowd whooped and cheered. Casey wasn’t sure how much more of this she could take.

In conclusion, the senator beamed, I’m very happy to see you all here, and I look forward to a close, continuing relationship with everyone present. Thank you, and enjoy the hors d’oeuvres.

The entire situation was absolutely unbelievable, Casey marveled. She turned to find Texas Ranger Captain Fritch, the tallest and most weather beaten of the cowboy contingent, smiling down at her.

Congratulations, kiddo, he remarked. We know you’ll do every Ranger proud.

Great, she silently mused, no pressure. Casey smiled politely, and shook the Captain’s hand.

Casey’s official notice of appointment came late the following month, and she had a big decision to make. She prayed that she would make the right choice. Somehow, word of her appointment had gotten around school, and all of a sudden everybody wanted to talk to her. Most of the guys were either secretly jealous or openly skeptical. Most of the girls were either quietly supportive or absolutely convinced that she was a lesbian. Casey would have laughed if the whole thing hadn’t been so sad. There were literally thousands of teens all over the country who would have given anything to be in her shoes. Most had better grades and better attitudes—and many had been in JROTC or military schools. All, she was sure, had a heck of a lot more commitment to the army.

Thanks a lot Dad, Casey thought. I just hope this Mustang convertible is worth all the trouble I’m going through to get it.

Hey, what’s up? a voice sang out from behind her.

Casey turned from her hall locker to see a plain, pimple faced girl with a nose ring smiling back at her.

Can I help you? Casey asked.

You’re her aren’t you? the pale girl inquired.

Who?

Casey Sullivan.

Yeah. So?

I read the article you wrote on the basketball tournament last winter. It was pretty good.

Thanks. Do I know you?

Michelle Dreyfus. I’m a sophomore.

Ok, Casey said, uneasily closing her locker door.

Is it true what everybody’s saying? Dreyfus continued.

I don’t know. What’s everybody saying?

That you’re going to West Point.

Don’t you go believing everything you hear, Casey said.

I just think it’s really cool, that’s all, Dreyfus replied. Most of this crowd is never going to amount to anything anyway. But you—you’ve got a chance to make a difference. You’ve got a chance to make all those jerks of the barefoot and pregnant school eat their words. Vive la femme, you know what I’m saying?

I guess, Casey shrugged.

Well, take it easy. And good luck to you, Dreyfus grinned.

Thanks, Casey replied.

Wonderful, Casey thought, now I’m poster-girl for the Young Feminist Club. I don’t need this today, I really don’t.

When Casey got home that afternoon, her mother was buzzing around the kitchen preparing supper.

Mom, we’ve got to talk.

About what dear? Sallie asked.

About this nightmare that’s become my life.

Don’t be so melodramatic, Case. What happened?

When you were my age, what did you want out of life?

To have fun… to be popular… to maybe have a family someday… Sallie answered.

And, what about now?

To work on college maybe… do some traveling when your dad retires.

But don’t you ever want more than that? Casey pressed.

Well, I’ll probably never walk on the moon or find a cure for cancer. But, I run this house and volunteer for Catholic Charities. I believe I make a difference. Besides, I’m happy. Why? What do you want? Sallie asked.

I don’t know. That’s just it. I think I’d like to travel some, to find out who I really am and what I’m good at… to see where God and my talents take me. I just never want to wake up and feel that I sold myself short. You know what I mean?

Well, I can tell you what you’re good at, Sallie said.

I’m all ears.

Reading people—figuring out what they’re up to… what drives them… that sort of thing.

So?

So you’d probably be good at something like Psychology, or Journalism, or Law.

Me a lawyer? Casey marveled. You’ve got to be kidding.

No, Sallie continued, I suspect you’d be a natural at it.

Seems like everybody thinks something different, Casey observed. The Texas Rangers think I’d make a good soldier. The feminists think I’d be good at sticking it to the guys. The guys think I’ll washout of West Point in a week. And, the prisses think I’m either easy or batting for the other team.

Well sweetie, all I can tell you is that in the end, it won’t be what others think that counts. It will be what you think that matters. It’s your life, honey. Don’t ever forget that. Maybe you should pray on it.

Her Mom was right, Casey reflected, as she lay on her bed that evening listening to classic techno-rock on her headphones. What she thought was what was important. The problem was that Casey wasn’t sure what she thought. She didn’t want to disappoint anyone, but she didn’t want to be bullied into anything either. Should I actually consider joining the army of all things? Casey wondered. If I do, will I have to fight in Iraq or Afghanistan? Will I have a choice? What about Dad and the cowboys who risked their reputations to get me this chance? Would refusal be a betrayal of their trust? But, how can it be betrayal if I never asked any of them to do anything for me? Casey puzzled and prayed until her head was sore.

On April Fools’ Day, which also happened to be Casey’s eighteenth birthday, she received notification that she had been accepted to the University of Texas at Austin. This is good, Casey thought. Now I have options. Let’s see, she considered. Should I sweat and suffer with a bunch of officer wannabe’s at West Point? Or, should I party with my friends at the University of Texas? Hummm . . . This is certainly going to be a tough choice, she thought sarcastically. Should I learn to kill people? Or, should I at least THINK about ‘giving peace a chance?’ Upon further reflection, Casey decided that it would probably be better to wait until after her birthday supper to tell her folks the news.

Predictably, her parents had completely opposing reactions. Casey wondered how they had managed to stay together so long.

My little girl at the University of Texas—Honey, that’s wonderful news, Sallie chimed.

Wonderful? Bob growled.

Now, Bob, UT is an excellent institution. You’ve said it yourself a million times.

Sallie, I did not call in a thousand favors from a hundred Texas Rangers just for this child to go to school across town.

Casey picked at her mom’s homemade ice cream as she listened. They really thought I’d want Cake and ice cream for my eighteenth birthday? Casey wondered. How lame, she thought. After fencing for a couple of minutes, her mother caved-in to the brow beating, just like Casey knew that she would. And once again, the responsibility for a counter-argument was left entirely up to Casey. Thanks Mom, she thought.

After dinner, Casey went to Paulie’s Pizzeria to hang out with a couple of her girlfriends. Tracey Potts and Jennifer Podowski were two of Casey’s oldest and most trusted friends. The three of them had been as thick as thieves ever since confirmation class at St. Mary’s Parish when they were twelve. All three had applied and been accepted to the University of Texas, and all three hoped to room together in the fall.

I can’t believe it—all three of us, Tracey cheerfully chirped, as she shoveled more French fries into her mouth.

Pretty sweet, you gotta admit, Jennifer agreed.

Pretty creepy, Casey smiled, while sipping on a Diet Coke.

You think everything’s creepy, Tracey chuckled, as she looked over her shoulder for the pizza that they had ordered.

Not everything, just you, Casey quipped.

Well, I think that UT has had its first stroke of true genius in years, Jennifer commented. The three of us will undoubtedly set a new standard of academic excellence and social promiscuity that won’t be soon forgotten in this town.

Dream on Jennifer, Tracey responded. I’d be happy to just meet a guy who bathes regularly.

You meet lots of guys, Trace, Casey chuckled. None of them like you. That’s all.

Yeah, like you’re burning up the social circuit, Miss ‘I’ve got to go to a killer’s college to land a man,’ Tracey countered.

That reminds me, Case, Jennifer interjected, did you ever talk to your dad? Because, if you can’t work things out with him we’re all screwed… You know that.

I’m trying, Casey answered, "but he’s off in Never—Never Land. There’s no getting through to him."

Can’t your mom help? Tracey asked as the pepperoni pizza arrived.

Are you kidding? Casey said. She’s as whipped as she’s ever been.

So, what are you gonna do? Jennifer asked, passing Casey a slice of pizza.

What can I do? He’s a putz, Casey shrugged.

Speaking of putzes, I heard Richard Edelman got accepted to UT too, Tracey added, sprinkling hot pepper onto her pizza.

Robo-geek’s gonna be a Longhorn? No way, Jennifer smiled.

Don’t talk that way about your future husband, Jenn. It’s not polite, Casey jabbed.

Bite me, Jennifer quipped.

You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Casey teased.

Hey Case, is your dad still going to get you that convertible for graduation? Tracey asked.

I guess, Casey shrugged.

Can you imagine the three of us cruising in a convertible? Now, that would be awesome.

As she listened to her friends happily planning for high school graduation, summer vacation, and the coming college semester, Casey found her mind wandering. She thought about the senator, the grizzled old cowboys, and the silent challenge that West Point presented. She loved the thought of rooming with Tracey and Jennifer. But, there was something of a dare in this Academy thing, a dare that she wasn’t sure she could duck. Casey had lived in Austin all of her life, and she had to admit that getting away from there had a definite appeal. On one level, the notion of going to West Point seemed ludicrous. But, on another level, the notion of staying comfortable and safe in Austin seemed even more ridiculous. Nothing in her world made sense anymore.

For three weeks, Casey weighed her options. She really liked the University of Texas. But, every time that she shut her eyes, she would see her parents’ beaming faces at the senator’s office gleefully smiling back at her. They had never been so proud of her, and the Texas Rangers had never been so strongly behind her. No one had ever expressed that level of faith in Casey before, about anything. And, though she hated to admit it, Casey had never felt so special.

On a rainy Thursday afternoon, she decided. She was going to do it. She was actually going to go through with it. She was as daffy as her dad, and Tracey and Jennifer would probably never speak to her again. But, the cowboys were going to get what they wanted. She was onboard. Casey Sullivan was going to West Point.

CHAPTER 2

Long Gray Line

T HE UNITED STATES Military Academy is nestled within the rocky granite highlands of scenic New York State at a strategic bend in the Hudson River. Although it was only fifty miles from New York City, to Casey the Academy seemed like another world.

Cadet Sergeant Lance Birdwell Jacobs was Casey’s Platoon NCO for Cadet Basic Training (known as Beast Barracks). To the ‘bean-heads’ entrusted to his command, Jacobs was a vengeful, unsmiling, perfectionist, and the bane of their collective existence. Casey thought that he was either a brilliant eccentric or a total jerk.

What is the significance of cadet colors? Jacobs suddenly barked at Casey.

Sergeant, Casey responded, quoting the Plebe handbook Bugle Notes, The components of gunpowder are charcoal, saltpeter, and sulfur, which are black, gray, and gold in color.

What is saltpeter?

Sergeant, saltpeter is potassium nitrate.

Pop-off dim wit! Jacobs spit at Sally Danforth.

Sir? she cowered.

I’ll ask the questions here Bevis. Squat thrusts—hit ’em!

Casey wondered how long Danforth would last. ‘Rhode Island’ was physically weaker than the rest, and like the shark that he was Jacobs smelled blood in the water. Reggie Cooper, a skinny black kid from Hopewell, Virginia, had also made Jacobs’ hit list. Casey wasn’t taking odds on his survival either.

How are they all? Jacobs shouted, inches from Cooper’s nose.

They are all fickle but one, Sergeant!

Who is not fickle?

Cooper hesitated. He was a dead man, Casey thought.

You are pathetic new cadet! I am going to make it my business to run you out of my Corps and out of my country—you rat faced, limp wristed, little daisy! Everybody on your face… Courtesy of Miss-ter Cooper… Push-ups begin!

Officially, cadets were not allowed to use profanity or degrading language, Casey reflected. This was particularly true for the training cadre who were supposed to set a good example for their juniors. But, what was she going to