Silent generation, p.1
Silent Generation, page 1
part #3 of XGeneration Series
Silent Generation
XGeneration 3
Brad Magnarella
Copyright © 2014 by Brad Magnarella All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover image by Damonza.com
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
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1
The White House
Tuesday, January 17, 1961
8:22 p.m.
President Eisenhower’s face looked different, pinker, less rugged, but Reginald Perry had never seen him this close. In fact, Reginald had never seen him, period, except for in black and white. And now there he sat, behind his Oval Office desk not twenty feet away, in full color.
The president frowned over his glasses as he sorted through the transcript for the evening, his farewell address to the nation spread out in front of him. Reggie eyed the man’s dark three-piece suit in contempt, glad his tie was off center. His gaze fell to the president’s gold pin.
Who’d you sell out to get that? he thought.
“Wally, lower your light about a half-inch. You’re bleaching the president’s brow.”
Reginald realized the voice in the headset was addressing him. He pulled his gaze from the president and, with freckled hands that looked alien in their whiteness, canted the spotlight down on its tripod.
“Better,” the director’s voice said. “Mickey, pull back your shot.”
Reginald looked to the left. The RCA camera was huge and box-shaped, like the man stooped behind it. Mickey muttered around an unlit cigar and rolled it back a foot. At the president’s desk, the sound operator adjusted two microphones. The crew started into final sound checks, the president looking up from his notes and speaking when asked.
You have no idea, do you? No idea that I’ve come for you.
How could he? Were President Eisenhower to squint between the two spotlights, he would only see a thin young man with fading freckles and a shiny crew cut. An eager beaver. Reginald had spent the last two days practicing the imitation such that he barely had to concentrate for his surface molecules to conform to the wholesome image. He thought of Wally—the real Wally—sleeping off a Mickey Finn in Reginald’s U Street room two miles away. He’d wake up in the morning with the mother of all hangovers, but he wasn’t hurt.
The voices in Reginald’s headset became muffled as his heartbeats consumed his hearing.
He ventured a look down to make sure his black tie still hid the slight bulk of the Derringer pistol he’d taped below his chest. He rehearsed the moves in his mind. Pretend to scratch, find the fourth button from the top, slip it open, reach inside…
He raised his gaze back to the man he would be aiming at.
How long ago had it been, three years, when he and Madelyn sat in front of their first television set, watching the same man explain the use of troops to enforce desegregation in Arkansas? Reginald cried that night. Madelyn thumbed the tears from under his eyes, whispering, “You see, Reggie, the forces of history are on your side. This president’s on your side. Any day, your country will see past your skin and discover the beautiful man you are.”
He swallowed back the threat of fresh tears.
The American flag with its newest stars hung heavily beyond Eisenhower’s right shoulder. The presidential flag stood opposite, sober and blue. Reginald stared at them. He’d once sworn his allegiance, his everything, to those flags.
God, Madelyn…
“Quiet in the room.”
The soundman retreated from the desk in careful, mincing steps. Mickey, the cameraman, snorted a final bolus of phlegm. The Oval Office fell silent. The president tapped the pages of transcript into a small sheaf and set them in front of him. He cleared his throat, his shoulders straightening.
Reginald thought of his rented room near U Street—his home for the last several days—and the five handwritten pages he’d left in a neat stack on the kitchen table. His own farewell address. But had he said everything? The promises, the betrayal, the unthinkable loss—had he connected all of the dots, had he been articulate enough so the newspapers couldn’t write him off as just another crackpot? That worried him now. In his mind, Reginald tried to reformulate the words he’d composed, but they eluded him. His pen had shaken all over the pages. More than once, he’d had to start over.
The man you call your president took everything from me.
“We’re live in five, four, three…” The director switched his countdown to his fingers then pointed.
President Eisenhower stared into the camera for what seemed an unnaturally long time, his stroke-addled face leaning slightly. “Good evening, my fellow Americans,” he said at last.
Reginald’s gaze went from the man’s keen blue eyes to the center of his forehead. What will blood look like in black and white? He swallowed and slipped a hand under his tie. Will it be vivid enough to shock America from its stupidity, just as the blood that matted Madelyn’s hair shocked me from mine?
His fingers located the fourth shirt button and unclasped it.
What would Madelyn think? he suddenly wondered. He could almost see her eyes, so beautiful and stern inside those waves of blond hair he used to press his face against. This isn’t the way, baby, she would have said. You might as well be turning the gun on yourself.
Reginald felt the hinges of his jaw tighten as his hand closed over the pistol’s grip.
They already did, he heard himself answering her. In his mind, he kissed her mouth and closed her eyes.
The president’s head stilled as he left his pages for the teleprompter.
He already did.
Inhaling, Reginald drew the gun.
2
Gainesville, Florida Saturday, June 8, 1985
9:08 a.m.
Scott jumped as the heavy door to the conference room banged closed behind him. The other five were already seated around the large, circular table, while Director Kilmer stood behind his chair in a black suit, arms leaning on the chair’s backrest. His raised brow said, You’re late. Scott gave a self-conscious chuckle as he hurried toward an empty chair beside Janis.
“Sorry,” he said to the room, pushing up his glasses and straightening his tie.
He didn’t suppose it would do any good to blame his mother, who had insisted he buff his shoes before heading out the door. “Today’s too important,” she’d kept saying. Thanks, Mom. As if I didn’t know. But too hopped up on nerves to argue, Scott did as she said. He buffed his shoes—and then promptly scuffed them again on his sprint to the end of the Meadows.
“Is everyone ready?” Kilmer stood back from his chair.
The other five answered in the affirmative. Scott blotted his forehead with a jacket sleeve and peeked around. With the exception of Janis’s sister, the others were dressed casually, and he was pretty sure none had buffed their shoes—or in Jesse’s case, his Army boots. It struck Scott that it was the first time they had assembled since the battle royale back in April. But this time, in the place of turkey sandwiches, sleek black folders sat in front of them.
A quiet tension edged the room. Decision day.
He glanced over at Janis, whose glossy red hair fell down the back of a green and white-striped Polo shirt. One hand was fingering the small gold crucifix at her neck. She caught him watching and smiled tightly. As of nine o’clock last night, she’d still been undecided.
“All right,” Kilmer said, rubbing his hands briskly. “I’ve enjoyed the opportunity to meet with you and your parents these past two months. But your parents aren’t here now. Ultimately, this is your decision.”
Scott focused his thoughts on Janis: Please say yes, please say yes, please say yes.
“You know the terms. By committing to the Champions Program, you are committing to develop your extraordinary talents in service to your country and to the world. There is no greater honor.” Kilmer’s voice turned grave. “There is no greater sacrifice, either. The lives you’ve known to this point will change. Radically. Your free time will be spent in training—and the Champions training program is demanding. You’ll discover this soon enough. You’re also going to be leading something of a double li fe. No one outside of this group or your immediate family can ever know who you are or what you do. That’s for your protection as much as for the secrecy of the Program. We take the secrecy pledge extremely seriously. And we will be watching.” His gaze became stern, almost menacing. “As for the missions you’ll eventually be asked to undertake, there are risks—”
“Including death?” Creed Bast asked, his bowler hat cocked back on his head.
“Including death,” Director Kilmer replied.
Creed’s lips split into a smile. “Bitchin’.”
“The Program will do everything it can to mitigate those risks, of course, but there are no guarantees. And risks notwithstanding, in your confrontations with the enemy you’re going to see a side of humanity—a troubling side—that you can never unsee. It will remain with you for the rest of your lives.”
He means the Artificials, Scott thought, the Soviet program that melds man with machine.
The table was silent, and Scott wondered whether the others were experiencing the same heavy sensation of reality sinking in. His thoughts went to his last two months with Janis: their strolls in the woods, evening walks to the Grove where they eddied on the swings for hours, the time Janis brought him to the Westside Park tennis courts (and Scott had whiffed ball after ball … but at least he’d made her laugh), the Saturday night movies at the mall.
And, of course, the make-out sessions.
He wondered now if they would continue to share those kinds of moments. Or was this the end? After all, leaving could mean being relocated hundreds, even thousands, of miles from one another.
“You’ll be compensated, of course,” Director Kilmer continued. “The Champions Program employs a ranking system. Each of you will start out at Novice Level. With training and experience, you’ll move up. In fact, go ahead and open your packets. You’ll find a sheet with the pay scale in the left-hand pocket.”
Scott pulled the sheet from the black folder. He ran a finger along the row for Novice. Blinking, he double-checked the figure. It was more than his parents’ salaries combined.
“Seventy-nine thousand?” Creed said, his John Lennon shades parked on his forehead.
Kilmer nodded. “We revised the figure up a bit since last we spoke.”
As Scott’s gaze moved down the sheet, his head grew woozy. The dollar figures climbed into the hundreds of thousands. He peeked over at Janis, who had already closed her folder, her expression flat.
If she leaves, I leave, he repeated to himself. He peeked down at the pay scale. But man oh man…
Director Kilmer clasped his hands behind his back. “Remember, this assumes you complete the summer training and are accepted into the Champions Program. Until that time, you’re still under review.”
Margaret Graystone raised a hand. “So these are, what, like tryouts?”
Kilmer nodded. “In a manner of speaking.”
“And if we’re not accepted?” Jesse Hoag asked, his body hulking over a section of table that would have seated three.
“Then it will be as if you declined to commit,” Kilmer replied. “You’ll take an oath of secrecy, be given a modest stipend, and be relocated out of state, far from Oakwood. Are there any more questions?”
Kilmer’s gaze circled the table, first one way then the other.
“All right, how about we start on this side.”
Tyler Bast’s face was pale, as though he hadn’t been sleeping. His chest made a ragged sound when he cleared his throat. The last vestiges of bleaching were gone from his brown hair, and he was wearing a blue short-sleeved button-down shirt. It was the first time Scott had seen him look like anything other than a delinquent. He scooted his chair out and half rose.
“I commit,” he said, wincing.
“Very good, Tyler. Welcome.”
When Tyler sank back down, Kilmer’s gaze shifted to Creed.
“Well, chief…” Creed stood slowly, his bowler hat perched at a jaunty angle. “You just got my screwball brother. Why not make it an unholy pair?”
“Is that a yes?”
“Sure,” Creed said. “Got nothing else going on this summer.”
“Welcome, Creed.”
Scott had known about Tyler’s decision, but he hadn’t been sure what Creed’s would be. He guessed the dollar figures had something to do with it.
Now came Jesse’s turn. The huge table leaned dangerously as he pushed himself up with his cinderblock-sized fists. As the table rattled to a rest, Scott tried to read Jesse’s pitted, gray eyes. Something in them told Scott it would take more than money for Jesse to commit. What exactly, Scott couldn’t say.
Director Kilmer raised his brows.
“I’m in,” Jesse said simply and sat.
“We’re glad to have you, Jesse. Welcome.” He pivoted slightly. “Margaret?”
Janis’s sister stood with a toss of her flowing brunette hair and straightened her silk blouse. Her perfume swirled around the table, and Scott noticed Creed’s eyes glazing above his shades as he stared at her. Scott checked to make sure his own eyes weren’t doing the same. Margaret lifted her chin. “As an American and patriot of this great country, I do humbly commit.”
Janis sighed and rolled her eyes.
“Thank you, Margaret,” Director Kilmer said. “And I assure you, we’re humbled to have you.”
Margaret smiled and smoothed her skirt along the backs of her thighs as she sat.
All heads turned toward Janis. She glanced around the table, her gaze lingering on Scott’s, then she tucked her crucifix inside her shirt collar and stood. “Before I give my decision,” she said, “I have a question.”
Kilmer opened his hands: By all means.
“You’ve said, or at least implied, that there have been others before us. Other Champions. What happened to them? Where are they now?”
Kilmer’s eyes seemed to harden. “That’s classified information, I’m afraid.”
“Are they alive?”
“Above my clearance.”
“But you know something,” Janis said. “Something you’re not telling us.”
“Janis,” Margaret hissed.
Janis’s gaze remained fixed on Kilmer. “I’m a telepath, remember?”
“So you are. So you are.” Kilmer began pacing as though he were taking floor measurements with his glossy black shoes. “What you must understand, Janis, is that I’m bound by a secrecy pledge, too. If I thought the past was relevant to the decision in front of you, I would do everything in my power to share that information. But what little I know is not relevant. To tell you the truth, it’s twenty-five years past being relevant. And I’ve already said too much.”
“So we can’t talk to even one former member?” Janis asked.
“I’m sorry, but no,” Kilmer said. “And even if you could, the Program’s changed so much in that time, I’m not sure how useful it would be today, quite frankly.”
Despite the cold air gusting from the overhead vents, fresh beads of sweat sprang from Scott’s armpits and dripped beneath his shirt. He could see Janis’s dissatisfaction with Kilmer’s answers.
“I’m going to commit…” she said.
Scott nearly gasped with relief.
“…to the summer training.”
Vertical lines appeared between Director Kilmer’s brows. “I’m not sure I follow.”
Neither did Scott.
“You said the training was a time for you to assess us,” Janis said, “to determine whether or not we’d be accepted into the Program. Well, I’d like that arrangement to be mutual. I’d like to be able to determine whether or not I want to be accepted.”
