The Ascendant Read online

  Sandy started walking. “It’s been a pleasure, Linc. Let’s hope we never bump into each other again.”

  “Hey, don’t you walk away from me!” Sandy felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. And a memory shot through his brain…

  He was running through the woods, branches scraping against his bare skin. Several members of the cadet platoon had already fallen off to the side. The heat of the day had taken its toll, and, as the famous school liked to extoll, only the strong survived.

  The strongest were up front, way ahead of the stragglers.

  The winner of the day’s marathon would have privileges—extra time off, exemption from some military exercises—not much in the grand scheme of things, but for a student at one of the toughest academies in the world, those were like gifts from heaven.

  There were only about five miles left in the grueling twenty-six-mile run, and Sandy was breathing hard. His T-shirt and shorts were soaked with sweat, and he could taste blood; the product of one particularly nasty branch. For the last hour, it had been dripping down his cheek and across his lips. He actually enjoyed the salty taste, and it somehow seemed to spur him on. Maybe it was just psychological, knowing he’d already sweated away a lot of salt since he’d begun the ordeal.

  Sandy grimaced as he thought how West Point couldn’t just schedule a normal marathon—along flat roads, fields and tracks. No, no, this one had to be through a dense forest—cadets had to not only be competitive and the best at whatever they attempted, they also had to be tortured once in a while. But, Sandy knew that it was also part of the character-building that the school was famous for. The tougher the better, and he embraced it. In fact, knowing that he would finish this marathon in his best time yet gave him a rush of adrenaline.

  He knew that right now he was in second place. His best buddy, Lincoln Berwick, was up ahead somewhere. Because of the denseness of the forest he couldn’t see him. He’d heard Linc for a while, crashing through the underbrush, but for the last couple of miles he’d gone silent. He glanced from side to side as he ran along, worried that his friend might have fallen into a ditch.

  These races usually followed the same pattern. Sandy won, unless it was a day when he didn’t feel at his best—like a flu bug or something. But, he normally won at everything and Linc seemed to take it okay. He was a competitive guy as well, and they always trash-talked each other no matter what sport they competed in. But, Sandy still generally won, and sometimes he felt bad about that. Linc tried so hard, but usually finished second. The two of them, famous for being the best athletes, were always the one-two punch. With Sandy in the number one slot.

  Technically, he was losing to Linc so far in this marathon, but that was just how Sandy paced himself. Races always worked this way. Sandy and Linc would lead the pack—far out in front—but Linc would be in the lead for most of the race. Sandy allowed this because his friend always burned himself out near the end. And Sandy always had a reserve of energy to pour on the speed during the final three miles.

  So, he wasn’t worried. He knew he would win.

  But, he was worried about why he couldn’t hear or see Linc. He should have been in range by now. Sandy continued glancing from side to side as he raced along, ducking under branches that seemingly popped up just to challenge him.

  He looked down at his watch. Okay, time to make his move.

  He willed his legs to push harder and leaned his body slightly forward. Arms pumping, fists clenched, the long sprint to the finish line was now officially under way. His body was a finely-tuned machine, and finishing first was now the only thing on his mind. Well, that and deking around pesky branches.

  He rounded a bend in the rough path and saw the tree he knew signalled that the end was near. This tree was his landmark. It had a thicker trunk than most of the others in the forest.

  But…it was a bit different this time from what he remembered. A large branch extended outward over the path. Must have partially split off during a storm.

  Sandy ducked as he approached the branch.

  But, the branch moved downwards with him, matching his move.

  Sandy hunched down even lower at the last second, but, it was too late.

  The thick branch moved slightly backwards and then swung right towards him, colliding with tremendous force against his forehead.

  He went down hard, and was aware of the outlaw branch falling down beside him along the weed-laden path.

  He lay on his back, unable to move.

  His eyes were able to move, though, and they followed unexpected motion from behind the trunk. A familiar figure raced out from the protection of the tree, and headed off in the direction of the finish line now only a couple of miles ahead.

  Sandy’s vision was blurry, but he was able to make out a strong jaw line, muscular frame, arms and legs pumping with newfound vigor, and short blonde hair contrasting sharply with the forest green.

  Sandy whirled around and grabbed Linc’s hand, removing it roughly from his shoulder. He thrust it down to his side and bent it backwards at the wrist.

  Linc winced, but then just as quickly smiled in that sardonic way that Sandy remembered so painfully. That smile that said, without words, that nothing could touch him, nothing could hurt him, and he could do whatever he pleased.

  At one time, his best, most trusted friend. A friendship that was short-lived after a series of episodes betrayed Linc’s true character. Character traits that seemed to be encouraged by the special unit they were both attached to at West Point.

  The chosen ones.

  Known as the Honor Guild.

  Sandy let go of his hand and quietly chastised himself for showing emotion, for losing control. He knew that Linc preyed off that. In fact, he remembered that it always seemed to give him pleasure.

  “Thanks for giving me my hand back, Sandy. So nice of you. Kind of like how you gave that medal back to the general. You’ve disgraced yourself again, as you always did. You never could cut it, never could accept the code of honor, could you? You couldn’t just suck it up like the rest of us. Always had to be holier than thou. You deserved what happened to you. And, because of your high and mighty attitude, you missed out on being with us. Being in a position to make a difference.”

  Sandy shook his head, and growled. “Why are you here—in front of me—after all these years? And why the hell are you trying to dredge up old memories? What’s the fucking point?”

  Linc raised his right hand to his forehead in mock salute, and clicked the heels of his shoes together with military flourish. “I came here today to watch you receive your medal. Wanted to congratulate you, try to bury the hatchet.”

  “Well, I guess you wasted your valuable senatorial time.” Sandy turned away once again and began his lonely, angry walk down to the carpark, mindful of the fact that the cold-hearted bastard hadn’t once mentioned any regret over the loss of Sandy’s family.

  This time there was no heavy hand on his shoulder, nothing to trigger more painful memories. Although, they were all there, just below the surface of his consciousness.

  That code of honor that Linc referred to had been a unique one just for the elite cadets of the Honor Guild. A totally different code than the one the normal population of West Point Academy was subjected to.

  The secretive Honor Guild had a purpose, and essential to that purpose was redefining what the word “honor” really meant. Honor for the HG was a subjective thing, and a moving target. And the purpose of the HG was long-reaching, with brutally strategic implications. Honor had to be a moving target for a unit like that.

  Lincoln Berwick had graduated HG with flying colors.

  Sandford Beech had flunked out in disgrace.

  And, as far as the media and public were concerned, he had disgraced himself once again. His unpatriotic display up on that stage would follow him. He knew that, and the first hint was the flock of re
porters he could see up ahead who were no longer being held at bay by the senator’s security team.

  4

  The house was blue. As blue as the sky. It stood in all its majesty on a corner lot in downtown Lexington, Massachusetts, an area of the city that featured older character homes, but not too old. Most were built after 1940, though designed in styles that gave tribute to the area’s history.

  Some were Georgian, and some were Cape Cod. But, most were the colonial style which was appropriate for the legacy left behind by the trials and tribulations of the greater Boston area.

  Lexington was known as the birthplace of American liberty. The breakaway from England along with its onerous taxation and arrogant rule. The very first shot of the American Revolution was fired in Lexington and the first blood of the battle was shed there as well.

  The population of the city sat at 35,000 and it was only eleven miles northwest of its giant neighbor, Boston, which now had bragging rights of almost 700,000 souls.

  Sandy got out of his Lexus, dragging his heavy briefcase along with him. Even though he had a three-car garage, he usually left his car in the driveway. Sarah’s Mustang was still parked inside; he hadn’t found the strength in his heart to sell it yet. He never drove it either, which was a shame for a Mustang, which was built to be driven. And driven hard. Sarah had always loved speed, and he remembered that cute little smile that came over her face every time she fired up the powerful engine. He always knew she was going to let it rip as soon as she got it out on the highway. And she would do that at least once a day—even if she had no reason at all to go out. She would just power down the roof and let her hair blow in the wind. That was her therapy. Not that she needed therapy—it just made her feel good. Like how some people liked to plant stuff, or knit things—Sarah just enjoyed speed. That was her vice. Her only vice. And Sandy had loved that side of her.

  As he made the walk up to his elegant front door, he admired the princely look of his house for probably the thousandth time. It was colonial style, just like most of the others on his street, but it also had some Cape Cod features—the dormer windows being the most prominent. It set his house apart from all the others on the street just by its hybrid appearance.

  Like the Mustang, he hadn’t allowed himself to sell the house yet either. Most people would have, after losing their entire family. But he just couldn’t. Something was holding him back from doing that. The house had a strange pull on him, and he wondered if it was because it had taken him and Sarah five years to find their dream home. It had been such a long ordeal—nothing had satisfied them until they saw this house on Fair Oaks Drive.

  Maybe that was why he was still living there. They had put so much time and effort into finding it, that perhaps it was a betrayal of sorts to Sarah if he sold it. He didn’t cry anymore when he wandered the rooms. Now he just smiled when he pictured her sitting in the little window seat in the study, her legs curled up in that girly way that she liked to do. Or when he walked by the baby grand piano in the music room. He could almost hear the tunes that rolled off her fingers and could clearly picture little Whitney sitting beside her, pounding her index finger randomly on whatever key struck her fancy. Sarah smiling at her, encouraging her, making her think that she was actually enhancing the tune.

  Sandy walked into the kitchen and tossed his briefcase onto the table. Then, as was customary, he glanced out the window at the backyard. He smiled. He could see them in his mind. Swinging on the swings together trying to see who could reach the greatest height; Liam always letting Whitney win and feigning frustration in the process.

  Then, there she was climbing to the top of the slide and pushing off with a squeal, big brother waiting at the bottom to catch her. And he always did. He never let her hit the ground as most big brothers would have done.

  Next was the climbing gym—they’d always loved to move through it as an obstacle course and time themselves. Laughing, screaming at each other happily, trash-talking—and, once again, Liam always letting Whitney win. Sandy was pretty certain she knew, just by the suspicious little smirk on her face whenever she came inside to proclaim, “Dad, I won again!”

  Just like the Mustang and the house, Sandy hadn’t found the strength to sell the playground equipment or the piano yet, either. There was no good rationale for keeping any of those things, but, he knew they were there to stay. Nothing could motivate him to sell them. They were a part of his life. An important part of his life. A connection to the past, a wonderful past.

  The house was far too big for him. At 6,000 square feet, it was a monster. A dream house, one that he and Sarah had actually imagined in their minds before they’d even seen it. They’d drawn sketches of this house, fiddled with the dimensions, dreamt of finding the perfect lot and just building the damn thing.

  And then they saw it. It was probably the happiest day of their lives, after their wedding day and the births of their little angels.

  He found himself wandering aimlessly around the house quite a bit now. Restless, whenever he had time on his hands. Even though his job at the Lincoln Laboratory was demanding, he still had far too much time to spare. He knew he had to find ways to fill that time, and he did have a couple of projects on the go. But, he needed more.

  He heard the distinctive thump of the evening newspaper landing on his front porch. He opened the door, waved at the paperboy, and picked up the paper. He always enjoyed catching up on the day’s news after a hard day at the lab.

  He brought it inside and stretched out on the soft leather couch in his living room. Removed the elastic band and unfolded the paper.

  The headline and photo made him gasp. There the man was, in full living color, under the heading: Senator Lincoln Berwick Declares Candidacy for President.

  Sandy dropped the paper onto his lap and closed his eyes. He couldn’t bring himself to read the article. Instead, his mind was overcome by a memory.

  Excitement in the halls and in the classrooms. It was autumn, and election time. A chance for the boys to prove their leadership skills. Sure, in the grand scheme of things, it was small potatoes. But, at West Point, in that little world, it was a big deal. Future leaders were being groomed, and school election time was the opportunity to taste the thrill of victory, to outsmart your opponents. Just the way you would have to do it in the real world one day—the world they wanted you to be ready for. It was just another test. An important one.

  The Honor Guild was engaged in an election campaign, and there were three candidates who had won the Guild’s version of primaries. It was down to three: Sandford Beech, Lincoln Berwick, and a preppy kid named Jonathan Aldersyde.

  They each had their campaign teams, kids who worked hard lobbying for votes, making signs, shaking hands, and promoting their candidates. All good fun, but serious fun. Because this stuff had the word “future” written all over it. And they all knew it. And winning at West Point was everything. They’d been taught that in the short time they’d been there. They’d been told what they were being groomed for, and it was an awesome responsibility for kids their age.

  According to all of the reputable polls, Sandy had the lead. All of the speeches had been made, and they’d each done well. But, Sandy was the best—the most electric, the most charismatic of all three. And he was the candidate who was also best liked as well. The likeability factor was a big one in elections. They all knew it.

  Linc was nipping at his heels. Close behind in almost every category except that elusive likeability factor. But Sandy knew the election was now his to lose. Unless he did something stupid, there was no way that Linc was going to catch him. And he had no bond of friendship standing in the way anymore, either. He was all out for victory with no concern at all for how Linc felt. Their relationship had become strained since that marathon when Linc had knocked him unconscious with one swing of a branch. He’d confronted him afterwards, but Linc just laughed in his face.

&nb
sp; Sandy had considered reporting him, but it would only have been his word against Linc’s, so there was no chance of winning that fight. And, there was also the honor code that he knew he had to consider. If he broke that code, he’d be out. So, he had no choice but to suck it up, accept that his best friend had literally knocked him out of the race.

  This time he would beat him. And he wouldn’t feel bad about doing it. They weren’t friends anymore. Sandy would become the newly elected Honor Guild Commander.

  Then one morning it all changed.

  He remembered several of the brass crowding around his locker, searching inside—pulling out a package and opening it. Sniffing it.

  Grabbing him by the arms and hauling him off to the one office no one ever wanted to visit. Being told that he was going to be disciplined for possession of marijuana. He’d be assigned harsh duties, lose his free time, and be grounded to the campus for six months. And, needless to say, he’d be ejected from the election campaign for violation of honor.

  But, he was expected to be grateful that he wouldn’t be booted from the Honor Guild program, because, of course, the honor code worked both ways. This was his opportunity to learn important lessons in honor, redemption, and forgiveness.

  And, a few days later, he had the pleasure of watching Lincoln Berwick elected Commander of the Honor Guild.

  Another one of his lessons.

  Sandy threw the newspaper onto the coffee table. Jumped to his feet and began pacing the room. He couldn’t read that damn article right now, he knew that would be the wrong thing to do. He would leave it until he’d calmed down.

  Almost as if programmed, he opened a door in the hallway and headed downstairs to his basement lab, which was where he went when he was feeling particularly restless—or angry.