Air Force Intrigue

notice

  Any reference to persons living or dead, and to current or past facts that may seem real is purely coincidental.

Acknowledgments

With thanks to:

Federica Lippi, for the information on Boston.

Diego Luci, for the cover design. www.diegoluci.it

Luciano Pederzoli, for advice on technical matters.

With special thanks to:

Ralph Colemann for the indispensable collaboration.

… And also to Ralph’s Cat Amadeus the vigilant!

                                                For little Andrea

About the authoress

  Grazia Dalberto (pen name of Maria Grazia Evangelista) was born in Florence, has a degree in Classical Studies and was a high school teacher.

  A history lover with a keen interest in European rulers from the Middle Ages until the nineteenth century, she decided to take up writing with the help of her friend Ralph Colemann who is a writer of historical novels, and to whom she extends her sincerest gratitude. This book could not have been written without his collaboration and support for her determination to uncover and then publish the truth – albeit fictionalized - about the tragic family event which is the basis for this novel.

gradalberto@gmail.com

"We must all fear (gossip), because very few of those who hear a malicious comment about others pause to question its veracity. Most, be it true or false, will in turn tell others. It is human nature to find satisfaction in wickedness. And it is rare indeed to find someone who is distressed in hearing another slandered".

Elizabeth de Wittelsbach,

Empress of Austria and Queen of Hungary.

Prologue

Medford, Massachusetts,

Thursday April 5th, 2001, 7.00 a.m.

  Mary Grace Gospeller had been fiddling with her pen for a while. She continuously turned it over in her hands while staring at nothing, as if defying space and time with her hazel eyes.

  Over and over she had started to write the letter, only to tear it up again, dissatisfied with each effort. Now she ran her hand through her dishevelled blonde hair and put down her glasses. She was about to give up; she had a class to teach at Fenway at nine that morning, and despite being prepared, she worried about being late. If there was one thing she hated, it was being reprimanded by the principal. Lately, given her particular circumstances, he had been very understanding, but she couldn’t continue to take advantage of this.

It was difficult to imagine Grace at a computer keyboard; she used one when necessary, but to her the pen would always be the image and symbol of culture and should never be lost. Maintaining certain traditions was not just an obligation, it was a way of life.

  For the past thirty years Grace had taught Latin language and literature at a well-known Boston private high school and this inability to put words to paper did not stem from any linguistic shortcomings. No, it was emotions which played the key role here – the addressee, the letter’s contents... and yet this could possibly end a nightmare which had dragged on for almost ten years and right the wrongs she had endured to the bitter end.

  All in all, a victory that could finally bring about a renewed sense of peace; nonetheless, what Grace had uncovered in the course of her investigations was so disturbing it could make everything backfire on her.

  Clarify a misunderstanding... yes, this is what she had needed to do so as to find herself again and re-establish normal relationships with others. At first the only objective was a public announcement by the relevant authorities, but what authority should be told what she now knows? None in fact, except the highest in the state.

  Massachusetts constituted the intellectual hub of the north-east coast of the United States, and for some families there were certain unwritten rules. Slander must be avoided. Surrounding the unfortunate event hovered a fear of dishonour: that death in some way is inevitable, yes, but death as a hero, not a coward. The question is whether one who kills himself is courageous because he has the guts to do it, or is a coward because he bails out when faced with adversity because of a character weakness... but these are academic musings best left to philosophers and psychologists. In families with a long military tradition there was only one answer: honour above all.

  How’s it going? asked Luke, who had entered the living room almost on tiptoe. Badly she answered in a small voice.

He walked to the large window and almost touched it with his forehead. The sun was just rising above the ocean beyond Nahant Bay. Despite Luke’s fifty-five years, that daily sight continued to fascinate him. On the other side in the fading dark of the early morning was the park around Lawrence Memorial Hospital, with its regular inhabitants of sleepy squirrels in its still green foliage. In the middle stretched a line of modest skyscrapers which nonetheless seemed to stand in silent competition for conquest of the clouds. Right now those who liked sailing could admire the city’s dawn reflection in the calm waters of the Charles River.

  For Luke Peterson, that city was unique in the world. Not only was it kissed by nature, but within it completely opposing architectural styles lived in harmony, from typical American skyscrapers to Renaissance style churches. Here was Boston’s characteristic feature: its blend of old and new, chaos and tranquillity...

  It was a typical metropolis in the United States, in many ways resembling European capitals, a diversified district in which one could live the frantic American life and still enjoy the quiet atmosphere of the Old World. Boston was unanimously considered the United States’ centre of art and culture and was home to the most exigent intellectuals – the Florence of America. From up here, Luke could admire it all, as if hovering in the air on a paraglider.

  For the past few years Grace and her daughter had been frequent visitors to the thirty-fifth floor of the only truly tall building in the centre of Medford. Sometimes they stayed for days as Luke’s guests, and it had virtually become their second home.

  In some ways that building captivated them. Although far more modest, its design was based on that of the Sears Tower in Chicago, such a big deal back in the seventies. Of course the nineteenth-century home at 15 Smallbean Road, in the city’s leafy outskirts where Grace had lived since her marriage, was something else entirely, but after the tragic event darkness and silence had taken up residence in those austere rooms like a perpetual winter twilight.

  I have my doubts about this, Luke. Going to the top makes me worried and unsettled she replied after a few moments of motionless amazement.

  You have no choice... there’s no other way he said.

  I’m lacking ideas, or maybe there are too many and I feel smothered. On the other hand I’m in a hurry, time’s running out.

  I know Grace, I know. You’ve had one blow after another, said Luke as he approached the table and picked up the paper covered in scrawls and crossed out lines. You’ve been up for ages and done nothing he continued. Now just relax and let yourself go. Remember the war has been won and there’s only one hurdle left.

  When she looked at him she found a calm confidence that only someone like him could give her. Luke glanced at his watch because the sun, already higher in the sky, was signalling the fast passage of time. It’s ten past seven, I’ll go and make you some breakfast. I’m sure by the time I return I’ll see a letter here ready for personal delivery to Beacon Hill.

Something moved deep within Grace’s soul and her hand began quickly running down the blank page.

  Twenty minutes later when Luke returned to the living room the letter was lying open on the table. He rested the tray beside it, sat on one side of the couch, pulled out the sheet from the envelope and began reading. He read aloud, occasionally raising his eyes to look at Grace while she drank her coffee.

To: Michael Tornson

Governor, Commonwealth of Massachusetts

Beacon Hill, MA

Boston, Thursday April 5th, 2001

Dear Sir,

  On Friday April 20th 2001 you will be presiding over a ceremony for the United States Air Force in honour of the work carried out there by my late husband, Colonel Mark Burryon. During this ceremony my daughter will receive the General’s congratulations for having graduated summa cum laude in biology from Harvard.

  I write to you mindful of, as you will remember, a time when we attended the same college and on the advice of a mutual friend, Professor Robert Benefit, who suggested I speak to you regarding, among other things, a very important family matter... therefore, I would be most grateful if we could meet in private after the official lunch.

  You would certainly be aware that, upon congratulating my daughter for having obtained her degree, General Daniel Casket will refer to the tragic circumstances in which her father lost his life.

  However, what I must tell you is the result of years of suffering during which I have battled ceaselessly so that the truth about that event can come to light. To this end I have included a summary of the experts’ reports which I collected as the result of my endeavours, including those who have supported me, and which I have placed completely at your disposal.

  I would like to stress that the Burryon name is one of honour, sadly linked to tragic events: Captain Sir James Walter Burryon Sr – my daughter’s grandfather – a multi-decorated veteran, died in Italy in 1943 while attempting to land a damaged aircraft.

  Of his two sons, one, the late James Walter Burryon Jr, a surgeon who is still remembered for his professionalism, died in 1984 when the motorboat he was in tragically exploded on the Mystic River.

  The other, my husband Mark Ronald Burryon, engineer and USAF Colonel, a lecturer stationed at the Hanscom Air Force Base, where his works are still used today, was killed in 1992 by accidental discharge from a defective pistol. At least, this is the official version.

  I can tell you that, despite the initial hasty attempt to dismiss the case as a suicide, we now know that this assumption has no basis in fact and therefore must be dismissed.

  After the above essential premises, I come to the reason for my letter: I intend to reveal the incredible and disconcerting truth which is behind this event which you, and only you, can evaluate and then act upon accordingly. Furthermore, I’d like to request that, as a completion of my efforts, the truth enter the public record. This would require the support of someone in a position of power and authority. I am convinced that it’s necessary to focus attention on the past and that you are the person best suited for this, so that the disclosure of this mystery can be entrusted to the media without putting anyone at risk.

  I intend, therefore, to personally explain the reasons for my request and await your reply.

Kind Regards

Mary Grace Gospeller (widow of Colonel Burryon)

  Well done! exclaimed Luke. Excellent! he repeated emphatically. Then he carefully put the letter in the envelope. I don’t think you could’ve done better. Let’s just hope that this time Benefit does the right thing, keeps his word and does what he said he would.

I know he’s full of himself, but after all, he’s always offered me his support. Why should he bail out now when he’s the only key to the governor?

I don’t know, I have my doubts. Nobody’s infallible... but we have no choice.

  Grace looked at Luke’s face which at the moment, while sipping her coffee, looked absurdly distorted through the steam coming off the liquid. Do you really want to hand it over? You’re aware of the storm it could unleash?

  Can a tough woman like you have such fears? he objected... then stood up and slowly put the envelope in his jacket pocket.

  Now sunlight flooded the room, seemingly infusing everything in it with new life. He slowly walked across the room and at the door, standing in the sunlight, he appeared even more imposing. See you tonight, Grace.

  See you tonight Luke.

Chapter 1

Boston,

Friday March 22nd, 1992, 9.30 a.m.

  Mark climbed the stairs for the umpteenth time with his usual calm demeanour and plagued by same thought that had been tormenting him for days.

  At the age of fifty, with a long and distinguished career behind him, this was not the sort of ending to it he was expecting. Now it seemed as if each step either marked a particular memory in his life or reminded him of his family. The contrast between yesterday and today embittered him even more.

  At barely a year old he had lost his father. He had no memory of that courageous man except through stories told by his family and his father’s fellow squadron pilots. Two silver star and two bronze star medals earned in aerial duels with the Japanese in the skies over the Pacific. A desire for glory had driven him to undertake even more dangerous missions, until one final mission had resulted in his untimely death.

  Mark often thought about it. The grim reaper was apparently still scoffing at the destiny of humans and for a while now had been taking it out on his family. He had buried his mother only a few days ago after her sudden unexpected death at seventy – in excellent health for God’s sake! Better stop these unpleasant thoughts right now.

  General James Breakwhite, commander of the USAF School, was waiting for him in his office, but before knocking on the door Mark paused a moment in thought. He looked distractedly outside the large window across the corridor, and through the large glass his gaze settled on the greyest area of Boston. The western face of Drydock Avenue had always looked like this, but today that leaden scene seemed to be a reflection of his mood.

  With a finger he traced circles over the left articulation of his jaw; something he did unconsciously when under stress. Then with a deep breath he tried to reassert his usual sense of humour, for too long in abeyance, and murmured to himself Tiger, tiger burning bright, into the office of Breakwhite! paraphrasing William Blake, one of his favourite poets. He enjoyed writing verse and would often immerse himself in writing poems, mostly satirical and based on the classics.

  Despite the family tradition he hadn’t always felt comfortable in the military setting; it was a path chosen for him at childhood, but he had a natural independent streak and seeing himself in a uniform instead of a white coat put him on edge. Whenever possible he always wore civilian clothes. He preferred to imagine himself in a laboratory instead of a battlefield, his true passion being research. Even so, he had no trouble having his orders obeyed thanks to a natural ability as a leader, most likely reinforced by his upbringing.

  Fortunately, given his position at the School, he had been able to blend the two with a masterly touch of alchemy. He was one of the few people able to understand the constantly changing sophisticated and complex technology used by a superpower’s air force, and he was efficient and competent at it.

  So why all this now? He could well imagine what the general wanted to tell him. The insinuating rumours had travelled around the building faster than the time now running out for him. Why the change? The question – always the same – hammered away in his head. Why? He had neither offended nor spoken badly of anyone. He hadn’t even thought about overtaking a colleague, would never have done so, even though he worked in an environment where traps were the order of the day. Career, power, money, all got the better of people, even threatening the closest of friendships. You needed eight eyes like a spider to avoid deception and sense treachery before it got you. The military world should be untouched by politics and therefore immune to its ever-present scheming, but it wasn’t so. Perhaps on the surface it appeared to be, but it wasn’t really, especially during an election year.

  So what did this have to do with him? Of course, being demanding of himself, he was demanding of others too, but was always understanding of their good intentions.

  Maybe his integrity was the problem, but this surprise stab in the back had affected his ability to to figure it out. Yes, he realised he could be touchy and proud, but that couldn’t be the reason for such a drastic decision.

  Mark pushed those thoughts out of his mind and turned resolutely towards the general’s office.

  Come in! grunted a voice from inside before his knuckles had touched the door.

  Mark paused for a moment with his hand in the air. The old fox must have heard his footsteps and was ready for him.

  As soon as he entered he saluted and stood at attention. Breakwhite looked at him grimly with a half smile. Always by the book, Colonel... He made himself more comfortable in his chair, putting his elbows on a desk littered with files. At ease! he said with some indignation.

  Mark’s composure didn’t change.

  Don’t take it out on me; you know full well the order comes from high up and my command is limited to the Academy.

  What order, Sir?

  Stop playing dumb. I know very well that you know. Everyone knows... military dispatches are like the nightly news!    He shook his head self-consciously, then picked up a folder from which he extracted some papers. He shuffled them around a bit, like a stalling tactic.

  Sit down and listen, Colonel. You know I’m your friend. A superior officer, yes, but we’ve known each other for years and I consider you a friend. I think highly of you. Everyone here thinks highly of you, but...

  He was at a loss for words, then passed a hand over his mouth as if rubbing his lips was somehow going to make it easier.

  You see... this is a bad time for you, what with the recent death in the family and the dispute with that subordinate... a misunderstanding. If you had been a little more flexible... anyway, I appreciate your resolve, but when resolve becomes inflexibility... you rejected various projects, embarrassing Command because the work had already been planned. Our relationship with the companies who supply us with equipment you consider useless or superseded must be handled with care. Congress has already put aside millions of dollars and you know how much we have to sweat to convince those people to cough up money for weapons.

  Until that moment the Colonel had listened without batting an eyelid, but his surface calm was at odds with his inner turmoil.

  If I may point out, Sir, the current Republican administration is very much in favour... he said eventually, in a barely controlled voice.

  For Christ’s sake! It’s no secret that you have democratic leanings, even if you don’t admit it or show it in any way, but that’s not the point.

  Actually Sir, politics don’t come into it, the issues are purely technical. I’m an engineer, not a senator, and if I work for my country’s Armed Forces I have to do so to the best of my abilities, therefore my ultimate aim is the good of the country, Sir!

  The general shook his head and a disappointed expression forged itself on his lined face. For a while now... I don’t know how to say it, you haven’t been yourself, something is bothering you... I understand your grief regarding your mother’s unexpected passing who, albeit as a civilian, was also one of ours... I remember her fondly. But you, aside from that, are seeing ghosts...

  Ghosts, Sir? asked the other man, dumbfounded.

  Breakwhite shook his head again. Basically, you have a problem and if one of our officers has a problem, then the United States armed forces have a problem. Then the general fell into an embarrassed silence, lowering his gaze to avoid the other man’s.

  If we could come to the point, Sir... the other replied, in an attempt to remain impassive.

  All right then, if that’s the way you want it, here’s your transfer order. From May 1st you will be working under the direction of Command at the Air Force Detachment in Hartford.

  Burryon stiffened. Worse than what he had heard by more roundabout means. Had Breakwhite actually said under the direction of Command? He really said that? That was an insolent way of saying he was demoted to the level of an ordinary soldier and sentenced to rot amid piles of paper in an obscure departmental backwater.

  That wasn’t a transfer, but a real and proper ousting. An officer with his qualifications didn’t deserve such treatment. And of what possible use could he be in a place where there was nobody else of the same professional status? No, he couldn’t accept ending up in an office as a pen-pusher and decoration for a pot-bellied general.

  Ah, Connecticut... another state. I heard that Hartford’s population has considerably lessened in recent years. Am I going there to help compensate for the loss, Sir?

  You’re wonderfully sarcastic, Colonel, but not insolent enough to deserve punishment for your veiled impertinence towards a superior officer. So saying, he replaced the papers in the folder, closed it carefully and threw it towards the edge of the desk.

  You see Sir, punishment, that word is far more appropriate than transfer in this case, but the reason continues to elude me... he said, and quickly grabbed the folder before it fell to the floor.

  Breakwhite, smiling at Mark’s objections, assumed a cheerful expression. What punishment? Yes, you’re going to another place, but still in beautiful New England! Punishment? Then think about those poor bastards in the middle of nowhere in Nevada or Alaska! Hartford is only a short distance from here, an historic city in no way inferior to Boston. Almost the same geography, the river, lakes... Great cultural climate, just as you like it.

  With all due respect, Sir, at the moment here there are projects pending which are of vital importance to the Air Force and you’re talking to me about cultural climate?

What do you care about those? Look, go to Hartford and relax a bit, it’ll do you good. And if I were you, in the meantime, I’d think about retiring. You’ve already put in your required years of service, right?

  Mark swallowed bitterly. Now he got it: they wanted to get rid of him, but he didn’t know why, apart from his repeated objections regarding technical issues. A bolt from the blue with no apparent explanation.

  Yes Sir. If it’s best for my country. Replied the Colonel as he snapped to attention.

  The general held out both his hands. I’m not finished! he exclaimed, stopping Burryon as he was about to formally turn to leave. I spoke to the military doctor who also takes care of our section. You have to go and see him for a checkup.

  You mean Dr Taylor, Sir?

  Exactly. You have an appointment with him today at twelve hundred hours.

  I don’t need to report to the doctor, Sir. I feel perfectly fine.

  It’s not a suggestion, Colonel, it’s an order. Everything is in the folder I gave you.

  Mark looked incredulously at him, frozen at attention.

  That’s all! You can go now, Colonel.

  After a moment of hesitation, his head whirling with unanswerable questions, Mark saluted his superior officer and left the room without speaking.

  The general rose from his chair, walked slowly towards the door and watched Burryon as he quickly walked down the stairs. When he was sure he’d reached the bottom, he turned back, firmly closed the door of his office and dialled a number on the phone.

  Taylor. Replied a faint voice on the other end.

  It’s Breakwhite.

  Yes?

  Burryon is on his way. You know what do do.

Chapter 2

Boston,

Friday March 22nd, 1992, 11.45 a.m.

  Orders were orders, but this medical checkup business was disconcerting. Still, it was no big deal keeping Breakwhite happy and after all, seeing the doctor wasn’t the end of the world. But he still wasn’t sure what to make of this weird situation.

  Mark thought it over. The general’s sugar-coated blathering had begun as an irritation, which then turned to alarm. The transfer to Hartford was an indisputable reality and had been officially communicated to him; but all that drivel about relax, it’ll do you good... sounded as if he were talking to an idiot. What the hell was happening? And why Hartford? Nothing wrong with Hartford as such, but Mark loved Boston... he could lose himself in Boston, as he often did, letting his imagination go.

  Sometimes he allowed himself solitary moments of contemplation, watching the sailing boats on the Charles River and sitting on the benches along the bank, enjoying the reflections of the buildings in the water.

  The only other times he felt this way was during his trips to Italy, especially Florence, at the Lungarni and the Ponte Vecchio with its famous jewellers. That patch of ancient medieval city was a favourite subject for both visiting and resident artists, amateurs and professionals alike, or tourists particularly partial to art. In his home city Mark certainly wasn’t a tourist, but he was nonetheless fascinated by Boston, which winds along the river as the Esplanade, where the road seemed to glide over the water. On one side was the Charles River which crossed the city; on the other, more water, small lakes, fountains, little islands... all immersed in green, creating a peaceful and romantic atmosphere.

  Mark appreciated beauty, but he was also capable of being firm and resolute. Interacting with the military and following orders left no room for compromise; he considered it necessary to behave appropriately as a subordinate in order to become a good commander. He had always followed this rule, as long as it didn’t clash with his conscience, but what was he supposed to think now?

  In Medford, the Audi 80 exited Fellsway and entered Forest Street, then turned into Lawrence Road. The metallic grey paintwork shone in the weak sun of what was shaping up to be a good season. The military medical centre used by the Air Force was in a special area of the Lawrence Memorial Hospital. Although special here was purely a figure of speech – it was situated in the worst part of the building, in a basement on the northern side and therefore far removed from the beauty of the facade and the large complex facing Governors Avenue. The only advantage was a parking area reserved for Armed Forces personnel.

  Even though in uniform, Mark showed his pass. The guards at the entrance raised the barrier and respectfully saluted him.

  As soon as he was inside, he felt his stomach tighten and fought against an emotion which was threatening to overwhelm him. He couldn’t help it, even after all these years, every time he passed by Lawrence Memorial he felt the same disturbing sensation. Right there, destiny’s irony flaunted itself horribly.

  For years every day his brother had walked those corridors, but nobody would have thought that the young surgeon, one fateful day, would himself be brought here on the verge of death, in the very place where he had saved so many lives and where nobody had been able to save his own. Mark tried to distract himself, to think other thoughts, but now more than ever felt a gloomy dismay and couldn’t prevent an invasion of his worst memories.

  In 1984 the motorboat explosion on the still waters of the Mystic River had been a blow to him. Of course that was eight years ago... nonetheless now, on this day full of bitter disappointments, the events of that tragic Sunday continued to flash in front of his eyes. When it happened, as in the death of his father, the information had come to him indirectly: first from eye witnesses and then from the short video - quickly seized by the police - taken by a British tourist who was in the vicinity with a camcorder. Later, watching that video over and over, it had seemed to him like a movie: he couldn’t grasp the reality of those merciless flames taking his only brother’s life. But that was the harsh truth.

  He parked in the first free spot he saw and got out of the car with a reluctant sluggishness. Taylor was waiting in his clinic like a spider awaiting prey on the edge of its web. The door was partially open and the light touch of his knuckles reverberated on the thick dark wood frame which enclosed a fragile-looking opaque white glass.

  Come in, please, Colonel invited Dr Taylor without bothering to look up from the file cabinet he was rummaging in with studied calm.

  Hell’s bells, everyone can see through doors today, thought Mark.

  In the meantime the doctor had removed a file from the metal cabinet. He turned back to his desk while simultaneously inviting Burryon to sit with a wide sweep of his hand. His every movement seemed considered, as if following a script.

Burryon’s acknowledgement bore little hint of the military. He moved a chair closer to the desk and sat.

  While Taylor silently flipped through the file in front of him, Mark looked around; that grey place was totally deprived of aesthetics. Spartan environments were the norm in the military, something he found distasteful. He couldn’t understand why a soldier, out of some