The Mormon Candidate - a Novel (11 page)
My second-in-command took over
leading the troops
, and I was dragged back through the bunker
tunnels
to the staging area on the beach, where a field surgeon
smeared iodine on my face and
used me as a teaching prop for the medic
al trainees.
T
hey
remove
d
my uniform, and that’s when someone
said
, “What’s with the
sissy underwear?”
Chapter 9
Sissy underwear?
Ben put aside Zachariah’s
iTouch
and pulled the Canon out of the camera bag. He browsed through the photos he had taken earlier until he rea
ched the body on the stretcher.
There were three close-up photos of the dead man’s undershirt, focusing on the odd markings over his nipples and navel. The
khaki
color could definitely pass for military-issue
d
underwear, but the markings
were not of a
military
unit
.
Ben used his own iPhone to find out more. Google search results for
Mormon underwear
solved part of the mystery. It appeared that members of the LDS church
—“Saints,” as they called themselves—
were required to wear a particular type of blessed under
garments
. The
symbols
were identical to
what he had seen on Zachariah’s undershirt at the
Camp David
Scenic Overlook
.
Their
particular designs had
originated from
symbols of
the
Freem
asons, an earlier affiliation of t
he Mormon prophet
,
Joseph Smith.
One of the Google results led to a
video clip
of
an interview with the
CEO
of
M
arriott Hotels
, who told the
interviewer how his sacred undergarments
had protected him from burns in a boating accident. Ben
expected
the interviewer to ask Mr. Marriott whether he was aware that any
item of clothing worn flush against the skin would delay contact between fire and the skin, which was the reason toddlers’ pajamas are skintight
. B
ut the interviewer
seemed too
stunned by
hearing o
ne of Ame
rica’s most prominent businessme
n
express belief
in the magical powers of his underwear.
One piece of the puzzle, though, remained missing. The
Google articles
described
the undergarments
as
white,
which was
t
he dominant color at
all
the Mormon temples,
because in
the
eternal
afterlife the
g
ods
and angels
w
ore
white too. But Zachariah’s u
ndergarments were military khaki
. Was there a special dispensation for Mormons in uniform?
Ben returned to the journal, hoping to find the answer there.
Chapter 10
Z.H. Journal Entry # 3
:
T
he paralysis
that
had prevented me from shooting
the mannequin
was at first
shocking
.
Somehow
the intense training of boot camp
had failed to
prepare me for
the act of actually aiming, pulling the trigger, and shooting
to kill
a person
.
In every other respect, I was more physically and mentally resilient
and obedient
than any other guy in my outfit. But killing
stood against everything I had ever been taught
. The
realisti
c-looking mannequin forced me to face this barrier and almost killed me by setting the stage for t
he exposure of my sacred undergarments
.
“What’s with the sissy underwear?”
I still cringe at the memory of that question. U
p u
ntil
that day
,
I had not worn
the sacred undergarments i
n boot camp
,
relying on the
special dispensation
for
physical exercise,
sever
e
sweating
,
and soiling involved in
basic
training. As a result, my bunk mates had not seen the undergarments
. I had actually prepared a little speech for the day when
we
would
first dress up in our parade uniform, which would be the first time I would wear the
undergarments
. But the previous night,
about
to depart
for the
drill and the first use of live ammunition in
a
mock
attack
, I
hastily
put
them
on as an extra measure of security.
M
y mother had ordered
this set for me
after hearing that the
church
was allowing a
color
variation
—
khaki-
green instead of white—
for military service
. It
was identical
to the
military-issued
underwear
everyone else was wearing
,
other than the
sacred symbols
, which no one noticed as we got ready in the dark
.
Considering how the accidental discharge could have kil
led me, wearing the sacred
garments had been the right decision
. B
ut the exposure turned into a circus that exceeded even my high threshold.
When the drill concluded
with
the
opposite force w
inning,
everyone
congregated at the launch area, where a hot breakfast awaited the wet
and
exhausted soldiers. The officers went to a command tent set up higher
o
n the dunes.
When m
y
buddies
came over to check on me
, I was lying exposed
in the triage area
with bandages over my pretend wounds and an IV line stuck in my arm.
They were
disappointed
over
losing the
battle and
the prospect of
hik
ing
back to base while the other team got
extra sleep time
. W
ord of my trigger-freeze had already spread
, and now the
‘
sissy underwear
’
became a major attraction.
I tried to explain, but my prepared speech turned into gibberish
,
and
they started joking
about bullets ricocheting off
my
holy u
nderwear and
multiple wives
waiting to serve me in Utah.
Someone
dragged
several
terrorist mannequin
s
out of the bunker,
lined them up on the ground
next to me,
stripped them,
and used a
marker to draw
breasts and pubic hair, followed by a made-up version of a Mormon marriage ceremony
.
I was too numb to defend myself, barely managing to grin stupidly as if all this was very funny, while inside I was dying.
O
ne of the guys
pretended
to hear God’s voice, telling him to dig around for a gold-plated porn video
, which a sex-obsessed angel
name
d
Moron had buried on the beach. Everybody started digging around, laughing
hysterically
, and I rolled on my side, reached for my M16, and opened my mouth to wrap it around the end of the barrel
and take the bullet I had failed to
shoot at
the mannequin
.
Suddenly someone yelled,
“Attention!”
The word
had the effect of a bucket of cold water,
not only on me, suddenly realizing what I was
about to do, but
also
for
the others
, who lined up and stood in attention.
An officer was
marching toward
us
from the command tent. He
wasn’t especially large or muscled, but
despite his mediu
m height and rather skinny build
,
the way he carried himself
was nothing short of powerful. H
is face
was
shaded by the visor of his cap, his eyes
hid
den
behind
mirror
ed
sunglasses
,
and
his shoulders
b
ore
a captain’s insignia
.
Everyone saluted.
I managed to get up and raise my hand to my forehead.
He returned the salute.
“What’s going on here?”
No one answered.
A wave broke
nearby, emphasizing the silence that replaced the yelling and hooting.
He reached me
and
removed his sunglasses. H
is eyes
were dark and penetrating. He gestured at
the IV line
and
the bag that had fallen
to
the ground next to me. “Do you want air bubbles running up your bloodstream?”
I
picked it up and
yelled, “Sir! No
,
sir!”
“That’s right
.”
My eyes were drawn to his chest, where a small pin glistened. I’ve never seen
a real one
before, but I knew what it was:
Medal of Honor!
He looked arou
nd
, saw the painted mannequins lined up on the ground by the stretcher
.
“What’s this?”
One of the guys said, “Mormon wives, sir!”
There was a round of laughter, quickly dying
.
Another wave crashed.
The
captain
measured me up and down, taking in the markings on my
undershirt
and the bottom piece that looked like long johns
that w
ere
cut short below the knees. I expected him to laugh
or turn around and leave us to
the drill sergeant’s wrath. But instead this officer
,
who was as remote and
as
important
as any God, began to unbutton his field
uniform shirt.
One button after another came lo
o
se, until the bottom one was open, and he grasped the lapels and pulled his shirt open, all the way, its front coming out from
his pants’ waistline.
Under the captain’s
shirt, lit by the rays of the
morning
sun, was a piece of cloth resembling a large bib, cut square just above his pants. It
was worn over his khaki
undershirt, made of the same material but bearing horizontal stripes along the bottom front. He pulled it free, and we saw
strings, or threads,
dangling from each corner
.
“This is a t
z
it
z
it,” the
captain
said loud
enough for
everyone
to hear
. “It
’s a small
Jewish
prayer shawl
, worn
under the shirt
. You can look it up in
the Bible, both in Deuteronomy and in Numbers
. Any questions?”