The Rivalry (4 page)

“Plebes,” Noto said, and seeing Stevie’s expression
added, “Freshmen. They form the cordon the players will walk through. Then the team assembles over here. And the buses are waiting for them over there.”

At that moment a loud cheer went up and Stevie saw what had to be the football team, even though they were dressed in neat gray uniforms like everyone else. The plebes were going crazy cheering. The upperclassmen were joining in, though not quite as enthusiastically as the first-year cadets.

Once everyone had walked through the cordon, the players assembled in front of the statue. Coach Rich Ellerson stepped to a microphone.

“We aren’t going to take long,” he said, “but I want you all to know how much it means to us to see you assembled out here.”

“As if they had any choice,” Kelleher whispered.

“I think at Navy they call it ‘mandatory fun,’ ” Cantelupe said.

Ellerson was still talking. “We’re playing a team tomorrow that has great athletes. We’re playing a team coached by a man who
used
to coach at Navy.”

Boos erupted when Georgia Tech coach Paul Johnson’s ties to Navy were mentioned.

Ellerson held his hands up for quiet. “A man who was
six and oh
against Army while at Navy.”

The boos got considerably louder.

“Tomorrow, we’re going to show Coach Johnson and his players that Army football isn’t what it used to be! We’re going to show him what Army football is
now
and
give his team a beating it won’t forget anytime soon! But we need
your
help! You are the twelfth man! Do
not
let down for one second tomorrow in the stands. I promise you we will
not
let down for one second on the field!”

The cadets were whipped into a frenzy, and suddenly—or so it seemed to Stevie—the band appeared and began playing the Army fight song, “On, Brave Old Army Team.” Stevie knew a lot of college fight songs, and this was one of the best ones going. With the whole corps singing, he couldn’t help but get caught up in the energy of the moment.

When the final words of the song died away, the entire corps—all four thousand of them—finished with two words: “BEAT NAVY!”

Then everyone surged forward to offer the players handshakes and pats on the back as they headed for the buses.

Kelleher nudged Stevie. “So?”

“Oh yeah,” Stevie said. “This is going to be fun.”

They ate in the mess hall, which was huge and filled with a sea of gray uniforms. People kept stopping to say hello to Cantelupe and Noto, who were obviously still well known at their alma mater. Cadets kept walking by the table saying, “Good evening, sir,” to everyone in sight. The food wasn’t very good, but there was plenty of it, which worked for Stevie.

While they ate, Kelleher asked Cantelupe and Noto to give Stevie some background on Army football.

“It started in 1890, when a cadet named Dennis Michie got some guys together and challenged Navy to a game,” Noto said. “Football was a new sport back then, a lot different than today.…”

“Anthony, can we fast-forward a little?” Kelleher said. “We really haven’t got time for one hundred and twenty years of history.”

Cantelupe jumped in. “You know how Anthony is: ask him how Roger Goodell’s feeling and he’ll tell you the life history of the NFL.”

“Funny,” Noto said, but he was smiling.

“I think what Stevie should know is how Army football—actually football at Army, Navy, and Air Force—is different than at civilian schools.”

“Civilian schools?” Stevie asked.

Cantelupe nodded. “Basically any other college you can name. You’re from Philadelphia, right? Villanova, Temple, Penn, they’re all civilian schools.

“Every single student at Army, Navy, and Air Force is on a full scholarship—paid for by the government,” he continued. “And in return, every one of them will go into the military for five years when they graduate.”

“Five years?” Stevie said.

“Uh-huh,” Cantelupe said. “That’s why you won’t see a lot of NFL prospects on these teams. Five years in the military after college will pretty much end your chances of
playing in the pros. Roger Staubach was the major exception to that rule. He fought in Vietnam in the sixties before he played for the Cowboys. There have been a few others, but not many.”

Noto picked up from there. “That doesn’t mean the academies don’t care about football or try to recruit players. They do. In fact, unlike the civilian schools, they don’t have scholarship limits. A civilian school can only have eighty-five players on football scholarships at any one time. The academies can recruit as many guys as they want—as long as they can get into school academically. Most years, about a hundred plebes will show up for the first day of football practice. Four years later, if there are twenty or twenty-five of them still playing, that’s a lot.

“Recruiting’s tough, because you have to find a kid who can not only play football but also make it at the academy. If a student comes here and hates the military life or can’t cut it in class, he’ll be gone. So one of the keys to success for the academies is having a low attrition rate—the fewer players you lose, especially the first two years when they have plenty of opportunity to transfer, the better off you’ll be. This team has twenty-three seniors. Last year’s only had nine. It makes a big difference.”

Stevie was digging into some ice cream as Cantelupe and Noto continued their lesson when he heard a voice from above saying, “May I have the attention of the corps?”

Stevie looked up and saw a cadet standing on a platform in the middle of the room.

Seeing his puzzled look, Noto said, “That’s called the
poop deck. It’s where announcements are made at the end of meals and where visitors are introduced.”

Sure enough, the cadet welcomed Cantelupe and Noto back, to big cheers from the student body. Then the announcer went on. “As everyone knows, tomorrow’s game will be televised by ESPN.” More cheering broke out.

“These guys will cheer for just about anything, won’t they?” Kelleher said, smiling.

“They don’t get much chance most days,” Cantelupe said.

“We’d like to introduce the announcers for the game,” the cadet went on. “Brent Musburger will do play-by-play.” (Cheers.) “Kirk Herbstreit will do color.” (More cheers.) “And Jack Arute will be the sideline reporter.” (Moans, no doubt, Stevie thought, because they were hoping for one of the good-looking women ESPN employed to do sideline reporting.)

Musburger made a predictable speech: it was an honor to be back at West Point, he was thrilled with the job Coach Ellerson and his young men were doing.…

As he droned on, Stevie noticed a man in a sharp-looking dark suit approaching the table. Kelleher seemed to notice him at the same moment and waved. “Hey, Pete, over here,” he said in a stage whisper as Musburger continued.

“The courage all of you show every single day makes me proud to be an American.…”

Pete and Kelleher hugged hello and sat down as Herbstreit was taking the microphone.

“I’m a proud graduate of Ohio State University,” he began. “But nothing would make me more proud than to have one of my children attend West Point.…”

As the cadets cheered, Kelleher introduced his friend.

“Pete Dowling, special agent, United States Secret Service, meet Anthony Noto, Jim Cantelupe, and Steve Thomas.”

Dowling shook hands around the table while Herbstreit passed the microphone to Jack Arute and the cadets began to boo him good-naturedly.

Arute held his hands up as if to say, “I know, I know.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry I’m not Erin Andrews,” he said as more mock boos filled the air. “Would it help to tell you that I
know
Erin Andrews?”

The answer was apparently no. Arute, after apologizing several more times for not being blond or female, wrapped up his remarks by saying he had never looked forward to an assignment more than this one. And at last everyone could go back to finishing dessert.

“So, Pete, what brings you here?” Noto asked.

“I had a meeting with the superintendent,” Dowling said. “Just doing some prep work for the president’s appearance at Army-Navy. Bobby and I are old friends, and he let me know he’d be on Post, so here I am.”

“Actually, Stevie, I wanted you to meet Pete. He’s going to be your contact with the Secret Service leading up to the game. Susan Carol will be working with another agent who is handling the Navy people. Security is one story we want you guys to do before the game.”

Dowling nodded. “There are some things I can’t tell you, Steve, but I’ll fill you in on what we do to prepare for something like this.”

“So it’s a big deal?” Stevie asked.

“Any time the president travels, it’s a big deal,” Dowling said. “When he’s traveling to a stadium with ninety thousand people inside, it’s way beyond a big deal.”

“So what’d you talk to the supe about?” Cantelupe asked.

“Mostly logistics and paperwork,” Dowling answered. “We’ve got to get IDs and run background checks on every player, coach, trainer, manager, you name it, who will be on the field with the president. We’ll also run ID checks on every cadet and every midshipman before they march onto the field.”

“Yeah, that’s one thing you need to watch,” Cantelupe said.

Dowling looked at him for a moment to see if he was joking and seemed to decide he wasn’t. “What do you mean?”

Cantelupe looked a little embarrassed. “When I was a plebe, a buddy of mine from back home wanted to go to the game, but I’d used up all my tickets,” he said. “So I loaned him one of my uniforms—we were about the same size—and he marched on with the cadets.”

“And no one picked up on it?” Dowling asked.

Cantelupe shook his head. “The guys in my company knew what was going on, but they didn’t care; they thought it was kind of funny.”

Dowling shook his head, clearly pained. “Not funny with the president there,” he said. “That’s one angle I hadn’t thought about. I guess now I’ll have to.”

“Some kid in a cadet uniform is hardly a problem, is it?” Kelleher said.

“Not a problem at all,” Dowling said. “Unless he’s not just some kid.”

“Ah,” Kelleher said. “Sounds like you’ve got your work cut out for you.”

Dowling shrugged. “In one sense, it’s routine—we’re trained on how to prepare for both big and small events. In another sense, it’s never routine when the president leaves the White House.”

“Do you get a lot of threats?” Stevie asked.

Dowling nodded. “All the time,” he said. “Especially with this president because there are still some idiots who can’t deal with the idea of an African American being president. But we don’t really worry about those much.”

“Why not?” Stevie asked.

“Because,” Dowling said, “if you really want to attack the president, you don’t tell the people protecting him that you’re planning to do it.”

S
tevie’s first thought when Pete Dowling said they had to go get a gun was that, for some reason, he didn’t have his own gun. He could see the shoulder holster inside his jacket but not the actual gun.

“No, I’ve got it,” Dowling said as they walked off the field, opening his jacket so Stevie could see the gun inside the holster. “I’d actually be breaking the law if I was on duty and not wearing it. But only Secret Service agents are armed today.
No one
else carries any kind of weapon into the stadium.”

“Not even the local police?” Stevie asked.

“Nope,” Dowling said. “Anyone who is armed is working outside. We’re after a different kind of gun—one that the officials will use to signal the end of each quarter.”

“Really? I thought there was a horn or that the refs blew their whistles,” said Stevie.

“Yes, you’re right, most teams have switched to that. But
not
Army-Navy. Because of the military tradition, they still shoot a gun, and at the end of the game they fire a cannon.”

“So where do we go?” Stevie asked.

“Come on, I’ll show you.”

They walked outside the stadium, causing Stevie to wonder if he would have to endure another prolonged security check when they went back inside. There were several unmarked trailers in this corner of the parking lot, each with someone who was wearing the Secret Service “uniform”—dark suit, sunglasses, wire coming out of one ear—posted at the entrances.

Dowling walked up to one of the trailers, and the agent posted at the bottom of the steps wordlessly moved aside for him and for Stevie. Dowling was more effective than an all-access pass.

The trailer was full of agents sitting at computers, sipping coffee, talking on cell phones. Stevie followed Dowling into a back room, where an attractive woman was seated at a computer.

“Grace, meet Steve Thomas,” Dowling said. “He’s the young reporter I told you about. Steve, this is Grace Andrade.”

Grace Andrade stood up to say hello. She looked the way Stevie imagined Susan Carol might look in twenty
years: tall and athletic with long, dark hair and a great smile. “I live here in Washington, so I’ve been reading what you and Ms. Anderson have been writing all week,” she said. “Very impressive.”

“Thank you,” Stevie said. “We’ve had a lot of help. We appreciate getting to shadow the Secret Service.”

“You got the gun?” Dowling asked.

“Right here,” Grace said, picking up a small handgun that had been sitting next to the computer and handing it to Dowling.

He flipped the cylinder open so Stevie could see inside. “There are four blanks loaded in there.”

“Hypothetically,” Stevie asked. “Let’s say one of the refs was crazy. Couldn’t he have bullets in his pocket?”

“He’d never get them inside the stadium today with the metal detectors,” Dowling said. “Plus, you’ve seen how we sweep the stadium for anything suspicious before the game, so he couldn’t hide them in advance either. And third, notice how the inside has been soldered? This gun can’t be loaded with anything but blanks.”

“So you’re like everyone else,” Stevie said. “You don’t trust the referees.”

Dowling laughed. “I’m different from everyone else,” he said. “I don’t trust
anyone
.”