The Cadet Read Online Free PDF Page A

Sorry. Tighten up again. I’ve got to find another vein.”
    “—You’ll have to get those wisdom teeth pulled out after basic. We can’t have our pilots get air trapped back there and get a toothache when flying.”
    Rod went from station to station, presenting the tag around his neck. Soon, he began to feel like a pinball, being batted from flipper to flipper.
    Finally reaching the door at the end of the hall, Rod’s arms and buttocks hurt from all the prodding and shots. As he left, he was assured that once he’d had the boosters then he could be deployed worldwide at any time.
    He blinked as he stepped into the bright Colorado sunshine, joining a line that formed outside the door. In contrast to the antiseptic odors in the medical hall the air smelled fresh and incredibly clean.
    A small, bright red plane sat on top of a pedestal in the center of the buildings. Rows of long, two story, wooden dorms sprawled at one end of the grassy area on the opposite side of the red plane. Another row of buildings, looking as if they had been built during World War II, lined the other side.
    A sergeant stepped up and spoke in a low tone, all business. “Gentlemen, you’re going to march everywhere you go, so listen up. Always start with your left foot. If everyone looks like they’re bouncing except for you, then you’re out of step.”
    He walked around the line and corrected the candidates’ postures, pushing in a stomach here, making sure another person’s back was straight. He called out over another group of candidates marching past. “We’ve got a lot to do before 1100, starting with learning how to march. Remember to start with your left foot.” He drew in a breath and bawled, “Flight. Forward, harch.”
    The men lurched off across the plaza. Rod felt a swell of pride as they followed the sergeant. Here he was, after all these years, finally here. It didn’t seem real, with the incredibly blue sky, the slight nip of the morning air, and the headiness of being in the first Academy class. This was just about too easy, and if this was all he would have to put up with, then the next four years should be a piece of cake.
    They marched up the steps of a squat wooden building. Once inside, they bumped to a stop. A row of barber’s chairs lined the far wall, filled with young men. The black-and-white checkered linoleum floor was strewn with clumps of hair.
    A constant buzz of clippers filled the room, stopping only when a barber was finished with his victim. One by one the candidates pushed up from the chair, ran a hand over their bald heads, and stared in horror at the mirror in the back of the room.
    Like an assembly line, the candidates entered the barbershop as a diverse group of individuals—high school superstars, junior college standouts, from wealthy and poor families, wearing flat-tops, duck-flips, or long beatnik locks. They all left bald.
    “Next!”
    Rod dropped his duffle bag and plopped into the chair. He ran a hand through his hair, glad that the mirror was behind him so he wouldn’t see the carnage.
    The candidate sitting next to Rod slouched down in his seat and sighed. He spoke in a clipped Boston accent. “Just a little off the side, and a light trim on top, Pierre. I have a hot date tonight after the golf tournament.” He wore yellow pants and a loud green shirt, as if he were trying to draw attention to himself.
    Laughter rippled across the room. The candidates looked at each other nervously. Rod half expected an officer to pop into the barbershop and demand that the candidates stop talking.
    The candidate from New England closed his eyes. He appeared to be one of the shortest men around, as well as looking as though he carried about twenty extra pounds of girth. “Man, oh, man, daddy-o, this is the life. When do they bring in the manicurist and masseuse?”
    Rod squirmed in his seat as the clown chattered on. At first the short candidate was funny, but the longer he prattled the more Rod