Undaunted

  ***

  Struggling in a hostile world,

  Pursuing your destiny,

  You will stand resolute against adversity,

  Undaunted

  ***

  UNDAUNTED

  A Stan Turner Mystery

  Book I

  by

  WILLIAM MANCHEE

  ***

  Prologue

  At four hundred hours I woke up and couldn't go back to sleep. I dreaded the moment the lights would be turned on and another perilous day would be thrust upon me. Could I possibly catch up with the other candidates or would I fall farther and farther behind and inevitably flunk out? It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t my fault my drill sergeant beat the crap out of me. I certainly had no intention of contracting the flu. It was just bad luck. Fear overcame me. I’d never been so scared in my life. Paris Island and poor Charlie Russell kept coming to mind. Now I understood the fear, the dread, the utter depression that drove him to suicide. Would that be my fate as well?

  When the lights finally jolted me from my troubled slumber, I jumped out of my bunk and hurriedly got dressed. After making my bed, Randy and I headed to the mess hall. While I was standing in the long line, I noticed two MP's walking toward me.

  "Candidate Turner?" one of them asked.

  "Yes," I replied warily.

  "You're under arrest! Raise your hands and place them flat against the wall."

  "What's going on?" Randy asked.

  "Step aside! Don't interfere," the MP warned Randy as he began to frisk me.

  "What's this all about?" I said.

  Just then a car drove up and my attorney, Lt. Burden, got out and hurried over to where I was standing.

  "Is that really necessary?" he said to the MP.

  "Why are they arresting me?" I asked.

  "They've found some incriminating evidence. They can prove you were at the scene of the crime."

  "What?! That's impossible."

  "Well, that's what I thought, but they found your fingerprints on the murder weapon."

  "Huh? What murder weapon?"

  "The knife that was used to kill Sergeant Foster."

  "You've got to be kidding. I don't know anything about any knife."

  "Well, we'll talk about it later. Right now you'll have to surrender to these two MP's."

  "Jesus! I can't believe this. I didn't do anything."

  "Candidate Turner, you are under arrest for the murder of Sgt. Louis Foster," the first MP said as the other one tried to cuff me. "Please come with us."

  Adrenalin began to explode into my blood stream. I ripped my hands away from the MP.

  "I didn't do anything! You can't do this!"

  Tears began to well up and I struggled to keep from crying in front of 100 stunned Marines. I looked at Lt. Burden hoping he would somehow intervene.

  "Come on Stan! There's nothing you can do. Just let them cuff you and take you to the brig. I'll come to see you soon and then we'll figure out a way to get you out."

  The MP's escorted me to a waiting jeep and sat me down in the back seat for the ride to the Quantico brig. I tried to sit quietly but my pulse was racing, I wondered how in the hell my fingerprints could have gotten on the murder weapon? What was going on? I was innocent, this couldn't be happening! It just couldn't be happening!

  When we arrived at our destination, they escorted me in the back door and led me down a long corridor to an intake room. At the far end of the room was a thick glass window with a retractable drawer beneath it. Immediately to the right of the window was situated a small intercom. Just to the right of the intercom was a large steel door which apparently led into the main cell block.

  I waited nervously until the drawer opened. The jailer instructed me over the intercom to deposit all of my personal belongings into the drawer. After emptying my pockets I continued to wait. Several minutes later the intercom made a popping sound and then the jailer told me to enter after the buzzer went off. When the buzzer sounded I heard the locking mechanism in the door disengage. As instructed I then pulled open the large steel door and entered the main cell block.

  As I walked inside, the heavy steel door closed automatically and I heard the chilling sound of the locking mechanism engaging. Looking back, I stared briefly at the door already longing for freedom. Once inside a jailer escorted me to a locker room where I was stripped, examined rudely by a medic and then dressed in a bright orange jump suit. When they were done with me I was taken to a small cell furnished with a single steel framed bed and a forty watt light bulb protruding from the ceiling.

  After the jailer left I collapsed on my bed. My mind raced trying to make sense of what had happened to me. How could my fingerprints be on the murder weapon? I hadn't even seen a knife since I had been at Quantico. Depression overcame me quickly and the tears that I had so far managed to suppress began streaming down my cheeks.

  That first day in the brig was the worst day of my life. At lunch they brought be some slop that I couldn’t bring myself to eat. When the jailer came by and saw I hadn’t eaten he screamed at me and said he wouldn’t have any inmate of his watch starve to death. When I told him I wasn’t hungry, he threatened to come in the cell and cram in down my throat if I didn’t eat every bite. Terrified, I ate everything while he gleefully watched. After he left I threw it all up in the toilet.

  Later in the afternoon Lt. Burden came by bearing bad news. The bond had been set at $100,000 and he didn’t think he could get it lowered. He said the judge and the prosecutor were anxious to make an example out of me so that no other recruits or candidates would ever contemplate turning on their drill sergeant.

  That evening I heard the clinking of chains in the distance. This unsettling clamor got louder and louder until a line of inmates in a chain gang came around the corner and into view. When they got to me I was ordered out of my cell and attached to the end of the gang and shackled with heavy chains. It was the most humiliating moment of my life.

  The days in the brig passed by very slowly as there was nothing much to do but wait and worry. I’d only been allowed to call Rebekah once a week and then only for a few precious minutes. After four weeks I still hadn’t been able to post bond. A hundred thousand dollars was ten times my father's annual income. My in-laws wanted to help but they could only raise $20,000. As I was laying on my bunk contemplating by predicament I heard the jailer calling someone.

  "Stanley Turner!"

  Startled to hear my name, I jumped up and walked quickly to the bars and searched for the person who’d called my name. A guard was standing a few cells down.

  "Yes, here I am. Stanley Turner."

  The guard moved toward me and settled in front of my cell.

  "You have a visitor," he said as he unlocked my cell. "Follow me."

  The guard walked down the row of cells to a visitors room, opened it and pointed for me to enter. As I walked into the room I saw an attractive, well dressed middle-aged woman sitting at a table. I sat across from her very curious as to who she was and what she wanted.

  "Hi, I am Virginia Stone," she said.

  I nodded. "Stan Turner. Do I know you?"

  "No. I am a free lance journalist from Charlotte, North Carolina."

  "Oh. Nice to meet you. You’re my first visitor, well, other than my attorney," I said curiously. "They said I couldn’t have visitors."

  "I know. I arranged it through your attorney. I only have a few minutes."

  "Okay. What do you want?"

  "Yes, since we don’t have much time, I'll get right to the point."

  "Okay."

  "I recently did a story on a platoon of U.S. Marines at Paris Island, S.C. that was the victim of an over zealous drill sergeant. You may have read the story."

  "Yes, I did, I read it
while I was in the hospital."

  "Well, I heard about what happened to you here at Quantico and I was frankly, intrigued. You haven't talked to any other journalist have you?"

  "No."

  "Good. I want to write your story. I want the whole world to know what Marines go through in boot camp—the pressure, the humiliation, the brutality. I want them to know what pushed you to kill your drill sergeant."

  "But I didn't kill him," I protested. "I'm innocent."

  "Right, I understand. You don't have to confess to me."

  "But you don't understand, I am innocent! I didn’t kill him."

  She smiled and replied, "Of course, you didn’t. I understand, you can’t admit anything now with a court martial ahead of you. It doesn’t matter."

  I looked her straight in the eye trying to convince her of my sincerity and continued, "I couldn't kill another human being. I couldn't do something like that."

  "What do you mean? You're a Marine."

  "Well, if I were in combat and it was necessary, I guess I would. . . . But I wouldn't kill someone in cold blood just because I was angry with them."

  "Like I said. It doesn't matter. If you're innocent the story will be great anyway."

  "What I'm trying to tell you is there isn't any story. It's all a big mistake. In a week or two my lawyer will have me out of here, I'm sure."

  "You're pretty naive Mr. Turner. They found your fingerprints on the murder weapon for godsakes! You're not getting out of here unless you can post bail, and if you haven't been able to do that in over three weeks I seriously doubt that it will ever happen."

  Her chilling argument decimated my usually optimistic demeanor. I sunk back in my chair realizing for the first time she was right. She smiled at me sympathetically perhaps revealing a trace of remorse for the jolt of reality she had inflicted upon me.

  "Why should I give you the story?" I said trying to withhold my despair at her words.

  "Because I'm the only journalist in the country that wants to write this story right now?"

  "Oh really. So why do you want to write it?"

  "Two years ago my nephew was killed in a bizarre accident at Paris Island. He was two weeks into boot camp when allegedly he fell to his death from a tower on the obstacle course. We probably would have accepted the story except that several days later we received an anonymous letter advising us that Stewart's death was no accident. Of course we contacted the proper authorities but they just dismissed the letter as a prank."

  "Were there any witnesses?"

  "No, except his Drill Sergeant. No one else claims to have seen it happen."

  "Gee, I'm sorry."

  "Thank you, but I've gotten over the worst of my grief. Now I looking for justice."

  "Do you think he was murdered?"

  "It was a possibility I couldn't ignore so I took a few weeks off and went to Paris Island to investigate in person. I didn't learn much about what happened to Stewart but I learned a lot about the Marine Corps. Then when I heard about the forty-four Marine recruits being hospitalized, I talked one of my editors into commissioning a story on what happened to those recruits."

  "So what does that have to do with me?"

  "I haven't been able to create a lot of excitement over the Paris Island incident as most of the Marines involved have recovered. The brass at Paris Island have done a good job at keeping a lid on the incident. Noone will talk to me. I was at a dead end until I heard about you and your situation."

  "I see."

  "Your story will give me an opportunity to investigate what happens to a recruit in boot camp and make some sense out of Stewart’s death."

  I nodded.

  "Plus, if your trial gets the media attention I think it will, well, . . . the court martial of Stan Turner could be on the front page of every newspaper in the country for the duration of your trial."

  "I don't know if I want that. I feel more like climbing in a hole right now. If my trial got that kind of publicity it would devastate my family. I can just imagine what my kids would think seeing me on the evening news?"

  "They’re young, aren’t they?"

  "Yes."

  "They won’t understand. Your wife will protect them."

  "I don’t know."

  "Wouldn't you like to get your side of the story out? If you don't get someone on your side now the Marine Corps, sooner or later, is going to tell this story to the press as they see it and it won't be pretty."

  "Ever since I was twelve years old I've wanted to be an attorney. I've focused my whole life on going to law school and fulfilling that dream. Now I may be finished before I even get started."

  "Don't you see, if you are innocent and you're acquitted you'll be a hero. You'll get a million dollars of publicity and it won't cost you a dime. But, if you crawl in that hole you’re talking about you’ll end up being convicted and spend the rest of your life in a place like this."

  Fear washed over me. I couldn’t stand to live my life in prison. I’d rather be dead.

  "Your offer is very attractive, but right now all I want to do is make bail and see my wife and kids."

  "If I can make bail for you, will you do it?"

  Her words were like an anesthetic on nasty wound. Was it possible God had sent an angel to save me from this nightmare. Tears welled in my eyes.

  "You would do that?"

  "Absolutely."

  A sudden rush of hope and relief overwhelmed me. I thought of Rebekah and the kids. I’d finally be able to see them.

  I smiled broadly. "Then how could I refuse?"

  "You're right, you can't."

  I laughed and struggled to keep from crying in front of her.

  "Okay then, I'll post your bond as an advance on the contract. Of course you'll get the standard royalty from any news syndications, book deals, endorsements or movie contracts."

  "Damn, you're pretty ambitious?"

  "I've been waiting a long time for a break like this and now that it’s come, I’m going to take advantage of it. Besides, I have a feeling it will be a fascinating story."

  "Well I hope you're not disappointed."

  "Don't worry about that, just start collecting your thoughts because I want to know everything about you. I want the whole story of your life from the very beginning."

  "So how will all this work?"

  "I took the liberty of writing up a little contract. Look it over and if it's okay then sign it. Then I'll get you out of here and we can get to work."

  She handed me the contract and I suddenly felt a tremor of fear. Everything she said sounded good—too good as a matter of fact.

  "So, what’s the catch?"

  "None. No surprises. All I want is your story. Nothing more."

  I shook my head and started reading the contract. It seemed straight forward so I signed it. Mrs. Stone took it from me, smiled and got up to leave.

  "So, are you glad you had a surprise visitor today?"

  I laughed. "Yeah. I guess so. Thank you so much Mrs. Stone for coming, I feel so much better now. For the first time in weeks I might be able to sleep tonight."

  "Don't thank me, it's just business. You got lucky; we both got lucky. Good bye Mr. Turner."

  "Hey, Mrs. Stone. Your Nephew-"

  "Yes."

  "It wasn't murder."

  "It wasn’t?"

  "No, . . . I’m pretty sure it was suicide."

  "Suicide? Why do you think that?"

  "I was in the casual platoon before I was arrested. It’s full of washout and recruits who couldn’t handle basic training for one reason or another. They’re all scared and worried about what’s going to happen to them. Depression is the norm. I’ve heard many of them talk about suicide. I know one who actually did it. I found him dead in his bunk. I can’t say I haven’t thought about it myself."

  "That’s hard for me to believe. He was always such a happy, positive child."

  "That’s my gut feeling and the Marine Corps kept it quiet because it's not goo
d for recruiting to have recruits jumping off buildings rather than completing basic training."

  Mrs. Stone stared at me emotionless and then turned and left. Within two hours she had posted my bond and I was a free man. I immediately found a phone and called Rebekah and told her the good news. She was ecstatic.