Parker got the message. He sold his house and car, cashed in his 401(k), closed his bank account, and bought a sailboat. Then one fine moonlit evening when no one was looking, he quietly set sail, leaving the sunny shores of California fading in his wake. His course took him down the coast of Mexico and Central America. He was in no hurry, with no real destination in mind. When he found a port that had a good feel he tied up for a while. After a journey of two years—his Spanish now pretty good—he eventually made his way through the Panama Canal and into the Caribbean.

When Bush II launched his war in Iraq Parker was sickened to see his predictions come true. Soldiers died by the scores in the fatally flawed vehicles. But by now he was not surprised when no one was held accountable. The only outcome was a new contract to retrofit the vehicles, and hence, as the VP had forecast, the money continued to roll in.

When Parker finished his tale he just sat for a while, looking at me with his large eyes. I wish I could have told him how shocked I was. But I wasn’t. It was just another sad tale, one that fit within the litany of my own experience. What he had not said was the extent of the complicity and corruption. How military contracting officers go along with the charade, the promise being: Play along, and there’s a cushy job waiting for you after your active service days are over. Retired general officers sit on the boards of the arms manufacturing conglomerates for the same reason. Lobbyists gleefully fill the troughs where the greedy swine of Congress come to feed. Everyone gets a piece of the pie. Everyone, that is, except the soldiers, their families, and the American taxpayers. As always, they get the shaft.

“What would you call a situation like that?” Parker asked, a sad look on his face.

“Treason,” I replied without hesitation. “There’s no other word for it. No matter how hard the guilty may try to dress it up, it is a crime against the people of this nation.”

“Yeah,” he responded in a subdued tone of voice. “I’ve never quite admitted to myself that it’s that bad, but it is. There’s no other way to put it.”

I took the pan of pasta from the stove and pointed Parker to the small galley table. “Pour us some more wine while I fill the plates. You better be hungry, because I don’t want any leftovers,” I remarked as I heaped our plates with the marvelous concoction of pasta, ham, and Parmesan cheese.

We sat, and as I reached for the wineglass, Parker bowed his head, folded his hands, and closed his eyes. I paused with lowered brow as Parker silently gave thanks for the meal.