The Generals (25 page)

Felter, when picking the Air Forces to be involved in
MONTE CRISTO
, had used as one of his own criteria command experience. The two Air Force types sitting at the table had commanded sections, squadrons, groups, and in the case of the Air Commando, a fighter wing.

While there was nothing in his combat experience that he had cause to be in any way bashful about, a dispassionate assessment of that record would still show that his exploits had nothing to do with the exercise of his command. He could just as easily have been a lieutenant or a sergeant, for what he had done in military action, he had done just about alone. He had been with only three Korean Marines when he’d won his DSC on the east coast of North Korea. In the incident at Dien Bien Phu, which got both him and MacMillan named to the Legion of Honor, it had been him, Mac, and a sergeant. His last decoration for valor had been no different. He had been awarded (but of course was not wearing) the CIA’s Medal of Merit for “distinguished service in Cuba.” He had gone into Cuba with one other man. There had been no command involved.

And now he was going to have to take charge of several hundred people—from two services—in an operation whose success or failure would have powerful consequences.

Finally, smiling, Felter stood up and handed an envelope to the Air Commando colonel, who was still at attention.

“Here you go, Tex,” he said, his voice once again soft and warm. “That’s the numbers of people and the weight of the equipment. I’ll want your first estimate of what we’re going to need as soon as you can get it back to me. This afternoon if you can.”

“Yes, sir,” the Air Commando colonel said.

“Mac MacMillan will handle the ground element,” Felter went on. “You, George, [this addressed to the colonel from Pope Air Force Base] will handle long-range air transport, and then when we get that far along, liaison with the Navy. Duke Lowell will work with Tex on the rotary-wing aircraft problem and generally serve as my deputy.”

“Yes, sir.”

“General Hanrahan’s people are already at work erecting a mock-up at Camp McCall,” Felter went on. “It is hoped that no one will pay more attention to it than they do to the other mock-up villages around Bragg and McCall. While our primary mission is being formed, we will conduct a simultaneous training evaluation program, classified Secret. I hope that when the curious break that security classification, their curiosity will be satisfied.”

“You’re letting it out, Sandy?” General Bellmon asked.

“No. I figure that will take care of itself,” Felter said. He had forgotten to say “sir,” but if Bellmon noticed, he did not take offense. “Secret, these days, is what Confidential used to be. Operational details will be limited to personnel in this room. There will be no exceptions. Is that clear?”

There were nods, murmurs of “Yes, sir.”

“One more thing,” Felter said. “I’m going to have your orders changed to Temporary Duty in excess of 180 days. That will permit your dependents to join you. I want your dependents to join you, gentlemen. I want them to go through the motions, and the only way I can assure that they do is to order you herewith not to confide in your wives that the move is diversionary in nature. So far as they are concerned, you have been transferred to Bragg, period.”

“They also serve, who pack and move,” the Air Commando colonel said.

Though it was just slightly artificial, Felter joined in the chuckling. Still, the Air Commando colonel picked up on it as an olive branch.

“Sandy,” he asked. “You said something about a training evaluation? Can you tell us what kind of training we’re evaluating?”

“Why, Tex,” Felter said, jokingly. “I thought you’d know. Inter-service cooperation: ‘Can the Air Corps ever find happiness with the Army?’”

This time the laughter was genuine. But no one in the room would for a long time forget the tone of voice Felter had used on Tex when the dumb shit made that sour-ass remark. The only one in the room it didn’t surprise was Duke Lowell. He and the Mouse went back a long time. He had heard the ice in the Mouse’s voice before.

(Six)
Headquarters, XVIII Airborne Corps & Fort Bragg
Fort Bragg, North Carolina
9 June 1970

“Office of the Corps commander, Captain Hollis, aide-de-camp, speaking, sir.” It was the prescribed military manner of answering the telephone.

“Let me speak to him, please,” the caller said. “This is Colonel Lowell.” That was not the expected manner of inquiry.

“The general is in conference, sir. May I help you?”

“Yes,” Lowell said. There was arrogance, not blatant but undeniable, in Lowell’s voice. “Slip a note to him, will you? Telling him I’m on the line?”

“I’m not sure I can do that, sir. May I ask the general to call you back?”

“Give him the note, Captain, please,” Lowell said. This was delivered in a firm that-is-an-order-which-you-will-obey tone of voice.

“Yes, sir.”

Fuck you, Colonel
.

Captain Hollis wrote “Col. Lowell insists on speaking to you on line 3” on a notepad, ripped it off, and entered the general’s office without knocking. General Bellmon looked at him in annoyance, which suited Captain Hollis just fine. If he was annoyed now, wait till he saw the note. Colonels do not insist on talking to generals.

Bellmon glanced at the note, excused himself to the others at the conference table, and reached for the telephone on his desk. Captain Hollis quickly left the office and picked up his extension in time to hear “…can I do for you?”

“Sir, I wondered if the general could fit a little skeet into his schedule today?”

There was a moment’s hesitation.

“What time did you have in mind, Lowell?” General Bellmon replied, surprising Captain Hollis no small degree.

“I’ve taken the liberty, General, to reserve a field at three.”

“OK, Craig, fifteen hundred,” General Bellmon said.

“Thank you, sir,” Colonel Lowell said. “I’ll look forward to it.”

I’ll be goddamned
. Captain Hollis shrugged, then he picked up the telephone and called Quarters Number One and told the general’s orderly to have the general’s shotgun and ammo box loaded into the general’s personal automobile. The general did not like to use his shining staff car for trips to recreational facilities.

At 1450, the general’s driver reported to Captain Hollis that the general had driven himself to the skeet range. Captain Hollis told him to stay loose; he didn’t know what the general’s plans were for the balance of the day.

General Bellmon found Colonel Lowell waiting for him at the Fort Bragg Trap and Skeet Club, a facility of the Fort Bragg Rod and Gun Club. Lowell was sitting on the open tailgate of a Ford station wagon, hatless, wearing a shooting vest over his tropical worsted open-necked shirt and trousers.

He got up when Bellmon pulled in beside him.

“Sorry to disrupt your day, General,” Lowell said.

“To tell you the truth, Craig,” Bellmon said, shaking his hand as if he hadn’t seen him for a long time, “it was a welcome interruption.”

He pulled a leather-covered case from the floor of the back seat and laid it on the tailgate of Lowell’s station wagon. He took from it the stock and action of a Browning over-and-under shotgun.

“What are we shooting?”

“Does the general feel confident with a 28-bore?” Colonel Lowell asked, obviously a challenge.

“Against the present competition, the general feels very confident with a 28-bore,” the general said, and selected the 28-gauge set of barrels from the four sets of barrels in the case. “I’ll have to get some shells, though.”

Lowell reached into the station wagon and came up with a box of Winchester Western AA shotshells. He handed it to Bellmon. He took another box and dumped the shells into the pocket of his shooting vest. Then he took his shotgun from a case.

“What is that, a Holland and Holland?” General Bellmon asked. Lowell handed him the shotgun.

“An
Augshofer
,” he said. “He makes the best, I think, live-pigeons guns. He really didn’t want to make this one, but when I finally talked him into it, it was worth all the trouble. Would you like to shoot it?”

“May I? I don’t think I’ve ever seen one before.”

“That’s it,” Lowell said.

General Bellmon was very seriously tempted to ask him what he had paid for the shotgun. Three thousand? Five thousand? More? Hand-made shotguns by Austrian gunmakers were the most expensive. Very probably more.

“Nice piece,” he said, throwing the gun to his shoulder. “And it fits.”

“I went through that business at the Holland and Holland shooting school in London. You know, the gray-haired expert and the try-gun with all the adjustments. And I found out my measurements, as measured by the greatest experts, are exactly those of an off-the-shelf Winchester 101.”

“Nice piece,” Bellmon repeated. He handed Lowell his Browning, and they walked to the skeet field, both of them stuffing rubber earplugs into their ears as they walked. The NCO in charge waited for them there. He saluted.

“Afternoon, General,” he said. “We’re all ready for you.”

“Hello, Sergeant DeMarco,” Bellmon said, offering his hand. “You’ve met Colonel Lowell?”

“I’ve been admiring the colonel’s gun, General,” DeMarco said.

“So have I,” General Bellmon said, and held it up. “You’ll notice who’s going to be shooting it.”

The sergeant chuckled. “I’ll be pulling for you, sir,” he said.

Bellmon and Lowell walked to Station One. Lowell waved the general onto the paint-marked shooting place. General Bellmon broke the shotgun and dropped shells into the chambers.

“Let’s see one,” he said, and the target-throwing machine sent a clay pigeon flying first out of the high house above Bellmon’s shoulder, and then from the low house across the field. He nodded. “Everything going smoothly, Duke?” he asked, and then called, “Pull!”

A clay pigeon flew out of the house above him. The shotgun fired, and the pigeon disappeared in a puff of gray-black debris.

“Mark!” Bellmon called, and another pigeon flew out, this time from the low house. He broke that one quite close to him.

He opened the shotgun and the fired shell casings flew out of the chambers.

“Very nice,” Lowell said, as Bellmon reloaded.

“Everything going along all right, Duke?” Bellmon asked.

“Your vehicle inspection station seems unable to handle a rental car, but aside from that, there have been no major problems.”

Bellmon looked at him. “Is there a problem with your car?”

“I told the provost marshal that I had your personal permission to have a rental car furnished with a sticker,” Lowell said. “I don’t really think he’ll check with you.”

“We don’t have many people able to afford rental cars indefinitely,” Bellmon said. He called, “Pull,” and two clay pigeons were simultaneously thrown from the houses. He broke both of them, opened the action, ejected the shells.

“Very nice,” he said, admiring the gun. “Points beautifully.”

Lowell moved onto the shooting station.

“Can you arrange a series of unscheduled battalion-sized airlifts in the division?” Lowell said. “Say from here to Hurlbert
*
? And from here to Yuma Test Station? And Fort Hood?”

“I can give you the people, Duke,” General Bellmon said. “But I don’t have the funding for the Air Force.”

“The Air Force has just found some funds,” Lowell said. “That won’t be a problem.”

“OK,” Bellmon said. “Consider it done. Tell me when.”

Lowell reached in his back trousers pocket and handed Bellmon a folded sheet of paper.

“Those are the dates the Mouse would like,” he said. Without looking at it, Bellmon put it in his trousers pocket.

“The Air Force will use C-5As for the first couple of trips,” Lowell said. “Then there will be some mechanical difficulty, requiring the C5-As to be grounded here for maintenance and inspection. One of them will be made available to MacMillan’s Berets for on-site loading familiarization.”

He called for his bird, broke it. Then he called for the low house and missed.

“Damn,” he said, and reloaded and called for it again and broke it.

“You’re going to use C5As?” Bellmon asked.

“Tex Williams says we can make it nonstop to Okinawa,” Lowell said. “And he also says the Jolly Green Giants can make it from Okinawa to the carrier off ’Nam without any problem.”

“It looks like you’re putting all your eggs in one basket.”

“We’ll have a fifty percent redundancy in Green Giants,” Lowell said. “Pull!”

He broke his doubles, and then walked to Station Two.

“And a two hundred percent redundancy in C5As,” Lowell said. “We’ll take off together, either from here or from Hurlbert. An empty one will precede us, they’re about ninety knots an hour faster empty. And a third will follow. You can only put so many Jolly Greens on a carrier.”

“When are you going to tell the Navy?”

“The Mouse is going to go two days early. Tex has laid on a two-seater jet for him. One last check of Intelligence in Saigon, and then he’s going to have the Chief of Naval Operations lay it on the task force commander at sea, as an Operational Immediate, with no details. He will personally deliver those.”

“I hope the Navy doesn’t decide to take their ball and go home,” Bellmon said. “They’re not going to like being just about shut out of this.”

“Fuck ’em,” Lowell said. “The Marines are still fighting World War II.”

Bellmon stepped into the shooting position and called for his doubles. He broke all four.

“Anything else?” Bellmon asked.

“Have you got a set of very nice bachelor officer quarters suitable for a full colonel?”

Bellmon looked at him, his right eyebrow arched.

Lowell pretended to cringe. He held up his hand, in mock self-protection.

“What the Mouse wants is some very angry bird, loudly complaining that he has been turned out of his quarters by a goddamned aviator, here for six months, on some cockamamie paper-pushing operation.”

“Done,” Bellmon said. “I know just the guy.” He chuckled. “The Mouse covers every base, doesn’t he?”