The Colonels, page 45
part #4 of Brotherhood of War Series
b. Subject aircraft wll be marked only with the letters “U.S.A.” on the wings, and with the procurement number on the vertical stabilizer.
c. Only the aviators designated in paragraph 2, above, plus those aviators subsequently designated by the undersigned, will be permitted to operate subject aircraft.
d. The aircraft are NOT to be considered as available for any airlift requirement except that of the USASWS.
e. Any questions concerning this interservice utilization of surplus aircraft are to be referred to the undersigned.
FOR THE DEPUTY CHIEF OF STAFF, OPERATIONS
Robert F. Bellmon
Brigadier General
Director, Army Aviation
CONFIDENTIAL
“What the hell is all this about?” Lowell asked, looking up from the sheets of paper. “If you’re involved, Super Spook, there’s more to this than getting the last ounce of use out of worn-out airplanes before sending them to the bone yard.”
“Hanrahan has a transportation problem,” Felter said. “I thought I could help him, and this looked like a good solution.”
“You offered that explanation too quickly,” Lowell said. “Bullshit, in other words.”
Felter was surprised at the ease with which Lowell had seen through the “official” story: that that sonofabitch Felter was using his influence to get his old pal, the head of the Green Berets, some surplus navy airplanes.
“OK,” Felter said, after a minute. “You’d make dangerous guesses anyway, if you weren’t told.”
“Told what?”
“We are going to assist some Cubans who have been forced out of the country and wish to go back and overthrow Castro,” Felter said.
Lowell considered that for a moment before he replied.
“Fascinating,” he said. “Where are you going to stage them? Panama?”
“I said you’d make dangerous guesses,” Felter said. “Nicaragua.”
“Why not lower Florida?” Lowell asked. “Wouldn’t that be closer?”
“Nicaragua,” Felter repeated. “General Somoza is making available what space we need.”
“What’s that going to cost us?”
“He gets to keep everything, the airfields, whatever else we build; but aside from that, nothing. He’s doing it as his contribution to the Monroe Doctrine, and because he sees Castro as a threat to him.”
“And is he?”
“Oh, yes. He’s a dangerous man.”
“So how does Hanrahan fit in? More important, how do I fit in?”
“He’s going to send some Berets down to Nicaragua, very quietly, to do the training. And we’re going to funnel the support—the weapons, that sort of thing—through him.”
“And fly it down there on old Gooney-birds? Wouldn’t it be easier to give them fewer but bigger airplanes?”
“We’re going to maintain a very low profile.”
“You don’t think you can hide something like this from the Russians, do you?” Lowell asked.
“Who mentioned the Russians?”
“Come on, Mouse,” Lowell said.
“I suppose,” Felter said, “that the President had to take into account certain domestic political considerations. There’s a ‘Fair Play For Cuba’ committee among other things. Kennedy could use it against Nixon, too, I suppose.”
“Kennedy against Nixon? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Kennedy’s going to run against Nixon; don’t you know that?”
“Jesus, that’s all we need, a bleeding-heart Harvard liberal in the White House.”
“That’s one of the things the President is trying to avoid,” Felter said.
“Getting back to question number one, where do I fit into this?”
“Not very far, Craig,” Felter said. “And that’s not subject to negotiation, so don’t even ask. With Hanrahan’s approval, Bellmon and Jiggs decided that you are in a good position to handle the Gooney-bird logistics.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning just what I said,” Felter replied. “For one thing, we’re going to need pilots for these airplanes. We’re going to hide them in your rocket-armed helicopter project. You’re going to be in charge of having them trained, of handling their pay, and of any other personnel problems. And then, right away, we’re going to have to equip these airplanes with air-to-ground tactical radios…the AN/ARC-44…and LORAN over-the-water navigation gear, and that’ll be done at Rucker by SATSA. You’ll handle the procurement.”
“That’s pushing paper,” Lowell said.
“I know. You’re very good at that, I understand.”
“Jesus!”
“And you’re a good chess player, moving pieces around. That’ll come in handy.”
“Meaning what?”
“I don’t want more than one—and I will not tolerate more than two—of these Gooney-birds on one field at one time.”
“‘I don’t want’?”
“Yeah,” Felter said, after a minute. “I don’t want. Any other questions, Major?”
“How can I get transferred out of this chickenshit outfit?”
Felter laughed.
“Hanrahan’s going to meet us at Pensacola,” he said. “You have been deputized by Jiggs and Roberts to represent them at the meeting with the Action Officer.”
“The ‘Action Officer’? Who the hell is he?”
“I thought I made that pretty clear,” Felter said.
“I thought you were running errands for the President,” Lowell said.
“This is in addition to my other duties,” Felter said, his voice light. And then he grew serious. “If you—and by ‘you’ I mean Hanrahan and Jiggs and Bellmon—can do this without making waves, then I can keep running it. If I have to keep putting out fires, Craig, they’ll put somebody else in charge.”
“I don’t see where there will be a problem, Sandy,” Lowell said.
Felter nodded.
“What happens to you when Eisenhower leaves office?” Lowell asked.
“I want to go back to the army,” Felter said.
“You don’t really think they’ll let you, do you?” Lowell said. “I think you’re dreaming.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I think there’s a shit list in the Pentagon,” Lowell said. “With two names written on it in gold. The two names are Felter, S., and Lowell, C. A lot of big brass, Little Buddy, hates your ass and is just waiting for a chance to stick it in you.”
“The day I met you, you were on a shit list,” Felter said. “Subsequently, you have done very well.”
“The mongrels are nipping at my heels,” Lowell said. “Getting braver and braver by the minute. And as soon as you’re stripped of that Counselor to the President business, they’ll take out after you.”
“I have officially requested assignment to Special Forces at the conclusion of my present assignment,” Felter said.
“Good luck, Mouse,” Lowell said.
He looked out the window. The Commander had begun its approach. They were coming in over the Gulf of Mexico. The sun was high, and the beaches seemed incredibly bright.
Two minutes later, they were on the ground at Pensacola Naval Air Station.
They taxied past Base Operations to a corner of the field. There were a number of R4Ds parked there, fifteen or twenty of them, a fire truck and several utility trucks, two navy staff cars, and an Otter.
A navy officer in a gray flight suit and a brimmed cap with a blue cover walked up the Aero Commander as the pilot shut down its engines.
“Commander Eaglebury,” Felter made the introductions, “Major Lowell.”
The two officers sized each other up and approved of what they saw.
“What did you do to make the navy mad, Commander?” Lowell asked. “And get yourself shanghaied into this?”
Eaglebury laughed out loud.
A large man, even larger than Lt. Commander Eaglebury, came running up. He wore a green beret and the six stripes of a master sergeant.
He saluted crisply.
“Jesus,” he said, enthusiastically. “Just like old times. The Mouse and the Duke and the Polack.”
“How the hell are you, Wojinski?” Lowell said, warmly.
“I gather you and the sergeant have met before?” Eaglebury said.
“This sailor’s all right,” Wojinski said. “He went through the whole damned Super Boy Scout course with sergeant’s stripes on his sleeve.”
“I wallow in your admiration, Ski,” Eaglebury said, dryly.
“I was with the Colonel and the Duke and the Mouse in Greece,” Wojinski said, proudly.
“I seem to have heard that before, somewhere,” Eaglebury said.
“It’ll be like old times,” Wojinski repeated.
“I don’t think so, Ski,” Lowell said.
MacMillan and Phil Parker, in flight suits, came up. It was the first Lowell had seen them since the Wedding That Wasn’t, and there was a moment’s awkwardness.
“If you don’t mention my being left at the altar,” Lowell said, “I will refrain from telling the commander that you both have the clap, all right?”
There was laughter.
“I was just saying,” Wojinski said, doggedly, “that it’s going to be like old times.”
“And I said I don’t think so,” Lowell repeated.
“Why not, Duke?” Wojinski asked.
“Because I am here as a simple paper-pusher, Ski,” Lowell said. “Officer in charge of the staple gun and the Avgas credit cards, in addition to my other paper-pushing duties. Isn’t that so, Colonel Felter?”
“Yes, Major Lowell,” Felter said, “that’s the way it is.”
(Two)
The Law Offices of Howard Dutton
Ozark, Alabama
1430 Hours, 3 September 1959
“Mrs. Jiggs,” Howard Dutton said, getting up from behind his desk to walk across the room to shake her hand. “It’s a pleasure to see you, ma’am.”
Dutton was stocky and ruddy faced. His hair was thin, and he was just beginning to get jowly. He was wearing a seersucker suit.
“It’s very good of you to see me on such short notice,” she said. “And I know how busy you must be.”
“I’ve always got time for you, ma’am,” he said. “Can I offer you something? Iced tea? Coffee? A soft drink?”
She hesitated. He took the chance.
“Maybe something with a little bite in it?”
She smiled at him.
“By a strange coincidence,” he said, “I just have some vodka that’s about to go stale. Would you like it with tonic water—that seems to cut the thirst—but I’ve got both tomato and orange juice.”
“The tonic, please,” Jane Jiggs said.
Dutton tugged at a bookcase against the wall. The whole thing swung open to reveal a wet bar.
“That’s very nice,” Jane said, impressed.
“Costs a bunch of money to give the impression you wouldn’t think of having a nip in your office,” Dutton said. “But in a town like this…”
“I understand,” Jane Jiggs said.
He made drinks and handed one to her.
“To Melody and Jean-Philippe,” Jane said.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said.
“And how are they?”
“They’re just fine,” Howard Dutton said. “Just fine.”
“Craig Lowell told me Jean-Philippe called him one day last week,” Jane said.
“Ma’am?”
“Craig Lowell,” Jane said, “Jean-Philippe’s friend.”
“Oh, yes, ma’am,” Howard Dutton said. “The one with his own airplane.”
“And the one who flew the helicopter at Ed Greer’s funeral,” Jane said.
“That’s right, isn’t it?” Howard Dutton said. “He was the one.”
“He was a good friend of Ed’s, and he’s a good friend of Jean-Philippe and Melody’s,” Jane Jiggs said.
“Yes, ma’am, I guess you could say he is,” Howard Dutton said. He had decided that whatever Mrs. Jiggs wanted, it had something to do with Craig Lowell. And she certainly wanted something.
Lowell was the sonofabitch who was at least partially responsible for Melody marrying her Frenchman and going off to France. Howard Dutton wasn’t at all sure that he wanted to do any favors for Major Craig Lowell, even if General Jiggs’s wife asked for them.
“How was France?” Jane asked.
“Well, I’ll tell you it’s a good thing Melody married a rich man,” Howard Dutton said. “I couldn’t believe the prices.”
“I hear they’re outrageous,” Jane Jiggs agreed.
“Lucky for us, the Janniers wouldn’t let us spend hardly anything. They even tried to pay the hotel bill the day we got there. And I don’t mind telling you that they really understand hospitality. All we had to do is look like maybe we wanted something, and there it was, held out on a tray by some servant or another.”
“I’m happy for Melody,” Jane said. “I think everybody is.”
“There are some who wish that she’d waited a decent interval,” he said.
“They’re just jealous,” Jane said, and then: “And that wasn’t possible, was it?”
He looked at her, as if surprised she knew that Melody was pregnant, and even more surprised that she had brought it up. He was annoyed.
“What exactly can I do for you, Mrs. Jiggs?” he asked, smiling, but somewhat coldly.
“We have a small problem,” she said.
“‘We’ do?”
“One of our officers is involved with one of your married women,” Jane Jiggs said.
“Lowell?” he asked, chuckling at the way she put it.
“The woman is Jane Cassidy,” Jane Jiggs said.
“Tom Cassidy’s wife?” he blurted. She saw that she had surprised him. She nodded. “Well, I’m right sorry to hear that,” he said. “She has two kids, I think.”
“So I understand,” Jane said.
“Tom Cassidy’s a fine fellow,” Dutton said.
“I think they’re all nice people,” Jane said. “That’s why I’m trying to help. Why I came to you.”
“Well, I’m not much of a marriage counselor,” Dutton said. “And I don’t handle divorces.”
“It’s a long way from a divorce,” Jane said. “And I want to keep it that way.”
“Then Tom Cassidy doesn’t know?”
“Nobody knows, yet,” Jane said. “Not even my husband. Just Craig and Jane, and you and me.”
“Why are you telling me this?” he asked.
“Because Melody once told me that if I ever needed anything fixed, I should see her Daddy,” Jane Jiggs said. “And I need this fixed, Mr. Dutton, before some very nice people, including two young kids, get hurt in a scandal.”
“I guess you better tell me all you know,” Howard Dutton said, draining his vodka tonic. “And then we’ll see what can be done.”
“I’m very grateful to you, Mayor Dutton,” Jane Jiggs said.
“My pleasure, ma’am,” he said.
In the end it was a simple thing to take care of. He had a word with the chief of police. He told the chief he wanted him to handle it personally. The chief understood.
Three days later, as Mrs. Jane Cassidy turned onto Highway 27 to return from Ozark to Enterprise, she was stopped for having a faulty taillight. The policeman was the chief of police himself. He seemed genuinely sorry to tell her that he smelled liquor on her breath and was going to have to ask her to leave her car by the side of the road and come to the police station with him, so that she could blow up a balloon which would tell exactly how much she had to drink.
She was taken to the police station, given the balloon test, and then put into a room.
An hour later, Mayor Howard Dutton came into the room.
“Jane,” he said, “I’m sure as God sorry to see you in here.”
“I’m not drunk, Howard,” Jane protested. “No matter what that damn balloon test says.”
“I don’t think you’re drunk, either,” he said. “And I wouldn’t be surprised if there was nothing wrong with your taillight.”
“I don’t understand,” she said, confused.
“Chief Scott got born again last year,” he said.
“What’s that got to do with anything?” she asked, angrily.
“Well, I don’t know exactly,” he said. “But it’s probably got something to do with finding his wife once upon a time where she shouldn’t have been, if you take my meaning.”
“What’s that got to do with me?”
“He told me that he’s seen your car where he thinks it doesn’t have a good reason to be.”
“This is outrageous!”
“Now I know—and you know—that you haven’t been doing anything wrong,” he said. “I’ll talk to the judge about this drunk driving business, and you probably won’t even have to go to court. But I’d be very careful where I parked my car in the future. It isn’t what people know for sure that counts, Jane, it’s what people think they know.”
“Did he tell you where he thought he saw my car?”
“I didn’t ask him,” Howard Dutton said. “I don’t want to know anything I don’t have to.”
“Of course, he didn’t,” Jane Cassidy protested. “Because I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“I know that, Jane,” Howard Dutton said. “And, none of this will go any further than it has to. I’ll speak to the judge…”
“I appreciate that, Howard.”
“But I’m going to have to tell you, between us, that the judge and the chief are two of a kind. I don’t know how much influence I would have the second time around. Or if something like this happened again when I was out of town.”
“Well,” she said, coldly, “since nothing happened this time, there is no chance of anything happening again.”
“I’m glad to hear that, Jane,” Mayor Howard Dutton said. “I would surely be sad to hear that anything was wrong with a fine marriage like yours and Tom’s.”
He looked into her eyes to let her know he knew. Then he left her. On the way out, he told the chief of police to leave her alone for an hour and then drive her back to her car and let her go.
(Three)
Davis-Monthan Air Force Base, Arizona
1415 Hours, 24 December 1959
“Davis-Monthan,” Lieutenant Commander Edward B. Eaglebury said to the old-fashioned hand-held microphone in the cockpit, “Navy Eight Twenty, an R4D aircraft, ten miles south of your station for landing.”
