He read the file again, once or twice shaking his head in either disbelief or resignation, and then closed the red-striped cover. After he'd finished, he leaned into the aisle and motioned with his finger.
A tall, thin, clean-cut young man came to him. He was wearing a dark blue vested suit. His necktie was pulled down, and the vest unbuttoned. There was a Smith & Wesson.38 Special revolver in a holster on his belt. There was a briefcase attached to his wrist with a stainless steel wire and a handcuff.
Felter handed him the folder.
"Burn these," he said. "Send me confirmation." "Yes, sir," the young man said, stuffing the folder into the briefcase and then locking it.
"We're going into National," Felter said. "Is that going to pose transportation problems for you?"
"No, sir. We have people there. I'll be all right." Tim Colonels
"Thank you," Felter said.
The young man went back to his seat. Felter got out of his seat, made his way forward to the cabin, and knelt in the aisle beside Sharon, who had a copy of Reader's Digest and the remnants of a sandwich on the fold-ddwn table in front of her.
"We're going into National," he said. "If the car won't start, take a cab, and leave word for me at the White House." "All right," Sharon said.
"I don't know when I'll be home," he said.
"I know," she said, and placed her hand on his and smiled at him. "Is it bad, honey?" "No," he said. "Nothing to worry about."
(Three) The White House Washington, D.C. 1155 Hours, 3 January 1959
The taxi turned off Pennsylvania Avenue and stopped before the gate.
Felter got out of the cab as a guard came out of the guard shack. The guard recognized Felter and signaled to the guard shack. Felter paid the cab, and then held up his White House pass for the guard.
"Good afternoon, sir," the guard said.
As Felter walked to the gate, the gate slid open just wide enough to admit him. When he was inside, it closed after him. He walked up the curving drive and entered the side entrance. A guard and a marine sergeant in dress blues were waiting for him.
"You're to go to the. Situation Room, Mr. Felter," the marine sergeant said, and led the way to the elevator. Once the door had closed after them, Felter reached under his coat and caine out-with a.45 ACP pistol. He handed it to the marine.
"Thank you, sir," the marine said.
There was a bank of television sets mounted on the wall in the Situation Room. One of them was carrying NBC, the others were blank.
NBC was showing what looked like a New Year's Day celebration in Havana.
The President turned when he sensed the light from the -corridor shining into the darkened room. He saw Felter, nodded, and then returned his attention to the television. Felter saw that most of the places at the conference table were already filled. As he took an empty place at the end of the table, a marine set a legal pad, three pencils, and an ashtray in front of him. A moment later, he added a china mug of coffee.
Felter nodded his thanks, and picked up the coffee.
The NBC news program ended. A commercial for Sanka coffee came on. The screen went blank, and the lights in the room came up.
A discussion followed, lasting forty-five minutes. Pelter neither made notes nor opened his mouth.
"Well, then," the President said, finally, "to sum up, we're in a holding position. Until this... this victory party, I suppose... winds down, and we can either talk to Castro personally, or at least get an idea of what he's thinking from Valaquez, there's nothing we can, or should do."
Juan Valaquez, the son of a Havana hotel owner, had been educated, like his father, at Georgia Tech. He had joined Fidel Castro early on, in a naive belief that Castro was a patriot whose sole ambition was to liberate Cuba from an oppressive military dictatorship. When it had become obvious to him that Castro's plans for Cuba had nothing to do with providing a free and democratic government, he had contacted a Georgia Tech classmate who had entered the Foreign Service.
Who told Valaquez he had two choices: to drop out of the Castro rebellion (he was offered political sanctuary in the United States) or to stay where he was and report on Castro's activities. He had elected to stay with Castro.
Pelter raised his hand from the table, its index finger extended. The President saw it.
"Pelter?"
The faces at the table turned to Pelter.
"Mr. President," Felter said, "Juan Valaquez was executed by a firing squad at 5:05 this morning, Havana time."
"Jesus!" somebody said.
"How the hell can you know that?" an army lieutenant general snapped.
Pelter didn't reply.
"Can you expand, Pelter?" the President said.
"He was arrested at two this morning," Pelter said. "Shortly after he left Castro in the presidential palace. He was taken to house on the outskirts of Havana, interrogated for several hours, and then taken to the garden and shot. I don't know how run COLONELS much he told them, but we have to presume they got what they wanted from him."
"Dick?" the President looked at the Director of the CIA.
"The last I have on Valaquez is that he was with Castro for dinner," the Director said. "I don't know where Felter gets his information."
If it was an invitation to Felter to expand on his sources, Felter ignored it.
"How do you assess this, Felter?" the President asked.
"Yes, you asking for my recommendation, Mr. President?" "the President said, somewhat coldly.
"I think we should eliminate Che Guevara," Felter said, levelly.
"Absolutely not!" the Secretary of State said.
"Are you prepared to do that, Felter?" the President asked. "It's something you can do, I mean, rather than something you suggest should be done?"
"Yes, sir. At the moment, we have the assets."
"What would be the advantages to us, Felter?" the President asked.
"Assets?" the President's Chief of Staff said. "What he means is assassins in place."
"I believe the decision to eliminate Valaquez was made before they knew for sure he was working for us," Felter said. "I believe it was made by Che Guevara, not Castro, although of course with Castro's blessing, for one or more reasons. For one thing, he posed a threat to Guevara's position in the new regime, as number two to Castro. Guevara took the chance, in other words, that he could reinforce his own position by eliminating Valaquez providing he could prove to Castro that his suspicions were justified. We have to assume he made his point. Castro is now convinced that the people around him, with the exception of Guevara, are not trustworthy."
"That's conjecture, nothing more," the lieutenant general said.
Pelter ignored the comment. He went on.
"If we take Guevara out, it will accomplish several things. For one thing, it will make Castro uneasy, and thus easier to deal with; and it will eliminate Guevara, who is probably the most dangerous member of the inner circle."
"And when do you think, Major," the head of the Defense Intelligence Agency asked, icily sarcastic, "that, failing the assassination of Guevara, we may expect a Cuban invasion of Key West?"
"No one expects that, General," the President said, gently. But it was a reproof.
"It may well be, Mr. President," Felter went on, "that nothing we can do, including the elimination of Guevara, will keep Russia, or Russian missiles, out of Cuba. I suggest, however, that anything we do to delay that movement is in the national interest."
"Including murder?" the Secretary of State said.
"How would you characterize the execution of Valaquez?" the President asked, dryly, "if not murder?"
"As the execution of a traitor," the Secretary of State said. "Which is permitted under international law."
The President nodded, as if he accepted that interpretation. He looked at Felter.
"I don't want this man killed, Felter," he said.
"Yes, sir," Felter said.
"I would say this," the President said. "If this matter
were brought to a vote, I think there would oaly be one vote, Colonel Felter's, to go ahead. He stands alone, in other words."
Felter glanced at the President. He had just been given a mis spoken promotion to colonel.
"He stood alone six months ago, too," the President said, "when he said there was no doubt in his mind that this Castro was going to overthrow General Batista."
Then without another word, the President got up and walked out of the Situation Room.
(Four) 127 Rosemary Lane Ozark, Alabama 1000 Hours, 3 January 19S9
For Macmillan, the drive to Bragg was going to be byway of Benning, Gordon, and Jackson. That is to' say, he would drive up U.S. 431 to Columbus, Georgia, where Fort Benning, the Infantry Center, sits on the Alabama Georgia border. From Benning, he would take U.S. 80 across Georgia to Fort Gordon, at Augusta, and then U.S. 1 to Fort Jackson, at Columbia, SC." and then take U.S. 15 into Bragg, which was outside Fayetteville, N.C.
He slept late, until almost ten, then got up, showered, and got dressed. He put on civilian sports clothes, a dark blue golf shirt, light blue slacks, and an expensive yellow nylon jacket with an embroidered representation of a burning tree on its breast. Three months before, after he'd gone eighteen holes with Craig Lowell at Burning Tree in Washington, he'd seen the jacket in the pro shop. It was stuffed with some kind of miracle material that was supposed to be lighter and more efficient insulation than goose down. He liked the jacket for two reasons; first, because it was a really good jacket, light and warm as hell, and second, because he'd paid for it with the hundred and sixty bucks he'd taken from Lowell, who had needed elevin strokes to get through the last two greens. Mac didn't often get to take money from Lowell, and it was sweet when he did. The jacket made a pleasant reminder.
After he'd eaten the ham and eggs Roxy made for him, he kissed her perfunctorily, as if he were going no further than Fort Rucker for the day, and went out to the carport. He took a quick look to see that the stainless steel thermos bottle and the road atlas were on the front seat; that the briefcase was on the floor on the passenger side; and that the golf bag was on the floor in the back.
He didn't check the briefcase, confident that Roxy had taken care of it. He knew that when he opened it, it would contain a toilet kit, a checkbook, five $100 American Express Company traveler's checks, a.32 ACP Colt pistol, two clips and a shoulder holster for the pistol, a couple of handkerchiefs, a bottle of aspirin, and a small box of Kleenex. He did not even open the trunk. He had asked Roxy to pack enough for him for two weeks, and there was absolutely no question in his mind that when he opened the trunk at Bragg, there would be suitcases and zipper bags containing enough uniforms and clothing for at least two weeks. He saw that Roxy had even equipped him with a jar of Lowell's cigars and a box of large wooden kitchen matches to light them with.
Then he got in the Cadillac and backed out of the driveway. When Roxy waved at him, he tapped the horn, and then turned the corner.
There was absolutely no trauma of separation. The kids hadn't even said much when he told them at supper that they were going to Bragg.
They were army brats, and used to his frequent absences and their own frequent moves.
He left Ozark at a quarter to eleven. At almost exactly noon, having driven the ninety-odd miles well above the speed limit he crossed the bridge between Phenix City, Alabama, and Columbus, Georgia. A large sign gave the route to Fort Benning.
He had been at Benning years before, as a buck sergeant, when the concept of vertical envelopment, that is of landing military forces by parachute from aircraft, had been judged worthy of a test by a provisional company of the 82nd Infantry Division. He had made his first parachute jump at Benaing. He and Roxy had lived in atiny apartment in Phenix City, Alabama.
There was a Hall of Fame at Fort Benning. On its wall hung a photograph of First Lieutenant Rudolph G. Macmillan. In the photograph, President Harry S. Truman was hanging the starred ribbon of the Medal of Honor around his neck. Framed beside it was a copy of the citation that had accompanied the award.
He did not turn toward Fort Benning. Instead, he drove through town toward the intersection of U.S. 80. Then he nosed the Cadillac into the parking lot of a White Castle hamburger stand. He had been looking especially for the small white-tiled building. There they made very thin hamburger patties sort of steamed on the grill with chopped onions, which a waitress would bring to the car. There was no hamburger stand like it near Fort Rucker.
It was those burgers, he told himself, that made him look for the White Castle, rather than going out to the club at Benning for lunch. It had nothing to do with the fact that the way he had things figured, he was about to have his ass thrown out of the army and the less chance of seeing somebody he knew the better.
He looked around impatiently when no waitress appeared, and then saw a sign saying that curb service began at 4:00 P.M. He swore, and started the engine, and then shut it off again. The aroma of the frying onions and beef had penetrated the Cadillac. His mouth was watering.
"Fuck it," he said, and got out of the car and went inside the building, carrying the stainless steel thermos bottle.
There was a stool in the corner by the door. He sat down and ordered eight White Castles and coffee, black. Then he went to the john and threw out what was left of Roxy's coffee and rinsed the thermos. Tim
COLONELS
The stack of White Castles was waiting for him when he came out. He methodically made four double-patty burgers out of eight White Castles, by throwing away the top half of the rolls and putting the bottoms together.
A quartet of instructors two corporals, a staff sergeant, and a sergeant first class from the Parachute School at Benning came into the White Castle. They paid absolutely no attention to him.
He thought that what he really would like to do was be sergeant major of the jump school. Shit, he'd been around airborne even before it was airborne. Then he realized that was a dumb thing to be thinking. He might be on the shit list, but the worst thing they could do to him was make him retire. That wouldn't be the end of the god damned world. He had twenty one years in, which meant that he would go out with a nice pension. When he left Mauch Chunk, Pennsylvania, at sixteen to join the army, he didn't have the price of a pot to piss in. So if he went home now, he would go home in a Cadillac, with a lieutenant colonel's pension, and half ownership of the nicest restaurant in miles. Things could be a lot worse.
Another soldier came in. A young one. He was in civilian clothes, but he was dragging a stuffed duffel bag along after him, his hair was clipped short, and he was tanned red. There was no mistaking that he was a soldier, and Mac guessed that he had probably just finished jump school.
The soldier took a stool down the counter and ordered two White Castles. That's all, just two of the tiny hamburgers. He was obviously broke. Macmillan debated striking up a conversation with the kid, and then buying him a meal, but decided against it. Dressed the way he was, in civvies, it might be misunderstood.
The kid wolfed down the two White Castles and drank the water that came with them, then visited the john. When he came out, he hoisted the duffel bag onto his shoulder and went out.
Mac ate his four double White Castles, ordered the thermos bottle filled with coffee, black, and paid his bill, got back in the Cadillac, and headed toward U.S. 80.
A hundred yards down the road, he saw the kid, sitting on the duffel bag with his thumb out.
Mac slowed, stopped, backed up, and lowered the passenger side window.
"I'm taking 80 North," he said, when the kid ran up. "That's great!" the kid said. "Put the bag in the back seat," Mac said. The kid got in beside him.
"Watch your feet," Mac said, pointing to the jar of cigars and the briefcase. "Push that crap to one side." "I appreciate the ride," the kid said.
"You're welcome," Mac said. "Where you headed?"
"Fort Bragg," the kid said.
"You're lucky, then," Mac said. "I'm going right through there." "God,"
the kid said, "takes care of fools and drunks, and I am qualified on both counts."
Mac chuckled. "Just finish jump school?" Mac asked.
"Does it show?" the kid said.
"Yeah," Mac said, "I guess it does."
"You were in the army?" "I was in the 82nd during the war," Mac said. "War II."
"That's where I'm headed," the kid said. "The 82nd Airborne."
They were on U.S. 80 by then, and out of town. "There's coffee in the thermos," Mac said. "The top makes a cup. You want some?" "I would really like some coffee," the kid said.
"Here," Mac said, handing the thermos to him. "Broke, huh?"
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