Major Craig W. Lowell had been privately tutored before entering St. Mark's, from which he had been expelled before going on to Harvard, from which he had also been expelled. He was, he realized, mocking his own, and wondered why. And then he understood. He resented the intrusion of that world into this one. And he understood that it was important that this long-legged blonde must not learn any more about him than he had to tell her.
Her questions began as soon as they began the ride from Laird Field through Daleville to the main post.
"Have you been in the army long, Major... Lowell, is it?"
"Lowell," he confirmed. He did the arithmetic. "Thirteen years," he said. "West Point?" "Oh, no," he said. "I came in the army as an enlisted man.
"Battlefield commission?" she asked, hopefully.
He looked into the back seat. She was scribbling into a notebook. Her legs were crossed and her hair had fallen forward. She looked up at him. Her eyes were light blue, intelligent.
"Nothing as romantic as that," he said. "I was commissioned into the finance corps, and then transferred to armor."
"Oh?"
"I wasn't a very good finance clerk," he said. "Where are you from?" "Long Island," he said. "A little village on Long Island. Glen Cove." "Oh?" she said. "I'm from Scarsdale. You don't sound like a New Yorker."
"I don't suppose I am, anymore," he said.
"Are you married?"
"I have a twelve-year-old son," he said.
"Here?"
"In Germany." She was clever, and put that together.
"You married a German girl?" "Yes," Lowell said. "When I was nineteen."
She was too polite and it was not germane to her story to probe further into his personal life.
"When did you become a pilot?"
"The army calls us aviators," he said. "In 1954."
"And you're the man responsible for the rocket-armed helicopters?"
"Oh, no," Lowell said. "Get that straight. Two men were responsible for that: Lieutenant Colonel Rudolph G. Macmilian and First Lieutenant Edward C. Greer."
She made him spell the names and then said: "I'd like to talk to them."
"That'll be difficult," Lowell said. "Lieutenant Greer was killed just before Christmas. And Colonel Macmillan was transferred. I've taken over for them. But the work was already mostly done when 1 did."
"Greer was killed in that accident we saw on television?"
"Yes."
"And the other one, Macmillan, was the one who shot up the Russian tanks?"
"I don't think it's been determined, officially, who did that," Lowell said. "But this Macmillan has been transferred, right?" she asked. She had put that together, too. "It was a routine transfer," Lowell said. "As I told you, the development work on the rocket-armed helicopter is about over."
"Huh!" she snorted.
"And I was brought in to take over since it was," he went on.
She closed her reporter's notebook and put it in her purse. Lowell had been ordered by Colonel Roberts to take them on a tour of the post. He pointed out Hanchey Field, the world's largest heliport, and the post hospital, and the dependent housing area.
She asked only one more question.
"Is that where you live, Major Lowell?"
"No, ma'am, I live off post," he said.
When the hour was over, they returned to the Army Aviation Board.
"We'll have to get you another guide, Miss. Thomas," Colonel Roberts said. "Major Lowell is going on leave." "Oh?" she asked.
Roberts looked at Lowell.
"While you were gone," he said, "the post commander telephoned and recommended that Major Lowell be placed on leave. Lowell has been working very hard lately."
"Sir, I can put that off until Miss. Thomas and Mr. Norton are through here," Lowell said.
"I wouldn't think of it, Major," Colonel Bill Roberts said, icily. "If the post commander thinks you should go on leave, I think you should go on leave." "Yes, sir," Lowell said.
"Thank you for the cook's tour, Major Lowell," Miss. Thomas said, offering her hand.
He took it, and met her eyes. Her hand was warm and soft, and something else. Vibrant, he thought.
"My pleasure, Miss. Thomas," Lowell said. Then he shook hands with her photographer, saluted Colonel Roberts, and left the office.
As he got into Bill Franklin's car to leave the field, he thought about what had happened the night before. Sometimes after a really wild session in bed, he was hornier than he would have been after a quickie.
And the session with lane Cassidy had been wild. Once she had let the barrier of fidelity down, all of her suppressed hungers had rushed out.
It had left him with the odd feeling that he was being used. It was not a pleasant feeling, and it occurred to him that women must also often feel that way: Jane Cassidy didn't love him, or even particularly like him. She was just hot for his body. He laughed at himself: Oh, you poor, used dear, you!
He thought then of the very different and very loving expression on Melody Dutton Greer's face, when she looked at Jean-Philippe. An expression that reminded him how alone he was. Being with Jane hadn't changed that. But he was sure that this loneliness would pass and also that he had handled Miss. Thomas (he realized he didn't even know her first name) the way she needed to be handled. Conference Room 3-101 The Central Intelligence Agency Mclean, Virginia 1815 Hours, 2 February 1959
The red telephone, one of three instruments at the head of the broad table in front of the Director, both buzzed and flashed. It was the presidential office line a line whose use was restricted to the President's immediate staff.
The Director said, "Excuse me," picked it up, said, "Hello," listened, said, "He's here; I'll tell him," and hung up.
"The President," he said, "has expressed a desire to see you, Colonel Felter, at seven-thirty."
"That's the second time he's done that," Felter said. "Made me a colonel. I wish he'd put it in writing."
"The President can call you "colonel' all he wants, Felter," the Deputy Director, Covert Operations, said, chuckling. "But before the army will pay you as a colonel, it will have to have the advice and consent of the Senate."
The men at the table laughed. It was not, Felter realized, the second time, but rather the third or fourth time in the last couple of weeks that the President had called him
"Colonel Felter." For a long time Ike had referred to him simply as "Felter"... calling errand-runners and spear-carriers by their last names was usual.
"Hope springs eternal in the human breast," Felter said. He wondered what the President wanted. He looked at his watch. The meeting here couldn't last much longer. He would have plenty of time to take the Volkswagen and drive to the White House by half past seven.
The President's military aide was waiting for him in the basement when he got to the White House.
"Let's go get a cup of coffee, Felter," Major General Faye, who was in uniform, said. "You're fifteen minutes early, and fifteen minutes is one of those time frames that doesn't give you many other options." "Thank you, sir," Felter said.
They went into the executive mess, and white-jacketed navy stewards brought them coffee and doughnuts. There was hardly time to finish the coffee before they had to get on the elevator and ascend to the presidential apartments.
"Have any idea what he wants with you?" General Faye asked, when they were on the elevator.
"No, sir."
The Secret Service agent on duty in the upstairs corridor nodded at them, and then held the door at the end of the corridor open for them.
Felter was not surprised to see the senior senator from California and his wife in the presidential apartments. He was close to the President, and the lady and Mamie Eisenhower were cronies. What really surprised him was that his own wife was there. It wasn't the first time she'd been in the place, but God knows Sharon was hardly part of the White House inner circle. All he could figure was that Mrs. Eisenhower had drafted Sharon for some social duty. Sharon smiled
nervously at him.
The President came into the room, and on his heels one of the White House butlers carrying a silver tray with silver cups on it.
"Artillery punch," the President said. "Mamie's idea. She thought it was appropriate for the occasion."
Felter quickly searched his mind, wondering if there had been a victory for one of the West Point athletic teams that day. It was the only reason he could imagine for the artillery punch, the army Auld Lang Sync.
"Go on, Senator," the President said.
"Sandy," the senator said, "in its infinite wisdom, the United States Senate, on the recommendation of the President, has granted its advice and consent to your promotion to lieutenant colonel."
"By God, I think he is surprised," the President said, flashing his world-famous grin.
"Flabbergasted, Mr. President," Felter said.
"Good," the President said, taking one of the silver cups from the butler. "I'm pleased to see there is something that can astonish you."
He waited until the other cups had been passed out. Then he went on: "Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Lieutenant Colonel Felter." "Hear, hear," General Faye said.
"Thank you very much, Mr. President," Felter said. He looked at Sharon. She was beaming. My God, he thought, have we come a long way from the Old Warsaw Bakery on the corner of Aldine Street and Chancellor Avenue in Newark, New Jersey.
"And his gracious lady," the President went on, raising his cup to Sharon.
"Hear, hear," General Faye said again.
"Sandy, I've got to tell you I got my silver leaf with much more pomp and circumstance," the President said. "In the Malacan Palace in Manila. From General Macarthur. Who was then Marshal of the Philippine Army. Everybody in dress whites. Very grand, indeed."
"I can think of nothing that would be more grand than this, Mr. President," Felter said.
"I promoted you a little early, Felter, because I wanted it understood that you had earned it, and it wasn't something I passed out just before leaving office."
"I don't know what to say, Mr. President," Felter said. The President smiled at him. Then he raised his silver cup. "Absent comrades," he said. The others parroted him. "Get the photographer in here," the President said. The photographer appeared immediately. "We want two pictures," the President ordered. "One of all of us, and one with just Mrs. Eisenhower, Mrs. Felter, Colonel Felter, and me." "Yes, sir," the photographer said.
"I don't think it'll be on the front page of the Washington Post, Felter," the President said. "But maybe, when you're as old as lam, it will be kind of fun to take out and look at."
The President of the United States put his arm around Sandy Felter's shoulders.
"Say "cheese,". Mrs. Felter," the President said.
Schloss Graffenberg Marburg an der Lahn, West Germany 14 February 1959
There was a 200-meter firing range set up between rows of apple trees in the orchard to the west of the Schloss. When Generalmajor Graf Peter-Paul von Greiffenberg had had it refurbished after the war, he had it equipped with electrical targets. An electric motor and pulley system permitted targets to be fastened to a rack at the firing line, and then moved to the butts. Mter these had been fired on, they could be returned to the firing line for examination.
The targets today, however somewhat to the consternation of Generalmajor Graf von Greiffenberg were four quart cans of Campbell's tomato juice, raised from the ground on bricks.
The marksman was Peter-Paul Lowell, a blond twelve-year old who was tall for his age and who bore a strong resemblance both to his grandfather and his father. He was wearing a formal
German hunting costume: a green loden cloth jacket, matching green knickers, gray stockings, and a felt hat, the band of which was not ornamented. If he was lucky the next day, he would get his roebuck, a small deer, and thus be privileged to dip the hat feathers in the animal's blood, a symbol of entering the fraternity of hunters.
Peter-Paul Lowell also wore a pair of American shooting muffs over his ears. They didn't fit over the hat, so the headband was down on his neck.
Major Craig W. Lowell, similarly attired, corrected his son's standing position, and then stepped back.
"Go ahead, P. P.," he said in English.
"I do wish you wouldn't call me that," the boy said, in
British-accented English.
"Pardon me," Lowell said, smiling. "Go ahead, Peter."
The boy took the rifle from his shoulder and worked the action. Then he put it to his shoulder again.
"Take a breath," Major Lowell ordered. "Let half of it out.
Hold it. And then squeeze." He put his index fingers in his ears.
The boy took careful aim through the telescopic sight and fired.
There was a sharp crack. The recoil staggered the boy. The can of Campbell's tomato juice exploded.
"Mein Gott!" Peter-Paul Lowell exclaimed.
His father and grandfather applauded. Peter-Paul Lowell turned to them beaming.
"Keep the goddamn muzzle pointed at the ground and down range!" Craig Lowell snapped.
Embarrassed, the boy complied. "Open the action," Lowell commanded, "and hand it to me. And then run down there and have a look at the can."
The boy did as he was ordered.
"You've made him very happy with that rifle, Craig," the Graf von Greiffenberg said, when he was out of earshot.
"He's making me very happy with it," Lowell said. "And I see your.
reasoning with the juice can," the Graf said, nodding down range. The boy was holding up the can, ripped wide open by hydrostatic force, awe on his face.
"My father did that to me," Lowell said. "With a sixteen bore shotgun.
It's something you never forget." Peter-Paul Lowell ran back from the butts.
"It simply exploded!" he said. "Quite extraordinary."
You're not only half kraut, you're half limey. Which leaves no half for American.
"Beginner's luck, probably," Lowell said. "I'll bet you can't do it again."
"I shall certainly have a go at it, Father," the boy said, miffed, and reached for the rifle.
He fired four more times, missing once.
"What do you say, Grandpa?" Lowell asked, seriously. "You think we can safely take him with us?" "I'm not sure Craig," the Graf said, solemnly, going along. "He's still so young.
"Grosspapa!" Peter-Paul Lowell said, in exasperation.
"Well, perhaps we could try," von Greiffenberg said.
"May I shoot some more?"
"You can finish that box of shells," Lowell said. "But we're out of tomato juice."
He had just finished shooting three five-shot groups of about three inches, which made his father extraordinarily proud of his son, when the butler appeared.
"Hen Generalmajor Graf, your guests have arrived."
"We'll be there directly," the Graf said.
"Now comes the dirty part," Lowell said. "First you clean up the mess the tomato juice made, and then you clean the rifle." "Yes, sir," the boy said.
"Perhaps," the Graf said, tactfully, "Peter-Paul could do that after he's met our guests." "Of course," Lowell said.
He had understood both the Graf's tactful reluctance to override Lowell's orders to his son and the "our" guests. Lowell knew the primary perhaps the only reason the Graf had invited U.S. Army officers on the hunt was to introduce him to them.
"You always make sure the weapon is empty," Lowell said, "and then you leave the action open.
"Very well," Peter-Paul Lowell said.
There were four U.S. Army officers, in uniform, waiting in the sitting room of the Schloss (which was more of a large villa than the term "Schloss," or "castle," implied). The two senior officers were Major General Bryan Ford, the European Command intelligence officer, and Brigadier General John B. Nesbit, the Seventh Army intelligence officer. They were accompanied by two junior officers, their aides-de-camp. All four stood up as they saw von Greiffenberg stride into the room.
Ou
t the window, Lowell saw they had come in staff cars. An invitation to shoot with the Chief of Intelligence of the Bundeswehr was apparently considered official business.
"I'm so sorry not to have personally greeted you," the Graf said. "We were teaching Peter-Paul how to fire his new rifle. You have, at least, been offered something to drink?"
"We've been well taken care of, Herr Generalmajor Graf," Major General Ford said, in fluent German.
W E B Griffin - BoW 04 - The Colonels Page 31