"Six Thirteen, give me a long count, please."
"Ten, Niner, Eight, Seven, Six, Fiver, Four, Three, Two, One."
"Six Thirteen, I read you five by five. Fourteen Ten, clear."
They now had two functioning radios.
Ten minutes later, having removed an ARC-55 and its immediate wiring and power supply from Donor Aircraft No. 2, It. Col. Charles went on the air using the ARC-55 in Donor Aircraft No. 3. There was no reply.
He checked his connections and found nothing wrong, which meant that particular radio was not working. So he closed his tool kit, went down the stairs, and was driven to Donor Aircraft No. 4.
By 2045 hours, the bed of the pickup truck held twelve AN!
ARC-55 radios, four more than Operation Fearless called for, plus so much other "excess to air force requirements" aviation communications and electronic equipment that it was impossible to lower the hydraulically operated stairway.
A thirteenth ("for good luck," It. Col. Charles said) AN!
ARC-55 and its ancillary equipment was removed from Donor
Aircraft No. 1, and Major Lowell was able to evacuate the radio operator's stool in that aircraft as he joined the others.
Then MI Sgt Wojinski drove the pickup truck onto the runway to their own R4D aircraft, tilted to one side on its flat tire.
The avionics equipment was loaded aboard the aircraft: in the baggage compartment in the nose, in the radio compartment between the passenger compartment and the cockpit, and in the toilet in the rear of the cabin.
The operations plan for Operation Fearless next required that they reload the food and sleeping bags aboard the Gooneybird. They had been off-loaded against the contingency that the air force would either move the Gooney-bird to Base Operations or place a guard on it.
"If you'll go get our crap and load it, I'll put the truck back," M/Sgt Wojinski said.
"Sergeant Wojinski," Major Lowell said, "far be it from a "fucking amateur' such as myself to offer a suggestion to a fucking professional such as yourself, but how would you like to sleep in General of the Army Douglas Macarthur's very own bed?"
"Come on, Lowell," It. Col. Charles said. "We'd need the stair-truck to get in it."
"And you, U. Col. Charles, how would you like to sleep in a bed previously occupied by Mrs. Macarthur, or at the very least by Major General Willoughby? Or some other member of the Imperial Guard?"
"What do we do with the truck?" It. Col. Macmillan asked. Lowell's suggestion had struck a chord.
"If Ski tries to take it back, he's liable to get caught:" "Bullshit," M/Sgt Wojinski said, flatly.
"He'd have to use headlights, and there would be a risk. However, in two or three days, after the air force finally misses their truck and the ground power supply, and after they start looking for it, if they were to find it parked against the
"Bataan' with the power supply plugged into it, they would probably decide that several of their own people had used the Christmas holidays to view an historic aircraft." It. Colonel Charles thought that over a moment.
"Lowell," he said, "I hate to admit it, but you are one smart sonofabitch."
"Thank you, sir."
When they got aboard the
"Bataan they found that it had one permanently installed double bed. It. Colonel Charles claimed the privilege of rank and shared it with MI Sgt Wojinski. Lowell and Macmillan spent the night in their sleeping bags on couches made up from folding seats.
They also found that with the ground power supply plugged in, it was possible to close the curtains over the windows, thus permitting the cabin lights and a broadcast band radio to be turned on. The electric galley worked, and thus they were able to warm their rations and heat water for powdered coffee. This, to mark the successful completion of Phase IV of Operation Fearless, they laced with cognac that Major Lowell had included with the rations against the chance one of the team might suffer snakebite.
(Seven)
Phase V of Operation Fearless went smoothly. At first light, they left the "Bataan" and walked to the Gooney-bird. MI Sgt Wojinski sat in the cockpit and served as lookout.
When an air force caravan (two pickup trucks; a staff car; a huge, bright yellow truck equipped with a derrick and sling; and a fuel truck) appeared on the taxiway shortly after 0800 hours, It. Col.
Charles and Major Lowell secreted themselves in the radio-navigator's compartment, and MI Sgt Wojinski and It. Col. Macmillan in the toilet.
Air force technicians quickly arranged a sling around the left wing, and the derrick raised the aircraft off the ground. The blown tire was quickly removed, replaced, and the aircraft lowered to the ground.
It. Commander Eaglebury profusely thanked the aerodrome officer for all his courtesies, and told him that if he was ever in the vicinity of the Anacostia Naval Air Station to be sure to look him up.
Greetings for the holiday season were exchanged. The pilots boarded the aircraft.
"Davis-Monthan clears Navy Eight Twenty for taxi to the active. You may use the taxiway as the threshold. There are no winds. The altimeter is two niner eight. The time is forty-five past the hour.
You are cleared for takeoff when ready."
Five minutes later, Bill Franldin spoke to his microphone: "Davis-Monthan, Navy Eight Twenty rolling. Thank you, Davismonthan."
"Merry Christmas, Navy Eight Twenty."
(Eight)
Major Lowell offered to spring for the Christmas Day buffet at the Dallas Country Club when they landed at Love Field for fuel, but the others were anxious to get home, so they took aboard more in-flight meals from Executive Air Catering and flew on to Laird Field at Fort Rucker.
Macmillan, Eaglebury, and Wojinski took off again as soon as the ARC-55s and other equipment had been off-loaded. Franklin announced he had "plans," and Lowell told him to go ahead.
"I think we've earned ourselves a drink," It. Col. Charles said. "Can I buy you one?"
They went to the officers' club. There were few wives, for it was Christmas Day, but it was fairly crowded with bachelors. They spent ten minutes trying to play the devil's advocate.. what could go wrong now?
They came up with a number of possibilities that someone at Davis-Monthan would have noticed that the tail number of
"Navy Eight Twenty" did not include those numbers, or that the stolen truck would be discovered missing in time to make the connection with them but it seemed as if Operation Fearless had been flawlessly executed.
"You really are a pretty smart fellow, Lowell," It. Colonel Augustus Charles said.
Lowell suspected that there was a hooker in the compliment even before Charles asked, "Can I ask you a personal question?"
"Sure."
"How come a smart fellow like you is fucking his secretary?"
"What makes you think I am?"
"His married secretary," Charles went on.
"Where did you get that idea?" "My wife told me," Charles said. "She's a regular FBI." "Your wife is in error, Colonel," Lowell said.
"Sure she is," Charles said. "And at this very moment, she is a very pissed-off woman. She has the odd notion that I should have been home over Christmas."
He tossed money on the bar.
"Keep your indiscretions a hundred miles from the flagpole," " he said.
"You ever hear that, Lowell?"
He walked away without waiting for Lowell's answer. Jesus, Lowell thought, shaken by Colonel Charles's announcement, I did get out of that business with Jane Cassidy just in time. If Mrs. Augustus Charles knew, it was amazing that neither Bill Roberts or Paul Jiggs had heard from the wives' grapevine.
And then calm returned. He was out of the affair with Jane Cassidy.
And they had carried off Operation Fearless without a hitch.
God was in his heaven, all was right with the world. "You want another drink, Major?" the bartender asked. "No, thanks," Lowell said. "I really didn't want this one." He left it unfinished on the bar and walked out. He had a lot of work to do.
And that" too, was a good thing, he thought. It would give him something to do on Christmas Day. No matter how often he told himself that Christmas was just one more day of the year to someone like him, that just wasn't true.
XIX
(One) The Skyclub National Airport Washington, D.C. 1715 Hours, 19 May 1960
The Skyclub was maintained by American Airlines so that its frequent first-class passengers would not have to mingle with the riffraff.
Nevertheless, it was crowded. It was a Friday afternoon, and people were leaving Washington for the weekend. There were senators and congressmen in the Skyclub, lobbyists, lawyers, a half-dozen executive directors of various national organizations, wives, one lady congressperson, and assorted girl friends. And about a dozen army officers, including an army major whose Skyclub card was made out in the name of C.W. Lowell, Vice Chairman of the Board, Craig, Powell, Kenyon and Dawes.
Major Lowell was in the Skyclub because when he had announced he was going to Washington, Colonel Bill Roberts had pointedly suggested that he "go commercial with the others," in other words leave the Commander parked at Laird Field.
The others were a dozen officers from various departments of the Army Aviation School. With one exception-a newly promoted major they were all senior to Lowell. They had come to Washington for a conference which had dealt with several draft reports concerning the formation and organization of the airmobile division. The conference was intended to resolve objections to the reports raised by the Infantry Center, the Armor Center, the Airborne Center, and the Artillery Center, each of whom had also dispatched a dozen officers. The conference had been chaired by the Deputy Assistant Chief of Staff, Operations, who had also decided to hold the conference in Washington (which was neutral ground) rather than at one of the posts of the involved combat arms.
The first meeting had been called to order at 0830 on Monday; the last had been adjourned (two hours late) at 1515 on Friday For a solid week, there had been argument often at length over very minor recommendations. A phalanx of typists would now prepare a report that would summarize the agreements (very few) and detail opposing views on those points (most) that had not been resolved. This document would then be circulated among the various participants to insure that their views were correctly reflected. Then it would be corrected, typed yet again, and submitted through the Deputy Assistant Chief of Staff, Operations, and then through the Assistant Chief of Staff, Operations, and finally to the DC SOPS for his decision.
The whole thing, which could have been handled in two hours on the telephone, would take at least a month, Lowell thought. He was by nature cynical insofar as army procedures were concerned. And a solid week of conference had made him bitter.
Not a few comments, he was sure, were made not for their. validity but because the com mentor felt obliged to say something anything at all in order to prove that he was making a contribution. Some of the comments had been silly, foolish, and even absurd. For example, the decision over whether to pool chaplains in a Chaplains' Section of the Division Headquarters Company or to assign them on the basis of one per so many officers and men throughout the division had taken two hours of discussion before tentative resolution.
When they got to the important things (how many gas trucks would be required to fuel the division's aircraft, and where and to whom they should be assigned, for example), the decision making process had been even slower.
And in the end, Lowell knew, the decisions would be made by the Deputy Chief of Staff, Operations, in about ten seconds. The DC SOPS would base his decision on what he thought and wouldn't even look at the supporting arguments in the voluminous reports.
He might decide, for example, that chaplains belonged with the troops, and so order. Or that the only way to keep a handle on religion was to have the chaplains gathered together in one spot under a senior officer charged with keeping them in line. And so order.
After the final meeting had broken up, Lowell took a cab to the Hay-Adams Hotel, where he was staying, and quickly packed his bag. Then he was driven in the Hay-Adams Rollsroyce to Washington National, where he missed the 1650 Southern Airways flight to Atlanta by five minutes.
Major Lowell turned his bags over to Southern, then went to the Skyclub and told the hostess of his problem. She assured him that American Airlines would do everything possible to get him on the very first available seat to Atlanta and that American would be delighted to call ahead and arrange a charter flight for him if there was nothing available on Southern to take him from Atlanta to Dothan. If the Vice Chairman of the Board of Craig, Powell, Kenyon and Dawes (who had a Skyclub Card with a discreet symbol that he was to be treated as a Very Very Important Person as opposed to a frequent traveler who was a salesman, for example) wanted to go to Dothan, Alabama, she was being paid to see that he got there in the smoothest possible way.
She escorted Lowell to a red leather couch (none of the small tables was free) and got him a scotch and soda and a bowl of cashews. She handed him a copy of the Wall Street Journal, and told him she'd give him the word about his flight the moment she had it.
The woman who came into the Skyclub had three large leather bags suspended from her shoulders. She had just flown ten thousand miles.
In thirty minutes, she would catch the New York shuttle. In the meantime, she wanted a drink, and she wanted to sit down.
There was no place she could sit alone, as she had hoped. So he decided the best vacancy available was on a couch beside a nan behind a Wall Street Journal. As she walked to the couch she decided she would put her bags on the cushion between hem, just to make sure.
She did so. She dumped the heavy bags on the center zushion, more than a little embarrassed that she bounced the whole couch when she did it.
Averting her eyes in embarrassment, she sat down. Then she stole a look at the man. If he was glowering at her, she would apologize. She had been wrong.
"Oh, Jesus!" Cynthia Thomas said.
"We're going to have to stop meeting this way," Craig Lowell said.
"People will talk."
"Oh, my God!" Cynthia said.
"I'm fine, thank you," Lowell said. "And you?"
"I just got in from Moscow," she said. "I'm going to catch the shuttle
"Moscow in the spring!" Lowell said. "How chic!"
"Don't, Craig," she said. "Don't what?"
"Don't be cleverly bitter," she said. "Me? Bitter? Perish the thought!"
"What are you doing in Washington?" "Leaving," he said. The hostess brought Cynthia a drink. "So how have you been?" Lowell asked, sarcastically.
"I've been busy," she replied. "And I'vebeen lonely and miserable."
"No new love?"
"That was a cheap shot!"
"Sorry."
"But on the other hand, I haven't been in Fort Rucker, Alabama, either," she said, "making the both of us miserable."
"So where does that leave us?" Lowell asked. "Nowhere," she said.
"But we never were really anywhere, really."
"I'd forgotten how beautiful you really are," Lowell said softly, almost to himself.
"Danm you," she said.
"I think I'd better change seats," he said.
"No!" she said, immediately, so loudly that heads turned. "Now everyone will think I've made a pass at you," he said.
"Why don't you, Craig?" Cynthia asked, very softly.
He looked at her in disbelief.
"Will they stand you before a firing squad if you don't get to where you're going by the dawn's early light?" she asked.
"I have the weekend free," he said.
"Isn't a weekend better than nothing?" Cynthia asked.
"What if it's not enough?" he asked.
"It's all we've got," she said.
There was a telephone on the coffee table. An operator answered.
"This is C.W. Lowell," he said. "Call the Hay-Adams and tell them my plans have changed, and I'll require my suite through the weekend."
(Two) Above Tallahassee, Florida 1730 ZULU, 14 October 1960
Major Craig W. Lowell watched the ADF needles reverse as he passed over the Tallahassee omni, and then picked up his microphone.
"Tallahassee, Trans-Caribbean Four Oh Two over the omni at ten thousand at thirty past the hour."
"Roger, Trans-Caribbean, radar has you at one zero thousand, ground speed two one zero, on three ten true."
"Trans-Caribbean Four Oh Two leaving 125.2 at this time," Lowell said.
He leaned back in the pilot's seat of the Gooney-bird, craned his neck further back to get a good look at the dial and changed his transceiver frequency.
W E B Griffin - BoW 04 - The Colonels Page 49