“Yeah, Boris, it’s me,” Wrong Way said.
“Get on the telephone and tell Hawkeye that I am here, so that he may make the necessary arrangements,” Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov said.
“Tell him,” Hawkeye said, “that he’s diverted to Nome, Alaska. The last thing I need right now is Boris!”
“Air Hussid Eleven, this is Spruce Harbor. You are diverted to Nome, Alaska,” Wrong Way dutifully repeated.
“You have, for a spaghetti-eater, a rather interesting sense of humor,” Boris replied. “We should be there in just a few minutes, Wrong Way.”
“This better be important, Hawkeye,” Dr. Aloysius J. Grogarty said, coming on the telephone. “Do you know what time it is out here?”
“Doctor,” Hawkeye said. ‘“Colonel Whiley just took off from here, alone, in Radar’s airplane, for San Francisco.”
“Why did you let him do that?”
“I didn’t let him,” Hawkeye said. “It was his own idea. I told him I’d do the operation, and it was scheduled for six this morning. He ran away from the hospital and left a note saying that if he was to be cut, you’d have to do it.”
“Well, he wasted his time, if that’s what he’s coming here for,” Grogarty said. “I hate to pay you a compliment, Hawkeye, especially at this time of the morning, but the real reason I sent him to you was because I knew what he needed and knew that I couldn’t do it. And I knew that you could.”
“So what do we do now?”
“Do you know where he’s coming out here?”
“To the airport, I suppose,” Hawkeye replied. “Since he’s flying.”
“Well, I’ll meet him at the airport,” Dr. Grogarty said. “And I’ll get him in my hospital. I’ll keep him in my hospital—we’re better at that sort of thing than you apparently are—until you get here.”
“How am I supposed to get out there?”
“You’re a bright boy, Hawkeye,” Dr. Grogarty said. “You’ll think of something.” The line went dead. The radio came to life again.
“Spruce Harbor, Air Hussid Eleven over the outer marker and turning on final.”
Chapter Twelve
Eventually, of course, the staff of the Banana Republics Desk of the State Department did return from their picnic at the Lyndon B. Johnson Memorial Gardens, and eventually the cable from San Jose regarding the events which had taken place in San Carlos, San Sebastian, came to the attention of the proper people.
By the time this happened, however, a second cable had been added to the first:
TOP PRIORITY
FROM UNITED STATES EMBASSY,
SAN JOSE, COSTA RICA
TO THE STATE DEPARTMENT, WASHINGTON
ATTENTION: BANANA REPUBLICS DESK
THE CIA’S MAN IN SAN SEBASTIAN REPORTS CONFIDENTIALLY THAT HE HAS SOME REASON TO BELIEVE THAT OIL, AT LEAST IN SMALL QUANTITIES, HAS BEEN DISCOVERED IN SAN SEBASTIAN. HE BASES THIS BELIEF ON THE FOLLOWING:
A. THERE IS A NEW LAKE IN THE SAN CARLOS SWAMP, THE LIQUID IN WHICH IS BROWN AND STICKY.
B. EMPLOYEES OF THE SAN SEBASTIAN CHEVAUX PETROLEUM COMPANY HAVE BEEN ERECTING “NO SMOKING” SIGNS AROUND THE LAKE MENTIONED ABOVE.
C. THE CIA HAS INTERCEPTED MESSAGES FROM THE SAN SEBASTIAN CHEVAUX PETROLEUM PEOPLE TO CHEVAUX PETROLEUM, NEW ORLEANS, THAT ORDERED EMERGENCY AIR SHIPMENT OF OIL TANKS, PIPELINES, AND OTHER EQUIPMENT NORMALLY USED FOR THE STORAGE AND SHIPMENT OF OIL; ORDERED THE DIVERSION AT SEA OF THE JUMBO-TANKER S.S. HOT LIPS, EN ROUTE TO THE PERSIAN GULF, TO SAN SEBASTIAN TO PICK UP QUOTE 250 THOUSAND TONS OF HEAVY-GRAVITY SWEET CRUDE UNQUOTE; AND ORDERED A CABLE TRANSFER TO THE ACCOUNT OF THE GOVERNMENT OF SAN SEBASTIAN OF SIXTY-TWO MILLION FIVE HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS AS AN INTERIM ADVANCE ROYALTY PAYMENT.
WHILE STATING THAT NONE OF THE ABOVE SHOULD BE CONSIDERED CONCLUSIVE PROOF THAT OIL HAS BEEN FOUND IN SAN SEBASTIAN, THE CIA FEELS THAT THIS REMOTE POSSIBILITY SHOULD BE CONSIDERED.
INQUIRIES TO THE GOVERNMENT OF SAN SEBASTIAN VIS A VIS THE ABOVE HAVE BEEN MET WITH THE COMMENT THAT ONLY EL PRESIDENTE CAN SPEAK FOR THE GOVERNMENT OF SAN SEBASTIAN. EL PRESIDENTE, AS PREVIOUSLY ADVISED, HAS LEFT THE COUNTRY, APPARENTLY BOUND FOR FRANCE, IN COLONEL J. P. DE LA CHEVAUX’S 747 AIRCRAFT.
PLEASE ADVISE.
SPIRES I. RONALD
CHARGE D’AFFAIRES & PASSPORT OFFICER
This cable, of course, was also eventually brought to the attention of the proper people, and this resulted in a third cable:
FROM DEPARTMENT OF STATE,
CHIEF DEPUTY ASSISTANT UNDER-SECRETARY FOR PETROLEUM AFFAIRS
TO UNITED STATES EMBASSY, PARIS, FRANCE
REFERENCE IS MADE TO THE TWO TELETYPE MESSAGES FROM U.S. EMBASSY, SAN JOSE, COSTA RICA, TO STATE DEPARTMENT (REPEATED HEREWITH).
BY DIRECTION OF THE SECRETARY OF STATE HIMSELF, THE U.S. AMBASSADOR TO FRANCE WILL MEET THE AIRCRAFT CARRYING HIS EXCELLENCY GENERAL EL PRESIDENTE FRANCISCO HERMANEZ TO PRESENT THE FOND PERSONAL GREETINGS OF THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES AND THE SECRETARY OF STATE, AND TO INVITE HIS EXCELLENCY TO VISIT THE UNITED STATES AS THE PERSONAL GUEST OF THE AFOREMENTIONED WHENEVER HIS EXCELLENCY CAN FIND THE TIME.
ALL EFFORTS WILL BE MADE, SHORT OF ASSASSINATION, TO SEPARATE HIS EXCELLENCY FROM COLONEL DE LA CHEVAUX. THE SECRETARY WOULD RATHER NOT HEAR THE DETAILS OF HOW YOU DO THIS. THE SECRETARY FEELS SURE THAT YOU ARE FULLY AWARE OF WHAT HAVOC COLONEL DE LA CHEVAUX HAS WROUGHT IN THE PAST UPON OFFICIAL U. S. GOVERNMENT FOREIGN POLICY, AND IS EQUALLY SURE THAT YOU KNOW WHAT WILL HAPPEN TO YOUR FUTURE DIPLOMATIC CAREER IF YOU BOTCH THIS.
SPARKMAN B. WATERHOUSE
CHIEF DEPUTY ASSISTANT UNDERSECRETARY FOR PETROLEUM AFFAIRS
Somewhat later, a reply came:
FROM UNITED STATES EMBASSY, PARIS
TO THE DEPARTMENT OF STATE, WASHINGTON
WITH PROFOUND REGRET THE U.S. AMBASSADOR TO THE REPUBLIC OF FRANCE ADVISES THAT HE WAS UNABLE TO COMPLY WITH THE TELETYPE MESSAGE FROM THE DEPARTMENT OF STATE VIS A VIS HIS EXCELLENCY GENERAL EL PRESIDENTE FRANCISCO HERMANEZ AND COLONEL J. P. DE LA CHEVAUX.
THE FOLLOWING IS OFFERED IN EXTENUATION:
A. THE UNDERSIGNED PERSONALLY WENT TO ORLY FIELD AND WAS ON HAND WHEN THE CHEVAUX PETROLEUM CORPORATION 747 LANDED. SINCE THE SECRETARY HAS STATED THAT HE DOES NOT WISH TO KNOW THE DETAILS OF THE PLANNED OPERATION, I WILL NOT REPORT THAT THE UNDERSIGNED WAS ACCOMPANIED BY MEMBERS OF THE GENDARMERIE NATIONAL VICE SQUAD, WHO SOMEHOW HAD GOTTEN A TIP THAT THE AIRCRAFT CARRIED SIX TONS OF MARIJUANA PLACED ABOARD IT BY THE WELL-KNOWN AMERICAN GANGSTER CHEVAUX.
B. THESE FORCES WERE DENIED ACCESS TO THE AIRCRAFT BY OFFICIALS OF THE SURETE NATIONAL, ACTING AT THE REQUEST OF THE ROYAL HUSSIDIC EMBASSY. WHEN THE UNDERSIGNED POLITELY SUGGESTED TO THE FOREIGN MINISTER THAT THE LAW OF THE LAND SHOULD BE UPHELD AND COLONEL DE LA CHEVAUX PLACED IN THE BASTILLE, THE UNDERSIGNED WAS PLACED IN PROTECTIVE CUSTODY AND CONFINED TO THE VIP GENTLEMEN’S RESTROOM UNTIL THE AIRCRAFT HAD DEPARTED, MY DIPLOMATIC IMMUNITY NOTWITHSTANDING.
C. THE UNDERSIGNED LEARNED THROUGH A RELIABLE INFORMANT THAT HIS EXCELLENCY HAD COME TO PARIS TO VISIT HIS GRANDSON, ONE PANCHO HERMANEZ, DESCRIBED AS A HANDSOME YOUNG BALALAIKA PLAYER. THE UNDERSIGNED, TRYING JUST AS HARD AS HE KNOWS HOW, HAS ALSO LEARNED THAT THE GRANDSON HAS LEFT PARIS ABOARD A ROYAL HUSSIDIC AIR FORCE LE DISCORDE AIRCRAFT BOUND FOR SPRUCE HARBOR, MAINE. THE GRANDSON IS SUFFERING FROM AN UNDISCLOSED, BUT APPARENTLY QUITE SERIOUS, MEDICAL DISORDER, POSSIBLY OF A SOCIAL NATURE, WHICH HE ACQUIRED WHILE ASSOCIATING WITH BORIS ALEXANDROVICH KORSKY-RIMSAKOV.
D. ON BEING APPRISED OF THE SITUATION OUTLINED ABOVE, HIS EXCELLENCY GENERAL EL PRESIDENTE FRANCISCO HERMANEZ IMMEDIATELY TOOK OFF AGAIN FOR THE UNITED STATES ABOARD THE 747 OF, AND IN THE COMPANY OF, COLONEL DE LA CHEVAUX.
E. THE SAME USUALLY RELIABLE INFORMANT REPORTS THAT BOTH HIS EXCELLENCY AND CHEVAUX APPARENTLY HAVE BEEN DRINKING.
3. THE UNDERSIGNED, WITH GREAT RELUCTANCE, ADVISES THE DEPARTMENT THAT THE WASHINGTON AMBASSADORS OF THE FRENCH REPUBLIC AND THE KINGDOM OF HUSSID ARE ABOUT TO REGISTER FORMAL COMPLAINTS VIS A VIS THE UNDERSIGN
ED. THEY QUITE UNJUSTIFIABLY CLAIM THAT THE UNDERSIGNED ATTEMPTED TO DISRUPT THE HARMONIOUS RELATIONSHIP WHICH EXISTS BETWEEN THOSE TWO GOVERNMENTS.
KENILWORTH T. JONES
U.S. AMBASSADOR
Air Hussid Eleven came in low over the ocean, lowered its landing gear, and touched down on Spruce Harbor International’s runway number one, which also happened to be its only runway.
It taxied to the control tower and shut down its engines. The door opened, and the self-contained stair unfolded. Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov appeared in the doorway and raised his hand in greeting. “It is I, of course!” he said. “Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimaskov. But no applause, please! I am here on an errand of mercy.” And then he fell down the stairs.
Hawkeye Pierce ran to him, saw that he was unhurt, and raised his eyes to the doorway. Another gentleman was now in the doorway of the airplane. This one was dressed in a Homburg, a rolled umbrella, boxer shorts, and a “Harvard” T-shirt.
“I am very much afraid,” Matthew Q. Framingham said, pronouncing each syllable with great care, “that old Boris is in his cups.”
“Never mind me,” Boris said somewhat thickly. “Attend, Hawkeye, in the name of Hippocrates, to the splendid young man aboard who gave his all for me.”
“Where is he?” Hawkeye asked. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Inside the airplane, brave beyond description on his bed of pain and agony,” Boris said, struggling to his feet. “Rush to him, in the name of mercy!”
Hawkeye trotted up the stairs, pushed past Matthew Q. Framingham, and entered the small cabin of the airplane. All he saw that faintly resembled a bed of pain was one of the leather couches, on which sat a young man playing a balalaika.
Beside him sat Prince, on his haunches (which placed him about as high off the floor as the young man), his enormous tail wagging back and forth, a look of utter adoration in his eyes.
“Where’s the patient?” Hawkeye asked. “For that matter, where’s the bed of pain and agony?”
“It doesn’t really hurt at all,” the young man said.
“What doesn’t really hurt at all?”
“What the doctor in Paris described as an inguinal hernia.”
“You mean, all the noise Boris has been making is about an inguinal hernia? And how about knocking off with the music?”
“I’d really like to stop,” the young man said. “I’ve been playing for hours. But whenever I stop, Prince starts to howl.”
“That’s strange,” Hawkeye said. “I own his brother, and he only howls when I start to play my ukulele. But, to get to the bottom line, there’s nothing wrong with you but an inguinal hernia?”
“I am sorry to have caused so much fuss,” the young man said.
“I hope your fingers are strong,” Hawkeye said. “You’re going to have to play for another couple of hours. Six, I’d guess.”
“Six more hours?”
“That’s about what it’ll take us to get to San Francisco,” Hawkeye said. He went to the door and called to the others. “Everybody on board!” he said.
“Me, too, Doctor?” Barbara Ann Miller asked.
“You, too, sweetie,” Hawkeye said, after a moment’s barely perceptible hesitation. Trapper John and Dr. Sattyn-Whiley, at the former’s order, each grabbed one of Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov’s arms and guided him back onto the plane. Hawkeye took Matthew Q. Framingham’s arm and led him after them. Both of them were installed in seats at the very rear of the airplane.
The door closed, the engines restarted, and Air Hussid Eleven taxied to the end of the runway.
In the control tower, Wrong Way’s radio said, “Spruce Harbor International, this is Air Force 1246. Request landing instructions.”
“Air Force 1246, you are number one to land after Air Hussid Eleven, a Sabreliner on the active, takes off.”
“Spruce Harbor,” the pilot of the Air Force plane said, “in the name of the United States Government, you are ordered to hold that Air Hussid aircraft on the ground!”
There came over the radio a series of grunting, wheezing, and snorting noises, followed by what sounded like two belches, and concluding with the words, “Air Hussid Eleven rolling.” Clouds of unburned JP-4 fuel swirled out of the exhausts of the Sabreliner’s engines; it began to roll, and in a matter of moments it was airborne.
“What was that?” the Air Force pilot asked.
“Federal regulations forbid me to repeat language like that on the radio,” Wrong Way replied. “The bottom line is that he didn’t want to wait.”
“But I ordered you in the name of the U.S. Government to hold him on the ground.”
“He probably saw that little old C-47 you’re flying and figured you couldn’t possibly be important,” Wrong Way replied.
“Air Force 1246 over the outer marker and turning on final,” the Air Force pilot said.
“Spruce Harbor International,” still another voice said. “Chevaux Petroleum One, a 747, requests landing instructions.”
“Pilot of Chevaux One, this is Air Force 1246. Do not, repeat do not, attempt to make a landing at Spruce Harbor.”
“Why not?” Chevaux One asked.
“That you, Horsey?” Wrong Way asked.
“It’s me, Wrong Way.”
“You’re number one to land, Horsey,” Wrong Way said. “The winds are from the north at five; the altimeter is one niner niner. Watch out you don’t run over the gooney-bird that just landed.”
“Chevaux One turning on final,” the radio said, and the enormous ship dropped out of the sky, touched down, reversed its engines, and skidded to a halt a good six feet from the Air Force gooney-bird.
The pilots of both aircraft descended from their respective cockpits, both making for the control tower.
The Air Force pilot accosted the Chevaux Petroleum pilot.
“Didn’t you hear my message telling you not to try to land at Spruce Harbor International?”
“I asked you why,” the pilot retorted.
“Because it is absolutely impossible to land a 747 at Spruce Harbor,” the Air Force pilot snapped. “The runway’s not only dirt, but it’s only half as long as it has to be.”
“Well,” Horsey said, “you go tell the copilot that. He said I’d been drinking and insisted on landing himself.” He turned now to Wrong Way. “Who was that that just left, Wrong Way?”
“Boris,” Wrong Way replied. “He picked up Hawkeye and Trapper John and some other people.”
“Damn,” Horsey said. “Just missed them. Know where they were headed?”
“San Francisco,” Wrong Way replied.
“Hey!” Horsey called three floors up to the copilot. “We got enough fuel to make ’Frisco?”
“Just barely,” the copilot called down.
“Wind ’em up!” Horsey yelled.
Two minutes later, a radio message went out: “Westover Air Force Base, this is Air Force 1246.”
“Go ahead, 1246.”
“Stand by to relay an operational immediate message to the Department of State.”
“Standing by.”
“To the Secretary of State from the chief deputy assistant under-secretary of state for petroleum affairs,” the voice began. “The attempt to meet His Excellency General El Presidente Francisco Hermanez at Spruce Harbor, Maine, failed. His Excellency is presently en route to San Francisco, California, aboard Chevaux Petroleum 747 Number One. Please have replacement aircraft immediately dispatched to Spruce Harbor so that I can resume the pursuit.”
In less than an hour—in other words, with remarkable rapidity for the Department of State—there was a reply.
“Inasmuch as the Air Force advises and the Federal Aviation Agency confirms that it is absolutely impossible for 747 aircraft to use Spruce Harbor International, it is presumed that that part of your message was garbled in transmission. Please furnish correct identification of aircraft in which His Excellency is traveling. Please also advise why it is necessary to send y
ou a replacement aircraft. What happened to the C-47 you had?”
“Any reply, Mr. Chief Deputy Assistant Undersecretary?” the Air Force pilot asked.
“You tell them that your lousy gooney-bird got blown over when the 747 took off,” the chief deputy assistant under-secretary replied. “Despite my long years of faithful service, I somehow suspect they wouldn’t believe me.” And with that he leaned up against the upside-down fuselage of the gooney-bird and began to weep.
And at that moment, high over the northeastern United States, Matthew Q. Framingham, who had been resting up from the rigors of having walked all the way to the airplane’s door back in Spruce Harbor, suddenly woke up. He started for a moment in disbelief at what was going on up front in the cabin. And then he, too, began to cry.
The sound woke Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov, who had also been taking a little nap.
“What’s with you?” he demanded, somewhat less than kindly. “You’re disturbing my sleep, so it had really better be heart-breaking.”
“It’s heart-breaking all right,” Matthew Q. Framingham sobbed. “Oh, cruel fate, oh, cold, cruel world!” Boris, sensing that perhaps Matthew wanted to keep this just between them, whispered, “What the hell are you muttering about?” Boris whispered somewhat more loudly than normal people, though, and what he intended to be a discreet private inquiry took on more the character of a public-address announcement. Everyone in the plane turned to the sound of the voices.
“For a year,” Matthew Q. Framingham said, “from the very first moment I saw her prancing around the bar of Sadie Shapiro’s Strip Joint, I haven’t been able to get her out of my mind.”
MASH 11 MASH Goes To San Francisco Page 16