By Order of the President

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Abuela bought twenty-five copies of the Express-News with your smiling face on page one and mailed one to me,” Fernando said. “I was then living in a tent a hundred miles out of Kuwait City.”

  “I really thought I was hot shit,” Castillo said. “Second lieutenants tend to do that anyway.”

  “Speak for yourself, Gringo. I myself was the epitome of modesty. Phrased another way, I wondered what the fuck I was doing in the desert having absolutely no idea how I was supposed to command a platoon of M1s when we went through the Iraqi berms.”

  “You did that well, as I recall. Silver Star.”

  “The way they were handing out medals all you had to do was be there and you got the Bronze Star. You got the Silver Star if you didn’t squash anybody important under your tracks.”

  “They didn’t pass out the Silver Star with the MREs, Fernando. Tell that story to somebody else,” Castillo challenged, and then went on: “So there I was, at oh-two-hundred hours on seventeen January, sitting in the copilot’s seat of an Apache. I couldn’t understand why the CWO-4 flying it was less than thrilled to have my services. At oh-two -thirty-eight we flew over the berms you were talking about and then started taking out Iraqi radar installations.”

  “You were on that first strike?”

  “Yeah. And we took a hit. The CWO-4 took a hit. Something came through his side window, took off his visor, and then went through my windshield and instrument panel. He had plastic and metal fragments in his eyes. He said, ‘You’ve got it. Get us out of here and take us home.’ There being no other alternative that I could think of, I did just that.”

  “I never heard that story before,” Fernando said.

  “For which I received the Distinguished Flying Cross and the Purple Heart,” Castillo went on.

  “I didn’t hear about that, either,” Fernando said. “You got hit, too?”

  “I had a couple of scratches on my hands,” Castillo said. “Some fragments went through my gloves. They were about as serious as a bee sting.”

  “You were lucky,” Fernando said.

  “Lucky is not like doing something that earns you a medal,” Castillo said, and then went on: “Anyway, the paperwork for the new hero went to Schwarzkopf’s headquarters. Naylor—by then he had his second star—was there. He was sort of the buffer between Schwarzkopf and Franks.”

  “Freddy Franks, the one-legged general?”

  Castillo nodded. “The first since the Civil War. He commanded the ground forces. They were not too fond of one another. Anyway, when Naylor heard about the paperwork for my two medals it was the first time he’d heard I was anywhere near Arabia. He went right through the roof . . .”

  WINTER 1991

  [SEVEN]

  Office of the Assistant Chief of Staff, J-3 United States Central Command Ministry of Defense and Aviation Air Force Base Riyadh, Saudi Arabia 0720 16 January 1991

  Major General Allan Naylor had the giggles. And he thought he knew why: He’d had about six hours’ sleep—in segments of not longer than ninety minutes—in the last forty-eight hours. And in the forty-eight hours before that, he’d had no more than eight or ten hours on his back, again for never much over an hour at a time.

  There was chemical assistance available to deal with the problem, but Naylor was both afraid of taking a couple of the pink pills and philosophically opposed to the idea. He had instead consumed vast amounts of coffee, which had worked at first, but only at first.

  He was exhausted. The air phase of the war against Saddam Hussein had kicked off about four hours ago. It had been decided that Iraqi radar positions had to be taken out before a massive bombing and interdiction campaign began. And it had been further decided that the Army would take them out using Boeing AH-64B attack helicopters.

  The idea was that the Iraqi radar would be on the alert for Air Force and Navy bombers, fighter-bombers, and other high-flying, high-speed aircraft, and that the Apaches, flying “nap of the earth”—a few feet off the ground, “under the radar”—could sneak in and destroy the radar installations before the Iraqis knew they were there.

  It was the first time—except for the invasion of Grenada, which had been a command and control disaster—that really close coordination between what really were three air forces—Air Force, Navy, and Army—would be required, and this time there could be no foul-up.

  The air commander, General Chuck Horner, USAF, had the responsibility for the mission. But he would be using the Army’s Apaches, so Naylor had been taking, so to speak, his operational orders from him. That had gone well. Naylor liked the former fighter pilot much more than other senior Air Force officers he had come to know, and they had worked well together.

  The thirty-six hours leading up to 0238 local time had been a period of intense activity in the two-floors-below-ground command center, and Naylor, as the J-3 (J meaning “Joint Command,” -3 meaning “Plans and Training”) had been at the center of that activity, which meant not only overseeing the final preparations but also being in close proximity to General Horner’s boss, General H. Norman Schwarzkopf, USA, the overall commander.

  “Stormin’ Norman” had a legendary temper and it had erupted a half dozen times. Naylor considered it among his other obligations the soothing of battered senior officer egos after they had been the target of a Schwarzkopfian tirade, and there had been three of these.

  Naylor and General Horner, who was subordinate only to Schwarzkopf, had already talked—circuitously, it was true—about the absolute necessity of keeping General Freddy Franks, who would command the ground war when that started, and Schwarzkopf as far apart as possible. Freddy was a mild-mannered man who didn’t even cuss, but he had a temper, too, and he would neither take—nor forgive later—the kind of abuse Stormin’ Norman was liable to send his way if displeased.

  And it seemed inevitable to both Chuck Horner and Allan Naylor that Freddy sooner or later would do something to displease Stormin’ Norman. Yet, in the opinion of both, Desert Storm needed both Freddy Franks and Stormin’ Norman Schwarzkopf.

  The giggles that General Naylor was unable to shake had to deal with General Schwarzkopf and a hapless, just-arrived light colonel attached to J-2 (Intelligence). There were some classified documents in the safe to which the light colonel would need access. However, access to the documents was really restricted, and Schwarzkopf himself had to sign the authorization.

  The light colonel had been told of the procedure. He was familiar with others like it, in other headquarters. And so he had sat before a computer terminal and typed up the access document for Schwarzkopf’s signature and then taken his place in line of those who wanted a minute of Schwarzkopf’s time.

  His turn finally came. He marched into Schwarzkopf’s office, saluted, identified himself, said he needed the general ’s signature on the access document, and offered it to the general.

  The general glanced at it, glowered at the light colonel, and announced, “I’m only going to tell you this once, Colonel. I’m not normal.”

  “Sir?”

  “Goddammit, are you deaf? I said I’m not normal.”

  He had then tossed—possibly threw—the access document across his desk in the general direction of the light colonel, who had then, understandably confused and shaken, picked the access document from the floor and fled.

  Only several minutes later, when the light colonel had reported the incident to the J-2, and the J-2 had pointed it out to him, did the lieutenant colonel realize that when he had typed the signature block for Schwarzkopf’s signature he’d made a typo. What he had laid before Stormin’ Norman had read, “H. Normal Schwarzkopf, General, U.S. Army, Commanding. ”

  Naylor had been giggling uncontrollably since hearing the story, which was bad for three reasons: He was laughing at the behavior of his immediate superior. He was laughing at a mishap of a junior officer, which was worse. And it meant that he was pushing his physical envelope to the breaking point and that was worse than anything. He would need, if an
ything came up—and something inevitably would—not only all the brains God had given him but those brains in perfect working order.

  With that it mind, he had gone to his small but comfortable office and told Master Sergeant Jack Dunham, his senior noncom, to see that he wasn’t bothered unless it was really important. He closed the door and lay down on a folding cot. And giggled.

  He had been in his office not quite ten minutes and was seriously debating with himself the possible merits of taking a medicinal drink when the door opened.

  Colonel J. Brewster Wallace from Public Relations came into the room. As a general rule of thumb, General Naylor did not like public relations officers, and he specifically disliked Colonel J. Brewster Wallace.

  “Sorry to bother you, General,” Colonel Wallace began.

  If you’re sorry, you pasty-faced sonofabitch, why did you bull your way past my sergeant? That took some doing.

  “Not a problem. What have you got, Colonel?”

  “First one, General.”

  “First one what?”

  “Recommendation for an impact award.”

  An impact award meant decorating a soldier immediately for something he had just done rather than running it through the bureaucratic procedure, which could take weeks or even months. The actions of the individual and the circumstances had to be such that there was no question he had done something at great personal risk above and beyond the call of duty.

  “Why are you showing this to me?” Naylor asked as he reached for the computer printout.

  “I thought you might want to show it to General Schwarzkopf,” Colonel Wallace said. “This one’s going to make all the papers. An Apache pilot, a West Pointer, whose father won the Medal of Honor in Vietnam.”

  Naylor read the computer printout.

  PRIORITY

  SECRET

  0705 16 JANUARY 1991

  FROM COMMANDING OFFICER 403RD AVIATION BATTALION

  TO COMMANDER IN CHIEF

  US CENTRAL COMMAND

  ATTN: J-1

  INFO: PUBLIC AFFAIRS

  1. THE UNDERSIGNED STRONGLY RECOMMENDS THE IMPACT AWARD OF THE DISTINGUISHED FLYING CROSS AND THE PURPLE HEART MEDAL TO SECOND LIEUTENANT C. G. CASTILLO, SSN 245220136, AVIATION, 155TH ATTACK HELICOPTER COMPANY, WITH CITATION AS FOLLOWS:SECOND LIEUTENANT CASTILLO WAS FLYING AS COPILOT OF AN AH-64B ATTACK HELICOPTER IN THE OPENING HOURS OF OPERATION DESERT STORM. AFTER SUCCESSFULLY DESTROYING SEVERAL IRAQI RADAR INSTALLATIONS AND OTHER TARGETS, THE AIRCRAFT WAS STRUCK AND SEVERELY DAMAGED BY IRAQI ANTI-AIRCRAFT FIRE. THE PILOT WAS BLINDED, LIEUTENANT CASTILLO WAS WOUNDED, AND HIS WINDSCREEN WAS DESTROYED. LIEUTENANT CASTILLO TOOK THE CONTROLS OF THE AIRCRAFT AND DESPITE HIS PAINFUL WOUNDS AND THE LOSS OF ESSENTIALLY ALL COMMUNICATIONS AND NAVIGATION EQUIPMENT FLEW THE DAMAGED AIRCRAFT MORE THAN 100 MILES BACK TO HIS BASE.

  2. SUBJECT OFFICER IS A 1990 GRADUATE OF THE US MILITARY ACADEMY. HIS NEXT OF KIN ARE HIS GRANDPARENTS, MR. AND MRS. JUAN FERNANDO CASTILLO, BOX 19, ROUTE 7, UVALDE, TEXAS. HIS FATHER, WOJG JORGE ALEJANDRO CASTILLO, WAS POSTHUMOUSLY AWARDED THE MEDAL OF HONOR AS A HELICOPTER PILOT IN VIETNAM. HIS MOTHER IS DECEASED.

  3. PHOTOGRAPHS OF SUBJECT OFFICER AND THE BATTLE DAMAGED HELICOPTER WILL BE FORWARDED AS SOON AS POSSIBLE.

  MARTIN C. SEWARD

  LT COL, AVIATION

  COMMANDING

  Major General Naylor looked at Colonel Wallace and said, “How badly was this officer wounded? Do we know?”

  “He can’t be too badly hurt, General, if he flew that shot-up Apache a hundred miles. I think they would have said something if he was seriously injured.”

  Naylor snorted.

  “You see what I mean, sir?” Colonel Wallace asked. “It’s a great story! The son of a Medal of Honor winner, and I think we can infer he’s a Tex-Mex, with all the implications of that. This will be on the front page of every newspaper in the country tomorrow.”

  “No, it won’t,” General Naylor said.

  “Sir?”

  “Listen to me carefully, Colonel. I am placing an embargo on this story. It is not to be released, leaked, talked about, anything, unless and until General Schwarzkopf overrides my decision. Is that clear?”

  “It’s clear, sir, but I don’t understand . . .”

  “Good. We understand each other. That will be all, Colonel. Thank you.”

  The office of Major General Oswald L. Young, the J-1 (Personnel) of Central Command, in the command bunker was almost identical to that of Major General Naylor, and the two were old friends.

  “Got a minute for me, Oz?” Naylor asked.

  “Any time, Allan. I was just thinking about you— specifically, of Freddy Lustrous—and wishing I had his ass-chewing ability. I remembered one he gave you and me in ’Nam. I just did my best, but it wasn’t in the same league.”

  “I’m thinking of delivering one of my own,” Naylor said. “What was yours about?”

  “They had a pool out there. Twenty bucks. Winner take all. The winner was to be the guy who picked the number closest to the actual number of casualties we’ll take in the first twenty-four hours.”

  “Jesus!”

  “Actually, there were several such pools. KIA. WIA. MIA. Plus, lost fighters, lost A-10s, lost Apaches. Goddamn, I don’t understand people who could do that. It wasn’t a bunch of old sergeants, either. A couple of colonels were happy gamblers. What’s rubbed you the wrong way?”

  “Aviators. Jesus Christ, they’re worse than the goddamned Marines! Anything for publicity that makes them look good.”

  “Going down that road, I just got a recommendation for an impact DFC for an aviator, an Apache pilot who did good.”

  “Who shouldn’t have been anywhere near where he was. Those goddamned sonsofbitches!”

  “I thought I was the only one around here who lost his temper,” a voice said from the door. It had been opened without first knocking by General H. Norman Schwarzkopf.

  Neither Major General Naylor nor Major General Young said anything but General Young got out of his chair.

  “I’m glad you’re here, Allan,” Schwarzkopf said. “I was coming to see you next. After I tell you two why I’m pissed off, you can tell me what the goddamned sonsofbitches you were talking about have done. Or haven’t done.”

  “Yes, sir,” Major Generals Naylor and Young said, almost simultaneously.

  “Have either of you heard about an office pool, or pools, being run around here?”

  “Sir, I have dealt with that situation,” General Young said.

  “You, Allan?”

  “I didn’t know about it until just a moment ago, sir,” Naylor said. He looked at Young. “Were some of my people involved? ”

  Young nodded.

  “Sir, I will deal with that situation immediately,” Naylor said.

  “Okay. So you weren’t talking about that. Who has you so pissed off?”

  Naylor did not immediately respond.

  “Take your time, Allan,” Schwarzkopf said. “I’ve got nothing else to do but stand here waiting for you to find your tongue.”

  “Sir . . . Oz, have you got the message from the 403rd?”

  “Right here,” General Young said, picked it up from his in-box, and handed it to Naylor who handed it to Schwarzkopf who read it.

  “Something wrong with this? You don’t believe it, is that what you’re saying?”

  “Oh, I believe he did it, sir,” Naylor said. “With the trumpets of glory ringing in his ears.”

  “You’re losing me, Allan. When I was young and a second lieutenant, I heard those trumpets. Didn’t we all?”

  “Sir, he graduated from the Point in June.”

  “I saw that. So?”

  “Sir, you don’t go from the plain to the cockpit of an Apache in six months.”

  “Uuuh,” General Schwarzkopf grunted. “You know this kid, Allan?”

  “Yes, sir. I talked him into going to the Point.”

  “You’re saying he got special treatment?”

  �
�I’m saying . . . what I said before, General, was that Aviation is worse than the Marines about getting publicity.”

  “Because of his father, his father’s MOH, they rushed him through training and sent him over here?”

  “Where he is way over his head,” Naylor said.

  “He seems to have done pretty well,” Schwarzkopf said.

  “He’s over his head, sir,” Naylor argued.

  “You don’t think he deserves the DFC?”

  “Yes, sir, I think he does. And he was wounded. What I want to do is get him out of there before he kills himself trying to do something else he’s not capable of doing.”

  “Jesus, Allan. People get killed,” General Young said.

  “And some sonsofbitches are willing to bet on how many,” Schwarzkopf said. “I think I know what Allan’s thinking. The Class of ’50, right?”

  “That’s in my mind, sir. My brother was in the Class of ’50.”

  “And didn’t come back from Korea?” Schwarzkopf asked.

  “Tom had been an officer six months when he was killed, sir.”

  “And your son is here, too, right, with Freddy Franks?”

  “Allan’s Class of ’88, sir. He’s had two and a half years to learn how to be a tank platoon leader.”

  “I take your point. I always thought it was insanity to get the Class of ’50 nearly wiped out in Korea,” Schwarzkopf said. “You can’t eat the seeds. If you do, you don’t get a crop.” He paused. “Okay, Allan, I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt on this. Handle it any way you want.”

  “Thank you, sir. Sir, I told Colonel Wallace to embargo this story until you gave him permission to release it.”

  “You think that’s important?”

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  “Okay. It’s squashed. There will be other impact awards. So far, Phase I—knock on wood—seems to be going well.”