Well, Major McCarthy thought, if the sergeant is the pilot, that explains the Cessna 310H parked on the visitors’ tarmac, doesn’t it?
And what’s going on with him and the general’s daughter?
[ SIX ]
Over Hollywood, Florida
2125 3 December 1964
“Miami, Cessna Six-oh-one,” Jack said into the microphone.
“Six-oh-one, Miami.”
“I’m on a VFR “—Visual Flight Rules—” Direct Cairns Field Alabama-Hollywood. You got it?”
“Hold one,” the Miami controller said, and then, a moment later, “Got you, Six-oh-one.”
“I’m at seven thousand over Hollywood. I want to extend to a private strip about twenty miles south of Miami. Okay?”
“Permission granted. I have you on radar. Close out again when you’re on the ground.”
“Beginning descent at this time. And thank you, Miami,” Jack said, and turned to Geoff Craig.
“Okay, now what?”
Geoff handed him the Jeppesen chart for the Miami area and pointed out a private landing strip on a narrow reef a few miles east of Key Largo.
“A private strip?” Jack asked dubiously. “Has it got lights?”
“Oh, ye of little faith!” Geoff replied. He dialed a frequency on the transceiver and picked up the microphone.
“Ocean Reef, Cessna Six-oh-one.”
“Ocean Reef, go ahead.”
“We’re over Hollywood. Estimate fifteen minutes. Will you light it up in a couple of minutes and call Mr. Porter Craig and tell him we’re on our way in?”
“Certainly. Give us a call, please, when you get close.”
“Will do. Thank you, Ocean Reef,” Geoff said, and turned to Jack. “You may start going down now, sir. In that direction, sir.”
He pointed down with his index finger.
Jack smiled, shook his head, and put the Cessna into a gentle descent.
The hotels and condominiums along the beach, and Miami itself, were visible to their right, as were airliners making their descents toward Miami International.
“It’s beautiful!” Marjorie said, leaning forward from the rear seat. Her fingers grazed Jack’s neck. He shifted his neck backward to press against them.
Two minutes later, Geoff picked up the microphone again.
“Ocean Reef, Six-oh-one at 5,000. We have Miami in sight.”
“Six-oh-one, Ocean Reef, we’re lighting up now. The winds are five, gusting to fifteen, from the south. You will be met.”
“Thank you kindly,” Geoff said, and turned to Jack again. “The way I usually find it is to find A1A, and then Key Largo. We’re about ten miles south.”
He pointed vaguely to the southwest, and then to the southeast. Jack nodded.
“You better strap yourself in, Marjorie,” Jack said, turning his head. She caressed his neck a moment more, then her fingers were gone.
A moment later, Geoff said, pointing to parallel rows of landing lights, “Either that’s it or somebody’s really got their boats in a row.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Jack said disgustedly, and turned slightly to the right to line up with the runway.
Three minutes later, the sleek twin-engine aircraft touched down smoothly just past the clearly marked threshold of what turned out to be a narrow but smoothly paved runway.
Jack saw that there was one small hangar; a neat-looking operations building with a small control tower on top of it; and maybe a dozen aircraft, mostly small, expensive light twins like the one he was flying, on the ramp.
It was, he decided, a very nice little airport.
A man in a sport shirt holding lighted lamps appeared on the runway and directed him to a parking space.
He got on the horn and told Miami he was on the ground, then went through the shutdown procedures.
“That’s Uncle Craig,” Marjorie said happily, and Jack looked out the side window of the airplane and saw that the man with the wands was indeed Lieutenant Colonel Craig W. Lowell.
He was the last person out of the airplane, and, deciding that caution was the better part of valor, Jack saluted him.
Lowell returned the salute.
“That’s very nice, Sergeant, but we don’t do very much of that around here.” He paused and added, amused, “But I must say, Sergeant, that you really look awesomely military. Doesn’t he, Geoff? A regular recruiting poster for Special Forces!”
“Well, he certainly would scare me to death,” Geoff said.
“Leave him alone, Uncle Craig,” Marjorie said. “And you, too, Geoff.”
“Said the bride-to-be, protecting her man,” Lowell went on, unabashed. “My, you two have had a busy, busy day, haven’t you?”
“Craig, is that what I think it is?” Barbara Bellmon asked.
“Is what what you think it is?”
She pointed to an ancient, enormous, canary-yellow convertible sedan parked just off the runway.
“It is!” she said. “God, I thought it would be in a museum by now!”
“What is that?” Jack asked.
“It’s a 1941 Packard 180 with a body by Rollson,” Lowell said. “I will not explain further, because I am sure the mother of the bride-to-be will do so later in great detail. But I will say, Madame Bellmon, that the last offer I had for it—an excited little bald-headed man actually chased me down the highway in Key Largo waving his checkbook—was ten times what I paid for it in Louisville.”
“It’s beautiful,” Jack said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen one before. ”
“They made only thirty-two of them, the four-door,” Lowell said. “Okay, here’s the game plan. Jack’s family are in House A. The Bellmon ladies will stay with them. Geoff—the whole Craig family—are in his parents’ place, hereinafter referred to as House B. What we are going to do now is drop everybody off at House B, where festivities are already in progress. Except Jack and me, who will instead proceed to my house, House C, where Jack will be staying with me. There he will divest himself of his martial garb, slip into something more suitable, and then we will proceed to House B, where, unfortunately, Jack, you will receive a long, and probably tearful, speech of gratitude from Geoff’s mother for saving her grandchild from the Simbas.”
“I didn’t do anything like that—” Jack started to protest.
“Yeah, you did,” Geoff said. “Ursula told me.”
“Colonel, I don’t have anything to change into,” Jack said.
“Your ever-efficient stepmother took care of that,” she said. “You have a full set of gear awaiting.”
He gestured toward the car.
[ SEVEN ]
From what Jack had been able to see from the backseat of the Packard, Houses A, B, and C were—although their architecture was individual—alike in that they were large, substantial, and surrounded by manicured greenery to assure the privacy of the inhabitants.
If he could judge by what he found in House C, they were luxuriously furnished and equipped. In addition to a glass-walled shower, plus a pool-sized tub, his bathroom had a black marble bidet. One rarely encountered bidets in the United States, much less black marble bidets.
The towels he found in the bathroom were too large and too thick to be wrapped around his waist, as was his custom, but that was not really a problem, because there was a terry-cloth robe hanging on a hook.
He put it on and walked into the bedroom, where he found Lieutenant Colonel Lowell sprawled comfortably in a chaise lounge. He had a whiskey glass in his hand, and there was another on the table beside the lounge.
Lowell got off the lounge.
“I knocked, but you were in the shower, I guess,” Lowell said.
“No problem, sir.”
“I’ve got two things you need,” Lowell said. “Which would you rather have first, a nice, new king-sized Band-Aid for your nose? Or the drink?”
“The drink, please, sir. It’s been a long day.”
“And a long night before, according to General Hanrahan,�
�� Lowell said, a little smugly. He waited a moment, indicated the glass of whiskey, and waited until Jack had it in hand before going on: “These are your orders, so pay attention, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir?”
“You will not talk to the press, and will not permit your photograph to be taken by the press,” Lowell said.
He’s serious. What the hell is that all about?
“Sir?”
“Starting at about the time you left Kamina, the press was all over the place, and there is a rumor that an American Green Beret jumped with Belgians on Stanleyville. Everybody denies it, of course.”
“I understand, sir.”
“They are looking for an American hero right now, and if they could find you, get your name, it would be you. Felter thinks the frenzy will die down quickly. But then, when your permission to accept a foreign decoration goes through Congress, it’s liable to come up again. Felter does not want your name or your photograph published. Got it?”
“Yes, sir. That’s fine with me, Colonel.”
“For the immediate future, you can count on ten, twelve days, two weeks here. Have a good time. I’m going to McDill in the morning, so the house will be yours alone.”
“I’m awed by these houses, Colonel,” Jack confessed. “Are they all yours?”
“This one’s mine. And my cousin’s is his. House A is owned by the company.”
“You spend a lot of time here?”
“This is the first time this year. If you’re looking for some place to take Marjorie on your honeymoon, this might be ideal.”
“I don’t know what to say, sir.”
“Try thank you,” Lowell said. “I’ll set it up. All you have to do is call, and tell them when you’re coming, and they’ll send somebody over to turn up the air conditioner, make the beds, et cetera, et cetera. . . .”
He paused and changed the subject.
“We haven’t finished with your orders,” Lowell said. “Felter wanted to keep you at MacKall indefinitely, but I convinced him that sending you back to Rucker made more sense. So, in the absence of orders to the contrary in the meantime, you’ll report to Rucker on 17 December. Back to the Instrument Board.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And get a regular cap. If you show up wearing a Green Beret, it’ll cause talk. And we don’t want talk.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That was Felter’s idea. To hell with him. You earned it, you want to wear it, wear it. Just don’t talk about Stanleyville.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s it. Now let me look at your nose, and then we’ll have to go face my sister-in-law.”
“Yes, sir.”
III
[ ONE ]
“Soft Breezes” (aka House B)
33 Ocean View Drive
The Ocean Reef Club
Key Largo, Florida
2345 3 December 1964
Hors d’oeuvres—plates of shrimp and oysters on beds of ice— and cocktails—served from behind a wet bar made of coral by a white-jacketed barman—and dinner—steaks and chicken to be broiled over charcoal by a chef in full white uniform on the patio by the pool—had been waiting for them in the enormous, L-SHAPED, open-to-the-rafters living room.
And so was the thank-you speech by Geoff’s parents, which didn’t go as badly as Colonel Lowell hinted it would.
When they walked into the house, Geoff’s mother—a tall, elegant, silver-haired woman—and father—a somewhat portly, balding man—had walked quickly to him.
She put her hand up and touched his cheek and looked into his eyes.
“I’m Helene Craig,” she said softly. “You’re very welcome here, and I want you to know that I will pray for your health and happiness every night for the rest of my life.”
Geoff’s father had been worse. He looked as if he was going to say something, then couldn’t find his voice. He wrapped Jack in a bear hug, and his body shook with sobs.
“My God, Helene,” Colonel Lowell said. “What will our guests think? They’ve only been here half an hour, and Porter’s already as drunk as an owl.”
“He is not!” Helene Craig said, somewhat indignantly, but by then the laughter had started, and what could have been far more awkward for everyone had passed.
Porter Craig shook his head, patted Jack on the back, and, still unable to find his voice, led him to the bar, where he gestured to the barman to give Jack a drink.
Marjorie came up to him and kissed him, on the cheek, and then Ursula, and then Hanni, his stepmother, and his father.
“Jeanine really wanted to wait up for you, Jacques,” Hanni said. “But she was playing tennis all day and she just collapsed.”
Jeanine was his eleven-year-old half sister.
“I’ll see her in the morning,” Jack said. “And Mary Magdalene? ”
“Where do you think Mary Magdalene is?” his father said. “With her, of course.”
“I really can’t wait to meet both of them,” Marjorie said, “Jack’s told me so much about them.”
“We’re going fishing in the morning,” Captain Jean-Philippe Portet said. “If you feel up to it?”
“Great.”
“Am I invited?” Marjorie asked.
“Of course,” Hanni said. “We’re all going.”
“It’ll give us a chance to talk, Jacques,” his father said. “About the business.”
Jack looked at him curiously but said nothing.
“I think it’s time to leave the Congo,” his father said, then added, “we’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
“Fine,” Jack said.
Helene Craig clapped her hands.
“Why don’t we all go out by the pool and get something to eat?” she said.
They went out to the netting-protected grill by the pool and watched the chef cook. Marjorie’s shoulder touched Jack’s as they watched, and Marjorie’s foot caressed his calf beneath the table by the pool as they ate. This caused him to have an involuntary vascular reaction to stimuli, and he was afraid his condition would be evident in his new white tennis shorts if he had to stand up.
He also reached the conclusion that there was not going to be an opportunity to be alone with Marjorie, at least tonight, with all these people around, and with her staying in a different house.
After dinner they went back into the living room. Jack took one of the stools—they were actually red-leather-upholstered captain’s chairs on very long legs—at the wet bar and asked for a beer. Marjorie sat beside him and asked for a Tom Collins. Not at all accidentally, he decided, Marjorie’s knee pressed against his.
That’s her second Tom Collins. She is not used to drinking.
If we were not in this living room out of a Fred Astaire/Cary Grant movie, the chances are pretty good that I could get a little. Not only is she on her second Tom Collins—and one drink usually wipes out her maidenly inhibitions—but we are now engaged to be married, and that should eliminate whatever other objections she might raise.
But we’re not even in the same house, and if I suggest we go for a walk, everyone will know what I have in mind, and I don’t want to embarrass her. So I’m screwed. Correction, I am not screwed.
I suppose that’s the way things go. The bitter with the sweet, et cetera.
Think of your goddamn nose, or something else unpleasant; the last thing you want is a hard-on poking out of your shorts.
Barbara Bellmon and Hanni Portet came in from the pool, arm in arm, laughing and smiling at each other.
“Oh, look at that!” Barbara cried happily, pointing upward.
His mother-in-law-to-be was, Jack decided, a little plastered. And so was Hanni. They were each on their third Tom Collins.
“Helene, I love your fish!” Barbara added.
Jack looked up. The living room open to the rafters, and from them, suspended by nearly invisible wires, a huge sailfish moved slowly in the breeze from the air-conditioning. The ceiling was painted a soft blue, and it appeared the fish
was swimming overhead.
“That’s Geoff’s first big fish,” Porter Craig said. “He caught it when he was eleven.”
“He insisted on having it mounted, of course,” Helene Craig picked up the story, “and I didn’t have the heart to tell him no. So we had it stuffed, and then we didn’t know to where to put it, so it wound up there.”
“I think it looks great there,” Barbara Bellmon said, and giggled. “But I want to be here when someone tries to dust it!”
“It takes two people, on two ladders,” Helene said. “One holds the fish, and the other vacuums it. Very delicately.”
The mental picture was amusing, and Jack smiled.
Colonel Lowell joined them.
“Have you got a pocket in your shorts, sweetheart?” he asked.
“That’s an odd question,” Marjorie said. “But yes, I do.”
He handed her a sheet of typewriter paper, folded twice.
“Stick this in it, and don’t let anybody see it,” he said.
“What is it?”
“Take a look at it later, when you go to bed,” he said.
“What is it?” Jack asked.
“None of your business, Sergeant. Butt out. This is between the young lady and me.”
She put the sheet of paper in her hip pocket.
Barbara and Hanni walked up to them.
“Is this the time to tell everyone about Second Lieutenant Lowell and his Packard?” Barbara said. “Or has liquor loosened my tongue?”
“I’d love to hear it,” Jack said.
“I’ve heard it,” Marjorie said. “So you can start, Mother, while I powder my nose.”
She touched Jack’s arm, smiled at him, and walked away.
“I think I’ll have another one of these, please,” Barbara said to the barman. “I really don’t know where to begin. There are so many twists and turns. . . .”
“Well, I remember when he went in the Army,” Helene said. “Porter and I had just come from our honeymoon, and their grandfather had us to dinner and told us—I’m sorry, Craig, but this is true—that Craig had been . . . asked to leave Harvard. . . .”
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