[ NINE ]
123 Brookwood Lane
Ozark, Alabama
1250 31 December 1964
“Boy,” Liza Wood said as she opened the door to find Lieutenant and Mrs. Jacques Portet standing there, “that was a quick honeymoon.”
“Jack has to report back on the second—”
“The second is Saturday,” Liza interrupted.
“Yeah, I know,” Marjorie said. “So we figured since we had to be here anyway, we’d go to the New Year’s party at the officers’ club—”
“On your honeymoon?” Liza interrupted incredulously.
“—so we drove up here, and are stopping here first, even before we get a motel and pick up Jack’s dress blues at the uniform store, because we want you to go with us.”
Liza motioned them into the kitchen without replying.
“You look like you could use a drink, Jack,” she said.
“Thank you ever so kindly,” Jack said.
Allan came running into the kitchen, looked up at Jack, and, visibly disappointed, asked, “Johnny?”
“Shit,” Liza muttered, then squatted beside her son.
“Mommy’s told you, darling, that Johnny had to go away, and that it will be a long time before we see him again.”
“Shit,” Allan said, kicked at her, and ran out of the room.
Liza looked at Marjorie and Jack but said nothing. She went to one of the cupboards and opened it.
“Scotch for you, Jack, right?”
“Please.”
“Marjorie?”
“Why not? Thank you.”
Liza made the drinks and handed them to them.
“Now, where were we? Oh, yeah. As I remember, there were three parts to your statement requiring a reply. First, there’s absolutely no reason to get a motel. There’s plenty of room here.”
“We couldn’t do that,” Marjorie protested.
“Why not? The honeymoon’s over, isn’t it?”
“No, as a matter of fact, it’s not. But I told my mother Jack and I would take a motel, and if she found out we were here with you, her feelings would be hurt.”
“The invitation remains open,” Liza said. “Statement two. Based on my own painful experience as an army wife, if the uniform place promised the uniform today, it won’t be ready.”
“I don’t know,” Marjorie said. “My mother said she would check on it. That may inspire them to keep their promise to have it ready.”
“RHIP, right?” Liza asked, shaking her head.
“Excuse me?” Jack said.
“Rank Hath Its Privileges,” Liza said.
“Really, is that what they say?” Jack said, amused.
“Boy, has he got a lot to learn,” Liza said.
“He’ll have a very good teacher,” Marjorie said.
“And as to the third part of your statement, me going out to the club for New Year’s, thank you very much, but I have made other plans.”
“I don’t believe that,” Marjorie said flatly.
“Cross my heart, et cetera, et cetera,” Liza said. “Not that I would go out there anyway, if I had nothing whatever planned for tonight.”
“What are your other plans?” Marjorie pursued. “Sitting here by yourself?”
“Allan and I are going to walk through the backyard to Ursula and Geoff’s—”
“They’re here?” Jack asked, surprised. “I thought they were going to Ocean Reef.”
“I left a note under their door at Ocean Reef, saying we were coming here,” Marjorie said.
“Geoff wanted to go down there,” Liza said, “but gave in to Ursula when she said you two would probably want to be alone. Proving once again, I suppose, that no good deed ever goes unpunished. ” She paused and added, bitterly, “Jesus Christ!”
“I think I’m missing something here,” Marjorie said.
“He whose name I am desperately trying to forget was always saying that,” Liza said. She looked at Jack. “Geoff was looking for you, come to think of it. At least, he called me and asked if I had heard from you two.”
He looked at her curiously. She pointed to the telephone and said, “six-four-eight-four.”
“Just four digits?”
“Everything in Ozark is seven-seven-four,” Liza said.
Jack took the handset from the wall-mounted cradle and dialed the number.
Geoff answered it on the third ring.
“Lieutenant Craig.”
“Lieutenant Craig, sir, this is Lieutenant Portet, sir. I understand the lieutenant has been looking for me, sir.”
Geoff was not amused.
“Jesus, Jack, you’re going to have to get in the habit of letting people know where you are,” he said.
“I’m on leave, on my honeymoon, for Christ’s sake.”
“Felter doesn’t know the word,” Geoff said. “Where are you?”
“In Liza’s kitchen.”
“Don’t go anywhere,” Geoff said, and hung up.
Two minutes later, he appeared at the kitchen door.
“Funny, you don’t look exhausted,” he said. “I expected skin and bones, dark rings under your eyes, trembling limbs, the whole panoply of symptoms of sexual excess.”
“Very funny, Geoff,” Marjorie said, blushing.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Geoff asked.
“Marjorie wants to go to the New Year’s Eve party at the O Club,” Jack. “I have to report back on Saturday.”
“You really want to go out there? Why?”
Jack pointed at Marjorie.
Geoff shrugged.
“There’s a term for unquestioned obedience to a wife like that that an officer and gentleman such as myself would not repeat in mixed company,” he said, and handed Jack a sheet of pocket notebook paper.
Marjorie gave him the finger.
“Finton,” Geoff said. “You better call him right now. He’s been looking all over for you.”
“Who’s Finton?
“The Bishop,” Marjorie said. “The warrant officer who works for Sandy in Washington. I’m really starting not to like Uncle Sandy.”
“You don’t even know what he wants,” Jack said. “Can I use the phone, Liza?”
“Get the charges, Jack,” Marjorie said.
“Go in one of the bedrooms,” Liza said. “If I’m liable to overhear anything I shouldn’t.”
Jack shook his head and reached for the telephone and dialed the number. It was answered on the second ring.
“Liberty 7-5686,” a gentle female voice announced.
“Mr. Finton, please.”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“My name is Portet.”
“Oh, Lieutenant Portet, Mr. Finton will be so pleased. He’s been looking all over for you. Just one moment, please.”
Jack covered the microphone with his hand.
“A woman answered,” he said.
“That’s the nun,” Marjorie said.
“The nun?” Liza asked in disbelief.
“She’s really a nun,” Marjorie said.
“This is Warrant Officer Finton,” a male voice announced. “Lieutenant Portet?”
“Right.”
“You’re a hard man to find, Lieutenant,” Finton said. “You really ought to let people know where you are.”
“I was on my honeymoon,” Jack said. “On leave.”
“I know,” Finton said. “I tried all the numbers in Ocean Reef, and the golf club, and the marina, and wherever else I could think of. Where are you now?”
Jack looked at Geoff.
“With Lieutenant Craig in Ozark.”
“He told me he didn’t know where you were.”
“When he told you that, he didn’t know. What’s on your mind, Mr. Finton?”
“I have a message from the colonel for you. You got a pencil and paper?”
Jack saw there was a blackboard and chalk on the wall. He reached for the chalk.
“Yeah.”
“Start. Enrico de la Santiago is in Room 24, BOQ 107, Hurlburt. Telephone Hurlburt Military 6674. I thought you would like to know. Happy New Year. Signature is S.T.F. End. Got that?”
“Six-six-seven-four?”
“Right.”
“Got it,” Jack said.
“What the colonel likes, Lieutenant, is for you to have at least three people on the list know where you are at all times. He didn’t tell you that?”
“No, as a matter of fact, he didn’t. What list?”
“The list of people on whatever project you’re working on,” Finton said. “Most people find it easier to let me or Mary Margaret know.”
“Okay. Now I know.”
“If you leave Craig’s place, Lieutenant, let someone know where you’ll be,” Chief Warrant Officer Finton said, and hung up.
“Well?” Marjorie asked.
“A friend of mine, Enrico de la Santiago, is at Hurlburt,” Jack said.
“Who’s he?”
“He’s a Cuban, used to be in the Cuban Air Force, used to work for us in Air Simba. He was in the Congo flying B-26s for the CIA.”
“Oh, yeah,” Geoff said. “I wonder what he’s doing at Hurlburt? ”
“I have no idea, but Hurlburt’s no place to be spending New Year’s Eve alone. His wife and kids are still in Cuba.”
He looked thoughtful for a moment, then picked up the telephone again and dialed the Fort Rucker number.
“Major Hodges’s quarters, please,” he said when the operator came on the line. Pappy answered on the fifth ring, just as Jack was concluding he wasn’t home.
“Hodges.”
“Portet, sir.”
“Are you aware that Finton’s looking for you?”
“Yes, sir. I just talked to him.”
“Why do I suspect I’m not going to like this call?”
“Major, could I get an airplane for a couple of hours this afternoon? ”
“You’re here?” Pappy asked, and then went on before Jack could reply. “Where do you want to go in an airplane?”
“Hurlburt,” Jack said. “Finton gave me a message—”
“Who is Santiago, anyway?” Pappy interrupted. “I mean to you. Finton told me what he’s been doing.”
“He’s an old friend. He used to fly with me at Air Simba.”
“You want to go there and bring him here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why not?” Pappy said. “Here’s on the way.”
“On the way to where, sir?”
“Bragg, where Felter wants you to fly Santiago on Saturday morning, just as soon as you report off leave. Okay. I’ll call out there and have them get the L-23 ready. And I’ll see you at 0700 Saturday.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hodges hung up, and Jack put the phone back in its cradle.
“Jack,” Marjorie said. “My parents expect us at the club tonight.”
“It’s only an hour or so to Hurlburt,” Jack said. “I’ll be back in plenty of time.”
“You don’t even know if your friend is there, or will want to come here,” Marjorie protested.
“He’ll come,” Jack said. “When you get us a motel room, get another one for him.”
“You’re going to stay with me,” Liza protested.
“And the Cuban can stay with us, and have some fun while you and the bride are out at the post playing Officers and Ladies. And sucking up to the brass.”
“Go to hell, Geoff,” Marjorie said.
“You want some company?” Geoff asked, ignoring her.
“Love some. Pappy gave me an L-23.” He paused. “I better call and tell him we’re coming,” Jack said, and reached for the telephone again.
Three minutes later they were gone, in the Jaguar, Geoff having told Marjorie to tell Ursula he’d be back in a couple of hours, and to put clean sheets on a bed in one of the guest rooms.
“From the look on your face, Marjorie, my love, it is apparent that you have just realized the honeymoon is over,” Liza said.
Marjorie didn’t reply.
“Some women thrive on exciting little incidents like this,” Liza said. “Where all well-laid plans are tossed out the window by a telephone call. They are called Good Army Wives. It’s a little late to ask you if you’re sure you want a life like that, but I will anyway.”
“Jack did what he thought he had to do.”
“That’s always their excuse—it has to be done.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Marjorie said.
“Of course I’m right.”
“I was talking about you breaking it off with Johnny Oliver,” Marjorie said. “Maybe that was the right thing for you to do.”
“I’m not going to be a goddamned camp follower,” Liza said. “That’s it. Period.”
“Can I borrow a car to go get Jack’s uniform?” Marjorie asked.
“Oh, hell, I’ll drive you out there.”
VII
[ ONE ]
Hurlburt U.S. Air Force Field
Mary Esther, Florida
1505 31 December 1964
“Hurlburt,” First Lieutenant Geoff Craig said into his microphone, “this is Army Six-one-niner.”
“Go ahead, Six-one-niner,” the Hurlburt tower replied.
“Six-one-niner, an L-23 aircraft, is at two thousand feet, oh, maybe three miles from your station, above the beautiful blue Gulf of Mexico. Request a straight-in approach to your Runway Zero Five.”
“Army Six-one-niner, this is a closed field.”
“Thank you, Hurlburt. We have the runway in sight.”
“Army Six-one-niner, you are denied permission to land, I say again, you are denied permission to land.”
“Thank you, Hurlburt. We will not require any services.”
“Six-one-nine, go around, I say again, go around, permission to land is denied.”
“Hurlburt, Army Six-one-niner on the ground at five past the hour.”
“Army Six-one-nine, turn left on Taxiway One-five-A and hold your position. I say again, hold on Taxiway One-five-A. You will be met.”
“Roger, Hurlburt, Six-one-niner holding on Taxiway One-five -A.”
Geoff reached in the knee pocket of his flight suit, pulled out his green beret, and put it on.
“I hope you brought yours,” he said to Jack Portet, in the left seat.
Jack nodded, took off his headset, pulled his beret out, and put it on.
“Never leave home without it,” Geoff said solemnly. “Sometimes it’s more useful than a credit card.”
Two jeeps, both painted in checkerboard black and white, one of them with a pedestal-mounted .30-caliber Browning machine gun, came racing up the taxiway.
“Make nice,” Geoff said. “We probably woke them up, and they’re liable to be pissed.”
He started to wave cheerfully at the approaching jeeps.
There were four Air Force men in the jeeps, all in fatigues, all wearing the flap-pinned-up-on-one-side, wide-brimmed hat that is the mark of the Air Force’s air commandos.
The jeeps stopped. The two air commandos in the lead jeep trained the machine gun on the L-23. An air commando first lieutenant, whose jacket bore both pilot’s and parachutist’s wings, and who had a .45 pistol slung low—cowboy style—across his hips got out of the second jeep and walked in front of the first. He had an AOD brassard on his right arm.
“Smile and wave, goddamnit,” Geoff ordered. Jack complied.
The air commando lieutenant looked at the airplane, shook his head in disgust, turned to the air commandos manning the machine gun, and signaled for them to point the machine gun in another direction.
Then he pointed at Jack and indicated that he wished for him to get out of the aircraft.
“I think he wants to talk to us,” Geoff said. “You better shut it down.”
“What the fuck are you guys up to?” the air commando lieutenant asked. “Didn’t you hear the tower deny you permission to land?”
It was not normally the way h
e would have questioned the crew of an aircraft that had violated a direct order not to land at the air commando base.
But this crew was something special. They were Green Berets in addition to being pilots, which made them almost as good as air commandos, and thus entitled to a little professional courtesy.
“No,” Geoff said, “what I heard him say was ‘you are number one to land, there are no other aircraft in the area.’ Isn’t that what you heard him say, Jack?”
“That’s what I heard him say,” Jack said.
“You know you need prior permission to land here,” the air commando said.
“We didn’t remember that until we were halfway down here,” Geoff said, “and the guy that sent us here apparently didn’t remember at all.”
“This is official? You’re not just fucking around?”
“It’s official,” Geoff said. “We’re going to pick up a guy and be out of here in five minutes.”
“What guy?”
“His name is Santiago,” Jack said. “De la Santiago.”
“That’s on the schedule for Saturday morning,” the air commando lieutenant said.
“The early bird gets the worm,” Geoff said. “You never heard that before?”
“Jesus!” the air commando said. He looked more closely at Jack. “Don’t I know you? You’ve been here before, right?” His memory filled in the blank. “With the B-26’s for the Congo, right?”
“Right,” Jack said.
Intending them for service in the rapidly expanding war in Vietnam, the Air Force had taken a number of World War II B-26 bombers from the Air Force “graveyard” at Davis-Monthan Air Force Base and had them rebuilt. One of the first things Colonel Felter had done when given responsibility for the Congo was to order a dozen of them diverted to the air commando base at Hurlburt Field. There their American insignia was removed, and replaced with that of the air force of the Republic of the Congo.
Since there were no B-26 pilots in the Congolese Air Force, which existed mostly on paper, and the President didn’t want the trouble he would get from the American people, and the Russians, if an American pilot was shot down, or crashed, non-American pilots, most of them formerly officers in the pre-Cuban Air Force, were hurriedly recruited to fly them to the Congo, and then into action against the Simbas.
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