The Generals

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Fasten the door,” he ordered. Dorothy pulled it closed. Does he really think we are now going to be alone?

  He was already in his seat when he saw that she had misunderstood his orders. He left his seat, squeezed past her, and fastened the door open with a hook. She hated him for what she knew he was thinking: Dumb broad.

  She took the right-hand seat and closed the seat belt. There were still some dangling straps. He looked down at her.

  “The two coming over your shoulders snap into the buckle,” he said, while passing over to her a small headset with one earplug only. She slipped it over her head. He threw a switch, and the instrument panel began to glow, displaying a baffling array of gauges, indicators, and levers.

  He put on a light plastic headset with a tiny microphone on a boom and spoke into it.

  “Atlanta Departure Control, Army One Three Seven, at Southern 34. Request taxi and takeoff. IFR Direct Fayetteville on leaving Atlanta Departure Control.”

  While waiting for the reply, Colonel Lowell fussed with gauges and switches. The airplane trembled as he started the right engine. She could see the propeller spinning silver immediately beside her. If it comes off, she thought, it will slice right through where I sit. That was a childish thought, and it embarrassed her. He started the left engine.

  If the left propeller comes off, it will strike him. With a little bit of luck, right in the crotch.

  The earphone spoke: “Army One Three Seven is cleared via Taxiway Three, Right, to the threshold of Runway Two Eight Left. You are number four to take off. Report on threshold.”

  “Three Right, Two Eight Left. Army One Three Seven leaving Southern 34.”

  The engine on her side changed pitch; and the airplane turned sharply and then began to move down a taxiway illuminated by blue lights. She saw a sign: THREE RIGHT. It’s just like a highway, she thought. But it wasn’t nearly as safe-feeling. There was something ominous out here.

  Ahead, a brilliant white light flashed on and off from the tail of a huge jet transport. She hadn’t been aware that they mixed little airplanes with big ones. Though this one was bigger than she had expected, it was a gnat compared to the jet in front of them.

  “One Three Seven Number Two on the threshold of Two Eight Left,” he said, and the plane lurched to a stop fifty feet or so from the tail of the jet in front of it.

  “Atlanta Departure Control clears Army One Three Seven as number two for takeoff on Two Eight Left, behind the Delta 707. Beware of jet turbulence. Maintain two eight zero degrees. Climb to five thousand feet. Report at altitude.

  “One Three Seven understands number two behind the Delta on Two Eight Left. Maintaining two-eighty. Report at five thousand.”

  The jet ahead of them began to move.

  “Delta One Eleven rolling,” came over the earphones, and the huge passenger jet in front of them turned onto the runway. There was a sudden blinding light as he turned his landing lights on, and then she saw the insignia and the long, long line of lighted windows moving past and away, faster and faster into the night. Suddenly the nose came up, and it left the ground.

  Colonel Lowell was now looking at his wristwatch, she saw. He pushed the button that made the timer start. Dorothy was surprised that the watch actually had some practical purpose. She had been quite sure it was solely for show.

  She had no idea what he was timing.

  His voice came over her earphone: “Army One Three Seven rolling.”

  The plane began to move. Still gathering speed, it made a right turn onto the runway between lines of white lights.

  There were black scars of burned rubber from a thousand landings on the concrete; and she could see, just faintly, the lights of the Delta jet.

  The rumbling noise increased, and the airspeed indicator suddenly jumped to life, indicating sixty knots, and then began to climb. At ninety knots, the nose lifted, and they were airborne. Colonel Lowell’s hands were busy throwing switches, adjusting controls. There was the rumbling hydraulics, and she knew the wheels were now folding into the fuselage.

  The line of runway lights disappeared beneath them. To her left were the lights of Atlanta, and below were streetlights. And then, suddenly, all she could see out the window was a gray, impenetrable haze.

  A minute or two later they broke through that; and below them was a blanket of cotton, faintly lit by moonlight.

  “Atlanta Departure Control, Army One Three Seven at five thousand.”

  “Roger, One Three Seven. Turn to zero four five, climb to and maintain ten thousand. Report over Athens omni. I am turning you over to Greenville, one twenty three point seven at this time.”

  “One Three Seven understand zero four five, ten thousand. Report over Athens, one two three decimal seven. Thank you, Atlanta.”

  They were almost level now, although Dorothy could feel in her belly that they were still climbing. Colonel Felter, free now of jacket and that briefcase, came into the cabin and handed Dorothy a plastic cup of steaming hot coffee.

  “It’s black, I’m afraid,” he said. “But beggars can’t be choosers.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for everything.”

  “I thought you’d like it,” Colonel Felter said. “Craig took Sharon for her first ride in a cockpit, and she was thrilled.”

  He went back and returned with a cup of coffee for Colonel Lowell. The airplane was apparently flying itself, for he held the coffee in one hand while he lit a long, thick, nearly black cigar with the other.

  OK, she admitted. I’m impressed. I understand why pilots like flying. This is like being God, far above the rest of the world. Maybe, she thought, if Tom had tried to share more of such things with me, our marriage would have gone differently.

  As they neared Fayetteville, Colonel Felter asked: “Where had you planned to park this thing, Craig?”

  “Anywhere you say, boss man,” Lowell answered.

  “I was thinking it might be a good idea to leave it in Fayetteville overnight,” Felter said.

  “You want me to drop you at Pope?” Lowell asked.

  “Yes, please. And I’ll arrange for a car to pick you up at Fayetteville.”

  “OK.”

  “If you’re going to the post,” Dorothy heard herself say, “I insist you let me drive you.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” Lowell said.

  “You know what trouble it is to get a staff car when you want one,” she said. “And it really wouldn’t be far out of my way, really.”

  “OK, I accept,” he said. “Where are we sleeping, Mouse?”

  “With MacMillan,” Felter said. “At least tonight. We can arrange something else tomorrow.”

  “Colonel MacMillan? Mac MacMillan?” Dorothy asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Roxy and I are friends,” Dorothy said.

  “I would never have guessed that,” Lowell said, dryly. And then he reached for the microphone.

  “Pope Air Force Base, this is Army One Three Seven, ten minutes from your station.”

  “This is Pope. Go ahead One Three Seven.”

  “One Three Seven has a Code Six aboard who will require ground transportation, no honors. Request approach and landing instructions.”

  “Pope Clears Army One Three Seven as number one on Runway One Six. Report on final.”

  “Why did you do that?” Felter asked.

  “You’re a colonel now, Felter,” Colonel Lowell said. “Try to remember that. Colonels are not supposed to stand by the side of the road with their thumbs out. Bad for the image of the rest of us.”

  Felter shook his head and went back into the cabin.

  They were met by a Follow Me pickup truck, which led them to Base Operations transient parking. Lowell shut the airplane down, then walked down the aisle and opened the door. Dorothy followed him.

  An Air Force lieutenant colonel wearing an AOD* brassard was standing outside. He saluted Lowell.

  “You’re the Code Six, sir?”

 
“No, the Colonel will be along in a moment,” Lowell said. The AOD recognized Dorothy.

  “Tony,” she said, “this is Colonel Lowell. When Piedmont went on strike, he was good enough to bring me with him and Colonel Felter.”

  Felter appeared at the door clutching his briefcase and dragging the blue clothing bag behind him.

  “I have your car, sir,” the AOD said.

  “Thank you,” Felter said. “And there’s one more piece of luggage inside.”

  The AOD gestured to the driver of the staff car, who went to fetch the bag.

  “Do you need a ride home, Dorothy?” the AOD asked.

  “She doesn’t need a ride home because she’s not here,” Lowell said. “Right, Colonel?”

  “Right, sir,” the AOD said. He smiled at Lowell, but Dorothy did not like the look he gave her.

  “Why don’t you get back in?” Lowell said. “We’ll be leaving right away, Colonel. Thank you for your help.”

  X

  (One)

  Fort Bragg, North Carolina

  7 June 1969

  The Air Policeman at the gate of Pope Air Force Base did not salute as the Air Force blue Plymouth staff car rode past. He was, furthermore, slovenly, and Colonel Sanford Felter thought again that all of the services seemed more slovenly these days than they had been. Was that true? Or was he already becoming a crotchety chickenshit old man?

  They were immediately in Fort Bragg—or as he thought of it, on the Bragg Reservation. It had been a long time since he had been at Bragg. But when the driver turned off Pope Avenue onto the main post at the post theater, everything seemed very much as he remembered it from his very first visit to Bragg, more than twenty years before.

  The only lights on in the old hospital were at the main entrance, where there was also a large, neatly painted sign. HEADQUARTERS was painted in block letters above an enormous carved-wood pair of jump wings. Below the wings was FORT BRAGG, N.C. & XVIII AIRBORNE CORPS.

  The Air Force driver helped him carry his luggage up the steps. He was long gone down the tree-shaded road before a staff sergeant appeared in response to the ringing of the highly shined brass doorbell.

  He unlocked the door and opened it about three inches.

  “Yes, sir?” The sergeant was obviously not only fresh from his cot but confused to see a civilian seeking entrance at this hour.

  “I’m Colonel Felter, Sergeant,” Felter said, holding up his AGC card. “Would you please get the field grade OD for me?”

  “Yes, sir,” he said. The fact that Felter was a colonel quickly woke him up. “Can I give you a hand with your bags, sir?”

  “Just set it inside the door, please,” Felter said. “I don’t think I’ll be staying.”

  There was light coming from a doorway twenty feet down the corridor. Felter walked toward it. A captain, also obviously just risen from his cot, was tucking his shirt in his trousers.

  “Be with you in a moment,” he said.

  The sergeant came hurriedly down the hall.

  “Sir, this is Colonel Felter,” he said. “He wants to see the FOD.”

  “Yes, sir,” the officer of the day said, anxious to please. He went into an inner office, where Sandy knew the FOD would be asleep with his telephone disconnected.

  He appeared in a moment, a young but already balding lieutenant colonel of the 82nd Airborne.

  “Sir, I’m the FOD. Can I help you?”

  Felter showed him his AGC card. “I’ve got something for the classified document vault. Would you please round up a classified documents officer?”

  “Sir, they don’t come in until 0700,” the lieutenant colonel said. “I’ll be glad to sign for whatever you have, sir.”

  “Please get a CDO,” Felter said. He was polite but also cold and impatient.

  “Yes, sir,” the FOD said, then asked the OD for the SOP, which contained emergency nighttime numbers.

  “I’d like a telephone book, please,” Felter said. “I have a call to make.”

  The sergeant gave him the Fort Bragg directory, which was the size of the book a city of forty thousand people would have. There were that many soldiers and their dependents at Fort Bragg, which made Bragg North Carolina’s third largest city. Felter went down the Mac’s until he found MACMILLAN, R G COL JFKCENSW, then dialed the number.

  Roxy answered the phone.

  “Hello, Roxy, this is Sandy Felter.”

  “I heard that Piedmont went on strike,” she said. “You stuck in Atlanta?”

  “No, I’m here. On the post. At Post Headquarters. Is Mac there?”

  “Mac!” she shouted, so loud Felter took the phone from his ear.

  “Sir,” the FOD said, “I don’t seem to be able to get a CDO.”

  “Mouse, you little sonofabitch, how are you?” Mac came on the line. “More important, where are you?”

  “I’m at XVIII Airborne Corps, looking for a CDO. They don’t seem to be able to find one.”

  “You’ve got it with you?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Is the field grade OD there? Let me speak at him.”

  “Colonel MacMillan, Colonel,” Sandy said, handed the telephone to the FOD, and stood with his face averted while the lieutenant colonel had his ass eaten for not having a Classified Documents Officer on instant call. The FOD deserved it, but it still made Sandy uncomfortable. The FOD finally handed the telephone back to him. This time there was respect, even fear, on his face.

  “Colonel MacMillan would like to speak to you again, sir.”

  “I’ll be right over to pick you up,” MacMillan said. “I don’t want either to put a uniform on or to show up in my Hawaiian shorts, so wait for me on the curb.”

  “Thank you, Mac,” Felter said, and broke the connection.

  Mac’s car arrived within minutes. He opened the door so the light would show Felter who it was, then closed it when Felter waved. Mac would understand that he hadn’t been able yet to get rid of the briefcase.

  Three minutes after Mac arrived, a stocky major of the Signal Corps arrived, obviously harried.

  The FOD nodded at Felter.

  “I’m the CDO, sir. Have you got something for me?”

  “I’m Colonel Felter,” Felter said. He set the briefcase on the OD’s desk and pulled his shirt and jacket sleeve up so that he could work the combination lock on the stainless steel chain. “I transfer to you herewith one sealed and locked briefcase, which I tell you contains certain documents classified Top Secret Quincy/Fox. Will you examine the seals, please, and then give me a receipt?”

  The FOD was impressed. He hadn’t noticed the cables on the briefcase until Felter started to get free of them. The major examined the seals—four of them, one on each side—where they would be broken were there any attempt to open the briefcase.

  “Seals are intact, sir,” he said. “Sir, I have been instructed to inform the commanding general when this came into my possession.”

  “General Bellmon, you mean?” Felter asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “At this hour of the night?”

  “Whenever I got my hands on it, sir.”

  “Well, then, I guess we had better call him,” Felter said. The FOD was already dialing the number of Quarters One.

  “Ma’am,” Felter heard him say, “this is the field grade duty officer at XVIII Corps. May I speak to the general, please, ma’am?”

  “I’ll take it, Colonel,” Felter said, and took the telephone from the somewhat reluctant FOD.

  “Bellmon.”

  “Good evening, sir,” Felter said. “I understand you left word to be notified when certain documents arrived.”

  “Who’s this?”

  “Sandy Felter, sir.”

  “How the hell are you?” There was warmth in his voice.

  “Oh, I’m still pretty much out of things, General. In outfield, so to speak. As always.”

  “Goddamn, Sandy, I’m delighted…to hear your voice.”

  “It’s ni
ce to hear yours, sir,” Felter said. “I look forward to seeing you soon, sir.”

  Bellmon misinterpreted that to mean now.

  “You want to come over here?”

  “Mac’s outside, sir. I’m going to spend the night with him.”

  “Then I’ll see you first thing in the morning,” Bellmon said. “I’ll be damned.”

  “It’s a small world, isn’t it, sir?”

  “Good night, Mouse,” General Bellmon said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Good night, General, sorry to disturb you at this hour.”

  “It’s been an unexpected pleasure, Colonel. An unexpected pleasure,” Bellmon said. He was still chuckling when he hung up the telephone.

  “Will that be all, Colonel?” the CDO asked.

  “Yes, I think so,” Felter said. “No, wait a minute.” He took off his jacket, and shrugged out of the stainless steel harness. Then he took the pistol from the small of his back and chained it to the briefcase with the stainless steel.

  There was no sense in getting Roxy all upset. He could have marched in there with an SS-11 wire-guided missile over his shoulder, and Roxy wouldn’t bat an eyelash. A cut-down .45, however, was something else. A cut-down .45 was ominous. There was no sense worrying Roxy—or worse, making her curious.

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” Felter said to the FOD, the OD, the CDO, and the charge of quarters. “I’m sorry to have disturbed your sleep.”

  Then he picked up his suitcase and the blue clothing bag from Montgomery Ward and walked out to MacMillan’s shining Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham.

  (Two)

  Quarters No. 21

  Colonel’s Row

  Fort Bragg, North Carolina

  Roxy MacMillan came out of the kitchen bursting out of a filmy dressing gown. Roxy was big and large-boned (but she was not fat). She hugged Sandy Felter to her bosom and demanded—by way of greeting—“Where the hell is Sharon?”

  “She’s coming tomorrow or the day after,” Sandy said.

  “She’d better,” Roxy said, then put her arm around his shoulder and led him into the kitchen. “If you guys think you’re all getting together and we ladies are not you’ve got another think coming.”

  Oh, good God! How much has fat-mouthed MacMillan told her?