“We weren’t moving three-quarters of the way around the world in secret,” Hanrahan said. He took off his glasses—shaped and colored like aviator’s glasses—and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“Do I hear a motion to adjourn?” Lowell asked.
“Why don’t we knock off?” General Hanrahan said. “Hanrahan’s Law holds that the more you look at figures, the more they lie.”
“I don’t know about the rest of you,” Lowell said, “but I’m finished. I only say that because the general says we can have the weekend off. Otherwise, Colonel Felter, I’m sure, would find something to keep me busy.”
“You’ve got plans for the weekend?” Sandy Felter asked.
“All work and no play, and so on,” Lowell said.
“The troops have been at it hot and heavy, General,” MacMillan said. So they had, Lowell realized. He had just about forgotten about the troops. But they had been rehearsing all week. Despite their reputation for being able to fight anywhere any time, they had not been trained in large-strength helicopter assaults. In other words, while they were highly skilled at rappelling down from a helicopter, and in being extracted from beneath a jungle canopy more or less the same way, they had not been trained (as ordinary troops were) to make a heli-landing from a fleet of helicopters. So they had been practicing that all week, and they had also been practicing loading and unloading “the basic load” into Chinooks* and Jolly Green Giants.**
On Friday of next week, the troops would make their first practice assault on the mock-up. Once that happened, they would be locked up. After the practice assault, the risk that they would have a couple of drinks and talk about what they were doing was too great.
Some of the troops were of course already privy to many of the details of the “high-risk-factor” mission for which they had volunteered. Since most of the Berets were not only very bright, but very experienced, they would have figured it out for themselves. So it had been Felter’s decision (opposed by MacMillan and General Bellmon, supported by Lowell) to tell the ones who would actually assault the Hanoi Hilton. Lowell’s support as well as MacMillan’s and Bellmon’s objections had been pissing in the wind. Sandy Felter was the action officer, and it was his decision to make.
If it were my decision to make, Lowell thought, watching Felter, I would knock off for the weekend. Working through weekends caused interest. Interest caused speculation, and not a hell of a lot of speculation would be required before some bright young Green Beret trooper put everything together and concluded that what they were going to do with their helicopters and five full colonels running around in ripstops playing John Wayne was go grab the guys in the Hanoi Hilton and bring them home.
“Yes, sir,” Sandy Felter said, “I think you’re right. I think we ought to knock off right now, this minute, right where we are, and pick up again at oh six hundred Monday morning.”
“Sergeant Major!” Hanrahan said.
“Sir?” the sergeant major replied.
“Seal the place. Nobody gets in but you and the senior officers,” Hanrahan said.
“Consider it sealed, sir. Sir?”
“You’ve got something?”
“I thought Colonel Mac was going to mention it, sir,” the sergeant major said.
“Yeah, Jesus Christ,” MacMillan said. “I guess I’m a little foggy, too. General, what about TOWs*?”
“What about them?” Hanrahan asked, confused.
“There’s twenty of them on the post,” MacMillan said.
“And that’s supposed to be Secret,” Hanrahan said. “Or is it Top Secret?”
“Top Secret, sir,” MacMillan said.
“And you found out about them, huh?”
“Some of the troops have been watching the tests, sir,” MacMillan said. “And they have asked me—”
“Some of the troops have been watching the tests? And apparently counting the stock?” Hanrahan asked. He seemed more resigned than disturbed. Certainly not surprised.
“They ran it as an infiltration problem, sir,” MacMillan said, uneasily.
“And they figure what the hell, let’s get some?” Hanrahan said. “No way, Mac.”
“What’s your reasoning, Mac?” Felter asked, quietly.
“The first thing the bad guys are going to do, once they know we’re there, is send T-34s from Nnon Pac,” MacMillan said. “There are eighteen of them there, sixteen apparently operable.”
“How did your guys find that out?” Hanrahan asked.
“They don’t know it,” MacMillan said. “Sir, I didn’t say—”
“Go on, Mac,” Felter interrupted him.
“Mouse, they just figured it out. Shit, I could figure it out. What’s the best way to deal with a prisoner situation? With tanks. The only way to deal with tanks is with other tanks. Against tanks, there’s not a hell of a lot you can do, and a T-34 is a sonofabitch to knock out with a rocket launcher. If the bad guys sent a column of tanks to the Hilton, and one of them got blown off the road, they would stop and reconsider their position, that’s for sure. It would buy us some time.”
“The way to deal with those tanks,” Tex Williams said, “is to take them out with a bombing raid the night before.”
“We’ve decided against that,” Felter said. “For one thing, we can’t count on results. If they aren’t taken out, all we’re going to do is draw attention to the area. And if they are taken out, we’ve still drawn attention to the area. Why those tanks, and not T-34s elsewhere? Christ, Tex! You don’t give up, do you?”
The icy tone was back in Felter’s voice. And the profanity. The Mouse has a hard-on, Lowell thought, smiling.
“The current plan is to take out the roads,” Felter said, thinking aloud. “There are three roads. One demolition team cannot support another, the distances are too great. We are proceeding on the assumption that the demolitions teams will be successful. That is a shaky assumption. On the other hand, we would be risking the premature disclosure of our TOW development status. That would make a number of people very uncomfortable. I don’t even like to think about having a TOW fall into Russian hands.”
There was a long pause.
“We could rig them with a quarter pound of C-4*,” MacMillan said.
“If we are to believe the initial test reports,” Felter went on, still thinking aloud, his voice very much like the voice of a computer in a science fiction movie, “the TOW has a seventy-five percent kill rate at two hundred yards or less. Let’s cut that in half. A thirty-seven decimal five kill rate at two hundred yards. In the hands of a skilled operator. How hard are they to use? Unknown. The figures come out this way. Three TOWs on each road would give us a one decimal one two five kill rate. One hundred twelve decimal five. Cut that in half. Fifty-six decimal five.
“We have previously calculated the odds of tank reinforcement at eighty decimal zero. Four chances out of five. We have calculated successful demolition of the roads at sixty-six decimal six. Two out of three. What that boils down to is that they will probably send tank reinforcement, and that we have presently only two chances out of three of stopping them via road demolition.
“The question is thus whether it is best to insure the success of the mission against tank reinforcement at the cost of prematurely disclosing a Top Secret weapon.”
“You better pass that one upstairs, Sandy,” General Hanrahan said. “If you’re seriously considering this.”
That was the reaction to be expected of a general officer in Hanrahan’s position, Felter thought. When you believe a decision is too important for you to make yourself, ask the next higher echelon of command. It was normally a reasonable practice. But it wasn’t going to work here. The President had meant it when he used the phrase “Under my personal direction.” The command of Monte Cristo was his, delegated to Felter. Felter knew if he asked for a decision whether or not to use the TOWs, he would have to ask the President. And that meant he would first have to explain to the President (and probably as well to Kissinger an
d Colonel Al Haig, Kissinger’s Chief of Staff) what a TOW was, and why he thought it should be used, and what the ramifications of its capture by the North Vietnamese might be.
And one of two things would most likely happen. Al Haig (who had more or less tactfully suggested that he had more command experience than Felter, and Q.E.D. should have been given Monte Cristo) was liable to say, “Why don’t we run it past the Joint Chiefs?”
Or, more likely, the President—probably annoyed at being bothered with what he considered a minor operational detail—would say “Do what you think is best, Felter.”
“Upstairs to whom, General?” Felter asked softly.
Hanrahan’s eyebrows rose, but he didn’t reply.
Felter sat for a moment, shoulders hunched, and with his fingers rigidly extended, he slapped his hands together.
“General,” he said, finally, “would you please get in touch with General Bellmon? Tell him it has come to your attention that the security of the TOW testing program has been compromised. And tell him that until the matter is resolved, testing will be suspended, and that he will place the stock of TOWs under your protection.”
“I don’t think I have the authority to do that, Sandy,” Hanrahan said. “They don’t even belong to him. They belong to the Airborne Board.”
“Not any more they don’t,” Felter said. “They belong to Monte Cristo. We will fire ten of them over the weekend. We will take ten with us. See to it that the project officer, who presumably knows how these things work, comes with them, and see to it that he is informed that if it ever comes out that he has opened his mouth to anyone about anything he sees, or suspects, or thinks, he can expect to spend the rest of his career in his permanent rank counting snowflakes in Alaska.”
“Yes, sir,” General Hanrahan said. He knew that for all practical purposes it was the President of the United States who was giving that order.
Felter looked at Lowell.
“You want to keep an eye on this, Craig?” he asked.
“I think that General Hanrahan would be the best one to do that,” Lowell said. “I don’t want to draw attention to Monte Cristo through me.”
“And you also want to play this weekend, right?” Felter said.
“Guilty,” Lowell said.
“I’ll take it over, Sandy,” MacMillan volunteered, glowering at Lowell.
“That would draw attention to us through you,” Lowell said. “Let Hanrahan do it. There’s a hundred reasons he would be legitimately interested in them.”
“The Duke’s right, sir,” Felter said to Hanrahan. “Sorry to take your weekend.”
“Hell, I don’t mind,” General Hanrahan said. “I haven’t even seen one of them.”
Felter leaned forward and pulled a red dialless telephone to him. He picked it up. “Please engage your scrambler,” he said. He paused. “This is Outfielder. Let me speak to the secretary of the general staff.” There was another pause. “This is Outfielder,” he said again. He ran his finger down a line of words and numbers before him in a folder, and then glanced at his watch. The signal operating instructions had a code for each hour of the day. He said: “Victoria three three nine. Confirm.”
“Wisconsin four two seven,” the Secretary of the General Staff of the U.S. Army replied.
“I want a teletype message sent to the President of the Airborne Board, Fort Bragg,” Felter said. “I want it sent Priority, and I want it backdated, but I want it hand-carried and dispatched immediately. The message—classified Top Secret—is ‘TOW compromised. You will cooperate fully with General Hanrahan. More follows. End message.’ Send it out over the Chairman’s personal signature. Will you read that back, please?” There was a pause. “Thank you very much,” Felter said. He dropped the red handset back in its cradle.
He smiled shyly around the table.
“I was really a little worried about those damned roads,” he said. “Thank you, Mac. Thank you, Sergeant Major.”
“From what I hear, Colonel,” the sergeant major said, “you can send out a PFC with one of those things and he’ll bring you back a tank.”
“They are not to be used unless the demolitions team fails,” Felter said. “I’ll leave it up to you, Sergeant Major, to make that point with the demolitions people. There may be a time when he can use them against Russian armor, but I devoutly hope this is not it. You understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant major said.
“We are not going where we are going to bring back tanks,” Felter said.
“Is that it, Sandy?” Lowell asked.
“I presume you’re leaving the area,” Felter said. “Check in every three hours, please Duke.”
“Including three A.M.?” Lowell said, getting to his feet.
“Including three A.M., Duke,” Felter said.
(Two)
Winston-Salem, North Carolina
21 June 1969
Dorothy Sims sat at the counter of the coffee shop, an untouched cup of coffee cold in front of her, an unread magazine under a package of cigarettes, a makeup kit and a small overnight bag on the polished aggregate floor beside her.
She was marveling at her previously unsuspected ability to lie with skill and artistry. First she told her mother that the kids were just dying to come “home” to see Grandma and Pawpaw. Absolutely untrue. The kids wanted to stay in Fayetteville and enjoy their vacation. She then told the kids that Grandma and Pawpaw wanted to see them (which was true) and that they should remember that they would themselves be that old one day, which was a cheap shot if there ever was one.
She next told her mother and her father that she really must go to a protest meeting in Washington, clearly implying that it was her wifely duty to Tom. That was the same story she gave Roxy MacMillan, though in fact, she wasn’t going anywhere near Washington.
The trouble was that now Craig Lowell had not showed up. Where the hell was he?
She had called the apartment twice, but there had been no answer.
And the terminal was practically deserted, which meant that no plane was scheduled soon to arrive or depart.
She forced herself to slowly sip the lukewarm coffee until it was gone, which took two more cigarettes. She asked the cold-faced bored impatient waitress in a beehive hairdo for the bill. Then she put the magazine under her arm, picked up the makeup case and the overnight bag, and walked out of the nearly empty restaurant into the nearly empty terminal.
There weren’t even people working the ticket counters! Just a girl at the Hertz desk and a distracted security officer leaning on a wall.
The glass doors from outside opened, and she looked and saw a man in a cotton windbreaker coming through. He seemed to be looking for her.
“Mrs. Sims?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“I’m from Lewis Aviation, ma’am,” he said. “Your charter just called in. He’s ten minutes out. He asked me to fetch you.”
“Thank you very much,” she said.
“Here, let me have your bag. I’ve got a truck outside.”
She gave it to him and walked on light feet—light-headed—after him. She should have known that Craig would have thought of something like a charter.
The man in the windbreaker put her bag in the back of a pickup, and then slammed the door once she’d got in.
“You’re Mrs. Sims, aren’t you?” the man said, as he drove away from the passenger terminal. “I mean, you were Dorothy Persons, weren’t you?”
“Yes, I was,” she said. “Or I am. Do I know you?”
“I used to work for your dad’s company,” he said. “Before I went to work for Lewis. I’m still a backup pilot for them. I’ve seen you around.”
“I think I’ve seen you, too.”
Dear God, don’t let him bump into my father out here, and tell him that “it was nice to see Mrs. Sims, when the charter came and picked her up.”
“That’s probably him now,” the man said, gesturing out the windshield. It was dark, but
still bright enough to see a light twin airplane making its landing. Where did he get that plane? She’d expected him to show up in the Army plane he’d flown her in from Atlanta.
The plane was now down and taxiing toward the commercial aviation facility.
An attendant in a white suit went out to guide it to a parking stop, then ran to a fuel truck and drove that to the airplane. She was driven directly to the airplane.
Craig was standing beside the plane—what looked to be a brand-new Cessna 310, a sleek, fast, twin-engine aircraft—watching the attendant open the fuel filler plate. He turned.
“Mrs. Sims?” Craig Lowell asked, his eyes smiling. She nodded. “I’m sorry to be late.”
“It’s perfectly all right.”
“We’ll be ready to go in just a moment,” he said. “We’ll make up the lost time.”
“There’s nothing to be concerned about,” she said.
It didn’t take much gas. Craig put her bags on the floor of the back seat of the plane. He signed the credit slip for the gasoline, put the credit card back in his pocket.
“Where would you like to ride?” he asked. “Up front? Or in the back?”
“In front,” she said. “If I won’t be in your way.”
“Not at all, ma’am,” he said. “I like company. But I’ll have to get in first. Be careful of your head.”
He climbed onto the wing, and then got inside the plane, crawling into the left-hand pilot’s seat. She climbed in, and the man from Lewis Aviation closed the door after her.
He checked to see the door was closed, and that she had fastened her belt.
And then he started the engines, waved good-bye to the man from Lewis Aviation, and started taxiing toward the runway.
“Winston-Salem ground control, Cessna Four Niner, taxi to the active,” he said into a hand-held microphone.
“Cessna Four Niner is cleared to the threshold of Runway Two Eight,” a speaker said in her ear. “Contact Departure Control on one two one point nine.”
He fiddled with the radios.
“Winston-Salem Departure Control, Cessna Four Niner, request takeoff from Two Eight, visual to Atlanta, Fulton County.”
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