He braked the airplane to a stop, raced the engines, checked dials.
“Cessna Four Niner, you are cleared for takeoff from Runway Two Eight. The winds are negligible. There is no traffic. The time is five past the hour. The altimeter is two niner niner eight.”
He looked at her. She looked back at him.
“Hello, my darling,” he said, and leaned over and kissed her.
“Hello yourself,” she said. She could taste cigar on his tongue.
“Winston-Salem,” he said. “Four Niner rolling. Thank you.”
The plane gathered speed quickly and lifted off into the sky. She fished in her purse for her cigarettes and took one out. She looked around for a lighter. There it was, right under a little illuminated sign saying LIGHTER.
“What did you do, rent this?” she asked, as she pulled the tray outward.
“No, this is mine,” he said. “I just got it, as a matter of fact. I used to have an Aero Commander. This is a lot faster, and I really didn’t need all that room. I had it brought up from Alabama.”
“It’s a nice plane,” she said. “Now will you kiss me again!”
He leaned over and kissed her again, and she kissed him hungrily.
He went back on the radio, asking something called Atlanta Area Control for an IFR flight plan.
“We have a decision to make,” he said to her. “We can either go into Fulton County, which is miles from Atlanta, and where there isn’t much chance of anyone seeing us together, or we can go into Atlanta itself, where, if we’re seen together, we can look innocent. If we’re seen at Fulton County, we will have a hard time looking innocent.”
“You obviously have more experience in this sort of thing than I do,” Dorothy said.
“But you have more to lose,” he said, not taking offense.
“Let’s go into Atlanta,” she said. “And take our chances.”
He parked the plane at the Southern Airways portion of the terminal, beside several comparatively huge commercial airliners.
“You don’t see many little airplanes here,” she said.
“And they don’t like this one, either,” he said. “It is a courtesy discourteously offered.”
She smiled, hoping for a better explanation, but he offered none.
He locked the airplane door, gave the keys to a Southern attendant, and then they caught a taxi to the Hyatt Regency Hotel. At the end of their elevator ride outside the building was a suite furnished in what she thought of as North Carolina Louis XIV. Compared to Craig’s apartment, it was the height of elegance.
They were no sooner in the door than a waiter appeared with a cart, on which were hors d’oeuvres, whiskey, and a bottle of champagne. He had apparently taken some pains with the arrangements. She was touched. And then he sprawled into a chair and picked up the telephone, and dialed a number.
“Sign that thing, will you?” he said, gesturing at her.
What am I going to sign? she wondered, taking the bill from the waiter.
She signed “Mrs. Craig Lowell,” looked at the key and wrote “2406,” and then “Add 15% tip.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Lowell,” the waiter said, and left them alone.
What the hell, Dorothy thought.
“Colonel Lowell, Sergeant Major,” he said to the telephone. “I’m in 2406 of the Hyatt Regency in Atlanta. You got anything for me?” There was a pause. “Yes, thank you,” he said, and chuckled. “I intended to have a good time.”
He dropped the phone in its cradle and motioned to her. She went and sat in his lap.
“What was that all about?” she asked.
“Do you really care?” he asked.
She kissed him, and after a moment she felt his hand on her leg, sliding up it under her slip.
(Three)
Point Clear, Alabama
26 June 1969
When Colonel Craig Lowell saw the pilot crawl out of the Hughes LOH-6 and walk toward Base Ops at Hurlbert Field on the Gulf Coast west of Eglin Air Force Base, he was genuinely surprised, furious, and a little sick. He knew the captain. The captain was just back from his third ’Nam tour. He still had the ’Nam look.
He was a tall, good-looking young officer, tanned and lean. There was an anticipatory smile on his face. And he walked with a jaunty step. He was good at what he did, and he knew it. And right now he was specially pleased with himself. He thought he was being really clever—and that he would be welcomed with open arms because of that.
Lowell had called the Aviation Board and asked them to send him a chopper. He had expected the pilot to be one of the warrant officers, or a young lieutenant. Not a captain, and certainly not this captain.
The captain pushed open the door to Base Ops and threw Lowell a snappy salute.
“Colonel Lowell,” he said. “How nice to see you again, Colonel. I have your aircraft, sir.”
Because the Air Force was watching, Lowell returned the salute.
“May I observe, sir, that the colonel looks a little beat?”
“I have been in the Army nearly as long as you are old,” Lowell said. “I am entitled to look beat.”
“That’s right, isn’t it?” the captain said, doing the arithmetic.
“Let’s go, Captain,” Lowell said.
“Yes, sir,” the captain said, and held open the door for Lowell to pass before him.
They walked back to the Hughes LOH-6, a small, single-rotor helicopter. On the day it had been certified for flight by the FAA the LOH-6 had set fourteen world records. It was, among other things, the fastest helicopter flying.
Lowell got in the copilot’s seat and fastened his shoulder harness. The captain climbed in the other side, strapped himself in, and reached for the master switch.
Lowell put out his hand and stopped him.
“What the hell are you doing here, Geoff?” he asked.
Captain Geoffrey Craig looked at Colonel Craig Lowell. His smile was not quite as self-satisfied as it had been a few moments earlier, but he was still smiling.
“Inasmuch as that remark was not preceded by ‘How’s Ursula and the kids?’ I presume that’s a Colonel Lowell, as opposed to Cousin Craig, interrogatory?”
“You bet your sweet ass it is,” Lowell said.
“Ursula and the boys are doing very nicely, thank you for asking,” Geoff said.
“Answer the goddamn question,” Lowell said, sharply.
“I was available when the mission came in,” Geoff said. “When I heard it was you, I took it.”
“That’s all?”
Geoff looked at him and hesitated a moment before replying.
“I thought maybe there would be a chance for a little chat,” he said.
“That’s what I was afraid of,” Lowell said. “Let’s get it in the air, Geoff.”
“You want to drive?” Geoff asked.
“No. You drive,” Lowell said. He had been flying all day, and while the Chinook had a complete electro-hydraulic control system and was allegedly capable of reducing pilot effort to the minimum, it was still a heavy sonofabitch to fly, especially if you were one year shy of a quarter century’s service.
“I’ve got an hour thirty’s fuel aboard,” Geoff said. “Is that going to be enough.”
“You have a credit card?”
“Yeah. But I filed local, and you’re not supposed to charge gas if you file local.”
Despite everything else, Lowell was touched. Geoff had decided that his cousin had requested an “unofficial” (unauthorized) ride. So instead of having it down on paper, he had filed a local flight plan (“test” or “proficiency”) within the Fort Rucker immediate area.
“When you go back, say you got the wrong word,” Lowell said. “I’m authorized.”
“Sorry, Craig,” Geoff said. He smiled mischievously at Lowell. “I thought maybe it was a pussy mission.”
“Why would you think that?” Lowell asked.
“No particular reason,” Geoff said.
“I wish it was,�
� Lowell said, thinking that sounded more credible than a fervent denial. “No, it’s authorized. Call the board and tell them I said it was authorized.”
“Christ, and here I had visions of New Orleans,” the captain said.
“You’re out of luck,” Lowell said.
Geoff cranked it up.
“You say we’re authorized? You want me to file?”
“Just buzz west along the beach,” Lowell said.
“You care if I lay a little rank on them?”
“If you’ve got it, flaunt it,” Lowell said.
“Hurlbert, Army Chopper Two One,” Geoff said to his microphone. “In front of your Base Ops. Taxi and takeoff, VFR nap of the earth. I have a Code Six aboard.”
Hurlbert came right back: “Hurlbert clears Army Helicopter Two One for immediate takeoff from the parking area. There is a C-131 inbound, five miles out. The winds are negligible, the time is four-five past the hour, and the altimeter is two niner eight. Have a nice flight, Colonel, and hurry back to Hurlbert.”
“Two One, light on the skids,” Geoff said. The Hughes climbed smoothly to about fifty feet, with no more feeling of motion than in a good elevator. After swooping over the other parked aircraft, the main highway, and the beach, it turned west. Jesus, Lowell thought, he flies this thing as if it’s part of him. Well, he’s had a lot of practice, and it’s a lot easier when they’re not shooting at you.
“Bill Franklin sends regards,” Geoff said.
“Yeah, I thought maybe he would,” Lowell said. “How is he?”
“About as well as any man who learns on his return from ’Nam that his wife apparently went right from the maternity ward to some other fucker’s bed,” Geoff said bitterly. “And the bitch is trying to take him for everything he owns.”
“Is there anything we can do?” Lowell asked.
“He spends a lot of time at our house,” Geoff said.
“Thank you, Geoff,” Lowell said.
“What the hell, he’s my friend, too. He was my CO, you remember.”
“Poor sonofabitch,” Lowell said.
“Ah. what the hell.” Geoff said. There was no point in talking about it. “What’s going on in Mobile?”
“We’re going to a field on this side of the bay,” Lowell said. “A place called Fairhope.”
“Steer a minute and let me look at the chart,” Geoff said. Lowell took the controls.
“I’ve got it,” Lowell said, and added, “all you have to do is follow the beach. It’s off the airways.”
Geoff found Fairhope Municipal Airport on his Jeppeson chart.
“Very interesting,” he said. “Right there in the middle of nowhere. Fifty-eight hundred feet, lighted runways, twenty-four-hour radio. Avgas and JP-4. Now what do you suppose a dinky little town like that is doing with an airport like that?”
“There’s a hotel there. A lot of business jets,” Lowell said. The question confirmed his suspicions that Geoff’s arrival in the Hughes was not entirely because he wanted to be nice to his cousin.
“I got it,” Geoff said, taking the controls back. “And you don’t care if someone knows you’re landing there. So it’s really not a pussy flight.”
“If you learn to keep your mouth shut,” Lowell said, “and don’t fly into any mountains, and eventually make colonel, you will learn that captains very seldom question where colonels go. That is known as ‘Rank Hath its Privileges.’”
“Yes, sir, I’ll remember that, sir,” Geoff said. “Colonel, sir, am I going to be very surprised to see maybe a dozen Chinooks parked at Fairhope Municipal Airport?”
Goddamn it to hell! He does know! The only question is how much.
“I would be very much surprised if there was anything there painted olive drab,” Lowell said, as calmly as he could.
“The most astonishing thing has happened lately, Colonel,” Geoff said, “while the Colonel has been taking the sun with the Air Force at Hurlbert.”
“Is that so?”
“Major Franklin and I were discussing it just before I flew down here, as a matter of fact.”
Major Franklin (then Sergeant) and Colonel Lowell (then Captain) had met when Lowell had been an assistant military attaché in Algiers, watching the French use of Piasecki H-21s against Algerian guerrillas. Lowell had arranged for him to get into the Warrant Officer Candidate (Flight Training) Program. When he’d gone to get Sandy Felter off the beach at the Bay of Pigs fiasco, Bill Franklin had been his copilot. When they somehow managed to pull that off, Kennedy had promoted him from warrant officer to lieutenant on the same order Lowell had been made lieutenant colonel. Major Franklin had commanded a company of Huey-Cobras under Lowell in Vietnam.
His interest in whatever Colonel Lowell was up to was understandable, Colonel Lowell thought, but right now it was the worst fucking thing that could happen.
“Go on, Geoff,” Lowell said.
“There’s about a dozen Chinooks missing,” Geoff said, more than a little smugly. (Listen to what I found out, clever fellow that I am.) “Four from Rucker, four from Benning, and two each from as far away as Riley and Bliss.”
Lowell didn’t reply. He had to hear him out.
“And each of these machines, by another interesting, strange coincidence, happens to be crewed by some very experienced Chinook pilots. Not just one very experienced Chinook pilot and some kid along to learn from his betters, but two very experienced Chinook pilots. Some of them are even almost as experienced as I am.”
He looked over at Lowell.
“One of the pilots, whose name I happen not to be able to recall, talks a lot to his wife. And his wife said that all she knew was that he had gone to Bragg for three weeks or so. But the next day, Bill Franklin just happened to be at Bragg, and when he asked about this guy, Bragg swore they didn’t know anything about Chinooks.”
“Isn’t that interesting?” Lowell said. “Do you suppose they have been swallowed up in the Bermuda Triangle?”
“And then when I was zipping merrily along on my way to Hurlbert Field just now, you’ll never guess what I saw flying down the middle of the Eglin Reservation.”
“Eglin is a restricted zone,” Lowell said. “What were you doing flying across a restricted zone?”
“I guess I was lost,” Geoff said. “But I was so low, I would be very surprised if they picked me up on their radar. I was telling you what I saw, Colonel, sir. I saw a dozen Chinooks zipping in from the ocean about six inches off the waves.”
“That’s enough, Geoff,” Lowell said. “I mean it, stop right there.”
“And do you know what I thought when I saw those Chinooks?” Geoff went on.
I can’t stop him, Lowell realized.
“I mean, since they didn’t have any gunship support or anything? I mean, it was an assault, but it wasn’t a combat assault with gunships and colored smoke and some jackass sitting up at thirty-five hundred feet in a command-and-control Huey playing with his toys.”
“I have flown a command-and-control bird myself on several occasions,” Lowell said. “I never felt like a jackass playing with toys.”
“You wouldn’t believe what they’ve got over there now, Colonel,” Geoff said, unwilling to back down here, either. “Graduates of some VIP flight courses who literally don’t know their ass from a hole in the ground.”
“What kind of an assault did you think they were practicing?”
“Like I said, Major Franklin was over at Bragg one day last week. And he thought that he would pay his respects to his former commanding officer, who he knew was at Bragg, because the President of the Army Aviation Board himself told him he was at Bragg. At Bragg, he met a guy who told him his ol’ buddy was out at Camp McCall, which didn’t surprise him, since his ol’ buddy and former commanding officer was in tight with the snake-eaters, and had even been seen, on occasion, wearing a green beret hisself.”
“Franklin went to Camp McCall?”
“Yeah. He wanted a little time in one of these, so he flew
some paper-pusher over there in one. He was empty going back and in no big rush, so he figured, what the hell, I’ll drop in and say ‘Howdy’ to the Duke. The major tells me that when he put down at McCall, a bunch of very angry Berets came running up and pointed guns at him and otherwise pissed their pants.”
“Is that so?”
“But that isn’t what he found over there that was really interesting,” Geoff said. “What he found absolutely fascinating, would you believe it, was that there’s a mock-up of the POW camp at Dak Tae out there.”
“I’m sure he was mistaken.”
“Come on, Craig. Franklin flew a dozen Mohawk photorecons of Dak Tae. The last time two months ago.”
“I’m telling you, Geoff,” Lowell said. “Franklin’s mistaken.”
“We want in,” Geoff said. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“In what?”
“I’m a good Chinook pilot, and you know I am. Franklin was a test pilot on the sonofabitch; he’s got about a thousand hours in it. And we’re still even current in ’Nam. If you’re going to get those guys, and don’t tell me that you’re not, we want to go.”
“How many people have you and Franklin discussed this James Bond fantasy with?” Lowell asked.
“Nobody,” Geoff said. “Christ!”
The implication was clear. They knew when to keep their mouths shut.
“Think over that answer, and then tell me again,” Lowell said.
Sensing how serious Lowell was, Geoff took a moment to think it over.
“Nobody,” he said. “Absolutely nobody.”
“You’re absolutely sure?” Lowell asked. “If for some reason you and Franklin suddenly vanished from Rucker tonight, Geoff, who would get curious? I mean, aside from people concerned with where you were? Would somebody start coming up with theories about where you would likely be?”
“No, sir,” Geoff said, believing he had won; that he and Franklin would be going along.
“I want you to listen to me very carefully, Geoff,” he said. “I am speaking as an officer. This is an order.”
“Yes, sir?”
“You are to consider yourself under arrest. When you drop me off, you are to return to Fort Rucker and make contact with Major Franklin. You are to inform Major Franklin that on my authority, he is under arrest. You are permitted to tell your wife that you have been placed on TDY to Fort Bragg, North Carolina, and will be out of touch for several weeks, and that she is not to tell anyone of your location. Then you and Major Franklin will fly to Camp McCall in this aircraft—I remind you that you are under arrest—and report to a Lieutenant Colonel Seaman, he’s the security officer. You will inform Seaman that I have ordered you to relay him the instructions that your arrest is to be immediately reported to Colonel Felter. Do you completely understand me?”
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