Colonel Sanford T. Felter and Mrs. Dorothy Sims arrived at the Headquarters Building of the John F. Kennedy Center for Special Warfare within minutes of each other.
Mrs. Sims came first.
The telephone rang, and General Bellmon, who had been sitting with his feet up on another swivel chair, reached over and punched the button that put the call on the loudspeakers.
“Go,” he said.
“Mac, General,” MacMillan’s voice said. “I’ve got Mrs. Sims with me.”
“Bring her in,” Bellmon said.
“I thought maybe you hadn’t had the chance to cover the maps,” Mac said.
“Bring her in,” Bellmon repeated. Hanrahan and Lowell stood up and started to slide the covers over the map boards.
“Leave them,” Bellmon said. “Let her see how close we came to getting her husband back.”
Dorothy was wearing a light sweater with the sleeves pushed halfway to her elbows and a pleated skirt. There was a strand of pearls around her neck.
The three men stood up when the door opened. Dorothy looked around the room, at Lowell and then at General Bellmon.
“Thank you for coming, Mrs. Sims,” Bellmon said. “Won’t you sit down? Would you like a cup of coffee?”
She walked around the table and slipped into the chair beside Lowell.
“I would like some coffee,” Dorothy said. “Please.”
Bellmon gestured for Mac to get her a cup of coffee.
“I deeply regret any embarrassment you may have been caused,” Bellmon said. “I can only ask you to believe that your presence here is of great importance.”
Before Dorothy could reply, Felter, in a class “A” uniform, came into the room. He looked at Lowell and shook his head. Then he went to the head of the table and sat down.
“This room is the Operations Center for a mission which we believe may have been compromised by your relationship with Colonel Lowell,” Felter began. “Do you understand what I mean by ‘compromised’?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “It means that the opposing forces might have prior knowledge of our operation, which would of course cause us to call it off.”
“I understand,” Dorothy said. “What is it you want from me?”
“I want you to discuss your association with Colonel Lowell in some detail,” he said. “The first thing we have to know is how much he has told you about what’s going on here. Then we have to uncover any possible occasion you might have had where you might have passed on what you have learned to third parties.”
“I’m not a fool, Colonel,” Dorothy said. “At least about something like this. I’ve said nothing about this operation to anybody.”
“Excuse me,” Felter said. “But we have to satisfy ourselves about that.”
Dorothy shifted in her chair, and reached for Lowell’s hand.
“All right,” she said. “Ask away.”
Ten minutes into Felter’s interrogation, the phone rang. Bellmon answered it, said, “Send him in,” and a moment later a pudgy man in civilian clothing entered.
“Reporting as ordered, sir,” he said to Bellmon, but did not salute.
“This is Colonel Alworth,” Bellmon said. “He runs the CIC detachment on the post. You know Colonel Felter and General Hanrahan, I believe, Colonel, and Colonel MacMillan. This is Colonel Lowell, and this is Mrs. Sims.”
“I know Mrs. Sims, General,” Alworth said. “And I know who Colonel Lowell is.”
He might know Dorothy, Lowell thought, but he didn’t say hello to her. The clear implication was that he knew what Colonel Lowell and Mrs. Sims had been doing, and, if anything, was much more morally outraged by it than were Generals Bellmon and Hanrahan. Lowell felt Dorothy squeeze his hand.
Lowell was surprised, however, at how much Alworth knew about what he and Dorothy had done.
“Have you had people watching me, Colonel?” Lowell asked, finally, angrily.
Alworth looked at Bellmon, who nodded.
“Yes, we have,” he said, matter-of-factly.
“Well, I can only hope we led you a merry chase,” Lowell said.
“You’re in no position to be difficult, Craig,” Felter snapped.
“I don’t like people peeking in my bedroom window,” Lowell said. “Whether or not they’re supposed to be soldiers.”
“I approved the surveillance, Craig,” Felter said. “When Colonel Alworth suggested it. Obviously, it was necessary.”
“I should have left you on the beach, you little bastard!” Lowell fumed.
“Craig!” Dorothy said. “Darling. Shut up.”
Ten minutes later, the telephone rang again. After a moment Bellmon answered it and handed it to Felter. Whatever it was, it displeased Felter very much.
“Colonel Lowell is being ordered to Camp McCall,” Felter said, when he hung up. “We have established a small camp there, Mrs. Sims. A detention facility. We would be grateful if you would agree to go there until such time as the need for all this secrecy is past. We cannot, of course, order you to go there.”
“But you’re implying, aren’t you,” Dorothy asked, “that if I don’t go, that would be an argument for canceling this mission?”
Felter nodded.
“How long would I be there?” Dorothy asked.
“I can’t tell you that,” Felter said. “For obvious reasons.”
“I was just curious,” Dorothy said. “Thinking about my children. Of course I’ll go.”
(Three)
Camp McCall, North Carolina
28 June 1969
There was a sign: ROAD CLOSED. RESTRICTED AREA. NO ADMISSION.
Four miles down the slippery clay dirt road, they came around a bend and to a barricade of concertina wire placed across the road.
The sergeant behind the wheel got out and walked to the barrier. As he started to pull the barrier out of the way, three Berets, two of them armed with Uzi submachine guns, the third with a Remington 12-gauge riot gun, slipped silently out of the woods. The one with the Remington, a captain, walked close enough to make sure he was looking at Felter before saluting.
“Captain Donahue will be along with another woman in a while,” Felter said. “Don’t let them in until you check with me. If they get here before we leave.”
“Yes, sir.” He spotted Lowell in the back seat. “And who’s the civilian you’ve got back there?” he asked, jokingly, making reference to Lowell’s civilian clothes.
No one responded, and the captain, realizing he had said something wrong, backed away from the carryall. He made a wholly unnecessary wave of his hand, passing them through the barrier.
The detention facility was in the middle of a recently bush-hogged open area. Lowell saw the remnants of chimneys and concrete block barracks footings. This had been, he realized, a War II regimental barracks area. There was a quarter century’s overgrowth, but it was still recognizable. On what had been the regimental parade ground, now surrounded by a double line of razor concertina, half a dozen Quonset huts had been set up. Two six-by-six vans were parked side by side. Kitchen vehicles. There were soldiers in cooks’ whites making supper.
Until very recently, there had been twenty-seven people here, twenty-four enlisted men, two officers, and the nurse. Now there were many more. A jeep, which had been parked in the shade of one of the young trees that had grown up where the old barracks had been, came rolling over to them. It held three Green Berets, all armed with M-16A3s, the short-barreled, pistol-gripped version of the M-16A2 5.56-mm standard shoulder weapon.
There was a gate in the concertina on the other side of the trucks, and the jeep led them up to it. As they got out of the carryall, a Beret opened the gate.
I will need a change of clothing, Lowell thought, and a toilet kit. But then he remembered that when he had made plans for this place, he’d thought of that too. The detainees would be provided with clean fatigue clothing, toilet articles, everything they would need for reasonable comfort. He had even included sanitary napkins, on the o
ff chance that some of the detainees would be women.
It had not occurred to him that he would be among those provided with “comforts.”
The sergeant on his left got out of the carryall, and then when Lowell got out, he stepped back in. He would not be needed anymore. Felter made a motion with his hand for Lowell to follow him. Lowell caught up with him. He had decided to beg, though it probably wouldn’t do any good, he was willing to go down on his knees, if that’s what it would take.
“Sandy, for Christ’s sake, don’t do this to me.”
“Do what to you?” Felter asked.
“Detain me here,” Lowell said.
“You deserve it, Craig—” Felter said.
“I am just unable to see how I’ve caused so much harm to this operation,” Lowell interrupted.
They were at the door of the Quonset. Felter motioned Lowell to enter.
Major Bill Franklin and Captain Geoffrey Craig were inside, Franklin on a bunk, Craig on a chair.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” Felter said, and closed the door after Lowell.
“Are you really going to keep us here?” Franklin asked.
“The question is,” Lowell said, “is Felter really going to keep us here?”
“What does that mean?” Franklin asked. He was a tall, thin, intelligent-looking light brown man.
“I’m in here with you, is what it means,” Lowell said. “I expect that Felter went to see about a cot for me.”
“What did you do?” Geoff Craig said.
“The consensus is that I have compromised the mission,” Lowell said.
“Oh, shit,” Franklin said in disbelief. “How?”
“A lady was involved,” Lowell said.
“Oh, shit,” Franklin repeated. He was an old friend, and not surprised that a lady was involved. There was resignation on his face.
Captain Geoffrey Craig looked at his cousin, saw the look on his face, and decided there was nothing he could say to make things better.
“Ever the Boy Scout,” Geoff said, jovially, “I have come prepared.” He slipped his hand under the neatly made up bed’s blanket hood and came out with a bottle of Scotch.
“Why not?” Lowell said. Franklin came up with a stack of plastic cups. There was water, so they had a warm scotch and water. They were working on their second when Felter returned.
“Would you come with me, please, Craig?” he said. “Bring Captain Craig with you, if you like. And you can come, too, Bill, if you like.”
“Where are we going?” Lowell asked.
Felter didn’t answer him, but led them into another Quonset Hut. He stopped before a door, and smiled at Lowell.
“I’ll be interested to see how you suggest we handle this, Craig,” he said. He pushed the door open and waved Lowell in ahead of him.
The room held a civilian, a young man with long blond hair and a bushy blond beard, lying on a cot reading a newspaper. He sat up, swung his feet off the cot, and smiled at Lowell and Felter.
“Well, well,” he said, in German. “If it isn’t my papa and my uncle Sandy.”
“They caught him trying to get in here,” Sandy said. “He had a camera and a tape recorder.”
“When?” Lowell asked.
“About six o’clock yesterday afternoon,” Felter said. “Right after I talked with you about Geoff and Bill.”
“I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting these gentlemen,” Peter-Paul von Greiffenberg Lowell said, switching to an English that—while fluent and vernacular—had an unmistakable British-sounding accent.
“This sarcastic punk is your cousin, Geoff,” Lowell said.
“So you’re Cousin Geoff?” Peter-Paul said. “The famous warrior? I’ve heard all about you. According to my grandfather, you are everything I should be and am not.”
“I know who you are, too,” Geoff said, coldly.
“Sorry to get you all the way down here from wherever you were, Papa and dear Cousin,” Peter-Paul Lowell said. “But I hadn’t really planned to get caught.”
He slipped his feet into sandals and stood up.
“But now that you are here, Uncle Sandy, I presume that you will make that unpleasant major give me back my cameras and my tape recorder so that I can go?”
“You’re not going anywhere,” Lowell said.
“Oh, come on, Papa!” Peter-Paul said. “You’ve got no right to hold me, and you know you don’t.”
“We souped the film,” Sandy reported. “He had pictures of the mock-up, and of—”
“You souped my film?” Peter-Paul asked, incredulously, furiously. “Christ, it’s probably ruined.”
“You just shut up a minute, son,” Lowell said. “Just shut up. You don’t know what you’re into.”
“I’ve got a pretty good idea, Papa,” Peter-Paul said.
“I said shut up!” Lowell said, angrily.
“And of,” Felter went on, “the Jolly Green Giant dress rehearsal.”
“That means he’s been here four or five days,” Lowell replied. “Five.”
“Six, actually,” Peter-Paul said.
“Which leaves us with the question of where the rest of his film and tapes are,” Felter said.
“Where are they, son?” Lowell asked.
“No way, Papa,” Peter-Paul said, “am I going to let you have that film.”
“I don’t suppose it would do much good to appeal to either your decency or your patriotism, would it?” Lowell asked.
“I’m afraid not,” Peter-Paul said. “That doesn’t surprise you, does it?”
“No,” Lowell said. “I subscribe to Stern just to see what left-wing, anti-American crap you’re writing.”
“‘Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free,’” Peter-Paul quoted sarcastically. “Now look, I’ve really had about enough of this. I’m willing—to keep you from being embarrassed—to overlook your thugs grabbing me the way they did. But now I want to go.”
“I suppose you have figured out what we’re doing,” Sandy Felter said, his voice kind and gentle.
“Yeah, I think so,” Peter-Paul said. “And as I told your major, I’m willing to put a delay on the story until after you guys try it.”
“I don’t understand that,” Lowell said.
“I put a delay—a hold order—on the story until this operation of yours is over,” Peter-Paul Lowell said.
“That, for obvious reasons, won’t work,” Lowell said. “What if your story isn’t held?”
“And what if I go to a pay phone and call the German Embassy to tell them I’ve just been arrested by the U.S. Army because I am about to put a piece in Stern with tacit approval of the German Embassy. Can you imagine how quick you’ll have the big brass down on your neck? Herr Sekretar Kissinger himself would probably jump on you.”
“If that story got out prematurely,” Lowell said, “the lives of several hundred brave men would be placed in jeopardy. Not to mention what would happen to seventy-four men who have already been locked up for up to six years.”
“If you hadn’t been over there in that illegal and immoral war, they obviously wouldn’t be in a POW camp,” Peter-Paul said.
“What we have to know is where the other film and tape is,” Felter said to Lowell. “Otherwise it’s no go.”
“If we don’t go, there goes your story,” Lowell said. “Have you thought about that?”
“‘Stern reporter’s exclusive story stops U.S. widening of war,’” Peter-Paul quoted. “Yes, I’ve thought about it.”
“Your father is going to be in that operation,” Sandy said. “Your father. Have you considered that?”
“As I understand it,” Peter-Paul said, “it’s entirely a volunteer operation. Willing, would-be heroes only. He doesn’t have to go unless he wants to.”
“I want to go, and they won’t let me,” Geoff said.
Felter gave him a dirty look but chose not to say anything.
Peter-Paul met Geoff’s eyes and shrugged. So what?
“What I’m saying,” Felter said, gently, as if trying to explain an obscure point in a complicated argument, “is that he’s liable to be injured, perhaps killed, if the other side has prior information of this mission.”
“In that case, Papa,” Peter-Paul said, “I would suggest you don’t go, and that you be grateful, Cousin Hero, that they won’t let you.”
“Give me three minutes with this sonofabitch,” Franklin said levelly. “I’ll get your film for you, Colonel Felter.”
“Major, tell me,” Peter-Paul said. “Are you what they call an ‘Uncle Tom’?”
There came a knock at the door.
“Perimeter Guard on the horn for you, Colonel Felter,” a male voice called.
Felter looked between them, and then walked out of the Quonset Hut.
Lowell looked at his son.
“Peter,” he said. “I have to know where your film and tape is.”
“I’m sorry,” Peter said. “I don’t trust you.”
“I give you my word of honor as an officer and a gentleman,” Lowell said, “as your father, that I will not destroy it, and that I will return it to you intact. But I have to know where it is.”
“It’s already on the way to Germany,” Peter said.
Lowell looked at his son for fifteen seconds, not blinking his eyes.
“You want my word of honor?” Peter-Paul said. “OK. You have it. The tapes and the film are already on their way to Germany. On my word of honor.”
No, they’re not, Lowell decided. He would not risk having the film ruined by exposure to routine antibomb X-rays of airmail.
“The word of honor of a young man who would give up his citizenship to avoid getting drafted isn’t worth very much to me, I’m afraid,” Lowell said.
“I’m half-German,” Peter said. “That was my right. I’m more German than American. I was raised there, you will remember.”
“I’m going to ask you one more time, son,” Lowell said.
“And then what?” Peter-Paul replied, defiantly.
Craig Lowell grabbed his son by his shirtfront. He had his right hand drawn back over his left shoulder, prepared to slap Peter-Paul’s face with the back of his hand, when Felter came back in the room. Lowell glanced at Felter, then let Peter-Paul go.
The Generals Page 33