Five minutes later Bill returned. He was out of breath and still in his pajamas.
“Isolated incident so far,” he reported as he squatted down to hold Marjorie’s hand for a moment. “But I raised the alert level just in case.”
We still hadn’t been treated, and rightly so because of the serious injuries all around us when, what seemed like hours later but wasn't, a dozen or more medics from the Eleventh Airborne’s base hospital on the outskirts of Berlin poured into the room and begin putting us on stretchers. They were all business and seemed to know what they were doing.
“Stay and help them here,” I ordered the master sergeant who appeared to be in charge of the medics as they loaded us on their stretchers.
“Leave your medics here to help with the wounded as long as they’re needed. We're walking wounded; all we need is a driver.”
Marjorie and Bill rode with us in an Eleventh Airborne ambulance as it barreled out of the hospital’s parking lot with its siren screaming so loudly that we could barely talk.
******
A huge staff and a large group of armed guards and obsequious officers were waiting as our ambulance skidded to a stop in front of the base hospital’s emergency room door; the word as to who was being brought in had obviously reached the hospital before we arrived. They were prepared to treat us for everything from cancer to athlete’s foot and fight off a sustained enemy attack while doing it.
Men and women in green smocks hurriedly put Marjorie and Ann on stretchers first and hurried them inside. Then they helped Bill step out so they could get to me. As they lifted my stretcher and began to pull it out of the ambulance, I heard the words and an unforgettable unique rasping voice that brought a big smile to my face—and absolutely appalled looks to the faces of the hovering colonels and generals.
“Jesus Christ, it’s the dumb sonofabitch who always forgets to duck. What the fuck are you doing here?” Big Joe! All five feet two of him.
I smiled and tried to roll over and sit up as a couple of orderlies leaned in to pull the stretcher out.
“Wait a minute.”… “Lemme see his feet”… “Shit, that’s nothing”… “Well kiss my ass. You mean I got out of bed in the middle of the night just for those piddly little scratches?”
I knew damn well what Joe was doing even if most of the people standing around us did not. He was a combat medic reassuring a wounded guy he was going to be okay. I’d heard it from him numerous times before and said it myself, even when it wasn’t true.
“Big Joe,” I said as I leaned forward and we beamed at each other and shook hands warmly, “I pulled a big shard of glass out of Ann’s foot. It may have broken off in there.”
“Got it. I’ll go tell the techs. She’ll need an X-ray. Be right back.”
******
They had had my feet under an X-ray machine for several minutes by the time Joe got back.
“Ann’s fine except she may need some painful stitches if we can’t close up the big cut with the new sticky tape we’re using. X-rays came up negative. No more glass. And we’ve got General Hammond’s wife resting in a room with a nurse watching. She’s really beat. Maybe in shock.”
“Gonna be a tough night?” I asked.
“Looks like it. We’re starting to get more casualties. Mostly wounded civilians, the triage overflow from the German hospitals. Lots of lacerations. What the hell happened?”
“Some kind of attack. Bombs and guys wearing vests and carrying old Uzis. Don’t know who or why but they sure as hell meant business.”
“Russians you think? Pissed because we cleaned their clocks?”
“I don’t know. Maybe, but I don’t think so. It doesn’t figure.”
“Well somebody is seriously pissed at somebody. TV in the lobby says there are hundreds of casualties, many dead and seriously wounded. Says there are reports of a shootout and dead terrorists. You see any of that?”
“I sure did. On our way out we met three of them coming up a stairwell carrying Uzis.”
“No shit. What happened?”
“Got the first one with a borrowed pistol and then picked up his Uzi and hosed the second with it. A fast thinking young Marine captain, guy by the name of Shapiro, did a good job on the third.”
“Sonofabitch. You’re still doing the fighting? You should have learned better by now.”
Then, because we hadn’t seen each other since Ann and I got married, we caught up on what we’ve been doing while the X-Ray technicians dithered about and decided to take more pictures. It seems that after Desert Storm the army sent Joe to a nursing school out west for a bachelor’s degree and turned his warrant into a major’s commission when he got his RN and some kind of practitioner’s license. He’s a lieutenant colonel now and the hospital’s administrator, and the very proud father of two teenage boys.
******
Joe and the Docs wanted me to stay longer "for observation," but they changed their minds when I told them I needed to be somewhere where my communications were more secure and reminded them of my rank. As a result, Ann and I went home together the next day to Riems on a med-evac plane during which we had dozed most of the way holding hands. I’d spent much of what was left of the night on the phone to Brussels and Washington and I was suddenly really bushed.
Charlie Safford was waiting to take us home when we landed at Riems. He'd brought an ambulance, two army plainclothes sedans, and four husky Marines from The Detachment’s guards to “carry luggage and stuff,” by which he meant me and Ann being picked up and carried from the helicopter to the ambulance. They were there because Joe had called Charlie and told him we were going to have trouble walking for a few days. Hmm. I Wonder how Joe knew to call Charlie?
Susan and John Christopher come bounding out of the house as we pulled up and were literally jumping up and down and into our arms before we could even get out of the car.
Our two Swedish au pairs, Marlene and Ingrid, stood beaming behind them along with a smiling and very relieved Jackie Safford. She had rushed over with Jack Flanigan’s wife, Shirley, and moved into the guest bedroom as soon as she heard the news. Jack had immediately come over with some of The Detachment's Marine guards and hung around “in case there might be a problem.” Jeez, I’m glad to be home.
******
Marlene and Ingrid were a treasure and we needed them more than ever. For the next couple of days or so Ann would have to use a crutch to stay off her damaged foot and I could hardly walk at all. Both of my feet were too sore to stand on, particularly my left foot which apparently got been rather thoroughly cut and punctured by glass and other crap as we walked through the alley and the chaotic square across from the hotel.
We had a lot of help in addition to Marlene, Ingrid, and the nurse. Charlie left a couple of the Marines to provide any “heavy lifting and help around the house” that might be necessary; and Big Joe had sent a nurse lieutenant with us. She stayed in the guest bedroom.
A goodly number of The Detachment’s Marines were there also. They were carrying their assault rifles and would patrol around the house and in the nearby stand of trees until we were sure what happened and why. Charlie and Jack were not fools; no one knew why the attack happened or who might have been their targets, only that the dead men were "terrorists."
******
“But why did it happen?” That was the first question I put to the two extremely deferential German police inspectors after I’d gone through a very complete step by step description of what I did during the attack. After speaking to Captain Shapiro and Sergeant Teniers, the inspectors, both English-speaking, had flown down from Berlin to visit me at home rather than wait until I got back on my feet.
I was still at home because it hurt like hell to walk, my left foot particularly. Besides, I wanted to stay home with Ann and the kids. Her foot was still sore and inflamed and I could tell she was still upset. A couple of The Detachment's Marines helped me hop down the stairs so I could sit at the kitchen table and meet with the in
spectors.
According to the German police inspectors, they were part of a massive investigation into one of the worst terrorist episodes in Europe in many years. If you don’t count any of the wars. Almost a hundred people were killed and several hundred more wounded, some terribly. Most of them when the garbage truck exploded. Coming as it did so soon after the end of the war, the attack raised all kinds of questions.
NATO, the FBI, Germany’s Federal Police, and half a dozen or more other agencies appeared to be running parallel investigations and everyone was, so they all claimed to the news readers and talking heads we had been watching on French television, cooperating with everyone else. Even the Russians were reported to be cooperating according to the talking heads on CNN. It was pretty much the same as I was hearing from Washington every couple of hours.
The German police inspectors arrived promptly at ten in the morning along with a couple of bleary-eyed FBI agents who had flown in the previous night from Washington and an equally weary colonel from the Pentagon’s legal branch who said Bill Hammond sent for him “to assist you with any legal questions.”
“We are not yet sure why they did it, Herr Generaldoktor, but it increasingly appears to have been directed at the Chief of the Turkish General Staff. He had come to attend the reception and was in a room on the floor just below yours.”
“Turkey? Why do you think so?” I asked quizzically. Turkey?
“We have identified two of the three attackers you killed. They were guest workers from Turkey working in a German factory that manufactures light fixtures. The Turkish government has identified them as religious fanatics who belong to one of militant Islamic groups that support Erdogan's return.
“Both have been in Germany for several years and are wanted by the police in Turkey. We are still trying to identify the third.” I bet they are. Shapiro really wasted him. Acted fast. Did a fine job.
“So far as we can tell, and this is pure speculation at this point, the plan appears to have been to cause an explosion in the park in front of the hotel. Then slip up the back stairs and kill General Bezman in the confusion when the second and bigger explosion went off.”
“And their plan might have succeeded in all the confusion, Herr General, if you had not rushed into the stairwell upon seeing the garbage truck parked where it should not have been.”
The two FBI agents and the Pentagon lawyer just sat in on our kitchen chairs and recorded the police inspectors’ interview. They didn’t ask a single question or say a word after they introduced themselves. Weird.
Chapter Four
A Moscow surprise.
It was about three weeks after the terrorist attack and I had just finished spending three excruciatingly hot summer days limping around Washington. I was there to get briefed about the new treaty. The briefing was okay in that it was complete and I think I understand the new treaty a little better.
What was not okay was having to endure the mindless thoughts of the profane ex-congressman from Chicago who was serving as the President’s Chief of Staff. He was a particularly nasty little twit. In any event, it was September 31st and I was bored to death and on my way to Moscow on a very old air force Starlifter that had been elegantly re-fitted so senior officers could travel in comfort.
Major Terry Martin, a tall black Air Force Academy grad from Detroit and the Starlifter’s pilot, knew all about the plane and its long and interesting history. According to Martin, Lockheed built the Starlifters for the air force to use as military cargo planes. But then someone in the company had the bright idea of also selling them to the airlines as passenger jets. So it built this one as a demo model with passenger seats and passenger windows.
Martin smiled, and I smiled back, when he explained that the plane flew but Lockheed’s commercial sales didn’t. So the Air Force accepted it as part of their cargo plane order and began using it for either cargo or passengers or as a “combi” carrying both. Being able to carry both cargo and passengers at the same time made it a rare kind plane, according to the major. He’s obviously quite proud to be flying it and unhappy that it was about to be retired.
I didn’t have the heart to tell Major Martin that "combis were not rare to me. I’d seen many a combi when I was growing up in Alaska. Both Alaska Airlines and Wien Air Alaska flew 737s set up to simultaneously carry both passengers and cargo. It was quite common to see people getting off the rear of the plane in a village hundreds of miles from the nearest road while snow machines and pallets of Coca Cola and groceries were being unloaded from the front.
On the Starlifter with me were my old friend and long time deputy at The Detachment, and now its new commander, Charlie Safford, an army colonel by the name of John Lindauer who was our interpreter; and my new aides: Colonel Jack Peterson, Captain Martin Shapiro, and Staff Sergeant David Teniers. Jack Flanigan was holding the fort at The Detachment while Charlie was traveling with me.
There were also three signal corps warrant officers on board who were experts at using the plane’s satellite communications equipment, two brigadiers, Goldman from the air force and Woods from the army, that Bill Hammond had insisted I bring along “for their expertise,” and a protection detail of a half dozen or so Marines from The Detachment under the command of Gunnery Sergeant Robinson.
Lindauer is no more a military officer than I am the man on the moon.
Also on board was an English-speaking Russian navigator in the cockpit who sternly announced that we were about to enter Russian air space and therefore must close the window shades and not take pictures.
The Russian security measures were quite surprising in that they were seriously out of touch with reality and modern technology—the war was over, we were now supposed to be allies, and the United States and Russia abandoned aerial photos in favor of satellite photos years ago.
It was probably a once-useful regulation that had been retained for years because no one of sufficient rank had thought to change it. We have the same problem. I was told there was still regulations as to how swords were to be sharpened and horses mounted.
In any event, our reception in an isolated aircraft parking area of Moscow’s Sheremetyevo airport was quite formal and correct. On hand to meet us were a couple of Russian generals and an American army brigadier named Selden who introduced himself as the recently reestablished embassy’s senior military attaché.
The stony faced Russians saluted, shook hands with obvious distaste, and escorted us to a line of waiting limos. The Russians obviously didn’t like the idea of working with us any more than we liked the idea of working with them. Unfortunately our masters had spoken and there was not much any of us could do about it.
I immediately got some idea of how well we were going to work together when the Russians began arguing with the Russian-speaking American brigadier; they wanted us to ride with them in the Russian limos instead of with Brigadier Selden in the embassy limos.
Everyone was talking and arguing at the same time so I raised my hands for silence and said, “Everybody shut the fuck up. I’ll ride with the Russians and the rest of you ride with General Selden.” Then I tromped over to the Russian limo and got in before the driver could run around and open the door.
It was my first visit to Russia and the ride through Moscow was a real eye opener. The summer air was foul in the latest Russian version of a “people’s paradise” and the streets were jammed with dilapidated cars and trucks belching smoke. It was like stepping back in time.
Traffic just inched along. Not us. We zipped down one of the several empty lanes in the middle of the road all the way to the hotel where we would be staying, the old Metropole.
My entourage showed up thirty minutes later. The embassy cars traveled on the crowded lanes used by ordinary Russians and had to stop for the lights and traffic cops.
******
The two stony-faced Russian generals marched with us into the hotel’s ornate lobby, waved us towards the front desk, and promptly disappeared. We checked in and
were totally ignored for the rest of the day except for a number of obvious “minders” who stood around smoking in the hallway and in the hotel’s lobby.
Exactly at eight the next morning there was a knock on my door and one of the minders informed me that we have been invited to visit to the Russian Military Ministry. I took Charlie Safford and the two Pentagon brigadiers, Goldman and Woods, with me. I also brought along the Air Force Colonel, John Lindauer, to act as our translator. John may be wearing a uniform and a colonel’s chickens, but dollars to donuts he isn’t military.
We were met with a great deal of military formality and ushered without delay into the office of General Petrov, Russia’s newly appointed defense minister. He was a large and very elderly man with lots of medals from the “Afghanistan War.” He had a cigarette in his hand which he waved around as he talked.
According to Colonel Lindauer, Petrov was brought out of retirement when his predecessor was removed as a result of losing the recent war with Turkey and NATO.
It became quickly obvious that Petrov did not have a clue as to what to do with us. At first I wasn’t even sure he knew who we were or why we were in Moscow. After a few banal inquiries about our flight and accommodations he offered us coffee. I accepted with a polite nod.
After finishing our coffee we were ushered into to a smoke filled conference room for a totally useless briefing. We sat on wooden chairs around a long wooden table with the briefers standing at a podium located at the end of the table. Colonel Lindauer was sitting next to me to be my translator. He constantly whispered into my ear whatever was being said by the Russians.
A group of Russian officers and a couple of eagle-eyed civilians in shabby suits were also in the room. They just sat there looking at us and puffing away as the briefer provided even less information than a CNN newscast. It was mostly a political fairy tale about how peace-loving Russia has successfully developed Russia’s far eastern lands by following the correct path of modern socialism and the evil Chinese failed to develop theirs because they deviated from the superior Russian path which was, obviously, the only way to go.
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