The New Breed

by W. E. B Griffin

  "Come with me, please, Portet."

  "Por-tay," Jack said. "It's pronounced Por-tay."

  Mr. Gregory looked at him without expression and did not reply.

  Then he led Jack into the building and down a glistening linoleum corridor to a door over which hung a neat sign reading G-2.

  Even before the lecture on the organization of the Army, Jack had known that G-2 meant Intelligence. That explained Gregory's badge. That goddamned clerk at Fort Leonard Wood had started some sort of bureaucratic mess that was going to mean trouble.

  There was a sergeant behind one desk and a rather good looking secretary behind another in an outer office.

  "Is the Colonel free?" Mr. Gregory asked. "This is Recruit Portet." He pronounced it, Jack noticed, "Por-tet." The Sergeant pushed a button on his intercom.

  "Colonel, Gregory is out here with the fellow you wanted to see."

  "Send them in," a deep voice replied.

  "Report to the Colonel," Mr. Gregory said. Jack had recently been instructed in the proper way to report to a commissioned officer, but had never actually done it before, except in practice with another basic trainee.

  He knocked on the door, waited until he was told to enter, and then marched in, located the commissioned officer, marched to his desk, stopped two feet before it, came to attention, raised his hand in salute, and barked: "Sir, Recruit Portet reporting as ordered, Sir!" Then he waited for the salute to be returned before lowering his hand, meanwhile staring six inches over the commissioned officer's head.

  The Colonel waved informally toward his forehead and said, "At ease, son. Take a seat."

  The Colonel was a full colonel, a man Jack judged to be in his early forties, getting a little bald and a little plump. His blouse wore a large display of ribbons, topped by a Combat Infantry Badge and parachutist's wings. There was an oblong plastic name tag on the blouse with MARX etched into it.

  "Sit down, Portet," Colonel Marx said when he saw that Jack had made no move toward one of the two chairs facing his desk.

  "And relax, we're not going to shoot you right now. Would you like a cup of coffee?"

  Jack thought Colonel Marx was the friendliest officer he had encountered since the doctor at Fort Leonard Wood.

  "Yes, Sir, I would. Thank you."

  "Gregory?" Colonel Marx asked.

  "No, thank you, Sir," Gregory said, which removed the last question in Jack's mind that Gregory was a soldier, or an officer, in civilian clothing. An enlisted man, Jack realized. Otherwise the Sergeant outside would not have dared call him by his last name.

  Colonel Marx raised his voice: "Two coffees, please, Sergeant Towe !" The Sergeant delivered two china mugs of coffee and handed one to Jack.

  "Portet, you are currently the subject of a CIC investigation," the Colonel said. "You know that CIC stands for Counterintelligence?"

  "Yes, Sir."

  "There are some people who (a) find your background fascinating," the Colonel said, "and (b) tend to disbelieve your qualifications as you gave them to the personnel assignment clerk."

  "I had the feeling, Sir, that he thought I was making it up."

  "Were you?" Colonel Marx asked not unkindly.

  "No, Sir."

  "The problem is compounded by the CIC's inability to find out much about you," Colonel Marx said. "You actually have a commercial pilot's license with an ATR rating?"

  "Yes, Sir."

  "If you had to prove that, how would you go about it?"

  "I'd check with the FAA, Sir. Or the Department of Commerce."

  "The American FAA? I thought you told the clerk you had a Congolese license."

  "I've got a Belgian license, Sir. But the Americans recognize them. And the Congolese, of course."

  "The Americans?"

  "We Americans, Sir."

  "And the FAA has a record of your licenses?"

  "Yes, Sir. I was on several ferry crews with my father, importing and exporting aircraft. We had to put our license numbers on the paperwork."

  "I think that if Mr. Gregory had thought of that," Colonel Marx said, "checking with the FAA, I mean, the investigation would be a bit further along. He checked with the Congolese Embassy and they said they had never heard of you."

  "They like a little gift before they look for anything," Jack said. "No gift, no information."

  "You mean a bribe?" Mr. Gregory asked in disbelief.

  "Ten dollars would probably have done it."

  "This is an official U.S. government investigation".

  Colonel Marx interrupted him: "Your father, I understand, is a Belgian national who lives in the Congo?"

  "Yes, Sir."

  "What does he do there?"

  "He's Chief Pilot of Air Congo, and he owns Air Simba."

  "But you were born here?"

  "My father was here during the Second War, Sir. When I was born, he was in the-our-Army Air Corps."

  "Private Portet is looking less and less like a threat to the security of the United States, Mr. Gregory," Colonel Marx said.

  "Did it occur to you to run his father's name through the computer?"

  "It was scheduled, Sir," Mr. Gregory said. "I can't say for sure that it's actually been done."

  "In other words, no?"

  "Not yet, Sir. I'll get right on it."

  "Good idea," Colonel Marx said, and then turned to Jack.

  "You don't have any living relatives in the United States? Is there anyone here who knows you?"

  "I have an aunt and uncle in St. Louis, Sir."

  "Before you leave, make sure Mr. Gregory has their names."

  "Yes, Sir."

  "And it would also be handy if you could give Mr. Gregory the names of some people-preferably Americans, and preferably American officials-in both Brussels and Leopoldville who would be willing to state that as far as they know, you are not, for example, a KGB agent cleverly trying to infiltrate the enlisted ranks of the U.S. Army; maybe even that they know you to be a patriotic American who, when his draft board sent for him came home and allowed himself to be drafted. Can you think of anybody?"

  "Yes, Sir," Jack said. "The Ambassador in Leopoldville plays golf with my father Mr. Kent Rowley."

  "Mr. Rowley would be fine," Colonel Marx said. "Anybody in Brussels?" Jack had to think for a moment, and then came up with the name of a consular official who had once been stationed in Leopoldville.

  "Gregory, wait outside for a moment," Colonel Marx said. "I want to talk to Portet alone." Gregory obviously didn't like to be dismissed, but he left.

  "A nice young man," Colonel Marx said. "Unfortunately he hasn't been doing what he's doing very long, and before he came in the Army, I don't think he was ever out of Ohio."

  "Did he really think I was a spy?" Jack asked.

  "I think he hoped you would be. Tell me, why aren't you an officer? Don't they give commissions to people with your background and experience?"

  "I asked about it . . . the Military Attache in Brussels looked into it for me. No direct commission, but I could have gone to Officer Candidate School. But that meant three years after I got the commission."

  "And you didn't want to put three years in?"

  "I didn't want to put two years in, Colonel," Jack said. "But two is better than three."

  "And being an enlisted man hasn't made you rethink it?"

  "Yes, Sir, but the bottom line is that I'm already down to one year, nine months and some days. If I applied for OCS, that would take six months, plus the three years when I'd been commissioned."

  "I'm not saying the Attache was wrong, but I think it's worth looking into," Colonel Marx said. "It doesn't make a hell of a lot of sense to me to make a rifleman out of a highly qualified pilot and at the same time to spend all that money training some rifleman to be a pilot."

  "I would much rather be a pilot, Sir."

  "If my sergeant comes up with something," Colonel Marx said, "and if there is anything to be found in the regulations, he'll find it and I'll ge
t in touch. And in the meantime I don't think you should be worried about this investigation."

  "Thank you, Sir."

  "Now I can send you back to your company with Gregory. Or you can walk. If you walked, {don't think anybody would, notice if you took the rest of the afternoon to get there, and found it necessary to refresh yourself in the snack bar enroute."

  "Thank you, Colonel." Colonel Marx offered his hand.

  In early March, in his last week of basic training, Recruit Jacques Emile Portet was summoned back to see Colonel Marx.

  Jack thought it was reasonable to presume that Marx had come up with a regulation which would permit him to become an Officer and serve as a pilot. Having had enough of basic training, and faced with the strong possibility that the Army was going to load him on a charter flight to Vietnam for service in the infantry, he now saw much to recommend that, even if it would mean putting more time in the Army.

  It was certainly possible that the Army would take advantage, of his experience and assign him to fly what he though of as the only full-sized airplane in the Army - inventory, the DeHavilland Caribou. The Caribou was a piston-engined transport aircraft about as big as the old DC-3, but with a short takeoff and landing capability.

  He still didn't want to give the Army another goddamned year of his life, but if he was flying, at least it wouldn't be entirely wasted time. And he would much rather he flying over the/bush in Vietnam than running around in the bush over there with a M16Al. Colonel Marx quickly shattered that bubble of pleasant anticipation.

  "There's bad news on two fronts, Portet, I'm sorry to, say," he said. "The first is that there's a flag on your records by order of the Assistant Chief of Staff for Intelligence. And I can't find out why. All they'll tell me is that you've been cleared for a 'Secret' clearance. Maybe-probably, they want to assign you to teach Swahili or something like that. The result of that is that you will be assigned to the replacement company when you finish basic training. The other shoe is that Army Aviation is not, for reasons that I don't understand, at all interested in your service as a pilot . . . except if you want to apply for Warrant Officer Candidate School and become a helicopter pilot. That takes about ten months, and you'd have to serve three additional years when you finished."

  "Ouch."

  "I'm not through with Army Aviation yet," Colonel Marx said, and Jack sensed that the Colonel had taken a personal affront. "I have a couple of old pals who were honest cavalrymen before they sprouted wings, and one of them, who happens to be a general officer, promised to look into this and see what he could do. That should take a couple of weeks. Don't get your hopes up, but maybe something can be done."

  "Thank you, Sir," Jack said. "I appreciate your interest."

  "I just hate to see the Army waste money. If I had my druthers, you would apply for OCS-and go, because I'm president of the examination board-and that would be the end of it."

  "Sir-I hope I can say this without sounding like a wise guy, I would love to fly for the Army. But I don't see why that should cost me nearly three or four years more of my life. I don't really understand why they just don't give me a check ride and send me to Vietnam to fly Caribous."

  "Neither do I," Colonel Marx said. "And that is the point I made to my friend the formerly honest cavalryman. But that brings us to the next thirty days."

  "Sir?"

  "You'll be reassigned to the replacement company until they take the hold off your records. . . until they decide what they want to do with you. The hold is for thirty days. They might assign you on day two or they might extend the period of the hold. That means you will be policing the area, or on KP, or whatever, until you do get your orders."

  "That sounds like a lot of fun."

  "There is one alternative. Have you ever considered becoming a parachutist?" "No, Sir."

  "It's a three-week course at Fort Benning," Colonel Marx said. "I can get it for you, which means that you would be running around Benning, and you'd be getting taught how to parachute-some people think it's fun-rather than whitewashing rocks and picking up cigarette butts in the replacement company."

  "It never entered my mind," Jack said.

  "Prospect scare you?"

  "The prospect of the replacement company scares me more. Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir."

  "Now that you've volunteered, I'll tell you: I can now tell my old friend that you are a real hard charger who volunteered for jump school. That may help you into a cockpit."

  "Thank you, Sir."

  (Three)

  The State War-and-Navy Building Washington, D.C. 25 February 1964

  Colonel Sanford T., Felter, Counselor to the president Of the United States, had a staff of two, a bishop and a nun. Although he deeply regretted telling Lieutenant Colonel Craig. W. Lowell about this, he had to admit it sounded a little funny. Lowell, predictably, thought it was hilarious and bad taken to calling Felter His Holiness, Moses I, the First Jewish Pope.

  The Bishop was truly a bishop, though of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints and not of the Roman Catholic Church: James L. Finton was a career soldier who had risen to chief warrant officer, W-4, in twenty-three years." The rear~~f but grades of warrant officers, who are paid approximately what second lieutenants through majors are paid. W-4 is the senior grade.

  Finton was a cryptographer by training. Felter had found him in the Army Security Agency and arranged for his transfer to, the White House Signal Detachment. He was a devout Mormon; the church had saved, his sanity after his, wife "had 'died' of cancer. he told Felter. And he spent, his free time in, one Mormon church function or another in the District. Finton had come to Felter with, a Top Secret clearance, and a number of endorsements to that, 'a cryptographic endorsement, a nuclear, endorsement, and several others.

  The nun was really a nun, and of the Roman Catholic Church.

  Mary Margaret Dunne had been temporarily relieved, of her vow s to provide for her aged and senile father. When he died, she would return to the cloistered life as Sister Matthew. Mary Margaret Dunne spent her time in one of three places: with her father in a small apartment, on her knees in Saint Mary's church, or in Felter's small but ornate and high-ceilinged office in the State War-and-Navy Building. (This somewhat grotesque edifice is now known as the Executive Office Building.) Mary, Margaret Dunne had been taken on by the Kennedy White House following a quiet word from the Bishop. She needed a job and she could type like a whiz. She had gone to work for Felter the same morning President Kennedy had introduced Felter at a briefing as the only man in the White House who didn't answer his phone.

  The Bishop and the nun were fiercely devoted to Felter. And, about as important, they were both quietly convinced that the communists were representatives of the Antichrist, and that what Felter was doing-what they were helping him do-was as much the Lord's work as it was the government's.

  When Felter walked into the office, both of them stood up. He had told them this was unnecessary, but had been unable to convince them to stop.

  "Anything interesting?" Felter asked as he glanced at the stack of reports Finton had handed him.

  "No. Routine."

  "Sister?"

  "Master Sergeant Gomez of DCS Pers called," Miss Dunne replied. "He said he didn't know if you would be interested, but he has the name of some soldier who used to live in the former Belgian Congo."

  "Just now, Colonel," Finton said, "I was about to call him when you walked in."

  "Get back to him, will you, Jim? See what that's about? Oh, hell, get him on the phone. I'll talk to him." Master Sergeant Gomez told Colonel Felter that he'd been the one assigned to search for officers for the Congo Assignment. He said that he had remembered Colonel Felter's interest when something else had come up. There was a draftee undergoing basic training at Knox. They were about to send him to Vietnam but couldn't because his records were flagged pending the conclusion of a CIC investigation. He had called the CIC and asked when he could expect the investigation to be concluded, and the
CIC said they didn't know, the trainee was from the Belgian Congo, and they were having a hell of a time getting any information about him.

  "I didn't know if you would be interested or not, Colonel," Master Sergeant Gomez said.

  "You're a jewel, Sergeant Gomez," Felter said. "You get both ears and the tail. CWO Finton's on the extension. Give him this guy's name, would you please?"

  "Yes, Sir."

  (Four)

  The Twin Bridges Marriott Motel Alexandria, Virginia 7 March 1964