The New Breed

by W. E. B Griffin

  "Hello, Craig," Felter said and immediately raised his voice.

  "Sharon! " Felter saw one of the White House motor pool Oldsmobiles parked at the curb.

  "You flew Evans up?" Felter asked.

  Lowell nodded.

  "Craig!" Sharon Felter called happily and ran across the room to him. She hugged him quickly; "What brings you here?"

  "They threw me out of the White House too," he said, "and I thought I could mooch a meal here."

  "Too?" Sharon asked, looking at her husband.

  "Not actually thrown out," Lowell said, "but it was made plain that I was as welcome as a hooker in church."

  "How'd you get the car?" Felter asked.

  There was a procedure, invariably scrupulously followed, for authorized personnel to avail themselves of cars in the White House fleet. There was a man in charge of the fleet. You or your secretary called him, gave him the destination, and if your name was on the proper list and a car was available, he would schedule a car for your use. Lowell was not on any White House list, and Felter's curiosity was aroused.

  "I walked outside, walked up to it, and told the driver to take me to Colonel S. T. Felter," Lowell said. "He said, 'Yes, Sir' and opened the door for me and here I am." Felter shook his head. There was no doubt in his mind that Lowell had accurately described what had happened. He had had since he was second lieutenant - an aura of authority about him. When he told people to do things, they simply didn't question his authority."

  "You probably will get the driver in trouble," Felter said:

  "I didn't hold a gun on him."

  "I don't understand," Sharon said.

  "It's not important," Felter said.

  "What did he mean about getting thrown out of the White House, too?" Sharon asked.

  "They are having a meeting to which we were not invited," Lowell explained. "My orders were to keep myself available. I had my choice between waiting in the chauffeurs and, errand boys lounge or coming here. I figured no matter what happens, Sandy would be among the first to know."

  "And what if Evans sends for you?" Felter said.

  "Why would he do that?"

  "In case there were questions about-"

  "Dragon Rouge?" Lowell asked. "Impossible. I wrote Dragon Rouge. When I write an OPLAN, as you should know by now, there simply aren't any ambiguous areas." "God!" Felter said in exasperation.

  "They aren't debating how, Sandy," Lowell said, now seriously. "They are debating if."

  "Dragon Rouge'?" Sharon quoted. "Red Dragon? Can I ask -"

  "No," Felter said.

  "It's the operations plan to drop Belgian paratroopers on Stanleyville," Lowell said.

  "Goddamn it, Craig!" Felter snapped. "Doesn't security, mean a thing to you?" "He obviously suspects you're an enemy agent, Sharon," Lowell said. "For my part I consider you absolutely trustworthy."

  "You really push things, Craig," Felter said. "I really don't understand you sometimes."

  "You'll have to forgive me, Colonel," Lowell said, a little irritated now. "But you will recall that I have kin in Stanleyville. We should have executed Dragon Rouge long before this; It may be too late now." Felter didn't reply.

  Lowell warmed to his subject.

  "There is a new twist to military operations, Sharon. first, having concluded that some military action is necessary, they tell the military to plan an operation. And then, when the OPLAN is all done and all the services are agreed that this is the way to do it, then they have a meeting. First -they decide all over again whether or not they really want to do it. Most of the time they decide it isn't really necessary after all But if they decide it should be executed, then every sonofabitch and his brother gets a chance to play soldier. They 'modify' the OPLAN. You can't really consider yourself a bureaucrat of importance unless you've made a major modification to a plan drawn up-by military professionals-"

  "I think I better get you a drink," Sharon said. "I understand how you feel, Craig. And I'm sorry for you."

  "Running off at the mouth isn't going to change things, Craig," Felter said.

  "If 1 can't run off at the mouth at you, who then?" Lowell asked reasonably.

  "I know what Craig drinks," Sharon said. "That really awful Scotch. Do you want something Sandy?"

  "Give me the same, please," Felter said.

  There was surprise on his wife's face.

  "Make his a weak one, Sharon," Lowell called to her. "It's liable to be a long night, and you know "What happens when he gets a snootful. He sings bawdy songs and makes passes at strange women." She laughed.

  There was a buzzing sound.

  "That's that phone," Sharon said.

  "They have just found out they have a missing car," Felter said. "They haven't had time to decide on tea or coffee yet, much less, anything more important." Then he started up the stairs quickly, taking them two at a time. A few minutes later, just, as Sharon was handing Craig Lowe}l a drink, he came back down the stairs, slowly this time. There was a troubled look on his face.

  "Aw, come on, they can't be that pissed-off about a lousy car," Lowell said.

  "That was the President," Felter said. "All he said was, 'Colonel Felter, this is the President. Execute Operation Dragon Rouge.'"

  (Two)

  Camp McCall U.S. Government Reservation, North Carolina 8 November 1964

  The would-be Green Berets had been parachuted into remote comers of the Camp McCall reservation, given a few rations, a compass, and a map, and told that their graduation depended on their being able to make their way from where they were to point A on their maps within seventy-two hours and without being discovered.

  They had been involved in this exercise for nearly sixty-five hours, and the Major in charge of their training told Captain Stacey and Lieutenant Foster that he really had no idea where they would be.

  "They have a radio," he explained, "radios, plural, in case somebody gets hurt or something. And they are supposed to report in once a day. But the clever ones-and this group includes some clever ones-generally figure out that if they go on the radio, we can fix their location by triangulation and bag them. So their radios malfunction. Get the picture?" "May I make a suggestion, Sir?" Lieutenant Foster asked.

  "Shoot," Captain Stacey said.

  "Get a helicopter with a PA system and fly back and forth calling his name and telling him to let off a flare."

  "They would probably figure that was a trick, too," the Major said.

  "The alternative to giving that a try is calling General Hanrahan on the radio and telling him you have no idea where these guys are," Captain Stacey said.

  "Or waiting another seven hours until their time is up."

  "We don't have another seven hours," Captain Stacey said, the discussion was interrupted by the cacophony of simulated fire the sputter of blank cartridges, the puff of smoke grenades; and the astonishingly lifelike-and thus terrifying-sound of artillery (incoming whistle, momentary pause, and the deafening explosion) going off.

  "Our pigeons," the Major said, "are apparently returning to the roost."

  "Foster, go get him, will you please?" Captain Stacey said, the enormous bullet headed former Notre Dame All-American moved with a quick grace to the door of the shed and stepped out into the darkness.

  "Portet!" he called in a booming voice. "Yo, Jack!"

  "I'd just love to know what's going on," the Major said."

  "I bet you would," Captain Stacey said.

  "And You're not going to tell me, are you?"

  "No," Stacey said, smiling. "I'm not."

  "Then No, Sir, I'm not."

  "No, Sir, I'm not."

  "Prick." Sir respectfully suggest the Major has been out here eating snakes too long," Stacey said, "without adequate sexual release. There is obviously something Freudian in what you just said.

  "The door opened and Portet walked in. "He was filthy: His face and hands were scratched and marked with insect bites. His utilities were soaking wet and he looked exhausted.
He looked at Foster curiously.

  He's going to look like hell in civilian clothes, Stacey thought.

  To bad, it, can't be helped.

  "Well, if it isn't Prince Charming," he said.

  "Sergeant," the Major said, "I have been ordered to turn you over to these officers."

  "For what?" Jack said. He was too tired to be polite.

  "If you didn't have heavy plans-for-the weekend," Stacey's eyes lit up.

  "Don't ask, Jack," Stacey said quickly. And then, as if it was an arrest. "Just come along quietly; Lieutenant Foster will read your Miranda rights to you in the car."

  (Three)

  The Hotel Continental 3, Rue Castiglione Paris, France 10 November 1964

  The Hotel Continental sits on the corner of the Rue Castiglione (which runs from the Place Vendome-where the Ritz Hotel is located-to the Tuileries Gardens) and the Rue de Rivoli (which runs along the Tuileries Gardens from the Place de la Concorde).

  It is an old and elegant hotel, with something of a military history. General of the Armies John J. Pershing lived there during World War I. And in World War II Hitler's last message to Paris before its liberation, "Brennt Paris?" (Is Paris burning" was addressed to General von Choltitz, who lived in the Continental. Von Choltitz there decided to ignore his Fuhrer's order to reduce Paris to rubble, aware that the penalty for doing so was death.

  Tonight, the hotel was full of senior military officers in their most colorful dress uniforms. It was the birthday of the United States Marine Corps and the occasion was being marked with the traditional Marine Corps Ball. The senior Marine present in Paris (a major general attached to the United States European Command at Camp des Loges just outside Paris) and his lady had issued invitations not only to all Marine officers in the area, but to all the general, flag, and field-grade officers assigned to EUCOM regardless of service, and to a list (prepared for him by the U.S. Embassy protocol officer) of foreign officers, including all the military attaches of the friendly embassies. The Deputy Commandant of the Royal Marines and his lady had flown m from London for the occasion, and the band of the United States Seventh Army had been shipped in by train from Heidelberg to provide the music. The invitation specified dress uniform. The unofficial word went out from the office of the full general commanding EUCOM that he expected to see his officers there, and in dress uniform.

  No rented dinner jackets, no class A's with white shirts and black bow ties. Dress uniform, and In the case of general and flag officers, dress mess uniform.

  There was some grumbling of course. Goddamned Marines.

  And dress mess? In dress mess you looked like a goddamned pansy tenor, in a Sigmund Romberg operetta. But there were also many who were privately were pleased. The Marines always threw a good party, and since you had to lay out all the god damned money to buy the sonofabitch, you might as well get some wear it. And besides, there weren't all that many opportunities. Brigadier General and Mrs. Harris McCord, USAF, arrived at the Continental shortly after 10:00 P.M. General McCord privately thought whoever had designed the full-dress uniform for officers of the USAF had gone a little overboard. But at the same time he thought, What the hell, why let the Marines, Army and the Navy have all the sartorial glory. He checked his cap and his cape, and Mrs. McCord her silver fox stole, and then he stood on the parquet floor near the ladies room while she touched up her hair and face.

  She came out and took his arm, and walked to the Grand ballroom and handed over their invitation to a Marine buck sergeant in dress blues. He glanced at it and then boomed, "Brigadier General and Mrs. Harris McCord, United States Air Force.

  They went down the reception line and shook the hands of the United States Ambassador, the EUCOM Commander, the senior Marine in the area, the senior sailor, and the senior Air Force Officer.

  McCord did not get the expected "Good evening, from the senior Air Force officer.

  The senior Air Force officer said quietly, "Harry, I don't know what the hell it's all about, but we got an operational immediate message, a courier is en route with orders. I'm probably going to need to hang loose. And don't go anywhere but here and home."

  "Yes Sir"

  Weather was bad and the courier's flight was delayed, so it could not land at Orly until half past four the next morning. It was not until half past five the next morning that EUCOM had its orders. A few minutes later Brigadier General McCord had his.

  TOP SECRET duplication Forbidden for Distribution By Officer Courier Only: THEJOINT CHIEFS OF STAFF WASHINGTON D.C. . . SEPTEMBER 1964 Commanding General, United States Strike Command Commanding General, European Command Commanding General, United States Air Force, Europe Commanding General, Seventh United States Army

  1. By Direction of the President; by Command of His Royal Highness, the King of the Belgians; and at the request of the government of the Democratic Republic of the Congo, a Joint Belgian-American Operation, OPERATION DRAGON ROUGE, will take whatever military action is necessary to effect the rescue of American, Belgian, and other European nationals currently being held hostage in Stanleyville, Democratic Republic of the Congo, by forces in rebellion against the legal and duly constituted government of the Democratic Republic of the Congo.

  2. By Direction of the President, Sanford T. Felter, Counselor to the President {Colonel, General Staff Corps, ,USA) is designated Action Officer, and will be presumed, in connection with- military matters, to be speaking with the authority of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

  3. OPERATION DRAGON ROUGE is assigned an AAAA-I Priority with regard to the requisitioning of personnel, equipment, and other U.S. military assets.

  4. Addressees will on receipt of this directive immediately dispatch an officer in the grade, of colonel or higher to the United States Embassy, Brussels, Belgium, where they will make themselves available to Colonel Felter or -such officers as he may designate to represent him.

  FOR THE CHAIRMAN, THE JOINT CHIEFS OF STAFF

  Forbes T. WHIS Brigadier General, USMC Executive Officer, JCS

  TOP SECRET

  By then, weather had really turned to shit and flying was out of the question. It was necessary for General McCord to drive to Brussels. He arrived there in a freezing rain shortly after noon.

  . . . . Belgium . . . 11 November 1964

  Major General Harris McCord thought he had yet another example if one were needed-that life is full of little ironies.

  The night before-in anticipation of having a nip or two, and tripping the light fantastic with his wife, and perhaps having a breakfast at dawn in one of the quaint old restaurants near the Sacre-Coeur church in Montmartre, he had been in military uniform, complete to real medals (rather than ribbons with more silver embellishments than a Christmas tree. All dressed up to party.

  As he was about to engage in what promised to be a long exercise, he was wearing a somewhat baggy tweed jacket, well-worn flannel slacks. Just before he had left Paris, he had been told to wear civilian clothing. What he had on was all that had come back from the dry cleaners. He was led to the too-fancy conference room in the U. S. Embassy and met his peers, most of whom he knew at least by sight, all in civilian clothing, and all waiting for Colonel Sanford T. Felter. The whole damned continent had been socked in, Felter's plane had had to sit down in Scotland to wait for it to clear to bare minimums.

  He had heard of Felter, of course, but he had never seen him before, and was not very impressed when Felter walked into the room.

  He was short and slight and in a baggy gray suit.

  "I'm sorry to keep you waiting, gentlemen," Felter said. He threw a leather briefcase on the table, then took a key from his pocket and opened the padlock which he had chained-more accurately shackled to his wrist.

  . . . . in civilian clothing had followed him into the room, and impatiently gestured for them to find seats. McCord looked closely -as Felter worked the combination lock on the briefcase. He had something in his lapel buttonhole that represented a medal. McCord didn't know what one it was, if it
came in a box that contained the medal itself, the pin mounting the medal, and a pin intended for the button lapel. Whatever it was called, Felter was wearing one, and he looked at it until he was sure what it was.

  It was the Distinguished Service- Cross, the nation's second-highest award for valor. McCord had heard (and he almost completely accepted) the military folklore that winners of the DSC were people entitled to the Medal of Honor who had somewhere along the line pissed off somebody important.