by Pat Mullan
"What do you think happened? Does anyone have a theory?" asked MacDara.
"Not really. Harry sometimes went for a swim if the sea was calm. He may have done that and got into some kind of difficulty. That's the only thing we can surmise", said Ruth Whiteside.
"But the mystery remains. We never did recover Harry's body," she continued.
"By the way, Mr. MacDara, on the phone you said you had something very important to discuss with Harry?" Ruth asked.
MacDara took Ruth Whiteside back to that night at the 53rd MASH in Korea. Twenty years ago. It just didn't seem so long ago. He described the events of that monsoon night, especially the final strange surgical procedure that Major Whiteside had performed on the mysterious Colonel. He did not tell her that Colonel was now the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. Better that he keep that to himself for the time being.
"Did the Major ever tell you about any off this, Mrs. Whiteside?" asked MacDara.
"No. Harry never brought his job home. And he never discussed the medical problems or history of his patients, not even with me. Harry always felt that was a private matter," responded Ruth.
"You said he was writing his memoirs. What about the manuscript? He might have put something in it," MacDara said.
"We'll never know, Mr. MacDara. The manuscript was lost the day that Harry passed away. Harry wrote in longhand in yellow legal pads. He had everything with him in his briefcase that day", said Ruth.
"What happened to it?" asked MacDara.
"We don't know. The briefcase was lying open on the deck. It was empty. A squall had moved in that afternoon. We can only assume that the loose pages were blown away. I'm afraid we'll never know."
There was a finality in Ruth Whiteside's voice. She went on to describe those last few months of her husband's life. How absorbed he had been in his memoirs. He told her about the trips. For research, he had explained. Four times to Washington, once to Los Angeles, and once to Miami. He said he needed to be scrupulously thorough and accurate. She then said that she had never seen Harry so preoccupied, at times morose. He seemed to be troubled inside. She had tried to get him to talk but he wouldn't. Writing those memoirs had changed him.
Another dead end, thought MacDara. It's as if there were a conspiracy out there. Someone or something blocking him from finding out. But he shrugged off such pessimism. He was tired. He looked over at Ruth Whiteside. Two hours had passed since they had started talking. It was nearly noon on a clear fall day. The sun was full in the sky and its steely light glinted across the water in the bay, highlighting the boats anchored there. A painter's paradise. MacDara could see that Ruth Whiteside was drained. He apologized for intruding on her privacy and asked her to call him if she remembered anything at all. She assured him that she would. As he drove away, the last image of Ruth Whiteside was fixed in his mind. She had just sat there and said, barely audibly:
"I miss him. I miss him so much."
Dune Road, The Hamptons, New York
MacDara's gut told him that something was wrong. He always lived to regret it when he went against the advice of this gut. There just had to be a connection. Murph is dead. His killer is dead. Major Whiteside is dead. The mysterious Colonel from the 53rd MASH is now Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. Too much of a coincidence. MacDara didn't buy it. But what will I do, he thought. Who can I talk with? The Major had been his best chance. He had been the link. If only he could have seen a draft of the Major's manuscript. If only he'd used a word processor. If only.... I need to discuss my fears with someone. Someone who can help. Someone who won't accuse me of having a vivid imagination. MacDara wracked his brain. He picked up his watch and saw that it was almost 10 a.m.. Still in bed. He felt drained, emotionally and physically. The events of the past few days had taken their toll. Grabbing a robe, he slipped his feet into his sheepskin slippers, a gift from Michelle last Christmas. Funny, he was even getting serious about her. Where is she now? In Australia. Packed up and left with a nomadic German adventurer. The coffee had finished dripping. Filling a hefty mug, MacDara slid the glass doors open and went out on the deck. A couple of catamarans were still anchored out there and the morning's stillness was broken by the gentle slaps of the waves against them. He was at his house on Dune Road in the Hamptons, an hour's drive from Manhattan. His weekend summer escape from the Big Apple. He didn't use it much in late fall or winter but it seemed the perfect place to go after leaving Ruth Whiteside yesterday. He had spent ages in the jacuzzi last night. The ten hours sleep and the strong coffee had revived him.
"Who can I talk to?" he said to himself, out loud.
"Shields! Why didn't I think of him immediately?"
Shields had been a Lt. Colonel at Battalion HQ at Camp Red Cloud in Korea. They had both loved photography and often shared the dark room together at the post craft center. He remembered Shields' disappointment when he failed to win the Camp Red Cloud photography competition that final year in Korea. He also remembered the incredulous look on Shields' face after MacDara, himself, took first place with a photograph of a young Korean boy hanging onto the railings outside the Chosun Palace Hotel in Seoul with a modern skyscraper being erected in the background. MacDara had titled his winning entry 'The Threshold of Change'. After he had returned to the States and finished his army service at Fort Knox, Kentucky, he and Shields had exchanged a couple of brief letters Usual best wishes for the future. MacDara didn't maintain contact. He was back in civilian life and, besides, he felt that they came from different classes, different worlds. Shields' father was a four star General whose last command had been the Caribbean theater of operations. Westy, General Westmoreland, used to visit Shields' home when he was a youth.
The last information he had had regarding Colonel Bartley Shields was a small news item buried in the Sunday papers a couple of years ago. It said that Major General Bartley Shields had been reassigned from the Army War College in Carlisle, Pennsylvania, to the office of the National Security Council to the President.
Washington, DC
The National Security Council had offices in the west wing of the White House. Unlike any other support function, the NSC often usurped the role of the State Department, the CIA, and the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The NSC was responsible for advising the President on the actions to take at times of crisis, usually crises involving confrontation with hostile nations or adversaries. The Executive Committee of the National Security Council advised President Kennedy during the Cuban missile crisis of 1962 when the United States and the Soviet Union came perilously close to nuclear war. They worked in total isolation, even from their staffs, during that crisis. War Game scenarios are the forte of the NSC. General Bartley Shields had been a designer of games at the Army War College. His games explored the alternative uses of tactical nuclear weapons. But it was not that expertise that had brought him to the attention of the President. General Shields had been instrumental in creating the current generation of war games, more appropriately called strategic option games. The first generation of war games centered about a fairly simplistic model : the U.S. is hit first by a nuclear attack, is severely wounded but manages to launch a massive counterstrike and survives. What kind of a planet remains is anyone's conjecture. Global warming and nuclear winter fears were pushed to the background. General Shields' generation of games were predicated on the world being drawn into a nuclear confrontation by a terrorist attack. But, more relevant to today's terrorist threat, General Shields model housed a database of all known terrorist groups, confirmed or implied associations with each other, links to governments, legitimate 'front' organizations, and reputable or even renowned persons with suspect sympathies. No prior work had pulled together such a comprehensive contemporary database on terrorists and their sympathizers, associations, and motivations. The system, using the latest computer technology and communication networking, was known as STOP for Shields Terrorist Operations Program. STOP was now used in conjunction with JANUS, an adaptation of the earlier generation MTM (McClintic Theater M
odel), to run the major games at the Army War College. STOP, like JANUS, was top secret.
Not long after his appointment to the National Security Council, General Bartley Shields was named as the NSC special advisor to the President in all matters relating to terrorism. In that new capacity, General Shields reported directly to the President.
Lt. General Bartley Shields was alone. He was working late in his Washington office. It was 9:30 p.m. on Thursday in late October. He was going away for a long weekend. Just a few weeks until Thanksgiving and the Christmas season. He and his wife needed a well earned break before the grandchildren descended on them But these intelligence reports had only reached him late today and Bart Shields knew that Monday might be too late. Constant vigilance: the only counterpoint to the terrorism that now seemed to be such a part of our lives. For a long time the people of the United States had had the perception that terrorist acts and outrages were events they read about in other places: the Middle East, Athens, Tel Aviv, Belfast, London. The only time they were conscious of such threats was when they travelled by air. The metal detectors at the airports invaded their privacy and, at the same time, lulled them into a sense of false security. On the twenty-sixth of February, 1993, all of that changed. The World Trade Center in New York was bombed. Six people died and a thousand others were injured. The bomb was made from fertilizer and fuel oil - chemicals available to anyone. Fifteen people, including a Sheikh, were indicted in the plot. They included Palestinians, Jordanians, Sudanese, Iraqis, a Puerto Rican, and a black American from Brooklyn. Some had fought in Afghanistan for the mujahedin against the Russians. Evidence of a second plot had been discovered. The conspirators had planned to bomb four other New York targets: UN Headquarters, FBI Headquarters, and the Lincoln and Holland tunnels.
The terrorists were now using a new weapon in their arsenal, high technology. The man accused of planning the World Trade Center bombing used a laptop computer to map out his intended bombing campaign against U.S. airlines. He had even used an encryption program to protect the data on his hard drive. It would have been a simple matter to connect his laptop to the Internet and download U.S. airline schedules. He also carried a suitcase that contained explosive gel, invisible on airport x-ray machines.
The phone rang for the fifth time before the General picked it up. Must be Millie, he thought. Anxious to get us out of here, no doubt.
"General Shields. This is Owen MacDara. 53rd MASH, Korea. It's been almost twenty years. Sorry to interrupt you. I persuaded your wife to give me your telephone number. Please don't blame her. I'm a good persuader"
"Owen, is that really you? We often wondered what happened to you after you left the army"
"General, I need to see you. It's very important."
Bart Shields could tell when a voice sounded truthful and MacDara's certainly did. He was sure his phone was secure. His office was swept frequently. But one never knew these days.
"Where are you?"
"In New York."
"Millie and I are traveling through New York tomorrow morning. On our way to our house in Connecticut for the weekend. I'll meet you at the Yacht Club for lunch. Let's say twelve hundred hours. I'll phone and make the reservation."
"General Shields, thank you, Sir. I'll be there!"
General Bartley Shields hung up the receiver and leant back in the contour leather chair that he favored. He hadn't thought about Korea recently. And MacDara. Yes, he remembered MacDara well. Used to call him the FBI - Foreign Born Irish! Tried to keep him in the Service. But MacDara wanted to go back to New York and make a million. I wonder if he did. Highest I.Q. in testing at Fort Dix during basic training. They too had tried to sign him up. For OCS, Officers Candidate School. But MacDara just wanted to do his two year hitch and get out. Tops at everything. Earned the top marksmanship badge for his accuracy with the M16 rifle. There were three levels : marksman, sharpshooter, and expert. MacDara made expert. Wasn't satisfied in Korea either. Had to be the best medic. Trained in minor surgery with the docs. He was the only medical specialist that the doctors treated as one of their own. Even Doctor Johnson, that tall rangy Texan, trusted MacDara. Shields remembered being at the 53rd MASH one afternoon for his routine medical examination when a badly lacerated GI was carried into the emergency room on a litter. He'd just been in an accident on field duty with the 1st Cav. and had been flown into Chopper Hill. MacDara was on duty in the Emergency Room. Doc Johnson examined the wounds, looked at MacDara and said:
"Go ahead. 2% xylocaine. You know what sutures to use. I'll check it over when you're finished."
And then there was the Karate. MacDara wanted to understand the people, the Koreans. So he started taking lessons in the Korean language. When Karate classes started, he was one of the first to sign up. Many dropped out, but not MacDara. In a few months he had a brown belt and was well on his way to a black belt, as best as I can remember, Shields reminisced. Suddenly, Bart Shields started laughing out loud. He had just remembered his anger at losing the photography contest. Photography was my domain, remembered Shields. But MacDara won there too. Yes, I really tried to get him to re-up and go to OCS. He'd have made a fine officer, a fine Commander. Yeah, I'm looking forward to seeing him again tomorrow. I wonder what can be so important after all these years, mused Shields.
New York
The New York Yacht Club, organized in 1844 and incorporated in 1865, was a firmament of the American East Coast establishment.
General Shields raised his glass.
"Cheers, Owen. It's good to see you again."
"General, the pleasure is mine. I am indebted to you for taking time out to see me."
"Not at all. Wouldn't have missed it. No inconvenience. We were coming up this way. And, besides, I was curious to find out about you."
"My life can't be as dramatic as working for the President, Sir."
"Let me be the judge of that. Remember, I wanted you to make a career with us but you chose not to. Tell me, did you make that million?"
"Yes, I did make that million. On paper, at least. I'm in consulting. GMA, Global Management Associates."
"What does GMA do?"
"We specialize in a number of niche areas. General management and strategic planning. We also do financial planning for corporate and private clients. Recently, we've been advising governments on everything from defense planning to fiscal policy."
"Impressive! I do remember seeing GMA involved in some projects a couple of years back in our General Accounting Office. Never realized that you and GMA were one and the same."
"I try to let the company protect my privacy. Only my own clients meet me personally. I like it that way."
Lunch had arrived. It had been a couple of years since Owen had dined at the Yacht Club. Bit too stuffy for him. But he remembered that the food had been good. Looked good this time too. His scallops were the best. As Mario refilled their glasses from the Chablis cooling on ice beside their table, the General nodded his approval of his blackened Cajun-style salmon. No-one talked for a while. They had spent this first twenty minutes getting comfortable. They were well into lunch when the General broached the subject.
"What is of such great importance that you needed to see me?"
"Sir, I need to take you back twenty years - to Korea."
"Owen, I don't understand. I had a feeling over the phone that you were talking about the present."
"Yes, I am, But, to understand my concerns about the present, I need to start at the 53rd MASH in 1970."
As the General sipped an after lunch espresso MacDara took him back to that night of the terrible monsoon and to the medical procedure performed by Major Whiteside on the mysterious Colonel. He also talked about Murphy Armstrong and how he had to bring Murphy into his confidence even though the Major had admonished him to tell no-one. MacDara also described to the General how that thirteen month tour of duty had established a close bond between himself and three others: Murphy Armstrong, Jack Cummins and Jay Russo. He talked a little ab
out each of them. He told how Murphy had finished law school after Korea and had become a civil rights lawyer, a good one. Most recently, he had been working with the New York office of the NAACP, the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People. Since Korea all four had maintained contact. In the last five years they'd been fortunate to find themselves in New York and they had grown accustomed to meeting regularly in their favorite Manhattan pub, Costelloes.
MacDara could see that the General still liked his Macanudos. As Bart Shields rolled the tip of the cigar clockwise in his mouth, Owen brought events current. He described Murph's killing, the albino's violent end and, finally, his visit to Ruth Whiteside to learn of another tragedy, the death of the major. The General finally spoke:
"Harry's death saddened me. We were good friends."
"I didn't know. I'm sorry."
"That's all right, Owen. Harry and I had two loves: the army and the sea. I would say that Harry left his first love with a broken heart but never his other love, the sea. He and I continued to meet occasionally. We were both members of this club."
"Did you know that he was writing his memoirs?"
"Not until nearly the end. It must have been last April. The month before he died. He called to see me in Washington on his way to Virginia. Told me about the memoirs. Said he was doing research. Meeting various people to confirm his understanding of some of the history he'd been part of."
"Did he tell you anything in particular?"
"No, Owen, he didn't. He did seem very preoccupied. But I attributed that to the writing. Harry was always a perfectionist. I felt that the memoirs had taken control of him."
They both paused while Mario refilled their espresso. General Shields crushed the stub of his Macanudo in the ashtray and looked directly at MacDara. Owen had deliberately not discussed the identity of the mysterious Colonel that Major Whiteside had treated in Korea. Now he felt that it was time to do so.
