MASH Goes to Morocco
Page 12
While this was certainly a commendable manifestation of loyalty and subservience to one’s monarch, it was not only somewhat patronizing on their part, but made for a lousy golf game. He would never really know when he had won, fair and square.
(Many American golfers, especially those who play with their life-insurance salesmen or stockbrokers, may be able to sympathize with His Majesty’s problem.)
The King’s problem, therefore, was to find golfing partners who possessed a skill level approximating his own (he shot in the low eighties) and who were, naturally, of suitable noble birth. It was not a problem prone to simple solution, and explains His Majesty’s genuine delight to hear from an equerry that His Highness, Sheikh Omar ben Ahmed, grandson of Sheikh Abdullah ben Abzug, was scheduled to arrive at the Rabat Airfield at five that next morning, having flown from Paris.
His Highness would have gone to the airport at five if that had been necessary, but it was still much too dark at that hour to see the ball, much less the fairways. So word was passed to the Rabat Tower to keep Sheikh Omar ben Ahmed’s plane in the holding pattern until the first light of day.
The Household Cavalry and the Royal Bodyguard received their marching orders and were assembled, together with crews from Radio et Television Diffusion Maroc, at the airport in plenty of time to greet Sheikh Omar ben Ahmed’s plane.
Moroccan televiewers that evening, as the lead story on news of the world, were shown film of their King meeting his friend, and the grandson of his friend, at Rabat International.
There were shots of the Household Cavalry lined up in immaculate array, scimitars drawn and glistening. There were ninety seconds of the Royal Household Band playing the national anthem, and another ninety seconds of His Majesty himself arriving at the airport, in his Mercedes 600 limousine, preceded by jeeps loaded with members of the Royal Bodyguard. His Majesty graciously consented to look in the direction of the camera, smile and wave his hands.
Then the aircraft carrying Sheikh Omar ben Ahmed, a jet Aero Commander, was seen making its approach and landing. There was some delay before Sheikh Ahmed left the airplane. (It was necessary for the Sheikh to put on his robes; he could hardly greet the King, who was wearing his robes, in an open-collared shirt.)
The televiewers saw the King walk up to the aircraft, greet the Sheikh in the formal manner prescribed both by Royal Protocol and the teachings of the Prophet, and then saw them enter the Mercedes 600 and, preceded by the jeeps, race off from the airport.
What the viewers saw next was a shot of the Royal Palace, and the clear implication was that the King and the Sheikh were inside. This was a little technique learned from American television known as conscious deception. The King and the Sheikh were nowhere near the Royal Palace. They were at Le Club Royal de Golf de Maroc.
Sheikh Ahmed did not especially want to play golf with the King. For one thing, the King was a lousy golfer compared to the Sheikh, and playing, as they were, far from prying eyes, the King was not at all above throwing his clubs into water obstacles and snapping putter shafts over his knees when he blew a shot.
But he was so pathetically grateful for a game that the Sheikh would not have the heart to refuse him, even if he dared, under the circumstances, to do so. On the flight from Paris, the Sheikh had made up his mind that he had to talk with the King, so having the King meet him was really good luck.
The Sheikh had a problem. He was heir-apparent to the Sheikhdom itself. (His father had become enamored of, and run off with, a Bavarian belly dancer he had encountered in a nightclub in Beirut, Lebanon. As a consequence, he and the belly dancer were living together morganatically in Portugal, and the very mention of his name in Abzug was forbidden under penalty of death.)
Frankly, the Sheikh supported his grandfather in the matter. Not only was such conduct clearly unbecoming a Crown Prince, but his father certainly should have been able to see that the belly dancer would (as she indeed had) quickly turn from a female shapely with youth into a typical plump, square Bavarian hausfrau. When he saw his father and his stepmother (which he managed to do about once a year), his stepmother (who insisted that he call her Mama) spent the time forcing Bavarian cream puffs on him, or something equally revolting, like coffee covered with whipped cream; and once, for what she really believed was a treat, she served up a marzipan camel on which a rather good marzipan replica of his father sat somewhat precariously. It had been difficult to force the expected smile while he bit off his father’s head.
It was quite obvious to Sheikh Omar ben Ahmed that the status quo in Abzug was, for the immediate future, the best road to follow. The value of the oil beneath Abzug’s desert was not going to decline in value, but quite the reverse. The Sheikhdom of Hussid, through Crown Prince Hassan ad Kayam, was perfectly willing to advance the Abzugian treasury whatever money it wanted, at quite favorable interest rates, to meet Abzugian needs. These needs were simple. The agrarian economy supported the population adequately. The only capital expenditure really necessary—which was being made—was for medical and educational purposes. Generally speaking, the health of the tribe—due, the Sheikh believed, to the climate and the healthy diet— was extraordinarily healthy. In the last ten years, illiteracy had practically been eliminated. Furthermore, those tribesmen who showed the ability to absorb education at the college level were sent, on full scholarships, outside the country—mostly to Saudi Arabia’s College of Mining and Mineralogy.
When Allah in his wisdom saw fit to take Sheikh Abdullah ben Abzug from his people and Omar ben Ahmed assumed the throne, then, and only then, would it make sense to bring in aliens to begin the exploitation of Abzug oil reserves. Omar ben Ahmed, who had been educated in Germany and had spent a good deal of his life away from the mountains and deserts of Abzug, could lead his people into a closer association with outsiders based on his understanding of the outsiders. He knew, for example, as his grandfather unfortunately did not, that the world community generally frowned on such practices as beheading ambassadors.
Sheikh Omar ben Ahmed had, until just the last few days, placed absolute trust in Sheikh Hassan ad Kayam. They were old friends and, previously, Hassan had done nothing of which Omar had disapproved.
But six days before, Omar had flown in from Zurich to hear that in his absence, Hassan had shown up in Abzug with a helicopter, loaded Sheikh Abdullah ben Abzug aboard it and flown him to Europe. He was prepared to let that pass, at least until Hassan had an opportunity to offer an explanation, but then the business in Paris had transpired. The Sheikh had disappeared for three days and then he had emerged—surrounded by U.S. Marines and a platoon of French doxies—at the Opera to announce that he had decided to go ahead with exploitation of Abzugian oil, and had, indeed, made arrangements with an American firm.
After some thought, Omar ben Ahmed had been forced to conclude that the Americans had somehow found something to hold against Prince Hassan, and that Hassan had led Sheikh Abdullah ben Abzug into a deal which at best was questionable and at worst could be disastrous.
What he must do was separate his grandfather from Hassan long enough for him to explain to his grandfather his objections to oil exploitation just now. His grandfather, for half a century, had been accustomed to making announcements, not seeking advice, and to having his announcements accepted as law. Reasoning with him was going to be difficult, because he believed sincerely and quite simply that if Allah had wanted anybody else to issue orders to the Abzugians, He would have sent somebody else. And it logically followed that since Allah had sent him, what he said was obviously the intention of Allah.
(This Dieu et mon droit philosophy is not really that unusual. It parallels that, for example, of the Hon. Edwards L. Jackson (Farmer—Free Silver, Arkansas) who had more than once addressed the Congressional Bible Study & Prayerful Decision Society on the theme that God had selected them to save the American people from themselves; and that, therefore, listening to the contrary opinions of the simple folk back home bordered on the sinful.)
“It is a delicate matter, my friend,” the King said. “Your grandfather has a terrible temper, as you well know. Prince Hassan ad Kayam, to my knowledge, is a gentleman of impeccable reputation. You must walk a very narrow path to avoid offending either. I personally find it impossible to believe that Prince Hassan would do something dishonorable, or that your grandfather would change his mind once he had announced a position.”
“Then you won’t help me?”
“What is it you want me to do?”
“My grandfather has asked these Americans to be his guests in Marrakech,” Omar ben Ahmed said. “If I could have only three or four hours alone with him while they are there, I feel I could reason with him.”
“That’s odd,” the King said. “On the way to the air port, my Foreign Minister told me that the President of France is going to Marrakech.”
“Do you suppose that the French and the Americans are in on this together?”
“I’d believe it of the French,” the King said, after a moment. “However, it seems entirely too subtle for the Americans.”
“Perhaps you are right,” Omar said. “But we’d better keep an eye on the French, too.”
“I have spent my life keeping an eye on the French,” His Majesty said, as he drove. It sliced to the right and landed in a grove of palm trees.
“Wrist straight, wrist straight,” Omar ben Ahmed said. “Eye on the ball.”
“When I want your advice, I’ll ask for it,” the King snarled. “That was obviously a defective ball.” He immediately regretted the blast of anger. “Sorry,” he said. Omar pressed his advantage.
“Will you see if you can separate my grandfather from the others, while they are in Marrakech, for just a couple of hours?”
“I will give a party for the French and the Americans. I will serve intoxicants. That way I can invite your grandfather in the sure and certain knowledge that he will not accept.”
“Brilliant!” Omar said.
“Naturally,” His Majesty said. “I’m a King, you know.”
“That doesn’t solve the problem of separating Hassan from him, though.”
“I will let it be known that there will be blonde women at the party,” the King said. “Hassan searches out blonde women like a bird dog.”
“I never could understand that,” Omar said, aware that he was lying through his teeth. “I have never seen a blonde woman for whom I would cross the street.” He bent down and rubbed his shin, where Penelope Quattlebaum had kicked him. Damn, he thought, I don’t even know her name. I can hardly call the Crillon on the telephone and ask to speak to the blonde who kicked me in the shin in the lobby.
He had no way of knowing, of course, that Miss Penelope Quattlebaum was approaching him at some 600 miles an hour—she was, in fact, at that moment over central France, where Orleans Area Control had just cleared Air Maroc Flight 102 direct to Rabat—and that at that precise moment, the Teletype was clattering in the Communications Room of the U.S. Embassy in Rabat,
FROM U.S. EMBASSY, PARIS
TO U.S. EMBASSY, RABAT, MOROCCO
F.S.O. GRADE-SEVEN PENELOPE QUATTLEBAUM DEPARTED PARIS ABOARD AIR MAROC FLIGHT 102 AT 10:45 HOURS THIS MORNING. ESTIMATED TIME OF ARRIVAL—2:15 P.M. MOROCCAN TIME.
T. DUDLEY DULANEY III
DEPUTY FOURTH-ASSISTANT SECRETARY
The Teletype operator, who had been sleeping when the machine began to clatter, got off his cot, walked to the machine and tore the yellow paper from it. He started out of the room; but before he got to the door, the machine began to make other noises. The bell rang, and then rang two times more. This was known as a three-bell signal, and it signified that a message of the highest importance was about to be transmitted.
The operator returned to the machine.
FROM DEPARTMENT OF STATE, WASHINGTON
TO U.S. EMBASSY, RABAT, MOROCCO
SENATOR AMOS SCHWARTZ (REPUBLICAN—CONSERVATIVE, PENN.), CHAIRMAN OF THE STATE DEPARTMENT APPROPRIATIONS SUBCOMMITTEE OF THE FOREIGN RELATIONS COMMITTEE, HAS SENT THE FOLLOWING MESSAGE TO THE SECRETARY OF STATE:
QUOTE DEAR MR. SECRETARY: JUST A SHORT NOTE TO ASSURE YOU OF MY CONFIDENCE THAT THE STATE DEPARTMENT WILL ASSIGN F.S.O. GRADE-SEVEN PENELOPE QUATTLEBAUM TO SUCH DUTIES AS THE SERVICE MAY REQUIRE, WITHOUT TAKING IN TO CONSIDERATION THAT THAT DARLING, SWEET CHILD, WHO WILL BE LEAVING HER NATIVE SHORES FOR THE FIRST TIME, HAPPENS TO BE MY ONLY NIECE. PERHAPS YOU WILL BE ABLE TO TELL ME OF HER ASSIGNMENT WHEN WE GET TOGETHER TO DISCUSS THE RATHER LARGE BUDGET YOU HAVE REQUESTED FOR THE NEXT FISCAL YEAR. MY ASSOCIATES, AS YOU KNOW, HAVE BEEN TALKING ABOUT MAJOR CUTS. WITH KINDEST PERSONAL REGARDS, AMOS SCHWARTZ, U.S. SENATE UNQUOTE.
THE SECRETARY OF STATE WISHES TO TELL YOU HE HAS EVERY CONFIDENCE IN YOUR ABILITY TO PROPERLY ASSIGN F.S.O. QUATTLEBAUM WITHOUT, OF COURSE, TAKING INTO CONSIDERATION THE FACT THAT HER UNCLE IS THE MAN TO WHOM THE SECRETARY MUST JUSTIFY THE STATE DEPARTMENT BUDGET.
FOR THE SECRETARY OF STATE
BY ZENOBIA Q. O’RYAN
SECRETARY TO THE SECRETARY OF STATE
The Teletype operator, whistling tonelessly through his teeth, carried both messages down the corridor of the Embassy to the Ambassador’s office.
Chapter Eleven
Although it is generally not common knowledge, few airliner-sized private aircraft “belonging” to major industrial corporations actually belong to the corporation, even though their fuselages are emblazoned with corporate insignia and the aircraft are at the exclusive beck and call of corporate executives. Renting the airplanes, rather than buying them, has several advantages. For one thing, the whole cost of the rental can be written off as a business expense, which has certain obvious pluses. For another, if an airliner is rented from an airline, it has access to regular airline services. The advantages here are obvious, when time is taken to think about them. It is about thirty feet from the door of a 747 to the ground. It is far more convenient, when landing at an airport, to have a set of stairs rolled up to the door of a 747 by airlines personnel (there are reciprocal agreements among airlines) than it is to sit there, thirty feet above the ground, attempting to negotiate for the rental of a set of stairs or, alternatively, to leave the aircraft by means of a knotted rope.
Airplanes of this type are hired out in one of two ways: “dry” and “wet.” If a corporation rents a dry airplane, a crew flies it to the agreed point of delivery, debarks and leaves. It is thereafter the responsibility of the company which has rented the dry airplane to find a crew to fly it, a set of stewardi to pass out the coffee, tea and milk, fuel to fill its tanks and mechanics to perform the necessary maintenance. A wet airplane, on the other hand, comes equipped with a full crew, including stewardi. Fueling of the aircraft, filling it with trays full of food, making sure that it is safe to fly and so on is accomplished as for airliners in regular commercial service.
The charges for a wet airplane are so many thousand dollars a day, in the case of a 747, plus so many thousand dollars an hour for each hour actually spent in the air. Most large corporations, such as Chevaux Petroleum International, prefer to charter wet aircraft.
There is an unexpected, and certainly unpublicized, bonus for the charterers of wet 747’s. Commercial-aircraft pilots have a union, although, of course, since they are hardly blue-collar employees, they call it an “association.” Part of the contractual agreement between the pilots and the airlines deals with seniority. The pilots “bid” for the most desirable flight assignments on the basis of seniority.
In other words, once a man has been designated a captain, he begins his career flying, for example, the midnight flight between Olathe, Kans., and East Saint Louis, Ill. Providing he has been able to remember to lower the wheels each time before landing and other such technical things, he works himself up over the years, as more senior pilots retire, to
the more desirable flights —say, an early-morning flight from Los Angeles to New York—and ultimately to the most desirable flights. New York-London-Rome is, for instance, a very desirable flight, and so is Los Angeles-Honolulu-Tokyo.
But what happens, unfortunately, is that after a man has spent twenty years of his flying career working himself up from Olathe-East Saint Louis to Los Angeles-Honolulu-Tokyo and has been flying it for a year or so, he becomes bored with it.
There is, after all, despite what the Honolulu Chamber of Commerce would have you believe, little to occupy the time of a fifty-five-year-old grandfather during a three-day layover in the Hawaiian Islands. Surfboarding is really out of the question; and there is something positively chilling to the masculine ego when a sun-browned, bikini-clad child-of-the-beach at whom you have flashed a broad smile comes trotting up to politely suggest, “Sir, do you think it’s wise for someone of your age to be out in the sun like this?”
And, as some wise man once said of Tokyo, “After you’ve had sukiyaki and watched the sumo wrestlers, what else is there?”
The cold truth is that at this particular point of their careers, many silver-haired, blue-eyed, firm-jawed air line captains begin to think of themselves as airborne bus drivers: Los Angeles one day, Honolulu the next, Tokyo the day after that, followed by two days of dodging Tokyo taxis and then back home. What could be more boring?