MASH 06 MASH Goes to Morocco

by Richard Hooker

  “Naturally,” the Deputy Chief of Mission said.

  “And so far as I can see,” the Ambassador went on, “no one involved in all this is going to Marrakech.”

  “No one at all, Mr. Ambassador,” the Deputy Chief of Mission said.

  “Since the Deputy Assistant Under Secretary of State for North African Affairs,” the Ambassador said, solemnly, “who will certainly be able to control this situation, is coming, this seems to me to be a splendid time to visit Marrakech. Don’t you agree?”

  “Are you planning to go alone?” the Deputy Chief of Mission asked.

  “I was thinking of taking you,” the Ambassador said.

  “In that case, Mr. Ambassador, I am in full agreement.”

  “See if you can get rooms at the Mamoumian Hotel overlooking the pool and the garden,” the Ambassador said.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Air Force V.I.P. Flight Sixteen,” the radio crackled, “this is Air Force Central Atlantic Area Control.”

  “Go ahead, Central Atlantic.”

  “Air Force Central Atlantic has two messages for you. Are you ready to copy?”

  “V.I.P. Sixteen ready to copy.”

  “Message one follows—you ain’t gonna believe this—Pan American Four-Oh-Nine, Rio de Janeiro-Paris reports that they were attacked in mid-ocean by a 747 aircraft which made three threatening, fighter-type passes. Air Force V.I.P. Sixteen is advised to be on the alert for a menacing 747 aircraft.”

  “Central Atlantic, say again the type of menacing aircraft.”

  “I say again, seven-four-seven, repeat, seven-four-seven. I told you you weren’t going to believe it.”

  “V.I.P. Sixteen understands 747,” the pilot of the Sabreliner carrying Q. Elwood Potter and Drs. Benjamin Franklin Pierce and John Francis Xavier McIntyre from New York to Morocco said. “Is that 747 as in Boeing 747 jumbo jet?”

  “Affirmative, V.I.P. Sixteen, that is 747 Boeing jumbo jet.”

  “V.I.P. Sixteen suggests pilot of Pan American Four-Oh-Nine be given a little balloon to blow up on landing.”

  “Central Atlantic advises V.I.P. Sixteen that Pan American Four-Oh-Nine was intercepted 800 miles north-northeast of Gibraltar by U.S. Navy Interceptor aircraft from carrier Forrestal. Navy pilots escorting Pan American Four-Oh-Nine to Paris report plane is being flown in normal manner, and pilot seems perfectly sober.”

  “Central Atlantic, you say there are two messages?”

  “V.I.P. Sixteen, second message follows: ‘Quote from Department of State, Washington, to Q. Elwood Potter aboard U.S.A.F. V.I.P. Flight Sixteen. Intelligence confirms Chevaux Petroleum Aircraft departed Love Field, Dallas, for Abzug. Intelligence advises further that nearest airfield to Abzug capable of handling Chevaux 747 aircraft is Marrakech International. You are directed to divert from Casablanca to Marrakech in attempt to join up with Chevaux party. Unquote end message.’ Did you copy, V.I.P. Sixteen?”

  “Central Atlantic, V.I.P. Sixteen understands divert from Casablanca to Marrakech to rendezvous with Chevaux aircraft.”

  “Roger, V.I.P. Sixteen, Central Atlantic out.”

  “Jesus H. Christ!”

  “V.I.P. Sixteen, this is Central Atlantic, say again your last transmission.”

  “Operational Immediate message to any U.S. Forces within radio range. U.S.A.F. V.I.P. Flight Sixteen, a Sabreliner aircraft, is currently under aerial attack. Altitude—28,500 feet; coordinates—Four Niner Three-Seven Baker Two-Two-Zero-Zero Fox-trot. Attacking aircraft is a 747 Boeing jumbo jet. I say again, a 747 Boeing jumbo jet.”

  Another voice came immediately over the radio.

  “V.I.P. Sixteen, this is U.S. Navy F-104 Two-Seven. I am thirty minutes from your present position. Please say again description of attacking aircraft.”

  “V.I.P. Sixteen has just been attacked by a 747 jumbo jet. No apparent damage. Attacking aircraft made a pass from below, passing 100 yards in front of this aircraft, and is now departing this area on a heading of 050 degrees true.”

  Navy F-104 Two-Seven didn’t believe a word of it, of course. The Bus Drivers in Blue, as their Air Force counterparts are fondly known to Naval aviators, had apparently been at the sauce again. But he had nothing better to do at the moment, so he wheeled the fighter over on its wing, took up a course which would permit him to intercept an aircraft on the course given by V.I.P. Sixteen and flicked on his radar.

  At the extreme range of the radar, there was a blip on the course given. His heart began to beat a little faster.

  “Navy Two-Seven to Navy Mediterranean,” he said to his radio. “I am in pursuit of an aircraft which allegedly attacked U.S.A.F. V.I.P. Sixteen. I have him on radar and am kicking in the afterburners at this time.” As he did so, he threw the switch that increased the power of his engines manifold (at the expense of greatly increased fuel consumption), and felt himself being pressed against the cushions of his seat by the acceleration. The Mach gauge, which is sort of a high-speed speedometer, indicated when he accelerated past the speed of sound; and he was approaching maximum speed, which was well over twice the speed of sound.

  “Navy Two-Seven, this is Navy Mediterranean. Have you a description of the aircraft you are chasing?”

  “Air Force V.I.P. Sixteen … you’re not gonna believe this … identifies the attacking aircraft as a Boeing 747 jumbo jet.”

  “Navy Two-Seven, you say you have it on radar?”

  “Affirmative,” Navy Two-Seven reported. “Radar indicates aircraft is at a distance of 300 miles, just off the Moroccan coast; estimated airspeed is 650 knots. I am closing at Mach Two.”

  “Navy Two-Seven, keep us posted,” Navy Mediterranean said.

  Another strange voice came over the emergency frequency:

  “Operational Immediate to any U.S. Forces within radio range. This is Air Force V.I.P. Eleven, a Sabreliner aircraft, at 30,500 feet, 100 miles due west of Casablanca. This aircraft is under attack. This aircraft is under attack.”

  Navy Two-Seven pointed his radar in the direction given. There were two blips now on the screen, one moving in close to the other. For a moment, the blips merged, and then they separated again.

  “Air Force V.I.P. Eleven, this is Navy Two-Seven. I have you on radar. Please identify attacking aircraft.”

  “Navy Two-Seven, this is Air Force V.I.P. Eleven. The attacking aircraft is a Boeing 747.”

  “Is everybody in the Air Force plastered?” Navy Two-Seven asked himself aloud, forgetting that his microphone was hot.

  “Air Force V.I.P. Eleven advises Navy Two-Seven that this aircraft is carrying Congressman Edwards L. Jackson on a diplomatic mission and deeply resents the suggestion that the pilot has been drinking. I know a 747 when I see one.”

  Navy Two-Seven watched the blip representing the attacking aircraft move off the edge of his radar screen. When he changed radar direction to follow it, he put it back where he had originally had it pointed, and there were now two blips on the screen, one obviously heading for the other.

  “Navy Two-Seven advises Navy Mediterranean that he has what it believed to be attacking aircraft and another unidentified aircraft on radar within fifty miles of Moroccan coast. Am closing at Mach Two-Point-Five.” He watched his screen with rapt fascination (there is, in fact, nothing much else to look at at those speeds and altitudes) as one blip approached the other. They appeared to merge, and then they separated again. He was not at all surprised to hear still another hitherto-unheard voice come on the air.

  “Jesus Christ!” a voice said, then: “Mayday, Mayday, this is Charter Flight Thirty-Two, approximately forty miles off the Moroccan coast. We have just experienced a near mid-air collision with a Boeing 747 aircraft.”

  “Charter Thirty-Two, this is Navy Two-Seven. Now you just take it easy, the Navy’s here.”

  “Take it easy? Take it easy? Have you ever had a 747 pop up from nowhere and wag its tail at you? It threw Don Rhotten and two girls out of the round bed, that’s what it did.”

 
“Charter Thirty-Two, this is Navy Two-Seven. I an approaching you at Mach Two. The Navy will handle the attacking aircraft.”

  “Well, you better hurry up, Sailor-Boy. The last we saw, the 747 was diving straight for the ground.”

  “Charter Thirty-Two, are you an all-black 707?”

  “Roger, we’re all black. There’s a rabbit painted on the tail.”

  “Say again, you were garbled. I thought you sail you had a rabbit painted on the tail.”

  “That’s what I said, that’s what I said,” Charter Thirty Two snapped.

  “I think I have you in visual contact,” Navy Two-Seven said.

  “Navy Two-Seven, this is Air Force V.I.P. Eleven. Congressman Jackson says that while he’s sorry about those other airplanes, the overall interests of the Unite-States Government and the United Nations must be first and foremost in all our minds in this time of trial. He orders you to fly back to him immediately and provide him with a protective escort.”

  “Navy Two-Seven,” another voice said, immediately “we have a Deputy Assistant Under Secretary of State aboard. You come back here and guard us. The Congress man is expendable.”

  “Navy Two-Seven, this is Navy Mediterranean,” the radio said.

  “Go ahead, Navy Mediterranean.”

  “We have scrambled eighteen fighter aircraft from carrier Franklin Delano Roosevelt. You will provide escort service to U.S.A.F. V.I.P. aircraft until further notice.”

  “Roger, Navy Mediterranean, Two-Seven turning. Which V.I.P. aircraft gets the escort?” There was silence. “I’ll be damned, it does have a rabbit painted on the tail,” Navy Two-Seven said, as he zoomed up in front of the black 707, and then flew back in the direction from which he had come.

  “Mayday, Mayday, this is Charter Thirty-Two. I just had a near mid-air collision with a Navy fighter with Two-Seven painted on its tail.”

  “Navy Two-Seven, this is the Franklin Delano Roosevelt Navy Fighter Force. You say the attacking air craft has two-seven rabbits painted on its tail?”

  “The attacked aircraft has one damn bunny, you dummy!” the pilot of the 707 carrying Don Rhotten and his crew screamed into his microphone.

  “Attention, Navy Fighter Force. The attacking air craft is a black 707 with a rabbit painted on its tail.”

  “I’ve heard of some damn fool operations,” an unidentified voice said, “but this sure takes the cake.”

  And another voice: “I have a black 707 in sight.”

  “See if it has a bunny rabbit on its tail, Charley,” another voice said.

  “Roger, this aircraft has a bunny rabbit on its tail.”

  “F.D. Roosevelt Fighter Force, fire a rocket across his nose and signal him to follow you to nearest airfield. That will be Casablanca.”

  “Mayday, Mayday,” the voice screamed hysterically, “this is Charter Thirty-Two, ten miles off the Moroccan coast. We are under attack again, this time by Navy fighters … from our own Navy, damnit … firing rockets.”

  “This is Congressman Edwards L. Jackson,” another voice said. “In the name of the Congress of the United States, I demand that I be protected with all the might of the American Armed Forces while I am traveling on matters of state.”

  “Black 707 with white figure of Lepus cuniculus on vertical stabilizer, this is Commander J.C. Armstrong, of the Franklin Delano Roosevelt Fighter Force, U.S. Navy. Acting under the provisions of the 1862 Act against Piracy & Other Warlike Acts, I am placing you under arrest on the high seas. You are ordered to follow me.”

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” the very familiar voice said, “this is Don Rhotten, and this may well be the last ‘Rhotten Report.’ I have long known of the feelings, the petty feelings, I may say, of others who call themselves broadcast journalists, but I never thought they would stoop to aerial piracy to keep me from bringing you the news.” His voice broke, and there came the unmistakable sound of weeping.

  “Casablanca Approach Control, this is Navy Two-Seven. Request priority landing permission. I am out of fuel.”

  About the only aircraft in a 500-mile area which hadn’t heard all this was a Boeing 747 with the familiar Chevaux Petroleum Corporation logotype painted on its tail. There were, of course, radios aboard the plane, but the pilots weren’t listening to them; the headsets were hung neatly on their hangers.

  There was no control tower (because there was no airport) in Abzug, and there was just no need to wear headphones because there would be no one to talk to. While Horsey and Hot Lips and the others had spread out from Las Palmas the night before, in search of canaries, the pilot had gotten on the telephone with the Geographic, Geologic and Seismologic Department of Chevaux Petroleum.

  In a matter of fifteen minutes, the computer reported that while there was no airfield in Abzug, there was a dried salt lake, some 4 miles long and 300 yards wide, with a perfectly level surface compacted over the ages, so that it was more than strong enough to take a 747.

  The only problem was that the precise location of the lake was not accurately reflected on the available maps.

  “What you’re going to have to do, I suppose,” the geographic specialist told the pilot, “is fly back and forth looking for it. It’s only 300 yards wide, so look for a couple of mountain ranges close together.”

  “No problem,” the pilot replied. “Thanks a lot.”

  In the morning, they had refueled the airplane, loaded the canaries and the passengers aboard, counted noses and then wasted an hour finding and getting one seismologist and two drillers out of a local massage parlor and onto the plane, and then taken off.

  The flight to Morocco was a genuine joy and pleasure. They played Bandits at Twelve O’Clock High the way it had been played in the old days, that is, before the days of long-distance radio communication and radar. They just got the ones they found on their route, two tiny little Sabreliners and a funny-looking 707 with a large white rabbit painted on the tail. Since he had done so well in finding the Sabreliners, the pilot permitted Mr. Chevaux to make the pass at the black 707, and then to power-dive toward the ground. That was a lot of fun, with the wind screaming so loud you could barely hear the Reverend Mother playing “Off We Go into the Wild Blue Yonder” on the bus air horns.

  Once they leveled off at sea level and crossed the coast, of course, the pilot resumed command of the aircraft from Mr. de la Chevaux and began a methodical search of the mountainous range where Abzug was supposed to be.

  It took more than an hour to find what they were looking for but, suddenly, there it was, just to their left, ahead.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the pilot said into his micro phone, “we are about to land in Abzug. Please fasten your seat belts and observe the No Smoking sign. Please remain in your seats until the aircraft has stopped rolling. We hope you have enjoyed your flight and we thank you very kindly for flying Chevaux.”

  The 747 which appeared at the end of the valley between the mountains was not the first aircraft that the men of First Platoon, Second Cavalry Squadron (“Omar ben Ahmed’s Own”) had ever seen, but it was unquestionably the largest, possibly because the only other aircraft they had seen had been passing overhead at 30,000 feet.

  Lieut. Ali Mohammed turned in his saddle and reached for his Collins Radio Corporation Single Sideband short wave radio, which was stored in the prescribed position, centered immediately behind the second camel hump.

  “Long Range Patrol Commander to Patrol Headquarters,” he said.

  “Go ahead.”

  “We are in the Valley of the Dead River between the Mountains of Atlas and the Mountains of Sidi ben Kulmg.”

  “That’s that long salty place, right, Ali?”

  “That’s it. An airplane … a large airplane … looks like it’s going to land here.”

  “Now look carefully, Ali, and then tell me: is it on fire? Or is it coming in like it wants to—on purpose?”

  “It looks like it’s coming in on purpose. The wings are straight and level, and it’s not on
fire.”

  “Damn, for a minute there, I thought we were in luck. If it’s coming in on purpose, it’s probably the Americans the Sheikh invited.”

  “The Sheikh invited? Americans?”

  “Yours not to reason why, Ali,” Patrol Headquarters said. “Try to keep that in mind. I got the word from Omar ben Ahmed himself. He called from Rabat yesterday. These people are the personal guests of His Highness himself.”

  “You mean we let them land and don’t even get to shoot at them?”

  “You got it, kid. You just go up there and lay the charm on them. Be discreet. Ask them who they are. If they’re the Americans His Highness invited, get back to me, and I’ll send out a camel caravan for them.”

  “And if they’re not?”

  “You know the rules as well as I do, Ali,” Patrol Headquarters replied. “Treat it just like a regular truck convoy. Behead the men, and we split the women and the cargo twenty-five percent to you, twenty-five percent to the squadron and fifty percent to His Most Merciful Majesty, Abdullah ben Abzug, Keeper of the Peace.”

  “Yes, sir.” He replaced the microphone and the head set, and put his flowing headdress back on.

  “No one fires except on my order,” he shouted to his men. Then he stood up in his saddle, raised his right arm over his head and gave the command. “Foooorward, Ho!”

  The twenty-six camels of the First Platoon, with Lieut. Ali Mohammed in the van, started down the long, narrow expanse of salt flat, in the direction of the huge, silver bird which had just descended from the heavens.

  As they approached, it seemed to grow larger and larger. The troopers nervously fingered their weapons. Swords slid out of scabbards and back in, with a bone-chilling sound of metal scraping on metal. There was the sound of rounds of ammunition being loaded into submachine guns and automatic rifles.

  “Anyone who fires without my order gets slit,” Lieut. Ali Mohammed said, making reference to Abzug’s jumbo-size guillotine.

  He kicked his camel in the ribs, and the animal picked up speed, moving him perhaps ten yards ahead of his men as he approached the airplane.