“Those two?” Devlin asked, pointing to the door.
Bellmon nodded.
“The chief didn’t say who was coming, but two and two are four, right? And the chief said they can have whoever they want—the priority came from the President himself.”
“Jesus Christ!”
“The chief told me I was to prepare a list of ten officers meeting certain criteria—”
“Such as?” Devlin interrupted.
Bellmon ignored the question.
“And have them available for interview at 1300 today. And like the good soldier I like to think I am, I said, ‘Yes, sir’ and called the personnel officer at his quarters and told him to make up the list.”
“What the hell is going on? Do you know?”
“I can make a couple of good guesses,” Bellmon said. “But what it boils down to is that it has the President’s approval. He’s the Commander-in-Chief. I’m not going to second-guess him about priorities.”
He leaned forward and pressed the lever on his intercom.
"Ask Major Lunsford and Lieutenant Portet to come in, please.”
Their arrival, at least, was by the book.
There was a knock at the door, Bellmon called, “Enter”; they marched in, came to attention before his desk, and saluted; Bellmon returned it; Lunsford said, “Major Lunsford, sir,” and Bellmon said, “At ease, gentlemen.”
He stood up and offered his hand, first to Lunsford and then to Jack.
“Sir, General Hanrahan’s compliments,” Lunsford said. “He said you would be expecting us.”
“My chief of staff’s office at 1300,” Bellmon said. “I came up with only eight officers meeting the criteria.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You’ve met General Devlin, I understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Lunsford said, “at the airfield.”
“Lieutenant, if you don’t mind my asking,” General Devlin said, “what are those wings? I don’t think I’ve ever seen—”
“Not to go further than this office, Eddie?” General Bellmon said.
“Of course.”
“Those are Belgian paratrooper’s wings,” Bellmon said. “Jack earned them jumping into Stanleyville with the Belgians.”
“Jesus!”
“And when he got there, he found Major Lunsford waiting for him. He’d been there, covertly, through the entire episode. The President gave him the Silver Star—his third—personally.”
“I’m very impressed,” General Devlin said.
“Whenever I become really annoyed with Special Forces, I think of people like these two, and it calms me down,” General Bellmon said.
Devlin looked at him but said nothing.
“I will buy all the officers in this room lunch,” General Bellmon said, “with the following ground rules: We will not discuss Special Forces, or who has General Grisham’s L-23. Perhaps General Devlin will regale us with tales of Captain Craig Lowell and Task Force Lowell.”
“I can talk about that all day,” General Devlin said.
[ FOUR ]
Conference Room
Office of the Chief of Staff
U.S. Army Aviation Center and Fort Rucker, Alabama
1545 23 January 1965
Before the first of the eight officers who had been ordered to report to the office of the chief of staff actually entered the conference room itself, they had a chance to examine each other and wonder what the hell was going on.
The only things they had in common were that they were all black/Negro/colored/whatever and rated Army aviators. There were two majors, both of whom had the star of a senior aviator mounted above the shield of their wings. There were two captains and four first lieutenants.
“What the hell is this?” one of the majors inquired, “the Rucker Black Caucus?”
The other major gave him a dirty look but said nothing.
“If one more goddamned white liberal asks me if I have experienced racial prejudice, I’ll throw up in his lap,” the other captain asked. He, too, was a senior aviator.
There was laughter, in which Captain Smythe did not join.
“Is that what this is?” one of the lieutenants asked.
“Christ, I hope not,” the major who made the Black Caucus crack said. “I’m supposed to be giving Caribou right-seat check rides, and this is really going to fuck up a lot of scheduling.”
The chief of staff entered at that point. He was a tall, slim, crew-cutted full-bird colonel who everyone knew had been selected for promotion to brigadier general. He was one of the very few people whose wings were topped by a star within a wreath, identifying him as a master Army aviator.
The only other master Army aviator with whom Captain Smythe was familiar was Major Hodges, the president of the instrument examiner board, who had given him his final check ride on finishing Mohawk Transition; his annual instrument rating check ride; and, most recently, his check ride leading to his certification as a Mohawk instructor pilot.
All eight had risen to their feet when he entered his outer office.
“As you were, gentlemen, good afternoon,” the chief of staff said. “I will not entertain questions, primarily because I don’t have any answers. But I will tell you this, and with whatever emphasis is required to make you understand, it’s not bovine excreta. You will not discuss what transpires here this afternoon between yourselves, or with your superiors—if they have questions, refer them to me—not your subordinates, your girlfriends, and especially not your wives. Are we all clear on that?”
There was a chorus of “Yes, sir.”
“Okay, Les,” the chief of staff said. “You first.”
“Yes, sir,” the major of the Black Caucus crack said. He stood up.
“When Major Levitt leaves, he will inform you who is next,” the chief said.
The chief of staff walked into his office, and Major Levitt walked into the conference room, closing the door behind him.
Captain Smythe decided entry into the conference room would be by rank, which would make him either third or fourth to enter. This logical presumption proved to be in error. He was the last man to enter the conference room.
He entered the conference room and found the two Green Berets he had seen at Cairns at one end of the conference table. There was a stack of what certainly were service records on the table. They were in shirtsleeves. There was a coffee thermos on the table. The lieutenant was puffing on a cigar.
Captain Smythe saluted.
“Sir, Captain Smythe, Darrell J., reporting as ordered, sir.”
The major returned the salute with a casual wave in the general direction of his forehead.
“Sit,” he ordered, indicating a chair at the other end of the table.
Captain Smythe sat down.
“If I didn’t know better, bro,” Father said. “I’d suspect you were following us around.”
Captain Smythe neither smiled or replied.
“The J is for Jeremiah, right?” Father asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Was your mother carried away with seventh-century Hebrew prophets, or did she pick that out of a phone book?”
The lieutenant chuckled.
“Sir,” Captain Smythe said, “may I ask what this is all about?”
"What this is all about, Darrell, is that I ask the questions, and you answer them.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What I’m really curious to know about you, Jeremiah, is how come a nice black fellow like you from Swarthmore passed up the chance to go, not to Joseph Stalin U, right there in Swarthmore, or the U of P, or even Drexel, but all the way to Norwich in frozen Vermont?”
“I’m not sure I understand the question, sir.”
“Think about it. Have a shot at it. Isn’t the Norwich motto ‘I will try’?” He turned to Jack. “For your general fund of knowledge, Lieutenant, Swarthmore College was founded in 1833 by an abolitionist named James Mott.”
“Thank you, sir,” Jack replied in E
nglish. Then he switched to Swahili. “Why are you trying to piss this guy off?”
In Swahili, Father replied: “It’s very useful, sometimes, Jack, to know how well an officer can control his temper.” He switched back to English: “You’ve got something against abolitionists, Jeremiah?”
Captain Smythe, obviously, had never previously heard Swahili spoken.
“Sir,” Captain Smythe said icily. “I went to Norwich in anticipation of a military career.”
“You ever run into a guy named Gordon Sullivan up there?”
“He was ’59, sir. I’m ’60.”
“Is there anything to the story that he and another Norwich lunatic named Bob Johnson took a mule into the commandant’s office and left it there overnight? Causing, the story goes, certain equine excreta damage to the commandant’s carpet?”
“I’ve heard that story, sir.”
“How about John Oliver? You ever run into that Norwich maniac? ”
“No shit?” Jack asked in Swahili.
“You ain’t seen nothing yet,” Father replied in Swahili.
“Sir, Captain Oliver and I are classmates,” Captain Smythe said.
“And you admit it?”
“Sir,” Captain Smythe said, on the edge of losing his temper, “Captain Oliver is a fine, highly decorated officer I am proud to claim as a friend.”
“Is that so?” Father asked. “Well, they say appearances are deceiving, don’t they?” He turned to Jack. “Get Doubting Thomas on the phone, please, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir,” Jack said, and went to a credenza against the wall and got on the telephone.
“Tell me, Jeremiah,” Father said, “what kind of an L-19 pilot are you?”
“Sir, I’m rated in the L-19, of course, but I’m also rated as an IP in the Mohawk.”
“You’re too good to fly L-19s, is that what you’re suggesting, Jeremiah?”
“Sir, an L-19 is really a rather basic aircraft. The Mohawk is really at the other end of the scale, in terms of sophistication and required pilot skill.”
“And as a Mohawk pilot you feel you have risen above the L-19, is that what you’re saying, Jeremiah?”
“Sir, I didn’t say that at all,” Smythe protested.
“Then what did you say?” Father asked.
“Sir, you asked me what kind of an L-19 pilot I am—”
“And I never got an answer, did I? Let me rephrase. Are you a competent L-19 pilot? Confine your response to “Yes, sir” or “No, sir.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That wasn’t really that hard, was it, Jeremiah?”
On the telephone, in Swahili, Jack said, “Jack Portet, Doubting. Hold one.”
In Swahili, Father said, “Get the village drunk on the phone, Jack.”
In Swahili, Jack said, “Put Captain Oliver on the phone, please.”
Captain Smythe picked up on the “Captain Oliver,” and his eyes widened.
“Jack?” Johnny Oliver said a moment later. “I owe you a big one.”
“Forget it,” Jack said, then changed his mind. “Yeah, come to think of it, Captain, you do. Hold one.”
He held up the phone to Father Lunsford, who held up his hand, indicating he didn’t want it right then.
“Jeremiah, if I were to ask Captain Oliver what kind of an officer you are, what kind of an L-19 pilot you are, what do you think he would say?”
“Sir, I have no idea,” Captain Smythe said.
“I do. I already asked him,” Lunsford said.
He took the phone from Jack.
“Say hello to Jeremiah, Johnny. Welcome him to the team.”
He signaled for Smythe to go to the telephone.
The conversation took no more than twenty seconds. Father signaled that he wanted the telephone.
“Just for the record, Johnny, you’re on my shitlist, and you really owe Jack,” Father said. “We’ll be back tomorrow or the day after, depending on how we do recruiting mechanics and radio people. Spend the time thinking about how you can square yourself with us.”
He hung up and turned to Smythe.
“Might one inquire into the nature of your conversation with Captain Oliver, Jeremiah?”
“Sir, Captain Oliver said, ‘Welcome to the team, and the first rule is don’t ask questions.’ ”
“I thought it might be something like that,” Father said.
“Sir, I have no idea what’s going on.”
“Did that sound like a question to you, Jack?” Father said.
“That was more of a statement than a question,” Jack said.
“In that case, I think I should try to satisfy Jeremiah’s natural curiosity, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“From here on, this is Top Secret/Earnest,” Lunsford said.
“Sir, I have a Top Secret clearance, but . . . what did you say?”
“As of this moment, Captain Smythe,” Lunsford said, “you are authorized access to material classified as Top Secret/Earnest.”
“Yes, sir.”
“In the very near future, Smythe,” Lunsford said, “you will find yourself flying over the lands of our ancestors in an L-19, and a little later, in a Beaver and an H-13—Johnny said you went to chopper school together—assisting our merry little band of covert warriors in fucking up Che Guevara’s intentions of taking over the Congo, with the important caveat that we are absolutely forbidden to waste the sonofabitch. Any other questions? ”
Father was now smiling.
“I hardly know where to begin, sir,” Smythe said. “But there is something I think I should tell you.”
“Which is?”
“Sir, I am on Department of the Army general orders to assume command of a Mohawk platoon.”
“You were. What happened was that as soon as Johnny remembered you were here, we started the process of having your orders changed. It may already be done.”
“As a statement,” Smythe said. “The word ‘volunteer’ doesn’t enter any of this.”
Father shook his head, no.
“That bother you?”
Smythe thought that over for ten seconds.
“No, sir. I’m a soldier. I go where I’m sent and do my best to do what I’m told.”
“That’s what Johnny said you’d say,” Lunsford said. “The reason we kept you ’til last—since you didn’t ask—is because we knew we wanted you. And because I think you and I should now go someplace for a quiet beer, while I fill you in. Jack and his bride have other plans for the evening, right?”
“Did you hear what she said on the plane?” Jack asked.
“About going to see the Goddamned Widow?”
Jack nodded.
“Good luck,” Father said.
[ FIVE ]
Quarters #1
U.S. Army Aviation Center and Fort Rucker, Alabama
1905 23 January 1965
Surprising Jack not at all, his mother- and-father-in-law, acting separately and in concert, insisted that he and Marjorie stay with them, rather than taking a room at the Daleville Inn.
“Don’t be silly,” Barbara Bellmon said. “Marjorie’s old bed is big enough for the two of you.”
“And you’re really going to have to start thinking about money,” General Bellmon said. “I don’t even like to think how much it cost you to fly Marjorie down here for just two days.”
Supper was broiled chicken halves and baked potatoes, both prepared on a charcoal grill by General Bellmon, who put on a white apron with a red cartoon of a man in a chef’s hat printed on it.
Marjorie and her mother worked in the kitchen, sipping on white wine; General Bellmon and Jack worked on a bottle of Merlot on the patio while they watched the chicken cook.
Bellmon asked what had happened in the Congo, and Jack decided to tell him. Bellmon not only had a Top Secret/Earnest clearance, but was also a major general and his father-in-law.
He got as far in the story as flying to Stanleyville when Second Lieutenant Robert F. Be
llmon, Jr., appeared, uninvited. The story was necessarily interrupted there, as Bobby was not possessed of a Top Secret/Earnest clearance.
“I called Johnny Oliver to ask if he’s heard anything about my application,” Bobby announced. “He told me you were here.”
“And?” General Bellmon asked.
“So I came over,” Bobby said. “You should have called me, Jack.”
“I meant about your application,” General Bellmon said.
“He said he hadn’t heard anything,” Bobby said. “Jack, could you ask?”
“Bobby, I am a very unimportant lieutenant in Bragg,” Jack said.
“Like hell,” Bobby said. “God, it’s all over the post that you and Major Lunsford are here recruiting people for some hush-hush operation.”
“Where did you hear that?” General Bellmon asked, rather sharply.
“From a guy in my Mohawk class,” Bobby said. “Tony Stevens. Black guy. Lieutenant. He said he and Captain Smythe, one of the IPs, and every other black aviator he knew were ordered to report to the chief of staff’s office at 1300.”
“And how did Major Lunsford’s name come up?” General Bellmon asked. “And Jack’s?”
Bobby looked uncomfortable.
“Well?” Bellmon asked impatiently.
“Mother said I was to get out of the habit of coming here whenever I wanted and drinking up all your beer,” Bobby said. “So on the way over here, I stopped by Annex One to pick up a six-pack. And there was another black guy at the bar talking, and he said he’d been interviewed this afternoon for a hush-hush assignment by two Special Forces officers, one of them a black major named Lunsford and the other one . . . ‘the guy who married the general’s daughter.’ ”
“Good God!” Bellmon said, adding, “Do you know this officer’s name, Bobby?”
Bobby shook his head, no.
“Presumably your friend Lieutenant Stevens does,” Bellmon said coldly. “You go to him, Bobby, right away, tonight, and you tell him I said that if I ever hear another report of his irresponsibly loose mouth he will find himself counting snowballs on ground duty in Alaska. And tell him to pass the word.”
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