Special Ops

by W. E. B Griffin

  “There’s enough food left over to feed an army,” Liza said. “Unfortunately, our Army is on its way to sunny Florida and points farther south.”

  “Well, at least we won’t have to cook,” Marjorie said.

  “I knew there would be beer in here,” Liza said. “You want one, or would you prefer something stronger?”

  “Beer’s fine,” Marjorie said.

  She found the plastic cups she was looking for, and took them to Allan. When she returned, she saw that Liza had taken two bottles of Heineken from the refrigerator and opened them. Liza handed one to Marjorie and then took a healthy pull from the bottle’s neck.

  “Don’t you want a glass?” Marjorie asked.

  “Why?” Liza asked taking another swig. “When it’s only us camp followers, what’s the point in being dainty and ladylike?”

  “Liza,” Marjorie said, “I’m in no mood for bitter.”

  Liza looked at her and shrugged.

  “Sorry,” she said. “You know what I thought on the way here?”

  “I’m not sure I do,” Marjorie said.

  “I asked myself, did I do the right thing?” Liza said. “And I decided, yeah, Liza, you did the right thing. You love him and he needs you, and Allan needs him, and he loves Allan, and if the price I have to pay for that is putting on a smile while I wave bye-bye, then it’s a hell of a bargain.”

  “Yeah, it is,” Marjorie agreed.

  “One last bitter,” Liza said, “and then I’ll quit.”

  “Okay.”

  “You know one thing the Army has got down pat? The better an officer is, the more they expect of him, the more they drain him.”

  Marjorie didn’t reply.

  “Think about it,” Liza said. “Johnny—who was pretty well drained himself by his year working your father—told me what terrible shape Father Lunsford was in when he came back from the Congo. Did Father get a plush, sit-on-his-ass-and-play-golf assignment? Hell, no. Neither of them did. Your Jack did a John Wayne in Stanleyville, and what happened? ‘Pin a bar on that one, we can squeeze him a lot more.’”

  “What’s your point?”

  “No point, I just felt like saying that.”

  “Okay. And for what it’s worth, I agree. But that was the last bitter, agreed?”

  “Agreed,” Liza said, and walked to Marjorie and tapped her beer bottle against hers. “From now on, all will be sweetness and light.”

  There was the sound of door chimes.

  “Who the hell can that be?” Marjorie asked.

  She walked to the door and opened it, carefully concealing her beer bottle behind the door.

  Two women in their late twenties were standing in the corridor, in heels, good dresses, hats, and white gloves.

  “Hello,” Marjorie said.

  “Mrs. Portet?”

  “That’s pronounced ‘Por-tay,’ but yes.”

  “I’m Helen Davidson, and this is Paula McCarthy,” the other woman said. “Welcome to the ranks of Army wives.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “We’re the co-chairladies of the Welcome New Wives Committee, ” Mrs. Davidson said. “Our honorary chairlady is Doris Lowze.”

  When that obviously rang no bell with Marjorie, Mrs. McCarthy quickly said, “Doris Lowze. General Lowze is assistant division commander of the Eighty-Second Airborne.”

  “What can I do for you, ladies?” Marjorie asked.

  “May we come in?” Mrs. Davidson said. “We were here earlier, and you weren’t in.” This statement came out as an accusation.

  “Certainly,” Marjorie said, and immediately regretted it.

  “Oh, what a nice apartment,” Mrs. McCarthy said. “When Jack and I were married—we were married right after he graduated from the Military Academy—we didn’t have anything nearly as nice as this.”

  Liza came out of the kitchen holding her beer bottle.

  “These ladies are the co-chairladies of the Welcome Wives Committee—”

  “That’s Welcome New Wives Committee,” Mrs. Davidson corrected her.

  “Well, you certainly came to the right place,” Liza said. “Can we offer you a beer?”

  “This is my friend Liza Wood,” Marjorie said.

  “Thank you, but no thank you,” Mrs. McCarthy said. “Actually, I’ve found it best to avoid alcohol until the cocktail hour.”

  “Have you really?” Liza asked.

  “Especially when there is going to be a social event later on, during which alcohol will be served,” Mrs. McCarthy said.

  “Which is why we’re here, actually,” Mrs. Davidson said. “Mrs. Lowze feels that it’s very important to get new wives involved as soon as possible. I really hope you don’t have plans for tonight.”

  “Actually,” Liza said. “Not a goddamn one. How about you, Marjie, baby?”

  “The monthly Welcome New Wives Get To Know One Another cocktail party is tonight, Mrs. Portet—Por-tay,” Mrs. McCarthy said, “and Mrs. Lowze would really be very disappointed. . . .”

  “She really would,” Mrs. Davidson chimed in. “She asked us to make a special effort to find you and make sure you came.”

  “How did you find me?” Marjorie asked.

  “The sergeant at POV registration gave us your address,” Mrs. McCarthy said.

  “Is he supposed to do that?” Marjorie asked.

  “Well, of course, dear,” Mrs. Davidson said. “Otherwise, he wouldn’t have, right?”

  “And whose adorable little boy is that?” Mrs. McCarthy asked.

  “Mine,” Liza said. “Marjorie hasn’t been married long enough to have a rug rat of her own.”

  “Your husband’s not in the Army, I take it?” Mrs. Davidson asked. “Mrs. Wood, is it?”

  “Actually, it’s Mrs. Oliver,” Liza said. “And actually, yes, he’s in the Army.”

  “But not stationed at Fort Bragg?”

  “Actually, yes, he is stationed at Fort Bragg.”

  “I can’t imagine why we don’t have your name on our list,” Mrs. McCarthy said.

  “Actually, either can I,” Liza said. “Does that mean I don’t get to come to the party?”

  “Really, ladies,” Marjorie said. “While we both appreciate the invitation, and please thank . . . Mrs. Lowze, you said? . . . for thinking about us—”

  “What time is this affair, actually?” Liza asked.

  “Seventeen thirty,” Mrs. McCarthy said. “At the Main Officers’ Club, on the main post. Do you know where that is?”

  “And there’s child care, of course,” Mrs. Davidson said. “Right next to the Club.”

  “Oh, the kid can’t come to the party?” Liza asked.

  “Mrs. . . . Oliver, you said?”

  “That’s right.”

  “This is a cocktail party for the ladies. No children.”

  “Perhaps the next time, ladies,” Marjorie said.

  “Nonsense,” Liza said. “We’ll be there with bells on.”

  “The suggested dress is a dressy dress, hat, and gloves,” Mrs. Davidson said.

  “Well, if it’s inconvenient, perhaps it might be best if you did wait until next month’s Get To Know One Another,” Mrs. McCarthy said.

  “I think I can scrounge up a dressy dress, hat, and gloves,” Liza said. “How about you, Marjie, baby?”

  “I don’t know, Liza,” Marjorie said.

  “Nonsense, we’ll find something,” Liza said. “What time did you say the bar opened?”

  “Actually, the procedure is that you first go through the reception line,” Mrs. Davidson said, “and then, if you like, you can have a cocktail.”

  “Or two, or three?” Liza asked.

  “However many as you would like, of course,” Mrs. Davidson said, rather coldly.

  “If you would wait for us in the foyer, we’ll take you through the reception line,” Mrs. McCarthy said.

  “That’s before I can go to the bar, right?”

  “That would be better, Mrs. Oliver,” Mrs. McCarthy
said. “And now, if you’ll excuse us?”

  “You sure you don’t want a little nip for the road?” Liza asked.

  Mrs. McCarthy and Mrs. Davidson declined and left the apartment.

  “How many of those have you had?” Marjorie demanded. “My God, Liza!”

  “This is the first and only,” Liza said. “I haven’t been so happy since the Chaplain said, ‘I pronounce you man and wife.’ ”

  “What?”

  “I hate women like that,” Liza said. “How long did it take her to tell you her husband went to Hudson High and that she was here at the orders of Mrs. General Whatsisname? Twenty seconds?”

  “Closer to ten,” Marjorie said, smiling.

  “And from now until we show up out there, they’ll be worried sick that we’re going to show up smashed and cause a scene that’ll get them on Mrs. General Whatsisname’s shitlist.”

  “I’m not going out there with you if you’re going to pretend to be smashed,” Marjorie said. “Much less really smashed.”

  “You don’t get it, do you? We’re going to go out there and show those two quote ladies unquote how two officers’ ladies, no quotes, behave.”

  From Liza Wood Oliver’s point of view, at least, the monthly Welcome New Wives Get To Know One Another cocktail party could not have gone better.

  Mrs. Davidson and Mrs. McCarthy were waiting for them in the foyer of the club. There were about thirty young women gathered in a herd to be led through the line. Both ladies were visibly surprised to find Marjorie and Liza in nearly identical simple black dresses, each with a single strand of pearls.

  Liza quickly managed to erase the smile of approval on Mrs. McCarthy’s face by asking her if she couldn’t get a quick one in the bar, then come back to go through the reception line.

  “Please just take your place with the others, dear,” Mrs. McCarthy said, and placed Marjorie and Liza at the end of what would be the line passing the senior officers’ wives.

  As the line started to move, Liza grabbed Marjorie’s arm and went to the head of the line.

  Short of wrestling Liza to the floor, there was nothing Mrs. McCarthy could do.

  There were seven senior officers’ wives in the line, lined up according to their husbands’ rank, with the most junior closest to the door.

  This turned out to be Mrs. General Lowze. Mrs. General Hanrahan was third in line.

  Following Mrs. McCarthy’s rather precise directions, Mrs. Oliver and Mrs. Portet gave their names to Mrs. General Lowze and the general’s wife (Mrs. 82nd Division artillery commander) standing beside her.

  Both ladies said they were very happy to make their acquaintance.

  The third general’s lady leaned forward and kissed Mrs. Oliver, and then Mrs. Portet.

  “I didn’t expect to see you two here,” Patricia Hanrahan said. “Good for you.”

  She then turned to the ladies to her right, who were Mrs. 82nd Division Commander, Mrs. Assistant XVIII Airborne Corps Commander, and Mrs. XVIII Airborne Corps Commander herself.

  “I think you all know Marjorie Portet, Bob Bellmon’s daughter, ” she called out, “and I know you all knew his aide Captain Johnny Oliver. This is the brand-new Mrs. Johnny Oliver, Liza.”

  The orderly flow of the reception line was interrupted for a good three minutes, while the two brides received the best wishes of the senior officers’ ladies.

  Neither Mrs. Davidson nor Mrs. McCarthy found occasion to speak with Mrs. Oliver or Mrs. Portet for the remainder of the Get To Know festivities.

  XV

  [ ONE ]

  Office of the Chairman of the Board

  Craig, Powell, Kenyon & Dawes

  101 Wall Street

  New York City, New York

  1525 29 January 1965

  Porter Craig, when he saw the light flashing on one of his telephones, pushed the lever of his intercom.

  “Gladys, that had better be important. I am savoring my very last cup of coffee. I won’t get any on the plane, or in Florida.”

  “Mrs. Porter is just trying to keep you alive, I can’t imagine why. It’s the colonel. What do I tell him?”

  “You’re a lady, Gladys. I can’t use the language I’d like to.”

  He leaned forward and reached for the telephone.

  “Good morning, Craig,” he said. “And how are you going to ruin what so far has been a nearly perfect half-day?”

  “Aside from getting fall-down drunk, what are your plans for the weekend?”

  “Florida. Geoff is flying Ursula and the baby down to Ocean Reef in your airplane. If you could tear yourself away from whatever war you’re fighting this weekend, you’re of course welcome. ”

  “Wonderful!” Craig Lowell said.

  “Why am I suspicious about ‘wonderful’?”

  “And you’re going down when?”

  “I was just about to leave for the airport.”

  “I accept your kind invitation,” Lowell said. “I’ll fly down either tonight or first thing in the morning.”

  “And why does that also make me suspicious?”

  “Because you are insecure,” Lowell said. “I’ve told you that many times before.”

  “What the hell do you want, Craig?”

  “I just had a call from Jean-Philippe Portet,” Lowell said. “Mr. J. Richard Leonard of the Gresham Investment Corporation just called him, and wants to present their proposal to him tomorrow.”

  “What’s that got to do with me?”

  “I think he could use some advice in dealing with them.”

  “He’s at Ocean Reef?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why me?”

  “Hey, Porter, you’re the one who’s been whining about not being able to properly express your gratitude. . . .”

  “I meant, why don’t I bring someone—Hoover Daniel, for example, he’s our legal VP—down with me?”

  “Christ, if you can’t negotiate a contract, Porter, what are you doing sitting at Grandpa’s desk?”

  “I want the very best for Jean-Philippe, Craig, is what I mean.”

  “Jean-Philippe will take your help as a friend,” Lowell said. “I think he might say ‘thanks but no thanks’ about Daniel.”

  “Yeah,” Porter Craig agreed grudgingly. “What do I do? Walk over to his house and say I understand you need some contract advice and here I am, you lucky fellow?”

  “I’m going to call him right back,” Lowell said, “and tell him you and I are going to be down there, and suggest he ask you to sit in on the negotiations. I think he’ll be grateful. If he isn’t, I’ll tell him what a dumb shit he’s being.”

  [ TWO ]

  33 Ocean View Drive

  The Ocean Reef Club

  Key Largo, Florida

  1530 30 January 1965

  “Where’s Jean-Philippe?” Lieutenant Colonel Craig Lowell asked when Porter Craig, in tennis whites, came into his home and found his son and cousin floating in truck tire inner tubes in the pool.

  “Having a shower,” Porter said. “He will be here directly.”

  “So what happened?”

  “That will have to wait until I have my shower, and Jean-Philippe shows up,” Porter said. “Suffice it to say, for the moment, that I am going to stop by the kitchen and make sure there is champagne on ice.”

  “It must have gone well,” Craig Lowell said to Lieutenant Geoff Craig. “Your old man is never that happy unless he has evicted a widow, or otherwise destroyed somebody financially.”

  “We didn’t do too bad,” Porter Craig said. “I’ll tell you that.”

  He walked off in the direction of the kitchen.

  “I would now like to propose a toast,” Porter Craig said, raising his champagne glass fifteen minutes later. He was now wearing a short-sleeved shirt of many colors and pink slacks. Captain Jean-Philippe Portet was wearing a polo shirt and seersucker slacks. Colonel Lowell and Lieutenant Portet were still in their bathing suits.

  “To our very good friend, Jean
-Philippe, the new president of Intercontinental Air Holding, Ltd.,” Porter Craig said, “a Bahamas corporation which is going to make everybody a little money.”

  “The translation of that is that your old man just screwed the CIA,” Lowell said.

  “You remember Granddad always saying that it’s very hard to cheat an honest man?” Porter said.

  “And God knows, he tried often enough,” Lowell said.

  Geoff and Jean-Philippe chuckled.

  “That’s not true, and you know it,” Porter said.

  “Are you just going to stand there and smirk in self-satisfaction, Porter?” Lowell asked. “Or tell us what happened?”

  “He’s entitled to smirk, Craig,” Jean-Philippe said. “He was magnificent!”

  “What the hell happened, for Christ’s sake?” Geoff asked.

  “I want you to hear this, son,” Porter said.

  “Hear what?” Lowell egged him.

  “The greatest advantages one can have in negotiations are for the other party to think (a) that your position is weaker than it actually is and (b) that your knowledge of the situation is less than his and (c) that you are not nearly as smart as he is. We had all three going for us.”

  “Leonard showed up with a lawyer,” Jean-Philippe said. “A fellow named Eichold. He said he was there to help me explain the details of what they were going to propose.”

  “How did you explain Chubby here?” Lowell asked.

  “I told them I was his tennis buddy and down-the-road neighbor, ” Porter said, visibly pleased with himself. “I told them I was in real estate, and had handled a contract or two, and that he asked me to sit in.”

  “Craig,” Helene Craig said, “I’ve asked you again and again not to call him that.”

  “Put him on a diet, Helene,” Lowell replied, then asked: “What did they propose?”

  “What they’ve done is set up a Bahamas corporation,” Porter explained, “Intercontinental Air Holding, Ltd., capitalized at three million, already paid in. They used not quite two million to purchase all the assets of Intercontinental Air, a Delaware Corporation, based at Miami. The assets consist primarily of a Boeing 707 and two Douglas DC-7s, all configured for cargo, and a lease on a hangar with office space. Getting to the bottom line, the people who owned Intercontinental Air walked away with about half a million, since the debt on the aircraft was about 1.5 million. ”