The Quintessence of Quick (The Jack Mason Saga)

by Stan Hayes

  I’m sitting in the sole social amenity provided by the US Naval School of Preflight, the Aviation Cadet Recreation and Athletic Club, better known as the ACRAC. After a week of 14-hour days of Indoc’s purgatory, beer, Fritos and pool are pretty damn high living! They keep it open until 11 on weeknights, but it’s pretty well thinned out by 10, most everybody more interested in sleep than in getting sloshed. That’ll have to wait for the weekend, which doesn’t actually start until we’re done with the weekly graduation parade on Saturday morning, when those who’ve prevailed get their little gold bars pinned on.

  Just to keep us interested, each class has its academic/military/physical progress evaluated vis-à-vis that of the other 15 classes over three five-week competition periods, the high-scoring battalion getting a 48-hour pass for the weekend. Each of the periods culminates in a Friday night “smoker” in the Athletic Building, featuring a boxing card of three-round matches (one-minute rounds), fought by volunteers from our ranks. As you can imagine, I’ll be one of them there intrepid volunteers, because ALL the fighters get a 48-hour pass, whether they’re from the winning battalion or not. Easy pickins? We’ll see, but with normal liberty expiring at midnight, a 48’s a 48, and nobody can do that much damage in three minutes, thanks to the headgear and big gloves.

  I imagine you’ll be right busy with the infantry bit, so I won’t be that surprised if I don’t hear from you until it’s over. Can’t wait to hear what it’s like, though, so drop me a line when you can. I’ve got the winner of this hot game of nine-ball that I’ve been tracking out of the corner of my eye, so I’ll close for the moment and freshen up this can of suds. So saying, I remain,

  Jack (a.k.a. “Mr. Bright Boy” by Sergeant Velasco, Senior DI, an insightful judge of men)

  The Flying Tiger II swung gently on one of the outer moorings of the Fontainebleau Hotel’s anchorage. Bill Pawley was alone on the boat, having sent his captain and three-man crew ashore with instructions to return in two hours. Sitting in the cockpit with a tall scotch and soda, he scanned a slowly-moving field of view of better than 180 degrees. Similarly, his thoughts swung over a crazy-quilt of considerations, most of them directly related to just how quickly the bandit Castro might be eliminated.

  One important factor in his own still-embryonic plan for doing so was the infiltration of a string of weapons specialists, saboteurs and assassins onto the island. Out of the various options- parachute, speedboat and amphibious aircraft- he found himself more convinced by the day that the latter was by far the best choice. Relatively fast and quiet, superior payload and, operated in dusk or dawn hours in the right spots, an amphibian like the Albatross stood a pretty good chance of getting in and out without being spotted. He’d already come to this conclusion before his chance meeting with the FlxAir people, who had recently proven their mettle as aviators during the test mission to Williams Island. Wessel’s control of the Albatross was superior in all respects, and besides his attractive copilot, he has a backup crew member whose qualifications are, if anything, better than his own, at least in terms of hours in the aircraft. Something about Wessel, though, was uncannily reassuring; although he’d volunteered no information, there was no question in Pawley’s mind that this guy had seen his share of combat. He’d seen that special look in the eye of combat pilots all over the world.

  Pawley, however, wasn’t about to take on a country the size of Pennsylvania with a single aircraft and a handful of people. Tactics, anyway weren’t his strong point. I’m a planner, expediter, salesman and, God help me, a politician, he thought. I need to get on board a big enough effort to remove that bearded bastard quickly, and contribute where best I can. Which is why I’m sitting here, waiting on the guy whom I hope can shed some light on what Dick Nixon and the Company are going to do.

  He’d drained his glass and was on his feet for a refill when he heard the staccato bark of a muffled, but still muscular, engine somewhere off his starboard bow. Peering through one of the salon’s windows he saw a speedboat approaching, still a couple of miles away and throwing a good-sized wake. Putting his glass down, he stepped on to the foredeck for a better look. The boat held speed until it was abeam the harbor entrance buoys, then throttled down to observe the harbor’s mandated no-wake crawl. Pawley grinned; it was his man. Stepping down the boarding ladder quickly to catch the bow painter, he held the little boat’s prow snug against the ladder while the tall, bespectacled passenger, small bag in hand, clambered aboard. The small boat’s coxswain, having already put the boat in reverse, reached out to catch the painter, changed gear once again and pulled quickly away.

  “Welcome aboard, young Richard; you hopped quite a taxi,” Pawley said, reaching up slightly to pat him on the shoulder.

  “That’s the first of several that the station’ll be getting over the next month or two. Quick little rascals,” Richard Bissell said with his characteristic half-smile. “Got a drink for an old landlubber?”

  Making themselves comfortable in the cockpit to wait for the crew’s return, the two old warhorses regarded each other with quiet expectation. “Sorry those Castro bastards evicted you, Bill; obviously, the boss wants to turn that around ASAP.”

  “That’s the only reason we’re sitting here, Dick. Always a pleasure to see you, but I know you’ve been a damn busy man of late. The longer those bastards have to get entrenched, the harder it’s going to be to knock ’em loose.”

  “Well, we made it happen with PBSUCCESS. You played a pivotal role, then, Bill; we’ll need your kind of help, only more of it, if we have to get rid of Castro the same way,” Bissell laughed. “Those 6 P-47’s made the difference, even though we lost a couple. The regulars would have never surrendered if those birds hadn’t chewed up a large part of Guatemala City.”

  “I get the impression that Nixon’s ready to do whatever it takes. Maybe it won’t come to that, if we can sneak a few good men ashore and pick Castro off. Allen gave me the impression that you guys wanted to try that first.”

  “Well, there are a few balls in the air, and that’s one of them. So far, Castro’s security’s been so tight that setting up a sniper team’s a virtual suicide mission. We’re looking at some other- chemical- solutions, but no final decision’s been made as to what’ll be done first. But it’ll happen soon; you’re right when you said that the boss’s ready to do whatever it takes. He needs a major win before he announces for President, and that’s virtually around the corner.” Bissell paused, letting that notion sink in. “But I gather you wanted to talk about something else in that vein.”

  The sound of the dinghy’s outboard alerted them to the crew’s approach. Pawley leaned forward, resting his forearms on his legs. “We’ll be headed for home in a few minutes. When your office told me you’d be down here, I thought I’d see what you might have to say about my starting to put the beginnings of a team in place. Call it a standby group, or whatever you like. What it boils down to is that I’ve come across a guy with a nice low-time Grumman Albatross, and who knows how to fly it. He proved that to me last week on a quick trip down to Andros.”

  “Well! Never let it be said that Bill Pawley ever let the grass grow under his feet. How did that meeting come about?”

  Leaning closer and speaking louder to be heard over the engines’ being fired up, Pawley said, “Pure chance. Started out with a call from, of all people, Clare Luce.”

  Now it was Bissell’s turn to lean forward. “You don’t say. Well, I’d say that’s a pretty reliable source. Has she broadened her tastes to include pilots? I had the impression that she preferred flag officers.”

  Pawley’s captain stuck his head through the passageway. “Standing by to get under way, sir.”

  “OK, Bob. How about calling Hannah and tell her we’d like dinner at seven.” He looked at Bissell. “That OK with you?” Bissell nodded. Resuming the conversation, he said, “Oh, she’s farther off the reservation than that. Seems to be on a youth kick. Kid who’s about to go in the Navy flight program. Already a
rated pilot. They met in New York; the kid told her about this air taxi business down here that he’s a partner in, and, Bob’s your uncle, she calls me up, wangles an invitation to come visit. When she tells me the whole story, it seemed like a good occasion for a day’s cruise. Turns out they’re a great bunch. And you should see the girl.”

  “Girl? What girl?”

  “The girl who’s the third partner in this thing; rated pilot, barely out of her twenties, and a knockout.”

  “Now I suppose you’ll tell me,” Bissell said, “that she’s the kid’s girlfriend.”

  Pawley laughed, a short bark. “No, looks like she belongs to Wessel, the older pilot. If anyone. They’ve also hired another high-time pilot, with most of those hours in Albatrosses.”

  Bissell looked up for a moment, professorially-detached, watching the Fontainebleau recede into the distance as the yacht picked up speed. “I’ll have someone look into it,” he said. “If you haven’t heard from me by this time next week, have- what do they call themselves?”

  “FlxAir.”

  “Have them call this number. It’s our new proprietary, the Double-Chek Corporation. They’ll be expecting the call.”

  16 October 1959

  Dear Lt. Dogface-

  Have you learned to kill with your bare hands yet? How about your bare feet? This will be my last letter coming from the luxurious confines of the ACRAC, as tomorrow some 50 of my classmates and I graduate from Preflight as newly-minted Ensigns, USNR. Now I know how you must’ve felt when you were commissioned; it’s sort of like playing Monopoly, but one of the cards that you can draw from the Chance deck is “Go directly to the Officers’ Club.”

  Not that there was much of a chance involved; it’d be well-nigh impossible to wash out at this stage. I make no predictions about the flying part, however, at Gene Debs’ instruction. He’s told me on more than one occasion about previously-experienced pilots who couldn’t hack some part of flight training, be it instruments, formation, carrier qualification or transition to jets. The good news is that from now on if I wash out, I’ll get duty someplace where they send good little Ensigns without wings. Not wishing either of us the bad luck of not finishing our respective programs, but wouldn’t it be funny if we ended up opposing each other on the old gridiron again, Ft. Whoosis vs. NAS Whatsis?

  I’ve saved the best for last. I know you told me that if I ever took a notion to screw Eleanor Roosevelt that you didn’t want to hear about it. OK, how about the next best/worst thing? I’ll spare you the details until our next Bloody Mary session, so let me just tease you with this little tidbit. Mom’s down here for tomorrow’s commissioning rite, but she has a traveling companion: who, you say? Why, the Honorable Clare Booth Luce, sometime Ambassador to Italy and former Congressperson from Connecticut, who served on the Military Affairs Committee during her distinguished tenure. Guess who’s the distinguished guest speaker AT MY FUCKING GRADU-ATION! And since I’m one of the battalion commanders (don’t ask), I’ll be one of the four guys who gets to brandish my sword (go ahead, ask) at her when she inspects the troops! Since we get a week’s leave between preflight and primary, they (Clare) rented a house on Pensacola Beach for the week.

  Can’t wait to see if Mom’s put two and two together yet about Clare and me; hope she hasn’t/doesn’t, and that our little dalliance will, you should excuse the expression, peter out without her ever knowing. But, knowing Mom as I do, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s already figured it out and is watching us both with suppressed amusement. Besides, who can get hurt? She’s past menopause (but a juicy little thing, anyway), and her hubby’s carrying on hot & heavy with the granddaughter of Lord Beaverbrook, his British opposite number in the journalistic world. Mom could just as easily be bemused as horrified. I hope. One of these days, if things keep going this way, I’m writing one hell of an autobiography!

  Keep knocking ’em dead out there in Rangerland, buddy. We’ve got to start planning how to get together, and soon. Hell, Christmas’ll be here before we know it!

  Straightenin’ up and flyin’ right,

  Yet Another Boot-Ass Ensign

  21 WHEN IN CUBAN WATERS

  19 November 1959

  Dear Ensign Fokker-of-Old-Babes,

  Welcome to the officer caste! That bit about killing with my hands and/or feet was hilarious, but as a graduate (effective tomorrow) of this course, I would sure as hell hope I don’t have to do it for a week or two, until the swelling goes down. When I see you, I’ll try to give you some sort of idea of what it was like to go through the school, but I’ll have to say “excuse me” in advance, because any description that I could summon up will be a pale shadow of what the past 75 days were like to experience firsthand. It wasn’t war, certainly, but for me, someone who hasn’t been there- yet- it was a fucking first class imitation.

  Mom and Dad are here for the ceremony tomorrow at Victory Pond (Dad will pin my Ranger tab on my shoulder). I get a couple weeks leave between now and reporting in to 7th Special Forces at Ft. Bragg. I’ll be heading back to Bisque with them tomorrow. Any chance of you taking a weekend, or more, to get drunk with a Ranger?

  Bloody but unbowed,

  Lt. (Ranger) Dogface

  PS One minor insight into the curriculum: “Modern Army Combatives Program (MACP) training, conducted for several hours nightly in the sawdust pits”

  PPS Happy Birthday, 18 days late!

  “It’s just as well we’re down here at this time of day,” Pawley’s voice, even though he stood between the Albatross’s seats, came through the headset/mike that was plugged into the radioman’s station. “They get easterly winds down here in the afternoon, and that means 10’s the duty runway. 28’s a breeze by comparison. Let’s ask the tower for a few touch-and-go’s, so you’re both familiar with the approach, which is a bugger even in good weather like this.”

  Responding with a quick nod, Pete keyed his microphone. “Guantánamo approach control, Grumman Albatross N6027Z, 2 miles out, request permission multiple touch-and-go’s prior to final landing.”

  “Roger, 27 Zulu, no current traffic, you are cleared to commence touch-and-go’s on runway 10. Will advise incoming traffic; take appropriate interval on traffic entering the pattern.”

  “27 Wilco.” Turning slightly in his seat, Pete said to both Pawley and Linda, “looks tight, even on the approach plate. In rough weather at night, I’d be taking the alternate. 30 flaps.”

  Correcting for the aircraft’s nose-up response to its deployed flaps, Pete entered runway 10’s downwind leg. “Not much distance between us and Cuban airspace by the time we turn base; I’ll be calling gear down on final, and it’ll be a short final.”

  A Navy motor whaleboat, in this case the Captain’s gig, awaited them at the dock. “This bringing back a lot of memories, Pete?” Pawley asked him.

  “Doesn’t look like it’s changed that much; lots more cars, though,” Pete said, stepping into the boat and turning to extend his hand to Linda. Once she was in, he looked around the harbor, adding, “... and a few more ships, too. What cruiser is that?” He asked the gig’s coxswain.

  “That’s the Providence, sir; just finishing up her shakedown after being converted to a guided missile cruiser she’s CLG-6 now.”

  “Boy,” Linda said as they pulled away from the dock, “This isn’t what I had in mind when I thought about Cuba. Not your lush tropical getaway, is it?”

  “Those mountains over there get all the rain, honey,” Pawley said, waving a hand carelessly toward the northwest. “All that’s left for the Navy’s sand and rocks.” As the boat picked up speed to its mandated maximum of 10 knots, he waved toward the right, saying, “... and there’s beautiful downtown Guantánamo,” indicating a waterfront that melted artifacts from near the time of the station’s opening until the present day: a mini boomtown from days gone by, grafted to a contemporary waterfront with its attendant hardware, from massive cranes to low-slung dredges.

  “And over there,” Pawley indicated
with a nod to port, “is the fence line; us versus them. If you look sharp, you can see the towers built at intervals along the fence. Ours are black; theirs, appropriately enough, are red.”

  Linda and Pete amused themselves with the various sights of the harbor until a starboard turn put a striking white house dead ahead, sitting high on a promontory that jutted into the bay. “Here we are,” Pawley said, “Deer Point.”

  Another sailor stepped onto the boat as the coxswain eased it against the t-shaped dock, grabbing the bow painter and hopping back ashore. “Welcome to Flag Landing, folks,” he said. “Your party just arrived.”

  As they made their way along the dock, Pawley took an elbow of both his fellow fliers, saying, “I don’t mean to be overly dramatic by not telling you who we’re seeing today, but the meeting is in fact classified. It’s covered in the agreement that you signed with Double-Chek. And I’m happy to tell you that you’re both recipients of Top Secret clearances, or we wouldn’t be having this meeting at all. The Station’s commanding officer was generous enough to lend us his residence for awhile.”

  By the time they’d climbed the dozen steps to the entrance of the residence’s glassed-in veranda, Richard Bissell had opened the door. Extending his hand to Linda, he said, “Welcome aboard, Ms. Green.” Drawing her into the room, he said, “This is Mr. Allen Dulles; Mr. Dulles, Ms. Green and Mr. Wessel.”

  Dulles had risen from the woven-cane chair in which he’d been sitting as the trio walked through the door. He was tall, Linda observed; not as tall as Bissell, certainly, but he had a good two or 3 inches on Pete. He took the hand that she extended in both of his; the pale blue eyes didn’t exactly twinkle, but gave her the sense that he wouldn’t have to look far to find something to laugh about. “Ms. Green,” he said, the tone of his voice suggesting that her name would never be forgotten, “I never had the opportunity to meet Amelia Earhart, but on the word of my old friend Bill, you are definitely her most worthy successor.” Freeing one hand to offer it to Pete, he said, “Mr. Wessel, besides being an accomplished aviator, you, sir, are in my opinion the most fortunate of men. Congratulations.”