The Colonels, page 20
part #4 of Brotherhood of War Series
There was a bank of television sets mounted on the wall in the Situation Room. One of them was carrying NBC, the others were blank. NBC was showing what looked like a New Year’s Day celebration in Havana.
The President turned when he sensed the light from the corridor shining into the darkened room. He saw Felter, nodded, and then returned his attention to the television. Felter saw that most of the places at the conference table were already filled. As he took an empty place at the end of the table, a marine set a legal pad, three pencils, and an ashtray in front of him. A moment later, he added a china mug of coffee.
Felter nodded his thanks, and picked up the coffee.
The NBC news program ended. A commercial for Sanka coffee came on. The screen went blank, and the lights in the room came up.
A discussion followed, lasting forty-five minutes. Felter neither made notes nor opened his mouth.
“Well, then,” the President said, finally, “to sum up, we’re in a holding position. Until this…this victory party, I suppose…winds down, and we can either talk to Castro personally, or at least get an idea of what he’s thinking from Valaquez, there’s nothing we can, or should do.”
Juan Valaquez, the son of a Havana hotel owner, had been educated, like his father, at Georgia Tech. He had joined Fidel Castro early on, in a naive belief that Castro was a patriot whose sole ambition was to liberate Cuba from an oppressive military dictatorship. When it had become obvious to him that Castro’s plans for Cuba had nothing to do with providing a free and democratic government, he had contacted a Georgia Tech classmate who had entered the Foreign Service.
Who told Valaquez he had two choices: to drop out of the Castro rebellion (he was offered political sanctuary in the United States) or to stay where he was and report on Castro’s activities. He had elected to stay with Castro.
Felter raised his hand from the table, its index finger extended. The President saw it.
“Felter?”
The faces at the table turned to Felter.
“Mr. President,” Felter said, “Juan Valaquez was executed by a firing squad at 5:05 this morning, Havana time.”
“Jesus!” somebody said.
“How the hell can you know that?” an army lieutenant general snapped.
Felter didn’t reply.
“Can you expand, Felter?” the President said.
“He was arrested at two this morning,” Felter said. “Shortly after he left Castro in the presidential palace. He was taken to a house on the outskirts of Havana, interrogated for several hours, and then taken to the garden and shot. I don’t know how much he told them, but we have to presume they got what they wanted from him.”
“Dick?” the President looked at the Director of the CIA.
“The last I have on Valaquez is that he was with Castro for dinner,” the Director said. “I don’t know where Felter gets his information.”
If it was an invitation to Felter to expand on his sources, Felter ignored it.
“How do you assess this, Felter?” the President asked.
“Are you asking for my recommendation, Mr. President?”
“Yes,” the President said, somewhat coldly.
“I think we should eliminate Che Guevara,” Felter said, levelly.
“Absolutely not!” the Secretary of State said.
“Are you prepared to do that, Felter?” the President asked. “It’s something you can do, I mean, rather than something you suggest should be done?”
“Yes, sir. At the moment, we have the assets.”
“What would be the advantages to us, Felter?” the President asked.
“Assets?” the President’s Chief of Staff said. “What he means is assassins in place.”
“I believe the decision to eliminate Valaquez was made before they knew for sure he was working for us,” Felter said. “I believe it was made by Che Guevara, not Castro, although of course with Castro’s blessing, for one or more reasons. For one thing, he posed a threat to Guevara’s position in the new regime, as number two to Castro. Guevara took the chance, in other words, that he could reinforce his own position by eliminating Valaquez—providing he could prove to Castro that his suspicions were justified. We have to assume he made his point. Castro is now convinced that the people around him, with the exception of Guevara, are not trustworthy.”
“That’s conjecture, nothing more,” the lieutenant general said.
Felter ignored the comment. He went on.
“If we take Guevara out, it will accomplish several things. For one thing, it will make Castro uneasy, and thus easier to deal with; and it will eliminate Guevara, who is probably the most dangerous member of the inner circle.”
“And when do you think, Major,” the head of the Defense Intelligence Agency asked, icily sarcastic, “that, failing the assassination of Guevara, we may expect a Cuban invasion of Key West?”
“No one expects that, General,” the President said, gently. But it was a reproof.
“It may well be, Mr. President,” Felter went on, “that nothing we can do, including the elimination of Guevara, will keep Russia, or Russian missiles, out of Cuba. I suggest, however, that anything we do to delay that movement is in the national interest.”
“Including murder?” the Secretary of State said.
“How would you characterize the execution of Valaquez?” the President asked, dryly, “if not murder?”
“As the execution of a traitor,” the Secretary of State said. “Which is permitted under international law.”
The President nodded, as if he accepted that interpretation. He looked at Felter.
“I don’t want this man killed, Felter,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” Felter said.
“I would say this,” the President said. “If this matter were brought to a vote, I think there would only be one vote, Colonel Felter’s, to go ahead. He stands alone, in other words.”
Felter glanced at the President. He had just been given a misspoken promotion to colonel.
“He stood alone six months ago, too,” the President said, “when he said there was no doubt in his mind that this Castro was going to overthrow General Batista.”
Then without another word, the President got up and walked out of the Situation Room.
(Four)
127 Rosemary Lane
Ozark, Alabama
1000 Hours,
3 January 1959
For MacMillan, the drive to Bragg was going to be by way of Benning, Gordon, and Jackson. That is to say, he would drive up U.S. 431 to Columbus, Georgia, where Fort Benning, the Infantry Center, sits on the Alabama—Georgia border. From Benning, he would take U.S. 80 across Georgia to Fort Gordon, at Augusta, and then U.S. 1 to Fort Jackson, at Columbia, S.C., and then take U.S. 15 into Bragg, which was outside Fayetteville, N.C.
He slept late, until almost ten, then got up, showered, and got dressed. He put on civilian sports clothes, a dark blue golf shirt, light blue slacks, and an expensive yellow nylon jacket with an embroidered representation of a burning tree on its breast. Three months before, after he’d gone eighteen holes with Craig Lowell at Burning Tree in Washington, he’d seen the jacket in the pro shop. It was stuffed with some kind of miracle material that was supposed to be lighter and more efficient insulation than goose down. He liked the jacket for two reasons; first, because it was a really good jacket, light and warm as hell, and second, because he’d paid for it with the hundred and sixty bucks he’d taken from Lowell, who had needed eleven strokes to get through the last two greens. Mac didn’t often get to take money from Lowell, and it was sweet when he did. The jacket made a pleasant reminder.
After he’d eaten the ham and eggs Roxy made for him, he kissed her perfunctorily, as if he were going no further than Fort Rucker for the day, and went out to the carport. He took a quick look to see that the stainless steel thermos bottle and the road atlas were on the front seat; that the briefcase was on the floor on the passenger side; and that the golf bag was on the floor in the back.
He didn’t check the briefcase, confident that Roxy had taken care of it. He knew that when he opened it, it would contain a toilet kit, a checkbook, five $100 American Express Company traveler’s checks, a .32 ACP Colt pistol, two clips and a shoulder holster for the pistol, a couple of handkerchiefs, a bottle of aspirin, and a small box of Kleenex. He did not even open the trunk. He had asked Roxy to pack enough for him for two weeks, and there was absolutely no question in his mind that when he opened the trunk at Bragg, there would be suitcases and zipper bags containing enough uniforms and clothing for at least two weeks. He saw that Roxy had even equipped him with a jar of Lowell’s cigars and a box of large wooden kitchen matches to light them with.
Then he got in the Cadillac and backed out of the driveway. When Roxy waved at him, he tapped the horn, and then turned the corner.
There was absolutely no trauma of separation. The kids hadn’t even said much when he told them at supper that they were going to Bragg. They were army brats, and used to his frequent absences and their own frequent moves.
He left Ozark at a quarter to eleven. At almost exactly noon, having driven the ninety-odd miles well above the speed limit, he crossed the bridge between Phenix City, Alabama, and Columbus, Georgia. A large sign gave the route to Fort Benning.
He had been at Benning years before, as a buck sergeant, when the concept of vertical envelopment, that is of landing military forces by parachute from aircraft, had been judged worthy of a test by a provisional company of the 82nd Infantry Division. He had made his first parachute jump at Benning. He and Roxy had lived in a tiny apartment in Phenix City, Alabama.
There was a Hall of Fame at Fort Benning. On its wall hung a photograph of First Lieutenant Rudolph G. MacMillan. In the photograph, President Harry S. Truman was hanging the starred ribbon of the Medal of Honor around his neck. Framed beside it was a copy of the citation that had accompanied the award.
He did not turn toward Fort Benning. Instead, he drove through town toward the intersection of U.S. 80. Then he nosed the Cadillac into the parking lot of a White Castle hamburger stand. He had been looking especially for the small white-tiled building. There they made very thin hamburger patties sort of steamed on the grill with chopped onions, which a waitress would bring to the car. There was no hamburger stand like it near Fort Rucker.
It was those burgers, he told himself, that made him look for the White Castle, rather than going out to the club at Benning for lunch. It had nothing to do with the fact that the way he had things figured, he was about to have his ass thrown out of the army and the less chance of seeing somebody he knew the better.
He looked around impatiently when no waitress appeared, and then saw a sign saying that curb service began at 4:00 P.M. He swore, and started the engine, and then shut it off again. The aroma of the frying onions and beef had penetrated the Cadillac. His mouth was watering.
“Fuck it,” he said, and got out of the car and went inside the building, carrying the stainless steel thermos bottle.
There was a stool in the corner by the door. He sat down and ordered eight White Castles and coffee, black. Then he went to the john and threw out what was left of Roxy’s coffee and rinsed the thermos.
The stack of White Castles was waiting for him when he came out. He methodically made four double-patty burgers out of eight White Castles, by throwing away the top half of the rolls and putting the bottoms together.
A quartet of instructors—two corporals, a staff sergeant, and a sergeant first class—from the Parachute School at Benning came into the White Castle. They paid absolutely no attention to him.
He thought that what he really would like to do was be sergeant major of the jump school. Shit, he’d been around airborne even before it was airborne. Then he realized that was a dumb thing to be thinking. He might be on the shit list, but the worst thing they could do to him was make him retire. That wouldn’t be the end of the goddamned world. He had twenty-one years in, which meant that he would go out with a nice pension. When he left Mauch Chunk, Pennsylvania, at sixteen to join the army, he didn’t have the price of a pot to piss in. So if he went home now, he would go home in a Cadillac, with a lieutenant colonel’s pension, and half ownership of the nicest restaurant in miles. Things could be a lot worse.
Another soldier came in. A young one. He was in civilian clothes, but he was dragging a stuffed duffel bag along after him, his hair was clipped short, and he was tanned red. There was no mistaking that he was a soldier, and Mac guessed that he had probably just finished jump school.
The soldier took a stool down the counter and ordered two White Castles. That’s all, just two of the tiny hamburgers. He was obviously broke. MacMillan debated striking up a conversation with the kid, and then buying him a meal, but decided against it. Dressed the way he was, in civvies, it might be misunderstood.
The kid wolfed down the two White Castles and drank the water that came with them, then visited the john. When he came out, he hoisted the duffel bag onto his shoulder and went out.
Mac ate his four double White Castles, ordered the thermos bottle filled with coffee, black, and paid his bill, got back in the Cadillac, and headed toward U.S. 80.
A hundred yards down the road, he saw the kid, sitting on the duffel bag with his thumb out.
Mac slowed, stopped, backed up, and lowered the passenger side window.
“I’m taking 80 North,” he said, when the kid ran up.
“That’s great!” the kid said.
“Put the bag in the back seat,” Mac said.
The kid got in beside him.
“Watch your feet,” Mac said, pointing to the jar of cigars and the briefcase. “Push that crap to one side.”
“I appreciate the ride,” the kid said.
“You’re welcome,” Mac said. “Where you headed?”
“Fort Bragg,” the kid said.
“You’re lucky, then,” Mac said. “I’m going right through there.”
“God,” the kid said, “takes care of fools and drunks, and I am qualified on both counts.”
Mac chuckled.
“Just finish jump school?” Mac asked.
“Does it show?” the kid said.
“Yeah,” Mac said, “I guess it does.”
“You were in the army?”
“I was in the 82nd during the war,” Mac said. “War II.”
“That’s where I’m headed,” the kid said. “The 82nd Airborne.”
They were on U.S. 80 by then, and out of town.
“There’s coffee in the thermos,” Mac said. “The top makes a cup. You want some?”
“I would really like some coffee,” the kid said.
“Here,” Mac said, handing the thermos to him. “Broke, huh?”
“Does it show?”
“I saw you in the White Castle,” Mac said.
“Stony,” the kid said.
“You should have talked to your first sergeant,” Mac said. “Not all of them are bastards. Maybe yours could have arranged a partial pay.”
“Is that what you were, a first sergeant?” the kid asked.
“I used to be a technical sergeant,” Mac said. “Platoon sergeant of the Pathfinder Platoon of the 508th P.I.R.”
“No kidding?” the kid said, impressed. Mac was pleased.
“You jump into Normandy on D day?”
“I jumped every place the regiment jumped,” Mac said with quiet pride.
“They showed us the movies of Normandy,” the kid said. “Twice.”
“How come twice?”
“Once in OCS and once in jump school.”
“You were in OCS?”
“Second Lieutenant Ellis, Thomas J., at your service,” the kid said.
“Why the hell are you broke and hitchhiking, Lieutenant?” Mac asked. He wasn’t entirely sure that the kid was telling the truth. He didn’t look old enough to be an officer.
“Because three kings doesn’t beat three nines and a pair of sevens,” Ellis said, simply.
“Jesus!” Mac said, sympathetically. “And you lost your whole month’s pay.”
“The pay didn’t bother me,” the kid said. “Losing the car really hurt.”
“You lost your car, too?”
“Nice little red MG. And my watch. And a very nice ring with a diamond.”
“You were in the wrong game,” Mac said.
“Now you tell me,” Ellis said, and chuckled.
“Were you taken?” Mac asked.
“No,” Ellis said. “I thought the sonofabitch was bluffing. He couldn’t play poker. He just drew the right cards. You know how it is.”
Nice kid. No bitching about losing his shirt.
“What are you going to do until next month?”
“I’m praying that I’ll be able to convince a banker at Bragg that as an officer and a gentleman on jump pay I’m a worthy risk,” Ellis said. “You’ve solved my major problem, getting from Benning to Bragg. And I’m grateful.”
“Are you old enough to smoke cigars, Lieutenant?” Mac asked.
“I’m nineteen,” Ellis said. “Is that old enough?”
“Reach down to that jar and get a couple out,” Mac said.
Ellis opened the wide-mouthed glass jar and took two long, thick, black cigars from it.
They were H. Uppmann “Churchills.” Roxy had told Mac, years ago, that they cost two bucks apiece. Every year since 1947, the postman had delivered a carton from Alfred Dunhill in New York City. The cartons contained four wide-mouthed jars, each jar containing twenty H. Uppmann “Churchill” cigars. There was always a card, always the same message: “Merry Christmas, Craig W. Lowell.” It wasn’t his signature; somebody in the cigar store signed it. And every year, too, there was a package for Roxy, always containing the same thing, a bottle of Chanel No. 5, not the size bottle you saw in stores, a little one containing an ounce, but a big one, about a pint, and the same card, signed by somebody in the perfume store.
The cigar jars were too good to throw away. Roxy kept them and used them for sugar and coffee, and to put things in the refrigerator. The cigars were good, but Mac couldn’t see where they were worth two bucks apiece.
He thought of Lowell now, watching the kid light the cigar. Lowell had always smoked cigars, even when he’d been an eighteen-year-old goddamned PFC and the golf pro at Bad Nauheim. Lowell had been eighteen when he’d put on the gold bars of a second lieutenant. And this kid at least had gone to OCS to earn his. They’d handed Lowell his on a tray, because General Waterford wanted him to play polo.
