The Colonels, page 24
part #4 of Brotherhood of War Series
“I think you’re trying to tell me something, Porter.”
“Thirty-six thousand odd dollars,” Porter Craig said. “What the hell is ‘weather avoidance radar’?”
“It tells you if there are storm clouds ahead,” Lowell said. “What is known to the cognoscenti as a ‘weather disturbance.’”
“You could, you know, charter a number of airplanes for just what this latest bill represents.”
“We all have our toys, Porter,” Craig Lowell replied. “You have your mistress, and I have mine. Mine has wings.”
“I don’t have a mistress!” Porter Craig protested indignantly, before he realized that his leg was being pulled.
“Pity,” Lowell said, laughing.
“The reason I called, Craig…”
“Was because you hadn’t heard from me, and were worried.”
“Your butler told me you are now stationed in Alabama,” Porter Craig said.
“On that subject, some friends will be in the Georgetown place until the spring.”
“So your butler told me.”
“Is that why you called?” Lowell asked.
“No,” Porter Craig said. “Actually, it’s because…and hear me out before you start arguing with me…”
“All right,” Lowell said, reasonably.
“You’re familiar with Haymann Freres?”
“Haymann Freres?” Lowell asked, as if greatly puzzled.
“For God’s sake,” Porter Craig said, in exasperation. “It’s our French bank. I mean to say, we own it.”
“Oh,” Lowell said, “that Haymann Freres.”
“Yes, that Haymann Freres. And we have on the board a man…”
“The Baron de Pildet?” Lowell interrupted.
There was a pause. Porter Craig was confused.
“You know the name?”
“He’s my roommate’s uncle, actually,” Lowell said.
There was another pause.
“I’ll be damned,” Porter Craig said, finally.
“I normally can’t stand frogs,” Lowell said. “But I thought it would be good for the firm if I was nice to him.”
“Why is it that I don’t believe that?”
“He’s a friend of friends of mine,” Lowell said. “Including the people who will be using the place in Georgetown.”
“It would be a business use of your airplane, which is what IRS would like to hear, if you brought him to New York for a weekend, Craig.”
“I’ll ask him,” Lowell said.
“Is there anything I can do for you, Craig?”
“Pay Aircraft Radio,” Lowell said. “Say hello to your family.”
“Bring him to New York, Craig,” Porter said.
“Good-bye, Porter. Thank you for calling.”
“Good to talk to you,” Porter Craig said. The line went dead.
“Go ahead, Laird,” Lowell said to the microphone mounted on a thin boom in front of his lips.
“In-flight advisory, One Five. Ground transportation will be available at the Board parking area.”
“Roger, Laird,” Lowell said. “Thank you. I should be over the outer marker in a couple of minutes. One Five clear.”
He turned to Roxy MacMillan in the copilot’s seat beside him.
“One of your kids meeting us?” he asked.
“I don’t think so,” Roxy said.
He shrugged his shoulders and tapped a switch on the wheel. George London’s voice and the Vienna Philharmonic returned to the cockpit.
He saw Laird Field before the needles on the radio direction finder reversed.
“Laird, Commander One Five,” he said. “Two miles north at fifteen hundred. I have the field in sight. Permission for a straight-in approach to three eight and landing, please.”
“One Five, you are cleared for a straight-in to three eight. You are number one after the Beaver on final. The winds are negligible from the north. The altimeter is two niner niner niner.”
“I have the Beaver in sight,” Lowell said.
He reached forward and eased back on the throttles. There was the sound of hydraulics as the flaps came out of the wing, and a moment later as the wheels dropped down and locked. The Commander touched down a hundred feet past the end of the runway. The engine changed pitch as he reversed the props.
“Laird, One Five on the ground at ten past the hour,” he said into the microphone. “Taxi instructions to the Board area, please.”
“One Five, take taxiway three north to the Board area.”
“Understand three north,” Lowell said. Now moving slow enough down the runway to apply the brakes, he slowed and then turned off the runway.
“Well, my lovely, we cheated death again,” he said, leering at Roxy.
She shook her head and smiled at him.
The glistening Aero Commander rolled down the taxiway, first past quadruple lines of Cessna L-19s, single-engine observation aircraft also used for primary flight training, then past rows of high-winged DeHavilland L-20 “Beavers,” and then past a half dozen Beechcraft L-23D “Twin Bonanzas.” And then past two Aero Commanders, part of the school fleet. A quarter mile beyond, they came to the Army Aviation Board’s parking area. There were thirty aircraft of all kinds, including two Sikorsky H-19s in the process of being fitted with rocket launchers. And the black H-19 Lowell had “borrowed” from the school fleet, which was in the process of being restored to the condition it had been in before Lowell had “borrowed” it.
Lowell had been unable to convince Bill Roberts that it would be simpler to keep the one they had, rather than do a double conversion.
“The less I hear about the school’s H-19, Lowell, the better. All I want to know about it ever again is your report that it has been restored to them in the condition in which you ‘found’ it.”
Roberts had also made it clear that he wanted no paint scheme on the two H-19s being converted except what was provided for in the regulations. The official test aircraft for the armed helicopter program would not be painted black, would not be labeled “Big Bad Bird,” and would not feature a cartoon of Woody Woodpecker throwing beer bottles.
A couple of enlisted men, ground handlers, came out of Board Operations and showed him where to park. As he turned the plane into line, he saw the Cadillac Eldorado parked behind the Board Operations building.
“Jannier,” he said to Roxy.
“He’s here already?” she asked, surprised.
Not quite forty-eight hours before, they had dropped Captain Jean-Philippe Jannier at Washington National Airport. He had insisted on bringing Lowell’s car from Washington. He was not only a superb driver, he announced, but he welcomed the opportunity the drive would give him to see the country.
Lowell and Roxy MacMillan had then flown on to Fort Bragg. Mac, who had originally called Roxy to tell her that he was being assigned quarters on the post, had called again to announce that “something had happened,” and they would have to buy a house. Then a week later he’d called again to announce he’d found the house they needed, and wanted her to come look at it and sign the papers.
It would kill three birds with one stone, Lowell had announced when he volunteered to fly Roxy to Bragg: He could drop Jannier in Washington to pick up his car, get Roxy to Bragg to see the house, and have a chance to see Paul Hanrahan.
He’d learned from Paul Hanrahan why the on-post quarters originally offered MacMillan had become “unavailable.” Mac was no longer the hero returned to airborne, but another disloyal sonofabitch like Hanrahan. It was Lowell’s judgment that Hanrahan was fighting a battle that could not be won, and he was relieved that he had turned down Hanrahan’s offer to come to Special Forces.
Hanrahan had not repeated the offer, which meant that he thought he was fighting a losing battle, too, and didn’t want to drag anyone else down with him.
Captain Jean-Philippe Jannier walked up to the Aero Commander as Lowell checked the tie-down ropes. He was wearing what must be, Lowell thought, a genuine Andalusian shepherd’s jacket, the furry side out. His shirt was open most of the way to his navel, and he had a silk scarf knotted around his neck. He was wearing baggy corduroy trousers and what looked like canvas shoes. He held a long, black cigar in his hand. He was, Lowell thought, a handsome, elegant sonofabitch.
Jannier took Roxy’s outstretched hand, bent over it, and kissed it.
“And did he behave, Roxy, when he had you alone in the airplane?”
“How did you get back so quick?” Roxy asked, avoiding the question.
“Très rapidement,” Jannier said. “I have to have that car, or one exactly like it, perhaps in yellow.”
“You’re lucky you didn’t go to jail,” Lowell said, chuckling.
“There was an incident in Virginia,” Jannier said. “Almost on the Tennessee border…Did I say that right, ‘Tennessee’?”
“You got pinched,” Roxy announced.
“Pinched?” Jannier asked. The term was new to him.
“Arrested,” Lowell provided, as they walked to the Eldorado.
“I was detained,” Jannier said. “Until we found an officer who knew what a diplomatic passport meant.”
“You’ve got a diplomatic passport?” Lowell asked.
“Of course,” Jannier said.
“What’s that mean?” Roxy asked.
“It means he can thumb his nose at traffic cops,” Lowell said. “He’s immune to American law.”
“You mean it, don’t you?” she asked. “How does that work?”
“Not the way he’s working it,” Lowell said. “How fast were you going?”
“One hundred and ten,” Jannier said, proudly. “They put up a roadblock on the highway. I felt like John Dillinger.”
“Christ,” Lowell chuckled.
“And he got away with it?” Roxy asked.
“I am here,” Jannier said, simply. “With the apologies of the Virginia State Police.”
“That stinks,” Roxy announced.
“The world stinks,” Lowell said. “Haven’t you noticed?”
He got behind the wheel of the Cadillac and started the engine.
“Do they sell these in Alabama?” Jannier asked, as he slid in beside Roxy. “Or are they special order?”
“I’ll sell you this one,” Lowell said.
“Done,” Jannier said, and reached over Roxy to offer his hand.
“He didn’t tell you how much,” Roxy said.
“We are gentlemen,” Jannier said. “He will make me pay what it is worth.”
“As a gentleman,” Lowell said, “there is something I should tell you about these cars.”
“Which is?”
“They are also admired by les maquereaux,” Lowell said. “In fact, you can’t really consider yourself a maquereau in good standing unless you own one.”
Jannier laughed.
“What’s a what you said?” Roxy MacMillan asked.
“In the American patois,” Lowell said, “they are known as a ‘pimp-mobile.’”
Jannier laughed heartily.
“Then I absolutely have to have it,” he said.
“Is what you said the French word for…that?” Roxy asked.
“It’s a perfectly proper word, Roxy,” Lowell said. “It’s where we get the word for ‘mackerel.’”
“The fish?” she asked, in disbelief.
“It’s true,” Lowell said. “The male mackerel provides girl fishes to other boy fishes.”
“I don’t believe that,” she said, firmly.
“It’s true, it’s true,” Jannier said, laughing.
“I’m going to change the subject,” Roxy said. “To something safe.”
“Like what?”
“Like food, and I don’t mean fish. Stop by the A&P in Ozark, Craig, and I’ll get us some steaks.”
“We are invited for steaks,” Jannier said.
“We are?” Roxy asked.
“Chez Parker,” Jannier said. “They left a message at the motel to call, and when I called, Madame Parker insisted that we all come.”
“Amazing what kissing a woman’s hand and calling her ‘Madame’ will get you,” Lowell said.
“She didn’t have to do that,” Roxy said.
“It’ll make Phil happy,” Lowell said. “His job is driving him nuts.”
There was confirmation of that when they got to the Parker apartment at the hospital. Phil Parker had obviously been at the bottle; and Antoinette Parker took Lowell aside and, as a close friend, gave him hell for not asking Phil to fly along with them.
And then Parker’s bitterness came out almost as soon as he’d made them drinks.
“How’s Mac doing?”
“Mac is now ‘Deputy Commandant for Special Projects,’” Lowell said. “How’s that for a title?”
“Maybe that’s what I should do,” Parker said. “Punch somebody off the balcony.”
“Phil!” Toni said, shocked.
“Sorry, Roxy,” Parker said.
“Forget it,” Roxy said. “And anyway, it’s not all sweetness and light over there, is it, Craig?”
“You’re asking me?”
“Since Mac won’t tell me, yeah, I’m asking you.”
“OK,” Lowell said, deciding it would be good for Phil to hear what was really going on at Bragg. “What’s going on is that airborne thinks it should run Special Forces, as sort of super-paratroops, and Hanrahan doesn’t want them to have it. Hanrahan believes Special Forces should be primarily concerned with guerrillas. Or training foreign troops to fight their own wars. Hanrahan’s right, of course, but it’s David versus Goliath, and guess who David is?”
“How does that affect Mac?” Parker asked.
“Mac was given a choice between being the grand old man of airborne, or standing by Hanrahan. Mac being Mac, he put on the green beret.”
“Meaning what?”
“It’s a symbol. The airborne, specifically Lieutenant General Howard, forbade the wearing of that silly hat. Hanrahan read the regulations about his authority as commandant of the school…it’s a Class II activity of DCSOPS…and to remind Howard that he’s not under him, ordered his troops into the berets.”
“What are they really doing over there?” Phil Parker asked.
“Hanrahan’s going to train people—experienced noncoms and officers—to run other people’s forces. Very much like what we did in Greece. We provide the expertise, and native forces provide the manpower. Guerrillas, in one sense, but more than that.”
“What’s the fight with airborne?” Phil Parker asked.
“Airborne sees them as Rangers, super-paratroops, like the guys who climbed the cliffs on the beaches in Normandy.”
“I don’t get the distinction,” Parker confessed.
“Hanrahan explained the difference neatly. Rangers are trained to complete the mission and to disregard casualties. Special Forces are trained to stay alive; they’re too valuable to waste.”
“Sounds interesting,” Parker said. “I wonder how they’re fixed for instructor pilots.”
“It’s not for you, Phil,” Lowell said, quickly adding: “Or me. These are nuts-and-bolts guys. The officers are either infantry or signal corps. I don’t think they even have any armor officers.”
Antoinette decided to change the subject.
“How was the house, Roxy?” she asked. “Do you like it?”
“Not as well as the one here,” Roxy said. “But there’s nothing wrong with it. I just really hate to leave the house here.”
“What are you going to do with your house here?” Jannier said.
“Rent it,” Roxy said. “Which means I have to find a light colonel who doesn’t have to live in quarters on the post.”
“I don’t understand,” Jannier said.
“I’ll have to get three hundred fifty dollars a month for it,” Roxy said. “That’s a lot of money.”
“No,” Jannier said.
Roxy and the others looked at him in surprise.
“Craig,” Jannier asked. “What are we paying for the motel?”
“Right around five,” Lowell said. “A little over five.”
“You’re paying five hundred a month?” Roxy asked, indignantly. “You’re crazy! For a couple of rooms in a motel?”
“Would you rent us your house, Roxy?” Jannier asked.
“I don’t know,” Roxy said, uneasily.
“I know what you’re thinking, Roxy,” Antoinette said, laughing. She knew that Roxy was thinking about the problems that would come with renting her house to two bachelors. “But it isn’t that way. I used to go to the house Phil and Craig had in Lawton, outside of Fort Sill. Believe it or not, it looked like a page from Better Homes & Gardens. There was never anything in the refrigerator but beer and martini onions, of course, but the house was immaculate.”
“We had a maid,” Phil said. “And of course, men are naturally neater than women.”
“I withdraw everything nice I said,” Toni said.
“What would you do for furniture?” Roxy asked.
“We could get furniture,” Lowell said. The idea appealed to him. He didn’t like the motel suite. “It would be better than the motel.”
“And they don’t have children,” Toni said, “to write on the walls with crayons.”
“Fine with me,” Roxy said, making up her mind.
“When can you move out?” Lowell asked.
“Go to hell, Craig,” Roxy said, and then answered the question. “Just as soon as I can get the movers to come. In a couple of days, really.”
“You will leave the light bulbs?” Lowell asked, innocently.
Phil Parker collapsed in laughter.
“What’s so funny?”
“When we moved into the house in Lawton, the lights didn’t go on. So Lowell called the guy who sold him the house and really read him the riot act, and the guy rushed an electrician over. The guy took one look at the fixture and told Craig that you had to have light bulbs in the sockets; otherwise, no lights.”
There was laughter, some of it politely forced, for no one else found it as funny as Parker apparently did, and then a new voice came from the doorway.
“I guess I missed the punch line, huh?” Melody Dutton Greer said.
