The Colonels, page 53
part #4 of Brotherhood of War Series
“Couldn’t find Captain Needham?” Jannier asked Lowell.
“He chickened out when he was sober,” Lowell said. “Now he’s drunk again.”
“You want me to go talk to him?” Wojinski asked. There was a good deal of menace in the innocent question.
“It wouldn’t do any good, Ski,” Lowell said.
“So what do we do now?” Franklin asked.
“If I can get this machine started,” Lowell said, “I’m going to drive it into the water, see if I can find out how to make the wheels fold up, and then I’ll shoot some landings. Then you can decide if you still want to go along.”
“No,” Franklin said.
“I understand, Bill,” Lowell said. “You want to pick up the Commander at Palm Beach? Take Ski to Bragg and then wait for me at Rucker.”
“I meant no touch and go’s,” Franklin said. “Since your experience with a seaplane is nil, the more landings and takeoffs you make, the greater the chance that you’ll dump it.”
“You mean just get in it, fire it up, and go?” Lowell replied.
“We’ve been listening to the radio,” Wojinski said. “The fucking Cubans have announced that the invasion’s failed.”
“Then there’s really no purpose in going, is there?” Lowell said.
“Why don’t we just stop the bullshit, get in the fucking airplane, and go?” Wojinski said, flatly.
When Lowell looked at him, Wojinski crossed himself, folded his hands before him in an attitude of prayer, and raised his eyes toward heaven.
By that time, Franklin was already tugging at the fuselage door to open it.
Lowell put out his hand to Jannier.
“Merci, mon vieux,” he said. “Thank you for coming. You’ll be able to get back into the States all right?”
“I am going back to the States in that airplane,” Jannier said, pointing to the Catalina.
“The deal was that all you were going to do was bring along the diplomatic passport, to be used if needed.”
Jannier didn’t reply.
“That’s what you told Melody,” Lowell said.
“But she knew I was lying,” Jannier said, and crawled into the Catalina.
(Five)
An hour after British Jamaican Airways One Seventeen (which is how Lowell had decided to identify himself to the air traffic control people) departed Montego Bay for Grand Cayman Island, Georgetown tower came on the air and announced that due to “conditions,” Georgetown Field was closing down. Jamaican Airways One Seventeen was directed to return to Montego Bay.
“British Jamaican diverting to Montego Bay at this time,” Lowell said.
He pushed the stick forward.
“What are you doing?” Franklin asked, in alarm.
“I’m going down on the deck,” Lowell said. “I don’t believe that bastard for a minute. They know it’s us. There’s no reason Georgetown should be shut down. Jiggs almost certainly turned us in before we were off the ground at Ozark, and they’ve been looking all over for us. That radio call meant they just now found out where we are.”
“Why on the deck?” Franklin asked.
“Maybe they’ve got radar.”
“I’ll bet the Cubans do,” Franklin said.
Lowell didn’t reply.
He had the ADF tuned to Ellis’s nav-aid, which was transmitting. That meant that Ellis was probably operational—unless he had been overrun, and the ADF permitted to operate because that would attract Cubano airplanes to Fidel Castro’s antiaircraft batteries.
An hour later, three U.S. Navy fighters appeared on their wing. Their flight commander got on the horn and ordered them out of the area. Lowell pretended not to hear. When the navy pilot made violent “get out of this area” gestures, Lowell chose to interpret these as friendly waves. He waved back in a very friendly fashion.
When, five minutes later, they approached several tiny islands, the navy fighters turned back. Lowell and Franklin could now see a small fleet of ships. Beyond these was the landmass of Cuba.
He turned right until he was several miles from the Bay of Pigs itself, then crossed the coastline where he could see nothing but a road. He homed in on Ellis’s nav-aid—and circled when the ADF needles reversed. He knew he was there, and he knew the area from maps, but he could see nothing.
He kept circling…until Wojinski leaned over his shoulder and matter-of-factly told him they were taking fire. There had been hits on the left wing.
Lowell looked back and up. He couldn’t see anything.
“I think we’re losing fuel,” Wojinski said, coolly.
Lowell headed for the coastline.
“Do we go in now, or not?” Lowell asked.
“If you could put it down by them ships,” Wojinski said, “I could go ashore and have a look. There’s a life raft in the back. You pull a lever, and it falls out and blows up. Or that’s what it says.”
Lowell got the plane onto the water, which took longer than he expected. When he finally touched down, he touched down hard. Water splashed over the airplane. But he was down.
He taxied closer to the beach and turned at right angles to it, two hundred yards offshore.
“When you get close enough,” Wojinski said. “Stop the sonofabitch, and I’ll pop the raft.”
He went into the cabin.
Lowell suddenly advanced the right engine throttle and pushed on the rudder pedal. The Catalina turned left again, directly toward the beach.
“Jesus H. Christ!” Franklin said.
Fifty yards offshore, Lowell turned at right angles to the beach again.
A dozen or more landing craft appeared to be moving around nearby—apparently without purpose. A flickering caught his eyes. He was being signaled by someone on the beach with a signal lamp. And then there was a man gesturing for him to come in.
“Wounded, I think,” Wojinski said. “They want us to take them.”
“I’ll give them five minutes,” Lowell said. “And then we’ll pick up whoever we can.”
He taxied slowly along the edge of the bay.
Suddenly, the water in front of them erupted in small splashes.
“Shit!” Wojinski said. “Fucking machine gun!”
At that instant Lowell experienced terror. His stomach turned into a small hard ball; bile came to his mouth. He was chilled, and the skin on the back of his skull moved with a life of its own.
They had missed with the first burst. There was no way they would miss with the second.
And then reason returned. They had missed with the first burst only because they had wanted to. They were sending a message: Stop that airplane and pick us up, or nobody goes anywhere.
He looked in the direction of the fire.
There were two men standing at the water’s edge. They had M60 machine guns cradled in their arms. They had belts of .308 ammunition draped around their shoulders. One of them was a very large man with a green beret on his head.
The other one was small and bareheaded. He was bald. Lowell recognized him. His name was Sanford T. Felter.
(Six)
The Presidential Apartments
The White House
Washington, D.C.
1925 Hours, 23 April 1961
“You know the way, Colonel,” the elevator operator said when he opened the door.
“Yes, I do,” Lieutenant Colonel Sanford T. Felter said. He walked down the corridor. He thought if he got this far, the Secret Service agent would simply pass him through. But he didn’t, and before the agent passed him into the presidential apartments Felter was required to show both his Adjutant General’s Office identification card and the Temporary Visitor’s Pass he had been given at the main gate.
The butler recognized him.
“It’s real nice to see you here again, sir,” he said. “And don’t you look spiffy in your uniform with all those medals?”
Then he rapped the door gently with his knuckles, and pushed it open.
“Mr. President,” he announced. “Lieutenant Colonel Felter.”
The President, who was sitting in a rocking chair, smiled, rose half out of the chair, and offered his hand.
“Can I offer you something, Colonel?”
“No, thank you, sir.”
The President nodded.
“It should go without saying that I was happy to hear, as Mark Twain said, that the report of your death was considerably exaggerated.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The President wasted no time. “I would like to ask you a question, Colonel, and then I would like to hear why you think the Cuban operation turned into a disaster. When you’ve done that, I would like the hear the details of your evacuation. In that order, please.”
“Yes, sir.”
“First question, why did you jump into Cuba? Was that appropriate for someone of your position? With your knowledge?”
“I was the person best qualified, Mr. President, to replace Commander Eaglebury. So far as my position is concerned, I had been relieved as Action Officer some time previously. There was a certain element of risk that I would be captured between the time I went in and the time the invasion started. At that point, of course, my knowledge of invasion plans would have been of little use to them. I considered that risk justified.”
“Why?”
“There were only two people who believed that the Russians intend to install offensive missiles in Cuba,” Felter said. “Me and Commander Eaglebury. We were not believed. Commander Eaglebury felt that getting proof that the Russians have already sent in support equipment justified his going to Cuba. When his mission failed, I didn’t have much choice but to try to finish it.”
“Despite orders from the CIA Action Officer to the contrary? How do you justify that, in your mind?”
“I have two answers, Mr. President, both of which might strike you as flippant.”
“Try them,” the President said.
“There is an old army expression, Mr. President, that some people are so dumb they can’t find their own rear end with both hands. That was my assessment of the Action Officer who replaced me. Further, I…”
The President interrupted him by holding up his hand.
“Why were you relieved as Action Officer?” he asked.
“I wasn’t given any explanation, sir,” Felter said. “My relief came shortly after you assumed office.”
“You think your relief was a mistake, is that it?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“You don’t think the CIA should control an operation of this nature?”
“I believe it should, sir. When I was Action Officer, I was not functioning as an army officer.”
“Why did you remain in Nicaragua after you were relieved?”
“I served as liaison officer between the man who replaced me as Action Officer and the Special Warfare School.”
“You were about to give me your second reason for going into Cuba yourself,” the President said.
“I took an oath, Mr. President, when I was commissioned, to defend the country and the Constitution against all enemies, foreign and domestic.”
Their eyes met.
“What would you have done in the event of your capture?” the President asked, after a moment. “Taken a pill?”
“The pills are not always effective, Mr. President,” Felter said.
The President’s eyebrows went up.
“You are apparently as you have been represented to me, Colonel,” he said. “I am now interested in your views concerning the disaster we’ve just gone through.”
For a moment Felter remained silent, as if gathering his thoughts—or maybe deciding if he was going to reply at all.
“Go on, Colonel,” the President said.
“The tactical reason it failed, Mr. President, was the absence of air cover.”
The President thought that over for a moment.
“I made that decision,” he said after a moment.
“I can only presume, Mr. President, that you were not aware of the situation,” Felter said. “Or that there were other considerations. In other words, that you knew the invasion would fail without air cover and you had decided that loss must be accepted.”
“I was advised by the CIA,” the President said, not defensively.
Felter didn’t reply.
“The use of naval aircraft would be an act of war,” the President said.
“Mr. President,” Felter said, “providing arms to one side in a civil war is an act of war.”
“I don’t need a lesson in international law from you, Colonel,” the President said.
“I meant to suggest that the Soviet Union committed the first act of war in Cuba,” Felter said.
“A nuclear war should be averted at all costs, Colonel.”
“The Russians have begun installing missiles, Mr. President,” Felter said. “By now, I presume, you have the proof of that? What I brought out?”
“In other words, Colonel, you’re saying that what happened is my fault?” the President asked, smiling with his lips, but not his eyes. “And that I have the responsibility for whatever happens next?”
“In my opinion, sir, under the restrictions you judged necessary, the operation should not have been launched.”
“I was led to believe there was a chance of success,” the President said, “without U.S. Navy air cover.”
“You were ill advised, Mr. President,” Felter said.
“Is that hindsight, Colonel?” the President asked, coldly.
“I held that opinion before the operation was launched, and so advised my replacement as Action Officer.”
“Apparently your views were not thought to be valid,” the President said.
“I was led to believe you wished to see me regarding the missile installations, sir.”
“You were then ill advised,” the President said. “I didn’t say why I wanted to see you, only that I did.”
“Yes, sir,” Felter said.
“But since that has come up, what do you think should be done about the missiles?”
“I would not presume to offer you an opinion beyond my level of expertise, Mr. President.”
“Your modesty is commendable, Colonel,” the President said, dryly.
Felter was aware that he had infuriated the President of the United States, the Commander in Chief. And he also realized that he didn’t give a damn. He was sorry about only one thing, that he had naively thought he would be permitted to return to the Special Warfare School and complete his twenty years. His military career, obviously, was over. In this fiasco, they would be looking for people to blame. He was a certain target.
Sharon would be pleased that it was over for him.
“Is there something else, Mr. President?” Felter asked.
“The details of your withdrawal, if you please,” the President asked.
“There is not much to tell, Mr. President. We made our way back from Havana to the Green Beret team, and from the transmitter site to the beach. We made our evacuation by air from the beach.”
“That’s not quite the story I get, Colonel,” the President said. “I heard that it was necessary to fight your way to the beach, and that the aircraft waiting for you there was not—how shall I say this?—in the regular service of the United States.”
Felter said nothing.
“I understand,” the President said, “that it was an old Navy PBY Catalina.”
“That is correct, sir.”
“Flown by an army aviator.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who had never before flown one?”
“I believe that is the case, sir.”
“I further understand that the CIA was aware of his plans, and proved incapable of stopping him,” the President said.
“I have no information about that, Mr. President,” Felter said.
“Where the hell did he get a Catalina?”
“It was in previous service as an interisland passenger aircraft in the Bahamas, sir.”
“He stole it?”
“I believe he bought it, sir.”
“Money talks, doesn’t it, Felter?” the President said, and laughed.
“Yes, sir.”
“I have had three communications regarding Major Craig W. Lowell in the past several days. The CIA wants him court-martialed.”
Felter did not reply.
“And I received a letter from the Commander in Chief, Pacific, who asks me to nominate Major Lowell for promotion, inasmuch as the army has not seen fit to do so.”
“Major Lowell is a fine officer, sir,” Felter said.
“So the senior senator from New York has informed me,” the President said. “He also told me the major’s father and my father-in-law played polo together.”
Felter didn’t reply.
“Perhaps, Felter, we left-wing geopolitical virgins aren’t as blind to reality as some people feel,” the President said. “Nor solely concerned with getting reelected from the moment we enter office…to the point where we cave in to every kiss-the-Russian-ass pressure group.”
It had obviously reached the President’s ears that he had been so described by Colonel Felter during a CIA debriefing. Colonel Felter did not reply.
“Do you plan to see Major Lowell anytime soon, Colonel?”
“Major Lowell is out of the country, sir,” Felter said. “I believe he is in Mexico City.”
“On personal business, I hope?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, when you do get in touch with him, perhaps you will be good enough to inform him that bowing to pressure from the Harvard Alumni Association and the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, I have judged it politically inexpedient to court-martial both him and Warrant Officer Franklin—despite the CIA’s strongly expressed views to the contrary.”
“Yes, sir, I will be happy to tell him.”
“I have also decided to nominate Major Lowell to be a lieutenant colonel, Mr. Franklin to be a first lieutenant, and with one eye on our Polish-American voters, Sergeant Wojinski to be a warrant officer.”
“The promotions are merited, sir.”
“One more thing, Felter,” the President said.
