W E B Griffin - BoW 04 - The Colonels Page 8

  "She's all ready to go, Major," Kowalski said.

  "You want to load the ladies aboard while I check the weather and file the flight plan?" Lowell replied.

  "I want to watch that, too," Florence Ward said firmly, and marched after him into the plotting room. Jane Cassidy, after hesitating, walked after them. Both women bent over the map as Lowell showed them how he plotted the flight. Over the years Lowell had flown back and forth between Atlanta and Fort Rucker so often he could do the flight planning from memory; but,. rather enjoying his role of high priest explaining the mysteries to the novices, he went through it step by step for them to watch.

  Once, in bending over to see what Lowell was writing, Jane Cassidy's breast brushed his arm. He looked at her, more in annoyance than anything else, and saw her face flushing.

  It's all right, Madame. I not only understand that that was quite accidental, but I have personally given my word of honor as an officer and a gentleman to the post commander that I will uot go within ten feet. sexually speaking, of a married woman.

  "I'm not going in there," Florence Ward laughed, when Tiiu COLONELS Lowell invited her to sit in the cockpit. "As fat as I am, I'd bump into something important."

  Afer she settled herself in one of the chairs in the cabin, Lowell thought that Jane Cassidy would sit In the one opposite her. She did not. She elected to ride in the copilot's seat and that pleased him, somewhat to his dismay.

  There were airline-type lap belts in the seats in the back; and Lowell saw that Florence had figured out how they worked. But the pilot's and copilot's seats had over-the-shoulder harnesses, which Jane Cassidy had to be shown how to fasten. In the process, his arm brushed against her breast; and his hand, more-or less, had to be placed in her crotch when he snapped it all together. Close enough to be aware of the softness of her thighs.

  Down, boy! Don't you dare forget that you are now Sir Pure of Heart, who took the vow. of not quite of chastity, of nonadzdtery.

  He adjusted his own harness, saw that Kowalski was standing by with a fire extinguisher, yelled "contact" at him and hit the switches. The left of the Aero Commander's engines coughed into life, smoothed out; and in a moment, the right engine too belched blue smoke and caught.

  Lowell put on his earphones and pressed the mike switch.

  "Laird, Commander One Five in the transient area for taxi and takeoff, VFR, direct Atlanta Fulton County."

  Jane Cassidy looked around the cockpit and located a set of headphones on a hook over her head. She had ridden in private planes before though none as plush as this but Tom had always managed to sit beside the pilot. It was now her turn, she thought. She put the earphones on in time for her to hear the tower giving Lowell taxi instructions to the active runway.

  This is exciting, she thought. Going to Atlanta after lnnch and still getting back before supper. And the airplane itself was impressive.

  Her previous experience had been in single-engined airplanes upholstered in plastic. This was something like a miniature airliner; it had a separate cockpit, airline-type seats upholstered in leather, and even a row of stainless steel thermos bottles, one of which Sergeant Kowalski said he had filled with coffee.

  Jane was surprised at the roughness of the ride as they moved along the taxiways. At the end of the runway itself, Major Lowell stopped the airplane and raced the engines, one at a time. To make sure they were working, she supposed.

  "Laird," the earphones said, "Commander One Five on the threshold of the active for takeoff."

  It took her a moment to understand the voice in her earphones was Majdr Lowell's. It had been clipped, metallic sounding, and hadn't sounded like him.

  "Laird," the earphones said, in another voice, "clears Commander One Five as number one to go on three eight. The time is one five past the hour, the barometer is two niner niner niner. The winds are negligible from the north. There is traffic at one mile to your left."

  Lowell's hand reached for the stalks in front of him and pushed on them. Jane understood, as the engines began to roar, that these were the gas pedals.

  Lowell's voice came over her earphones: "One Five rolling." The airplane began to pick up speed at an alarming rate, accompanied by even more alarming rumbling sounds and the roaring of engines. And then, all of a sudden, the rumbling noises stopped. And the ground, which had been rushing past them, dropped away. Jane glanced at Lowell and saw him flip a lever. There was a whining sound, and then a little sign on the dashboard lit up WHEELS UP AND LOCKED.

  They were flying.

  She glanced at Major Lowell. His face bore the same look of concentration it had when she had gone into his office. She wondered what he was doing when he threw switches and adjusted levers, or soon after when he was making little notes on a clipboard that was attached to his leg with what looked like a bicycle clip.

  During the fifty-five minutes before they landed at Fulton County Airport, Jane Cassidy several times caught herself glancing over at the face of Major Craig W. Lowell.

  (Two) Fulton County Airport Atlanta, Georgia 1550 Hours, 31 December 1958

  Brigadier General Robert F. Bellmon and another officer Lowell didn't recognize at first were waiting to be picked up at Martin Aviation, the private aviation operator at Fulton County Airport.

  Bellmon, a medium-size, athletic looking man, was standv Ttm COLONELS ing just outside the door, drinking coffee from a plastic cup. He was wearing a grayish pink trenchcoat over his greens. There was an overseas cap on his head, with the solid gold piping of a general officer. There was a star on the cap, and also on each of the trenchcoat epaulets. The second officer, Lowell saw, as he turned the Aero Commander into line with the ocher transient aircraft, was wearing one of the new brimmed caps, which provided for gold embellishment ("scrambled eggs") on the brim to identify field-grade (major through colonel) officers.

  He got another look at the other officer, and recognized him. He was a portly man of fifty with a pencil-line mustache and eagles on his epaulets. It's that horse's ass of a Pentagon press agent, Colonel Tim F. Brandon. What's that sonofabitch doing here?

  He cut the engines and took off his headset.

  "If you'd like to go to the rest room, Mrs. Cassidy," he said, "or you, Mrs. Ward, this is your chance." And then he added, to Mrs. Cassidy, "I think the general will rank you out of your seat on the way home, Mrs. Cassidy."

  "You'll have to help me out of this," Jane Cassidy said, angry rather than embarrassed that she couldn't unfasten the harness itself.

  He unfastened her harness, carefully avoiding her breasts as he worked, and then waited for her to walk down the aisle to the dior. She didn't know how to open that, either, of course, and their bodies made contact again as he squeezed by her to dose.

  He let the women off the airplane first. Then he followed.

  He saluted Bob Bellmon.

  "Good afternoon, sir," he said. Bellmon and Brandon returned his salute. "I didn't expect to see you here, Craig," General Bellmon said, evenly.

  "I was taking the girls for a little ride," Lowell replied smoothly, "and they got on the horn and told me you were stranded in Atlanta, and asked if I would come and get you.

  "I see," Bellmon said.

  "I didn't expect to see Colonel Brandon here," Lowell said, with a smile. "Not on New Year's Eve."

  "When you're in public communications, Major," Colonel Brandon said, "you learn to go where you're sent on a moment's notice." While the rest of the army sits home by hearth and fireside, right? You famous sonofabitch!

  "The Chief of Information thought it would be a good idea," General Bellmon said dryly, "if Colonel Brandon personally kept an eye on the public relations picture as the armed helicopter story develops."

  "I see," Lowell said.

  "What kind of a plane is that?" Brandon asked.

  "An Aero Commander, Colonel," Bellmon said.

  "I don't quite understand," Brandon said. "It dcesn't have any markings."

  "Army markings, you mean?" Bel
lmon asked.

  "Yes, sir," Brandon said.

  "That's because it's not an army aircraft," Bellmon said. "We are about to be hauled to Fort Rucker through the courtesy of Major Lowell."

  "Oh, you mean you talked the manufacturer out of the airplane, Lowell?" Brandon said, approvingly.

  "Sir?" Lowell asked, not understanding.

  "I checked you out, Major. And you are an operator."

  "All it took to promote that airplane, Colonel," Lowell said, smiling, "was my usual charm, and a check."

  Brandon was astounded.

  "You mean you personally own that airplane?" he blurted.

  "Yes, sir, I personally own it," Lowell said.

  "You surprise me, Colonel," Bellmon said. "I thought everybody knew Major Lowell owns Manhattan Island."

  "You're kidding, of course, General."

  "Just the part from Washington Square to the Battery," Lowell said.

  Bellmon laughed, and Colonel Brandon took the opportunity to get out of deep water by joining in. He knew that his leg was being pulled, but he didn't know how. Bellmon had laughed because a few years ago he had seen the Counterintelligence Corps/ FBI Complete Background Investigation report on then Second Lieutenant Craig W. Lowell:

  "Without access to Internal Revenue Service records, it is impossible to develop an accurate estimate of SUBJECT'S total financial worth.

  Information obtained, however, from the Securities Exchange Commission and the Village of Glen Cove, L.I. reveal that SUBJECT owns 43.6% of the outstanding stock of Craig, Powell, Kenyon and Dawes, Investment Bankers, Inc. (13. Wall Street, New York City, N. Y.) and property in Glen Cove ( "Broadlawns," which SUBJECT has designated as is Home of Record) which has been appraised for tax purposes at a value of $3,935,000."

  At the time Bellmon had read the report, Second Lieutenant Lowell and his German wife (who at the time hadn't known her husband had a dime) were living in quarters on Fort Knox that Craig had furnished with battered junk from the quartermaster warehouse. The way Lowell handled his wealth in the army was one of the few things about him that Robert Bellmon admired without qualification. There were exceptions (the Aero Commander, for one; his town house in Georgetown for another), but generally Lowell appeared to live as if all the money he had was from his monthly check.

  Bellmon really couldn't put his finger on any but petty reasons that made him dislike Lowell, but he simply did not like him. It was a bone of contention between Bellmon and his wife. Barbara Bellmon loved the handsome young major like a mischievous younger brother.

  Jane Cassidy and Florence Ward came back from the ladies' room, interrupting Bellmon's chain of thought. And Jane's expression when she looked at Lowell started another: was it possible that Lowell was already ignoring the "talk" General Paul Jiggs had had with him only two days before, and was off in pursuit of the blond, long-legged Jane Cassidy? Was he that much of a fool?

  He decided that he was being the fool. Jane Cassidy was a level-headed woman, happily married to a very nice fellow. She doubtless already knew Duke Lowell's unsavory reputation with women. There was nothing going on, Bellmon concluded. Lowell had simply taken the women for a ride. Period.

  Never. Bellmon thought, as he made his way down the aisle of the Aero Commander to slip into the copilot's seat, look a gift horse in the mouth.

  As soon as they were in the air, and the drone of the engimis would keep Colonel Brandon from hearing his voice, Lowell picked up the microphone, threw the switch for the intercom, and raised the question: "Am I permitted to asic, Bob, what you've been doing in Washington?

  Rumors are going around that you have a new job."

  "The rumors are true," Bellmon said.

  "Then would it be presumptuous for the major to ask the general what that job is?"

  "No, Craig, it wouldn't; but keep it under your hat unil official word is out."

  "I never break confidences, General... well, hardly ever," he chuckled.

  "Make this time one of your the vers he paused

  "Major." He let that sink in, then added, "I'll be Director of Army Aviation in DC SOPS

  "Excellent, Bob! I'm really pleased."

  "Thank you, Craig, so am I."

  "May I also ask the general," Lowell said, moving to something else he was curious about, "what's Fatso doing with you?"

  "You heard what I said before we took off," Bellmon replied a little stiffly. "The Chief of Information has ordered Colonel Brandon to run the Plo thing about the rocket-armed choppers for a while."

  "He had to come on New Year's Eve?"

  "Colonel Brandon will be the guest of Combat Developments at the party, and my house guest; and I am sure everyone will make him feel welcome," Bellmon said.

  "I'm sure everyone will be polite," Lowell said. "Welcome's something else. It was his Plo bullshit that got Ed Greer killed." "Lieutenant Greer," Bellmon said, icily, "was killed by a malfunctioning rocket."

  There was a long silence.

  "You're right," Lowell said, two minutes later. "You're right, Bob, and I was wrong, and I'm sorry."

  "If any of the others are in similar error, Lowell," General Bellmon said coldly, "it would behoove you to correct them."

  At the last moment he had fought down the temptation (recognizing that it would have been chickenshit) to remind Lowell that majors do not customarily refer to general officers by their first names, no matter how long they have known them.

  "Yes, sir," Lowell said. "But I would suggest the general have a word with Major Macmillan. The major is prone to ignore me." "I'll talk to Mac," Bellmon said. "And forgive me, Lowell."

  "Sir9"

  "I haven't thanked you for coming to get us. It was nice of you. And important to Barbara. When we get on the ground, I'll give you a check for gas and maintenance." "My pleasure, sir," Lowell said, smiling. And then, as if he had been reading Bellmon's mind, he added: "I always try to get on the right side of general officers, General."

  "I'll give you a check when we're on the ground," Bellmon repeated.

  (Three) Ozark, Alabama 1600 Hours, 31 December 1958

  The three cars, an Oldsmobile 98, a Buick convertible, and an olive-drab Ford staff car formed a little convoy '--the Oldsmobile leading. As they approached the Ozark gate of Fort Rucker, one of the two military policemen on duty spotted the Oldsmobile.

  "Charley," he said, "heads up."

  Both of them stepped out of their little guard shack and assumed the position of "parade rest," and then together popped to attention and threw a crisp salute as the Oldsmobile passed them.

  On the Oldsmobile's bumper was a plastic sticker. It bore a representation of aviator's wings, the legend

  "Ft. Rucker, Ala" and, on a blue field, the numeral "1." The Oldsmobile was the personal automobile of Major General Paul T. Jiggs, the post commander. General Jiggs, who was in the front passenger seat (Mrs. Jiggs was at the wheel), returned the salute casually and smiled at the MPs. The MPs completed their salute and immediately saluted again, just about as crisply, as the Buick convertible, which carried the numeral "?" on its bumper, passed them. Brigadier General Robert F. Bellmon was at the wheel of his wife's car.

  The staff car was driven by one of the civilian drivers, and its passenger was Master Sergeant P.J. Wallace, whom they recognized.

  Master Sergeant Wallace was the senior photographer of the Post Signal Detachment, and he took pride at being "present whenever something interesting (by which he meant an aircraft crash or a spectacular auto accident) happened. The MPs and Master Sergeant Wallace waved at each other.

  "I wonder where they're going?" one of the MPs said.

  "Who gives a fuck?"

  "I meant, all together, with a photographer?" "And I said, "Who gives a fuck?"

  The little convoy drove five miles down the two-lane macadam highway (now in the process of being widened to four lanes) and then turned right between two curved brick walls, standing alone. On the walls a sign had been mounted: WOODY

>   DELLS.

  They shortly began to pass houses on both sides of the road new houses.

  Some of these were occupied, and the others had four-by-eight-foot wooden signs erected on their new, sparse lawns. The brightly painted signs displayed the model name of each house such as

  "The Colonial," "The Ranchero," "The Presidential," the model's price, and the information that VA, FHA, and conventional mortgages were available.

  The bottom line of each sign was identical: "Dutton Realty Corporation.

  Howard Dutton, Pres."

  The little convoy wove its way through the gently curving streets until it came to Melody Lane. Howard Dutton had named the streets of his subdivision after his friends and the members of his family. The most prestigious street of all looked down onto the lake and the Woody Dells Community Center offering tennis courts and a putting green, as well as a kitchen and a party room available at a nominal cost to Woody Dells residents. That street he had named after his daughter Melody.