The Generals Page 5

  When Denn had gone out to the Farm after his arrival from Chicago, the caretaker had assured him that sufficient plastic-insulated shipping containers were on hand, and that in the morning, he had been promised the first of the daily shipments of dry ice. You could never tell: Sometimes the hunters were really greedy for birds, and sometimes they didn’t seem to care at all. But if these people did want them, they would leave with cleaned pheasant, frozen by dry ice, in plastic bags.

  There were also at the Farm eight shotguns with ammunition, in case the hunters arrived without weapons. And the two Labrador retrievers would be handled by the caretaker’s son.

  In the house were telephones, a telex machine, and television sets. Everything but women. CONTBANK would not function as a procurer, even if that meant losing the chance to purchase the Bank of England at ten cents on the dollar.

  Once he had checked things out at the Farm, there had been nothing to do but wait. The President of the Second National Bank of Sioux Falls, CONTBANK’s correspondent, with whom he had touched base, had called the manager of the airport and had a word with him. The result of this was that the tower would call Mr. Denn the moment he knew an Aero Commander with a General Hanrahan aboard was approaching.

  When, at eight o’clock, there had been no call from the airport, John H. Denn got into the rented station wagon and drove to the airport in Sioux Falls, leaving word with the caretaker to forward any calls to him at the airport manager’s office.

  At the airport, the manager told him there was no word of the Aero Commander.

  “But there’s somebody else waiting for them, Mr. Denn,” he said, nodding across the small terminal building. “He’s been here about an hour.”

  Standing erect, with hands folded against the small of his back, was a tall, dignified man in a fur-collared garbardine trench coat and a homburg. He wore a neatly cropped gray mustache. And he was black.

  “You’re sure?”

  “He had the aircraft call sign,” the manager confirmed.

  John H. Denn walked over to him.

  “Excuse me, sir,” he said. “I understand we’re waiting for the same airplane.”

  “We are?” the tall black man said.

  “My name is Denn. I’m with the Continental Illinois Bank, and I’m here to meet General Hanrahan and his party.”

  The black man took off his gray glove and extended his hand.

  “I am Colonel Parker,” he said. “How do you do? Is there any news?”

  The name was on the list, but he had not expected a black man.

  “None so far, Colonel,” Denn said.

  “While I have yet to abandon hope, Mr. Denn,” Colonel Parker said, “I have been seriously considering moving my vigil to the bar. Perhaps you would care to join me?”

  “I think that’s a splendid idea, Colonel,” Denn said. “Give me a minute to tell the manager where we will be.”

  Parker nodded stiffly.

  They had been in the bar half an hour, and had just ordered a second drink, when the airport manager’s secretary came to them.

  “Mr. Denn, the tower’s got a report on your Aero Commander. It’s five minutes out.”

  “Where can I meet it?”

  She looked a little embarrassed.

  “We tried to save a place close by for them,” she said. “But somebody just parked there. It’ll be way down at the end, I’m afraid.”

  She pointed down the airfield. Sioux Falls was jammed during pheasant season with hunters, many of whom came by private aircraft. There were, Denn judged, well over a hundred private aircraft already on the field, ranging from corporate jets to small Cessnas and Pipers.

  “Colonel, I have a station wagon just outside. Why don’t you come with me?” Denn asked.

  “There are five of them, plus their luggage,” Colonel Parker said. “I think it would be best if we took two cars.”

  As Denn retrieved the Hertz Mercury Park Lane station wagon from the parking lot, he saw Colonel Parker unlock the door of a black Cadillac Fleetwood. The car bore Kansas license plates, and Denn put that together with the coating of road grime and deduced that Colonel Parker had driven to South Dakota from Kansas.

  As the security guard unlocked the hurricane fence to pass him through, Denn stopped and rolled down the window and told him the Cadillac was with him. Then he drove down the line of parked aircraft to the end of the access road pavement. Because the moon was nearly full, there was enough light for him to see a white-and-red Aero Commander (a six-place, twin-engined, high-winged airplane) coming in to land two hundred feet over the prison. The prison, he supposed, had been built in “the country” long before there were airplanes. And the airport had probably started as a dirt strip. The result was that on approaches from the west, aircraft passed directly over the prison yard. It was hardly, Denn thought, what you could call good public relations for Sioux Falls.

  When the Aero Commander touched down and rolled past on the runway, he turned to see if Colonel Parker had made the connection, and for the first time noticed that the colonel was not alone in his Fleetwood. There were two passengers in the back seat, looking with dignified curiosity out the windows. Colonel Parker had brought his own Labrador retrievers with him.

  The Aero Commander taxied back from the end of the runway, turned into line beside a Twin-Beech, and stopped. The rear door almost immediately opened, and a young man wearing a blue nylon insulated jacket got out. Without a word, he went to the tail of the airplane, turned his back to Denn and Colonel Parker, and relieved himself.

  Next out was a pleasant-faced Irishman, in the act of zipping up a hooded parka. He too headed for the tail of the airplane.

  Denn glanced at Colonel Parker. He was not smiling. He was obviously offended at open-air urination.

  Next out of the airplane was a stocky, ruddy-faced man. Either he or the other one was General Hanrahan, Denn decided.

  A fuel truck drove up, distracting Denn’s attention. When he turned around again, another man had gotten out of the airplane. He was dressed in a tweed coat, sweater, and open-collared shirt. And he was enormous, probably weighing two twenty-five or more. Denn expected that he too would go to relieve himself, and he did. Last out of the airplane was a tall, handsome blond man. He saluted Colonel Parker and, looking somewhat sheepish, joined the others at the tail of the airplane.

  When he had finished, the tall handsome officer went to Colonel Parker and offered his hand.

  “Have we kept you waiting long, sir?” he asked.

  “There are rest facilities in the terminal building,” Colonel Parker said in reply.

  He was really annoyed, Denn saw.

  “There were extenuating circumstances, sir,” the handsome one said.

  “Indeed?” Colonel Parker asked stiffly.

  “Our on-board facility, sir,” he explained, “is an aluminum funnel attached to rubber tubing. If the funnel freezes, and ours did, the system not only fails to work but…I’m sure you’re familiar, sir, with what happens when naked flesh touches freezing metal.”

  Denn was surprised at the almost formal respect paid Colonel Parker.

  “It would seem that the system should have been checked before you took off,” he said.

  “Yes, sir,” the handsome one said. “I should have done that.”

  “It’s very good to see you, Craig,” Colonel Parker said, finally relenting and offering his hand.

  “You remember Mac, of course, Colonel,” Craig Lowell said, “but I don’t believe you know General Hanrahan, Lieutenant Wood, or Mr. Wojinski.”

  General Hanrahan offered his hand.

  “I’m glad to finally meet you, Colonel,” he said.

  “The honor, General, is mine,” Parker said.

  “And this is Lieutenant Charley Wood, my aide-de-camp,” Hanrahan said.

  “You, at least, Lieutenant,” Colonel Parker said, “look young enough to retain bladder control.”

  Wood looked embarrassed. The others smiled
discreetly at the starchy old soldier.

  “It was a very long flight, Colonel,” Lowell said.

  “It would have been a short walk to the terminal,” Colonel Parker said. He offered his hand to Wojinski, the enormous man in the tweed jacket.

  “How do you do, Mr. Wojinski?” he said.

  “I’m real pleased to meet you, Colonel,” Wojinski said. “Phil’s talked a lot about you.”

  “My son tends to talk too much,” Colonel Parker said.

  Denn walked up to them.

  “General Hanrahan?” Denn asked.

  The Irish-looking man seemed surprised. “I’m Hanrahan,” he said. “But you’re probably looking for him.” He nodded toward the handsome man with the mustache.

  “Who are you?” the man with the mustache asked.

  “My name is Denn,” he said. “I’m from Continental Illinois Bank.”

  The blond man also seemed surprised. “From the bank?”

  Denn handed him his card. The handsome blond man glanced at it and handed it back. If he was impressed by being met by a CONTBANK vice president, it didn’t show.

  “I thought we’d get a caretaker,” he said, offering his hand. “My name is Lowell.”

  His handshake was warm and firm.

  “We’re happy to have you with us, Colonel,” Denn said. “Gentlemen.”

  Denn had decided quickly that the tall officer with the blond mustache was in charge of this group, though he didn’t quite understand why. There was a general, and generals ranked much higher in the army than lieutenant colonels. Still, Lowell was behaving with the assurance that came only with a great deal of clout.

  “Thank you,” Lowell said. “What’s the schedule?”

  “Well, I thought we’d have dinner…. You are hungry?”

  “Starved,” Lowell said.

  “Well, there’s a place called the Copper Kettle here,” Denn said. “We can get dinner there, and then go out to the Farm.”

  “Licenses?” Lowell asked.

  “All taken care of,” Denn said.

  “Well, you guys get the stuff out of the airplane,” Lowell said. “And I’ll get the bird topped off.”

  That proved it, Denn decided. Lieutenant Colonel Lowell was obviously the man in charge. General Hanrahan was the first of them to start unloading baggage.

  “Put what luggage will fit in the trunk of my car, Lieutenant, please,” Colonel Parker ordered. “With the general’s permission, he and Colonel Lowell will ride with me.”

  “Thank you, Colonel,” General Hanrahan said.

  “Yes, sir,” Wood said.

  Denn corrected himself, wryly. The old black man was in charge. He issued orders with assurance.

  He wondered again who Lowell was, and the explanation came immediately. Lowell handed a credit card to the gas truck driver, who dropped it. Denn quickly picked it up. It was an American Express card, and it bore the raised legend, “CRAIG W. LOWELL Vice Chairman of the Board, Craig, Powell, Kenyon & Dawes, Inc.”

  Then what the hell was this “Colonel” business?

  Thirty minutes later, three tables had been pushed together to accommodate all of them at the Copper Kettle restaurant.

  “I don’t know about Mr. Denn,” Lowell said, “but bring the rest of us Johnny Walker Black.” Then he looked at Colonel Parker. “Excuse me, Colonel,” he said. “Is that all right?”

  “Fine,” Colonel Parker said.

  “Fine with me, too,” Denn said.

  “And run separate checks, please,” General Hanrahan said.

  “Gentlemen, you’re guests of Continental Illinois Bank,” Denn said quickly.

  “One check, and give it to me,” Lowell said.

  “One check,” Colonel Parker said. “And give it to me.”

  “I really insist,” Denn said.

  “I will pay the bill,” Colonel Parker said, flatly.

  “Want to flip for it, Colonel?” Lowell asked mischievously.

  “No,” Colonel Parker said. “I will not ‘flip’ for it. I will settle it.”

  “Yes, sir,” Lowell said.

  “I see it’s true, Colonel,” General Hanrahan said.

  “What is true, General?”

  “That you’re one of the two officers who can tell Lowell what to do—the other being E. Z. Black—and not get an argument.”

  “General Black,” Colonel Parker said dryly, smiling at Lowell, “leads me to believe that is not always the case.”

  “Well, since the colonel is paying for this,” Lowell said, “bring me the largest steak on the menu. Anything but a filet mignon. Pink in the middle.”

  “Unless there is objection,” Colonel Parker said, “bring us all the same thing.”

  There was no objection.

  “I’m sorry Colonel Felter couldn’t come with you,” Colonel Parker said.

  “Felter thinks the slaying of pheasant is beastly,” Lowell said.

  “Did he say that?” Parker asked.

  “No, sir,” Lowell said, “what he said—and I forgot to relay his compliments, sir—is that when he has time off, he feels obliged to spend it with Mrs. Felter.”

  “The President keeps him pretty busy, Colonel,” General Hanrahan said.

  John H. Denn decided Hanrahan could not mean the President of the United States. He was wrong. Lieutenant Colonel Sanford T. Felter was for President Kennedy what he had been for President Eisenhower: He had been appointed (the appointment itself classified “Top Secret-Presidential”) the “President’s Personal Liaison to the Intelligence Community with Rank as Counselor to the President.”

  “I’m surprised, considering the state of events in Cuba, that any of you could get away to go hunting,” Colonel Parker said. He saw General Hanrahan’s eyebrows go up, and added, “No offense, certainly, sir.”

  “None taken, Colonel,” Hanrahan said. “But I spoke with Felter several days ago, and he told me that nothing’s going to happen just now.”

  He thought—hoped—that was true. He was the Commandant, U.S. Army Special Warfare Center, and nothing big “officially” was happening. And even if Felter, who was pretty damned closemouthed, hadn’t said anything, Hanrahan had other sources. Colonel Mac MacMillan, for instance, had friends in the 82nd Airborne Division (the guys who would certainly go in first), and they would have told him. It might not be what the Counterintelligence people liked, but when a Medal of Honor winner asked questions, he almost always got the answer, no matter what the security classification. An invasion of Cuba without Green Beret involvement was unthinkable.

  “I surmised as much when you came out here,” Colonel Parker said. “But I wonder if delaying the inevitable makes much sense.”

  “You think we’ll have to invade, Colonel?” MacMillan asked.

  That seemed to prove it, Hanrahan thought. Mac didn’t know anything, or he would not have asked that question.

  “I think we should have put the 82nd Airborne into Havana on January 3, 1960,” Colonel Parker said. “If they had done that, the Bay of Pigs fiasco would not have been necessary. No civilization that has employed mercenaries has ever endured for long. You’ve read Gibbon, General. Certainly you agree?”

  General Hanrahan looked uncomfortable.

  “They weren’t mercenaries, sir,” Lowell said. “There were some, of course, but the bulk of the people we tried to put ashore were Cubans.”

  “They weren’t Americans, Craig,” Colonel Parker said. “We should have sent Americans.”

  “We sent some Americans,” MacMillan said. “At the end, even Felter went in.”

  “And so did these two,” General Hanrahan said, pointing at Lowell and Mr. Wojinski. “They went in and got Felter out.”

  Colonel Parker’s eyebrows raised. “Indeed?” he asked.

  “To get back to where we were,” Hanrahan said. “I checked with the acting post commander before we left to come out here. He gave me absolutely no indication that anything is going on.”

  “If Kennedy
believes the Russians are not as quickly as they can going to turn Cuba into a military base capable of controlling the Caribbean basin, he is more a fool than he appears on the surface,” Colonel Parker said.

  “Well, I don’t think anything’s going to happen soon,” Hanrahan said.

  “You would not tell us if there was,” Colonel Parker said.

  “No,” Hanrahan said, with a smile. “But I wouldn’t be here if there was.”

  “Someone,” Colonel Parker said, “should give Kennedy a copy of Clausewitz and underline for him the passages about the longer you give the enemy to prepare the greater your casualties when you finally attack.”

  “I think we’re embarrassing Mr. Denn,” General Hanrahan said. “May I suggest that we change the subject.”

  It was a very tactfully put reproof, Denn realized, to Colonel Parker.

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” Colonel Parker said.

  “Some information has just come to my attention,” General Hanrahan said, “that bodes ill for the Army of the future.”

  Colonel Parker took him seriously. “Indeed?”

  “The bottom of the barrel has been scraped; we have another Craig in the officer corps.”

  Lowell looked at him with fresh interest. “He got a commission?” he asked, obviously surprised.

  “After successfully defending a mountain redoubt against far superior forces, assuming command of a mixed U.S. Indigenous command when its officers were killed.”

  “I think this is where I came in,” MacMillan said.

  Wojinski chuckled. “It must run in the family. They’re queer for sticking their ass out.”

  Lowell gave both of them a dirty look. “Did he get hurt?” he asked.

  “Superficial wounds to the face,” Hanrahan said.

  “Christ, wait till his father hears about this,” Lowell said. “I’ll be drummed out of the family.”

  “I had a talk with Dave Mennen on MARS*,” General Hanrahan said. “He was in the highlands—”

  “Mr. Denn,” Lowell interrupted, “to bring you in on this, we’re talking about Porter Craig’s boy. He’s a Special Forces sergeant—”