seen walking toward a Mohawk and an L-23 on the transient tarmac.
“Have a good flight,” General Hanrahan said. “The priority is to get there—don’t worry about how long it takes.”
He shook their hands, called “Let’s go, Ski,” to Captain Zabrewski, and walked toward the door.
“That was not permission to take a week in Fort Lauderdale,” Father Lunsford said. “Have a good flight.”
He walked out of the lounge.
Lowell took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Johnny Oliver.
“You have the letter Felter wrote to General Pistarini?”
“Yes, sir.”
“This is for Teniente Coronel Guillermo Rangio. . . .”
“The intelligence guy?” Oliver asked, to be sure.
“Deputy director of SIDE,” Lowell confirmed. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he was there when you land—probably not in uniform. ”
“May I ask what’s in here, sir?”
“Another of the CIA’s memos to Felter. The purpose is really to show Rangio you’re in the loop.”
“I understand, sir.”
“If you need any help, yell,” Lowell said. He turned to the women.
“For what it’s worth, I really hated to send your guys off like this.”
“But we’re Army wives, right?” Liza said.
“That was your choice, you will recall,” Lowell said. He kissed Marjorie on the cheek, shook hands with Mrs. Otmanio, nodded somewhat coldly toward Liza, and walked out of the VIP lounge.
The husbands and wives were alone.
In a moment, Lowell could be seen walking toward a U.S. Air Force T28, a single-engine tandem-seat advanced trainer.
“Hey,” Oliver said. “Why the gloom? We’re going to Argentina, not Vietnam, and we’ll be back in a week or ten days?”
“And we have to go now,” Jack said. “I hate long farewells.”
Marjorie gave him a hurt look, then hugged him.
“Be careful,” she said, and whispered “I love you” in his ear.
“Me, too,” he said, and walked quickly out of the lounge.
“We’ll have some when I get back, baby,” Johnny Oliver said to his bride, and then followed.
She smiled at him but didn’t reply, then hugged him.
SFC Otmanio kissed his wife, who looked to be on the edge of tears, and then followed Oliver.
Out the window, the women could see that the propellers of the Mohawk were turning. As they watched, the engine of Lowell’s T-28 started in a cloud of blue smoke.
“Pope, Army Nine-three-three at Base Ops tarmac, IFR Fort Rucker, taxi and takeoff, please,” Pappy Hodges voice came metallically over the speaker on the wall.
“Pope, Air Force Double-zero-four, same place, IFR McDill. Put me after the Mohawk, please,” Craig Lowell’s voice came over the speaker.
“Pope Army Eight-seven-seven, next to the T-28,” Jack Portet’s voice came over the speaker. “Let me follow the old folks out of here, please. IFR Fort Lauderdale.”
It was a moment before the tower responded.
“Pope to the Mohawk. Take taxiway one to the active, Two-seven. Hold on the threshold. T-28, follow the Mohawk. Seven follow the T-28. You are cleared as one, two, and three for takeoff, one-minute intervals, after a C-130 on final. Await my clearance.”
“Pope, Nine-three-three will wait for clearance at the threshold of Two-seven,” Pappy responded.
Liza Wood walked over to the couch under the speaker. Then she stood on the couch, reached up, and turned the speaker off.
She went to the window and watched as the three airplanes moved off the tarmac. Marjorie walked up and stood beside her, and so, finally, did Mrs. Otmanio.
A C-130 came out of the sky a moment later and touched down. A minute later, Pappy’s Mohawk turned onto the runway and, without slowing down, began to move down it, finally lifting into the air. A minute later, the T-28 took off, and a minute after that, the L-23.
Liza looked at Marjorie, shrugged, and then walked to where she had put Johnny’s Jepp case down and picked it up. Marjorie exhaled audibly and walked to Jack’s Jepp case and picked it up.
Mrs. Otmanio stood with her forehead pressed against the window.
Liza and Marjorie looked at each other, set the Jepp cases on the floor again, walked to Mrs. Otmanio, and put their arms around her until she stopped crying.
[ EIGHT ]
Jack Portet was in the left seat and de la Santiago in the right, but Johnny Oliver, who was in the back with Otmanio and Zammoro, like most other pilots, never fully trusted any other pilot, and waited until the L-23 was at 10,500 feet, trimmed up, on course, and on autopilot before satisfying his curiosity about what the CIA report he was to pass to the intelligence guy in Argentina said.
He opened the envelope and took it out and read it.