needs me,” Jack said. “And I think he does. I thought you’d be pleased.”
“Pleased that you’re going to be around Sandy and Craig and Geoff and the rest of those snake-eating lunatics?” she asked incredulously. “I wanted you safe and sound at that goddamned Instrument Examiner Board!”
She thrust his orders at him as if they burned her.
Jack turned to the quartermaster lieutenant and handed him the orders.
“I’m going to need uniforms,” he said. “And one Class A right now. I’m a 42-long. Is that going to be a problem?”
“We can take care of everything but cuffing the pants, Lieutenant, ” the QM officer said. “The seamstress has already taken off for the day.”
“I’ll cuff your goddamned pants for you, Lieutenant,” Marjorie said. “Oh, Jack, why?”
[ SIX ]
The Magnolia House
Fort Rucker, Alabama
1715 18 December 1964
Major General Robert F. Bellmon pulled his Oldsmobile into the driveway of Magnolia House—the transient quarters for visiting general officers and VIPs—got out, and walked quickly to the door. He knocked at the door, but entered without waiting for a reply.
He found Lieutenant Colonel Craig W. Lowell in the sitting room, in civilian clothing. He was watching the news on the television, holding a drink in his hand. His dress mess uniform was hanging on a hanger over the door to what was probably his bedroom.
“Hello, Craig,” he said, signaling for him to remain seated. “Where’s Red?”
“On the horn, checking in with his wife,” Lowell said. “Would you like a little taste?”
“Please,” Bellmon said. “What are you having?”
“Scotch,” Lowell said. He got up and walked to a sideboard on which sat a row of bottles and shining silver accoutrements. Before he got there, the steward, a moonlighting GI in the employ of the officers’ club, came into the room from the dining room. He wore a white jacket and shirt and a bow tie.
“That’s all right, Sergeant,” Lowell said. “I’ll pour the drinks. As a matter of fact, why don’t you just pack it in?”
The steward, surprised, looked at General Bellmon for guidance.
“I’ve known these gentlemen long enough, Sergeant,” Bellmon said, “to know they need absolutely no help in getting at the whiskey. Why don’t you go over to the club, and see if you can’t help out with the bar for my party?”
“Yes, sir,” the steward said with a smile.
Lowell mixed a scotch and soda and handed it to Bellmon.
“Mud in your eye, Robert,” he said.
“Nastrovya,” Bellmon said, and took a sip. “That’s good. What is it?”
“McNeil’s,” Lowell said.
“Never heard of it,” Bellmon said.
“I have it sent over,” Lowell said.
“From Scotland, you mean?” Bellmon asked. Lowell nodded. Bellmon shook his head from side to side.
“It must be nice to be rich,” Bellmon said.
“It is, as you well know,” Lowell said, smiling. “Don’t poor-mouth me, Bob. I know better.”
“Not that I’m not delighted to see you, Craig,” Bellmon said, just a little sarcastically. “Especially since you brought your mess dress . . . I presume you brought the golden saucer, too?”
“I never leave home without it,” Lowell said, gesturing toward one of the armchairs. On it, suspended from a purple sash, was the four-inches-across golden symbol of membership in the Greek Order of Saint Michael and Saint George.
“That always gives people something to talk about when the conversation pales,” Bellmon said.
“A regular conversation piece,” Lowell said.
“As I was saying, while I’m thrilled you’re here, I can’t help but wonder why you’re here.”
“Well, I was invited, for one thing,” Lowell said.
“You know what I mean,” Bellmon said.
“Okay. I suspected you were going to be annoyed with Red about now, and I came here to protect him from your righteous wrath.”
“Then you know? Maybe you’re involved?”
“Tangentially,” Lowell said. “Peripherally.”
“Well, Red better have a damned good explanation, or I’m going to fight it, right up to the chief of staff, if necessary. I like Johnny Oliver, and I’m not going to see him throw his career down the toilet . . . have it thrown down the toilet by you cowboys.”
Brigadier General Paul R. Hanrahan appeared at the living room. He was in his shirtsleeves.
“Howdy, Tex,” Lowell said. “Go for your gun. It’s high noon. I told you he was going to be pissed.”
Bellmon flashed Lowell a coldly furious look, then faced Hanrahan.
“Goddamn it, Red, I wasn’t even consulted!”
“I think I better have a drink,” Hanrahan said.
“I think you better tell me what the hell you’re trying to do to Johnny Oliver,” Bellmon said.
“All right,” Hanrahan said as he mixed himself a drink. “Captain Oliver came to me, asked if