had called and politely inquired if there was a Lieutenant Colonel Lowell visiting the U.S. Embassy. When told there was not (“Never heard the name, Colonel, Sorry,” Master Sergeant Wilson had said.) Teniente Colonel Fosterwood had told Wilson that he would consider it a personal service if he were notified if such an officer did visit in the future.
“God, I forgot about that,” Harris said. “I still can’t figure out how he knew this Lowell character was coming before they told us.” He paused. “I’ll call him. I don’t think he’ll be working today, but I can leave a message.”
Colonel Harris guessed right. Teniente Coronel Fosterwood had not come into the Edificio Libertador, and was not expected to do so until Monday. But he had left word, his subofficial mayor (sergeant major) told Colonel Harris, that if either Colonel Harris or Subofficial Mayor Wilson telephoned, the call was to be transferred to wherever he was.
That turned out to be his home. Fosterwood told Harris he very much appreciated being informed of the arrival of Teniente Coronel Lowell and—what was the other officer’s name? And as soon as they could find the time, they were going to have to have lunch, or better, dinner.
When he hung up from speaking with Fosterwood, and after some thought, Harris thought he had the answer to deal with Colonel Bob McGrory. He would Xerox the TWX from DCSOPS, put it in an envelope, stamp the envelope CONFIDENTIAL, and hand it to whatever Air Force NCO had been stuck with the over-the-weekend duty. On the envelope, he would write:
McGrory:
0835 Sat 2 Jan
Sorry I missed you.
This just reached me.
Harris
Colonel Harris did all of this, and feeling just a little smug, walked down the corridor to Colonel McGrory’s office to find his NCO on duty and found instead Colonel Robert McGrory sitting behind his desk, drinking a cup of coffee and reading the Buenos Aires Herald.
“I didn’t think you’d be coming in today, Colonel,” Harris said. “So I put this in an envelope so that you would have it first thing when you did.”
“What have you got, Colonel?” McGrory asked.
Harris handed the xeroxed copy of the TWX to him, and McGrory read it.
“Who are these people, Colonel?” McGrory asked.
“I never saw their names before, Colonel.”
“I want to see this man the minute he arrives, Colonel,” McGrory said.
“So you’ll go to Ezeiza to meet him, Colonel?”
The airport was an hour’s ride through usually maddening traffic from either downtown Buenos Aires, or from the suburb of Olivos, where both Harris and McGrory—and senior State Department officers—lived.
“I didn’t say that, Colonel,” McGrory said. “I meant the minute he walks in the Embassy on Monday morning.”
“I see. I’ll tell him that, Colonel.”
“You’re going to meet him?”
“Sergeant Major Wilson will meet them, Colonel.”
“And take them where?”
“I’m going to put them in the transient VIP apartment.”
“You’re going to do what?”
“I think you heard me, Colonel.”
“The transient VIP apartment is for VIPs, Colonel. I don’t want to find myself trying to explain to the Ambassador why someone on my staff put a lieutenant colonel—who is not a VIP—and a major in there.”
“If the ambassador asks me, Colonel, why I did it, I will tell him that since I knew the apartment was empty, I thought it was the courteous thing to do.”
“These Army officers, Colonel, are not going to stay in the transient VIP apartment. Are we clear on that?”
“We’re clear on that, Colonel,” Harris said, and mentally added, you chickenshit sonofabitch.
“And as far as having your sergeant meet these officers, Colonel—they are, after all, field-grade officers, and entitled to the appropriate courtesies—I don’t like that at all.”
“And how would you prefer that be handled, Colonel?”
“I was about to say that someone on your staff, a field-grade officer, should be given that duty, but on reflection, Colonel, I’ll have one of my field grades handle it. This is, after all, an Air Force post, and I want to make sure these people get the message that I want to see them first thing Monday morning.”
“Whatever you say, Colonel,” Harris said, and walked out of the office very aware that he was teetering over the brink of telling the Dumb Mick Fly-Boy chickenshit sonofabitch to go fuck himself.
[ THREE ]
Pope Air Force Base
Fort Bragg, North Carolina
1125 2 January 1965
“Office of the Commanding General, Special Warfare Center, Captain Zabrewski speaking, sir.”
“Captain, my name is Portet, and—”
“The general has been expecting your call, Lieutenant. You’re at Pope? Base Operations?”