The Assassination Option

[ONE]

Ground Control had ordered Army Seven-Oh-Seven — Cronley’s Storch — to take Taxiway Three Left to the Transient parking area, but before he got there, a checkerboard-painted Follow me jeep pulled in front of him, and the driver frantically gestured for Cronley to follow him.

He did so and was led to a hangar, where a sergeant signaled him to cut his engine, and then half a dozen GIs pushed the Storch into the hangar and closed the doors once it was inside.

Lieutenant Colonel William W. Wilson appeared, and stood, hands on his hips, looking at the Storch.

Cronley climbed down from the airplane.

“Good afternoon, Colonel,” he said.

“You’re not going to salute?”

“I’m a civilian today,” Cronley said, pointing to the triangles. “Civilians don’t salute.”

“They’re not supposed to fly around in aircraft the Air Corps has grounded as unsafe, either,” Wilson said.

“Are you going to turn me in?”

“No, but I am going to ask what the hell you’re doing here?”

“I need a large favor and some advice.”

“You picked a lousy time.”

“I saw all the frantic activity. What’s up, an IG inspection?”

“Worse, much worse,” Wilson said. “Well, let’s go somewhere where no one will be able to see me talking to you.”

He led Cronley to a small office he’d been to before, the day Wilson had turned the Storchs over to him, and then waved him into a chair.

“Okay. What sort of advice are you looking for?”

Cronley didn’t reply, instead handing Wilson his DCI credentials.

“Okay,” Wilson said, after examining them and handing them back. “Colonel Mattingly told me about this, but I am nevertheless touched that you’re sharing this with me. And, of course, am suitably impressed with your new importance.”

“I’m not important, but what I need your advice about is very important.”

“And highly classified? I shouldn’t tell anybody about this little chat?”

“Especially not Colonel Robert Mattingly.”

“Sorry, Cronley. I can’t permit you to tell me to whom I may or may not tell anything I want. And that especially includes Colonel Robert Mattingly, who is, you may recall, both a friend and the deputy chief of CIC-Europe. Is our conversation over?”

“No. I’ll have to take a chance on your good judgment.”

“You’ll have to take a chance on my good judgment?” Wilson parroted softly.

“Right.”

“I can’t wait to hear this.”

“I am in the process of getting the wife and children of NKGB Colonel Sergei Likharev out of Russia and to Argentina.”

“That must be an interesting task. Who is Colonel Whatsisname and why are you being so nice to him?”

“One of Tiny’s Troopers caught him sneaking out of Kloster Grünau…” Cronley began the story, and finished up, “… whom we have reason to believe are now in Poland.”

“And how much of this does good ol’ Bob Mattingly know?”

“More, I’m sure, than I like. But not everything.”

“And Hank Wallace?”

“He knows just about everything.”

“And you don’t think he’s going to share it with ol’ Bob?”

“I don’t think he will.”

“Did you tell him not to? Ask him not to?”

“I did.”

“And he agreed?”

“Yes, he did.”

“Now how do you envision my role in this cloak-and-dagger enterprise?”

Cronley told him.

When he had finished, Wilson said, “Oddly enough, I was up there several days ago. What used to be the Fourteenth Armored Cavalry Regiment and is now the Fourteenth Constabulary Regiment is stationed in Fritzlar. While I was there, very carefully avoiding any intrusion into the air space of Thuringia State, I flew the border. I wasn’t looking for them, of course, but I saw a number of places into which I believe one could put an aircraft such as a Storch.”

“Could you mark them on a map for me?”

“I’ll do better than that,” Wilson said. “At first light tomorrow, an L-4 aircraft attached to the Fourteenth Constab will fly the border and take pictures of fields in Thuringia which look suitable for what you propose.”

“Thank you,” Cronley said.

“Always willing to do what I can for a noble cause,” Wilson said.

“And will you tell me, teach me, what you know about doing something like this?”

“That will depend on whether General White tells me whether I can or not.”

“Isn’t he in the States? At Fort Leavenworth?”

“He was in the States at Fort Riley, the Cavalry School. Right now, he’s somewhere en route here — the route being Washington-Gander, Newfoundland-Prestwick, Scotland-Rhine-Main — where he is tentatively scheduled to land at ten tomorrow morning.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Not many people do. I didn’t even tell good ol’ Bob Mattingly when my spies told me. What is important is the moment General White sets foot in Germany, he becomes commanding general of the United States Constabulary. When that happens, I don’t do anything without his specific permission. Especially something like this.”

“When is he coming here?”

“First, he has to make his manners to General Eisenhower, or General Smith, or General Clay — or all three. When that’s done, he can get on his train and come to Sonthofen.”

“His train? He’s coming here by train? When does he get here? Can you get me in to see him?”

“Tranquillity, reflection, and great patience, I am told, are the hallmarks of the successful intelligence officer,” Wilson said. “Slow down.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Better.”

“Yes, he’s coming by train. When Generals Eisenhower, Smith, Clay, and other senior brass were assigned private trains, it looked like the rest of the private trains would be doled out to other deserving general officers before General White returned from Fort Riley to assume command of the Constab and he wouldn’t get one.

“That, of course, was an unacceptable situation for those of us who devotedly serve General White. So one of the as-yet-unassigned private trains was spirited away to Bad Nauheim and parked on the protected siding where Hitler used to park his private train. It was suitably decorated with Constabulary insignia, but kept out of sight until now. It is scheduled to leave Bad Nauheim at 0700 tomorrow for the Frankfurt Hauptbahnhof, where it will be ready for him when the aforementioned senior officers are through with him.”

“Then he is coming here. Back to my question, when he gets here, can you get me in to see him?”

“Simple answer, no. In addition to his pals and cronies who will meet the plane at Rhine-Main, all of the senior officers of the Constabulary, and its most senior non-commissioned officers, will be lining the corridors here to make their manners to General White.”

“I’ve got to get him to tell you you can help me.”

“You are aware of the relationship between Captain Dunwiddie and the general?”

“I am.”

“My suggestion: Load Captain Dunwiddie on a Storch and fly him to Rhine-Main first thing in the morning. General White will be delighted to see him, and the odds are he will invite Captain Dunwiddie to ride the train with him from Frankfurt here. Although it will be crowded by many of General White’s legion of admirers, including me, I’m sure there would still be room for the pilot who had flown Tiny to meet his Uncle Isaac. And if you get lucky, maybe you could get the general’s undivided attention for a half hour or so to make your pitch. How much of this does Tiny know?”

“Everything.”

“Smart move.”

“Thank you,” Cronley said. “I don’t mean for that, for everything.”

“Mr. Cronley, Hotshot Billy Wilson is really not the unmitigated three-star sonofabitch most would have you believe he is.”

[TWO]

“Twenty-third CIC, Miss Colbert speaking.”

“Miss Colbert, this is Captain Cronley.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Is Mr. Hessinger or Major Wallace there?”

“No, sir. They left about five minutes ago. There’s a Tex-Mex dinner dance at the Munich Engineer Officers’ Club. They won’t be back until very late. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“It looks like you’re going to have to, Miss Colbert. Get on the horn to Captain Dunwiddie and tell him (a) this is not a suggestion, then (b) he’s to get out to Kloster Grünau right away. He is to tell Max Ostrowski to fly him and Kurt Schröder—”

“Excuse me, sir. I want to get this right. Kurt Schröder is the other Storch pilot, correct?”

“Correct. Tell him to fly here — I’m at Schleissheim, just landed here — at first light, and I will explain things when they’re here.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll get right on it.”

“Oh, almost forgot. Tell Captain Dunwiddie to wear pinks and greens and to bring a change of uniform.”

“Yes, sir, pinks and greens. Is there anything else you need, sir?”

“I think you know what that is. Do you suppose you could bring it to my room? I’ll be there in about twenty minutes.”

“It will be waiting for you, sir.”

[THREE]

“As much as I would like to continue this discussion of office business with you, Miss Colbert,” Cronley said, “I haven’t had anything to eat since breakfast and need sustenance. Let’s go downstairs and get some dinner.”

“And while I can think of nothing I’d rather do than continue to discuss office business with you like this, Captain Cronley…”

“You mean in a horizontal position, and unencumbered by clothing?”

“… and seem to have somehow worked up an appetite myself, I keep hearing this small, still voice of reason crying out, ‘Not smart! Not smart!’”

“I infer that you would react negatively to my suggestion that we get some dinner and then come back and resume our discussion of office business?”

“Not smart! Not smart!”

“Oddly enough, I have given the subject some thought. Actually, a good deal of thought.”

“And?”

“It seems to me that the best way to deal with our problem is for me to treat you like one of the boys. By that I mean while I don’t discuss office business with them as we do, if I’m here at lunchtime, or dinnertime, and Freddy is here, or Major Wallace, or for that matter, General Gehlen, I sometimes have lunch or dinner with them. Not every time, but often. I’m suggesting that having an infrequent dinner — or even a frequent dinner — with you would be less suspicious than conspicuously not doing so. Take my point?”

“I don’t know, Jim.”

“Additionally, I think if we listen to your small, still voice of reason when it pipes up, as I suspect it frequently will, and do most of the things it suggests, we can maintain the secret of our forbidden passion.”

“It will be a disaster for both of us if we can’t.”

“I know.”

After a moment, she shrugged and said, “I am hungry. Put your clothes on.”

“With great reluctance.”

“Yeah.”

Lieutenant Colonel George H. Parsons and Major Warren W. Ashley were at the headwaiter’s table just inside the door to the dining room when Cronley and Colbert walked in.

“Oh, Cronley,” Parsons said, “in for dinner, are you?”

Actually I’m here to steal some silverware and a couple of napkins.

“Right. Good evening, Colonel. Major.”

The headwaiter appeared.

“Table for four, gentlemen?”

“Two,” Cronley said quickly. “We’re not together.”

“But I think we should be,” Parsons said. “I would much rather look at this charming young woman over my soup than at Major Ashley.”

The headwaiter took that as an order.

“If you’ll follow me, please?”

They followed him to a table.

“You are, I presume, going to introduce your charming companion?” Colonel Parsons said, as a waiter distributed menus.

“Miss Colbert, may I introduce Lieutenant Colonel Parsons and Major Ashley?”

“We’ve met,” Claudette said. “At the Pullach compound.”

“I thought you looked familiar,” Ashley said. “You’re the ASA sergeant, right?”

“She was,” Cronley answered for her. “Now she’s a CIC special agent of the Twenty-third CIC, on indefinite temporary duty with DCI.”

“I see,” Parsons said.

“But, as I’m sure you’ll understand, we don’t like to talk much about that,” Cronley said.

“Of course,” Parsons said. “Well, let me say I’ll miss seeing you at the Pullach compound.” He turned to Cronley. “Sergeant… I suppose I should say ‘Miss’…?”

“Yes, I think you should,” Cronley said.

“Miss Colbert handled our classified traffic with Washington,” Parsons went on. “Which now causes me to wonder how secure they have been.”

“I’m sure, Colonel, that they were, they are, as secure as the ASA can make them,” Cronley said. “Or was that some sort of an accusation?”

“Certainly not,” Parsons said.

Cronley chuckled.

“Did I miss something, Mr. Cronley?”

“What I was thinking, Colonel, was ‘Eyes Only.’”

“Excuse me?”

“Way back from the time I was a second lieutenant, every time I saw that I wondered, ‘Do they really believe that?’ Actually, ‘They can’t really believe that.’”

“I don’t think I follow you,” Parsons said.

“I know I don’t,” Ashley said.

“Okay. Let’s say General Eisenhower in Frankfurt wants to send a secret message to General Clay in Berlin. He doesn’t want anybody else to see it, so he makes it ‘Eyes Only, General Clay.’”

“Which means only General Clay gets to see it,” Ashley said. “What’s funny about that?”

“I’ll tell you. Eisenhower doesn’t write, or type, the message himself. He dictates it to his secretary or whatever. He or she thus gets to see the message. Then it goes to the message center, where the message center sergeant gets to read it. Then it goes to the ASA for encryption, and the encryption officer and encryption sergeant get to read it. Then it’s transmitted to Berlin, where the ASA people get it and read it, and decrypt it, then it goes to the message center, where they read it, and finally it goes to General Clay’s office, where his secretary or his aide reads it, and then says, ‘General, sir, there is an Eyes Only for you from General Eisenhower. He wants to know…’ So how many pairs of eyes is that, six, eight, ten?”

“You have a point, Cronley,” Colonel Parsons said. “Frankly, I never thought about that. But that obviously can’t be helped. The typists, cryptographers, et cetera, are an integral part of the message transmission process. All you can do is make sure that all of them have the appropriate security clearances.”

“That’s it. But why ‘Eyes only’?”

“I have no answer for that,” Parsons said. “But how do you feel about someone, say, the cryptographer, sharing what he — or she — has read in an Eyes Only, or any classified message, with someone not in the transmission process?”

“Do you remember, Colonel, what Secretary of State Henry Stimson said when he shut down the State Department’s cryptanalytic office?”

“Yes, I do. ‘Gentlemen don’t read other gentlemen’s mail.’ I think that was a bit naïve.”

“You know what I thought when I heard that?” Cronley asked rhetorically. “And I think it applies here.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Major Ashley said.

“I wondered, ‘How can I be sure you’re a gentleman whose mail I shouldn’t read unless I read your mail?’”

“How does this apply here?” Ashley asked sarcastically.

“Hypothetically?”

“Hypothetically or any other way.”

“Okay. Let’s say, hypothetically, that when Miss Colbert here was in charge of encrypting one of your messages to the Pentagon, and had to read it in the proper discharge of her duties, she reads ‘If things go well, the bomb I placed in the Pentagon PX will go off at 1330. Signature Ashley.’”

“This is ridiculous!” Ashley snapped.

“You asked how it applies,” Cronley said. “Let me finish.”

Ashley didn’t reply.

“What is she supposed to do? Pretend she hasn’t read it? Decide on her own that it’s some sort of sick joke and can be safely ignored? Decide that it’s real, but she can’t say anything because she’s not supposed to read what she’s encrypting? In which case the bomb will go off as scheduled. Or go to a superior officer — one with all the proper security clearances — and tell him?”

“This is absurd,” Ashley said.

“It’s thought-provoking,” Colonel Parsons said, and then turned to Colbert.

“See anything you like on the menu, Miss Colbert?”

“My problem, Colonel, is that I don’t see anything on the menu I don’t like.”

“Shall we have a little wine with our dinner?” Colonel Parsons asked. “Where’s the wine list?”

[FOUR]

“Stop that,” Claudette said. “I didn’t come here for that.”

“I thought you’d changed your mind.”

“Are you crazy?”

“I don’t know about crazy,” Cronley said. “How about ‘overcome with lust’?”

“You just about admitted to Colonel Parsons that I’ve been feeding you his messages to the Pentagon.”

“The moment he saw you with me, he figured that out himself,” Cronley said. “I never thought he was slow.”

“And that doesn’t bother you?”

“He would have heard sooner or later that you defected to DCI.”

“Jimmy, please don’t do that. You know what it does to me.”

“That’s why I’m doing it.”

“So what’s going to happen now?”

“Well, after I get your tunic off, I’ll start working on your shirt.”

“What’s Parsons going to do now?”

“Spend an uncomfortable thirty minutes or so with Ashley, wondering what incriminating things they said in the messages you turned over to Hessinger and me.”

“Jimmy, I told you to stop that.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t sound as if you really meant it.”

“And then what’s he going to do?”

“See about getting another communications route to the Pentagon. Which will probably be hard, as he would first have to explain what’s wrong with the one he has, and then if he did that, said he had good reason to believe I was reading his correspondence, he would then have to explain to Greene, or ol’ Iron Lung, what it was he wanted to tell the Pentagon he didn’t want me to know.

“Oh, there they are! I knew they had to be in there somewhere!”

“Are you listening to me? What if Freddy comes back and comes in here?… Oh, God, Jimmy!.. Jimmy, let me do that, before you tear something!”

[FIVE]

Captain Chauncey L. Dunwiddie squeezed himself out of the Storch, and a moment later, Max Ostrowski followed him. Kurt Schröder started to follow Ostrowski.

“Stay in there, Kurt,” Cronley called to him, “we’re leaving right away.” And then asked, “Have you enough fuel to make Eschborn?”

Schröder gave him a thumbs-up.

“Why are we going to Frankfurt?” Dunwiddie asked.

“Actually, we’re going to Rhine-Main,” Cronley said, directing his answer to Ostrowski.

“Rhine-Main or Eschborn?”

“Rhine-Main, and we have to be there by nine-thirty.”

“Got it,” Ostrowski said, and headed back for the Storch.

“Why are we going to Frankfurt?” Tiny asked.

“Get in the airplane, I’ll tell you on the way.”

“I’ve got things to do in Pullach.”

“Not as important as this. Get in the goddamn airplane.”

“Yes, sir,” Tiny replied sarcastically.

“Schleissheim departure control, Army Seven-Oh-Seven, a flight of two aircraft, request taxi and takeoff.”

“Army Seven-Oh-Seven, take Taxiway Three to threshold of Two Seven.”

“Schleissheim departure control, Army Seven-Oh-Seven, on the threshold of Two Seven. Direct, VFR to Rhine-Main. Request takeoff.”

“Army Seven-Oh-Seven, you are number one on Two Seven.”

“Schleissheim, Oh-Seven rolling.”

“Why are we going to Frankfurt?”

“For Christ’s sake, Tiny, put a fucking cork in it.”

“Army Seven-Oh-Seven. Schleissheim. Say again?”

“You had something you wished to ask me, Captain Dunwiddie?”

“Why are we going to Frankfurt?”

“We are going to see your beloved Uncle Isaac.”

“You’re referring to General White?”

“Unless you have another godfather you call Uncle Isaac.”

“You’re saying General White is in Frankfurt?”

“ETA Rhine-Main ten hundred.”

“How do you know that?”

“Hotshot Billy Wilson told me.”

“You’re referring to Lieutenant Colonel Wilson?”

“Who else, for Christ’s sake, is known as ‘Hotshot Billy’?”

“And why are you taking me to Frankfurt?”

“Because I need ten minutes, maybe a little more, of White’s time, just as soon as I can get it, and you’re going to arrange it.”

“I’ll do no such thing.”

“What?”

“My personal relationship with General White is exactly that, personal. And if you don’t mind, please refer to him as ‘General White.’”

“Are you constipated, or what?”

Dunwiddie did not reply.

“Just for the record, Captain Dunwiddie, I do not wish to intrude on your personal relationship with General White. I’m not going to ask him, for example, if he has any pictures of you as a bare-ass infant on a bearskin rug he’d be willing to share with me. This is business.”

“Official?”

“Yes, official.”

“Then I suggest that if you need to see General White that you contact his aide-de-camp and ask for an appointment.”

“If I had the time, maybe I would. But I don’t have the time.”

“Would you care to explain that?”

“Hotshot Billy told me he can’t do anything more for me to get Mrs. Likharev and the kids across the border than he already has, unless he gets permission from White.”

“Can you tell me what Colonel Wilson has done for you so far?”

“He told me that when, a couple of days ago, he flew the East/West German border around Fritzlar, he thinks he saw places, fields, roads, right across the border in Thuringia where we could get the Storchs in and out.

“And as we speak, at least one and maybe more than one Piper Cub of the Fourteenth Constab—”

“The nomenclature is L-4,” Dunwiddie interrupted.

“—which is stationed in Fritzlar, is flying the border taking aerial photographs of these possible landing sites. He has promised to give me what they bring back. But when I asked him to teach me and Ostrowski and Schröder what he knows about snatch operations — and Hotshot Billy knows a lot — he said he couldn’t do anything more, now that White has returned to Germany, without White’s permission.”

“That’s the way things are done in the Army.”

“Fuck you, Tiny.”

“You might as well turn the airplane around, Jim. Because I flatly refuse to be in any way involved with getting General White involved in one of your loose-cannon schemes.”

“Before I respond to that, I think I should tell you the reason I know White will be in Frankfurt is because Wilson told me. And it was Wilson who suggested that the quickest way for me to get permission from White for him to help me was to get you to Frankfurt to meet your Uncle Isaac when he gets off the plane. Wilson says he’s sure White will invite you to ride on his private train, and if you get on it, so will I. How could they do less for the man who flew Chauncey to meet his Uncle Isaac?”

“You’re not listening, Jim. I refuse to become involved.”

“You’re not listening, I told you this was important. And a word to the wise: I’ve had about all of your West Point bullshit I can handle, Tiny.”

“I went to Norwich, not West Point. So did General White.”

“Well, pardon me all to hell. I forgot that Wilson’s the West Pointer, not you and your Uncle Isaac. Same comment, I’ve had enough of this bullshit. Grow the fuck up, you’re in the intelligence business, not on the parade ground of some college. That I will not lie, cheat, or steal, or tolerate those who do philosophy doesn’t work here.”

“I beg to disagree.”

“You will get me on that fucking train, Tiny, because this isn’t a suggestion, or a request, it’s what you proper soldiers call a direct order. Once I’m in with the general, you can tell him you’re there against your will, or even — shit, why not? — that I threatened to shoot you if you wouldn’t go along.”

“Now you’re being sophomoric.”

“Am I? You saw how little the assassination option upset me when it was necessary. I will do whatever is necessary to get Mrs. Likharev and her two kids out of the East. If I thought I had to shoot you because you were getting in the way of my getting them out, I would.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Or dedicated. Now take off your headset. I have no further interest in hearing anything you might wish to say.”

[SIX]

As Cronley trailed a Follow me jeep down a taxiway to a remote area of the Rhine-Main airfield, he saw there was an unusual number of Piper Cubs parked on the grass beside the taxiway. And then he saw that just about all of them bore U.S. Constabulary markings.

There were a number of vehicles lined up beside a mobile stairway where the general’s plane was expected to stop. Three buses, one of them bearing Constabulary insignia, three 6x6 trucks, a dozen staff cars, and two Packard Clippers.

He hand-signaled Tiny first to look where he was pointing, and then for him to put on his headset.

“There’s a welcoming party,” he said. “Jesus, there’s even a band.”

Dunwiddie did not reply.

“I don’t know how long it’s going to take for General White to get off his plane and into one of those Packards, but it won’t take long, and I can’t afford you giving me any trouble. Got it?”

Dunwiddie did not reply.

When the Follow me had led Cronley to where he wanted him to park the Storch on the grass — maybe a quarter-mile from the cars and buses — an Air Force major wearing an Airfield Officer of the Day brassard drove up.

Oh, shit!

More trouble about the Storchs.

Cronley got out of the airplane as the major got out of his jeep.

“Interesting airplane, Captain,” the major said.

Christ, I forgot I’m wearing my bars!

Belatedly, Cronley saluted.

“They’re great airplanes,” Cronley agreed. “Plural,” he added, pointing to the Storch with Ostrowski and Schröder in it.

“I also understand the Air Force has grounded them.”

Cronley took his DCI credentials from his pocket and handed them to the major.

“Not all of them. I hope I won’t break your heart when I tell you the Air Force really doesn’t own the skies or everything that flies.”

“Those are the first credentials like that I ever saw,” the major said.

“There’s not very many of them around,” Cronley said.

“How can I be of service to the Directorate of Central Intelligence?”

“Don’t say that out loud, for one thing,” Cronley said, smiling.

“Okay,” the major said, returning the smile. “And aside from that?”

“I need to get the Storchs fueled and on their way as soon as possible.”

“On their way and out of sight?” the major asked.

“That, too.”

“That I can do. I’ll have a fuel truck come out here.”

“And then I have to be in that crowd welcoming General White back to Germany.”

“Quite a crowd,” the major said, gesturing around the field at all the L-4s. “I would say that every other colonel and lieutenant colonel in the Constabulary is here to watch General White get off the plane.”

“So I see. But the skies will fall and the world as we know it will end if we’re not standing there when the general gets off the plane.”

He pointed to Dunwiddie in the Storch.

“Well, I wouldn’t want that on my conscience. I’ll make you a deal. I’ve never been close to a Storch before. If you can arrange a tour for me of one of those airplanes, I’ll take you over there in my jeep.”

“Deal,” Cronley said.

He waved at Max Ostrowski to get out of his Storch, and then called, “Captain Dunwiddie, you may deplane.”

“Yes, sir?” Ostrowski asked.

“The major is going to take Captain Dunwiddie and me over there. He’s also going to get a fuel truck sent here. When he comes back, show him around the Storch. Then as soon as you’re fueled, you and Kurt head for home. I’ll get word to you there what happens next.”

“Yes, sir.”

Cronley saw the major had picked up on Ostrowski’s British accent. But he didn’t say anything.

The major motioned for Cronley to get in the jeep. Cronley motioned for Dunwiddie to get in the jeep.

“After thinking it over,” Dunwiddie said, “I’ve decided you’re entitled to the benefit of the doubt.”

Cronley nodded, but didn’t say anything.

Almost as soon as the jeep started moving, the radio in the jeep went off:

“Attention, all concerned personnel. The VIP bird has landed.”

“I’m not surprised,” Cronley said. “I am famous for my ability to make the world follow my schedule.”

The major laughed.

As they got close to where the VIP bird would apparently be, they were waved to a stop by a sergeant of the U.S. Constabulary. He was wearing a glossily painted helmet liner bearing the Constabulary “Circle C” insignia, and glistening leather accoutrements, a Sam Browne belt, to which was attached a glistening pistol holster, and spare magazine holsters.

“End of the line,” the major said.

“Thanks,” Cronley said, offering his hand.

When he got out of the jeep, he remembered to salute.

A lieutenant and a sergeant marched up to them. They, too, wore the natty Constabulary dress uniform, and the sergeant held a clipboard.

The lieutenant saluted crisply.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said. “May I have your names, please?”

“If that’s a roster of some kind,” Cronley said, “I don’t think we’re on it.”

“Excuse me, sir,” the lieutenant said. “I didn’t see the patch.”

What the hell is he talking about?

“‘Hell on Wheels’ comrades are in the rear rank of those greeting General White,” the lieutenant said. “Senior officers and personal friends are in the first rank. If you’ll follow the sergeant, please?”

Aha! He saw the 2nd Armored patch on Tiny’s shoulder. That’s what he’s talking about!

They followed the sergeant with the clipboard toward the reception area.

There they were met by a Constabulary major.

They exchanged salutes.

“Hell on Wheels comrades in the rear rank, by rank,” the major said, pointing to two ranks of people lined up.

“Yes, sir,” Tiny said. “Thank you, sir.”

I think I have this ceremony figured out.

Majors and up and personal friends are in the front row.

Anybody who served under General White in the 2nd “Hell on Wheels” Armored Division is a “comrade”—which, considering our relationship with the Soviet Union, seems to be an unfortunate choice of words — and is in the rear row.

Tiny belongs in the front row, and I don’t belong here at all, but this is not the time to bring that up.

What I’ll try to do is pass myself off as a comrade.

They found themselves about three-quarters of the way down the rear rank, between a major wearing a 2nd Armored Division patch and a first sergeant. Cronley guessed there were forty-odd, maybe fifty-odd, people in each rank.

They had just taken their positions when a Douglas C-54 transport with MILITARY AIR TRANSPORT SERVICE lettered along its fuselage taxied up. In the side window of the cockpit was a red plate with two silver stars on it.

The band started playing.

That’s “Garry Owen.” The song of the 7th Cavalry Regiment.

I know that because I was trained to be a cavalry officer and they played it often enough at College Station to make us aware of our cavalry heritage.

And where I learned that the 7th Cavalry, Brevet Brigadier General George Armstrong Custer commanding, got wiped out to the last man at the Battle of the Little Big Horn.

I’ve never quite figured out how getting his regiment wiped out to the last man made Custer a hero.

The mobile stairs were rolled up to the rear door of the C-54.

The door opened.

A woman with a babe in arms appeared in the doorway, and then started down the stairs.

She was followed by fifteen more women, and about that many officers and non-coms, who were quickly ushered into the buses waiting for them.

Clever intelligence officer that I am, I deduce that the airplane’s primary purpose was to fly dependents over here. Dependents and officers and non-coms who were needed here as soon as possible. General White was just one more passenger.

Is there a first-class compartment on Air Force transports?

The procession came to an end.

The band stopped playing.

A stocky, muscular officer in woolen ODs appeared in the aircraft door. There were two stars pinned to his “overseas cap.”

The band started playing “Garry Owen” again.

People in the ranks began to applaud.

Someone bellowed “Atten-hut!”

Cronley saw that it was a full colonel standing facing the two ranks of greeters.

When the applause died, the colonel did a crisp about-face movement and saluted.

The major general at the head of the stairs returned it crisply.

That is one tough sonofabitch.

The tough sonofabitch turned and then with great care helped a motherly-looking woman down the stairs.

They then disappeared from sight.

Three minutes later, the general appeared, now shaking hands with the major standing ahead of Cronley in the comrades and personal friends rank. He was trailed by the woman and a handful of aides.

They disappeared again to reappear sixty seconds or so later, now in front of Captain Dunwiddie.

“Chauncey, I’m delighted to see you!” the general said. “Honey, look who’s here! Chauncey!”

The woman stood on her toes and kissed Captain Dunwiddie.

Major General I.D. White looked at Captain Cronley.

“You are, Captain?”

“Cronley, sir. James D. Junior.”

“You hear that, Paul?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bingo!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong. What’s next is that I go to make my manners to General Eisenhower…”

“To General Smith, sir. General Eisenhower is in Berlin.”

“Okay. And Mrs. White goes to the bahnhof to get on my train?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Put these two in the car with her,” General White ordered.

“Yes, sir.”

General White stepped in front of the first sergeant standing next to Cronley.

“How are you, Charley?” he asked. “Good to see you.”

[SEVEN]

Captains Cronley and Dunwiddie rose when Major General White walked into the dining compartment trailed by two aides.

“Sit,” he said.

He walked to his wife, bent and kissed her, and then sat down.

The train began, with a gentle jerking motion, to get under way.

“Tim!” General White called.

“Yes, sir?” a captain wearing the insignia of an aide-de-camp replied.

“Find the booze, and make me a stiff one.”

“Bourbon or scotch, sir?”

“Scotch,” he said. “Georgie always drank scotch.”

“I.D.,” Mrs. White said, “it’s one o’clock in the afternoon.”

“And make Mrs. White one,” the general said. “She’s going to need it. Hell, bring the bottle, ice, everything. We’ll all have a drink to Georgie.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Mrs. White said.

“General Smith was kind enough to fill me in on the last days of General George Smith Patton Junior,” White said. “He knew I would be interested.”

“Oh,” she said.

“Would you like Captain Cronley and myself to withdraw, sir?” Tiny asked.

White considered that a moment.

“No, Chauncey, you stay. You can write your dad and tell him what General Smith told me. Then I won’t have to. So far as Captain Cronley is concerned, I would be surprised if he doesn’t already know. Do you?”

“Yes, sir. I believe I’ve heard.”

“Besides, I have business with Captain Cronley I’d like to get out of the way before we go into the dining car for our festive welcome-back-to-Germany luncheon.”

“Sir?”

The aide appeared with whisky, ice, and glasses, and started pouring drinks.

“First of all, it was an accident. Georgie was not assassinated by the Russians. Or anyone else. To put all rumors about assassination to rest. It was a simple crash. Georgie’s driver slammed on the brakes, Georgie slipped off the seat, and it got his spine.

“The car was hardly damaged. It’s a 1939/4 °Cadillac. General Smith asked me if I wanted it, and as I couldn’t think of a polite way to say no, I said, ‘Yes, thank you.’

“They knew from the moment they got him in the hospital — and Georgie knew, too — that he wasn’t going to make it. But they decided no harm would be done if they tried ‘desperate measures.’ These were essentially stretching him out, with claws in his skin and muscles to relieve pressure on his injured spine, and administering sufficient morphine to deal with the pain the stretching caused.

“The Army then flew Beatrice over here. Little Georgie is at West Point. He was discouraged from coming with his mother.

“The morphine, or whatever the hell they were giving Georgie for the pain, pretty well knocked him out.

“So, after Beatrice arrived, Georgie stopped taking the morphine whenever Beatrice was with him. When she finally left his room to get some sleep, he got them to give him morphine. Then Beatrice ordered that a cot be brought into his room so she wouldn’t have to leave him.”

“Oh, my God!” Mrs. White said.

“So, he stopped taking the morphine. Period. And eventually, he died. Instead of getting killed by the last bullet fired in the last battle, Georgie went out in prolonged agony, stretched out like some heretic they were trying to get to confess in the Spanish Inquisition.”

White’s voice seemed to be on the cusp of breaking.

Mrs. White rose, and went to him and put her arms around him, and for a minute he rested his head against her bosom.

Then he straightened.

Cronley saw a tear run down his cheek.

Mrs. White leaned over and picked up a shot glass from the table.

“Gentlemen,” she said, “if I may, I give you…”

Everyone scrambled for a glass and to get to their feet.

“… the late General George Smith Patton Junior, distinguished officer and Christian gentleman,” she finished.

And then she drained the shot glass.

The others followed suit. Somebody said, “Hear, hear.”

“You may recall, Captain Cronley,” White said, as he sat down, “that when you told me your name at Rhine-Main, I said, ‘Bingo.’”

“Yes, sir.”

“One of the first things I planned to do on arrival here was to send for you.”

“Sir?”

“Got the briefcase, Paul?” General White asked.

Whatever this is about, the Patton business is apparently over.

Why was I on the edge of tears? The only time I ever saw him was in the newsreels. The last time, he was pissing in the Rhine.

“Sir, I’ve never let it out of my sight,” White’s senior aide-de-camp, a lieutenant colonel, said.

He then set a leather briefcase on the table, opened it, took out a sheet of paper, and handed it to Cronley.

“Please sign this, Captain,” he said, and produced a fountain pen.

“What is that?” Dunwiddie asked.

“Although your curiosity seems to have overwhelmed your manners, Chauncey,” General White said, “I’ll tell you anyway. It’s a briefcase full of money. One hundred thousand dollars, to be specific.”

He turned to Cronley.

“Admiral Souers asked me to bring that to you, Captain,” he said. “And to say ‘thank you.’”

“What’s that all about?” Mrs. White asked.

“You heard what I just said to Chauncey? About curiosity?”

“What’s that all about?” she repeated.

“I won’t tell her, Captain. You may if you wish.”

“Ma’am, it’s a replenishment of my — the DCI’s — operating funds.”

“In other words, you’re not going to tell me?”

“He just did. Told you all he can,” General White said. “And while we’re on the subject of Admiral Souers, Captain Cronley, he told me of your role in getting done what Colonel Mattingly was unable to do — get Chauncey his commission. Thank you.”

“No thanks necessary, sir.”

“And on that subject, where is Bob Mattingly?”

No one replied.

White looked at Cronley.

“What is it about Colonel Mattingly that you’re not telling me, Captain?”

“I don’t know where he is, sir. I presume he’s in his office in the Farben Building.”

“But he wasn’t at Rhine-Main, and he’s not on the train. Is he, Paul?”

“Not so far as I know, General.”

“Okay. Chauncey, who told you to be at Rhine-Main?”

“Captain Cronley.”

“Captain Cronley — and you are warned, I’m already weary of playing Twenty Questions — who told you when we were arriving at Rhine-Main?”

“Colonel Wilson, sir.”

“And why do you suppose he told you that?”

“Sir, I told Colonel Wilson I needed ten minutes of your time, and he suggested that if Tiny… Captain Dunwiddie and I met your plane, I might be able to get it.”

“There’s a protocol for getting ten minutes of my time. You get in touch with my aide-de-camp and ask for an appointment, whereupon he schedules one. Is there some reason you couldn’t do that?”

Cronley didn’t immediately respond.

“And Colonel Wilson is damned well aware of that protocol.”

He looked at his watch.

“There’s no time now. I’m due at my festive lunch. But as soon as that’s over, get Hotshot Billy in here, and we’ll get to the bottom of this.”

“Yes, sir,” his senior aide said.

“What this looks like to me, Captain Cronley, is that you tried to use my personal relationship with Captain Dunwiddie to get around established procedures. I find that despicable. And, so far as you’re concerned, Chauncey…”

“Uncle Isaac, Cronley doesn’t have time for your established procedures,” Dunwiddie said.

“What did you say?” White demanded.

“I said, ‘Uncle Isaac, Cronley doesn’t have time—’”

White silenced him with a raised hand.

“My festive lunch will just have to wait,” he said. “Tim, my compliments to Colonel Wilson. Please inform him I would be pleased if he could attend me at his earliest convenience.”

The junior aide-de-camp said, “Yes, sir,” and headed for the door.

He slid it open, went through it, and slid it closed.

Thirty seconds later, the door slid open again.

Lieutenant Colonel William W. Wilson came through it, marched up to General White, saluted, and holding it, barked, “Sir, Lieutenant Colonel Wilson reporting to the commanding general as ordered, sir.”

White returned the salute with a casual wave of his hand in the general direction of his forehead.

“Waiting for me in the vestibule, were you, Bill?”

“Yes, sir. I hoped to get a minute or two of the general’s time.”

“How modest of you! Captain Cronley hoped to get ten minutes.”

Wilson didn’t reply.

“Where to start?” General White asked rhetorically. “Bill, Captain Cronley tells me you suggested he bring Chauncey to Rhine-Main because he wanted the aforementioned ten minutes of my valuable time, and you thought his bringing Chauncey would help him achieve that goal. True?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you are going to tell me why this is so important, right?”

“Sir, I suggest that Captain Cronley could do that better than I can.”

White looked at Cronley, and when Cronley didn’t immediately open his mouth, said, “You heard the colonel, Captain. Cat got your tongue?”

“General, the subject is classified Top Secret — Presidential…” Cronley said uneasily.

“And these people, so far as you know, might be Russian spies?” General White said, waving his hand at his aides and his wife.

“Sir—”

“Actually, I’m not sure about her, so throughout our twenty-nine years of married bliss, I have never shared so much as a memorandum classified ‘confidential’ with her. As far as Colonel Davidson and Captain Wayne are concerned, if you say anything I think they should not have heard, I’ll have them shot and have their bodies thrown off the train. You may proceed.”

“Yes, sir. Sir, we have turned a Russian, NKGB Colonel Sergei Likharev—”

“Who is ‘we’? Are you referring to Colonel Mattingly? Is that why he’s among the missing?”

“No, sir. Colonel Mattingly had nothing to do with turning Colonel Likharev. Tiny and I turned him.”

“You and Chauncey turned an NKGB colonel?” White asked incredulously.

“Uncle Isaac, please give Jim, and me, the benefit of the doubt,” Tiny said.

“I.D.,” Mrs. White ordered, “get off your high horse and hear the captain out.”

“You may proceed, Captain Cronley,” General White said.

“Yes, sir. Sir, one of the reasons Colonel Likharev turned was because we promised him—”

“‘We’ being you and Chauncey?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Promised him what?”

“You’ll never find out if you keep interrupting him,” Mrs. White said. “Put a cork in it!”

“Sir, we, Tiny and me, promised Likharev we would try to get his family — his wife, Natalia, and their sons, Sergei and Pavel, out of Russia. This is important because Mr. Schultz believes, and he’s right, that by now Likharev is starting to think that we lied to him about trying to get his family out—”

“Excuse me, Captain,” Mrs. White interrupted. “Mr. Schultz? You mean Lieutenant Schultz? The old CPO?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Now the admiral’s Number Two,” General White said. “You met him the first time Admiral Souers came to Fort Riley.”

“Pardon the interruption. Please go on, Captain,” Mrs. White said.

“Yes, ma’am. Well, we’ve gotten them — I should say, General Gehlen’s agents in Russia have gotten them — out of Leningrad as far as Poland. That’s what that hundred thousand is all about. It went to General Gehlen’s agents. Now we have to get them…

“… So when Colonel Wilson said he couldn’t help us any more without your permission, I decided I had to get your permission. And here we are.”

General White locked his fingers together and rocked his hands back and forth for a full thirty seconds.

Finally, he asked, “Bill, what are the odds Cronley could pull this off?”

“Sir, I would estimate the odds at just about fifty-fifty,” Wilson said.

General and Mrs. White exchanged a long look, after which White resumed rocking his finger-locked hands together, for about fifteen seconds.

“George Patton was always saying we’re going to have to fight the Russians sooner or later,” he said finally.

He looked at his wife again. She nodded.

“Try to not let this be the lighting of the fuse that does that,” General White said.

“Sir, does that mean…?” Colonel Wilson began.

“It means, Bill, that while you are providing Captain Cronley with whatever he needs, you will try very hard not to light the fuse that starts World War Three.”

“Yes, sir.”