Foreign Enemies and Traitors (98 page)

                In a guest bedroom with a full-length mirror, Carson and Boone were dressed in blue officers’ Army Service Uniforms.  They were ensuring that every detail was correct under the watchful eyes of Colonel Spencer, who was also wearing his own blue ASU as a model for comparison. In addition, Boone wore the gold braid aiguillette of a general’s aide-de-camp around his left shoulder.  Bibi Donelson, dressed in a form-fitting red and black silk dress of her own design and creation, was ready with needle and thread to make any additional alterations as required.  Phil Carson had been out of the Army for decades, and it took him a while to become comfortable with coming to attention and rendering a salute not as an enlisted man, but as a one-star brigadier general.  Inwardly he felt doubt and turmoil, but he gritted his teeth and continued to practice.  He felt like an actor and an imposter, and he was in fact both of those things.  His mission was to be an effective actor and im-poster tomorrow, so he took his practice very seriously.

                The colonel saluted first and brought his stiff hand to the bill of his Army officer’s peaked cap, until Carson returned the honor more quickly and a shade more casually, as befitted a flag-rank officer.

                “General Harper, I think you’ve got it,” said Colonel Spencer, while they stood a few feet apart. 

                “As you were, Colonel,” said Carson, and they dropped their arms.

                “How do you feel about briefing the Operation Buffalo Jump CONPLAN?” asked Colonel Spencer.

                “You’re not going to quiz me on it, are you?  As long as I don’t have to give the whole PowerPoint presentation, I can hold my own.”

                “Well, that’s all right, then.  You just have to know enough to mingle and converse intelligently during the meet-and-greet.”

                “It’s all the acronyms that are the real killers.  Like TPFDD.”

                “Time-phased force and deployment data,” Colonel Spencer recited automatically.  “It rolls off your tongue, doesn’t it?  How about M-day?”

                “That’s when the mobilization of reserve forces begins.”

                “JSCP?”

                “Joint Strategic Capabilities Plan, that’s an easy one.  Your turn now, Colonel.  What’s the JOPES?”  Carson pronounced this word like “hopes.”

                “Joint Operation Planning and Execution System.  Is that one in your CONPLAN?”

                “Along with about twenty others.  Don’t worry, I made some cheat sheets.  And I’ll study some more on the flight up to Maryland.”

                “Did you get your new ID cards?”  Colonel Spencer addressed this question to both Phil Carson and Boone Vikersun.

                “We did,” said Boone.  “And they look perfect, as far as I can tell.  But they have a magnetic strip and all this digital computer crap on them these days, so there’s no way to be sure.  Not until the Secret Service checks them anyway.”

                Colonel Spencer looked both men in the eye and said, “It’s a leap of faith, gentlemen.”

                “Fearless men, who jump and die,” said Phil Carson, reciting a line from the old ballad that was chiseled on every Green Beret’s soul.  “But we’ll try to avoid that second part if we can.”

                “Roger that,” said the colonel.  “But we’ll still jump, no matter what the outcome.”

                “Airborne, sir,” Boone said softly.

                “All the way,” finished Colonel Spencer, who then pulled himself up to a rigid position of attention and slowly rendered one more perfect salute, but this time not for practice.  Boone Vikersun and Phil Carson, dressed as a major and a general, returned the colonel’s salute and held it.

            Bibi Donelson, who had not said a single word, crossed herself in the Catholic way, with tears welling in her eyes.  Tomorrow was D-Day.  Even she knew
that
much about the Army.

                                                      
30

The Blackhawk departed Fort Campbell in darkness,
its pilots wearing night vision goggles.  Dawn found them above Kentucky’s Appalachian Mountains.  With a pair of external tanks attached, they could make the flight to Camp David without refueling.  Four decades after Vietnam, Phil Carson found himself on a helicopter flying into a dangerous situation.  Once again, there was the strong possibility that a return flight would not be necessary.

                Mist and low clouds hung in the long shadows between the folds of the mountains.  The terrain below reminded him of the Central Highlands of Vietnam, especially the zigzag meandering streams and rivers.  Of course, in Southeast Asia only a defoliated area would ever be so free of leaf cover in the triple-canopy jungle.  Here, it just meant that it was January, with freezing temperatures doing the work instead of Dow Chemical.  Even with the troop doors closed and the cabin heat on, it was cold flying at 7,000 feet. 

                The four Blackhawk rotors gave this helicopter a different sound from the heart-thumping wop-wop-wop of the two-bladed Hueys he had flown aboard in Southeast Asia.  To this day, the distinctive sound of any two-bladed Bell chopper caused his adrenalin to flow and his pulse to race.  Even after four decades, today’s flight took him back to the land of firebases, air assaults, cross-border insertions and hot LZs.  The vibration, the stink of burning kerosene and the scream of turbine engines was the same.  But instead of web gear, an M-16 and a rucksack, he had a briefcase packed with folders, binders and papers. 

                General Armstead and Phil Carson sat on the forward-facing troop bench nearest the helicopter crew seats and the cockpit.  Carson was on the left side, looking north through the window on the sliding troop bay door.  There was space for twelve combat-loaded grunts on the ’Hawk, with four men on each pipe-and-canvas-frame seat, so there was plenty of room with just five passengers aboard.  Boone, Doug Dolan and Ira Gersham sat just behind them on the rear-facing bench, sharing a common backrest.  All of the passengers were wearing ACU field jackets with quilted liners to guard against the cold.  Flight helmets protected their heads from the chill and their ears from the 140-decibel engine noise.  Their blue Army Service Uniform coats were in slim hanging bags, their formal hats at the bottom of the bags.  The numerous pins, insignias and ribbons on their jackets would never survive the chest straps and seat belts of the troop benches.

                ****

In the Blackhawk’s right cockpit seat,
CW4 Hugh Rogan saw the orange day marker in the clearing, almost exactly where he had told his brother to place it.  His brother Pat had to drive all the way from New York to the middle of West Virginia because the Air Defense Identification Zones around Washington and Camp David were absolutely insane ever since 9-11.  When aircraft accidentally strayed into the Washington D.C. or Camp David ADIZ, missile-armed jet fighters would be scrambled for a visual check.  The further from these controlled air spaces that the Blackhawk’s bogus emergency occurred, the fewer eyebrows would be raised.  Any declared emergency even near the Camp David or Washington ADIZ would get a rapid flyover.  Not so much out here in Podunk, West Virginia, 150 miles away.  Especially not when the emergency involved a low-and-slow Army helicopter on a scheduled flight between two military installations.

                On the cockpit intercom, Rogan told his copilot, “Thar she blows.  I’ve got visual on our marker.”  The clearing was flat and unobstructed, and it was shielded from ground observation in all directions by thick stands of trees.  West Virginia Route 33 was visible only a half mile away, on the south side of the trees.  Interstate 79 was a few miles to the west, behind them.

                “I’ve got it too,” replied the copilot.  “Orange day panel at eleven o’clock.”

                “All right, I’m calling it in.”  Rogan switched to transmit on VHF.  “Clarksburg Approach, this is Army Two-Niner-Five, with you at 7,000.”   “Good morning, Army Two-Niner-Five.  Altimeter 29.94, maintain 7,000 feet.”

                “Clarksburg, Army Two-Niner-Five, we want to declare an emergency.”

                “Go, Army Two-Niner-Five.”

                “Sir, we have a chip warning light, and we need to get this thing on the ground right now.”  Chip detectors were probes inside the engine that would sense a tiny bit of broken metal flying around.  When the chip light went off, you set down immediately, before a tiny fragment of metal potentially led to an exploding turbine engine.  Sometimes the detectors malfunctioned and false alarmed.  It was a completely plausible reason for a rapid emergency landing.

                “Two-Niner-Five, do you have Clarksburg airport in sight?”

                “Negative, but we do have a clear grass field in sight, and we’re putting her down.”

                “Two-Niner-Five, state fuel and souls on board.”

                “Clarksburg, we’re a
little busy
.  Will advise on the ground.”

                “Understood, Two-Niner-Five.”

                CW4 Rogan switched back to the intercom only.  “Get the checklists, and tell the crew to make sure that our customers are ready to land.”

                “Roger that,” said his copilot. 

                The Blackhawk flared out and set down between the orange square and the trees, and Rogan killed the power to both engines.  As soon as it was quiet enough in the cockpit, he took out his cell phone and called the Clarksburg tower.  The number was already written on a small notepad attached to his leg with velcro.  After two rings, the call was picked up.  “Clarksburg approach, this is Army Two-Niner-Five.  We’re on the ground, safe and sound.”  Rogan’s real intention with this cell phone call was to allay their fears, so they would not call out the cavalry to go searching for a smoking hole in the ground.  The mountains between their landing site and the Clarksburg tower twenty miles to the north blocked line-of-sight VHF radio transmissions.  If Clarksburg knew that the Army Blackhawk had landed safely, they would hold off on alerting the entire world.  Hence the cell phone call.

                “That’s great.  We’re glad to hear that you landed safely.”

                “We didn’t want you to get too worked up.  This happens once in a while.  My crew chief is going to take a look under the hood.  Usually it’s a bad sensor probe.  We can switch it out in a couple of minutes just to be sure.  We’ll call you back in a few when we know our status.”

                “Roger that, Army.  Good luck.”

                Rogan switched off his cell phone, and on the intercom he told his copilot, “I’m doing this one myself.  I’ve waited twenty years to visit my brother like this.”  He pulled off his helmet, unbuckled himself and opened his side door.  Then he jumped down into the high brown grass and ran for the tree line a hundred feet away, his boots crunching through the frost.  The four rotors were still turning, but were visible now and slowing down.  His brother Pat had to stay in cover, on the off chance that somebody upstairs was taking pictures.  If he ever needed to explain this run to the trees, he would say that he was merely answering an urgent call of nature of the sitting variety.  To complete the charade, once the blades stopped, his crew chief would climb on top of the helo and open an engine cowling.

                Pat was wearing a blue padded goose down coat with a hood, and gloves.  It was cold enough to see their exhaled breath.  “About time you slackers showed up.  I’ve been waiting for hours, freezing my ass off.”  They grinned at one another and shook hands.  The Rogan brothers were not touchy-feely hugging types, but their joy was nonetheless genuine and unbounded.

                “Where did you get the orange panel?” asked Hugh.

                “It’s a poncho from Wal-Mart.  I staked it down like you said, so it wouldn’t blow away.”

                “You got the videotape?”

                “I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”  The VHS tape was in a brown paper bag, inside a gallon-size slide-lock plastic bag.  He handed the package to his brother.

                “Did you check it?  I mean, did you watch it?”

                “Hell yes!  It’s going to knock your socks off.  Jamal Tambor, unplugged.  I don’t know what you’re planning to do with it, but it’ll screw that commie traitor but good.”

                “Did you see Waylen?”

                “See him?  Hell, we killed him!  We had to.”  After this admission, Pat rapidly blessed himself.  “May God forgive me, but I’m not sorry.”

                “Who’s we?”

                “Me and my last partner, Joey Vellegio.  Don’t worry about him.”

                “So, where’s Waylen now?”

                “Oh, just hangin’ around his house.”  Pat Rogan cocked his head to the side, coughed, and with his hand he mimed a noose jerking him upward.  “Suicide.  He couldn’t stand the shame.”

                “Pat…thanks for doing all this.  I owe ya, big brother.”

                “No problem, Hulkster.  It’s great to see you in your pilot suit.  Mom would have been so proud.”

                “Hey…one more thing.  Listen to the radio on your way back.  And you might want to watch TV today, when you get home.”

                “Seriously?  What channel?”

                CW4 Hugh Rogan laughed.  “Yeah, what channel.  All of ’em!”  Behind him, the Blackhawk’s turbine engines began to wind up again.  “Hey, I gotta go—they tell me I’m the pilot!”  He stuffed the tape into a leg pocket on his flight suit, turned and ran back to his helicopter, giving two thumbs-up signs to his waiting crew and teammates.