"How long am I going to be gone? Why am I going?"

"Just shove your gear in your duffel bag," the First Sergeant said. "If they wanted you to know, they would have told you."

"What about my car?"

"Fuck your car. You can worry about that once you get to Hulburt." Lowell was preflighting the T-37 when a pickup dropped Jack at the flight line.

Jack saluted.

Lowell returned it casually.

"Am I allowed to ask what's going on?" Jack asked.

Lowell told him about the B-26Ks.

"I guess they want you there to help with the pilot briefing," Lowell said. "The same sort of thing you did when they sent Geoff and Pappy over there. I didn't talk to Felter myself."

"Why the big rush?"

"'That's 'the Army," Lowell said. "You never heard 'hurry up and wait'?" lack chuckled. "Where is Hurlburt, anyway?" He saw Lowell's eyes light up.

"Ataway," he said, making a vague gesture toward the south "You can't hardly get there from here." The reason I asked, Colonel, is because I hate to leave my car here. "

"They call that the exigencies of the service," Lowell informed him. "In other words, sorry about that." When there was no response, Lowell went on. "If the Army wanted you to have a red Jaguar, PFC Portet, they would have issued you one." Jack laughed dutifully, although he didn't think the legendary Colonel Craig W. Lowell was nearly as witty as Colonel Craig W. Lowell obviously did.

"Go over to flight-crew equipment and get a helmet for yourself and chutes for us both," Lowell ordered. "I have to make a phone call."

"Yes, Sir," PFC Portet said.

At 1155 hours McDill Departure Control cleared Air Force Two Seven Three VFR (Visual Flight Rules) direct to Hurlburt.

"Are you prone to airsickness, son?" Lowell asked PFC Portet when they were airborne and over the Gulf of Mexico.

"No, Sir," PFC Portet said.

"I'd like to try a few aerobatics. But not if you're liable to throw up."

"If I start, to get sick," Jack said, "I'll let you know, Sir," Lowell flew aerobatics for about thirty minutes and then set a course for the Florida panhandle coast, making landfall at Cape St. George. There he dropped down to wave-top level and completed the trip to Hurlburt Field along the beach. As the crow flies, it is three hundred and twenty miles from McDill to Hurlburt, or about forty-five minutes in a T-37. With thirty minutes added to the flight time by the aerobatics, PFC Portet was delivered to Hurlburt Field one hour and twenty minutes after he climbed into the T-37 at McDill.

Lowell told Jack he was sorry, but he had no idea what Jack was supposed to do now that he was here.

"Check in with Base Ops," Lowell said helpfully. "Maybe they could help you. If not, eventually I'm sure, somebody will come looking for you."

"Thank you very much, Colonel," Jack said, a hair's width away from overt sarcasm.

"My pleasure, son." Lowell beamed at him and then turned his attention to the refueling of the T -37.

Jack carried his duffel bag what seemed like a very long way to Base Operations and went inside.

A sergeant and an officer were on duty behind the counter.

The Sergeant glanced at him, and then returned his attention to Time magazine.

"I'm PFC Portet," Jack said.

"Is that so?" the Sergeant said.

"I've just been dropped off here," Jack said. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do next."

"You got orders, I guess?"

"No, I don't." At that moment, for the first time, Jack gave more than a casual glance at the air-distance chart glued to the wall behind the counter. This was a large map, with a means (usually a cord) to permit pilots to roughly measure the distance between where they where and where they wish to go. Until that moment, he had known nothing more about the location of Hurlburt Field than that it was near the Gulf of Mexico.

He now saw that it was practically around the comer from Fort Rucker. Maybe eighty miles. No more. If I only had my car, I could be with her in an hour and a half!

"No orders?" the Sergeant demanded incredulously.

"I'm traveling VOCG."

"You're ordered to report here?"

"Right."

"Then hang around, why don't you? Somebody'll come look... for you sooner or later. You a Green Beret?" the Sergeant asked.

"No."

"We got some Green Berets here," the Air Commando Sergeant said. "Maybe they're expecting you."

"I don't think so," Jack said.

"Then we're back to you sticking around and waiting until somebody comes looking for you, aren't we? Wait outside, Mac. Go to the PX and have a cup of coffee. If somebody comes looking for you, I'll tell them where to go."

"Can I leave my duffel bag here?"

"You can leave it, but somebody'll steal it, sure as Christ," the Lieutenant said.

Fuck it! Jack thought furiously. Let them steal the sonofabitch.

Fuck the Army and the Air Force!

He walked out of the building, located the PX, and started walking toward it. Two hundred yards en route, he came to a pay phone took just a moment for the call to be put through.

""General Bellmon's quarters, Lieutenant Bellmon speaking, "I have a collect call for Miss Marjorie Bellmon from PFC Portet, will you pay?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"PFC Portet is calling collect from Florida for Miss Marjorie Bellmon," the operator said somewhat impatiently. "Will you accept charges?"

"Just one moment, please," Lieutenant Bellmon said. And then-faintly-Jack heard him call, "Mother! Some soldier is calling Marjorie collect." There was surprise and, Jack decided, disapproval in his voice. This was obviously the little brother, three weeks or so out of West Point.

A female voice came on the line.

"We'll accept," she said. "Hello, Jack. This is Barbara Bellmon. Is something wrong?"

"I'm sorry to call collect, Mrs. Bellmon, but I don't have any change."

"It's all right," she said. "Are you all right?"

"I'm alive," Jack said. "But aside from that, things aren't going too great. Could I speak to Marjorie?"

"She's at the bank," Barbara Bellmon said. "She's working."

"Damn!" Jack said, furious with himself for not thinking about that before he called. "Sorry, Mrs. Bellmon."

"When she comes home I'll tell her you called. Is there someplace she can call you?"

"No, ma'am," Jack said. "I'll have to try her later."

"Do that, Jack." He hung the telephone up, swore, and left the booth. He resumed his journey toward the PX snack bar. There was a squeal of brakes and someone called his name. He turned, for a moment not able to accept that Marjorie Bellmon in her MG was fifteen feet away from him. He walked up to the car.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he blurted.

"I'm fine, Jack," Marjorie said. "Thank you for asking."

"Sorry. What are you doing here?"

"Uncle Craig called me at the bank. He said you were going to be at Base Ops here and needed me desperately. I just got here."

"Oh, that sonofabitch!"

"What's the matter, Jack?"

"Now that you're here, nothing. And he was right. I do need you desperately." She met his eyes. Her face flushed.

"Thank you for coming, thinking I was in trouble," Jack said.

"That's what you do when you love somebody," she said softly.

"Jesus!"

"No, 'Marjorie.' Jesus is the one with the beard. Get in the car."

XIV.

(One) Hurlburt Field, Florida 10 July 1964 Marjorie Bellmon was an Army brat and she knew what to do.

"We go back to Base Ops," she said. "And if they still don't know what to do with you, then we call the DO, and if he doesn't know, then we call Uncle Craig." PFC Portet was expected at Base Ops. Specifically, a Green Beret major, smiling broadly, was waiting for Jack when he went back inside.

"You're Portet?"

"Yes, Sir."

"And somebody, I guess, did finally show up for you?" He made an "OK" sign with his fingers, signifying his approval of Miss Marjorie Bellmon.

"Yes, Sir," Jack said. "You have any money?"

"Yes, Sir."

"You're sure?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Enough to rent a motel room and feed yourself over the weekend, plus some walking around money?"

"Yes, Sir."

"OK, then you can take off. You are to report Monday morning at 0800 to Building T-6101," the Major said. "Have a nice weekend."

"That's all?" Jack asked, remembering at the last moment to append "Sir?"

"That's it," the Major said. "Except, of course, when you see the Duke, you tell him Operation Cupid went off like clockwork."

"The Duke was obviously Lieutenant Colonel Craig W. Lowell.

"Yes, Sir,. I'll do that." Jack went outside and got back into the MGB with Marjorie.

The hem of her skirt had pulled up over her knees, and his eyes were drawn to it. She either saw him looking, or sensed it, and pulled the hem down. "I'm off until eight o'clock Monday morning," he said.

"Oh."

"I called your house just before you showed up. I didn't have my money and had to call collect-and your brother answered the phone."

"Oh," she said. "And he was very conscious of being an officer right?"

"What I was thinking was that your mother doesn't know you're down here, does she?"

"Yes, she does," Marjorie said. "Or she will when I don't come home from work."

"She does?" Jack parroted, surprised.

"When Uncle Craig called," Marjorie said, "I called-her and asked her what I should do. She said that I would have to decide that for myself." Their eyes met. Jack felt giddy.

"I just thought of something." he said.

"What?"

"We haven't kissed," he said. "After."