Jack, startled by the voice, turned to see who was talking to him. It was the Warrant Officer who had come to Fort Benning to see him when he was in jump school.

As the man offered his hand, Jack remembered his name: Finton. "Hello, Mr. Finton," he said.

"Over this way, Jack. I've got a car out here."

"I'm supposed to check in at the counter."

"You're supposed to do what I tell you, Jack," Finton said. not unkindly.

There was a black Opel Captain with civilian Berlin license tags parked outside the terminal building. Jack wondered what there was about it that made him absolutely sure it was an Army car. Or at least a U.S. government car. "Are you going to tell me what this is all about?"

"That's why I'm here," Finton said. "You ever been here before, Jack?"

"No."

"Nice town," Finton said. "I like Berliners."

"What the hell am I doing here?"

"You are going to be a German-language interpreter in the G-3 Section of OMGUS, which stands for Office of Military Government, U.S. Technically, Berlin is still under military occupation."

"In other words you're not going to tell me."

"You Were never at Hurlburt Field, Florida," Finton said.

"And therefore you know nothing about it. You don't know anything about B-26 aircraft or about B-26 aircraft being flown to Africa. You have not been to Africa since you left to get drafted. Get the picture?"

"Everybody on the Gulf Coast knows about those airplanes," Jack said. "Why all the secrecy?"

"I didn't come over here to argue with you, Jack. I'm telling you how it is." There was steel in his voice, and Jack heard it. "Sorry," he said.

"Everybody on the Gulf Coast knows about those airplanes," Fenton said, "but not where they went. They were intended for Vietnam, not for the Congo."

"Without sounding like a wise guy-and I really don't mean to, what's the difference?"

"There are people around the President who are violently opposed to any American intervention in the Congo," Finton said. "And could, and would, use you as a means to stop Operation Eagle."

"Me? PFC Portet?"

"You're a soldier. You're military."

"So are Geoff Craig and Pappy Hodges."

"They are military attaches to the embassy. You're not. It could make headlines in the Washington Post if it got out-and if anyone of fifty people in the White House and the State Department heard about it, it would get out-that we were using military personnel to fly B-26 bombers to the Congo."

"That's a little hard to believe."

"If you heard Felter eat Fulbright's ass out for letting you fly that airplane to the Congo, you'd believe it."

"There was no one else to fly it. The guy that Fulbright hired to fly it turned out to be a lush."

"Then it should have stayed at Hurlburt until they got somebody else. Take my word for it, Jack, if it had gotten out-if it gets out-it could blow the whole operation out of the water." They had driven through an area of five- and six-story apartment buildings. Now they were in an area of substantial one family homes, some of them nearly mansions.

"That sign says Onkel Tom Strasse," Jack said. "Our Uncle Tom, as in Harriet Beecher Stowe?"

"Ours. The Berliners took that yarn to heart."

"Where are we going?"

"To Zehlendorf," Finton said. "We have a house-a compound, really-there. I brought your uniforms with me from the States. You will report in, in uniform."

"Who is 'we'?" Jack asked. "As in 'we have a house'?"

"An agency of the U.S. government."

"Why Berlin?" Jack said. "Why couldn't I have gone back to McDill?"

"Why go to all this trouble, you mean?"

"Exactly."

"Because it's that important, Jack, that you vanish into the woodwork."

"Can tell my girl, my family, where I am?"

"Your girl already knows," Finton said, "so that's not a problem. And Pappy Hodges will explain the situation to your father if he hasn't already. I think the flaming ember has been pissed on. All you have to do is keep your mouth shut." Jack grunted.

"You'll like Berlin, I think," Finton said as he turned off Onkel Tom Allee onto Sven Hedin Strasse. He then drove the Opel through a gate in an eight-foot-high fence. The gate closed after them. Jack saw a beautiful German shepherd sitting with a stocky man. The dog looked curiously at the car, as if he hoped it contained someone to play with him. And then Jack saw that the stocky man had a submachine gun slung over his shoulder.

"Looks like a lot of fun," he said.

(One) The Situation Room The White House Washington, D.C. 2 August 1964 When the alarm bell went off on one of the battery of high speed radioteletype machines against the wall, the Army Signal Corps Master Sergeant who had the duty rose quickly out of his chair and walked to it, getting there before the message had been completely typed.

When the last letters had been typed out, the Master Sergeant tore the message-it was an Operational Immediate- from the machine and turned to carry it to the duty officer. A man in a baggy gray suit touched his arm, stopping him, with the obvious intention of reading the message.

That was not the prescribed procedure. Incoming messages, especially those of higher priority-and Operational Immediate ....-as second only to Flash-were to be delivered to the duty officer, who would determine the distribution.

The Master Sergeant had been only recently assigned to the Situation Room. All that he had been told about the man in the baggy gray suit was that he was an Army colonel named Felter and he worked in some unspecified function "upstairs," in other words, in the White House itself.

By the time the Master Sergeant had made up his mind to Politely remind the Colonel of the prescribed procedure, Felter had read the message.

OPERATIONAL IMMEDIATE.

TOP SECRET.

FROM CINCPAC TO CNO WASH DC.

INFO JCS & WHITE HOUSE SITROOM USS MADDOX Of? 134 OPERATING IN INTERNATIONAL WATERS IN GULF OF TONKAN REPORTED ATTACK AT 0845 ZULU BY TWO NORTHVIETNAMESE PATROL TORPEDO BOATS. MADDOX RETURNED FIRE, SINKING ONE ATTACKING VESSEL AND DAMAGING THE OTHER. MADDOX UNDAMAGED, NO CASUALTIES, PROCEEDING.

LOUMA, VICE ADMIRAL USN FOR CINCPAC.

"Make me a copy of that, please," Felter said.

He walked away from the battery of radioteletype machines to a Navy master chief electronics man sitting in front of a computer keyboard.

"Punch up the Maddox, 00134," he ordered.

The Master Chief's fingers flew over the keyboard. A map of the coast of the part of Indochina now called North and South Vietnam appeared on the computer monitor. A moment later a dot began to flash on the screen.

"Punch in the international-waters line." A line appeared on the computer monitor. The blinking dot was well outside it. "How recent is that?" Felter asked, "and how good is it?"

"Within a hundred meters, Colonel;" the Master Chief said.

He tapped the keys again and a date and time message appeared on the screen. "Thirty-five minutes ago, Colonel."

"Throw it up on the big screen, Chief." The Master Sergeant appeared. Felter, expecting a photocopy of the Operational Immediate, held out his hand.

"Sir, I'm sorry, but without specific authority I'm not permitted to make copies-" The Master Chief laughed. "Sergeant, you were just authorized. Take my word for it. What's with the Maddox, Colonel?"

"They report they were attacked by two North Vietnamese torpedo boats," Felter said.

"And that's international waters," the Master Chief said.

"That's an act of war by anybody's definition."

"Yes," Felter said.

"That would be a shitty place to fight a war," the Master Chief said.

"Yes, it would," Felter said.

The Master Sergeant returned with a photocopy of the Operational Immediate.

"Thank you," Felter said.

"Sir, how do I log that out?" the Master Sergeant asked.

"Log it out to me," Felter said. "Chief, I'm going to take this upstairs. I'll be either there or here for a while. If you could arrange it, I'd be grateful if you could stick around."

"Aye, aye, Sir," the Master Chief said.

An Air Force major general walked up.

"Chief, how quickly can you get me the latest satellite-verified position of the USS Maddox, 00134, and its position relative to North Vietnamese waters?" The Master Chief pointed silently to the left of three large monitors mounted on the wall, which showed the coast of Vietnam, and a blinking dot that indicated the position of the Maddox. The Chief winked at Felter as Felter turned and headed for the elevator.

(Two) Union Transit Africaine Flight 43 Near Fort Lamy, Union of Central African Republics 1330 Hours 3 August 1964 Within their peer group-the pilot and copilots of jet passenger aircraft on scheduled intercontinental service (known at that stratified avia-social level as "captains" and "first officers")pilots flying the Africa-Europe routes consider themselves to be, and are generally regarded as, an elite within an elite.

There are a number of reasons for this. Some have to do with the enormously long "legs" they habitually fly. And which they fly without half the navigation aids available to their brothers flying from, say, New York to Paris, or even from Honolulu to Melbourne.

They know they fly their airplanes, while their brothers at the controls of identical aircraft on the New York-Paris run simply don't have to do that. What they mean by fly in this case has nothing to do with skillful aerial maneuvers, with gentle landings and smooth takeoffs. There are very few people sitting in the left seat of multi-engine, multi-million-dollar, multi-hundred-passenger aircraft cockpits who are not possessed of remarkable airplane-driving skills.

What they're talking about is the necessity for them to make decisions-important, genuinely life and-death decisions-one after the other, that their brothers flying back and forth across the Atlantic simply are not called upon to make.

While the weather, present, en route, and forecast for ETA at destination, is certainly nice for a pilot about to fly from Kennedy to Heathrow to know,-it really isn't all that important to him. If Heathrow socks in before be gets there" no real problem. Heathrow has one of the best instrument-landing systems in the world-people and equipment. And if he can't get into Heathrow, he can sit it down somewhere else in England, or fly a little further and sit down in Brussels, or Frankfurt, or Paris, or at anyone of a hundred or so other alternate airports, many of which have long, wide runways and skilled people to talk him down through the soup.

There is not much difference, as the crow flies, in distance between Brussels and Kennedy and between Brussels and Leopoldville International.

The difference is that once the Mediterranean is left behind, the skies between Brussels and Leopoldville are comparatively deserted. There is not another airplane a hundred miles ahead, or behind, -or which will cross the Leopoldville's path five thousand feet above or below him.

There are far fewer navigation aids, and the ones that do exist are not nearly as reliable as those on more widely traveled air corridors. There are fewer weather stations, reporting less frequently, and often less accurately.

And most important, there are far fewer alternative airfields where the captain of a trans-African flight can conveniently and safely sit down if his destination becomes unavailable.

So he has to make decisions. . . right from the first one, based on his assessment of the en route. and destination weather: Do we go or don't we?

And he has to pay far more attention to his navigation. For on the African continent there are very few multi-million-dollar, long-range radar sets operated by skilled people who will obligingly report to a captain exactly where he is.

And, en route, he has to constantly reassess his status and consider his options.

At 1330, UTA 43 called Fort Lamy on the VHF.

"Lamy, UTA Four Three, can you give us your latest on the Leo weather?"

"UTA Four Three, Lamy. Stand by, please."

"Can you read him?" the First Officer of UTA 43 asked his captain. The Captain threw up his hands in a gesture of resignation.

Lamy came back on and reported what the Captain of UTA 43 was afraid he would. There were moderate to severe thunderstorms in the area which were not expected to clear before nightfall. The thunderstorms were moving in a southerly direction.

They extended one hundred miles either side of a line from Latoursville in Gabon to Salazar in Angola.

"Oh, shit!" the Captain of UTA 43 said. "That knocks out Luanda, too, if they're moving south. We'd get there right in the middle."

"That leaves us Lagos, Stanleyville, and Kampala," the First Officer said. "We won't have enough fuel remaining to go further south."

"See if you can raise Lagos," the Captain said.

Lagos, Nigeria, came over the VHF very clearly, first to answer the call and then to report five minutes later that there were not, repeat not, sufficient hotel rooms to accommodate the passengers of UTA 43 overnight.

"We're apparently not-the only-people this shit is fucking 'up,'" the pilot said. "See if you can raise Stanleyville." Stanleyville did not come in at all clearly. There was apparently some kind of electrical storm in the area. The Captain of UTA 43 was not surprised. At this time of year there were almost always afternoon thundershowers.

But they could heat him-well enough to get his weather-the storm would clear by five-and to learn that the Sabena guest house was available. Sabena maintained a guest house right beside the airfield for just such happenstances as this. In effect, it was a rudimentary hotel capable of feeding and housing, in somewhat cramped circumstances, airplane passengers stranded overnight-or until their flight could continue.

"Stanleyville," the Captain of UTA 43 said, taking the microphone himself. "Please contact the UTA station manager and inform him that UTA Four Three is diverting to Stanleyville at this time. We have eleven, one one, first-class passengers, including one first-class infant, and ninety-six, niner six, tourist passengers, including seven, repeat seven, tourist infants. Plus seven, repeat, seven crew." He had to repeat the message several times to get it through the electrical interference in the Stanleyville area. Then he called Fort Lamy and had him file the change to his flight plan.

Then he pressed the cabin announce switch.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said. "This is Captain Damier speaking. There's a rather nasty thunderstorm in Leopoldville. So we've decided to sit down in Stanleyville and wait it out. I'm sorry for the delay, and I can't even guess when the weather at Leopoldville will improve. That's the bad news. The good news is that I have done this before, and I can tell you that the Sabena guest house really puts out a fine meal. And, if we have to spend the night, they're going to put us up in their fine guest house.