"You have to see it work before you really believe it," Bellmon said. "And the Signal Corps is working on an infrared version. The prototype I saw shows little images, tanks, trucks, people . . ."

"We're really a long way from directing artillery fire from the side window of a Piper Cub, aren't we?" General Devlin mused. "And what I thought on the way up here was that the pilot of that sophisticated airplane was really a professional pilot, not an artilleryman, or whatever, who also knew how to fly."

"That's one of our problems," Bellmon said. "It's asking a hell of a lot of a pilot like Smythe to be a pilot, and, in his case, armor, keeping up with all he has to know to command a tank company."

Devlin grunted.

"What did you think of him?" Bellmon asked.

"Truth to tell?" Devlin asked. "He impressed me from the moment I saw him, and I wondered what the hell he was doing driving an airplane, when I really need bright young officers to command tank companies."

"That was before your first Mohawk ride?" Bellmon asked, smiling.

"Yeah," Devlin said.

"Well, Captain Smythe is about to get command of a platoon," Bellmon said.

"A platoon platoon?"

"We're forming a Mohawk platoon, for Vietnam. We chose from among ten of the best and the brightest captains we could find; Smythe was the final choice."

"Captains commanding platoons . . ."

"We're accused, of course, of inflating, or diluting, the rank structure, of course," Bellmon said. "But it's just not that way. When III Corps gets a Mohawk platoon-"

"Will that be before or after Bob Grisham gets his Corps Commander's L-23?"

Bellmon ignored the dig.

"-it will consist of six Mohawks. Each aircraft requires two aviators, and of course you need spares. The draft TO and E calls for ten aviators, all commissioned officers, because we are not yet at the point where we can train warrant officer pilots to fly them. There's also a maintenance officer, commissioned, and a deputy, warrant, and an avionics officer, commissioned, and a warrant deputy. And a supply officer, commissioned. From that perspective, you wonder if a captain isn't a little junior to command."

"And all of the officers have to stay current in their branch?"

"The brightest of us," Bellmon said jokingly, "can do both. Command a tank unit and fly. Me, for example," he paused. "Craig Lowell."

Devlin shook his head.

"Where is he now?"

"McDill," Bellmon replied. "Aviation officer for STRIKE command."

"I heard he's a Green Beret," Devlin said.

"Unfortunately," Bellmon said.

"I was in Task Force Lowell, you know," Devlin said. "I thought Lowell was what you find when you look up 'combat commander' in the dictionary."

"He's a fine combat commander," Bellmon agreed. "And I have to keep telling myself that what he's doing as a Green Beret is important. But I find myself wondering if he shouldn't be commanding an aviation company in Vietnam."

Devlin grunted.

"Or a tank battalion at Hood," he said.

"And they're attracting the bright young officers, or stealing them-"

"Stealing them?" Devlin interrupted.

Bellmon didn't reply directly.

"You remember my aide, Johnny Oliver?" he asked. "He's up at Bragg, eating snakes with Red Hanrahan. Even my son, who should know better, put in an application for Special Forces. And my daughter married one of them."

"I just met him," Devlin said, and when Bellmon looked surprised, went on: "He was at the airfield when we got here. With Barbara and Marjorie."

"You ever hear 'the general is the last to know'?" Bellmon said. "I had no idea either of them were here."

"They came in just ahead of us in an L-23," Devlin said, "which I strongly suspect is the one Bob Grisham expected and didn't get."

"For God's sake, don't tell him you got this from me, but it is. The reason I know is that my son-in-law went out to Wichita to pick it up."

"Seems like a very nice young man," Devlin said.

"Unfortunately, he is. Otherwise, I could hate him. Marjorie took one look at him, and that was it."

"Academy?"

"No. He got drafted and then took a direct commission. He was an airline pilot."

"And now he's a Green Beret?"

"Don't ask, Eddie. For those of us who like to go by the book, it's painful."

The General's intercom went off: "General, Major Lunsford and Lieutenant Portet are here. Major Lunsford says you expect him."

"Give them a cup of coffee and tell them I'll be available shortly," Bellmon replied. He looked at Devlin. "Last night, the chief called me at my quarters. He said two officers would be coming here from Bragg, from the Special Warfare Center, on a recruiting mission. Read 'steal my brightest officers.' "

"Those two?" Devlin asked, pointing to the door.

Bellmon nodded.

"The chief didn't say who was coming, but two and two are four, right? And the chief said they can have whoever they want-the priority came from the President himself."

"Jesus Christ!"

"The chief told me I was to prepare a list of ten officers meeting certain criteria-"

"Such as?" Devlin interrupted.

Bellmon ignored the question.

"And have them available for interview at 1300 today. And like the good soldier I like to think I am, I said, 'Yes, sir' and called the personnel officer at his quarters and told him to make up the list."

"What the hell is going on? Do you know?"

"I can make a couple of good guesses," Bellmon said. "But what it boils down to is that it has the President's approval. He's the Commander-in-Chief. I'm not going to second-guess him about priorities."

He leaned forward and pressed the lever on his intercom.

"Ask Major Lunsford and Lieutenant Portet to come in, please."

Their arrival, at least, was by the book.

There was a knock at the door, Bellmon called, "Enter"; they marched in, came to attention before his desk, and saluted; Bellmon returned it; Lunsford said, "Major Lunsford, sir," and Bellmon said, "At ease, gentlemen."

He stood up and offered his hand, first to Lunsford and then to Jack.

"Sir, General Hanrahan's compliments," Lunsford said. "He said you would be expecting us."

"My chief of staff's office at 1300," Bellmon said. "I came up with only eight officers meeting the criteria."

"Thank you, sir."

"You've met General Devlin, I understand?"

"Yes, sir," Lunsford said, "at the airfield."

"Lieutenant, if you don't mind my asking," General Devlin said, "what are those wings? I don't think I've ever seen-"

"Not to go further than this office, Eddie?" General Bellmon said.

"Of course."

"Those are Belgian paratrooper's wings," Bellmon said. "Jack earned them jumping into Stanleyville with the Belgians."

"Jesus!"

"And when he got there, he found Major Lunsford waiting for him. He'd been there, covertly, through the entire episode. The President gave him the Silver Star-his third-personally."

"I'm very impressed," General Devlin said.

"Whenever I become really annoyed with Special Forces, I think of people like these two, and it calms me down," General Bellmon said.

Devlin looked at him but said nothing.

"I will buy all the officers in this room lunch," General Bellmon said, "with the following ground rules: We will not discuss Special Forces, or who has General Grisham's L-23. Perhaps General Devlin will regale us with tales of Captain Craig Lowell and Task Force Lowell."

"I can talk about that all day," General Devlin said.

[ FOUR ].

Conference Room Office of the Chief of Staff U.S. Army Aviation Center and Fort Rucker, Alabama 1545 23 January 1965 Before the first of the eight officers who had been ordered to report to the office of the chief of staff actually entered the conference room itself, they had a chance to examine each other and wonder what the hell was going on.

The only things they had in common were that they were all black/Negro/colored/whatever and rated Army aviators. There were two majors, both of whom had the star of a senior aviator mounted above the shield of their wings. There were two captains and four first lieutenants.

"What the hell is this?" one of the majors inquired, "the Rucker Black Caucus?"

The other major gave him a dirty look but said nothing.

"If one more goddamned white liberal asks me if I have experienced racial prejudice, I'll throw up in his lap," the other captain asked. He, too, was a senior aviator.

There was laughter, in which Captain Smythe did not join.

"Is that what this is?" one of the lieutenants asked.

"Christ, I hope not," the major who made the Black Caucus crack said. "I'm supposed to be giving Caribou right-seat check rides, and this is really going to fuck up a lot of scheduling."

The chief of staff entered at that point. He was a tall, slim, crew-cutted full-bird colonel who everyone knew had been selected for promotion to brigadier general. He was one of the very few people whose wings were topped by a star within a wreath, identifying him as a master Army aviator.

The only other master Army aviator with whom Captain Smythe was familiar was Major Hodges, the president of the instrument examiner board, who had given him his final check ride on finishing Mohawk Transition; his annual instrument rating check ride; and, most recently, his check ride leading to his certification as a Mohawk instructor pilot.

All eight had risen to their feet when he entered his outer office.

"As you were, gentlemen, good afternoon," the chief of staff said. "I will not entertain questions, primarily because I don't have any answers. But I will tell you this, and with whatever emphasis is required to make you understand, it's not bovine excreta. You will not discuss what transpires here this afternoon between yourselves, or with your superiors-if they have questions, refer them to me-not your subordinates, your girlfriends, and especially not your wives. Are we all clear on that?"

There was a chorus of "Yes, sir."

"Okay, Les," the chief of staff said. "You first."

"Yes, sir," the major of the Black Caucus crack said. He stood up.

"When Major Levitt leaves, he will inform you who is next," the chief said.

The chief of staff walked into his office, and Major Levitt walked into the conference room, closing the door behind him.

Captain Smythe decided entry into the conference room would be by rank, which would make him either third or fourth to enter. This logical presumption proved to be in error. He was the last man to enter the conference room.

He entered the conference room and found the two Green Berets he had seen at Cairns at one end of the conference table. There was a stack of what certainly were service records on the table. They were in shirtsleeves. There was a coffee thermos on the table. The lieutenant was puffing on a cigar.

Captain Smythe saluted.

"Sir, Captain Smythe, Darrell J., reporting as ordered, sir."

The major returned the salute with a casual wave in the general direction of his forehead.

"Sit," he ordered, indicating a chair at the other end of the table.