My King The President (25 page)

Fifteen minutes later, with me in the back seat, he drove it through the main gate at Bragg, telling me something about the fact that Pope was a closed base, but that Bragg was not. “Anybody can just drive right in and out any time they want to.”

“You know where to go?”

“Yessir,” he answered, in character now. “Ain’t never been a guest there, but I know where it is, all right. That is, if I can get through this traffic.”

He wasn’t exaggerating. It seemed that every single man or woman in uniform was moving somewhere—fast, whether by vehicle or on foot. Helene Fordham’s diversion plan was working to perfection. From the Commanding General on down, everyone had obviously been taken by surprise, having had not much more than an hour’s warning, and the whole base looked as though it was in the process of assuming full alert status. No one was standing still.

“Organized confusion,” Mackenzie said, laughing. “Thanks to the Commander-in-Chief-in-Skirts, as Lyman called her, it’s a helluva lot more confusion than organization.” He pointed through the windshield at a low building with no exterior windows. “That’s our objective.” Half a block from it, he pulled over and stopped. “Sir, would you mind handing me your briefcase?”

It was only then that I noticed how heavy it was! I passed it over the seat and watched through the rear view mirror as he opened it, extracted first an MP armband, then a web belt and holstered Colt 45. “Where’d you get that?”

“Smitty’s. You were too busy checking your new hair-do to notice. You ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

He nodded, pulled the car up a few feet, got out, and opened my door for me. There were troops moving double time down the street, but none paid us the slightest bit of attention. We casually walked inside the building into a spotless office. Behind an equally clean desk, a young First Lieutenant rose to attention, ignored Mackenzie, and saluted me smartly. “Yessir, Colonel, can I help you?”

I spoke my already rehearsed lines in as even a voice as I could. “At ease, Lieutenant. You the OOD?”

“Yessir.” He was looking from my eyes to my JAG insignia.

I placed my much lighter briefcase on top of his desk, turned my head a quarter turn, and jerked my thumb backwards. “This is Sergeant Dunn. What’s going on out there?”

“I don’t know, sir. I heard there were unexpected VIP’s on base.”

“You here by your
self?
” Praying he was, I tried to put a little accusatory condescension in my tone. It worked. The Lieutenant’s face colored a little. “Uh, no, sir. Sergeant Manley’s back in the blocks, but everybody else has gone out to see… Need me to get him?”

Acting as if I was bored, I sighed, showed him my ID card and the authentic-looking documents written in the peculiar terse hieroglyphic that is military language. “I’m here to escort the prisoner to Washington, then represent him, but some very important people there are anxious to talk to him first.” I fished again in the briefcase and handed him the second sheet. “Here’s my authorization. You are to release him to my custody. Right now, if you don’t mind.”

By now, the young officer, studying my “orders” plus those Mackenzie passed to him, seemed very nervous. Agitated. It was plain he’d never seen release forms dictated and signed not only by his commanding General, but also countersigned by the Secretary of Defense himself. He kept staring at the orders Mackenzie had forged in Sergeant Lyman’s office as if he’d just been handed a court order committing his mother to an insane asylum. Joe didn’t help his disposition one bit when he said, “Beggin’ your pardon, Lieutenant, but we ain’t got all day.”

I took Joe’s cue and glanced at my watch. “Plane to catch. When the Joint Chiefs are in a hurry for something, they don’t like to wait.”

Lieutenant J.M Morris was clearly shaken. “But I… I mean we, have standing orders not to even let anybody know he’s back there, let alone release him, Colonel.”

Trying to show he was seriously taxing my good nature, I answered, “I know you do, Lieutenant. Or did.” I tapped the sheets lying on the desktop with an impatient finger. “These supercede those orders. Now, if you don’t want to add your name to a certain, very nasty list at the Pentagon, you’d better shag ass.”

That threat was more than enough. The blocks he led us into at a brisk pace were larger than in any jail I’d ever seen, not that I’d seen that many, and were as clean as any hospital. We passed several men in cells; some asleep, a few lounging against their walls. One or two of the more curious, hearing our footsteps, had come to their cell doors, but none said a word. We made one left turn, followed Morris down a well-lit corridor that smelled of fresh paint to a pair of steel doors. Neither had bars; only small sliding panels for observation and food trays. Cells for the hard cases. Not bothering to peep inside, Lieutenant Morris rapped on the right hand door, took a large key from his pocket, unlocked, then pushed the heavy door open. There were two men inside. One was a three-striper who looked like a Sherman tank. Had to be Sergeant Manley. The other man was my father, dressed in too-large fatigues. Both were sitting at a bolted-down metal table, facing each other, a chessboard between them, and both looked up with exactly the same open-mouthed, blank stares.

I got in the first words. “Hello, Batman, I’m your new lawyer, appointed by no less than President Fordham, and I advise you not to make one single statement. Get your things together. We’re leaving.”

Cal leaned back in his chair, winked once at me, and promptly ignored his attorney’s advice. “It’s about time, but can we spare two more minutes? I’m only one move from checkmate.”

Chapter 24

I didn’t dare overplay my hand, but it was hard to keep my cool while we waited for Cal to nonchalantly finish off his stubborn opponent, and lean across the board to shake his hand. “Thanks for the game, Sergeant.” He stood, stretched and said, “I’m ready to go any time you say, Colonel, but I’d appreciate having my clothes back.”

I gave Lieutenant Morris a questioning look. In turn, in typical military pass-the-buck fashion, he faced his sergeant. “Where are the prisoner’s personal effects, Manley?”

Sergeant Manley’s already red face turned a shade redder, knowing that somehow, if something was wrong with this unusual release of a close guarded prisoner, he’d be the one who’d get the blame. “Sir,” he said, looking at me instead of his Officer of the Day, “Them clothes Mr. Doe was wearing when they brought him here ain’t nothing but dirty rags. He’d be better off wearing the fatigues.”

Joe Mackenzie took a step forward. “Not acceptable.” He looked at me. “Sir, I have to remind you we’ve got a plane waiting for us, but we can’t take the prisoner to Washington dressed like that. He’d be too conspicuous.”

“You’re right, Sergeant,” I said, an idea already coming to me. I’m only an inch taller than Cal, and I had never been more grateful for the Willard family height gene. Morris was almost my height as well, so I said, “Sorry, Lieutenant, but I’m going to need to borrow your uniform.”

The expected protest came in a hurry, but I stopped him in mid-sentence by quietly reminding him of the Pentagon black list. Within another couple minutes, Cal became another bogus army officer, grinning from ear to ear. From his new pocket, he extracted the key to his cell and handed it to me. His most recent chess partner suspected something was surely rotten in Denmark, but to his credit, kept his own mouth shut, no doubt surmising that list I mentioned also might very well apply to enlisted men as well as officers.

Mackenzie unholstered his sidearm and pointed it at both men. “Lie down on the floor, please.” His tone of voice, along with his rapid movement of chambering a round produced instant results. Both hapless men hit the deck in a hurry. In the next moment we were out the door, and I locked it behind me. We started down the corridor but had only taken two or three steps when Mackenzie stopped. “Just a moment.”

We halted. “Why?” I wanted to know.

He reached for my shoulder. Right away, I knew what he was up to. In seconds, Cal had become the Colonel, and I was wearing the silver bars of a First Lieutenant. Quietly, taking unhurried steps, we walked past the cells back to the front office. The ring of block keys were exactly where the unlucky Sergeant Manley had said they were. I told Cal and Mackenzie to wait right there for me, then I walked back down to the blocks. By now, every single prisoner had heard the muffled screaming coming from the rear corridor, and were all standing by their own doors, bewilderment showing on every face. When I reached the middle of the block, I stopped and in a loud, slow voice, asked, “Who’s the senior man here?”

A low rumbling of voices answered me. “I am, Lieutenant,” came a strong voice from a cell three steps down to my right. “Staff Sergeant Willis, Andrew L.”

I walked to his cell. “Well, Sarge, this is your lucky day. How’d you like to get out of here?’’ I raised my voice so they all could hear. “How’d you all like to get out of here?”

I expected a raucous positive response, and was surprised when no one volunteered an answer. I looked through the bars at the grizzled old lifer. “Willis, I’m going to do you all a big favor.” Raising my voice again, I said, “Men, Lieutenant Morris and Sergeant Manley are locked up in one of the cells in the back. No one is guarding the building. I’m going to give the block keys to Sergeant Willis here. I’m also going to give him a thousand dollars, all in hundreds. I’m asking that he wait ten minutes after I leave, then let any of you out who wants out, and to share the money equally. If Sergeant Willis, Andrew L. double crosses you, I’m sure each of you will remember it and find him somewhere, sometime, and will know what to do to him.”

I took the envelope out of my pocket, counted off ten hundreds, laid them down on the floor in front of Willis’ cell in plain sight of at least half a dozen of the others, then handed him the keys, saying, “Here you are, my friend. Wait ten minutes, and if I were you, I wouldn’t think of crossing your mates. Besides, if you do, I’ll find out about it and come back and take care of you myself even if they don’t. You read me?”

Willis stared at me through the bars. “Yessir. I do. Loud and clear. Ten minutes it is, sir.”

I took my time walking back to the office again, hoping my knees weren’t knocking. In less than five minutes more, we were on our way to the main gate in the staff car. I was pretty pleased with myself for thinking of the extra diversion the mass escape might create, but more pleased that I hadn’t had to use the phony diaries at all. They were still in the briefcase.

It took only twenty minutes for Joe Mackenzie to drive to a big mall in Fayetteville. While he waited for us in the car, we bought Cal an off-the-rack suit, shirt, tie, socks, and shoes at one of the men’s stores there. Within an hour after leaving the stockade, we were back inside Air Force One. When we were once again closeted in the dining room, and with tears streaming down my face, I hugged Cal fiercely. I couldn’t even remember the last time I had. . .

Air Force One took off immediately after President Fordham returned, she chatting easily with a still purple-faced Connie Ferris. We were ignored again, to my relief, but we hadn’t been in the air more than half an hour before Bert Franklin quietly led us back to her private cabin. She had changed clothes for the third time and looked fresh. But this time she didn’t offer us chairs. Instead, she shook Cal’s hand first, and then embraced Joe Mackenzie like a sister. “Sergeant, can you still drive as well as you used to?”

A wide smile split his crimson face. “Yes’m I b’lieve so.”

“I don’t doubt it. I can’t put you back on active duty, but I may find a job for you on my staff when we get back home.” She then turned her attention to Cal. “Mr. Willard, you’ve got quite a son here, and my guess is he takes after his father more than he would admit. I don’t have time just now to listen to the full story of your abduction. That will have to wait until tomorrow, at breakfast. What I can do, however, is promise you a nicer place to sleep the next couple of days than where you were. In fact, I think you might be rather comfortable in the Lincoln bedroom. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to make a few calls.”

Chapter 25

The ubiquitous Bert Franklin shook me out of sleep seemingly moments after I had crawled into bed, destroying a fragmented but nice dream of Liz aboard
LAST WORD
. “Sorry, Mr. Willard. Can you be ready in thirty minutes? The boss is on a pretty tight schedule this morning.”

I sat up. “What time is it?”

“After six.” The way he said that implied it was already very late. “Your clothes and shoes have been taken care of. You’ll find everything else you need in the bathroom.” I was on my way to it before he closed the door behind him. For a second or two, I had practically forgotten where I was.

Monsignor Ralph Curtis’ raiment, shoes, and a fresh shirt—starched collar and all—were neatly laid out on the sofa, and my first solid thought when the jet of shower water hit my head was how thorough the White House staff must be, to have its own self-contained laundry and dry cleaning facilities. The spacious guest room I had been given for the night had seemed much like one in the Mayflower, except for the decor and too-short bed, which I had been too tired to pay much attention to. I wondered, while shaving, if Cal had actually been able to go to sleep in the Lincoln bedroom. I would have been too much in awe. I finished up my
toilette
two minutes before Franklin’s soft knock came. Cal was with him, bright eyed as ever, dressed in his natty new clothes. Where he’d obtained the red bow tie was a minor mystery.