Cunningham squinted at the lieutenant. “What else can we do, Carroll?” Cunningham knew his questions were unfair, demanding too much of the young man.
“There are things we can do, but I doubt we can stop it from happening. We can encourage Saudi Arabia and Iraq to form a stronger alliance. We can encourage some European countries to actively support such an alliance; it’s to their advantage—”
“And which of our dedicated allies would be most likely to do that?” The general was leaning forward over his desk.
“Only Britain, sir. They’ve probably already worked out a scenario like this one.”
“Lieutenant,” Beller said, “your scenario strikes me as simplistic, leaves out too many factors. You overlooked, for example, the Soviet Union’s concern with increasing its ties with the West. If they supported the Tudeh like you said, it would ruin that and close a lot of doors to them for years. It’s called linkage—”
“Not if the Soviets do it right, sir,” Carroll said. “They’ll be the friendliest you’ve ever seen them. Glasnost will be alive and well. They’ll take the pressure off everywhere else and might even disown Castro for a while. All the time they’ll maintain that it’s a regional matter and they are not more directly involved than the United States. They will do everything possible to avoid linkage.”
Waters picked pretty damn good subordinates, Cunningham thought, and knew how to use them… “Thank you, Lieutenant Carroll. You’ve made your point. That’s it for now,” he said, dismissing them.
The office started to empty when Cunningham called his aide back. Stevens automatically shut the door and returned to stand in front of the general. “Dick, the situation in Egypt is much more fragile than I let on. It can go either way right now. Too bad, but I’m going to have to use Shaw, even make him into a fall guy. He’s due for reassignment anyway. Have the colonel in charge of assignments find him a better job, one that can help get him promoted, while I make unpleasant noises about him to the Egyptian air attaché.”
After listening to Waters and Blevins argue about the 45th, Cunningham had decided Shaw had done a creditable job as wing commander and certainly did not want to block his path to promotion when he played political games.
“Has Third Air Force come up with names for a new commander?” Stevens nodded. “Who’s at the top of the list?”
“J. Stanley Morris,” Stevens told him.
“What do you know about him?”
“Well, sir, the men don’t much love him, but he did some very good work activating the cruise-missile weapons storage-sites in England and Belgium, dealt with some pretty touchy political and public relations issues.”
“Sounds okay… what does J stand for?”
“It’s only the letter, no name. I believe he had it legally changed from Jesus before he entered the Air Force Academy.”
“What some parents do to their kids,” Cunningham muttered.
“Bill, you did a fine job with the general,” Waters said as he retreated down the long halls of the Pentagon with Bill Carroll and Sara. “How would you two like to work for me for a while? Finding a new home for the 45th.”
Both officers quickly accepted, one for professional reasons only, one for personal and professional.
Chief Pullman stood beside his colonel at parade rest, holding the wing’s fanion as the C-141 carrying the new wing commander taxied in. The chief held the staff of the small pendant carrying the wing’s number and logo with pride. His stomach hurt like hell… medicine couldn’t help… but he wouldn’t give in to it as he kept his face as motionless as the fanion. The pain had started as his sources filled in the details on J. Stanley Morris, better known as “Mad Stanley.”
He had passed on his information to every chief master sergeant on base, preparing them for the new commander. Everything he had learned spelled trouble. He watched Colonel Shaw greet the new commander. Morris was rugged, trim and athletic looking. There was no gray in his dark hair but the lines around his eyes and mouth spoke tension, worry and pressure. The colonel’s voice, however, was calm, tightly controlled.
After a few minutes Shaw told Pullman to have a staff car brought around and the chief volunteered to drive them. Colonel Morris, it seemed, was not much interested in the flight line, maintenance or the general security of the wing. Instead he ordered Pullman to drive around the base while he made comments into a small cassette recorder on cleanup and beautification. Twice he had Pullman stop the car and get the name and the unit of an airman whose appearance he judged below military standards. The last stop was on the ramp in front of base Ops, where the change-of-command ceremony would be held the next morning.
“Chief, this is not acceptable. I want the time changed to fifteen hundred hours and I want a pass-in-review. It will be my first chance to meet the wing.”
“Stanley,” Shaw said, “we planned this for the morning, before the heat of the day. It will be a hundred and twenty degrees on the ramp at three o’clock—”
“I said fifteen hundred hours, and by the way, three P.M. is civilian talk, Colonel. That’s what’s wrong with this place… ” He returned to the car, cutting off any response.
Jesus, thought Chief Pullman, the man’s a regular Captain Queeg.
The next morning he called the hospital and spoke to Colonel Douglas Goldman, the hospital commander, telling him what Morris had done.
Goldman, a veteran of Alexandria South, knew how dangerous the heat could be. “I’ve already heard,” he said. “We’ll have ambulances and medics out there. We’ll pass out water and salt tablets as they form up. The salt tablets don’t really do much good, but the troops think they do. Have your NCOs watch their people. Carry anyone looking flushed and not sweating to one of the aid stations set up by the ambulances. I’ve got a new doctor who will organize the show on the ramp — Lieutenant Colonel Landis.”
At 2:30 Goldman walked around the ramp with Landis and was impressed with the way Landis had organized the aid stations. He also enjoyed the man’s dry sense of humor. Both men were drenched with sweat by 2:40 when the squadrons formed up.
Landis fumbled with the switch on the small radio he was carrying. “Check out the groups nearest you,” he told his medics. “Pass the word to bend their knees and wiggle their toes. Watch for signs of vertigo. Sweating is okay but get anyone to an aid station if they look dry and flushed; that’s heat stroke.” He walked around the block of men and women nearest him, chanting, “Bend them knees, wiggle them toes.”
When the order was given for the wing to pass in review, Landis keyed his radio, “We should be okay when they start moving.”
One by one the squadrons marched out in order, struggling through the first three turns. By the time they passed the reviewing stand most had managed to align their ranks, but it was still a pathetic demonstration. Morris’ temper built. After the last squadron had marched by, the new commander turned to the officers on the reviewing stand and ordered them to report to the O’ Club at 1800 hours.
Doc Landis keyed his radio, telling Goldman the parade was over. “Our troops did good. Only six casualties and not one case of heat stroke. Keep the faith; Colonel Shaw may be in luck. He won’t have to put up with Morris.”