Serial Sunday: The Owl and the Hawk, Part II
By Matthew Kresal.
Part Two: Chain of Circumstance
19th of October, 1962.
Fridays were never Chris Bennefield’s favorite day of the week. There were numerous reasons for that, some having to do with recovering from the events of the four days proceeding it. It was also because it was the one day of the week he was guaranteed to have to see his editor because of the Sunday edition.
“What the hell is going on across the river?” Chuck Eidel sighed from behind the stack of papers on his desk. “You must have heard something?”
“Only that there’s an exercise in the Caribbean. Down by Puerto Rico, to be precise.”
Bennefield barely contained a sigh of his own. Of all the days his alarm have gone off early, it would be today. The one one Friday he caught Eidel before his second cup of coffee. No wonder the editor was in a sour mood.
“On this scale?” Eidel scoffed. “You’ve covered exercises before, yeah?”
“Including the one where Ike played out World War III a few years back,” Bennedfield offered with a nod.
“And did any of them involve this much hardware in motion? Men, planes, ships —”
“Automobiles?”
Bennefield’s quip was ill-advised, as Eidel stood up and swung his empty coffee mug around in a wide arc. The journalist felt his heart grow heavy as the bulky editor moved around the corner of the desk and stood right behind him.
“There’s something else going on, Ben!”
“Sir,” Bennefield started to say.
The editor ignored him and carried on. “Simmons heard from a friend at the Post that the White House called in a favor to spike a story. Remember what happened the last time the Kennedy’s did that?”
“Yes, boss.”
Bennefield did remember. 1300 Cuban exiles had stormed ashore at Cuba’s Bay of Pigs at the behest of the CIA to overthrow Fidel Castro. The press, people like Bennefield, had got hold of bits of the story and gradually put the pieces together. Enough so that, when the White House was approached for comment, it was said that the President and his Attorney General brother had called in a favor to avoid the story getting out. It hadn’t mattered in the long run as the harebrained scheme had proven a waste of time, money, and lives. Bennefield understood what his editor was trying to imply.
“Do I think that the White House is up to something?” Eidel inquired of his reporter rhetorically. “I can’t dismiss the possibility, especially with everything going on down there. If the exiles couldn’t do it, maybe our boys can.”
“Boss,” it was Bennefield’s turn to sign again. “If we are about to invade Cuba, what’s to stop them pulling same thing on us they did the Post?”
What Bennefield did not say was how friendly the owner of the newspaper was said to be with the President himself. Eidel chuckled setting the mug down on his desk. Hands free, he touched the gray vest he wore over a white shirt and dark tie.
“I’ll worry about the moneybags upstairs! You just report the story. Now, who do you know at the Pentagon who could get us some answers?”
Bennefield bit his bottom lip. “Let me reach out to the people I know. Maybe someone knows something. I doubt anyone would go on the record.”
“National security,” Eidel nodded with understanding.
“I might be able to get background, if we’re lucky.” Bennefield realized how uncertain he sounded, deciding he should try another joke. “I doubt that I'll find anyone who will admit that we’re outright invading Cuba.”
“Maybe then can tell something to go on?”
“If I’m lucky.”
Eidel threw his arms up in the arms. “Ben! Give me something to work with!”
“Yes boss.”
Bennefield walked toward the door to leave. Reaching it, he stopped and turned back toward Eidel. Catching his editor already back at his desk, a mischievous smile formed on the reporter’s face.
“Boss?”
“Yeah, Ben?”
“That’s my last name. Bennefield isn’t my first name.”
Eidel didn’t have to chance to glance up before he was gone.
***
By the time three o’clock came, Bennefield felt as though he’d wasted his day. His contacts had either been genuinely ignorant or unable to talk to him. Which had limited his progress as, contrary to the belief of certain people in Washington, journalists couldn’t roam the halls of the Pentagon at will. The distance one could travel inside the massive building was limited, not only because of guards but its sheer scale. Nor could Bennefield or anyone simply knock on the office door of Robert McNamara to for an interview.
Bennefield found him musing the squandered hours over a cup of coffee from one of the pour into a paper cup machines scattered around the corridors. Eidel wasn’t going to be happy he had nothing beyond the already released official statement, the same thing that every other Pentagon correspondent had. An inauspicious end to another fall week.
“Chris?”
The calling of his name yanked Bennefield from his pity party with a start. He took a moment to look around for its source. He found a familiar face walking toward him, bringing a smile to the reporter’s face.
“Mike?”
Bennefield shifted the paper cup into his right hand. He extended his left hand toward the man approaching him wearing a Marine Corps uniform.
“I see the rumors were true, you have joined the press corps!” Lieutenant Colonel Mike Oliver laughed before accepting the outstretched hand.
“And I see you haven’t been made a full bird yet yourself!”
Oliver shrugged his shoulders, raising the silver oak leaves that sat proudly upon them.
“Only a matter of time. You were still expecting me to be a major?”
It was Bennefield’s turn to shrug his shoulders, his beneath a gray suit jacket.
“It looks like we’ve both come a long way from Korea. I figured you’d still be flying jets once Ted went back to baseball —”
“And John became an astronaut?”
The two shared a chuckle regarding two of their fellow pilots who’d gone onto greater things. Ted Williams had gone back to his baseball career with the Boston Red Sox, playing until just a couple of seasons ago. His wing man, John Glenn, had become a media darling as a record setting test pilot before becoming the first American to orbit the Earth earlier in the year. Bennefield had tried not to dwell on thinking about either man, it just made him frustrated to realize how little he’d accomplished since leaving the Corps.
“Still,” Oliver gave another shrug, “we’re still around. There’s plenty of others we can’t say that about from MiG Alley.”
“True,” Bennefield conceded. “It could be better.”
“Always. So what the hell are you doing here?”
“Well,” Bennefield halted long enough to take a swing of rapidly cooling coffee before regretting the decision. “It’s like this: my editor wanted me to do a piece about the big exercise happening down in the Caribbean right now.”
“Ah.”
The very way Oliver said the word with more than a hint of reluctance told the reporter that there was something going on. Maybe the old man was right after all. Bennefield decided to use an obvious question, especially since the Marine was looking hot under the collar.
“You’re involved?”
“Chris…”
“It’s okay,” Bennefield gave his most benevolent smile. “I’m not expecting you to reveal anything that would get you in trouble.”
“I don’t want my name in the papers, Chris.”
“You’re what we call background.” Bennefield realized his old friend needed further reassuring. “Simply give me some detail, nothing more. Deal?”
“Deal.”
“I won’t even write anything down until we’re done here.” Bennefield patted his left suit jacket pocket where his little notebook stayed.
That simple gesture solicited a broad smile from Oliver. The Marine looked sideways up and down the corridor.
“Let’s walk, shall we?”
Bennefield followed, keeping step with his old friend as he had years earlier. He noticed the graying hair above the ears, islands in an a sea of brown. Not that the reporter was going to judge, based on the clipping from his last visit to the barber.
“So?” Oliver’s question was at once nonchalant and expectant at the same time. Bennefield took a quick sip from the paper cup, gathering his thoughts, and realizing Oliver’s hands were empty.
“You forgot to get some coffee.”
The lieutenant colonel let out a quiet swear worthy of a Marine. Bennefield chuckled and dug a dime out of one pocket. They walked back over and Oliver started the process as Bennefield finally found a question to start off with.
“So there’s an exercise?”
“Yeah. I’m sorry to disappoint but it’s been in the works for a bit.” Oliver put a paper cup under the spout and pressed the button to pour.
“Kind of close to Cuba, isn’t it? Especially after what happened last year.”
“I can tell you that I didn’t have anything to do with that.” Oliver’s lips curled as the coffee trickled out. “That situation was the very definition of FUBAR.”
“Is that official Pentagon policy?”
“Depends who you ask,” Oliver said with a wink as he scooped up his coffee.
The two men took sips from their respective cups, walking as they did so. Bennefield emitted a sound of faux satisfaction, but the Marine said nothing. The reporter pursed his lips.
“What’s the point of the exercise?”
“The usual. Amphibious landings, carrier boys getting in bombing practice. You remember us doing close air support in Korea?”
“How could I forget? We didn’t do training in the Red’s backyard.”
“You know we’ve got a range down in Puerto Rico for exactly this?”
“I do now. I also know that you boys like making up whole histories for fake countries with fake dictators to topple for them, too.”
That got a chuckle out of Oliver. “I can’t deny that. The one they came up with for this is especially bad.”
“Oh?” Bennefield lent in.
“Orb Sack.”
“What?”
Oliver repeated himself. Bennefield’s confusion must have been written across his face. The Marine tilted his head back.
“Not orb as in a sphere. Actually,” Oliver held out a hand, “have you got something to write with?”
Bennefield reached into the left pocket, pulling the little pencil he kept with the notebook. Oliver took it, muttering a quick ‘thanks.’ As Bennefield held onto his cup, Oliver scribbled something on it. When he was done, the reporter turned it around. Six letters, all capitalized, were written upon it.
ORTSAC
Bennefield couldn’t resist a smile. All you had to do was spell it in reverse. Oliver wasn’t kidding, it was far from subtle.
“So this is an exercise for that after all?” Bennefield watched his old wing man give a half-smile.
“Or something like it.”
Oliver began to say something else. He was cut off as a younger man in a naval uniform came up to them. Bennefield noted the sheen of sweat on the newcomer’s brow and the quickness of his steps. Young and eager to please.
“Colonel Oliver?”
“What is it, Roosa?”
The younger man’s eyes widened as he looked at Bennefield, as if unsettled by the sight of a civilian in these halls. Oliver must have seen it too as he smiled. Bennefield felt some awkwardness as his old friend had to explain his presence with a quick introduction.
“We served in Korea,” Oliver finished. “He’s just stopped by as part of the press corps here.”
“Colonel, I don’t think we should discuss things here.”
“Like Mike said, I served in Korea…” Bennefield presented an inlet for an introduction.
The younger man straightened his stance. “Lieutenant Roosa, sir.”
“You have my assurance, Lieutenant Roosa, that I won’t report anything you say.”
“What’s going on, Paul?” Oliver cut off any further conversation.
Young Lieutenant Roosa lent in to Oliver, conspiratorial and whispering. The Marine nodded when he finished.
“Hold onto that for now. I’ll take a look at it when I get back.”
“Yes, sir.” Lieutenant Roosa was gone in the next moment. Bennefield shook his head and raised his cup once more.
“Were we ever that young?” He asked rhetorically. Oliver shrugged his shoulders, opening a door for Bennefield.
“What was that all about? If I may ask?”
“You may, but I can’t tell you much. It’s the damnedest thing, coming out of LeMay’s office.”
“LeMay?” Bennefield almost spat out coffee with the name. “The bomber general?”
“And Air Force Chief of Staff. There’s a flurry of orders coming out of his office in all sorts of directions. It’s odd as it all comes back to the same thing.”
“Which is what, Mike?”
Oliver blinked and seemed startled. His eyes narrowed at Bennefield. “Chris, it’s been good seeing you. But you’re a reporter and I’m a Marine.”
“And our deal stands.” Bennefield held up his hands, gripping onto a half-empty paper cup in one of them. A pair of raised raised eyebrows went up with them. He watched Oliver’s shoulders sag before he rubbed his eyes.
“Hell, it won’t mean anything to you, I suppose.”
“Colonel?” Oliver turned, as did Bennefield in the next moment. As the reporter rotated the writing on the cup palmward, another officer in a blue Air Force uniform approached. Nothing less than a full bird colonel judging from his shoulders.
“Colonel Richards! Sorry, I ran into an old friend.”
Oliver turned back to Bennefield, his eyes were apologetic. He raised his paper cup, a faint wisp of steam coming from it. The message was clear: duty calls.
“It was good to see you, Chris. Come over for dinner tonight, won’t you? Around seven, say? I’ll tell Marge you’re coming.”
“Sure.” It was the reporter could say before Oliver rattled off an address at him. “And thanks for the cup of coffee!”
Bennefield once more raised his coffee as Oliver walked away. He couldn’t help noticing the Air Force colonel frowning at the sight, though the reporter wasn’t sure who he disapproved of more in that moment. The two began to walk away, Bennefield catching a fragment of conversation.
“Roosa says you told him to wait sending through the Star Drop orders?”
Then they were out of earshot. It didn’t bother Bennefield. He had enough to starting piecing his story together. Finishing the cooling coffee, he turned the writing side around. Looking at it and then where the two colonel’s had been seconds earlier, he threw the cup away and dug the little notebook from his pocket. Finding an empty page, he wrote ORTSAC upon it. Another thought seized him, and he scribbled down two more words, staring at it and a bit of punctuation curiously before closing it once more.
Star Drop?
***
He’d forgotten how early sunsets arrived in October, something which Bennefield cursed as he drove out of Washington and into northern Virginia. It was the perfect time to learn that he had a headlight out, especially trying to be somewhere he had never been to before. Still, the result should be a free meal and that wasn’t something that a bachelor would argue with.
Oliver had done well in the Corps, Bennefield decided as he saw the comfortable homes spread out on either side of the streets he drove along. Or was it that Marge had come from a bit of money? Bennefield tried to put his reporters instinct to one side, sensing if not outright knowing they were currently being driven more by jealous frustration that a hunt for a story. To think that after nine years, all he had to show was the car he’d bought after the war and a messy apartment.
Did I make a mistake leaving the Corps? Bennefield asked himself yet again.
He shook his head, brown hair swaying almost imperceptibly as he tossed the question away. Besides, vertigo in a pilot was no good, nor had he wanted to be a desk Marine.
Besides, you always wanted to write.
Bennefield checked the street signs again. Finding the one he was seeking at last, he turned to reading the numbers on the houses and mailboxes, easier said than done in the encroaching darkness. Until something start illuminating them, flashing lights of the red and blue variety.
“Police,” he mumbled to himself. If nothing else, Bennefield told himself he could read the numbers and see if he was heading the right direction. With his arms tiring, he turned the Ford’s wheel toward them and popped the clutch to change gears. Bennefield read off the house numbers, seeing one close to what he was looking for. As they began counting up toward the one Oliver had given him, the old red Ford crept ever close to the police cars and, Bennefield realized, an ambulance.
“Poor people.” Bennefield began to turn the wheel again, observing the little hive of activity. He looked at the number above the garage, highlighted in flashes of alternating lights.
A four letter word passed his lips as a cop steeped in front of the Ford. The car gently came to a halt and Bennefield automatically slipped the parking break on before open his car door.
“What happened?” He blurted out to the cop with the weather-worn face. Bennefield only received a go-to-hell look of disdain, so he repeated the question.
“Why do you want to know?”
“I’m supposed to be having dinner here.”
“And who are you?”
Bennefield reached into his overcoat’s left pocket. Running his hands over cool plastic, he decided his Pentagon press pass would suffice. Passing it over to the cop, Bennefield surveyed the scene in front of the house.
Red and blue flashing lights acted as star shells over it. Another policeman stood a few feet away from the front door, speaking with an attractive blond that Bennefield recognized as Marge. In the driveway, two ambulancemen stood with another pair of policemen stood next to a black Chevy. There on a stretcher was a figure draped in a white sheet, a hand and a brown sleeve sliding out as they pulled it.
Mike?
“How do you know the homeowners?” The arrogant policeman inquired, handing back the press pass. Bennefield took it with a trembling hand.
“How do you know them?” The policeman persisted. Bennefield blinked, almost dropping the pass. The reporter caught a quick, sharp breath and pocketed the pass.
The cop listened as he summarized the events of the day, eyes narrowed with disapproval. “You’re fishing for a story, aren’t you?”
“What?”
The cops lifted an accusing finger. “Get out of here while you still can, you son of a —”
“Are you Chris Bennefield?”
Bennefield saw the cop turn toward his fellow officer. Following suit, a sigh of relief passed his lips. He confirmed his identity, fingering the press pass once again in case it was needed.
“The widow said you were expected. We’re about done here, if you’d like to speak with her?”
“Thank you,” Bennefield replied. He shot the less helpful cop a glance and received an angry one in return before being led away across the lawn.
The crunching leaves beneath Bennefield’s shoes revealed that Oliver hadn’t been home much in recent days, their raking now a task he’d never finish. Bennefield glanced at the driveway and watched the ambulancemen tuck the hand back under the sheet. That Mike had flown so many missions in Korea only to end up dying in his own damn driveway.
But why?
“Chris?”
“Marge.” Bennefield found himself saying automatically as he turned from the dead man to his widow.
He hadn’t seen Marge in years, remembering her as the twenty-something once and future sweetheart of his wing man. Approaching the far end of her thirties, she remained attractive, even facing grief. Bennefield didn’t want to think of that now, choosing instead to extend his arms to embrace her with. They stood there, Bennefield feeling her warm tears soaking into his collar until she pulled away.
“Sorry,” she said with a shudder.
“Don’t be.” Bennefield felt inside a back pocket and extracted a handkerchief. He passed it onto her, watching as she dabbed her bloodshot eyes the cop who’d been watching them with an expectant look.
Bennefield spent the next minute or so giving a quick accounting of who he was, why he was there, and his movements during the day. No doubt the local Virginia police were ruling him out as a suspect. It was absurd he was even being considered, but Bennefield knew it wasn’t worth being offended over.
“Alright,” the cop said at last. “We’ll be in touch if we need anything else.”
“You should be able to reach me at the paper, though I’m not always in.”
“No problem,” the policeman paused before turning to Marge. “Sorry again for your loss.”
Marge said nothing, offering only a silent dip of her head. He returned the nod, shifting his attention as the ambulancemen wheeled the stretcher toward their white vehicle. Bennefield’s morbid curiosity lingered as he watched his friend being wheeled away, lost in the sight until he heard Marge’s soft sobs beside him. He swiveled to her, questions swirling in his mind.
“Forgive my asking, but what happened?”
The question tumbled out with more bluntness than Bennefield had intended. Marge looked at him and it was all he could do to offer a sheepish, wordless apology.
“They didn’t tell you?”
Bennefield shook his head. Marge dabbed her eyes again, the sobs dying with each pat. He heard her take a deep breath, her gaze focused on the white fabric between her fingers.
“I heard the car door close. I wasn’t sure who it was, him or you. So I came out and opened it. I heard someone call out for Mike.”
“Someone was waiting for him?” Bennefield’s head tilted slightly to the left. Marge closed her eyes and he watched her grip tighten around the handkerchief.
“I don’t know. Mike said something, what I didn’t quite catch. You know how it is, you hear something but don’t understand it? All was quirt for a second and then I heard running. I walked out far enough to see the driveway and…”
Marge’s breath sputtered into tear. Bennefield put his arms around her once more. They stood there, his eyes closed as he listened to the raspy, halting breaths between sobs.
“I’m so sorry,” he offered, feeling utterly inadequate in doing so. He’d seen people die in the skies over Korea, knew what it was to hear those words. People could be sincere as they wanted, but it didn’t matter.
Marge pulled away, Bennefield letting his arms fold across his chest. She blotted the tears away, twisting and turning the fabric seeking a dry spot. Bennefield returned to watching the cops as they got themselves back into their cars and prepared to drive away.
“He was looking forward to seeing you.” Marge’s words took him by surprise. Bennefield moved back to her, seeing that she was watching the aftermath with a detached expression.
“To think that I only bumped into him by chance today.” Bennefield rubbed his eyes, tiredness catching up with him. “I wish I had sooner.”
“I think he was glad to have someone to talk to about things. He’d been troubled over the last few days. Nothing he could tee me about, you know? I was just another civilian, even if shared the same bed for twelve years.”
“Did he give any hint as to why? Anything at all?”
Marge looked at him again. In those grieving eyes, tear-burned blue eyes was something Bennefield knew well. Someone who had something they didn’t understand but wanted to get off of their chest.
“I heard say ‘cog’ at one point. I didn’t know what it meant, of course. The military is fond of their acronyms.” She smiled at that, letting out a pathetic parody of a laugh. “When I asked, Mike just smiled and told me not to worry about it. So I did until now.”
Marge’s heard jerked, gazing up at him with sudden fear.
“You don’t think…”
“I doubt it had anything to do with this,” the reporter offered with a shake of his head. He did so again when she held out the handkerchief for him to take. “Keep it, Marge. It’s the least I can do.”
The widow whispered some thanks and turned away toward the still open front door. Bennefield thought for a moment to follow her, wondering if she might need some company. Or did she want to be alone?
“Marge,” he said. She turned to him, offering only a sad smile. Bennefield nodded his understanding.
“My sister is only about an hour away. I’ll be okay.”
She stepped through the front door and closed it.
Bennefield found himself alone with his thoughts, listening to the bitter autumn breeze as it went rustling through half-empty branches. He gazed at them, his mind racing as he visualized the days events and obscures phrases, seeing them as twigs and pieces connecting to a wider whole.
***
Colonel Ian Bilke could scarcely hear scarcely hear himself think over the engines. The vibrations and sounds from the four propellers reverberated through the C-130’s interior, reminding him of when he had once watched paint being mixed inside metal cans. He put the memory aside, knowing that he and his men had to be prepared for what was ahead.
“Three minutes to DZ!” The jumpmaster yelled to him as loud as he could.
Bilke gave him an affirmative thumbs up before they exchanged a nod. Once he had moved away, Bilked signaled for his men to stand up.
No words were spoken. They didn’t have to be, given how often they had trained to for what they were about to do. They did practice jumps on a weekly basis, but they had gone to daily ones recently, something which Bilke didn’t understand himself. Having served his country for twenty years, surviving the likes of Overlord and Market Garden in the process, he told himself there was a bigger picture he wasn’t yet privy to understanding. He just had to hope that it wouldn’t end with him or his men getting killed.
The ramp opened at the end of the fuselage. Cold air ripped its way around, buffeting Bilke and his troops. The jumpmaster was unfazed as he stood at the edge of the ramp, pointing at the right light by it. The colonel watched it, waiting for the sudden but inevitable change of color.
When it came, Bilke cleared his thoughts. He and his men ran off the ramp and fell into the empty sky beyond. Among the dark North Carolina night, he saw a building illuminated in white light. With any luck, they would all land on and around it this time.
Matthew Kresal is, among other things, the author of the SLP book Our Man on the Hill and short stories in the anthologies AlloAmericana, The Emerald Isles, and The Scottish Anthology.
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