Free The Generals by W.E.B. Griffin

Base?”
    Lowell did the arithmetic in his head.
    “Six hours, maybe a little longer.”
    “Report to General Jiggs,” Martinelli said. “I’ll call and let him know you finally turned up.”
    “What’s going on?” Lowell asked a dead telephone.
    He put the telephone in its cradle and looked at Paul Hanrahan, who was on the other telephone.
    “Hold on,” Hanrahan said to whomever he was talking to and covered the microphone with his hand.
    “I’m to report to Jiggs at MacDill,” Lowell said.
    Hanrahan looked thoughtful a moment.
    “Can you drop us at Bragg?”
    “It would take me another two hours,” Lowell said, adding bitterly, “and I’m already apparently AWOL.”
    Hanrahan thought that over a moment, then removed his hand from the microphone.
    “Send an L-23 to MacDill,” he said. “Have the pilot report to General Jiggs.”
    There was a reply. Hanrahan’s face tightened in fury.
    “Well get one of them back from the Corps fleet,” he snapped. “By force if necessary.”
    There was another reply.
    “Colonel, until such time as either you or I are relieved by proper authority, you are subject to my orders. Now do what I tell you, and don’t argue with me about it.”
    He took the telephone from his ear and put it in the base with such slow precision that it was obvious he very much wanted to slam it down.
    “I have been sandbagged,” he said to Lowell. “I am being ‘represented’ by XVIII Airborne Corps at MacDill. My ass of a deputy has seen fit to turn my airplanes ‘temporarily’ over to XVIII Airborne Corps. He has justified this action with the ‘explanation’ that he ‘believes’ they have a higher operational priority.”
    “That sonofabitch,” MacMillan exploded. “I never trusted him.”
    “As soon as I’m at MacDill, Paul,” Lowell said, “you and Mac can have the Aero Commander. If I need wings, I can get them from Rucker.”
    “Just get us to MacDill, Craig,” General Hanrahan said. “As quickly as we can get there.”
    (Four)
MacDill Air Force Base
Tampa, Florida
2145 hours, 22 October 1962
    “MacDill,” Craig Lowell said to the microphone, “Aero Commander One Five, descending from one zero thousand, estimate five minutes north northwest of your station. Requesting landing instructions.”
    “Aircraft calling MacDill, say again,” the MacDill tower replied.
    “MacDill, Aero Commander One Five, five minutes out, north northwest, request landing.”
    “Aero Commander One Five, MacDill is closed to civilian traffic at this time. Permission to land is denied. I say again, denied.”
    “Oh, shit, that’s all we need,” Wojinski, kneeling on the floor between the pilot’s and copilot’s seat, said.
    “There it is,” MacMillan said. He was in the copilot’s seat and pointing out the left window.
    Lowell looked over him, then pushed the nose down, and turned to the left.
    “What do we do, go into Tampa?” MacMillan asked.
    There was a lot of traffic at MacDill. Lowell could see two Air Force fighters taking off simultaneously on one runway, while a C-131 made its landing roll on a parallel runway.
    “MacDill, Commander One Five is on official business, we have a Code Seven * aboard.”
    “Commander One Five, MacDill. Advise landing at Tampa International. This field is temporarily closed to civilian traffic.”
    “MacDill, did you hear what I said about a Code Seven aboard?”
    “Affirmative, One Five. I say again, this field is temporarily closed to civilian traffic.”
    “MacDill, Aero Commander One Five declares an emergency. Request immediate straight-in approach to Runway Two Seven Left.”
    “Jesus!” MacMillan said.
    “Attention all aircraft in the MacDill approach and departure patterns. We have a declared emergency. The aircraft is a civilian Aero Commander, approximately three miles north of Runway Two Seven. We have a declared emergency. All aircraft in the approach pattern will execute one minute three hundred sixty-degree turns at