Free The Generals by W.E.B. Griffin Page A

their present altitude until further notice. MacDill clears Aero Commander One Five to make an emergency straight-in approach to Runway Two Seven. The winds are five from the north. The altimeter is three zero zero zero.”
    “Understand Two Seven,” Lowell said. “One Five on final.” He turned to MacMillan. “Put the wheels down, Mac,” he said. “It’s smoother that way.”
    “Jesus,” MacMillan said again, as he put his hand on the lever.
    “Aero Commander One Five, you will stop at the end of your landing roll. You will not, repeat not, depart the runway. You will be met.”
    “I’ll bet we will,” MacMillan said.
    “Understand Taxiway Two Seven Left,” Lowell said.
    The tower was back on the air instantly. The operator seemed upset.
    “One Five, negative! I say again, negative! Commander One Five, you are directed to stop in place at the completion of your landing roll. I say again, you are ordered to stop in place at the completion of your landing roll.”
    As they came in over the outer marker, they could see a procession of airfield vehicles, huge red fire trucks, two ambulances, a sedan painted in a black-and-white checkerboard pattern, and three jeeps, all with flashing red lights, racing down the taxiway parallel to the runways.
    There was a chirp of rubber as the Commander touched down, and then a roar of the engines as Lowell reversed the pitch of the propellers, turning them into brakes.
    He allowed the plane to run to the end of the runway, past the painted markings indicating the beginning of the active runway, onto the paved area beyond.
    “MacDill,” he said. “Aero Commander One Five, just past the threshold of Runway Two Seven Left. My emergency seems to have disappeared. It was probably a loose wire on the main power buss.”
    “Aero Commander One Five, hold your position,” a new voice, this one cold and heavy with authority, came over the radio. “I say again, hold your position. Failure to do so will result in your aircraft being fired upon by base security personnel.”
    “My, they are annoyed, aren’t they?” Lowell said.
    “What the hell is going on?” Paul T. Hanrahan asked, sleepily.
    “Sleeping Beauty is heard from,” MacMillan said, laughing.
    “We had a little problem, Paul,” Lowell said. “But it’s cleared up. We’re at MacDill.”
    “You could say we have just jumped from the frying pan into the fire,” Wojinski offered.
    Hanrahan looked out the window. The airplane was surrounded. There were two fire trucks, from which were emerging firefighters in aluminum suits carrying large-mouth foam hoses. Air Force Military Police in two of the jeeps trained machine guns on the airplane. An officer carrying an electronic megaphone and wearing an MP armband jumped out of one of them and went to the checkerboard staff car.
    “Attention in the aircraft!” the MP officer ordered through his microphone. “Shut down your engines and emerge from the aircraft with your hands in the air!”
    “What the hell?” Hanrahan asked.
    “When they said the field was closed to civilian airplanes,” Lowell said, “I had an emergency.”
    “You go out first, Wood,” Wojinski said. “Lieutenants are expendable.”
    “Don’t you move, Charley!” Hanrahan snapped. He rummaged around until he had found his green beret and put it on, then walked to the rear of the cabin, pushed open the door, and stepped into the glare of the lights.
    “I am General Paul T. Hanrahan,” he announced. “Take that floodlight out of my eyes.”

III
    (One)
Office of the Commanding General
Headquarters, U.S. Joint Assault Force (Provisional)
MacDill Air Force Base
Tampa, Florida
2220 Hours, 22 October 1962
    It is not really true, as folklore has it, that general officers are permitted to design their own uniforms. They are subject to the same uniform regulations as any other member of the Army. On the other hand, the more stars one has on one’s epaulets, the fewer people there are in a legal