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But the primary reason he had failed to follow the protocol properly was that his ass was dragging. He had three minutes before he was finished accompanying General McNab on his ritual five-mile morning run around Smoke Bomb Hill and other Fort Bragg scenic attractions. This was understandably somewhat more difficult for someone weighing 225 pounds than it was for someone weighing 135 pounds, as did Lieutenant General Bruce J. McNab.
When they arrived at Quarters #3, and General McNab had announced his intention to grab a quick shower, Colonel Caruthers had collapsed into the chair in the foyer before the general had made it to the second floor.
“Who’s calling?” Colonel Caruthers demanded, not very pleasantly.
“This is Colonel J. Charles DuBois, the Pope FOD.”
FOD stood for field officer of the day, in other words the senior officer representing the commanding general that day. “Pope” made reference to the Air Force base abutting Fort Bragg, not to the head of the Roman Catholic Church.
“Charley, this is Max,” Colonel Caruthers said. “What the hell does the Air Force want this time of the morning?”
“I have to speak to General McNab.”
“Why?”
“He’s the senior officer present on either Bragg or Pope. The other general officers are off somewhere.”
“I meant about what, Charley,” Caruthers said, impatiently.
“We have a Level One Situation, Max. The protocol states that the senior general officer present will be informed without delay.”
“What kind of a Level One Situation?”
“The protocol states the senior general officer present gets informed, Max, not his senior aide-de-camp.”
There were five Situation Levels, ranging in importance up from One—in layman’s terms, Peace & Tranquillity—to Five, which implied something like The War Is About to Begin.
Colonel Caruthers erupted from his chair with an agility remarkable for someone of his bulk and, cordless phone in hand, took the stairs to the second floor three at a time. He bounded down the corridor and—knowing that Mrs. McNab was in the kitchen preparing coffee—burst into the master bedroom.
The commanding general, United States Special Operation Command, was sitting, in his birthday suit, at his wife’s mirrored vanity, which reflected his face in three views as he trimmed and waxed his mustache.
He turned to Colonel Caruthers and calmly inquired, “Something on your mind, Max?”
“A Level One Situation, General,” Caruthers said, as he thrust the telephone at him.
General McNab rose to his feet as he took it.
Naked, holding the telephone in one hand and his mustache comb in the other, he did not look much like a recruiting poster for Special Forces.
“McNab,” he said calmly.
He listened to what Colonel J. Charles DuBois had to say.
“I’m on my way, Colonel,” he said. “If this is an example of Air Force humor, I suggest that you and anyone else involved in this commit hara-kiri before I get there.”
He handed back the telephone to Caruthers.
“Tell Bobby to have the engine running and the door open when I get there. I will be down directly.”
Bobby was Staff Sergeant Robert Nellis, the driver of General McNab’s Chrysler Town & Country minivan.
Colonel Caruthers said, “Yes, sir,” and bounded down the hall and stairs as quickly as he had come up them.
Three minutes and some seconds after he had ordered Colonel Caruthers to tell his driver to have the engine running and the door open, Lieutenant General Bruce J. McNab came out the front door of his quarters.
He now looked like a recruiting poster for Special Forces—for that matter, like a recruiting poster for the entire United States Army. He was wearing his dress blue uniform. It was said, more or less accurately, that he had more medals than General Patton, and today he was wearing them all.
General McNab jumped in the front seat of the Town & Cou
