MASH 12 MASH goes to Texas Read online

  “We’ll pay cash,” Scarlett said.

  “Splendid!” the senior sales counselor said.

  “Providing,” Scarlett went on, “you can cut a hole in the roof so that Teddy Roosevelt’ll fit in.”

  “So that Teddy Roosevelt will fit in?” the senior sales counselor asked.

  “Teddy’s my pet buffalo,” Uncle Hiram replied. “Wherever I go, Teddy goes.”

  “Of course! There will be a slight additional fee, of course.”

  “Not if you want us to buy it,” Scarlett said.

  “You drive a hard bargain, little lady,” the senior sales counselor said.

  “And you will, of course, throw in a tank of gas, right?”

  “My pleasure!”

  “You bring any money, Uncle Hiram?” Scarlett said.

  “Gee, Scarlett, honey,” Uncle Hiram said, “I don’t actually know if I did. Didn’t figger I’d need any.” The senior sales counselor’s face fell, and then his look turned to one of curiosity as Uncle Hiram stood first on one boot and then on the other, as if he was feeling for something inside.

  “Got my mad money,” Uncle Hiram said. “Never know when a man’s gonna need a couple of dollars.” He sat down on the floor of the Mechanical Maintenance Salon and pulled off his right boot. He burrowed his hand into the boot, coming out with a small green wad.

  “I don’t rightly know how much I got here,” Uncle Hiram said as he started to unfold the wad.

  “I’ll give them a check, Uncle Hiram,” Scarlett said. “You can pay me later.”

  “Why don’t we see how much he has?” the senior sales counselor said. “Perhaps it will be enough for a down payment.”

  Uncle Hiram separated the bills. There were four of them. He handed one to the senior sales counselor. “Can you change a five?” Uncle Hiram asked.

  “We’ll have to have at least one-third down,” the senior sales counselor said, taking the bill.

  “Take the whole thing out of there,” Uncle Hiram said. The senior sales counselor looked at the bill, and then looked at it again. There were two zeros after the fives on each corner, and then, for those with little experience with that variety of promissory notes from the Federal Reserve System, it was spelled out: five hundred dollars. “That’s the smallest I got,” Uncle Hiram said. “There ain’t all that much room in the toe of my boot to carry little bills.”

  “Lester!” the senior sales counselor called to the supervisory executive in charge of the Mechanical Maintenance Salon. “Drop whatever you’re doing, and start cutting a hole in the roof of the hearse for these good people!” He turned to Scarlett. “I don’t suppose I could interest you in a lovely Eldorado, could I?”

  “No, you couldn’t,” Scarlett replied. “Daddy gave me a matched pair for my birthday. But thank you so much for your interest.”

  “You go get Sitting Buffalo and Teddy Roosevelt, Scarlett, honey,” Uncle Hiram said. “I’ll just watch this Lester fellow cut the roof off. Nothing personal, but he doesn’t look like the type to be any good with a cutting torch.”

  Chapter Nine

  It was Senior Agent C. Bromwell Fosdick’s first time out as the Secret Service’s agent in charge of protecting a foreign chief of state, and he was determined to see that nothing went wrong.

  Just as soon as he got the word, he requisitioned, in the name of the White House, a U.S. Air Force transport plane to ferry his force of special agents to Spruce Harbor International Airport, and he had a company of paratroops flown up from Fort Bragg to establish a perimeter defense.

  He had hoped to enlist the aid and assistance of the local law enforcement authorities headed by Spruce Harbor Chief of Police Ernie Kelly, but that solicitation of intergovernmental cooperation had been rather disappointing.

  “If you think I’m going to send my men out to the airport at midnight, on overtime, to watch Abdullah get off an airplane ...”

  “His Royal Highness Sheikh Abdullah ben Abzug, please, Chief Kelly, if you don’t mind. We must all be prepared to take that extra step to stay on the right side of our Arabic friends and allies, you know.”

  “As I was saying,” the chief went on, “to watch Abdullah get off an airplane, you’re even dumber than you look.”

  “As a patriotic American, it is your duty to do everything in your power to protect a friendly foreign chief of state from all enemies,” Mr. Fosdick pressed on.

  “Abdullah doesn’t have an enemy within miles,” the chief replied, “especially not after he sent the Blessed Virgin Mary Parochial High School all them Arab suits and the two camels for the band.”

  “Something has apparently been omitted from my background intelligence briefing,” Fosdick said. “I wasn’t aware that His Royal Highness had been here before.”

  “Sure, he’s been here before.”

  “Well, since he was so kind as to outfit the parochial school band …”

  “Not only us Blessed Virgin Mary graduates are grateful,” the chief went on, “but the Protestants, too. He sent two M60A4 tanks over to Spruce Harbor High for the junior R.O.T.C. to practice on.”

  “As I was saying, since he has been so generous to the citizens of your quaint little dorf, don’t you think it would be nice if you dispatched a force of Spruce Harbor’s finest to the airport to meet him?”

  “Abdullah knows he’s liked around here,” Chief Kelly replied. “There ain’t a saloon in town that would take his money for a drink.”

  “A saloon in town?” Fosdick, somewhat confused, inquired. “We are talking about the same man, Chief, are we not?” He produced an 8-by-l0-inch photograph and laid it on Chief Kelly’s desk. It showed His Royal Highness in the Elysée Palace in Paris, France, sitting between the President of France and his wife. His Royal Highness seemed to be leering at the lady.

  “That’s ol’ Abdullah, all right,” Chief Kelly said. “He told me about her. Said her name was Françoise.” He winked at Mr. Fosdick.

  Senior Agent Fosdick snatched the picture back. “May I, in any case, have your assurance, Chief, that, in the event of any untoward emergency happenstance, I may feel free to call upon you and your men?”

  “That would depend on precisely what kind of an untoward emergency happenstance it happenstanced to be,” Chief Kelly said. “If there was another riot or something, sure.”

  “Another riot?” Fosdick said. “Tell me about the first one.”

  “Nothing much,” Chief Kelly replied. “Ol’ Abdullah was giving a little talk to the Spruce Harbor Rotary. They have a breakfast meeting every Tuesday morning at the Spruce Harbor Holiday Inn.”

  “And the riot?”

  “Well, ol’ Abdullah carries a little bag tied to those gold ropes around that bathrobe he wears.”

  “We of the federal law enforcement establishment like to think of that garment as the royal robes, Chief Kelly,” Mr. Fosdick said.

  “Well, anyway,” Chief Kelly went on, “when ol’ Abdullah finished his little talk and tried to sit down, the little bag caught in the microphone and got torn loose. All the diamonds and rubies and stuff like that he had in the bag went all over the floor. It was a hell of a mess, with practically every Rotarian down on his hands and knees fighting over the jewels.”

  “How unseemly!”

  “You said it!” the chief agreed. “I had to let the mayor have it with my blackjack to make him turn loose a ruby I got to first.”

  “And wasn’t His Royal Highness offended?”

  “Not at all,” Chief Kelly said. “Whenever the fighting seemed to die down, ol’ Abdullah got some more jewels from one of his bodyguards and threw them out on the floor. It lasted about half an hour, all told.”

  “Well, Chief,” Senior Agent C. Bromwell Fosdick said, “thank you for your time.”

  At ten minutes to midnight (or, as Senior Agent Fosdick thought of it, at 23:50 hours, or M-minute minus 10 of H-hour of D-day) an ambulance bearing the legend SPRUCE HARBOR MEDICAL CENTER showed up at the airport. It was, of cour
se, stopped by the paratroops, who reported its unauthorized presence through channels to Mr. Fosdick, who had set up his command post in the control tower.

  He was nearly sick at stomach with the realization that he had made a real boo-boo; he had not arranged for emergency medical facilities.

  “Pass the ambulance into the top-security area immediately,” he ordered over the radio, and, telling the control tower operator he would be right back, he slid down the knotted rope to the ground.

  The ambulance was driven by a nurse, complete to stiffly starched white hat and navy blue nurse’s cape lined in red. Two disreputable-looking characters rode with her in the front seat, and two uniformed attendants were in the back.

  “I’m very glad you’re here,” Fosdick said to the nurse. “There apparently has been a slipup somewhere in the game plan for His Royal Highness’ arrival.”

  “Who the hell are you?” the nurse asked.

  “Senior Agent C. Bromwell Fosdick, ma’am,” he said, “United States Secret Service.” He showed her his credentials. “I suppose it’s too late to secure the services of a physician at this late hour.”

  “That would depend on what services you required of the physician,” one of the two disreputable-looking characters said. They were both wearing sweatshirts with MURDER ’EM, SAINTS! legends; the taller of the two carried a medium-sized bass drum, and the slightly shorter one carried a freon-gas-powered air horn of the type used both by small-boat owners and football fans.

  “Open your mouth and say ‘Ah,’ ” the one with the air horn said.

  “You’re not a doctor?” Fosdick asked incredulously.

  “Trapper John McIntyre,” the one with the small bass drum said, and then he gave the drum two booms. “Co-proprietor of the Finest Kind Fish Market and Medical Clinic, at your service.”

  “Providing it doesn’t interfere with our departure,” the other said.

  “I naturally presumed,” Fosdick said, addressing the nurse, “because of your attire, madam, and the ambulance, that you were here professionally.”

  “I had the four-to-midnight trick at the hospital,” the nurse said, “which explains my uniform. But I am not here, sir, professionally. If your sniffer was working, you’d know that.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “A dedicated practitioner of the nursing arts, such as myself, never drinks on duty,” Esther Flanagan said, reaching into the pocket of her nurse’s cape and coming up with a silver flask on which was engraved the fouled anchor with the superimposed caduceus of the Nurse Corps, U.S. Navy. “How about a little belt, pal?”

  The sound of jet engines suddenly filled the air, and far out over the mud flats a landing light on an air craft suddenly turned on.

  “Oh, my!” Senior Agent Fosdick said. “That doesn’t sound like a 747.” He turned around and screamed up at the control tower. “You, there! Control tower man!”

  The control tower operator, one Wrong Way Napolitano, leaned over the edge of the platform.

  “Yeah?”

  “Is that the Boeing 747 carrying His Royal Highness?” he asked.

  “That’s a Sabreliner,” Wrong Way explained helpfully. “A 747’s a little bigger.”

  “Well, you get right on the radio and tell him he can’t land!”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said tell that little airplane he can’t land here.”

  “You’ll have to wait until that little airplane lands!” Wrong Way shouted down. “I can’t hear you with all the noise he’s making!”

  After stamping his foot in pique, Senior Agent Fosdick started to climb back up the knotted rope to the control tower.

  He made it without a good deal of energy left over, then stood wheezing and panting on the control tower balcony as the Sabreliner landed and taxied over to the control tower.

  “Tell that pilot to taxi that plane to a remote corner of the field!” he shouted at Wrong Way.

  “This field’s got only two corners,” Wrong Way replied. “Both of ’em is remote. Besides, he’s already here.”

  He was, indeed. The plane rolled to a stop. A set of stairs unfolded from the fuselage and a tall bearded man stepped out. He was wearing denim cut-offs and a purple sweatshirt bearing the legend surfers do it standing up!*

  (* Readers with good memories will recall that Flight Engineer J. Ernest “Ernie” McCluhan had told Colonel de la Chevaux that he had been surfing in Hawaii and that he didn’t have much with him in the way of clothing for His Royal Highness Sheikh Abdullah ben Abzug, Sheikh of Sheikhs, etc., etc. Ernie wasn’t kidding.)

  “Just look at that crazy person!” Senior Agent Fosdick sniffed to Wrong Way Napolitano.

  “Sainted Chancre Mechanic!” the bearded man shouted, running down the stairs and over to the chap with the freon-gas-powered air horn. He embraced him, kissed him wetly on both cheeks, embraced him again and finally set him down.

  “Your mother wears army shoes!” he boomed at the nurse, who didn’t seem at all upset about the greeting, and, in fact, offered him a swig of the contents of her sterling silver flask, which he accepted readily just as soon as he had set the other weirdo, the one with the bass drum, back on his feet

  Finally, in response to a comment from another man in the doorway of the Sabreliner, the bearded man looked up at the control tower. He cupped his hands to his mouth. “Up yours, Wrong Way!” he boomed.

  “Same to you, Abe!” Wrong Way Napolitano, with a warm smile and a broad wave, called back.

  “Outrageous!” Senior Agent Fosdick snorted. “Shameful! Despicable!”

  He turned to Wrong Way to order him to order the pilot of the offending aircraft to be gone. It wasn’t necessary.

  “Spruce Harbor, Chevaux Petroleum Seventeen ready for takeoff,” the radio said.

  “Spruce Harbor clears Chevaux Petroleum Seventeen as number one to take off,” Wrong Way replied. “The altimeter is Two-niner-niner. The winds are from the North at five. The time is ... I’ll be damned ... zero-zero-zero-zero hours.* How ’bout that!”

  (* It was, in other words, exactly midnight.)

  “Chevaux Petroleum Seventeen rolling,” the pilot reported. “Sayonara, Wrong Way!”

  Mr. C. Bromwell Fosdick watched until the Sabre liner had broken ground and then disappeared into the starry sky over the rockbound coast, deeply worried until it became apparent that the aircraft, and its awful cargo, would at the last minute discover some mechanical problem that would necessitate returning to the airport, thereby reopening the awful possibility of their being seen by His Royal Highness when His Royal Highness, due right now, arrived.

  “Thank God! They’re gone!” Fosdick said. “My entire career as agent in charge of protecting a foreign chief of state was hanging in the balance.”

  Wrong Way said nothing.

  “Please give me the latest report vis-à-vis the arrival of His Royal Highness,” C. Bromwell Fosdick said, getting back to duty.

  “You mean Abdullah? That royal highness?” Wrong Way replied.

  “How many royal highnesses do you get here in your dinky little airport?” Fosdick sniffed.

  “Well, we got Abdullah,” Wrong Way replied. “And then there’s Hassan. He’s a crown prince, but they call him His Royal Highness, too. And then there’s Woody. He’s got that royal blood, too, even if he is only a duke.”* He paused thoughtfully as Mr. Fosdick looked at him in shock, then went on. “And Woody’s Aunt Florabelle—she’s a dowager duchess.”

  (* Mr. Napolitano here referred to Midshipman His Grace Hugh Percival Woodburn-Haverstraw, Royal Navy, the Duke of Folkestone and has paternal aunt, Her Grace Florabelle MacKenzie, Dowager Duchess of Folkestone. Readers burning with an insatiable curiosity to learn what these headliners of Burke’s Peerage were doing in Spruce Harbor, Maine, consorting with the commoners, are directed to M*A*S*H Goes to London (Pocket Books), which, as their contribution to the 200th anniversary of rebellion in the American colonies, the publishers have seen fit to offe
r for sale on the better class of paperback racks.

  “I am referring to His Royal Highness Sheikh Abdullah ben Abzug, Sheikh of Sheikhs ...”

  “And then there’s Angus,” Wrong Way plunged on, “Florabelle’s husband. He’s a consort. I don’t know if that makes him a royal highness or not, but he’s a fine fella, I’ll tell you that.”

  “If you don’t tell me when His Royal Highness Sheikh Abdullah ben Abzug is due to arrive,” Mr. Fosdick snapped, “I’ll turn you over to the I.R.S.!”

  “He’s been and went,” Wrong Way replied. “Where was you?”

  “Are you trying to tell me in that barely comprehensible, if admittedly quaint, patois of yours that His Royal Highness has been here?” ,

  Wrong Way nodded his Roman head.

  “Impossible!”

  “Remember the guy in the ‘Surfers Do It Standing Up!’ sweatshirt?”

  “What about him?”

  “That was ol’ Abe. I call Abdullah ‘ol’ Abe,’ ” he explained. “And ol’ Abe calls me ‘Wrong Way.’ ”

  C. Bromwell Fosdick’s face turned ashen. He snatched his official identifying photograph of H.R.H. Sheikh Abdullah ben Abzug from his special agent’s attaché case and looked at it. There was no question about it: the same hawk-like eyes; the same high cheekbones; the same white beard; the same two-carat diamond embedded in the left incisor tooth.

  He picked up his official special agent’s electric megaphone and stepped to the edge of the control tower.

  “Attention, everybody!” he said, his voice amplified a hundredfold. “This is your agent in charge speaking! There has been a little tiny mix-up. Everybody back on the plane!”

  Then he slid down the knotted rope and ran, somewhat ungracefully, toward the U.S. Air Force jet.

  At about this hour, a somewhat flabby, hair-covered arm emerged from the head hole of one of the steam cabinets in the Steam and Sauna Room of the Congressional Breakfast Prayer Meeting Club, Incorporated, on Northwest K Street in our nation’s capital. It waved back and forth until it caught the attention of the attendant, who rushed over, opened the latches, held the door open so that a lobster-red solon could step out and then handed the lobster-red solon a towel in which he wrapped himself.