“Very good Mister President. I’ll set the wheels in motion.”
The President leaned back in his seat as Dean Rusk left the Oval Office. A summit conference would be a good way of discussing the problem The Caliphate posed worldwide. Before it took place, they’d have to arrange a series of agreements, trade, representation, cultural exchanges and so on, to be announced after the meeting. Only fools left the results of negotiations to the negotiations themselves.
That left the problem of the Attorney General. He talked too much and couldn’t accept that his statements had consequences. Consequences that were of immense use to America’s enemies. Furthermore, he was trampling across the boundaries that separated the responsibilities of varying departments. His absurd posturing was interfering with the smooth running of State, Defense, the Treasury, everybody. Yet, he couldn’t be booted into the outer darkness, he was a favorite of the Kennedy clan and they ran the Democrat Party.
LBJ was well aware that the Kennedy clan considered him a placeholder, keeping the Presidential seat warm for John F Kennedy’s brother, Robert. They’d made it an open secret they planned to run Robert Kennedy as the Democrat candidate in the 1968 election. They didn’t have much choice, with John F dead,
and Edward with the death of his brother and the resulting reckless endangerment conviction hanging over him, Robert was the only real option left. The prospect of a Kennedy in the White House filled LB.J with foreboding.
Conference Suite, Hyatt-Regency Hotel, Woodley Park, Washington
Ploesti Night. The night when Strategic Aerospace Command gathered to honor its own. There would be smaller gatherings at all the SAC primary operating bases and even smaller ones where SAC units were stationed on temporary duty. This one, though, was the centerpiece. There were 50 tables in the suite, 20 people per table. The room was sorted by rank, the exalted ranks of Generals sitting at the tables on the right, the lowly Airmen sitting at those on the left. Yet, the tables, the settings and the meals were the same. Just as they were for the top table, even though, this Ploesti Night, the President himself was attending. Ploesti night had two functions, the award ceremony reminded people of what happened when things were done right. The fact it was Ploesti Night, the anniversary of the raid where every single B-29 invoked had been shot down reminded people of what would happen if things went wrong.
President Johnson looked at the array of Air Force Blue in front of him. Normally, the Secretary of Defense attended Ploesti Night but McNorman’s performance over the last few months had made his appearance here politically unwise. The last thing LB.I wanted was for a senior member of his administration to get hissed “off the stage” by a room full of America’s heroes. The effects of the insult on McNorman’s ego would be too dire to contemplate; he’d probably try to cut funding for the entire Air Force. So he’d come himself, avoiding the problem, getting some good publicity for his Presidency and honoring the men who defended it.
Even the Targeteers were here tonight, sitting quietly in the shadows. It was odd, Johnson thought, wherever they were, they always seemed to be in the shadows. He’d suggested their senior personnel ought to be on the Top Table but he’d been politely yet firmly declined. They were just the hired help, the Seer’s assistant had said, the honors belonged to those who acted, not those who moved paper.
The meal had finished and the coffee and brandy had been served. Now, the main business of the evening was under way. The series of presentations, awards for a wide variety of professional achievements. The big ones came first. The LeMay Trophy for highest level of operational readiness, to the 100th Bomb Group with their B-52Hs, The Dedmon Trophy for overall bombing accuracy during Red Sun. The Angel Eyes Shield for best performance by a Strategic Recon Crew, an RB-58C called Marisol had won that three years running but this year they were in Italy on TDY so an RB-58D Lady Hawk from the 45th had taken the prize. Then a new one, the Yeager Cup, for best performance by a Strategic Fighter Group, won by the F-108s of the 357th.
Prizes for groups, prizes for individual aircraft. Prizes for performance, prizes for safety, prizes for professional achievement. As LBJ presented the award to each winner, his photographer took a picture of the event so each would have a memento of his meeting with the President. Another private grin, if McNorman tried that, they crews would be sticking pins in his picture within 24 hours. Prizes for officers, prizes for enlisted personnel. They were running through those now. Getting to the end of the awards at last. Thank God this wasn’t a Hollywood style ceremony with artificial tension, faked surprise and forced theatricals. Every award winner here had been given at least 24 hours notice of their prize and they’d had time to write a thoughtful two-minute speech of thanks. It hadn’t been required for the winners to have their speech approved by higher authority but the wise ones - and that was all of them - had done so.
The Master of Ceremonies took a drink of water and returned to his list. “And now, for the Association of Old Crows Shield awarded to the electronic warfare engineering cadet who has shown the highest level of professional advancement in their first year of service, I am proud to call on Airwoman Selma Hitchins.”
LBJ raised his eyebrows slightly. A young black woman was walking across the open space towards the top table. The Master of Ceremonies passed him the small shield with the black crow embossed on the front and he shook the young woman’s
hand. “Congratulations, Airwoman Hitchins, a fine start to what I hope will be a long and distinguished career. There’s always success waiting for a fine American who’s prepared to work hard and do what it takes.” Then he dropped his voice so the conversation was private. “Turn a little, hold the shield so the cameraman can see it clearly. That’s right. I’ll have some extra copies sent to you so you can send them home.”
“Thank You Mister President”. Hitchins stepped onto the podium, made the usual introduction and then started her speech proper. “I must admit I had an unfair advantage in winning this award. You see Crows are black too.”
A roll of laughter went around the room. LBJ nodded, smart girl. She’d got rid of the race issue in the first line by making people laugh about it. Although LBJ had noted that, while southerners had laughed immediately and freely, northerners had hesitated a fraction, wondering if it was acceptable to laugh about race. Hitchins was quickly thanking her instructors, her parents and teachers and a police officer whose glowing character testimonial had eased her acceptance into the Air Force. She made a quick comment on how important electronic warfare was likely to be in the future and the impact of the new generation of computers then, after two minutes to the second, she’d finished and was on her way back to her seat, clutching her award.
LBJ watched her sit down and accept congratulations from the rest of her table. Something worried him about the episode. That girl had won an award against competition from the whole of the rest of the Air Force cadet intake. To do that she had to be very, very good, even to get nominated, let alone approved. So why should her first words have to be an effort to defuse a potential awkwardness over her color? Damn it, she shouldn’t have to do that, her achievement spoke for itself. Why did she think she had to defuse an issue in order to be accepted? Then LBJ put his professional politician’s smile. Another award winner, this one for excellence in first year flight medical training. Another little speech, more photographs.
By 0100 the event was over, the Air Force busses were taking the attendees back to their accommodation. LBJ saw the Seer’s assistant checking off things on a clipboard and sent one of his Secret Service Agents to bring her over.