01 September 2010
 
The Professionals



 
Mac was eager to get home by eight, when the President was scheduled to address the nation from the Oval Office. It was about the war ending, from what I could gather, though it seemed a little premature with nearly 50,000 troops still in country.
 
We were at Willow with an unexpectedly large turn-out. The regular crowd was thin, or late in arriving is a better way to put it. Jim and Pete were holding things down, and a Marine with the right haircut and tats extending down from the sleeve of his polo shirt was holding down our usual place at the L of the bar.
 
This was a little impromptu, since deadlines are looming. I need to get the 25th Anniversary issue of the Quarterly on the street, and thought I would weave Mac’s recollections of World War Two into a sort of tribute to both him and the organization.
 
I’ll be completely honest with you: I have been taking notes with Mac for a long time, and it is a body of work that already exists. I would prefer to put that together rather than scour the archives for gems from the last hundred-odd issues of the newsletter. I’m lazy, I guess. But the more I thought about it, the more I liked the concept.
 
There are a couple of unique truths that need to be remembered. One is about the scandalous conduct of some Americans who went to their graves with their reputations intact and did so on the backs of others who did not. And there are errors in fact about who should be credited with key elements of the victory that was so significant that the fruits of it took sixty years to piss away.
 
And it is The Professionals who made it possible to tell the story before it all slips away.
 
See, without the Organization, I never would have known Mac, and the story of how it was founded had never bubbled to the surface.
 
That is why Pete drove all the way up from Warrenton to get his two bits in, and I am glad he did. He was sitting out on the patio in front of Willow when I strolled over from the office. Ishook his hand as we went in, and I signaled Peter where he stood behind the bar for refreshments.

“Peter!” I called out. “I’ll have a glass of your cheapest white!”
 
He looked back at me with a sly grin and nodded. Next to me, Pete considered his options. He is a beer man, like Jake, the Chairman of the Professionals, but I have given in to Willow’s polished allure and its wine list.
 
Truth be told, the pinot grigio they serve at happy hour prices is pretty damned tasty, and a great bargain. If I start guzzling the high-test, these little sessions can start to run into serious money.
 
I had my pad out and a decent pen with which to scribble random factoids.
 
Pete’s beer arrived, and Peter gave me a generous pour of the crisp white in a tulip glass. I did not know quite where to start with Pete’s story, since I know him only professionally, so I imagined myself being a real journalist and decided to start at the beginning.
 
“So how did this all come together?” I asked. “The formal founding we are honoring this year was in 1985, and I joined in 1986. Not that I paid a lot of attention to it. Drew Simpson, my boss at the Bureau, sort of threatened all of us in 4411 if we didn’t sign up.”
 
Pete leaned forward, a little distracted by the direct lurch into the interview.
 
“Well, here is how it began. I retired out of DIA, the Soviet Navy Branch at Arlington Hall in 1977.”
 
“Arlington Hall!” I exclaimed. “That is right across the street from Big Pink where I live. That would have been a fabulous commute!”
 
“Yeah,” he said, probably thinking of the 50 miles of concrete lunacy that separates Warrenton from the capital. “I went to work at BDM, for RADM “Shap” Shapiro. But once I was out of the Navy, I felt like I was losing track of some great shipmates. I happened to run into Bill Armbruster at the fall Dining In. He was the detailer at the time, and naturally had access to all the retired addresses in the data base.”
 
“I don’t think they could give that information out now,” I said. “All that privacy stuff.”
 
Pete nodded gravely. “He gave me around 1,400 addresses, and I wrote a letter and had it printed, asking if anyone had interest in establishing a professional group to stay in contact. I paid for the postage and addressed them all myself.”
 
“What was the response like?” I asked.
 
Pete smiled. “I got nearly 400 responses, which is pretty astonishing for a mail solicitation. We went from there.”
 
“So who were the founding members?” I asked, trying to sip wine and keep writing legibly.
 
“Well, let’s see. There was Tony Sesow, who later went to the Naval Intelligence Foundation side of the house.
 
“He still runs the annual golf tournament out in Shenandoah,” I said. “I have never met him.”
 
Pete nodded. “Yep. Tony and me, and Art Newell, who never came to meetings, since he was up in Newport running his clock repair business. Art was older than us, with World War Two service. Bill Bailey had got out and was an attorney, so he was a natural pick to be on the board of the new professional organization. And Mac, of course. He was an Admiral and we wanted to have a Flag officer on the board.”
 
“I looked at the mast head on the first newsletter,” I said, referring to my notes. “Wasn’t Bobby Ray Inman on the board, too?”
 
I looked up and saw that Mac had arrived, clad nattily in his beige summer suit with an open-neck aloha shirt beneath. Even with the scorching heat outside he looked cool and relaxed.
 
We scooted around and got comfortable. “I heard you talking about Bobby Ray Inman, the first intelligence officer to make four-stars,” said Mac.

“Yeah,” I responded. “What was he then? Director of Naval Intelligence?”
 
“No, he was up at CIA by then, as the Deputy Director. Bill Studeman was the DNI,” said Mac. “Of course, he got four stars as well.”
 
“We wanted a four-star on the board,” said Pete. “He agreed to do it, but he never came to the meetings. He was the one that did me in, career wise, when I was the Assistant Chief of Staff at Third Fleet. He was the PACFLT N2 at the time, and we were taking the staff ashore and relocating to Hawaii from San Diego.”
 
I extended my hand to Pete. “Happens to everyone, sooner or later, except for Bobby Ray and Bill. Put her there, Shipmate. I had that job, too.”
 
“Inman says his calendar is normally full a year in advance,” said Mac. “We normally had the meetings at my house in Arlington, and Art would call in from Newport.”
 
I noticed that the Second Greatest Fighter AI of all time had arrived, and was leaning on the bar waiting for Jim to produce a beer. He still wears his fighter crew-cut, grown out a bit, and he looked stylish in a well-cut business suit. He is leaving major command to join the private sector, and I was hoping that he might join our little band of gypsies down the street. I waved at him to come over, and he almost collided with the Good Doctor, who was running late as usual.
 
The two shoe-horned their way into the conversation nook, and Mac grimaced at his Virgin Mary. “I can’t have olives this afternoon. Dental work today left me a little sensitive. But there is no horseradish in this thing. Anyone care for food?”
 
The Second Greatest Fighter AI of All Time demurred. He had a dinner with the Israeli Naval Attaché he had to get to, and shook hands all around. Mac glanced at the Neighborhood Bar Menu, which is still a great deal and Peter got the signal and came over, bringing a fresh bottle of pinot.
 
“Where is Sara With No H?” asked Mac. The petite but fiery Lebanese waitress is a particular favorite of his, and I have to agree she is one of the prettiest women I have seen. Her dark eyes, with those exquisite lashes and delicate curved brow are deep enough to fall right into.
 
Peter frowned. “Sara is not with us any longer,” he said delicately.
 
There were groans around the table. “How come?” I demanded. “What happened? This is outrageous.”
 
Peter did not want to discuss the matter. “Lets just say there was an issue with management.”
 
“Damn,” said Mac. “I suppose we will just have to go talk to her at that other place she works. That is down at Dupont Circle, right?”
 
“Yep. A place called Cobalt. She works the second floor service bar. We hung out the other night. She really resented being told that ‘too cute is too hard.’ She blew up, and demanded an apology. In the end she said she needed some time to cool off, and management told her to take just as much time as she wanted.”
 
“Don’t blame her, I sad sadly. “We are going to miss her,” I said. “How about an order of the Pork Spring Rolls, some deviled eggs, and the Miniature Fish and Chips?” Peter nodded with approval. The Good Doctor added a half order of the signature Flat Bread with Shrimp, and Mac said: “This thing is going to be over by eight, right?”
 
I nodded. “I can’t imagine going that long.”
 
The Good Doctor looked over and said he wanted to listen to the President, too. “He is going to declare an end to the combat mission in Iraq,” he said. “The United States has met its responsibility to Iraq, and it is time to turn the page and get back to the that country pressing problems at home.”
 
“Is this like the flight onto the aircraft carrier and the Mission Accomplished thing?”
 
“No, not quite. I think the President is going to praise the troops who fought and died in Iraq, and still mention that he thought the whole thing had been a mistake in the first place.”
 
“I understand that the enemy gets a vote in these things, too” I said darkly.
 
“He is going to emphasize that his primary job is addressing the weak economy and other domestic issues, and I think he will make it clear that he intends to begin disengaging from the war in Afghanistan next summer.”
 
“That is not going to be good for business,” I said. “I think I have seen this movie before.”
 
Mac cleared his throat, having seen the whole double-feature. “We used to meet at Bolling Air Force Base for years, at the NCO club. 9/11 ended that when they locked down the base.”
 
“We can wrap the business end of this pretty quick,” I said, looking at my notes. “I just need the quick story of how this professional organization started, and how the Foundation came to be. Was it just a club for the old Flag officers?”
 
Pete shook his head in disagreement. “No way. Shap Shapiro was always interested, but in the background. He did not assume the Chairmanship of the Foundation until we got the legal opinion that we could not distribute funds through the Professional Association. That was about two years after we founded NIP.”
 
“Was that the original name?”
 
“No,” said Pete. “Originally, we were just going to be an organization of retired officers, instead of a comprehensive professional association of officer, enlisted and civilian intelligence specialists, active and retires with 501c3 status.”
 
“Yep,” agreed Mac. “We batted around some names. ‘Naval Intelligence League’ sounded too much like the other one. ‘Naval Intelligence Retirees’ sounded too geriatric.”
 
Pete smiled. “We thought about Naval Maritime Intelligence Association, but that would have sounded like an enema.”
 
“We wound up calling it NIP, even though we were afraid they would call us little NIPers.”
 
“Which they did,” I said.
 
“The Foundation came about in a curious way. The Congressman from Virginia Beach got funding for a new schoolhouse at Dam Neck, since he Air Force was going to close Lowry Air Force Base where we had our Air Intelligence School.”
 
“That is the Navy-Marine Corps Intelligence Training Center, right? My younger boy may go there if he gets his commission this winter.”
 
Mac nodded. “Interesting story, that is. They decided to name the auditorium after Vice Admiral Rufus Taylor, who was the first designated intelligence specialist to make three-star. Well, that ticked off Eddie Layton’s wife Karen was incensed, and wanted to ensure that Eddie was properly honored. She wanted to give skipper Bob Trafton $10,000 dollars to endow a fund for the top graduate of the Basic Intelligence Course in Eddie’s name.”
 
“Bob went to Bill Studeman, and the legal opinion was that the active Navy couldn’t take the money direct. We found a corporate lawyer in Richmond and he set up the Foundation, and Shap brought an advisory panel of four star officers to give it some kick.”
 
“And now, 25 years into it, we are consolidating NIP and NIF,” I said.

(New officer and enlisted IDC qualification pins)

“Legal opinions change,” Mac laughed. “Just think how you guys will have to adapt the organization to the new structure of Naval Intelligence, as it gets folded into Communications, Meteorology, Cryptology and Public Affairs. The new Information Dominance Corps reflects the way things were before World War Two, when the Office of Naval Intelligence got into it with War Plans, and the Radio Wars started in the Navy.”
 
“You were there for all that, “ I said. “That might be worth a look back for the 25th Anniversary issue.”
 
“It might,” he said. “I was just a fresh-caught deck officer in 1941, but I can tell you quite a story. In the meantime, I need to get back to the Madison and hear the President explain things from the Oval Office.”
 
“I’d be interested in an explanation for how this world came to be, Sir,” I said gathering up my notes. “Maybe we can get together at Willow again sometime soon.”
 
I waved to Peter for the check, and Mac reached for his wallet. Now that is a professional.

Copyright 2010 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
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