Black Operations- the Spec-Ops Action Pack

by Eric Meyer

  He thought for a moment. “I’m afraid so, yes. She is in considerable pain, but it is controlled. Although she has feeling and movement in her legs, at times this movement is restricted and is replaced by a feeling of numbness. This is causing great concern as it suggests increased pressure on the spinal cord. She has no signs of infection, but this is also a major concern as is likely to develop if untreated and cause serious complications, including meningitis. She has had no major blood loss, but her blood pressure is slightly elevated, there could be kidney damage. It is also possible that bone fragments and shrapnel could be in the spine which may lead to further damage or infection. Bear in mind, Mr. Hoffman, she is about eight weeks pregnant. Before she became unconscious, she made it clear that under no circumstances will she consider an abortion, which the hospital also feels should be considered.”

  We stood in silence as he watched me carefully. Did he think I was going to become hysterical, I wondered? But I supposed I had every right to go crazy. “So what can you do?”

  “She needs urgent surgery, you must understand how life threatening this is, a potential outcome of permanent paralysis, kidney failure, brain damage if untreated and…” He didn’t say the rest, I understood.

  “We may be able to save her and the baby,” he continued, “but it’s touch and go. If we were back in the States I’d say her chances were very good, but we’re not. Our equipment and expertise here is mainly for dealing with less serious wounds, we patch them up and either send them home for more treatment or back out into the field to rejoin their unit.”

  “Can you get her on a flight back to the States?”

  He smiled and shook his head. “They pulled strings from MACV to get her in here, but a medical flight to the States, well, she’d need to be service personnel, which she clearly isn’t. I’m sorry, Mr. Hoffman, but we’ll do our best.”

  I argued with him for a half an hour until I was almost thrown out of the hospital, but it was useless, they wouldn’t allow it. Before I left they let me see Helene, she lay alone in a white room, covered in pipes, wires, drips, bandages and monitors. She hadn’t recovered consciousness, her face was ghostly white with a stretched, clammy pallor that I had seen many times before in the field worn by heavily wounded casualties. Some of them never recovered.

  I left the base, walking like a zombie, I was in a dark, damp fog of misery and despair. I eventually found a taxi to take me back to Tan Son Nhat. I didn’t go to the hangar, instead I went to MACV and asked for Major Brown. Robert Anderson came out instead. He nodded to the sentry. “It’s ok, he’s with us.” We went through and upstairs to an office I hadn’t seen before, Milton Burns was sitting behind a desk. So this was where the CIA operated from.

  “I came to see Major Brown, where is he?” Burns looked up.

  “General Harkins asked for volunteers to go on a search and destroy mission to find that Viet Cong mortar team, he’s out there now with a team of Green Berets. He thought it would be a good chance to get some field training prior to the mission.”

  I nodded. “You heard about my wife?”

  “We did, yes, it’s terrible news, Hoffman,” Anderson replied.

  “I want her on a flight back Stateside, she needs medical treatment and she won’t get it here.”

  They both looked at me in surprise. “But she’s a civilian, that kind of medical flight is impossible,” Burns said.

  “I’ll do whatever you want, I’ll do anything. You want me to transport your team into Hanoi, I’ll do it, just get her to a U.S. hospital.”

  They both shook their heads. “It’s impossible, not for a civilian, no matter what you are able to offer. We’re truly sorry, Hoffman.”

  Burns at least did look genuinely sorry, perhaps the CIA man did have a soul after all. I left the office in despair and walked back to our hangar. Paul and Johann were both waiting for me, but I shook my head, no news.

  The evening dragged on and I went back to the hospital, but there was no change, Helene was still unconscious. I sat with her for several hours and went home. Half of our bungalow had been destroyed, but I managed to make up a bed in the undamaged part and I spent a few hours drifting in and out of sleep. In the morning I phoned the hospital but there was no change. I got dressed and walked to MACV, Paul was already there waiting for me.

  “I can take care of the meeting if you wish,” he said. “Why don’t you go back and see Helene?”

  “No, I’ll go to the hospital later, let’s get this done.”

  We walked in, the sentries were ready and let us through, and we went up the stairs and into the outer office of General Harkins. Burns and Anderson were waiting, they both looked grave.

  “What’s up?” I asked them. They shook their heads, tight-lipped spooks to the very end. The door opened and a different officer showed us into the office. General Harkins nodded a greeting.

  “Gentlemen, this is Captain James Cady, Special Forces. He is Major Brown’s replacement for Operation Reachout.” He saw our looks of incomprehension. “That’s what we’ve called the rescue mission.”

  “So where is Major Brown?” I asked him. “Why has he pulled out?”

  “Major Brown is dead, Mr. Hoffman, he was hit by a Viet Cong bullet last night while leading a search and destroy team to locate the mortar crew that did the damage on this base, your wife included.”

  It was a major blow to their mission. Brown had studied the plan for several days and he had at least a slim chance of pulling it off.

  “How much experience does Captain Cady have of fighting the Viet Cong?” I asked him. They all looked embarrassed, eventually, the General replied.

  “Captain Cady arrived in the country two days ago, he was unassigned and volunteered to take charge.”

  I felt chilled, a sense of déjà vu. While our Waffen-SS troops were bleeding and freezing to death on the Eastern Front, Heinrich Himmler sent out teams from his Ahnenerbe research institute to discover archaeological evidence related to the origins of the Aryan race. He had a bizarre mix of adventurers, mystics, and even reputable scholars to help rewrite all of human history. His expeditions went to Biskupice in Poland, Olympia in Greece, Slovakia, the Croat fortress of Surval, Serbia and Caucasia. Further expeditions made their way to Tibet to help find evidence to support his crackpot theories of the origins of the Master Race. This mission was of a different type, but it seemed just as ill-conceived, just as crackpot.

  The office was silent for a moment. Cady broke it. “Mr. Hoffman, I may not have the experience of fighting these savages, but I’ve seen action and I’ll see this mission through.”

  Harkins looked at me and Paul. “Well? What do you think?”

  It was Paul who spoke up, angrily. “Is this the way the U.S. Army operates, sending ill-prepared, untrained men to carry out dangerous missions? Good God, General, it’s crazy.”

  “Hoffman?” he asked. I shook my head. “Paul is right. Without the kind of expertise that Major Brown had as a bare minimum, the chances of success are zero.”

  “Hoffman,” Milton Burns broke in, “that’s not your call to make.”

  “Shut up, Milton,” Harkins said. “There are only two people in room who have actually been there and know how the land lies, and you’re not one of them.” He looked at Paul and me. “What do you gentlemen suggest? We have to get them out, it is imperative.”

  “I’ll take them in and bring them out,” I said to him. He nodded thoughtfully. “I see. What’s the price, Mr. Hoffman?”

  “You get my wife on a flight to the States today, and get her wounds treated in a hospital equipped to deal with them.”

  “General, you can’t…”

  “Burns, I told you to shut up,” he snapped. He picked up the phone.

  “Get me the colonel in charge of logistics, I want him now, wherever he is. Get him in here, on the double.”

  We sat waiting for less than a minute before the door burst open and a harried looking colonel rushed in and saluted. �
��Yes, Sir, General, what can I do for you?”

  “Colonel, there is a lady in the Saigon Station Hospital, Helene Baptiste. I want her on a flight tonight to Washington and a team standing by at Walter Reed Army Medical Centre to operate on her. Make it happen, Colonel, I won’t take no for an answer.”

  “Sir,” the colonel saluted and rushed out.

  “Satisfied, Hoffman?” Harkins said to me.

  I nodded. “Thank you, General. I’ll get your men back for you.” I felt an enormous weight beginning to lift off my head, but I knew this was only the start. It was a long flight Stateside and a lot of complicated treatment before she recovered. And there was the baby of course, Jesus Christ, I was about to become a father and now this.

  “Good, then I suggest you make a start. Nice meeting you, Mr. Hoffman, Mr. Schuster.”

  He shook hands with us and we left his office, an aide was already announcing the arrivals for his next meeting.

  “It seems we’re going back to war,” Schuster said grimly.

  I nodded. God help all of us this time.

  *****

  ‘A Communist land reform program in South Vietnam, begun by the Viet Minh, is still being carried out under the Viet Cong. Current reports also indicate that the Viet Cong provide assistance

  to peasants in land clearance, seed distribution, and harvesting, and in turn persuade or force peasants to store rice in excess of their own needs for the use of guerrilla troops. Controls are apparently imposed in Viet Cong zones to prevent shipments for commercial marketing in Saigon, or to collect taxes on such shipments. The Viet Cong themselves often

  pay cash or give promissory notes for the food they acquire. Captured Viet Cong doctors or medical personnel indicate that dispensaries for treatment of Viet Cong wounded often are scattered inconspicuously among several peasant homes in a village, and that civilians are treated as facilities and supplies permit. There are also references to primary and adult education, much of it in the form of indoctrination, and to Viet Cong run schools operating almost side by side with government schools. The Viet Cong also promote cultural activities, heavily flavored with Propaganda, through press, radio and film media, as well as live drama and festivals.’

  CIA Secret Memo

  Eight new senior officers leapt to attention, all newly arrived in Vietnam to help lead the American ‘Special Advisors’ programme. Harkins looked at them one by one.

  “The groundwork has been done, gentlemen. On every front our Vietnamese allies are fighting the communists and achieving good results. The Viet Cong is retreating and will eventually be defeated if we keep up the pressure. Your contribution will be invaluable to that success, as will the contribution of further American units that I expect to arrive in this country over the next few months. Questions?”

  “Sir, there’ve been stories in the news that suggest that the ARVN is not committed to the fighting and they’ve taken some pretty good beatings from the communists, or that they’ve refused to fight at all.” The newly arrived major could see the General’s face darkening as he spoke, but it had to be asked, it was their lives that would be on the line.

  “Is the ARVN a serious problem?”

  Harkins looked irritably at the major then at Colonel Gia, the ARVN liaison officer, standing passively next to him. He had to defuse this potentially embarrassing question, for no other reason than the need to maintain good relations with the Vietnamese army, the ARVN.

  “The ARVN is a well trained and equipped fighting force, Major. Nothing to worry about.”

  Most present looked satisfied, but the major was obviously puzzled at the General’s inability to answer the question. One of Harkin’s aides, a captain, looked up sharply as he heard what his general had said. But it was not for him to contradict his commanding officer, he had his own career to worry about.

  Harkins looked down on the assembled officers. He knew that he was not giving them the whole truth, politics prevented him from giving them the real story. He recalled a recent meeting with Diem, the President of the Republic of Vietnam. He’d spoken to Diem directly, giving it to him straight.

  “During the preceding week, all of your ARVN divisions, everywhere, it was reported that there was a serious shortage of company grade officers. In some cases, there were only six officers in a battalion. There were instances of companies commanded by trainees or sergeants. Leadership is lacking in platoons and companies, the very place where it is needed most, since these are the units which do the fighting.”

  He had recommended diverting officers from headquarters or logistical commands to combat units, shortening the training time at the officer school, and bringing more young professional men into the armed forces with abbreviated officer training.

  Diem had nodded to Harkins.

  “Of course, you are correct, General. I am concerned over the number of senior officers who have reached the height of their potential and who lack the education and initiative required in higher grades.”

  “Such men should be eliminated,” Harkins replied.

  Diem spread his hands wide, as if to say ‘look how difficult this is, how my hands are tied.’

  “One of the difficulties in identifying incompetent officers lies in the fact that my generals do not want to recommend the separation of officers who are old friends. But I am considering the thought of elimination.”

  But of course, none of this was for the consumption of these new officers, nor for his superiors back in Washington. He had a war to fight, sometimes that meant bending the truth a little to get people on your side, it was called politics. In the meantime, he needed men, both American and Vietnamese, who were on his side.

  “Don’t worry, men, although the Viet Cong is already beaten, there is still plenty to do. We’re making history here, defeating the communists. For you officers that means promotions and medals, and there are plenty of both to go around.”

  The men cheered heartily. Now he had to get them and their ARVN counterparts to fight the communists.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Four

  As you are aware, the great difficulties we had to live through last August and September resulted largely from a nearly complete breakdown of the Government's ability to get accurate assessments of the situation in the Vietnamese countryside. The more we learn about the situation today, the more obvious it becomes that the excessively mechanical system of statistical reporting which had been devised in Washington and applied in Saigon was giving us a grotesquely inaccurate picture. Once again it is the old problem of having people who are responsible for operations also responsible for evaluating the results.

  Michael Forrestal, NSC 1963

  Paul and I went into the city to see Helene. Still unconscious, she was already being prepared for a flight to the States. It was late evening by the time we got back to the hangar, I decided to sleep there, I was too sick with worry and grief to go back to the ruined bungalow. Besides, there was work to be done. Johann Drexler was waiting for us, he seemed to live in the hangar surrounded by his beloved aircraft and tools. Strangely, he’d learned to fly during a period of time he spent in South America after the war, but he preferred spending his time up to his armpits in grease. He freely admitted that with poor eyesight he would be a danger to himself and to his passengers if he ever flew. He had gone through the war on the Eastern Front as a Waffen-SS Hauptscharführer in the Das Reich Panzer Regiment. Escaping from the Battle of Berlin with hardly a scratch, he made his way to Bolivia where he was hit by a shell fragment during one of the many upheavals that were a feature of that country’s politics. Besides, he preferred the company of engines and tools, they were much more reliable and less fickle than the shadowy clients for whom we flew cargos and passengers around the country.

  He asked about Helene and was visibly relieved that she would be receiving the best possible treatment.

  “We had a Captain Cady called round earlier, he said he would be back in the morning to brief you.”
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br />   Paul and I smiled at each other. So this fiery young Special Forces Captain with no experience was coming to brief us with his extensive knowledge and experience of North Vietnam. It would be interesting. We sat and drank our way through a few beers. Aircraft took off constantly from the main runway of Tan Son Nhat, Helene would be on one of them, it was reassuring. I thought of her as she lay in that hospital bed, so close to death, then I thought of the woman I knew, lively, vivacious, caring, warm, she was everything any man could want and more. She had to pull through, just had to. I vowed to do everything in my power to make that happen even if I had to go into Hanoi and murder Ho Chi Minh personally. Finally, I made up a camp bed in the office and slept. In the morning, I was drinking a cup of coffee and making some notes on a pad about maintenance schedules when I heard a series of shouts outside the hangar. I went outside and there was Captain Cady lining up his Special Forces troops, five soldiers, festooned with packs, weapons and a heap of stores they were unloading from a U.S. army truck. He was shouting orders at the top of his voice and it was obvious his men were unhappy, all Green Beret sergeants who were trained to act and fight independently. Cady spotted me.

  “Good morning, Mr Hoffman, where do you want us to stow these crates?”

  I nodded to Cady. “Captain, we are about to embark on a mission that is highly secret. I suggest you get your men and equipment inside the hangar immediately and send that truck away. You’re advertising your presence to the Viet Cong.”

  His face darkened, stung by the implicit criticism.

  “Hoffman, we are on a friendly airfield, are you suggesting that the communists are operating here?” he laughed. “Jesus Christ, are you gonna be the type that sees a red under every bed?”

  I had misgivings before about working with an inexperienced officer, but now my confidence ebbed even further.