In the Club, Mr. Dietrich installed Major Lowell in a ieather armchair. A hostess appeared immediately with a tray holding nuts, cigarettes, and cigars and asked if she could bring him something to dr ini and/or something to read.
"Bring me two double scotches, please," Major Lowell said. "I always require an airplane." a little liquid courage before getting on
A second hostess appeared, bearing a telephone on a long cord and a pad of telegraph blanks.
Lowell took one of the cigars and accepted Mr. Dietrich's quickly offered match.
"It was important that I get to Honolulu as quickly as possible," Lowell said. "Someone used a little clout to get that done. But I'm not a V. I.P, Mr. Dietrich, and I'm sure you have more important things to do than sit here and hold my hand until the plane leaves."
Dietrich took the army officer at his word. They shook hands and Dietrich left.
Twenty minutes later he was back with a teletype message:
FROM STATION MANAGER NORTHWEST ORIENT HONOLULU
TO NWO STATION MANAGER S-F
EASTERN STATION MANAGER ATE
FOR C.W. LOWELL PASSENGER ENROUTE HON VIA EASTERN ATLSF, NWO S-F-HON
ROYAL HAWAIIAN HOTEL CONFIRMS PENTHOUSE SUITE B. ROYAL
HAWAIIAN REPRESENTATIVE WILL MEET YOUR FLIGHT WITH LIMOUSINE. AIRCREW
AUTHORIZED INFLIGHT RELAY ANY FURTHER
REQUIREMENTS.
CHARLES D. STEVENS
STATION MANAGER
NORTHWEST ORIENT AIRLINES
HONOLULU
By that time, Lowell, who was obviously more of a V. I.P than he said he was, had downed the first two double scotches and was working on a third. Dietrich had no way of knowing, of course, that Lowell had flown from Nicaragua that day on a diet of sandwiches and two hamburgers in Miami. All he could see was that Lowell was a little bit tipsy.
"I think I'll send a telegram of my own, if I may," Major Lowell said.
"Certainly," Mr. Dietrich said.
Lowell, grinning with pleasure, wrote out a brief message and handed it to Mr. Dietrich. For one thing, it proved that he was a V. I.P, and for another, that he was tipsy.
"Can you say that?" Mr. Dietrich asked.
"I don't think," Lowell said, smugly, "that many Western Union operators in Atlanta are going to speak Yiddish. If one says something, tell her it's code."
"I'll get it right off, Major," Mr. Dietrich said.
Fifty minutes later, as Major Lowell was wolfing down a filet mignon in the first-class cabin, of Eastern Flight 330, ATLSF, a somewhat strange telegram came off a Western Union printer on Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington, D.C. ATLANTA ocr 14
SANFORD T. FELTER
THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON DC
43'
I AM GOING TO NAIL YOUR SCHWANZ TO THE WALL FOR DOING THIS
TO ME. YOUR ER PAL DUKE.
After some discussion, it was decided between the Communications Center duty officer and his counterpart at the Defense Communications Agency that there was more than likely a hidden message within the clear text.
It was therefore encxypted as Top Secret Gardenia No. 60 56003 and relayed by radio to Nicaragua.
(Four) Penthouse B The Royal Hawaiian Hotel Honolulu, Hawaii 0700 Hours, 15 October 1960
A long shower and two pots of coffee did nothing to shake loose what felt like a terrible hangover, but which was more fatigue and jet lag than the product of all the brandy he had consumed between Atlanta and Hawaii.
As he examined his image in the mirrored walls of the bathroom, he saw that his eyes were both sunken and bloodshot, and that his face looked white and drawn. He looked hung over, which would probably not at all surprise CSPCNCPACwheever the hell that was. CSP-CINCpac, to whom he was ordered to report, had certainly been advised that he was getting a fuck-up to be kept on ice and would not be surprised when said fuck-up showed up looking as if he had just come off a two-week drunk.
He looked so bad that he seriously considered taking off his tropical worsted uniform and going back to bed for several hours. He would then seek out a Turkish bath, have a long steam and a massage, and spend the rest of the day on the beach trying to get a little color back in his face and some of the blood out of his eyes. When he reported the following morning, he would look less like death warmed over.
Which would, he decided, accomplish exactly nothing. A healthy looking fuck-up sent to Hawaii to be kept on ice would be treated the same as one that looked like he had just crawled out of a bottle.
He left the suite and went to the desk, where he was given the keys to a Hertz convertible Lincoln and a map marked with a Magic Marker giving the route to Headquarters, U.S. Army Pacific, where he would report to CSP-CINCPAC for duty.
CSP-CINCPAC turned out to be full bull artillery colonel, a tall, heavyset, deeply tanned middle-aged man with the look of someone who spent a lot of time keeping in shape.
"Sir," Lowell said, "Major Lowell reporting in compliance with orders."
"You can stand at ease, Major," CSP-CINCPAC said. "We didn't expect you until tomorrow or the next day"
"Would the colonel like to see my orders?"
"Give them to my sergeant on your way out," CSP-CINCPAC said. He looked at Lowell appraisingly, and then dialed his telephone.
"Sir," he said a moment later, "Major Lowell just walked into my office." Whoever he was talking to said something, to which the colonel replied: "Right away, sir."
CSP/CINCPAC stood up and motioned for Lowell to follow him out of the office. He stopped before the master sergeant in the outer office.
"You know what to do for Major Lowell, Sergeant," he said.
"Yes, sir," the master sergeant said.
Lowell handed him his letter orders.
"Thank you, sir," the master sergeant said. "Welcome to Hawaii, Major."
"Thank you.
He followed CSP-CINCPAC out into the corridor. Toward the end of it, Lowell noticed a plastic sign on a door: 106
CINCPAC ENTER THROUGH 110.
CSP-CINCPAC pushed open the door to 110.
There was a familiar face in that office, a very large, very black master sergeant. Master Sergeant Wesley, General E.Z. Black's longtime orderly.
"Hello, Wesley," Lowell said.
"Hello, Major Lowell," Wesley said, offering his massive hand. To CSP-CINCPAC, Wesley said, "The boss expects you, go right on in, Colonel."
They walked into CINCPAC's office and CSP-CINCPAC said, "Good morning, General."
Major Lowell saluted.
General E.Z. Black returned the salute, looked at Lowell thoughtfully, and said, "Lowell, you look like hell."
Lowell was not surprised at the comment. It was apparently Step One in the speech he was going to get. At first he had been surprised to be sent to face E.Z. Black himself. But now that he thought about it, it fit in with the pattern. 1-le was going to be (a) told that he had failed the trust General Black had placed in him when he had not thrown him out of the army, (b) advised in some detail of his current status, and probably (c) advised of what would happen to him if he talked at all about what he had been doing before Felter had arranged for him to be sent halfway around the world to keep him out of the way.
There was a knock, a quick rap of knuckles, at another door to General E.Z. Black's office, and a major general came through it immediately without waiting for permission to enter.
"This is Major Lowell, Pete," General Black said. "Two days sooner than we expected." The major general smiled, and said something astonishing as he offered his band: "And not a second too early. How do you do, Major? I've heard a lot about you." "Wcs," General Black said, raising his voice. "Coffee, please, and then see we're not disturbed."
M/Sgt Wesley had anticipated the command. He came through the door almost immediately, pushing a cart on which sat a coffee thermos, cups, saucers, and a plate of doughnuts.
"The last I heard," General Black said to Lowell, "you were on a trip, and no one knew when
you'd be back."
I returned day before yesterday, sir," Lowell said.
"And came over here right away?" Black asked. "No wonder you look terrible. Well, this won't take long. I wanted General Day to meet you, and to give you a quick picture of what's going on. Then you can go to bed. Maybe a steam bath would help."
It didn't seem like the opening remark in an ass chewing.
"Your being here," CSP-CINCpac said, "eliminates a lot of problems.
I've been trying to arrange for you to catch up with us, and I've learned it's not easy to get from here to there. NOW you can go with us."
"We're going to Saigon the day after tomorrow, Lowell," General Black said. "They did tell you to bring civvies?"
"Yes, sir." "It looks," General Black said, "as if we're going to have to greatly augment our force of advisors in Indochina which, by the way, we now refer to as South Vietnam. I asked DC SOPS to send me an expert, somebody familiar with the aviation companies we've been forming, and someone who knew somediing about the airmobile division we're forming.
Your name came up, of course, but you were otherwise occupied. But then Bellmon decided you were just about finished with what you were doing and could be spared." "I thought," Lowell said, "that I was being sent into durance vile."
General Black was not amused.
"Why would you think that?"
"I made an error in judgment, sir," Lowell said.
"Another one? Who's annoyed with you this time?" Black asked.
"Felter, sir," Lowell said. "Or I thought he Was."
"You'd better hope he was not," Black said. He did not ask for an amplification, and Lowell did not offer one.
"If we go into Vietnam in any strength, Lowell," General Black said, closing that subject, "and I'm afraid we will, we're going to have to go in with somewhat unconventional forces unconventional in the sense that we haven't used them before. And I mean aviation heavy, not just Special Forces. Since the country is primitive, that means that there are insufficient aviation installations in place. We're going to have to build our own. What I want you to do is recommend what we should build, and where."
"Sir, isn't that an engineer function?"
"So the engineers have reminded me," Black said. He paused, as if debating whether Lowell should have an explanation, and then went on.
"There are two ways to go about this," he said. "According to the book, the engineers would prepare a report of existing facilities and of facilities they are prepared to build. They'd turn this over to aviation and tell them this is it: adjust your plans accordingly. If it looked as if we were going to send conventional forces, that's the way it would be."
"Yes, sir," Lowell said.
"The other way is the way I've decided to go. Have an aviator come up with what aviation would like to have, and then make the Engineers justify not giving it to them."
"I understand, sir," Lowell said.
"You hear a lot of smart-ass remarks about the
"Big Picture," Lowell," General Black said, "generally from officers who have not yet learned that no matter how important what they're doing is, the army is also doing something else which is of equal or greater importance. I think you know that there is a Big Picture, and that everything has to fit in it." "I hope I do, sir," Lowell said, aware that he had been complimented.
"I thought, Lowell," General Black said, "and so apparently does General Bellmon, that you would be able to walk the edge of the razor and come up with a list of facilities that was right in the middle between an aviation
"Wishful Thinking List' and an engineer
"We'd Really Rather Not Do That List." "I'll try, sir," Lowell said. Near Bahia de Cochino Republic of Cuba 25 March 1961
There was no reason for the supervisor of the midnight to four shift in the radar-filled room at Jose Marti Airport in Havana to suspect that Honduran Air Force Six Six Four was anything but what he said he was: a Curtiss C-46 "Commando" enroute from Miami home.
He personally thought if Honduran Air Force Six Six Four was in the employ of the Yankee imperialists and/or some counterrevolutionary group, they would not have got on the horn and requested permission to pass through the airspace of the People's Democratic Republic of Cuba.
But orders were orders, and he picked up a red telephone. Accordingly, five minutes later two P-s 1 F piston-engine fighters of the Cuban Air Force rose from Jose Marti to have a look at Honduran Air Force Six Six Four.
When they saw that Honduran Air Force Six Six Four was a battered and ancient C-46 painted in the Honduran scheme, which was able to exchange a few friendly words with them in Spanish, the fighters returned to Jose Marti.
Honduran Air Force Six Six Four proceeded on course, at 13,000 feet, toward Honduras. Havana area control continued to monitor the flight on radar, of course. And the radar, twenty minutes after the fighters had completed their investigation, showed little blips leaving the aircraft.
The radar operator didn't even report this to the supervisor. The radar had not been properly maintained since the former General Batista's regime. And since then, the servicing of radar had become something of a problem. No longer did the pleasant young men from Sperry catch a quick flight from Miami carrying attachn cases full of "short-life" parts.
They didn't come at all, and no parts were available. By Herculean effort, the radars were kept working with one make do fix after another, but they weren't up to specs. They showed more and more glitches.
When the new and all' around superior radar came from East Germany, the problem would be solved of course. But there had been minor delays in getting the East German equipment at all, and then when it had arrived, certain parts had been missing. Havana area control was having to make do with what it had, and what it had often showed little blips that weren't really there.
Twenty-two minutes after passing over Havana, eight men in black coveralls stood up in the cargo compartment of the Curtiss Commando and, on signal, jumped out the door.
"A" Team No. 64, Third Special Forces Group, First Lieutenant Thomas I. Ellis commanding, landed within two hundred yards of one another about a mile from their intended landing zone; a field several miles above the village of Aguada de Pasajeros. No one was injured and there had been no indication that they had been seen.
There was a stand of trees three hundred yards away at the upper end of the field, and they made their way to it. There they buried their parachutes and jump equipment and unpacked the equipment bags.
SFC Eaglebury and Lieut Tenant Ellis made a quick reconnaissance of the immediate area, determining their exact location, and then led the team across country to their destination. When they arrived, they made camp, and settled down for the night.
In the morning, Lieutenant Ellis and SFC Eaglebury made another reconnaissance, from which SFC Eaglebury did not return.
"Hey, Lieutenant," SFC Juan Vincenzo Lopez asked, in English, "where the hell is Eaglebury?"
"Eh!" Lieutenant Ellis replied. "Porfavor. En Espagnol." It was understandable, Lieutenant Ellis thought, that Lopez would forget to speak Spanish. But correction was necessary.
SFC Lopez, of Los Angeles, California, was the second radio operator of the team. He had a very colorful vocabulary of profane and obscene words and phrases in the Spanish language, and now was the time he should use it.
"To tell you the truth, Lieutenant," Lopez now announced, in English, "I'm not what you could call fluent in Spanish."
Lieutenant Ellis now learned that SFC Lopez despite his suggestions at Bragg that he was a "card-carrying wetback," and despite his fluent Spanish profanity was in fact a third generation Mexican-American who was considerably less fluent in Spanish than the first radio operator of the team, MI Sgt Stefan Karr, who had gone through an intensive three-week course in that language at the U.S. Army Language School at the Presido in San Francisco. The only Spanish SFC Lopez knew was what he had picked up while visiting the Los Angeles barrio (his father, a successful Mercedes salesman in
Brentwood, housed his family in Marina del Ray) in search of ethnic food and feminine companionship.
"Goddamn it, one of the reasons you were picked for this mission was because you spoke Spanish," Ellis exploded. "Why didn't you say something?" "I never said I spoke Spanish," Lopez said. "And if I had said something, I'd be at Bragg, picking up cigarette butts. I really wanted to make this operation."
He could not, of course, Ellis realized, be sent home in disgrace.
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