by D. B. Silvis
A puzzled look appeared on Killian’s face, “CIA planes? You mean the CIA owns Air America?”
“They sure do. Those assholes own everything in Laos. For Christ’s sakes, Killian, their advisers are all over the place, like ants on honey.”
“Doing what?”
“Running everything, they must have half a dozen airlines like Air American, Air Asia, Civil Air Transports and others. Christ, they’ve got all kinds of airplanes, like B-17s, Havillands, C-118As, B-17Gs, and many more. Hell, Killian, the CIA recently created the Special Forces, so now they’ve got their own friggin’ army. Their troopers can go places that are restricted by the Geneva Accords. Here in Laos they’re called the ‘Sneaky Petes’. They wear civilian clothes, and work in groups of two or three men. And those Special Force guys are big on training the locals, mainly General Vang Pao’s Hmong tribesmen, to fight for them.”
“I didn’t realize the CIA was so involved over here, sergeant.”
“Oh boy, they sure are. And get this, the mission of those tribesmen is to train enemy deserters to return to their former units with electronic tracking devices so later, the CIA can launch attacks against those units. Their code name is ‘Hotfoot’.”
“It sounds like they’re pretty organized.”
“You bet they are.”
Sergeant Conner looks toward the three privates and then back at Killian. “Have you heard about the Green Berets?”
“I’ve heard mention of them.”
“Did you know the Green Berets are an adjunct of the CIA?” He chuckles. “I’ve heard that really pisses off the regular Army brass.”
Killian thought about what Sergeant Boyle had said. He began to put the picture together. “Then you’re not regular Air Force? You work for the CIA, and they have their own pilots and crew members?”
“Yeah, that’s right. We’re kind of the same as the regular Air Force, but we’re trained and work under the CIA.”
“Conner, you don’t seem to like the CIA. Why don’t you enlist in the regular Air Force?”
A sheepish grin flitted over the sergeant’s face. “The pay’s better here and there’s a few extra perks.”
“Perks? What perks?”
“Well, let’s say if you want some weed or some other good stuff, the CIA has the right connections and it’s available to us. Hell, once we get to Laos I can steer you in the right direction, if you want some Marianna or dope.”
Killian played along. “I may do that. It’s been a while since I’ve had some good stuff.”
“The CIA’s got a deal with the Hmong tribesmen, whose main cash crop is opium. The CIA allows General Pao, who’s the commander of the CIA’s secret army, to have a heroin factory at Long Tieng. He uses Air America to collect opium from the numerous scattered villages. We call the area the Golden Triangle,” said the sergeant, chuckling.
“The CIA must be getting something in return.”
“Sure they do. The Hmong tribesmen help battle the Laotian communists near the border with North Vietnam, plus they’re very helpful in recovering the CIA’s downed pilots.”
“I imagine flying around Laos is damn dangerous.”
“Worst place I’ve even flown,” the sergeant agreed. “The pilots tell me the maps are totally inaccurate, and they have to watch the ground for landmarks, so as not to get lost.”
They didn’t speak for over a minute.
“Sergeant, even though you work for the CIA, you seem to have a thorn in your side about them, why?” asked Killian.
The sergeant stared at Killian with a pained expression. “Aw shit, you’re CIA, ain’t you?”
“No way, I agree with you one hundred per cent. They’re known to be dirty. I’m aware of the illegal things they’re doing. I’d just like to know how they get away with it,” Killian assured him.
Sergeant Boyle hesitated for a few moments. Then he decided to trust Killian. “I’ll tell you how. They’ve got their head so far up our President’s ass; they can look out his eyeballs.”
They both began to laugh. Tears ran down Killian’s cheeks.
“So tell me, how did you come to dislike the CIA so much?”
The sergeant thought for a moment, then got up, and walked toward the back of the plane, and let out a hellacious fart. He grinned and walked back to a chuckling Killian, who was shaking his head.
“Excuse me,” said Sergeant Boyle. “I was just clearing the CIA out of my system.”
They both laughed again.
The sergeant sat down and leaned back. “One day I was ordered to go down to the flight line and wait for an escort flight back to Nha Trang, on the South China Sea. I assumed I was being called back to base headquarters for a promotion or a special briefing.
While I was waiting, out of nowhere came a sleek, really great-looking, private Lear jet. It landed and taxied over to where I was standing. I expected some big-shot brass, a congressman or a senator, to emerge. But no, it was a guy in his thirties, dressed in a black suit, shiny black shoes, white shirt and black tie. He had CIA suit written all over him. He walked up to me, didn’t say a damn word, and handcuffed my left wrist to a black briefcase. Then he escorted me out to the Lear jet. He said to me, ‘Don’t ask questions. Keep your mouth shut and climb aboard.’
That plane was real first class inside, and it flew me to Nha Trang. I was then taken to the 7th Air Wing Headquarters. The handcuffs were removed and the briefcase was taken by another non-talking CIA suit. Then I was returned to the Lear and immediately flown back to my base. I had no friggin’ idea what the hell had gone on.
Later, I asked my captain what it was all about. He said it had to be CIA/CON Intelligence, as the CIA was the only entity flying private Lear jets into Laos or Vietnam. What he told me next is what really pissed me off. The captain said the reason they had chosen me to transport the briefcase was because I was absolutely expendable. Me, Sergeant Connor Boyle, I’m nothing to them; I’m a piece of shit; I’m expendable.” He slammed his fist against a crate, “Those flaming fucking CIA assholes!”
Killian didn’t say anything, but let the red-faced sergeant vent his anger.
The plane circled above the city of Vientiane and came in for the landing. When it came to a stop and he and Sergeant Boyle got off. Killian spotted two US Air Force H-19A helicopters. He pointed to them.
“Yeah,” said Conner, “they came in this past March.”
Killian nodded. “I’m only going to stay here one night. I want to fly back to Saigon in the morning. Any suggestions?” he asked.
“We’re heading back at 0900 in the morning, and you’re welcome to come with us.”
“Thanks, I’ll do that,” Killian replied, shaking the sergeant’s hand. “You have any idea where I should stay in the city tonight?”
“The Constellation Hotel is pretty good, and they have a swinging bar.” He grinned and added, “The broads ain’t bad either.”
Killian walked toward the main airport building. He entered and headed for the men’s room. He had decided he’d like to wander around the tarmac to observe the different aircraft, and any activity going on. He suspected he’d have more leeway if he were a Laotian military officer. In the bathroom he entered a stall and transformed. A minute later, he was walking in the direction of the two H-19A helicopters. The airport was buzzing with activity. C-46s and C-47s were being loaded with ammunition and paratroopers. He also noticed Nationalist Chinese pilots boarding the planes. Killian stopped by the helicopters, and spoke in Laotian to a Royal Laotian Army corporal, who was guarding the two planes.
“It’s a very busy place this morning, Corporal.”
The corporal snapped to attention. “Yes sir, every morning, sir.”
“At ease, Corporal, I’ve just arrived. Are the helicopters going on a flight today?”
“Yes sir. Almost every day they take CIA officers to meetings in outlying areas.”
“Very interesting, Corporal,” said Killian, as he saluted and walked away.
After returning to the men’s room and transforming, Killian took a taxi to the Constellation Hotel on the Rue Samenthai. It looked like any other cheap Chinese hotel in the Far East. Later on, however, Killian found that Sergeant Boyle had been right; the bar was great, the food excellent, and there were a few beautiful women, who looked available.
Having checked in and freshened up, he hired a taxi and toured the city. Killian had two purposes in this; first, to see the well-known sites of Vientiane, and secondly, to get a feeling of the atmosphere, particularly of the attitude of the local people toward the Royal Laotian Army, and the CIA’s involvement in their country.
The taxi took him to the Paturay, a tall arch on Lanexang Avenue which had been built only three years earlier, and was now a prominent landmark of the city. After that he visited the Pha That Luang Stupa, a large gold-covered Buddhist stupa in the center of the city, built in 1566, and said to contain a relic of Lord Buddha. The taxi’s next stop was the Sisaket Temple, built in 1818, and housing 6,840 images of the Buddha. The last place he visited was the Hor Pra Keo; a place of worship built in 1565, and once the home of the Emerald Buddha, until it was lost to the Siamese in 1828.
During the course of the tour, Killian learned from the taxi driver and various other local people he talked to, that there an air of anxiety had gripped the population. They knew there was trouble brewing.
The next morning, Killian arrived at Vientiane’s airport at eight-thirty. He met up with Sergeant Boyle and boarded the plane for the journey back to Saigon.
When he arrived he went directly to the RMK–BRJ construction office, and using a secure line, called the home of General Dugan. It was eleven-thirty in the morning in Saigon, which made it ten-thirty in the evening in Washington, D.C.
Killian brought the General up to date on all the information he had recently learned regarding the activities of the CIA. The general was aware of some operations, like the Green Berets, but others, like the Hotfoots, the CIA’s involvement with Michigan State University, the CIA airlines, and the H-19A helicopters, really got his ire up. The general complimented Killian on his good work and told him to keep it up.
After General Dugan had hung up, Killian, in jest, blew mockingly on the telephone to cool it off.
“Man, is he ever hot!” he whispered, as he set the telephone receiver down.
CHAPTER 12
Four days later, Killian was leaving his hotel room when the telephone rang. It was his friend, Kipling Smith. Kip told him he was at the Saigon Hotel, and asked Killian to meet him in the bar in twenty minutes.
Kip sat at the bar waiting nervously for Killian. He kept looking at his watch and sipping his drink. A Vietnamese soldier sat at the bar two seats down from Kip and ordered a drink. Killian nodded to the soldier, took a drink of his gin and tonic, and looked again at his watch. He was wondering what was taking Killian so long. Then he realized he’d recognized something about the soldier. He was wearing a SERE patch on the sleeve of his uniform. Kip turned back to the soldier who was grinning at him.
“Hi, Kip, don’t you speak to your good friend?” said the soldier.
“God, Killian! I’ll never get used to you doing that metamorphosis thing,” said Kip, as he slid over to the next stool and gave Killian a hug. “Damn, it’s good to see you!”
“You too, but this is quite a surprise. You’re the last person I expected to see here in Vietnam.”
“Something very important came up. I took the red-eye, and flew all night to get here.”
“What’s so important?” asked Killian.
“Let’s not talk here. We need to go up to my room.”
Kip finished his drink, and they walked to the elevator. Once inside his room, Kip put his arm around Killian’s shoulder.
“It really is good to see you, well sort of. Do you think you could change back to the friend I know?”
Killian smiled and slowly changed back to Kip’s tall, red-haired friend.
Kip shivered. “God, I get chills every time you do that!”
They laughed and sat down.
“Okay, what’s so important that it made you come all this way to see me?”
“General Dugan is dead.”
“What? When? How, Kip?”
“The police report is that two nights ago he accidentally drowned in his swimming pool. But we don’t believe it was an accident.”
“Why?”
“Earlier, General Dugan had a meeting with Admiral Hildegard and General Mittlebonn. He told them about the information you’d given him. He said he was so damned mad about what he’d learned, he went to see Director Waterton of the CIA. He told the director he knew the CIA was creating a myth, to the American people, about Laos being under attack. He also told Waterton he needed to rein in the CIA’s involvement in Cambodia, Laos, Vietnam and other areas, or he was going to expose the CIA’s illegal activities and dirty tricks by going to the press, the radio and television stations with what he knew.”
“God Almighty, I’ll bet the director was angry at the general,” said Killian.
“No, he wasn’t, and that pissed off Dugan even more. Waterton told Dugan he wasn’t worried, as the CIA controlled both the white and black press, meaning they controlled the regular press and all the outlets for propaganda.”
“That had to rile Dugan, big time.”
“General Mittlebonn told me Dugan was furious.”
“I can imagine, so now what?” asked Killian.
“Admiral Hildegard says we have a problem, as Director Waterton and Deputy Director Spencer are now concerned about how General Dugan got his information. They intend to find out.”
“So they’re going to turn their men loose to find out who tipped off the General?”
“Yes, and they’re going to extreme measures.”
“What does that mean, Kip?”
“The military has learned that as far back as December, 1959 the CIA had advocated the elimination of Fidel Castro, by using the Mafia.”
“You got to be kidding me, Kip.”
“No, it’s true. They’ve been using the Mafia to do some of their dirty work. The admiral has inside information that the CIA called the Mafia when General Dugan threatened them.”
“Kip, you’re saying the CIA had the Mafia hit General Dugan?”
“Yes, that’s our belief. And now they’re asking the Mafia to help them find out how Dugan obtained his information.” Kip pauses as he looks at Killian. “At our meeting we agreed we need to pull back for a while.”
Killian thought about it. “What about me?”
“We want you to come back with me to the States. The admiral thought maybe you could look into what really happened to General Dugan.”
“That makes sense. I’d like to know if the Mafia killed the General.”
Neither of them said anything for a few moments.
“Kip, there’s kind of a lull over here right now, but I think all hell is going to break loose soon. The CIA has things really stirred up, and I think the Viet Cong are going to retaliate. Sooner or later, they’re going to kill Ngo Dinh Diem.”
Kip nodded. “I’m afraid you’re right, my friend. We believe war over here is inevitable.”
Killian sighed. “I liked General Dugan; he was a good man. If the Mafia or CIA killed him, I want to get them.”
There was a brief silence.
“How’s everything else back home?” asked Killian.
“Zack, Mom and Dad are fine.” Kip paused for a second. “I’m no longer dating my neighbor.”
“Why not?”
“I guess I’m too independent. I didn’t like being told what to wear, and when to attend social parties. Maybe some of your lifestyle is rubbing off on me.”
“God forbid, Kip.”
They both laughed.
“However, I guess I’m a slow learner, as I’m now dating a congresswoman.”
“That sounds interesting.”
“It’s very interestin
g, Killian, particularly as she’s a Democrat and I’m a Republican.”
They both laughed again.
In the morning, they boarded a plane back to the United States.
A day after they’d returned there was a special meeting at Zack’s ranch. Kip, Congressman Bernard, Admiral Hildegard, General Mittlebonn and Whelan Dunne were all present. The first thing they agreed on was that they needed to know the truth about General Dugan’s death.
“We know the CIA is involved with the Mafia,” said the admiral. “The General’s death is suspicious, and I believe they had a hand in it.”
“I agree,” said Whelan. “I’ve had feelers out with people I know, and the talk is that after General Dugan met with Director Waterton, the director had Spencer contact the Mafia.”
“They wanted to know how the General got his information?” asked Bernard.
“That’s right, and after meeting with the CIA I’m sure the Mafia sent over a couple of their men to see Dugan,” replied Whelan.
“But it didn’t appear he was beaten or tortured,” Kip mused.
“They have methods to get information without leaving marks,” Whelan countered. “It’s my belief they didn’t intend to kill him before they were able to get the information they wanted.”
“Do you think they got what they wanted?” asked General Mittlebonn.
“I don’t think so,” said the admiral. “The word is the CIA still doesn’t know how General Dugan obtained his information.”
“I believe the interrogation methods went too far, and they killed the general before he admitted anything,” said Whelan.
“We need to be cautious, but also go on the attack before they get onto us,” General Mittlebonn ventured.
No one said anything for a few moments.
Then Whelan looked at Kip. “Do you think our chameleon soldier would be opposed to getting an apartment in New York City? He might be able to learn if there’s any scuttlebutt about the General’s death as there’s usually loose lips in the big city. Maybe he could infiltrate the bars, and learn if the Italians have done anything regarding General Dugan.”