I shucked off all my clothes, took a deep breath and went over the top. Unforeseen problems emerged immediately. First problem: we’d overlooked that directly on the other side of the fence sat a low arrangement of rose and pyracantha bushes. My shriek of pain took away the element of surprise. I wrenched myself out of the thorns, panic fortunately dulling the agony. Freed, I started my sprint. Second problem: it wasn’t a straight shot after all. I’d have to skirt around a swimming pool that we hadn’t factored into my flight plan. Third problem: at the point where I changed direction, an invisible puddle of water sat on the flagstone deck.
My bare feet hit that spot and went right out from under me. A buffet table had been set up poolside. The hostess and her mother were standing behind it, fussing over the punch bowl and petit fours. They stood there, transfixed with horror, as my stark naked, scratched and bleeding carcass came hurtling across the patio and body-blocked the whole shebang into the deep end (it was a damn dumb place to put a buffet table, if you ask me).
In my own defense, I must point out that I did save the mother from drowning. She was thrashing around, rendered helpless by hysteria, and it seemed only decent to grab her by the frock and steer her over to the ladder. Once she had a firm grip on it I stammered an apology, though I don’t remember exactly for what, lunged up out of the water and hightailed over the fence with a single, frantic bound.
My getaway team had been tracking my progress through cracks and were so convulsed with laughter as to be completely useless. I slipped into the extra sweatshirt and Levi’s I’d brought and jumped into the driver’s seat still barefooted and soaking wet. They tumbled into the back, and we peeled out. Even before the police were called we were far, far away.
The worst was yet to come, and it came posthaste. It seems the hostess’s father was a prominent Hollywood surgeon, a graduate of the UCLA Medical School, and one of its major contributors. Her mother spearheaded fundraising activities for a variety of organizations, UCLA not the least of them. When my escapade came to the dean’s attention, what choice did he have? I was hardly an honors student. Now that Gilliam was on the squad, the football coach wasn’t going out on any limb for me. My family included no wealthy UCLA alumni. I was 100% expendable. In the circumstances, what would you have done with me?
Dad was supportive, if dubious. Aside from him, I was Public Enemy Number One. For a bunch of rowdies who routinely ignored all known rules and regulations regarding drinking, hazing, vandalism and public decency, the sudden conversion of my frat brothers to law-abiding model citizens suggested divine intervention. They understood, they’d like to help, the president assured me. But seeing as how I’d been expelled, I was technically ineligible for active membership. So sorry. Be sure and turn in your keys, and oh yes, there’s a little matter of dues still owed…
Mom kept looking at me like I’d climbed out from under some rock. Her main priorities being image, status and appearances, my recent exploit clearly posed a problem. On the few occasions when she couldn’t avoid speaking to me, her voice sounded as though somebody was tightening a tourniquet on her throat.
My stepfather, Evanston, was volubly thankful he hadn’t adopted me, as our surnames were still different; therefore, people who didn’t know the family well wouldn’t connect us. He more than once made it clear that he considered me to be representative of some subhuman species. We lived in a nice place in Pacific Palisades, some might even call it a mansion, but it had ceased being home for me. As an expelled college student, certified sexual deviate and laughingstock of Westwood, my welcome had worn thin enough to watch TV through.
What to do next? Putting a shotgun barrel in my mouth and pulling the trigger would have made a lot of people happy. It was late 1968 then, and the war was drawing in more and more guys. I’d blown my student deferral, so the draft was only a matter of time. Rather than embarrass everybody with my presence while I waited to be called, I drove straight to the nearest Army recruiting station and signed up.
I had a lot to prove to myself just then, so I threw myself into boot camp. So much so that my D. I. suggested I volunteer for Ranger training. My performance in the Ranger course at the Fort Benning School for Boys, and the Airborne School at Fort Bragg, convinced the Army I had NCO potential, so I got some additional training for that. Arriving in Nam as a buck sergeant, I let myself be talked into joining the LRRPs and went through LRRP training at the Special Forces Recondo School at Nha Trang airfield “and that’s how I wound up dodging gook rounds in the steaming jungles of Viet Nam,” I concluded.
Sarge lay there on his back, eyes drowsy and hands folded across his massive chest, doing that deep, rhythmic, growling chuckle of his. If I’d accomplished nothing else so far on this tour, at least I’d brought a little amusement to a beleaguered outpost. “So whatever happened to that Dana and her medical student?” he asked.
“She got bored with being respectable and decided to become a movie star instead. So she dumped the guy and changed her major from Existentialism to Theater Arts. Hey, we didn’t call her ‘Whirlybird’ for nothing. She later told me that my little performance at her shower was more fun than she’d had in years. We still keep in touch.”
Sarge shook his head with wonder. “Man, the things that happens to people… maybe you can explain a puzzle to me. Why is it that white folks is always takin’ their clothes off? You never hear about Black guys streakin’, or Chinese guys, or Mexican guys—only white guys. Same with topless. Always the white chicks, never them others. Why do you ‘spose that is?”
I’d never thought about it, but he was on to something there. I told him it was a mystery to me, which it was.
“Maybe it’s like when I was checkin’ out that Adam Smith a while back, the one that wrote up about wealth of nations and such,” Sarge said. “He was a smart old dude. One thing he wrote was how rich folks and workin’ folks is different. A rich man can get down, cut loose, get wasted, and it’s okay because he knows he got money behind him. Workin’ folks can’t risk it, because if they get in trouble, or if they wake up Monday with the big head and don’t show up to work, then they lose their job, then they’re up shit creek. What I figured out about white folks is, somebody must have gone and convinced ‘em they’re all rich folks, ‘stead of workin’ folks. Because you look at them college kids and them professors and them ones doin’ drugs and acting like jiveass niggers and all, and you have to figure they ain’t keeping their minds on their future. Well, I don’t know about them, but Jake, my man, you got one MIGHTY tale behind you. Can’t say I ever heard the like of it.”
Come to think of it, neither had I. But what the hell, had things turned out so badly? I’d wound up in the Army, which suited me just fine. It was something I genuinely excelled at. Then I noticed the time. Sarge looked like a good night’s sleep would benefit him, and I was preventing it. Heeding his tale about the rich folks and the working folks, I drained my beer, said good night and headed for home. It was way after curfew now, and the streets were empty. But it was dark, plenty of shadows to stay in as I strolled the few blocks toward home. And I felt pretty safe. I had my diplomatic papers and, more to the point, enough American money to calm down any constabulary who might stop me to question my business.
A block from the Brinks Hotel I passed an alleyway when POP!—a pistol shot startled me. I jumped clear of the opening, froze against the wall and, tensed for action, waited and listened. The sound of a body toppling. A groan. Stealthy footsteps receding into the distance. I flattened on the deck and peeped around the corner into the narrow, cluttered space, but I couldn’t make out anything in those shadowy depths. So what now? Go in there, unarmed, and see what’s what? Shout for the police? And then explain what I’m doing out on the streets after curfew? Why ask for trouble? Better to leave it for the locals to sort out.
Apparently, it hadn’t been anybody coming after me…still, I reflected that maybe Sarge’s advice about keepin
g my eyes open and one of them on my backtrail, was well-taken. I wore civvies and shuffled memos and reports around a desktop at risk of severe paper cuts, true enough, but a lot of other folks in Vietnam still waged serious war. Many among the hordes of desperate peasants filling Saigon sided with the Cong, and worse things could happen than being shaken down for a few bucks, even to Ranger-trained Americans with combat decorations. Back home I wouldn’t be lollygagging alone around the D. C. slums at midnight, after all. What made me think I could safely do it in a foreign city brimming with hostiles? Had I just been shown a timely omen? Embassy staff were constantly ordered, warned, cajoled and pleaded with, to be careful out in public. My co-workers holed up after dark, traveling in packs when they ventured out for entertainment. Who was I trying to impress? I resolved to stop being stupid and stay away from dangerous situations.
Fat chance.
2
Showing up to work the next morning, March 10, I found more excitement awaiting us than on your usual Monday. During the night the Charlies launched a major attack on the lower Central Highlands provincial capital of Ban Me Thuot without warning. Somehow, unbeknownst to us, they managed to roll in what appeared to be three divisions, with tanks, and had laid siege to the southern section of the city. Pandemonium ruled the CIA Station. Office strategy gurus compared the scope and execution of it to the assault against the French in Dien Bien Phu back in ‘54. The CIA face sported a juicy load of egg—our job description specified that developments of that sort were not to surprise us. What’s an intelligence agency for, after all?
Even worse, coupling the Ban Me Thuot attack with the fighting that had broken out on the northern coast near Hue, the 1975 offensive looked more serious than we’d thought. I’d seen Ban Me Thout once on my first tour, passing through the Special Forces headquarters there. Only 200 miles of Highway 14 separated it from Saigon, hardly a whoop and a holler. Those big “if onlys” on which we pinned our hopes for victory were fast losing ground to the pace of events.
The office buzz centered around speculation on how long the ARVN would hold out. If any local optimist believed we’d celebrate Christmas in Saigon, he kept it to himself. My experience out in the field with the ARVN and the Cong placed me firmly with the pessimists. I wasn’t going to run straight back to the Brinks Hotel and pack my bags, but neither was I going to pay cash down on a summer vacation at China Beach. I never bet against my own side, but that’s where the smart money lay.
The news from Ban Me Thout grew rapidly worse. It seems that the Cong (well, let’s be accurate—North Vietnamese Army regulars did most of the fighting by then) had come up with a new tactic. They bypassed the outer defense posts and went straight at the heart of town. The ARVN, meanwhile, had stuck to its usual pattern of letting the troops live with their wives and children, on the theory that they’d fight harder to protect them. Maybe it worked in the past, but it sure didn’t work in Ban Me Thout. As the families fled east, soldiers deserted their posts to help them, shedding their uniforms and changing to civvies (however, hanging onto their weapons), and joining the press of refugees that clogged the roads.
By midday Tuesday the NVA for all practical purposes controlled Ban Me Thout, though we didn’t get an official confirm on that until Friday. Reports came in of vast military stores left behind as soldiers pushed aside mothers and babies, stole bicycles, looted shops, raped girls and shook down fleeing civilians for their goods and money. Every man for himself, and Ban Me Thout marked only the beginning of the avalanche. Abandoned supplies and weapons fell by the ton into the enemy’s eager hands. The further they advanced, the more of our best stuff they gathered up to use against our side.
CIA reports, endorsed by Director William Colby himself, had predicted 1976 to be the year of the Cong’s general offensive and uprising to liberate the south. But their success at Ban Me Thout exceeded what anyone, perhaps even the VCs themselves, had imagined. Then we got word that Pleiku and Kontum, further to the north, had come under attack, and terrified refugees mobbed Highways 14 and 7B, pressing toward hoped-for safety on the coast. A correction soon came in: there’d been shelling, but no attack. General Phu, commander of forces there, had secretly hauled his own ass out of there, and when that word got out, the troops no longer felt any compunction to stand and fight. The stampede was on. Military Zone II faced complete collapse. Sarge sure called it right.
Meanwhile, my duties made less sense than ever. They’d installed me in a small, windowless corner office on the fourth floor of the Embassy building that came equipped with the world’s loudest air conditioner. It must have previously been a storage area, because combination-locked file cabinets lined one entire wall. I adjoined a bullpen area full of communications equipment and rows of desks where CIA staff read cables, answered telephones, shuffled papers and scurried to and fro with frenzied determination. Every few minutes some eager beaver clerk bustled into my office, closed the door, and, ignoring me, unlocked one of the drawers and either put some papers into it or took some papers out.
But I never had anything to do with any of them: Sonarr kept me at my desk. What with the sudden onslaught of heavy enemy attacks, everybody in the Embassy, CIA or legitimate State Department staff, operated in berserk mode. However, my own work schedule still consisted mostly of orientation and background briefings—a couple times each day staff from either the CIA or the Embassy came in and solemnly filled me in on matters that I could have learned more about from the office secretaries. I could barely make their words out over the air conditioner racket. Todd Sonarr gave me a few reports coming in from the field to analyze and comment on from a military perspective. My occasional after-hours tete-a-tetes with Mickey Mouse continued. But then Todd Sonarr started sending me out on some really strange assignments.
Sonarr and I got on so-so—at least we could talk sports. Or military. He’d served his hitch in the Marines, and he knew a trick or two. He seemed fascinated by the LRRPs—couldn’t figure us out. “Some of our guys tried to coordinate with them out in the field,” he told me once. “You know, work up some joint operations where they gather intelligence for the CIA as well as the Army. Just couldn’t make it go. Nothing personal, but they told me the LRRP guys were a bunch of cocky, arrogant, disrespectful sonsabitches. Wouldn’t take directions, couldn’t grasp the big picture—too independent-minded.”
“That’s a funny coincidence,” I said. “Some guys in my unit one time tried to co-ordinate with some guys from the CIA. Just couldn’t make it go. Nothing personal, but they told me the CIA guys were a bunch of fuzzy-minded jerks who kept trying to get them involved in harebrained schemes and half-assed operations, when all they wanted to do was put greasepaint on their faces and go out in the jungle and kill gooks. I can’t imagine where your buddies ever got that impression of the LRRPs. You’re sure they weren’t talking about the Green Berets?”
Sonarr savored conspiracies: he could figure out the connections among any five events you gave him, not only pinpointing the sinister forces guiding events from behind the scenes, but with a complete rundown on tactics, operations and logistics. JFK’s assassination was the only exception. Sonarr staunchly insisted that Lee Harvey Oswald had acted alone.
He claimed to be a protegé of an agent named Bill Harvey, a name well-known around the station as the quintessential Company cowboy. “The things that guy did,” Sonarr once marvelled to me. “He ran an operation through a tunnel between East and West Berlin, dug half the tunnel with his own hands. He was the first guy to finger that Brit spy, Philby. I swear, there isn’t a tougher man in the outfit.” But if he admired Bill Harvey, he positively worshipped James Jesus Angleton, an OSS original who up until recently had been the CIA counter-intelligence chief. Sonarr’s voice positively choked whenever he spoke of Angleton.
His dedication to The Cause was one side of him. He had another. Several months ago parties unknown had posted his picture, captioned “Would You Buy a
Used Car From This Man?” on an office bulletin board. It referred, a cute Vietnamese file clerk from the third floor explained to me during an afternoon tea break, to his practice of having shipped in, at government expense, American luxury cars for personal use, which disappeared—stolen—shortly thereafter. A slick scheme to peddle cars to locals at highly profitable prices, not to mention possible insurance scams? So some suspected. Such suspicions gained support, she went on, from the fact that Sonarr used a CIA car and driver right along, and never seemed especially upset about his periodic victimization. The only conclusion anyone could draw about the picture was that it couldn’t have been an inside job, as it had been too cleanly executed. Sonarr hadn’t been able to dig up a clue, not even a fingerprint.
One afternoon just after lunch Sonarr called me into his office. I noticed a fresh copy of Hustler magazine peeping out from under a stack of reports. He had them sent from the States via diplomatic pouch, a giggling secretary had confided to me, and delivered (plain brown wrapper) to his office, so as to avoid disharmony at home, as his wife did not approve of such literature, or much of anything else. Very strict one, she! The local girls around the Embassy sure did like to tell me things. I was going to have a tough choice, picking one to get extra-friendly with.
Wasting no time with greeting or prelude, Sonarr thrust a walkie-talkie into my hand and dispatched me to the foyer on the third floor of the Continental Hotel. “Okay, got it,” I said. “And what do I do there?”
The Jake Fonko Series: Books 1 - 3 Page 3