“I figured your guy Santiago—he’s Cuban, right?—was involved in that.”
“You know him?”
“He walked into Base Ops about twenty minutes ago and said somebody was going to pick him up. I told him nothing was scheduled, and he should come back on Saturday. He just smiled at me, and went outside and sat down against the building.”
“He’s been flying B-26s in the Congo—” Jack said.
“While I sit on my ass here,” the air commando pilot interrupted, more than a little bitterly.
“—and now he’s back, and we were sent down to get him.”
“With a little luck, maybe you can get yourself sent to Vietnam, ” Geoff said.
“You realize the crack you guys put my ass in?” the air commando asked.
“Just let us pick up Santiago, and then forget we were here,” Geoff said.
“All that ‘you are denied permission to land’ conversation is on tape, how the hell can I forget it?” the air commando said. “Oh, hell, I’ll think of something.”
“Thank you,” Geoff said.
“If I went to Base Ops and brought your guy out here,” the air commando asked thoughtfully, “could you get someone to cancel the pickup scheduled for Saturday morning?”
“Consider it done,” Geoff said.
“Don’t go anywhere,” the air commando said.
He turned, walked to his jeep, got in, and motioned first for the driver to turn around and then for the other jeep to follow them.
“I think we ruined the day of the guys with the machine gun,” Geoff said. “They thought they were finally going to get a chance to shoot somebody.”
“Jacques, mon ami,” Enrico de la Santiago said when he got out of the air commando lieutenant’s jeep. “They are finally letting you fly airplanes?”
But then Latin emotion took over and he ran to him, grabbed his arms, kissed both of Jack’s cheeks, then wrapped him in a bear hug.
He was a slight man, with a swarthy skin, a full head of thick black hair, and a neatly manicured pencil-line mustache. He was wearing powder-blue trousers, a flamboyantly colored shirt of many colors, and an ex-USAF leather flight jacket, to which had been sewn a cloth patch reading CUBA, a painted-on-leather squadron insignia, and a leather patch with embossed Cuban pilot’s wings over “E. de la Santiago, Capitaine, Forces Aero de Cuba.”
Jack finally freed himself, and he and Geoff shook hands.
“The face I remember, but the name . . .” Enrico said.
“We used to see each other at Kamina,” Geoff said. “In the Congo.”
“Oh, yes. You were flying one of these,” Enrico said, indicating the L-23. “It is very good to see you again.”
“I like your jacket,” Geoff said.
“A painful souvenir of times past,” Enrico said, and shrugged.
“I hope we didn’t get you in real trouble,” Geoff said to the air commando.
“No problem,” he replied. “I’ll figure some way to really fuck you up sometime.”
“Thank you,” Enrico said to him.
“I’m sorry I ran you off before,” the air commando said. “I really didn’t know your friends were coming.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“Okay, put the captain’s bag in your little airplane, wind it up, and get it out of here,” the air commando said.
He saluted, and held it, until Enrico realized the salute was intended for him. Then he came to attention and returned the salute.
Jack pulled the throttles back from TAKEOFF power, skillfully synchronized the engines, set a course for Rucker, set the trim for a slow climb, and turned to Enrico.
“So what’s up?”
Enrico just perceptibly nodded in Geoff’s direction, wordlessly asking, Can I talk in front of him?
“You ever hear the phrase ‘Operation Earnest’?” Jack asked.
Enrico shook his head, no.
“Okay. But you can say anything in front of Geoff,” Jack said. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know what’s going on,” Enrico said. “Let me tell what happened. I took a C-46 from Kamina to Léopoldville. Your air force flies supplies into Léopoldville; I think they’re worried about sending them into Kamina. Anyway, when I got to Léopoldville, there was a man waiting who took me to the American Embassy, to the military attaché, an Army colonel. He gave me a note from Colonel Felter. It said that he needed me to go after Che Guevara, and was I willing to do so? And if I was, would I accept appointment as a U.S. army warrant officer? The colonel, the one in the embassy, said I had to make up mind right away.”
“And obviously, you decided to answer ‘yes’ to both questions, ” Geoff said.
“There wasn’t much of a choice for me between bombing and strafing ignorant black savages wearing soldier’s uniforms, and having a chance to kill Señor Guevara slowly and painfully.”
Both Jack and Geoff were surprised, and made a little uncomfortable, by the icy intensity of de la Santiago’s answer.
“You don’t like him, huh?” Geoff said, jokingly, after a moment.
“The perverted obscenity personally murdered my grandfather, with my grandmother and my mother watching,” de la Santiago said.
“Jesus!” Geoff said.
“Why perverted?” Jack asked.
“He is a doctor of medicine,” Enrico said. “He took an oath to God never to take life. Is the murder of an innocent man, in front of his wife and his daughter by a doctor of medicine, not perverted behavior?”
“Well, I can’t argue with that reasoning,” Geoff said.
“So you agreed,” Jack said. “Then what?”
“When the USAF C-130 left Léopoldville that same afternoon, I was on it,” Enrico went on. “We came here. I was met by a warrant officer named Finton, who told me that I would be taken to Fort Bragg on Saturday, by you.” He paused, smiled at Jack, and went on. “When you came back from your wedding trip.”
“Yeah,” Jack said. “December thirty-first.”
“I knew when I first saw you two that it would happen. You have my prayers for a long and happy marriage.”
“Thank you,” Jack said. “Have you heard anything about your wife and children?”
De la Santiago held up both hands helplessly.
“They are in the hands of God,” he said.
“Sonofabitch,” Geoff muttered.
“What will happen to me at Fort Bragg?” Enrico asked.
“I haven’t a clue,” Jack said. “I guess you’ll find out on Saturday. ”
“I’ll give you this advice, de la Santiago . . .”
“I would be honored if you would call me by my Christian name.”
“Okay. Thank you. I’m Geoff. The advice is, don’t go around telling anybody you want to kill Guevara—”
“But I do.”
“—painfully or otherwise. That’s not on Felter’s agenda for the bastard.”
Enrico looked at Jack, who nodded.
Enrico shrugged.
“Perhaps if I am sent into Cuba, I would be able to learn something of my family.”
“Guevara’s not in Cuba,” Geoff said. “He’s in Africa.”
“What’s he doing in Africa?”
“My guess is that he wants to train the savages to do it right, the next time they try to take over the country,” Geoff said.
“I was in Stanleyville, Jacques, right after the Belgians jumped—before they left. I saw what happened there. Only God’s infinite mercy saved your mother and your sister.”
“And my wife and baby,” Geoff said. “It gave me a whole new perception of the efficacy of prayer.”
“Your wife and baby were in Stanleyville?”
“Yeah. And so was John Wayne here,” Geoff said. “He jumped with the Belgians.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“He’s a regular fucking hero.”
“Fuck you, Geoff,” Jack said conversationally.
“Does Colonel Felter unders
tand what happened there?” Enrico asked.
“Oh, yeah,” Geoff said. “He knows all about it.”
“And that Guevara wants to start it all over again?”
“Yeah,” Geoff said.
“And Colonel Felter is still unwilling to have him killed?”
“The Lord and Colonel Felter move in mysterious ways, Enrico, ” Geoff said. “You better keep your thoughts about killing Guevara to yourself, or you’re going to find yourself out of his operation.”
Enrico nodded.
What that means, Jack thought, is that he will no longer announce his intention to kill Guevara, but not that he has given up his ambition to kill him, preferably slowly and painfully, but any way he can, just as soon as he has the opportunity.
The question is, do I tell Father Lunsford or Colonel Felter?
[ TWO ]
Office of the Army Attaché
United States Embassy
Sarmiento 663
Buenos Aires, Argentina
0800 2 January 1965
“Anything interesting?” Colonel Richard J. Harris, Jr., inquired of Master Sergeant Douglas Wilson when the sergeant major walked into his office carrying the thick stack of messages that had come in over New Year’s Day.
“The Pentagon has been heard from, Colonel,” Wilson said, and handed him a sheet of teletypewriter paper.
HQ DEPT OF THE ARMY WASH DC 1100 31 DEC 1964
ROUTINE
CONFIDENTIAL
FROM: DSCOPS (AVIATION)
TO: US ARMY ATTACHÉ US EMBASSY BUENOS AIRES
ARGENTINA
1. REFERENCE IS MADE TO “SPECIAL TABLE OF ORGANIZATION AND EQUIPMENT, OFFICE OF ARMY ATTACHÉ US EMBASSY, BUENOS AIRES ARGENTINA” AS AMENDED 22 DECEMBER 1964.
2. LT COL CRAIG W. LOWELL AND MAJOR GEORGE W. LUNSFORD WILL ARRIVE IN BUENOS AIRES 3 JAN 1965 TO DISCUSS IMPLEMENTATION OF REFERENCED AMENDED TO&E. SUBJECT OFFICERS ARE TICKETED ABOARD AEROLINEAS ARGENTINE FLIGHT 9790 WITH SCHEDULED TIME OF ARRIVAL 1130 HOURS BUENOS AIRES TIME.
FOR THE ASSISTANT DCSOPS FOR AVIATION:
RALPH J. LEMES, CAPT, SIGNAL CORPS
“I wonder if Colonel McGrory is going to come in today,” Colonel Harris wondered out loud.
Master Sergeant Wilson read his boss’s mind. Today was Saturday. It was very unlikely that Colonel McGrory would come to work on Saturday; he rarely did. And tomorrow, when these two paper pushers from the Pentagon would arrive at Ezeiza, Buenos Aires’ International Airport, was Sunday. There was almost no chance at all that Colonel McGrory would come to work on Sunday. If he did, it would be the first time either of them could remember.
“Colonel, why don’t I go out there and pick these officers up?” Sergeant Wilson asked. “Where are we going to put them?”
“Does a lieutenant colonel rate the VIP transient apartment?” Colonel Harris asked rhetorically. “In the absence of any opinion to the contrary, and knowing there’s no one in there right now, I have decided that this one does. He is, after all, about to give us not only an airplane but a twin-engined airplane. And pilots to fly it, and mechanics to fix it. Doesn’t that make him a VIP?”
“I would certainly think so, Sir,” Sergeant Wilson said. “What about the major?”
“I think that simple courtesy requires we give the major the benefit of the doubt, and put him in with the lieutenant colonel. You go out there at 11:30 and meet them, and when they’re through customs and immigration, which should take no more than an hour or two, you call me and I will be at the VIP apartment when you deliver them there.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And perhaps the lieutenant colonel and I can have a little chat before he gets to meet Colonel McGrory the next morning. Give him the lay of the terrain, so to speak.”
“Excellent thinking, Colonel,” Master Sergeant Wilson said.
“Great minds run in similar paths, Sergeant Wilson,” Harris said.
“What are you going to do about the Argentines, Colonel?”
Teniente Coronel Ricardo Fosterwood, aide-de-camp to the commander-in-chief, Argentine Army, had called and politely inquired if there was a Lieutenant Colonel Lowell visiting the U.S. Embassy. When told there was not (“Never heard the name, Colonel, Sorry,” Master Sergeant Wilson had said.) Teniente Colonel Fosterwood had told Wilson that he would consider it a personal service if he were notified if such an officer did visit in the future.
“God, I forgot about that,” Harris said. “I still can’t figure out how he knew this Lowell character was coming before they told us.” He paused. “I’ll call him. I don’t think he’ll be working today, but I can leave a message.”
Colonel Harris guessed right. Teniente Coronel Fosterwood had not come into the Edificio Libertador, and was not expected to do so until Monday. But he had left word, his subofficial mayor (sergeant major) told Colonel Harris, that if either Colonel Harris or Subofficial Mayor Wilson telephoned, the call was to be transferred to wherever he was.
That turned out to be his home. Fosterwood told Harris he very much appreciated being informed of the arrival of Teniente Coronel Lowell and—what was the other officer’s name? And as soon as they could find the time, they were going to have to have lunch, or better, dinner.
When he hung up from speaking with Fosterwood, and after some thought, Harris thought he had the answer to deal with Colonel Bob McGrory. He would Xerox the TWX from DCSOPS, put it in an envelope, stamp the envelope CONFIDENTIAL, and hand it to whatever Air Force NCO had been stuck with the over-the-weekend duty. On the envelope, he would write:
McGrory:
0835 Sat 2 Jan
Sorry I missed you.
This just reached me.
Harris
Colonel Harris did all of this, and feeling just a little smug, walked down the corridor to Colonel McGrory’s office to find his NCO on duty and found instead Colonel Robert McGrory sitting behind his desk, drinking a cup of coffee and reading the Buenos Aires Herald.
“I didn’t think you’d be coming in today, Colonel,” Harris said. “So I put this in an envelope so that you would have it first thing when you did.”
“What have you got, Colonel?” McGrory asked.
Harris handed the xeroxed copy of the TWX to him, and McGrory read it.
“Who are these people, Colonel?” McGrory asked.
“I never saw their names before, Colonel.”
“I want to see this man the minute he arrives, Colonel,” McGrory said.
“So you’ll go to Ezeiza to meet him, Colonel?”
The airport was an hour’s ride through usually maddening traffic from either downtown Buenos Aires, or from the suburb of Olivos, where both Harris and McGrory—and senior State Department officers—lived.
“I didn’t say that, Colonel,” McGrory said. “I meant the minute he walks in the Embassy on Monday morning.”
“I see. I’ll tell him that, Colonel.”
“You’re going to meet him?”
“Sergeant Major Wilson will meet them, Colonel.”
“And take them where?”
“I’m going to put them in the transient VIP apartment.”
“You’re going to do what?”
“I think you heard me, Colonel.”
“The transient VIP apartment is for VIPs, Colonel. I don’t want to find myself trying to explain to the Ambassador why someone on my staff put a lieutenant colonel—who is not a VIP—and a major in there.”
“If the ambassador asks me, Colonel, why I did it, I will tell him that since I knew the apartment was empty, I thought it was the courteous thing to do.”
“These Army officers, Colonel, are not going to stay in the transient VIP apartment. Are we clear on that?”
“We’re clear on that, Colonel,” Harris said, and mentally added, you chickenshit sonofabitch.
“And as far as having your sergeant meet these officers, Colonel—they are, after all, field-grade officers, and entitled to the appropriate courtesies—I don’t like that at
all.”
“And how would you prefer that be handled, Colonel?”
“I was about to say that someone on your staff, a field-grade officer, should be given that duty, but on reflection, Colonel, I’ll have one of my field grades handle it. This is, after all, an Air Force post, and I want to make sure these people get the message that I want to see them first thing Monday morning.”
“Whatever you say, Colonel,” Harris said, and walked out of the office very aware that he was teetering over the brink of telling the Dumb Mick Fly-Boy chickenshit sonofabitch to go fuck himself.
[ THREE ]
Pope Air Force Base
Fort Bragg, North Carolina
1125 2 January 1965
“Office of the Commanding General, Special Warfare Center, Captain Zabrewski speaking, sir.”
“Captain, my name is Portet, and—”
“The general has been expecting your call, Lieutenant. You’re at Pope? Base Operations?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll have a car there in ten minutes. Be waiting outside.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jack put the phone back in its cradle and shook his head. He had called Hanrahan’s office in desperation, after fifteen minutes on the telephone trying, with absolutely no success, to find Major Father Lunsford. First the SWC operator had firmly denied knowing anything about a Major Lunsford, then when Jack had said he was at Mackall, that she knew anything about a place called Camp Mackall, and when he’d finally worked his way past the operator’s supervisor and gotten the signal sergeant to patch him through to the Mackall switchboard, that operator, a man, had firmly denied knowledge of a Major Lunsford or a Master Sergeant Thomas. He had finally gotten Thomas on the line.
“Hell, he doesn’t tell me where he’s going, Lieutenant,” Thomas had told him in Swahili. “I don’t have a clue where he is. You try his apartment?”
To try the apartment, it had been necessary to find a pay phone, because the Pope/Bragg telephone system did not allow off-post calls from Class B telephones, and then find change to feed the pay phone, and when he finally got the number to ring, it rang and rang and rang, making it clear that Father wasn’t at home, either.
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