“Anytime, Aaron,” the ambassador said, smiling. “You know that. Should I run the CIA away, or is he cleared for whatever you want to say?”
“I thought those fellows were cleared for everything,” Jacobs said. “How are you, Charley?”
“Aaron. Hey, John,” the CIA Léopoldville station chief replied.
The CIA station chief knew Major John D. Anderson, one of the assistant military attachés, well. Anderson, a tanned, lithe man in his early thirties, was an assistant military attaché. He was the senior of the two army aviators assigned to the embassy, and thought of as “the embassy pilot.”
“Charley,” Anderson said.
“What’s on your mind, Aaron?” the ambassador asked.
“I just had a call from Mr. . . . Colonel . . . Felter,” Jacobs said.
“We were just talking about him,” the CIA station chief said.
“He wants to go to Stanleyville and/or Costersmanville tomorrow morning,” Jacobs said. “In our airplane.”
“Did he say why?” Charley, the CIA station chief, asked.
“Uh-uh. What he said was that he wanted to go to Stanleyville and/or Costersmanville tomorrow morning, and would I make sure the airplane was ready at half past seven.”
“And you said?” the ambassador asked.
“That you, Mr. Ambassador—I didn’t mention you, Charley—were planning to go to Bujumbura, and that I didn’t think you would have any problem with dropping him off at Bujumbura, that it’s not at all far from Costersmanville.”
“And he said?”
“He said that he was sorry but he was going to need the airplane for two or three days, and that there wouldn’t be room to take you along, Mr. Ambassador.”
“The sonofabitch!” Charley said.
“He’s blessed by Lyndon himself,” the ambassador said. “You saw the message—‘milattache is directed to provide whatever he requires, which specifically includes use of aircraft’—or words to that effect. So fly him to wherever he wants to go, Aaron. And try to smile.”
“Sir, I’m not sure about this—it was only after he hung up that the hairs on my neck started to rise—but I’m not sure he wants me to fly the aircraft.”
“Who would fly it?”
“Well, he’s staying with Captain Portet, I saw him at the airport. With his son and two other people,” Jacobs said.
“The son’s in the Army, right?” Charley asked, but it was a statement. “The long arm of the draft board caught up with him way over here in Darkest Africa.”
“He’s a pilot,” the ambassador said. “He’s a nice kid, who suffers from erectis permanitis.” He waited for the expected chuckle, then went on. “Do you think he’s going to fly it?”
“He couldn’t be an Army aviator, Mr. Ambassador,” Major Anderson said.
“Why not?”
“He was drafted a year ago,” Colonel Jacobs answered for him. “That means he was an enlisted man. Three months in basic training, then six in Officer Candidate School. Flight training— and they usually don’t send kids straight from OCS to flight school. Or if he went into the warrant officer program, to learn to fly choppers, that’s eight months or so. He’s not an Army aviator, I’ll bet on that.”
“So what you’re asking me is what do you do if you go to the field and find that either Captain Portet or his son wants to fly our airplane?”
“Yes, sir.”
“First of all, I don’t think you should go to the field,” the ambassador said. “John is the senior pilot—responsible for the airplane. Have him at the field at half past seven.”
“Yes, sir,” Colonel Jacobs and Major Anderson said, almost in unison.
“You will introduce yourself as the embassy pilot, John, and inform Colonel Felter that you are prepared to fly him anywhere he wants to go.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If it develops that he wishes either Captain Portet or his son to fly the aircraft, after (a) inquiring into their qualifications to fly an airplane of that type, which may be, probably are, nonexistent; and (b) making them aware of the extraordinarily hazardous flight conditions in the Congo, you will offer no further objections or comments. They will take the airplane—” the ambassador said.
“Which, with a little bit of luck, will never be heard from again,” Charley said.
The ambassador gave him a dirty look.
“—and as soon as they are off the ground,” he went on, “I will, in compliance with my instructions—’SecState will be immediately informed of any contact initiated by Felter, and reasons therefore, and any actions taken by U.S. Embassy in regard thereto,’ or words to that effect—I will inform the secretary that the counselor to the President commandeered the embassy aircraft for purposes unknown, and that said aircraft was flown by persons not believed to be qualified to fly such an aircraft here in the Congo.”
“Yes, sir,” Colonel Jacobs said.
[ TWO ]
404 Avenue Leopold
Léopoldville, Republic of the Congo
0615 17 January 1965
Since Mobutu had made it plain that he didn’t want Kasavubu to suspect that he was going to defy the President’s frequent, and apparently firmly meant, announcements that he didn’t want American soldiers in the Congo, Jack would have guessed that Colonel Felter would have made the uniform of the day civilian clothing. Maybe, because he was going to fly the embassy’s Army L-23, a flight suit over civvies, but civvies. But Felter had said uniforms, so that was that.
It was a strange feeling to be sitting on the bed that had been his since he was a kid and lacing up Corcoran jump boots.
When he had finished dressing and was examining himself in the mirror, he had a quick mental image of Marjorie pinning the insignia on the jacket in their apartment in Fayetteville. It was a twice-pleasing thought, first because it seemed to be a wifely take-care-of-your-husband thing for her to have done, and he liked that, and also because she had bent over their bed for the pinning, and he had had occasion to consider once again that she had the greatest tail in the whole wide world.
Father Lunsford was already in the breakfast room when he got there, his uniform sagging under an array of ribbons and qualification badges that reminded Jack what a rookie he really was in the world of soldiers.
And Felter was there, too, in civilian clothing, causing Jack to wonder again if he wore ill-fitting suits because he wanted to look like a government clerk, or whether he just didn’t give a damn how he looked.
“Good morning,” Jack said.
“I thought I’d see that you got off all right,” Felter said.
Jack nodded, and wondered if he should have said, “Yes, sir.”
“Apparently, the ambassador had planned to use the aircraft today,” Felter went on. “He seemed a little annoyed when I told him we were going to need it.”
“Did you want to go with us, Colonel?” Father asked.
“No,” Felter said. “Mobutu made it pretty plain he didn’t want me up there, and when I thought about it, I decided the two of you can deal with this guy better if you’re alone.”
“If things go well,” Father said, “I’d like to get Doubting Thomas over here as soon as possible.”
“It’s your show, Father,” Felter replied. “You want me to get him on the next plane, or do you want to talk to him in the States first?”
“Can we message him to tell him that if he wants a leave, to take it now?”
“I’ll send it just as soon as you get off,” Felter said. “If this thing with Supo doesn’t work out, then he’ll just have to go back.”
Noki came in a moment later and served breakfast. Since the Portet houseguests were Americans, he had naturally prepared what he thought was the—somewhat barbaric—American breakfast: orange juice, toast, hash brown potatoes, and ham and eggs.
Felter attacked everything, including the ham, with relish.
He’s Jewish. Lowell tells me he takes it seriously. Ham?
Felte
r looked up and met Jack’s eyes. A chunk of ham dripping with egg yolk was on his fork.
“Nothing like steak and eggs for breakfast, is there, Jack?” he asked with a straight face.
Christ, Jack thought. He can read minds!
Noki drove them in Hanni’s Ford to the Air Simba hangar, where the embassy’s L-23 was parked and maintained. Air Simba was the Beech Aircraft Corporation’s recommended maintenance facility for both the former French and Belgian Congos and for the northwestern third of South Africa. Air Simba billed Beechcraft for whatever they did to the Army’s airplane, and for hangar rent, and eventually the bill worked its way through the corporate and military bureaucracies, and there was a check.
He felt a moment’s flicker of regret that Air Simba was shortly going to belong to one of Mobutu’s cronies, but he knew his father was right about cutting his losses and getting out.
Dr. Dannelly and a short, squat, very black Congolese were already in the office, waiting for them.
“This is Mr. Hakino of the Defense Ministry,” Dr. Dannelly introduced him in French. “The President thought it would be a good idea for him to go with us. Is that going to be a problem?”
“We are honored to have the chief with us,” Father replied in Swahili.
“Let me get the weather and the keys to the airplane and we’ll get going,” Jack said in Swahili.
The weather report was of near-perfect flying weather en route and in Stanleyville. Jack knew from experience that the weather report could be trusted not quite as far as he could see, but every once in a while, when there was an enormous storm, Léopoldville sometimes heard about it, and might pass on the information. It was worth the call.
The keys to the L-23 were not in the office key locker where he expected to find them, but when he looked out the window down to the hangar floor, he saw the door of the airplane was open, and decided that Noki had called ahead and said M’sieu Jacques would be flying it, and that someone was making sure it was ready.
When they went down to the hangar floor, Jack quickly learned that Noki had not been involved. There was an Army aviator standing by the nose of the airplane, in a flight suit bearing wings, the golden oak leafs of a major, a name patch—ANDERSON—and the patch of the Army Aviation Center at Fort Rucker.
The major walked toward them, smiling. After a moment, Jack remembered to salute. Major Anderson returned it.
“You’re the people I’m going to take to Stanleyville today?” he asked.
“Not quite,” Father Lunsford said, smiling and offering his hand. “My name is Lunsford.”
“Anderson,” the major said. “Not quite?”
“We’re going to Stanleyville,” Lunsford said. “But we already have a pilot.” He pointed at Jack. “He’ll fly it.”
“I don’t even know who he is,” Major Anderson said.
“His name is Portet,” Lunsford said.
Major Anderson looked at First Lieutenant Portet, who was a Green Beret, wearing aviator’s wings, parachutist’s wings, and what Anderson thought were Belgian parachutist’s wings, and decided that Captain Portet must have two sons, the other one being the one who was drafted a year before.
Jack looked around for Felter. He was nowhere in sight. Dr. Dannelly and Mr. Hakino of the Congolese Defense Ministry were watching the exchange with interest.
“Let me start from square one,” Major Anderson said. “My name is Major John D. Anderson. I am an assistant military attaché at the embassy. I am also the senior Army aviator assigned to the embassy. My orders were to be here at 0730 prepared to fly Colonel Felter and another American officer to Stanleyville. How am I doing so far?”
“Well, are you sure you got your orders straight?” Lunsford asked. “Is it possible that you were told to prepare the airplane for a flight to Stanleyville?”
“Is Colonel Felter here?” Major Anderson asked.
Lunsford looked around and found Felter, who was at a stand-up desk against the hangar wall with a telephone in his hand. He pointed at him.
“That’s Colonel Felter?” Major Anderson asked in disbelief. He had not expected an Army colonel, or a man who was counselor to the President of the United States, to look like a clerk of the Internal Revenue Service.
“Sir, is there anything I should know about the airplane?” Jack asked.
“You really don’t have to worry about the airplane, Lieutenant, ” Anderson said. “Believe it or not, Air Simba runs a first-class maintenance operation.”
“That’s nice to know,” Jack said.
I wonder how long that reputation will last when one of Mobutu’s friends takes over?
“What you have to worry about is flying in the Congo,” Major Anderson said, and asked: “Have you got much L-23 time?”
“No, sir,” Jack replied truthfully.
“How many hours is not much?”
“I’m rated as an instructor pilot in L-23 series aircraft, Major, okay?”
“I’m just trying to keep you—and your passengers—alive,” Anderson said.
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s a long way from here to Stanleyville,” Anderson said. “You sure you don’t want me to come along?”
“Thank you, sir, but no thanks,” Jack said.
“You want some help with your flight plan?”
“No, sir,” Jack said without thinking. “But thanks.”
Then he saw the look on Anderson’s face—You arrogant little inexperienced sonofabitch—and quickly added: “With full tanks, and four people aboard, I figure that will give me about 1,200 nautical miles. . . .”
“I think the manual says about 1,500, Lieutenant,” Anderson corrected him. There was a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
Jack ignored him.
“Stanleyville’s about 785 nautical miles from here,” he went on. “According to the manual, I’d have enough fuel aboard to make it nonstop. But I don’t trust manuals.”
“Is that so?” Anderson asked, and now the sarcasm was clear.
Father looked as if he was about to shut him up, but Jack signaled him with a small movement of his hand not to.
“What I’m going to do, Major, is fly up the Congo River to Colquilhatville; their ADF usually works. That’s 350-odd miles. I’ll top off the tanks there. Then it’s a little under 500 nautical miles from Colquilhatville to Stanleyville. Their ADF is supposedly working again, but I don’t want to count on that. If there’s weather and I can’t find it IFR, or if I get there and see that I can’t land, I’ll have enough fuel, with a reserve, to go back to Colquilhatville, or maybe, probably, even enough to make it to Costersmanville. If there’s anything wrong with that, I’d be grateful if you would tell me what it is.”
Anderson now examined him carefully.
“You’ve flown in the Congo before, Lieutenant?”
“Yes, sir, I have.”
“Have we got some sort of a problem here, Major?” Father Lunsford asked, not very pleasantly.
“No problem, Major,” Anderson said. “But if I wasn’t under orders not to ask questions, I would have a couple.”
“But you are under orders not to ask questions, Major, aren’t you?” Felter said, softly.
Jack hadn’t seen him walk up to them.
“My orders, sir,” Anderson said, “if it turned out I wasn’t to fly the aircraft, were to ask about the qualifications of whoever was to fly it.”
Felter turned to Jack. “I’ll deal with this, Jack. You get going.”
“Yes, sir,” Jack said.
He called out in Swahili to some Air Simba mechanics to open the hangar doors and push the L-23 outside.
Anderson was visibly surprised to hear Jack speak Swahili.
[ THREE ]
Stanleyville Air Field
Stanleyville, Oriental Province
Republic of the Congo
1340 17 January 1965
The weather en route to Colquilhatville had been perfect, and Jack picked up the Colquilhatville beacon long
before he expected to. There had even been an English speaker in the Colquilhatville tower, which didn’t always happen in the Congo. They touched down almost exactly three hours after they’d broken ground in Léopoldville.
A Mobil Oil truck had rolled up to them as they stopped, and Jack didn’t even have to remind them to run the avgas through a clean chamois. There was even pastry and coffee in the terminal building.
From there, however, things had gone downhill. The station manager told Jack that he’d had in-flight reports of bad weather between Colquilhatville and Stanleyville and that he knew the Stanleyville ADF was down. Further, what before the Simba Uprising had been alternate airfields at Lisala, Bumba, and Basoko were no longer available. Wrecked trucks and cars and earthmoving equipment had been placed by the Simbas on the runways to deny their use to the Congolese Army.
Jack had decided the thing to do was try to make Stanleyville; if the weather was really bad, he could turn around.
An hour out of Colquilhatville there had been proof that the popular understanding of “Darkest Africa”—as in “The Heart of Darkest Africa,” understood as a reference to the skin pigmentation of the native population—was wrong. Actually, it made reference to the weather conditions. Very frequently—sometimes daily, for weeks at a time—storm clouds began gathering around noon. The sky would continue to darken, actually growing black, until the clouds opened, releasing torrential rain, and then it would clear.
Today that phenomenon had begun early.
Father, who had been riding in the copilot’s seat, had seen the black skies ahead of them, and looked wonderingly at Jack.
“Jesus, are you going to try to go through that?”
“Welcome back to Darkest Africa, Major,” Jack said. “I have three choices. I can either try to get above it, which would be a reasonable solution, if there was a working beacon at Stanleyville, which there is not, making a descent through the soup rather difficult since I would have only a vague idea where I was. Or I can go down and fly the Congo River, which will produce a rather bumpy ride. Or we can go back to Colquilhatville, and have a shot at it first thing tomorrow morning. Your call, Major.”
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