When he had been at the Kamina Air Base with Colonel Van de Waele, before and after the Belgians had dropped parachutists on Stanleyville—which was now officially Kisangani, although few people used the new name—his mother had come to see him, and he had introduced her to Colonel Van de Waele and she told him that she now knew she was wrong about not wanting him to go off and be a soldier and that she was very proud of him. And Colonel Van de Waele had kissed his mother and said he was very proud of him too, and this time he could not keep the tears from running down his cheeks.
Colonel Supo had traveled from Costersmanville in a six-vehicle convoy, because there were still some Simbas in the bush, and sometimes they ambushed single cars and trucks on Route National Number Three. The convoy consisted of an ex-Royal British Army “Ferret” reconnaissance car, armed with one .30-caliber Browning machine gun; two Swedish Scania-Vabis armored cars, each armed with three Browning .30-caliber machine guns—a dual mount in front and a single machine gun firing toward the rear; two Ford ton-and-a-half trucks, holding between them a platoon of paratroopers; and a GMC carryall. The Fords and the GMC still bore the logotype of Mobil Oil Congo. He knew he would have to give them back, but right now he needed them.
The Ferret and one Scania-Vabis led the convoy, followed by the GMC and the two Ford trucks. The second Scania-Vabis was at the tail. Colonel Supo had ridden in the carryall, most of the way driving it himself, as his driver, Sergeant Paul Wotto, while enthusiastic and a good man to have around, was not a very good driver. And neither were the four officers of his personal staff in the back of the carryall.
Route National Number Three took them along the north bank of the Congo past the airport, and Colonel Supo was very surprised to see a small twin-engine airplane with US ARMY lettered on its fuselage parked in front of the terminal building. He decided it was worth a look, and turned out of the convoy onto the airport access road.
The two Ford trucks and the Scania-Vabis bringing up the rear followed him. The Ferret and the leading Scania-Vabis were almost a mile down the road before someone realized they had lost the tail of the convoy and hastily turned around to look for it.
By the time they reached the airport, Colonel Supo had spoken with the officer guarding the airfield and learned that there had been four people on the airplane: the two American pilots, both of them Swahili speaking, one of them a noir; Assistant Secretary of State for Defense for Provincial Affairs, M’sieu Hakino; and a second blanc, who the lieutenant believed had been referred to as “Doctor.” The lieutenant said they had requested quarters, and he had taken them to the Immoquateur, where one of the Americans had insisted on being taken to the tenth floor, where they entered the apartment formerly occupied by Air Simba and insisted on staying there.
As an afterthought, the lieutenant reported that the Assistant Secretary of State for Defense for Provincial Affairs had said he was in Stanleyville to see Colonel Supo, and that the black American had told him to tell Colonel Supo where they were.
Colonel Supo was back behind the wheel of his carryall when the lead elements of his convoy finally caught up with him.
Colonel Supo put his head out the window and ordered the driver of the Ferret to go to the Immoquateur, and after some hasty backing and turning around, the newly reassembled convoy set out for the Immoquateur.
When they rolled up to the portico of the Immoquateur, Sergeant Paul Wotto did not think the corporal of the guard reacted quickly enough to the appearance of Colonel Supo; did not think his belatedly rendered salute was crisp enough; and further, noted that his uniform was soiled. He expressed his displeasure by punching the corporal in the mouth, hard enough to knock him off his feet, and then trotted after his colonel.
Colonel Supo pretended not to see what had happened. Sometimes it was possible to inspire men. Sometimes you could speak with them. And sometimes it was necessary to do what Sergeant Wotto had done. He had learned that in the 23rd Company.
At the elevator, Colonel Supo motioned for Major Alain George Totse, his intelligence officer, and Sergeant Wotto to get on the elevator, and ordered the rest of his party and guards to wait for him.
On the tenth floor, when there was no response to Colonel Supo’s knock at the door, he motioned for Sergeant Wotto to enter the apartment.
Wotto drew his 9-mm Fabrique National pistol from its web holster and entered the apartment cautiously, obviously expecting trouble. He made his way carefully through the living room, peered into each of the three bedrooms, worked his way through the dining room to the kitchen, and ultimately to the open balcony at the rear of the apartment. The balcony overlooked the wharves and warehouses lining the Tshopo River, which flowed into the Congo four miles downstream.
There he found three black men and two white men. One of the black men was standing at an ironing board, pressing a pair of trousers. He was obviously not the Assistant Secretary of State of Defense for Provincial Affairs, but it was quite impossible to tell which of the other two black men was that dignitary, for all four men were wearing nothing but white boxer shorts and under-shirts. One of the white men was drinking a glass of water. The other three all held bottles of Simba beer in their hands.
“Put that goddamned gun away before I make you eat it,” Father Lunsford snarled in Swahili.
Obviously, Sergeant Wotto decided, the short muscular man was the Assistant Secretary of State for Defense for Provincial Affairs.
“Chief,” he announced as he hastily holstered his pistol, “Colonel Supo is here.”
“Where?” Lunsford asked.
"I will fetch him,” Sergeant Wotto announced, and fled from the balcony.
“They are in their underwear, my colonel,” Sergeant Wotto reported. “Drinking beer on the servants’ balcony.”
“Are they indeed?” Colonel Supo replied, and gestured for Wotto to lead the way.
Father Lunsford rose to his feet when Supo came onto the balcony, and a moment later Jack did. Major Totse and Sergeant Wotto stayed just inside the door to the kitchen.
Supo knew both Assistant Secretary of State for Defense Hakino and Dr. Dannelly, who was Joseph Désiré Mobutu’s good friend. He was relieved to see Dannelly. He knew the Air Simba apartment was really that of Captain Jean-Philippe Portet, who was another of Mobutu’s very few close white friends. It was possible, even likely, that Dannelly and Portet were friends, and Dannelly was in Portet’s apartment as his guest. Otherwise, the situation might be difficult.
Supo saluted Hakino.
“Chief,” he said in Swahili, and then turned to Dannelly. “It is good to see you again, Doctor.”
Supo turned to Lunsford and Jack and switched to French.
“I don’t believe I know these gentlemen,” he said, smiling.
“We have had the privilege of meeting the colonel before,” Lunsford replied in French. “Major George Washington Lunsford and Lieutenant Jacques Portet, U.S. Army, at your orders, sir.”
Supo’s smile vanished. He knew for a fact that President Kasavubu had been offered, and had bluntly refused, the offer of American troops.
“At Kamina, sir,” Lunsford went on, switching to Swahili. “Both yourself and Colonel Van de Waele at first thought I was a Simba prisoner, and Lieutenant Portet a Belgian para who had taken a bullet in the nose.”
Supo’s eyes widened as he looked between them and recognition came.
“Mon Dieu,” he said. “I would not have recognized either of you!”
“Mon Dieu,” Major Totse parroted in French, “it is him!”
“It is very good to see you again, sir,” Lunsford said.
“And you’re not Belgian?” Supo asked Jack.
“He’s Jean-Philippe Portet’s son,” Dr. Dannelly said.
“Captain Portet is Belgian,” Supo protested.
"My father and I are American citizens, Colonel,” Jack said in French.
“You were wearing a Belgian para’s uniform. You jumped with the Belgians at Stanleyville. You were wound
ed at Stanleyville.”
“Actually, I fell off a truck,” Jack said.
"He’s a U.S. Army Special Forces officer, Colonel,” Lunsford said. “Sometimes we find it necessary to wear other people’s uniforms. ”
Supo, visibly considering that, looked intently at Lunsford but didn’t reply directly.
“What are you two doing back in the Congo?” he asked.
“They have a proposition for you, Colonel,” Hakino said. “The President wants you to listen to it.”
“He told me to tell you, Jean-Baptiste,” Dannelly said, “that the decision is entirely yours.”
Supo looked at Lunsford.
“Before we get into this, Colonel, would you like a beer?”
“Yes, I would, thank you. Have you enough for Major Totse and Sergeant Wotto?”
“Of course,” Jack said.
“Totse, do you remember these two officers? At Kamina?”
“Yes, my colonel, very well.”
“I’m sorry,” Lunsford said, making it clear he did not remember Major Totse at Kamina.
“I’m surprised you remember Kamina,” Colonel Supo said. “You had just gone through—”
“Colonel, we have information that the Cuban Communist Che Guevara plans to come to the Congo and pick up where the Simbas left off—”
“Why should a Cuban Communist come here?” Supo challenged.
“Jean-Baptiste,” Dannelly said, “to save time, let me say that General Mobutu is convinced the threat is real. And so am I.”
Supo nodded.
“With respect, Doctor, I would prefer to hear it all myself,” he said.
“Certainly,” Lunsford said. “As I was saying, sir, we have reliable intelligence that . . .”
“If I understand you correctly, Major,” Supo said ten minutes later, “what you are offering is a small force of Special Services—”
“Special Forces, sir,” Lunsford corrected him.
“—Forces, then,” Supo went on, making it clear he did not like being interrupted, “specially trained for this sort of operation. The purpose of which, presumably, is to either kill or capture this man, and then what, if he is captured?”
“No, sir,” Lunsford said. “We don’t want to either capture him or eliminate him. We want to frustrate him; we want him to leave the Congo, Africa, with his tail between his legs.”
“I’d like an explanation of that, if you please, Major,” Supo said.
“I think I understand your reasoning,” Supo said when Lunsford had finished. “But I must tell you I’m not sure I agree with it. As I’m sure you know, the rules of land warfare permit the trial and execution of anyone who enters a sovereign nation and undertakes an armed revolution against the legitimate government. ”
“I know what he did in Cuba, Colonel,” Lunsford said, “and I saw what the Simbas did here. In my personal opinion, anyone who would arm and train more Simbas deserves to die painfully. But I’m a soldier, and my president has decided we want him humiliated, not killed, and that makes it orders I am sworn to obey.”
“I am having trouble convincing my soldiers they cannot shoot on sight anyone they suspect might be a Simba,” Supo said. “How would you suggest I keep them from shooting, or worse, a white man they suspect of arming the Simbas?”
Lunsford shrugged.
“We’ll have to deal with that as it comes up,” Lunsford said. “I had the same immediate reaction to this that you did. But I’ve come around to seeing the wisdom that the sonofabitch alive and humiliated will cause less trouble in the end than dead and a martyr.”
“Joseph Désiré is in agreement with this?” Supo asked Dr. Dannelly.
“He is in agreement with the idea that killing this Cuban would be less wise than his becoming a martyr,” Dannelly replied. “But as I said before, the decision whether you want the assistance Major Lunsford offers is entirely yours.”
Supo looked at Lunsford.
“What I really would like to have as assistance is an airplane— airplanes,” he said.
“What sort of airplane—airplanes?” Father asked.
Supo smiled.
“One like the one you came in would be nice,” he said. “But I’d be happy with anything with wings.”
“What would you do with an airplane if you had one, Colonel?” Lunsford asked.
“Reconnaissance,” Supo replied immediately. “You can’t fight an enemy if you can’t find him.”
“That’s true,” Lunsford agreed. “They’re also handy for moving officers quickly around.”
Lunsford, Jack thought, is practically inviting Supo to ask for, even demand, an airplane. What the hell is he up to?
“That, too,” Supo said. “I’m out of touch—we don’t have good radios—far too much of the time.”
“So if I understand you, sir,” Lunsford said, “what you’re telling me is that, in the absence of a minimum number of light aircraft—say a DeHavilland Beaver to move you and your staff around, a couple of Cessna L-19s for reconnaissance and a Bell H-13 helicopter—you don’t think the assistance I’m offering would be of much use to you?”
Supo, with the hint of a smile on his face, looked at Lunsford for a long moment.
“What I’m saying, Major, is that if there were available to me the aircraft you mention—and some decent tactical radios—the assistance you offer would be of far greater value.”
“And without the aircraft, and some decent tactical radios, to make sure I have this right, you don’t think my team would be of any real value to you, and you wouldn’t want it, right, sir?”
“You could put it that way, if you chose,” Colonel Supo said.
“You heard the colonel, Lieutenant Portet. What do you think Colonel Felter would say if I reported to him that Colonel Supo doesn’t think the team would be any good to him without the airplanes and radios he mentioned?”
“Sir, I think the colonel would immediately take steps to get the aircraft and the radios.”
“There are problems with that,” Hakino said. “Internal and external. ”
“Sir?” Lunsford asked.
“It is one thing for a U.S. Army aircraft assigned to the U.S. Embassy to move around the Congo carrying passengers on embassy business, and quite another for U.S. Army aircraft to be actively engaged in supporting military operations,” Hakino said. “The President has made it clear he does not want the U.S. Army operating in the Congo.”
“Speaking hypothetically, Mr. Secretary,” Lunsford said. “What if a U.S. Army Beaver, or an L-19, showed up here, mysteriously, as if someone had flown it across the border from South Africa when no one was looking. And then, somehow, the aircraft was painted black so that it didn’t say ’U.S. Army’ on the wings and fuselage . . .”
“And the pilot’s face would be painted black, too?” Hakino asked, smiling.
“Still speaking hypothetically, of course,” Lunsford said, “what if the hypothetical pilot of this hypothetical aircraft, and its hypothetical maintenance crew, all happened to be black?”
“I suppose this hypothetical aircraft could be given Congolese Army identification,” Hakino said, smiling conspiratorially.
“With respect, sir,” Lunsford said. “If it had no identification at all, then no one would know who it belonged to, would they? Everybody could say, ‘What airplane?’’’ ”
Hakino and Supo chuckled.
“The decision is yours, Jean-Baptiste,” Dannelly said, shaking his head.
“I think Major Lunsford and I understand each other,” Supo said. “And that he understands the problems—tactical and political—here. I think he and his men could be very useful.”
“We’ll try, Colonel,” Lunsford said. “We’ll try hard.”
Supo nodded and offered Lunsford his hand.
“I have an apartment here in the Immoquateur,” Supo said. “I’d be pleased if you all joined me for dinner. At eight?”
“We would be honored, sir,” Lunsford said.
<
br /> Supo gave his hand to Jack, turned, and walked off the balcony.
With Hakino and Dannelly in the apartment, it wasn’t until Lunsford and Jack were alone in what had been Jack’s bedroom that Jack could ask, “Where are you going to get these airplanes you promised him?”
Lunsford looked at Jack for a long moment before replying, “I figured that if Felter can steal an L-23 from some general to send to Argentina, he can steal a Beaver, a couple of L-19s, and an H-13 to send here—”
“Felter doesn’t know about your offer?”
Lunsford shook his head, no.
“Since we’re dreaming, why not a Huey?” Jack asked sarcastically. “For that matter, a Mohawk?”
The sarcasm went right over Lunsford’s head.
“It would be hard to credibly deny a Huey or a Mohawk,” he said. “The South Africans and the Israelis have Beavers, L-19s, and H-13s. The problem we’re going to have is talking enough black guys, with visions of flying a Mohawk or a Chinook gloriously in Vietnam in their heads, to come here and fly L-19s and H-13s in a war that doesn’t exist, and never will, but from which, nevertheless, they stand a good chance of returning in a body bag.”
“Can you do it?”
"Of course I can do it,” Lunsford said. “I’m a Green Beret. I can do anything.”
XIII
[ ONE ]
Camp David
The Catoctin Mountains, Maryland
1530 22 January 1965
The President of the United States and the chief of staff of the United States Army were shooting skeet when the peculiar fluckata-fluckata sound a Bell HU-1 helicopter makes caught the President’s attention.
He looked skyward, in the direction of Washington. A U.S. Army Huey could be seen approaching.
“That’s probably Colonel Felter, Mr. President,” the chief said.
The chief of staff was at Camp David because of Colonel Sanford T. Felter. The red White House switchboard telephone on his desk had gone off—it was rigged so that it didn’t ring until a red light had flashed five times; the chief had caught it, he hoped, on the second flash—at half past ten that morning.
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