“Have you got heavy plans for this afternoon?” the President of the United States had inquired without other preliminaries.
“No, sir.”
No plan has priority over any plan of the Commander-in-Chief.
“Come over here so that we can take off for Camp David—say, quarter to twelve,” the President ordered. “Don’t come by chopper; the goddamn press will interpret that to mean we’re about to go to war.”
“Yes, sir.”
The phone had clicked off.
The chief and two aides-de-camp had arrived by Army sedan at the White House at a few minutes after eleven. The presidential helicopter had fluttered down on the South Lawn of the White House at twenty past eleven. At twenty to twelve, a Secret Service agent had come to the waiting room outside the Oval Office and told the chief of staff that it was time for the chief to board the presidential helicopter.
“Just you, General,” the Secret Service agent said.
“I’ll call when I know something,” the chief told his aides, who would now have to wait for God Only Knew How Long.
Lyndon Johnson boarded the helicopter last, just after the Secretary of State. He delayed takeoff long enough to walk, stooped, to where the chief was sitting.
“Felter will land in New York in about twenty minutes. By the time they can get him to Andrews, and on a chopper, it’ll be half past three before the sonofabitch can get to Camp David.”
“Yes, sir,” the chief had said.
The President had walked forward and taken his seat, impatiently waving away the crewman who wanted to help him strap himself to the seat.
The chopper took off and headed north-northwest toward the Catoctin Mountain presidential retreat that still bore the name of President Eisenhower’s grandson.
The Secretary of State got off the helicopter at Camp David only to immediately get aboard a Huey that was waiting, rotor turning, and before they reached the main guest house was already airborne and presumably headed back to Washington.
The President took lunch privately with Mrs. Johnson.
At two o’clock, a Secret Service agent led the chief of staff to the skeet range, where the President, in a windbreaker and blue jeans, was practicing mounting his shotgun to his shoulder.
“Regular skeet, a dollar a bird?” the President asked.
“Fine, Mr. President,” the chief said, wondering if the stock of the shotgun he was handed was going to soil the shoulder of his tunic, which was new.
“I’ve got Felter trouble again, as you may have guessed,” the President said. He had volunteered no further details, but the chief noted that the President had said, “It will be half past three before the sonofabitch can get to Camp David.”
When Lyndon Johnson heard the inbound Huey, he was on Station Three, about to fire on the low house. He turned to one of the Secret Service agents standing behind the firing line.
“If Colonel Felter is on that chopper, bring him here,” he ordered. “Only him.”
“Yes, sir,” one of the Secret Service agents said, and started to walk toward the helicopter pad.
“Pull!” the President called, and then, in one smooth movement, turned around and raised his shotgun—a Winchester Model 12 pump 12-gauge—to his shoulder.
After a moment, a clay pigeon emerged from the low house. The President fired and missed, and then quickly worked the action and fired again. This time the clay disc disappeared in a small cloud of black dust.
The President worked the action again, ejecting the fired shell, peered at the shotgun to make sure that there was no round in the chamber, and then turned and stepped off the station.
“I’m not taking that as a miss,” he announced. “The way it’s supposed to work is that when I call ‘Pull,’ you’re supposed to pull, right goddamn then, not when you come back to paying attention to what you’re supposed to be doing.”
“Sorry, Mr. President,” the Secret Service agent who was “pulling” targets said.
“That all right with you, General?”
“It was a bad pull, Mr. President,” the chief said.
“Goddamn right it was,” the President said, and waved the chief of staff on to Station Three.
Colonel Sanford T. Felter, who was wearing a gray suit in need of pressing and who had a leather briefcase chained to his wrist, was led onto the skeet range as the President fired at the high house from the center station. He broke the bird.
“I’m out of shells,” the President announced. “I had that bad pull on the low house three, and had to shoot at it twice. But that’s twenty-four, and you can’t win anyway, General, can you?”
“I have an extra shell, Mr. President,” the chief said, and offered it to Johnson, who dropped it into his shotgun, called for the low house bird, and broke it.
“That’s straight, right?”
“Yes, Mr. President,” the Secret Service agent keeping score agreed.
“Your shot, General,” the President said.
The chief, who was firing a Remington Model 1100 semiautomatic, broke the high house and “dropped” the low.
“The President is straight, and the general is twenty-two,” the Secret Service scorekeeper said.
The President held out his hand, and the chief of staff counted out three one-dollar bills into it.
“No good deed goes unpunished, General,” the President said. “If you hadn’t given me that shell, it would have cost you only two dollars.”
The chief chuckled.
“How are you, Felter?” the President called.
“Good afternoon, Mr. President,” Felter said. “Very well, thank you, sir.”
The President walked toward Felter, with the chief of staff following. A Secret Service agent came forward and took the President’s, and then the chief’s, shotguns.
“You know each other, right?” the President said.
“Actually, sir, no,” the chief said. “I know who Colonel Felter is, of course, and we have mutual friends, but—”
“How do you do, sir?” Felter said.
“I’m really glad to finally meet you, Colonel,” the chief said, putting out his hand.
“He’s really a legend in his own time, right?” the President said, chuckling. “Everybody knows who he is, but hardly anybody actually knows him.”
“I suppose that’s true, Mr. President,” the chief said.
“You ever shoot any skeet, Felter?” the President asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“You a gambling man, Felter?”
“Every once in a while, sir.”
“You want to shoot a round of Humiliation for a buck a bird, winner take all?”
“I don’t know what Humiliation is, Mr. President,” Felter said.
“All doubles,” the President explained. “You don’t get off the station until you break both birds. A buck in the kitty for each missed bird. If you get left behind when everybody moves to the next station, you’re humiliated. Get the picture? Okay with you?”
“Yes, sir,” Felter said.
“You better take the briefcase off,” the President said. “What have you got in there, anyhow?”
“I had my assistant bring my accumulated overnights to meet my plane in New York, Mr. President. I hoped to have time to read them on the plane to Washington.”
The President beckoned to a Secret Service agent with his finger, and when he quickly walked over to him said, “Sit on Colonel Felter’s briefcase while we’re shooting.”
“Yes, sir,” the Secret Service agent said, and waited for Felter to unlock the padlock.
“And he’ll need a shotgun. An 1100 all right with you, Felter?”
“Is there another Model 12, Mr. President?”
“Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, right?” the President said. “Get him a Model 12.”
“Yes, sir.”
Felter, now in his shirtsleeves, suspenders showing, with a shell pouch hanging low on his leg, stood at Station One
.
“When was the last time you shot skeet, Felter?” the President asked.
“I don’t remember, sir. Some time ago.”
“You want a couple of don’t-count shots to bring you up to speed?”
“Yes, sir. I think that would be a good idea.”
“Two, four, how many?”
“I’d like four, if I can have them, sir. I’d like two singles and then a double.”
“Have at it.”
Felter broke the first—high house—single, and dropped the low house single. Then he called for doubles, which caused clay pigeons to be thrown simultaneously from the high and low houses. He broke both of them.
“Ready now?” the President asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Have at it,” the President ordered.
Felter loaded a round in the magazine and pumped it into the chamber and then loaded a second round in the magazine.
“Pull,” he called.
Both birds disintegrated.
The President took his turn and broke both birds.
The chief of staff took his turn; he broke the high house and missed the low.
“He has to stay there while we move on to Station Two,” the President said. “That’s why it’s called Humiliation.”
“Yes, sir,” Felter said.
Felter and the President both fired two shots from Station Two, and both broke both birds. The chief fired again from Station One, and this time broke both birds.
Felter broke both of his birds on Station Three; the President dropped the low house. The chief dropped the high house when he fired from Station Two.
When the round was over, Felter had gone straight, which left him standing alone at Station Eight. The President had failed three times to break both of his targets, which left him at Station Five. The chief had failed six times to break both targets, which left him on Station Three.
They walked back to the rear of the range.
The President gave Felter three dollars, and the chief of staff counted out six.
“You ever think that’s why you’re not a general, Felter?” the President said.
“Sir?”
“The President outranks the chief of staff, so he lets me win,” Johnson said. “The chief of staff—any general—outranks you, so you were supposed to let him win. Instead you humiliated the both of us.”
“I thought that was the name of the game, sir,” Felter said.
“I think they call that tunnel vision,” the President said. “Set your eyes on what you want to do, and pay attention to nothing else. Like a horse with blinders.”
“You may be right, sir,” Felter said.
“The Secretary of State says that our ambassador to the Congo is going to be very humiliated if President Kasavubu finds out that you—which means the U.S. government—have gone to this General Mobutu behind his back,” the President said. “And that if you could only have found the time in your busy schedule to speak with him, he could have told you your efforts were doomed to failure.”
“I’m sorry he feels that way, Mr. President,” Felter said.
“The Secretary of State tells me he has every confidence that after a cooling-down period, and after he sees the situation develop, Kasavubu will agree to accepting some help, and that all you did, more than likely, was make the sonofabitch dig in his heels more than he already had.”
“General Mobutu has agreed to accept a Special Forces team to operate covertly to deal with Guevara, Mr. President.”
“No shit?” the President asked, genuinely surprised. “What’s that going to cost us?”
“A Beaver, two L-19s, and an H-13, Mr. President.”
“What’s a Beaver?”
“A large, single-engine, six-place airplane designed for use in Canada and Alaska—”
“Oh, yeah,” the President said. “That’s all?”
“Some tactical radios, Mr. President. And a handful of additional personnel—pilots, maintenance people.”
“Goddamn, Felter, you really pulled that off?”
“Actually, sir, Major Lunsford did.”
“What’s with you commandeering the embassy’s airplane?”
“General Mobutu said the final decision would be up to Colonel Supo, the military governor in that area of the Congo. Lieutenant Portet—the young officer who jumped on Stanleyville with the Belgians—flew Major Lunsford, the assistant secretary of defense for provincial affairs, and General Mobutu’s friend Dr. Dannelly to Stanleyville to talk to him.”
“You couldn’t have told the ambassador what you were going to do with his airplane?”
“I couldn’t take the risk, Mr. President, that the ambassador might think it was a bad idea, or insist that he be part of the negotiations. In my judgment, any delay might have been fatal.”
“In other words, you’re telling me that not only didn’t you care to hear the ambassador’s opinion, but that you thought you could negotiate a deal better than he could?”
“With respect, sir, the ambassador’s negotiations had failed.”
“So the end justifies the means?”
Felter didn’t reply.
“After the Secretary of State complained about you, again, this morning, Colonel, I decided to hell with it. I asked the chief to join us here for two reasons. First, to inform him Operation Earnest was to be transferred to the CIA as soon as possible, and second, to tell him that despite the mess you had made of things, you had acted in good faith, and when you went back to the Army, I didn’t want them giving you command of a supply depot somewhere, that you had earned the command of a regiment you’d always wanted.”
“Yes, sir,” Felter said. “Thank you.”
“Mr. President,” the chief said uncomfortably. “I’m not personally involved in the selection of regimental commanders. There is a process—”
“Well, I am,” Lyndon Johnson said coldly. “I’m the Commander-in-Chief. If I say he gets a regiment, he gets a regiment. ”
“Yes, sir,” the chief said.
“Now that we understand each other on that,” Johnson went on, “it’s actually moot. I should have known Felter was going to pull his chestnuts out of the fire before they got burned.”
“Sir?” the chief asked.
“See that Colonel Felter gets whatever he thinks he needs,” the President said.
“Yes, sir,” the chief said.
“Give my best regards to Major Lunsford when you see him, Felter.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And don’t worry about the State Department. I’ll deal with Foggy Bottom.”
“Thank you, sir,” Felter said.
The President looked like he was going to say something else, but didn’t.
He beckoned to his Secret Service detail to follow him, and walked toward his private quarters.
[ TWO ]
Apartment B-14
Foster Garden Apartments
Fayetteville, North Carolina
0645 23 January 1965
Mrs. Jacques Portet, although she and her husband had retired early—actually, very early—the previous evening, had not actually gotten much sleep during the night, and she was therefore annoyed when the door chimes sounded, and even more annoyed when she glanced at the bedside clock and saw that it was only quarter to seven.
She nudged her husband, who, like her, was sleeping au naturel, because he could, she reasoned, more quickly slip on a pair of pajama bottoms and answer the door than she could modestly cover her nakedness and do the same thing.
His groan of protest, which was almost a groan of agony, made her regret her selfishness. He was exhausted. He had every right to be exhausted. Not only had he flown all over the Congo when he was there, but he had spent twenty-eight hours returning from the Congo and then, on arrival the previous late afternoon and evening, expended considerable energy on the nuptial couch.
She pushed herself upright and then out of bed, finally found her bathrobe, which had somehow wou
nd up under the bed, and walked through the living room to the door.
There was a small lens through which she could examine callers. She peered through it, deciding as she did that it would have to be Jesus Christ himself out there before she opened the door this time of morning, thereby depriving herself of rest—and very possibly, some physical manifestation of husbandly affection—in her bed.
It was not Jesus Christ. It was instead Major George Washington Lunsford, in a class A uniform.
She opened the door anyway.
“Whatever it is, no,” Marjorie Bellmon Portet said.
“We have a small problem,” Major Lunsford said.
“You have a small problem,” Marjorie said. “Jack’s exhausted. I won’t wake him up.”
“Johnny is supposed to fly me to Rucker this morning,” Father said. “Last night, he drank about a quart of scotch. He’s still drunk.”
Johnny was obviously Major Lunsford’s roommate, Captain John S. Oliver, Norwich ’59, and former aide-de-camp to Major General Robert Bellmon. Mrs. Portet had never seen him drunk, or heard of him being drunk.
“What happened?” Marjorie asked.
“When he called the Goddamn Widow to tell her he was going to be at Rucker, she hung up on him.”
“Goddamn her,” Marjorie said as she opened the door wide enough for him to enter.
“Was Jack drinking last night?” Father asked, quietly.
“I had a bottle of champagne on ice when he got here,” Marjorie said. “We drank that early. That’s all.”
“I’m sorry, Marjorie,” Lunsford said.
“Where’s Johnny?” Marjorie asked.
“In the apartment. I called Doubting Thomas. He’s on his way from Mackall to baby-sit him.”
“You weren’t with him?”
“I thought he was over that woman,” Lunsford said. “If I’d known he’d called her, I would have stayed home.”
“Put some coffee on, you can take a Thermos with you,” Marjorie said. “I’ll wake Jack up and get him showered.”
“I’d like to say we’ll be back tonight,” Father said. “But it will probably be tomorrow or the day after.”
Special Ops Page 41