“I should be mad at you,” Marjorie said, “and happy for them. Instead, I want to cry.”
[ FOUR ]
Office of the Commanding General
The John F. Kennedy Center for Special Warfare
Fort Bragg, North Carolina
1015 28 January 1965
“Sir, Colonel Martin asks for a minute,” Captain Ski Zabrewski boomed from the open door.
Brigadier General Paul R. Hanrahan nodded, then raised his voice.
“Come on in, Padre!”
Chaplain (Lt. Col.) T. Wilson Martin marched into Hanrahan’s office, stopped twelve inches from Hanrahan’s desk, came to attention, and saluted.
“Good morning, General. Thank you for seeing me.”
Chaplain Martin was almost—not quite—as large as Captain Zabrewski, and if anything, his voice was even deeper. His crisply starched uniform bore the wings of a master parachutist, and he had earned the hard way the green beret he clasped in his left hand.
“At ease,” Hanrahan said, and rose from behind his desk to offer Martin his hand. He waved him into the chair in front of the desk.
“Coffee?”
“No, thank you, sir, I’m trying to cut down.”
“What’s on your mind, Padre?” Hanrahan asked.
Padre is the Spanish word for father. Roman Catholic priests are called “Father,” and thus Padre. Chaplain (Lt. Col.) Martin was of the Protestant persuasion—a Presbyterian, or an Episcopal, or maybe a Lutheran, Hanrahan thought; not a Baptist. Chaplain Martin had a cultivated taste for French cognac—and preferred to be addressed as “Chaplain” or “Colonel.”
Hanrahan, who privately thought that chaplains should not wear the insignia of rank, because it made their relationships with enlisted men that of officer to enlisted man, rather than shepherd to a member of the flock, called all chaplains “Padre,” even if they were Jewish rabbis.
“May I speak frankly, General?”
“You know you can.”
“General, I have serious concerns about Captain Oliver and Mrs. Wood.”
“How so?”
“I feel they are entering this marriage impetuously.”
“What gives you that idea?”
“Sir, when I spoke with them . . . I said I was going to speak frankly . . . it was obvious, forgive the bluntness, that they are very strongly attracted to one another in a physical sense.”
“In heat, you mean?” Hanrahan asked, smiling.
“I wouldn’t have used those words, but yes, sir.”
“Doesn’t it say somewhere in the Good Book that we’re supposed to be fruitful, to go forth and multiply?”
“Sir, it has been my painful experience that young people often mistake that physical attraction for one another we’re speaking of for love. With disastrous results later, when . . . that sort of attraction . . . disappears in the realities of marriage.”
“I’m sure that’s true,” Hanrahan agreed.
“General, as you know, with your approval, it has been my policy that when young people come to me for prenuptial counseling, I invariably ask them to think it over, prayerfully, for two weeks, and then come back.”
“I think that’s a very good idea,” Hanrahan said.
“When I suggested this to Captain Oliver and Mrs. Wood, Captain Oliver said that he was getting married tomorrow— which is today—whether by me in the chapel, or by the nearest justice of the peace.”
“That’s what he said, huh?”
“And Mrs. Wood seems equally determined.”
“Well, he’s going on TDY tomorrow for a couple of weeks,” Hanrahan said. “Obviously, he wants to tie the knot before he goes.”
“Several weeks of separation might be just what the situation calls for,” Chaplain Martin said. “It would give the both of them time to cool off . . . that was an unfortunate choice of words, forgive me . . . think things over seriously.”
“So what you’re thinking of is declining to perform the ceremony? ”
“What I’m thinking of, General—and I realize this is an imposition—is that you speak with Captain Oliver.”
“Padre, at sixteen hundred hours this afternoon, you are going to marry them in the chapel,” Hanrahan said. “That’s what they call an order.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Believe me, Padre, those two have really given this a whole hell of a lot of thought. And with a little bit of luck—he is an officer and a gentleman, after all—he will refrain from sprinkling any more pollen on her until after the wedding and the reception. Which Mrs. Hanrahan and I are giving at the O Club, and to which you are of, course, invited.”
"Yes, sir.”
“Anything else, Padre?”
Captain Martin got out of the chair, came to attention, and saluted.
“No, sir,” he said. “By your leave, sir?”
“Granted,” Hanrahan said, and returned the salute.
Chaplain (Lt. Col.) Martin executed a perfect about-face movement and marched out of the office.
[ FIVE ]
Room 637, The Executive Office Building
Washington, D.C.
1045 28 January 1965
“Major Lunsford on two-two, Colonel,” Mary Margaret Dunne said.
Felter grabbed the red secure phone on his desk before he remembered Mary Margaret had said “two-two.” He dropped the red phone, picked up the black, multiline phone and punched the illuminated button.
“Felter.”
“Lunsford, sir. The line is not secure.”
“Go.”
“Sir, how would you feel about me sending Doubting Thomas to Supo instead of south?”
“Reasoning?”
“I don’t want Colonel Supo to have second thoughts,” Lunsford said. “The sooner we get him the airplane, the better, and once he’s got it, he’s sort of committed.”
“And Doubting Thomas and Supo are going to get along?”
“Master Sergeants understand master sergeants, sir.”
“And Supo and what’s the captain’s name?”
“Smythe, sir. I don’t think that’s going to be a problem. Oliver likes him.”
“Do it,” Felter ordered, then asked, “What’s the status of the L-19?”
“It’s painted, sir,” Lunsford said. “And the radios are in. Smythe wonders why we can’t fly it here at night, instead of waiting for the Air Force.”
“Do it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any problems with the trip down south?”
“No, sir. Departure is scheduled for 1400 29 January; ETA they don’t know, but probably no later than 2 February. It’s about thirty-six hours in the air.”
“Keep me advised.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Anything else?”
“I’d like to go on the 130 with the L-19, sir. Put Supo together with Smythe and Thomas.”
“Let me think about that. Oliver will be south with Portet. Who’d be minding the store?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Anything else?”
“Oliver’s getting married at sixteen hundred, sir.”
“To the lady who lost her husband?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Does General Bellmon know?”
“I don’t know, sir. Perhaps Marjorie told him. Or Mrs. Bellmon. I’ll find out for sure, sir.”
“I’ll handle it. Anything else?”
“No, sir.”
Felter hung up without another word.
“Mary Margaret?” he called.
“She’s in the ladies’ room, Colonel,” Warrant Officer Finton called, then appeared in the door.
“Call the Air Force, lay on a Lear for right now. Destination, Fort Bragg and possibly Fort Rucker first. They can drop me and pick me up later.”
“Yes, sir.”
Felter reached for the red secure telephone.
“Get me General Bellmon at Fort Rucker,” he ordered when the White House operator came on the line.
Office of the Deputy Director
The Central Intelligence Agency
Langley, Virginia
1115 28 January 1965
“Thanks for fitting me in, Paul,” Howard W. O’Connor, the assistant director for administration of the Central Intelligence Agency, said to the deputy director.
“Happy to,” the deputy director said. “But I have to be in the District not later than half past twelve. What’s on your mind?”
“Egg on my face,” O’Connor said.
“How did it get there?” the deputy director asked with a smile.
“Multiple choice,” O’Connor said. “Carelessness, stupidity, incompetence, or all of the above.”
The deputy director smiled again, and wiggled his fingers in a sign for O’Connor to go on.
“What are we talking about?”
“Intercontinental Air Cargo.”
“The last I heard about that is that you’d found the guy you wanted to run it, and Gresham Investments was about to make him an offer.”
“That’s right.”
“But there has been a bump on the road, I gather?”
“The guy they—which means me, Paul, I’m the deputy director for administration, I’m responsible—the guy I came up with is Captain Jean-Phillipe Portet.”
“So you told me. And cutting to the chase?”
“Che Guevara and Colonel Sanford T. Felter,” O’Connor said. “I am, as you know, reporting on Guevara’s whereabouts to Felter. . . .”
“I took that call from President Johnson myself,” the deputy director said. “What’s it got to do with this?”
“Felter has an operation going called Operation Earnest, the purpose of which is to stop Guevara in the Congo.”
“We’re off on a tangent, aren’t we?”
“I’m beginning to think that Felter may be onto something. Guevara’s been all over Africa. You know that.”
“I still don’t think he’s going to try anything in the Congo; all he’s doing is public relations.”
“I suppose you’ve read the unconfirmeds from Havana that they’re recruiting black troops for an international peace force?”
“I have, always keeping in mind the operative word is ‘unconfirmed. ’ ”
“Felter has just come back from the Congo. He went there to change Mobutu’s mind about no American troops in the Congo. . . .”
“Don’t tell me he was successful?”
“He got General Mobutu to agree to take a small team of Special Forces types. He’s already got people training at Bragg to go over there. You know what—more precisely, who—changed his mind?”
“Go on.”
“Captain Jean-Philippe Portet.”
“How did he get involved?”
“It gets worse. Portet’s son, I have just found out, is a Green Beret lieutenant assigned to Operation Earnest.”
“Felter’s operation, right?”
O’Connor nodded. “Father and son went to the Congo with Felter, and now Mobutu’s letting a Special Forces team in to deal with Guevara.”
“How ‘deal’?”
“Felter thinks he should be frustrated, humiliated, not terminated. ”
“I don’t think I agree.”
“The President does. Felter also sent a light colonel named Lowell to Argentina to talk the Argentines out of eliminating Guevara.”
“They’ll have a hard time doing that, fortunately. When the Argentines, in their own good time, take out one of their own named Guevara, it will solve a lot of our problems.”
“This Colonel Lowell is an interesting chap. . . .”
“I’ve heard the name.”
“His father-in-law is General von Greiffenberg.”
“That is interesting.”
“Felter is about to send a small Army airplane down there and a couple of ex-Cuban Army officers now in Special Forces to work with the Argentines. That wouldn’t be happening if the Argentines weren’t going along.”
"Damn!”
“And guess who’s flying the airplane down there? Young Lieutenant Portet.”
“How good is your information, Howard?”
“Five all the way. State routinely gets copies of orders sending Army officers out of the country not in connection with a troop movement. And of augmentation to defense attaché staffs. I have a friend over there. They’re as unhappy with Felter as we are.”
“Unfortunately, President Johnson is happy with him.”
“We have to consider that Felter is entirely capable of dropping into one of their private conversations that we’re setting up young Portet’s daddy in a covert airline.”
“What’s young Portet got to do with the President?”
“When the Belgians parachuted into Stanleyville, one of them was young Portet in a Belgian uniform. The King of the Belgians, and Mobutu, are giving him medals. The President thinks young Portet is the all-American boy of fame and legend.”
“That goddamn Felter has his nose in everything,” the deputy director said.
“The conversation I don’t want to take place is as follows,” O’Connor said. “Felter: The Agency is bankrolling another Air America-type airline. Maybe this one they can keep secret. Johnson: How do you know that? Felter: The front man is young Portet’s father. Chuckle, chuckle. They don’t know I know, or who Captain Portet is.”
“Shit,” the deputy director said bitterly. “You’re right, Howard, you should have known about the Portets, pere et fils.”
“The last word I had was that the son was a draftee private taking basic training, and his stepmother and half sister had just been rescued from Stanleyville.”
“I thought you just said he was an officer?”
“When he came back from the Congo, they commissioned him,” O’Connor said.
“I’ll have to bring the director in on this,” the deputy director said. “And he will ask me what I think should be done. What are the choices?”
“I tell the Gresham Investment Corporation to terminate their negotiations with Portet as of the day before yesterday—”
“Which would give us this conversation: Mr. President, chuckle, chuckle, I guess the Agency just found out the man they were setting up to run a really covert airline, since Air America has become sort of an open secret, is all-American boy Portet’s father. They broke off negotiations just as they were about to write the check. For some reason, chuckle, chuckle, they don’t seem to want to have anything to do with me. Pity, he really could have done a good job for him.”
“Yeah,” O’Connor agreed.
“Or,” the deputy director said, “you get on the telephone in the next few minutes, and you tell Dick Leonard that you’re sick and tired of their feet-dragging with Portet, and to get off the dime.”
O’Connor considered that for a long moment.
“That’s another possibility,” he said. “Which would give us this conversation: You, or the director himself: Mr. President, I thought you might be interested in knowing that we’ve set up another covert airline, now that Air America isn’t the secret we hoped it would be. And we’ve found a fine man to run it for us, as a partner. All sorts of the right kind of experience, and, as a matter of interest, the father of that fine young all-American boy who jumped with the Belgians on Stanleyville. Oh, sure, Mr. President, we knew all about that.”
The deputy director picked up on the imaginary conversation: “Me, or the director: As we knew all about Felter being in the Congo, and his man Lowell in Argentina, we still feel that it’s highly unlikely that Guevara’s going to cause any serious trouble in the Congo, but we can’t be too careful, can we?”
Howard W. O’Connor grunted approvingly and smiled.
“I like that conversation a lot better,” the deputy director said. “If Portet’s holding out for something—money, whatever—give it to him. Get it done.”
“It’s done.”
“Just to be sure, keep me advised. Off p
aper.”
“Certainly.”
The deputy director looked at his watch.
“I’ve got to get going,” he said. He looked at O’Connor. “Try not to get any more egg on your face, Howard.”
[ SEVEN ]
Pope Air Force Base
Fort Bragg, North Carolina
1325 29 January 1965
Mrs. Marjorie Bellmon Portet, Mrs. Elizabeth Wood Oliver, Mrs. Carmen Sanchez Otmanio, Captain Stefan Zabrewski, and Warrant Officer Junior Grade Julio Zammoro drank coffee in the VIP lounge in the Base Operations building while waiting for the pilots—and other interested parties—to finalize the flight plan of the first leg—Fort Bragg-Fort Lauderdale, Florida—of their flight to Buenos Aires.
The room was furnished with chrome, plastic-upholstered chairs and couches, a coffee machine, a television set, and two coffee tables, on which sat an array of out-of-date magazines. A speaker mounted high on the wall relayed the radio traffic of the Pope tower.
Captains, warrant officers junior grade, and the wives of captains, lieutenants, and sergeants first class are not normally given access to the VIP lounge, but the AOD, a major, on duty had heard Brigadier General Paul R. Hanrahan order Captain Zabrewski to “take the ladies and Zam in there while we’re in flight planning” and was highly unlikely to challenge the general’s desires.
Through the window they could see three soldiers—two of them Green Berets—in camouflage fatigues stuffing luggage into an L-23 parked on the transient ramp. They were Major George Washington “Father” Lunsford; SFC Jorge Otmanio, and Captain Darrell J. Smythe, who had already become known to the team as “Aunt Jemima.”
There wasn’t much luggage. Weight was a real consideration. There was a uniform and a set of civilian clothing for each of the five who would be aboard, plus linen for three days and toilet gear.
Six footlockers labeled PRIORITY and addressed to the U.S. Army attaché, Buenos Aires, had been entrusted on Thursday to the Air Force, which flew a weekly round-robin around South America delivering cargo and sometimes passengers to the various embassies.
They contained the uniforms, civilian clothing, and personal gear Zammoro, de la Santiago, and Otmanio would need to stay in Buenos Aires, and additional clothing and uniforms for Oliver and Portet to use while they were there. There was no promise when the footlockers would actually arrive in Buenos Aires.
Special Ops Page 45