Planning the flight had mostly taken place in the kitchen of the Portet apartment, with time-outs for various distractions, including the wedding and reception of Captain and Mrs. John S. Oliver, Jr.
The first leg, Fort Bragg-Fort Lauderdale, was, in comparison to the rest of the trip, about as complicated as driving to a gas station and filling up. From there on, it got complicated.
It was impossible of course, to overfly Cuba. The first fueling stop from Lauderdale would be South Cariocas Island, which was 635 miles from Fort Lauderdale and about 250 miles northeast of the U.S. Naval Base at Guantánamo, on the eastern tip of Cuba. This would be about a four-hour flight in the L-23, which cruised at about 150 knots. If they left Fort Lauderdale as planned at 0800, they would make South Cariocas about noon.
Landing there posed no problems, because South Cariocas was a British possession, and there was a long-standing bilateral agreement that military aircraft of one nation could land at airfields of the other.
If they took off, as planned, from Cariocas at 1400, it would be a four-hour flight to cover the 600 miles to St. Maarten in the Leeward Islands. The Netherlands and France have shared administration of the island since 1648. To get permission to land there and at Paramaribo, Suriname, in Dutch Guinea, Mary Margaret Dunne had had to go the Netherlands Embassy in Washington. Colonel Felter had brought the documentation with him when he arrived at Bragg in a presidential Lear jet, with General and Mrs. Bellmon aboard, “coincidentally” just in time to witness the Oliver/Wood nuptials.
They would spend the night in St. Maarten, Jack had decided, both because they could probably get a much better dinner in St. Maarten than they could have in Port of Spain, their next stop, and because by then, they would have spent eight hours-plus in the L-23 and be tired.
If they left St. Maarten at 0730, as planned, they could make the 520 miles to Port of Spain, Trinidad, by noon. Trinidad, off the northeast tip of Venezuela, was a British possession and there was no problem landing there.
From Port of Spain to Paramaribo, Suriname, was 560 miles, or another four hours. If they left Port of Spain at 1330, as planned, it would take them four hours—until 1730, or thereabouts—to Belém, on the northern coast of Brazil.
The military attaché of the Brazilian Embassy in Washington, who handled military flight permissions over Brazil, smilingly told Mary Margaret that his friend, the U.S. military attaché at the U.S. Embassy in Brasília, would be green with envy and probably red in the face as well, when he heard that he was going to be asked to provide overnight accommodations for the crew of an L-23 ferrying the aircraft to the U.S. attaché in Buenos Aires. The American attaché in Brasília, he reported, had been trying for years, without success, to get an L-23 to fly between Brasília, in the center of the nation, to Río de Janeiro and Sâo Paulo, the two largest cities in Brazil, both many hundreds of miles from Brasília.
They would spent the night in Belém, before taking off at 0800 on the longest leg—right at 1,000 miles—to Brasília. That meant about seven hours in the air—approaching what Jack called the Bladder Limit Factor of the flight—but there was nothing that could be done about that except to remember to take the two empty quart plastic milk bottles from the baggage department before takeoff, and hope than no one had bowel problems.
They would spend the night in Brasília, and take off at 0800 for Sâo Paulo, on the Brazilian coast south of Río de Janeiro. That was a 550-mile leg—another four hours or so. After a quick fuel stop there, they would take off at 1230 for Pôrte Alegre, on Brazil’s Atlantic Coast, not far from the Uruguayan border, another 500-odd mile, four hour, plus or minus, leg.
It was another 520 miles from Pôrto Alegre to Buenos Aires, or a final four hours in the air, most of it over Uruguay. If they could take off from Pôrto Alegre at 1800, that would put them into Ezeiza, Buenos Aires’s international airfield, at 2200 or thereabouts.
“All of this,” Jack had announced, “presumes that nothing will go wrong. Does anyone wish to offer me odds that nothing will go wrong?”
“You sure you want to spend twelve hours in the air the last day? And the final four hours at night?” Lt. Col. Craig W. Lowell asked. Lowell had flown up from Strike Command at McDill Air Force Base to “check final arrangements,” his trip “coincidentally” permitting him to witness the Wood/Oliver nuptials.
“Why not?” Major Pappy Hodges asked. He had flown up from Rucker in a Mohawk to review the flight plan, and had been genuinely surprised to learn this his visit coincided with the Wood/Oliver nuptials.
“There’s three pilots aboard,” Pappy went on. “If Oliver flies the first leg, one of the other two can sleep in the back. And the other one can on the second leg. That would put Jack and de la Santiago at the controls for the final leg. De la Santiago speaks Spanish, if that comes up. That your thinking, Jack?”
“Yes, sir,” Jack said.
“You’re the experts,” Lowell said.
That’s true, Marjorie had thought in wifely pride. Of all the pilots who had “helped” Jack with the flight planning, only Major Pappy Hodges was more experienced, and he hadn’t offered a suggestion to improve—much less a criticism of—what Jack had laid out.
Captain Oliver, Lieutenant Portet, and WOJG de la Santiago came out of the flight planning room twenty minutes later. Behind them trailed General Hanrahan, Lieutenant Colonel Lowell, and Major Pappy Hodges. Everyone but General Hanrahan was wearing a flight suit and carrying a large, squarish case—much like a salesman’s sample bag.
They were Jeppesen “Jepp” cases, and they contained the approach charts for every major—and just about every other—airport in the world, plus the tools of aerial navigation, and sometimes a change of linen.
Lieutenant Portet walked up to his bride, who was trying very hard to be cheerful and pleasant, and handed his Jepp case to her.
“Hang on to it for me, will you, baby?”
“Won’t you need it?” Marjorie asked, surprised.
“We only need one. We can get by with de la Santiago’s,” he said. “There’s no sense hauling Johnny’s and mine all the way to Argentina, just to haul them back.”
“Sure,” Marjorie said, taking the case. She immediately put it on the floor. It was heavier than it looked.
Captain Oliver handed his Jepp case to Liza without saying anything. She smiled and set it on the floor beside the other one.
“I hope, Mrs. Oliver,” Lieutenant Colonel Lowell said, “that you realize how lucky you are?”
Liza eyed him suspiciously.
“How is that, Colonel?” she asked.
“Well, when the wives start swapping stories about how the Army has interfered with their marriages, you can top them all. ‘I was married at four in the afternoon, and at noon the next day the Army sent my husband to Argentina.’ ”
“I’m not exactly the virgin bride, Colonel,” Liza replied. “And knowing the Army as I do, I wasn’t even surprised.”
Lowell was visibly surprised at the tone of her reply, and there was an awkward silence for a moment, until General Hanrahan patted Liza’s shoulder approvingly.
“Good for you,” he said. “Score one for the captain’s lady.”
Lunsford, Smythe, and Otmanio came into the lounge, shivering and rubbing their hands.
“I have just had a cheerful thought,” Lunsford announced. “It’s summer in Argentina. Out there”—he nodded toward the parking ramp—“it’s as cold as a witch’s . . . broom handle.”
Neither Mrs. Oliver, Mrs. Portet, nor Mrs. Otmanio seemed amused.
“Smythe, you about ready to go?” Pappy Hodges said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Where are you going, Smythe?” General Hanrahan asked.
“Rucker, sir.”
“What I meant to ask is why are you going?” Hanrahan asked.
“I’m going to bring the L-19 up here tonight, sir.”
“What’s that all about?” Lowell asked. “The Air Force is— somewhat reluc
tantly—going to pick it up at Rucker.”
“Colonel, Aunt Jemima wanted to test the radios they put in at Rucker with the team’s radios here,” Lunsford answered.
Lowell’s eyebrow rose at “Aunt Jemima,” but he didn’t say anything.
“You’re talking about the black L-19, right?” General Hanrahan asked.
“Yes, sir.”
Hanrahan stopped, and looked uneasily at the three wives, who didn’t have Top Secret/Earnest security clearances.
“Captain Smythe’s going to bring it up tonight, sir,” Lunsford said. “Take it to Camp MacKall.”
“How’s he going to land it there at night?” Lowell asked.
“The team is going to improvise runway lights, sir,” Smythe said.
“I don’t know . . .” Lowell said.
“Sir, I have Colonel Felter’s permission,” Lunsford said.
“What about the Air Force picking it up at Rucker?” Lowell asked.
“Mr. Finton changed that, sir. I talked to him this morning.”
Major Hodges ended the conversation.
“Let’s get our circus on the road, Smythe,” he ordered. “Try not to bend the bird, you guys. We can’t afford to piss off another Corps Commander by stealing another one.”
He tossed General Hanrahan a casual salute. Smythe saluted more crisply, and the two of them walked out of the room.
“I’ll preflight it,” de la Santiago said, and followed them out of the lounge.
In a moment, they could be seen walking toward a Mohawk and an L-23 on the transient tarmac.
“Have a good flight,” General Hanrahan said. “The priority is to get there—don’t worry about how long it takes.”
He shook their hands, called “Let’s go, Ski,” to Captain Zabrewski, and walked toward the door.
“That was not permission to take a week in Fort Lauderdale,” Father Lunsford said. “Have a good flight.”
He walked out of the lounge.
Lowell took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Johnny Oliver.
“You have the letter Felter wrote to General Pistarini?”
“Yes, sir.”
“This is for Teniente Coronel Guillermo Rangio. . . .”
“The intelligence guy?” Oliver asked, to be sure.
“Deputy director of SIDE,” Lowell confirmed. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he was there when you land—probably not in uniform. ”
“May I ask what’s in here, sir?”
“Another of the CIA’s memos to Felter. The purpose is really to show Rangio you’re in the loop.”
“I understand, sir.”
“If you need any help, yell,” Lowell said. He turned to the women.
“For what it’s worth, I really hated to send your guys off like this.”
“But we’re Army wives, right?” Liza said.
“That was your choice, you will recall,” Lowell said. He kissed Marjorie on the cheek, shook hands with Mrs. Otmanio, nodded somewhat coldly toward Liza, and walked out of the VIP lounge.
The husbands and wives were alone.
In a moment, Lowell could be seen walking toward a U.S. Air Force T28, a single-engine tandem-seat advanced trainer.
“Hey,” Oliver said. “Why the gloom? We’re going to Argentina, not Vietnam, and we’ll be back in a week or ten days?”
“And we have to go now,” Jack said. “I hate long farewells.”
Marjorie gave him a hurt look, then hugged him.
“Be careful,” she said, and whispered “I love you” in his ear.
“Me, too,” he said, and walked quickly out of the lounge.
“We’ll have some when I get back, baby,” Johnny Oliver said to his bride, and then followed.
She smiled at him but didn’t reply, then hugged him.
SFC Otmanio kissed his wife, who looked to be on the edge of tears, and then followed Oliver.
Out the window, the women could see that the propellers of the Mohawk were turning. As they watched, the engine of Lowell’s T-28 started in a cloud of blue smoke.
“Pope, Army Nine-three-three at Base Ops tarmac, IFR Fort Rucker, taxi and takeoff, please,” Pappy Hodges voice came metallically over the speaker on the wall.
“Pope, Air Force Double-zero-four, same place, IFR McDill. Put me after the Mohawk, please,” Craig Lowell’s voice came over the speaker.
“Pope Army Eight-seven-seven, next to the T-28,” Jack Portet’s voice came over the speaker. “Let me follow the old folks out of here, please. IFR Fort Lauderdale.”
It was a moment before the tower responded.
“Pope to the Mohawk. Take taxiway one to the active, Two-seven. Hold on the threshold. T-28, follow the Mohawk. Seven follow the T-28. You are cleared as one, two, and three for takeoff, one-minute intervals, after a C-130 on final. Await my clearance.”
“Pope, Nine-three-three will wait for clearance at the threshold of Two-seven,” Pappy responded.
Liza Wood walked over to the couch under the speaker. Then she stood on the couch, reached up, and turned the speaker off.
She went to the window and watched as the three airplanes moved off the tarmac. Marjorie walked up and stood beside her, and so, finally, did Mrs. Otmanio.
A C-130 came out of the sky a moment later and touched down. A minute later, Pappy’s Mohawk turned onto the runway and, without slowing down, began to move down it, finally lifting into the air. A minute later, the T-28 took off, and a minute after that, the L-23.
Liza looked at Marjorie, shrugged, and then walked to where she had put Johnny’s Jepp case down and picked it up. Marjorie exhaled audibly and walked to Jack’s Jepp case and picked it up.
Mrs. Otmanio stood with her forehead pressed against the window.
Liza and Marjorie looked at each other, set the Jepp cases on the floor again, walked to Mrs. Otmanio, and put their arms around her until she stopped crying.
[ EIGHT ]
Jack Portet was in the left seat and de la Santiago in the right, but Johnny Oliver, who was in the back with Otmanio and Zammoro, like most other pilots, never fully trusted any other pilot, and waited until the L-23 was at 10,500 feet, trimmed up, on course, and on autopilot before satisfying his curiosity about what the CIA report he was to pass to the intelligence guy in Argentina said.
He opened the envelope and took it out and read it.
SECRET
Central Intelligence Agency Langley, Virginia
FROM: Assistant Director For Administration
FROM: 28 January 1965 1345 GMT
SUBJECT : Guevara, Ernesto (Memorandum #39.)
TO: Mr. Sanford T. Felter
Counselor To The President
Room 637, The Executive Office Building
Washington, D.C.
By Courier
In compliance with Presidential Memorandum to The Director, Subject: “Ernesto ‘Che’ Guevara,” dated 14 December 1964, the following information is furnished:
(Reliability Scale Five) (From CIA Algiers, Algeria) SUBJECT arrived Algiers on Air Mali flight 1121 from Cotonou, Dahomey at 2005 GMT 27 January 1965, and went directly to Cuban Embassy.
Howard W. O’Connor
HOWARD W. O’CONNOR
SECRET
He handed the document to Zammoro and then unstrapped himself and went forward to kneel behind Portet.
“At the risk of revealing my monumental ignorance, where the hell is Cotonou, Dahomey?”
“On the Gulf of Guinea, between Nigeria and Togo,” de la Santiago answered. “Why?”
“Where the hell is the Gulf of Guinea?” Oliver asked. “And, for that matter, where is, or what is, Togo?”
“West coast, Atlantic. Togo is a country,” de la Santiago answered, chuckling.
“Why do you think Che Guevara went to Cotonou, Dahomey? ” Oliver asked.
“Beats the shit out of me,” Jack Portet replied. “I didn’t know anybody went there on purpose.”
De la Santiago chuckled.
&nbs
p; “If he’s there—” Jack added, his tone now serious.
“Was there. Now he’s in Algeria,” Oliver interrupted.
“If he was in Dahomey,” Jack went on, “and is now in Algeria, I guess that proves Felter was right. He damned sure wasn’t in Cotonou to take a swim. There’s a lot of sharks in the ocean there. The sonofabitch is obviously trying to get support for what he wants to do in the Congo.”
“And we’re supposed to stop him? How?” Oliver asked.
“Hell, I thought you Green Beanies can do anything,” Jack said.
“That’s we Green Beanies, Lieutenant,” Oliver said. “Write that down.”
“I know how to stop him,” de la Santiago said. “I’d love to stop him. But blowing the bastard’s brains out is a no-no, isn’t it?”
“I’m sure you will think of something else, Mr. de la Santiago, ” Oliver said, and went back to his seat.
[ NINE ]
Apartment B-14
Foster Garden Apartments
Fayetteville, North Carolina
1545 29 January 1965
“Tank! Tank! Tank!” Master Allan Wood cried the moment Marjorie had unlocked the door to the apartment.
He had been under the grandmotherly care of Patricia Hanrahan while they had seen their husbands off from Pope.
Marjorie smiled.
“A true son of armor,” she said, and led the child to the couch, behind which the toy tanks had been parked.
“A male,” Liza said. “They like to destroy things, preferably with as much noise as possible.”
Marjorie’s smile tightened, but she didn’t say anything.
She knelt on the floor and found the switch that turned the battery on. Allan gleefully drove the tank into the leg of the coffee table, where the treads churned uselessly.
She went into the kitchen to get him a couple of plastic cups, which he could batter around with the tank.
Liza Wood was squatting before the open refrigerator door.
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