Special Ops

by W. E. B Griffin

  “I understand,” Mobutu said. “It’s the bankers that don’t understand. ”

  “I’ll help in any way I can, of course,” Jack said, “and so will Dad. But I don’t know—”

  “One of the solutions suggested,” Dannelly said, “is that your father return here for two or three months, during which time General Mobutu assures me the problem of the unpaid vouchers can be taken care of. That would put the concerns of the bankers to rest.”

  Jack thought: I wonder where that suggestion came from? You?

  “I don’t see where that would be possible,” Jack said.

  “If he doesn’t come back, the bankers will be convinced they are right about his having deserted what they think of as a sinking ship,” Mobutu said. “And if that word got around, that Air Simba is a sinking ship . . .”

  “What if Jack were to run Air Simba for a while?” Lunsford asked. “Would that help matters?”

  “General Mobutu had considered that, frankly,” Dannelly said. “But Jacques is in the Army. . . .”

  “Perhaps something could be worked out,” Lunsford said. “Unofficially, of course.”

  “You seem very willing to be of help,” Dr. Dannelly said.

  “Beware of Americans bearing gifts?” Lunsford said. “Would you be surprised if there were something in it for me?”

  Mobutu chuckled.

  “What would be in it for you?” he asked.

  “If Jack were wearing an Air Simba uniform, and flying an Air Simba airplane, something he’s done for years, the bankers would be reassured. . . .”

  “And?” Mobutu asked.

  “Air Simba flies all over the Congo, all over southern Africa, without questions being asked,” Lunsford said. “That would help me do what I have been sent here to do.”

  “And now that the government, I understand, is preparing to redeem the vouchers . . .” Mobutu said.

  Meaning, of course, Jack thought, that you will call the minister of finance in and “suggest” he redeem Air Simba’s unpaid vouchers even if it means stripping the treasury of every last dollar instrument. Anything for a good cause, especially if that cause is “your associates” being able to borrow the money to buy Air Simba at forty, fifty cents on the dollar.

  “The bankers would be assured that Air Simba is solid financially, ” Jack said.

  “Exactly,” Mobutu said, almost triumphantly. Then a worried look crossed his face and he looked at Dr. Dannelly.

  “I think,” Dannelly said after a moment, “that everyone might profit if Captain—excuse me, Lieutenant—Portet became Captain Portet of Air Simba again for the next several months.”

  “And even afterward,” Lunsford said. “If the Congolese Army were to charter Air Simba to support Colonel Supo.”

  “Yes,” Mobutu said. “You could arrange this, Major Lunsford?”

  “Consider it arranged, General,” Lunsford said, and reached across the table with his hand extended. “Deal?”

  Mobutu looked at Dannelly again, almost as if asking permission. Dannelly just visibly nodded his head, and Mobutu took Lunsford’s hand.

  Jack waited until Mobutu’s paratroopers had followed Mobutu and Dannelly into the house before asking, “You think you can get away with me going back to Air Simba?”

  “If I asked for permission, I would probably be told I’m out of my mind, so I just won’t ask for permission. Consider yourself placed on further TDY, Lieutenant, in a classified covert mission which will require your assumption of cover role. Hell, the CIA does it all the time, why not Detachment Seventeen?”

  Jack shook his head.

  Smythe, Thomas, and Peters appeared on the verandah and, moving at Peters’s on-crutches pace, came back to the swimming pool.

  “There has been a change in officer assignments,” Lunsford said. “Captain Smythe, you are herewith appointed Rations and Quarters Officer of Detachment 17. Lieutenant Portet is relieved. ”

  “What’s going on?” Thomas asked.

  “You tell them, Captain Portet, while I seek the gentlemen’s rest facility,” Lunsford said. “My back teeth, as they say, are floating.”

  He walked quickly across the lawn toward the house.

  [ FOUR ]

  The Oval Office

  The White House

  Washington, D.C.

  1615 25 February 1965

  The President of the United States was behind his desk, talking on the telephone, his voice cajoling, when a Secret Service agent opened the door. Colonel Sanford T. Felter was standing behind him.

  It took a moment to catch the President’s attention. Then Lyndon Johnson signaled with a pointed finger for Felter to enter, and for him to join the other two men in the room.

  The other two men were the Secretary of State and the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency. They both nodded somewhat coldly at Felter, but didn’t speak. Felter sat down on one of the two couches on either side of a coffee table.

  Then all three waited for the President to finish his telephone call.

  He finally put the telephone in its cradle and walked to them, where he slumped into a wing-back chair.

  “Well, Felter, what do you think?” Johnson asked.

  “Think about what, sir?” Felter asked.

  “For Christ’s sake,” Johnson flared, “give it to him!”

  The Director of the Central Intelligence Agency handed Felter a radioteletype message. Felter began to read it.

  “If you’d have given him that when I was on the phone,” Johnson said rather nastily, “the three of us wouldn’t be here staring at the goddamn table.”

  There was no response.

  When he had finished reading the message, Felter looked at the President.

  “Well, Felter?”

  “It’s surprising, sir,” Felter said.

  “Declarations of war are usually surprising, aren’t they?” Johnson asked sarcastically, “and that’s what that is, isn’t it? A declaration of war?”

  He snatched the message from Felter’s hand and read from it.

  “ ‘If one Vietnam is bad for the American imperialists, I say, give them three Vietnams,’ ” he read. “That’s what the sonofabitch said, and he said it in front of the five hundred people at the . . . What the hell was it?”

  “The Second Economic Seminar of Afro-Asian Solidarity, Mr. President,” the Secretary of State furnished.

  “And you didn’t think he was going to cause trouble in Africa,” the President said, and turned to the Director of the CIA, “and you told me it was your ‘best assessment’ that he wasn’t.”

  “I can only repeat, Mr. President,” the Director said, “that I think that speech was hyperbole, nothing more.”

  “That’s what I find surprising, sir,” Felter said. “There should no longer be any question that Guevara’s going to act in Africa, but that he would go public with an announcement like that is surprising. The Soviets have announced they and their allies have no interest whatever in starting revolutionary activity anywhere in Africa.”

  “So you would say you think it’s an announcement of a change in Soviet policy?”

  “I think we have to move on that presumption,” the Secretary of State said.

  “I asked Felter,” the President said. “That’s why I sent for him, to hear what he thinks.”

  “Yes, sir,” the Secretary said.

  “My gut reaction is that his mouth ran away with him,” Felter said.

  “I can’t go along with that,” the Secretary said.

  “I’m still listening to Felter,” the President said.

  “He’s been running around Africa, Mr. President,” Felter said, “with the red carpet rolled out for him everywhere. I think it’s entirely possible, and I don’t mean to be flippant, that he’s started to believe his own press releases.”

  “You want to explain that?” Johnson said.

  “Mr. President, I’ve been thinking of who he really is . . . ,” Felter said.

  �
��The last I heard, he was the number-two man in Cuba, a wholly owned subsidiary of the Kremlin, Incorporated,” the Secretary of State said.

  “The only difference between Ernesto Guevara and a thousand other would-be revolutionaries is that he has had a chance to act out his fantasies,” Felter said.

  “I would not call him a ‘would-be’ revolutionary,” the Secretary said. “I would call someone who took over a country ninety miles off our coast and just about handed it to Moscow a successful revolutionary.”

  “Fidel Castro took over Cuba,” Felter said. “Not Guevara.”

  “Guevara was, is, his number two,” the Secretary argued.

  “I would say Fidel’s brother, Ramon, is his number two,” Felter said.

  “For Christ’s sake, let Felter talk,” Johnson snapped. “I already know what you two think!”

  “Guevara is a physician,” Felter said. “He was Castro’s medic in the mountains. Obviously, they became very close friends, which very possibly is because they were the only two intellectuals there. People tend to forget that Fidel has a Ph.D. He’s very bright, and so is Guevara, and it’s natural they would be comfortable with each other. And Castro, I suggest, is not above wallowing in the admiration of another intellectual who thinks he walks on water. But being a close friend of El Supremo does not make somebody a skilled guerrilla.”

  “You’re suggesting Guevara is incompetent?” the Director asked sarcastically.

  “I hope to prove that soon in the Congo,” Felter said. “That’s why I want him kept alive, as a failed, incompetent dreamer, rather than the martyred guerrilla genius who was brutally murdered by fascist imperialists.”

  “So why has Castro been pushing his doctor as the great guerrilla? ” Johnson asked.

  “Probably because it makes Cuba’s—Russia’s—plans for South America, as well as Africa, seem international. And there are Communists in Argentina, and thinking that an Argentine, Guevara, is a successful revolutionary is great for their image, their morale.”

  Johnson grunted. “The basic question is why did he give this declaration of war speech?”

  “He probably believes everything he says, as he probably believes he is a great guerrilla/revolutionary,” Felter said. “And the red-carpet treatment he’s been given by everybody—including the Chinese—has fed that misconception. I would personally be surprised if Castro, much less the Politburo, had any idea what he was going to say about three Vietnams. They don’t want to alarm the rest of the world—they want to sneak up on it and hit it from behind.”

  “You really think he’s a loose cannon?” Johnson asked.

  “Yes, Mr. President,” Felter said.

  “How are things going in the Congo?”

  “We’re in the final stages of sending the team over there, Mr. President.”

  “Using Intercontinental Air Cargo, Ltd.?” the Secretary of State asked.

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” Felter said.

  “Colonel Felter told me about that, Mr. Secretary,” Johnson said, icily sarcastic. “And my Director of the Central Intelligence Agency feels that Intercontinental Air was a pretty good idea. Isn’t that so, Mr. Director?”

  “Yes, Mr. President,” the Director said. “We expect to be working closely with Felter in that area.”

  “And I’ll tell you something else, Mr. Secretary,” Johnson said. “General Whatsisname, the head of the Army Security Agency, came to see me to tell me that Felter wanted one of his sergeants, and if I went along with that, the entire White House communications system was going to collapse like a house of cards. So I told him to break out the signal flags”—Johnson mimed someone waving signal flags—“because I had told Felter he could have anything he needed to get this job done, and I meant it.” He paused. “I think that’s what they call a parable. A little story with a message. Did you get the message, Mr. Secretary? ”

  “Yes, Mr. President,” the Secretary said.

  “That will be all, gentlemen,” the President said. “Thank you very much for coming.”

  He was back on the telephone before they left the Oval Office.

  [ FIVE ]

  Stanleyville Air Field

  Stanleyville, Oriental Province

  Republic of the Congo

  0940 10 March 1965

  The newly repaired communications equipment in the control tower came to life twenty minutes earlier than expected. The telephone message from the Kamina Air Base to Colonel Supo’s headquarters in Costermansville had been very brief: “ETA 1000 Your Time 10 March Poppa.”

  “Stanleyville, Intercontinental Air Four-nine-three.”

  The voice, although clipped metallically, was obviously that of Captain Jean-Philippe Portet.

  Captain Jacques Portet of Air Simba, who was wearing a white polo shirt, white shorts, and knee-high white socks, reached over the camouflage fatigue uniform shoulder of Captain Weewili of the Congolese paratroops (known to the U.S. Army as Spec7 William Peters) and took the microphone.

  “Intercontinental Nine-three, Stanleyville,” he said in English.

  “Nine-three is at flight level ten, five minutes west of your station. Approach and landing, please.”

  “Nine-three, the winds are negligible. I haven’t the foggiest idea what the barometer says, but it’s a beautiful day here in Stanleyville. You are cleared as number one to Runway Two-six. There is no other traffic.”

  “Understand number one to two-six,” Captain Portet said, as Major George Washington Lunsford, who was wearing the camouflage fatigue uniform of a lieutenant colonel of Congolese paratroops touched Jack’s arm and pointed out the hole where the control tower window had once been. The 707 was in sight.

  Jack nodded, handed Peters the microphone, and started down the stairs from the control tower. Lunsford followed him.

  Colonel Jean-Baptiste Supo was standing just outside the terminal building with a small group of officers and soldiers of the Congolese Army.

  Sergeant Major Tesio Chil and Sergeant Paul Joe, Supo’s driver and bodyguard, were really in the Congolese Army, but Major Jemima and Captain Tomas were not.

  There were—and had been, since first light—two companies of Congolese infantry on the field. All roads past the airfield had been closed and would remain so until further orders. In addition, three-fourths of the infantrymen formed a perimeter guard around the field. The remaining troops would be used to push the 707 from where it would be stopped on the taxiway to a recently emptied hangar.

  Pushing the 707 was going to be necessary because the three aircraft tractors once stationed at the field had all been vandalized by the Simbas, and the jet exhaust from the 707 would (a) almost certainly set the dry uncut grass near the hangars on fire and (b) very possibly blow one or both of the tin-sided and tin-roofed hangars down if they tried to taxi the aircraft.

  Captain Portet set the 707 down smoothly a moment later, taxied to the terminal, and shut it down. A dozen Congolese soldiers pushed the stairs to the rear door. The stairs were mounted on a Chevrolet pickup truck, the engine, glass, and tires of which had also been vandalized by the Simbas.

  Master Sergeant Thomas/Major Tomas had managed to get the hydraulics of the stairs themselves working again, and removed the shot-up tires. It now rolled on its rims, but it rolled.

  The cargo door of the 707 opened, and Lieutenant Geoff Craig appeared at the door, in uniform, carrying a cut-down Remington 1100 12-gauge shotgun in his hand. He glanced around, made a “follow me” gesture with his hands, and started down the stairs. Everyone had more of less expected that, but no one expected that the first person to follow him would be a Green Beret just barely meeting minimum-height regulations, carrying an Uzi submachine gun, and wearing colonel’s eagles on his collar points.

  “Jesus,” Major Lunsford/Lieutenant Colonel Dahdi said. “Felter! ”

  Lunsford was waiting at the foot of the steps at attention, his hand raised in a crisp salute, when Felter came down there.

  “Lieut
enant Colonel Dahdi, sir,” he barked. “Welcome to Stanleyville. ”

  Felter returned the salute shaking his head.

  “Let me guess, Colonel,” he said. “Daddy as in Father, right?”

  “It’s spelled Dee Ay Aich Dee Eye, sir,” Father said. “It was Colonel Supo’s idea.”

  “And who’s that? The Good Humor Man?” Felter asked on spotting Jack in his white clothing.

  “That’s Captain Portet of Air Simba, Sir,” Father said. “That was General Mobutu’s idea.”

  “And, just as soon as you found the time, you were going to tell me all about this, right?” Felter said.

  “Sir, the commo and crypto equipment is on this airplane,” Father said. “I was going to make all of this part of my very first report to the colonel, sir.”

  Felter looked at him a long moment, then smiled.

  “Okay, that round goes to you, Father—excuse me, Dahdi,” he said, then walked up to Colonel Supo and saluted.

  “It’s a pleasure to see you again, sir,” he said in French. Then he spotted Doubting Thomas.

  “Line them up, Sergeant,” he said, gesturing at the team coming down the ladder.

  “That’s Major Tomas, Colonel,” Thomas said. “All right, you guys. If anyone has a round in the chamber, get rid of it. And then form on me.”

  When the team had cleared their weapons and were lined up, Tomas called attention, did an about-face, saluted, and barked, “Sir, the Detachment is formed.”

  Felter returned his salute, then saluted Supo again.

  "U.S. Army Special Forces Detachment 17. At your orders, sir.”

  Supo returned the salute, then walked to the double rank and shook the hand of each man.

  He walked back toward Felter.

  “Okay, the parade’s over,” Thomas barked, hands on hips. “You know the drill. Get the aircraft unloaded.”

  “How long will you be with us, Colonel?” Supo asked.

  “I’m going back with the airplane,” Felter said. “But I wanted to bring them here to you, myself.”

  “How long will it take you to unload the aircraft?”

  “In practice at Fort Bragg, they did it in forty-four minutes, twenty seconds,” Felter said.