“Going off at a sort of tangent,” Lowell went on, “Colonel Supo wants the Congolese Army—not Major Hoare’s mercenaries—to win quote ‘The Second Battle of Albertville’ unquote, which would make it clear that the Congolese Army has things under control without any outside assistance, and again, the advantages of that would obviously be enormous.”
And if you and your Green Berets aren’t “outside assistance, ” what the hell are you? O’Connor thought, and then he had a second thought: No. I’m wrong. The whole world knows about Michael Hoare and his mercenaries, and nobody knows about these Special Forces people. If they can help Mobutu and Supo to really hand Mitoudidi a licking, this arrogant sonofabitch is right, “the advantages of that, obviously, would be enormous.”
“So the problem is reduced, essentially,” Lowell said, “to make sure that Mitoudidi does lose the Second Battle of Albertville, and the way to do that, Colonel Supo believes, I believe, and Major Lunsford believes, is (a) to keep up the interdiction of military matériel, and Cubans, both across Lake Tanganyika and coming across the Congo River from Congo Brazzaville, and (b) to have accurate and timely intel vis-à-vis Mitoudidi’s intentions, and that brings us back to Major Lunsford’s outposts in the Luluabourg area.”
“How are you going to get that intelligence?” Cecilia Taylor asked. It was the first time she had spoken.
“Colonel Supo’s agents have the intel, Miss Taylor,” Father Lunsford said. “The problem is getting it out before it’s yesterday’s news.”
“How are you going to solve that problem, Major Lunsford?” she asked.
“We’re making up sort of A Teams, mixed Congolese and American,” Lunsford said, and paused. “You know what I’m talking about?”
“I know what an A Team is,” she said.
“The teams will consist of two American Special Forces people who speak Swahili,” Lunsford went on, “and have experience in Vietnam in running around in the bad guy’s backyard without getting caught. There will be at least one, maybe two, ASA radio people. There will be six Congolese paratroopers, and two of those six will be what the Congolese call trackers. The trackers will establish contact with Colonel Supo’s agents, bring their intel to the outpost, where it will be relayed to L-19s flying overhead on a regular schedule.”
“These ASA people,” O’Hara said. “They’re technicians. Can they survive in the bush?”
“We ran them through a jackleg course at Fort Bragg,” Lunsford said. “They’ll be all right. And they all want to go.”
“And what if a team is detected?” O’Hara pursued.
“The worst possible scenario?” Lunsford asked rhetorically. “That’s when we’ll need some more air support. We don’t have, and can’t get, because that would blow the covert nature of this operation, any extraction choppers—Hueys—so if a team is discovered, we’ll first send in the T-28s and the B-26s to suppress fire while we jump reinforcements in from C-47s. If we can do that, jump in a platoon of Colonel Supo’s shooters with some heavier weaponry—machine guns, mortars, et cetera—and maintain the air cover over the position, Colonel Supo and I figure we can get a reaction team to the site on the ground before things go down the tube.”
“And that brings us . . .” Lowell said, looking at the Léopoldville CIA station chief, “. . . Charley, is it?”
“My name is Willard, Colonel,” the CIA station chief said reprovingly. “Charles M. Willard.”
“I thought I heard Howard call you ’Charley,’ ” Lowell said. “Sorry.”
“It’s Charles, Colonel, Charles M. Willard.”
“Well, now that that’s been straightened out, Charles,” Lowell said, “as I was saying, Charles, that brings us to the vehicles in your motor pool. Which is, as I understand it, at Kamina?”
“I have some vehicular assets at Kamina, but none that can be diverted from supporting Major Hoare and his forces.”
“Tell me something, Howard,” Lowell said. “I was under the impression that you and I were sent here by our bosses to make sure that my people and your people, who have had little disagreements in the past, kissed, made up, and were made to understand we’re on the same team. Was I wrong?”
“That’s essentially correct, of course,” O’Connor said.
“Don’t you think it’s about time you passed that on to Charles, here?”
“I’m not sure I know what you mean, Colonel,” O’Connor said.
“Yes, you do. And I’ve had about all I intend to take of Mr. Willard.”
“Is that so?” O’Connor flared.
“Yes, it is. I’m right on the edge of suggesting to Colonel Supo that he requisition all of the vehicles in the Kamina motor pool.”
And you would do just that, wouldn’t you, you sonofabitch?
“What I think, Colonel,” O’Connor said, “is that Mr. Willard was simply trying to make you aware that Major Hoare’s operations would be severely curtailed if you took the vehicular assets at Kamina—”
“I didn’t tell him how many vehicles I need,” Lowell snapped.
“So how could he make that judgment?” He paused. “I’m right on the edge of calling this conference off and telling my boss that what he and your boss thought was a pretty good idea failed in the execution.”
“How many vehicles are you going to need, Colonel?” Cecilia turned and asked.
“Six two-and-a-half-ton six-by-six trucks, with trailers; a fuel truck; a wrecker; two jeeps; and two three-quarter-ton trucks, with trailers,” Geoff Craig said. “Colonel Supo will provide the drivers from the reaction force.”
“That doesn’t sound unreasonable to me,” Cecilia Taylor said. “Why can’t you do that, Charley?”
“Welcome to the team, Miss Taylor,” Lowell said.
Charles Willard gave her a dirty look and then looked to Howard W. O’Connor for support and got none.
“That can probably be arranged,” Willard said finally.
“Probably?” Lowell asked softly.
“I think we can probably save a lot of time here if I put it this way, Charley,” O’Connor said. “Very simply, you are to make sure that Major Lunsford’s people get whatever they ask for as your first priority. Do you understand?”
“Welcome to the team, Howard,” Lowell said.
“Inasmuch as it has been made clear that I no longer enjoy the confidence of the Agency,” Willard said, as if he had rehearsed the phrase, “I officially request relief and transfer to other duties at the earliest possible time.”
“Oh, Charley, don’t be an ass,” Cecilia said.
“Come on, Charley,” O’Hara said placatingly.
“Sir,” Willard said, looking at O’Connor, “I officially request relief and transfer to other duties at the earliest possible time.”
O’Connor looked around the room. Both Mobutu and Supo were fascinated with the exchange. Lowell’s and Lunsford’s looks were contemptuous. Miss Cecilia Taylor looked unhappy, as did Mrs. Geoffrey Craig and Madame Jacques Portet. Lieutenants Portet and Craig were making a valiant effort to keep straight faces.
“We can talk about this in the morning,” O’Connor said. “But I think that’s all we’ll need from you tonight, Charley.”
Willard stood up and walked out of the room.
“I regret, sir, this unfortunate—” O’Connor said, to Mobutu.
The general waved his hand. These things happen.
“Colonel Lowell, is there anything else I can do to show you, and General Mobutu and Colonel Supo, that we are, in fact, on the same team?”
“There is one thing,” Lowell said. “Miss Taylor.”
“What about Miss Taylor?” O’Connor asked.
“To replace Willard,” Lowell said. “I think everybody in this room would be happy if she were the CIA station chief here.”
Jesus Christ, that came from left field!
But why not?
She’s smart, she gets along with Lunsford. . . .
“Sir, I was forced to replac
e Willard with Cecilia Taylor. I’m afraid the job was a little too much for him. And she has a close working relationship with Felter’s man, Major Lunsford. I happen to know Felter’s man, Lowell, thinks it’s a good idea.”
“Cecilia?” O’Connor asked.
“That possibility never entered my mind,” she said.
“You told me yourself that Jim Foster was as much on top of things in Dar es Salaam as you are,” O’Connor said.
She raised both hands, palm upward, in a gesture of surrender.
“I’ll have to have the concurrence of Mr. O’Hara, of course, and of the Director,” O’Connor said.
“I think we have a new station chief,” O’Hara said. “The Director will understand why this had to happen.”
[ SIX ]
TOP SECRET
1420 GREENWICH 10 MAY 1965
FROM STATION CHIEF, BUENOS AIRES
TO DIRECTOR, CIA, LANGLEY
COPIES TO SOUTH AMERICAN DESK
MR. SANFORD TO FELTER, COUNSELOR TO THE
PRESIDENT
THE EXECUTIVE OFFICE BUILDING WASHINGTON
THE FOLLOWING RECEIVED FROM US ARMY OFFICER ASSIGNED US EMBASSY BELIEVED TO BE CONTROLLED BY MR. FELTER. IT IS RECOMMENDED THE INTELLIGENCE FOLLOWING BE REGARDED AS THE EQUIVALENT OF CIA RELIABILITY SCALE FIVE. IT IS TRANSMITTED IN ITS ENTIRETY AND VERBATIM.
START
DEAR FRIENDS:
IT WAS LEARNED TODAY THAT SEÑORA CELIA DE LA SERNA DE GUEVARA, DR. ERNESTO GUEVARA’S MOTHER, HAS BEEN ADMITTED TO THE STAPLER CLINIC, AVENIDA CORONEL DIAS, PALERMO, BUENOS AIRES. SEÑORA GUEVARA IS SUFFERING FROM CANCER. SHE IS 59 YEARS OLD.
ERNESTO LYNCH GUEVARA, DR. GUEVARA’S FATHER, HAS MADE HIMSELF RESPONSIBLE FOR HIS EX-WIFE’S HOSPITAL BILLS, WHICH SHOULD BE VERY LARGE, AS SHE IS INSTALLED IN A LARGE PRIVATE ROOM IN PROBABLY THE BEST FACILITY FOR CASES OF THIS NATURE IN ARGENTINA.
SEÑORA DE GUEVARA’S PROGNOSIS IS THAT SHE IS CLOSE TO DEATH, POSSIBLY WITHIN DAYS. IT IS KNOWN THAT HER FORMER HUSBAND YESTERDAY VISITED THE SOVIET EMBASSY HERE, HAVING HEARD THE SOVIETS HAVE DEVELOPED A CURE FOR CANCER.
BEST REGARDS
END
J.P STEPHENS
STATION CHIEF BUENOS AIRES
TOP SECRET
[ SEVEN ]
Kamina Air Base
Katanga Province, The Congo
1615 13 May 1965
Major John D. Anderson, an assistant military attaché, and the senior pilot of the U.S. Embassy in Léopoldville, turned on final to Runway 27, called for gear down and twenty-degree flaps, and looked over his shoulder at his sole passenger.
She was the last goddamned person in the world anyone would think was the head spook for the CIA in the Congo, but that was the fact. Her predecessor, Charley Willard, who Anderson had always thought was a pretty good guy, if a little self-important, had apparently fucked up big-time somehow and gotten his ass shipped back to the U.S. of A. on twenty-four hours’ notice. The next day, Miss Cecilia Taylor had walked into his office and introduced herself as Charley’s replacement. She was ostensibly a cultural affairs officer.
But she was the head spook, the CIA station chief, and she knew what authority came with that. This morning, she had walked into his office and, politely, sure, but in a this-is-an-order tone of voice, told him she wanted to be at Kamina at 1630, and what time did she have to meet him at the airport so that he could fly her there in the L-23?
She would be at Kamina for two or three days, she said, and would get word to him when he was to fly back and get her.
He told her two o’clock, and she was there at two o’clock, and she smiled at him, and his copilot, and said “Hello,” but not one other word.
“You’re strapped in all right, ma’am?” Major Anderson asked.
“Yes, I am, and if we’re going to work together, could you call me Cecilia?”
“I’d be happy to,” he said. “My first name is John.”
“I’ll shake your hand, John,” she said with a smile, “when you don’t need it to steer the airplane.”
“Is someone going to meet you here, ma’ . . . Cecilia, or should I radio for a car?”
“Someone’s going to meet me,” she said. “But thank you.”
A follow-me jeep led the L-23 to the tarmac in front of one of the hangars, and as he turned it around, he glanced into the hangar and saw an L-19, painted flat black all over, with no markings of any kind, on which three Congolese were working. They were wearing what looked like GI mechanic’s overalls.
A Congolese lieutenant colonel drove down the tarmac in a jeep, and Major Anderson did a double take.
I know that sonofabitch. He’s the Green Beanie that was in the Air Simba hangar when the other Green Beanie, the aviator, told me they would fly my airplane to Stanleyville by themselves, thank you just the same.
“Cecilia,” Major Anderson said helpfully, “the last time I saw that Congolese light colonel in the jeep there, he was wearing a U.S. Army Special Forces major’s uniform.”
“John,” Miss Taylor said, “I’m sure you’re mistaken.”
“No, really.”
“Major, you are mistaken,” Miss Taylor said, with that voice-of -command tone again in her voice, “I know you are mistaken.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Major Anderson said.
The Congolese lieutenant colonel walked up to the wing root of the L-23, saluted Miss Taylor, and spoke to her in Swahili. She replied in Swahili, and he helped her off the wing root and into the jeep, then returned to the L-23, where he opened the luggage door with what looked like experience and took out her luggage, put it in the jeep, got behind the wheel, and drove off.
Major Anderson told the copilot to watch while the tanks were topped off, and he would check the weather.
“The pilot recognized you, Colonel,” Cecilia said.
“There was a minor flap when we first got here,” Father said. “Felter told him he wanted the L-23—Jack Portet flew it—and that idiot thought we needed him to fly the airplane. It was like we were stealing his little rubber duckie.”
“You often refer to peers as idiots, do you?”
“Only when they are,” Father said.
“Where are we going?”
“First to your quarters, then I thought we would tour your motor pool. The guy now in charge of the motor pool is one of my guys. SFC Doc Jensen. Great big guy from Chicago, speaks pretty good Swahili. After that, I thought I would show you your air force. The pilot in charge is a Cuban. Good guy, knows what he’s doing, has the motivation, and knows and likes Jack Portet from the time Jack was teaching them how to fly the -26s at Hurlburt. The problem was the idiot you replaced.”
“Tell me something, Lunsford,” she said. “How much did you have to do with your colonel asking O’Connor to transfer me here?”
He turned and looked at her.
“When Colonel Lowell made that suggestion, I was in the ‘is that my brain or my heart thinking’ part of the thought process. He spoke before I could make up my mind.”
“Let’s clear the air,” Cecilia said. “We have a professional relationship, and that’s all it’s going to be.”
“You got it,” Lunsford said.
Lunsford pulled the jeep up before the verandah of a large, single-story, tin-roofed house with an immaculately trimmed lawn and shrubbery.
“This is the VIP guest house. Colonel Supo told me to tell you he hopes you’ll be comfortable here.”
“You like Supo, don’t you?”
“He confirms my theory that a lot of sergeant majors should be colonels, and vice versa,” Lunsford said. “He’s smart, and a good soldier.”
Two barefooted houseboys trotted down to the jeep and took Cecilia’s luggage, not quite being able to conceal their surprise that a black-woman-not-following-her-colonel-husband was to occupy the VIP guest house.
There was a living room, with flowers on all the tables, and a dining room, set for dinner for one, and with a bottle of champagne in a cooler.
“That your idea or Colonel Supo’s?” Cecilia asked.
“The champagne is my idea,” he said. “A little thank-you for not caving in to your boss when Willard was showing his a—ignorance. ”
“His ass, you mean,” she said. “My, you do talk dirty, don’t you, Major?”
“I try not to around you,” he said. “You got something you want to do here, powder your nose or something? The houseboys will take care of your luggage. I got SFC Jensen and Jose Whatsisname waiting for you, and it’s going to be dark soon.”
“Yes, thank you, I would like to powder my nose,” she said.
“Have you worked for Major Lunsford long, Sergeant?” she asked of the massive Green Beret from Chicago in the Congolese captain’s uniform. “Before you came to the Congo, I mean?”
It was a routine question, intended to put him at ease.
“Oh, yes, ma’am,” he said. “I was Father’s medic on half a dozen excursions into Cambodia.”
“I wasn’t aware we had troops in Cambodia,” she said.
“Not troops,” he corrected her. “Special Forces A Teams,” and then he caught her meaning. “You told me she was the new head spook,” he challenged Lunsford.
“As indeed she is,” Lunsford said. “I told Jensen, Miss Taylor, that you had all the appropriate security clearances.”
“I made a couple of excursions with Lieutenant Craig, too,” Jensen said. “When he was an enlisted swine.”
Cecilia realized she couldn’t think of a response to that, so she changed the subject.
“You’re a medic?” she asked. Hearing that this enormous man who looked as if he could pull arms off at the shoulders was a medic had genuinely surprised her.
“I can do anything but open the cranial cavity,” Jensen said matter-of-factly. “When I get my twenty in, I’m going to be a male nurse.”
“We talked about that,” Lunsford said. “You’re going to medical school and be a doctor, Doc.”
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