Special Ops
Page 75
“Father thinks I’m a lot smarter than I am, ma’am,” SFC Jensen said.
Conclusion to be drawn, Cecilia thought: Major Lunsford has earned the respect and admiration of his subordinates, and Major Lunsford pays genuine attention to the concerns of his subordinates, not just lip service. There is more to him than he shows the world.
It became obvious in the next fifteen minutes that, in addition to being able to perform any medical procedure with the exception of opening the cranial cavity, SFC Doc Jensen was a soldier-type soldier.
There were Congolese soldiers standing in front of the vehicles Charley Willard had been unwilling to part with. They came to attention when they saw Jensen coming.
She examined the vehicles casually.
“They seem to be in good shape, Doc,” she said.
“You should have seen them when I got here,” he said. “They were really in shi—bad shape. Hoare’s ass—mercenaries either didn’t know to maintain a vehicle, or didn’t care.”
Jose Whatsisname, whose name turned out to be Elias Sanchez, was, so to speak, at the other end of the social spectrum. He— like many of the other B-26 and T-28 pilots—had been an officer in the pre-Castro Cuban Air Force.
He was now wearing the uniform of a Congolese lieutenant colonel. He was, Cecilia decided, of mixed blood. Like herself, he had long hair, and he was almost as dark as she was. Not as dark as Lunsford or Doc Jensen, but dark.
And it was obvious that he was torn between relief at being out from under Charley Willard’s orders and deep Latin macho concern at now being under the orders of a woman. The being-under-her -orders part bothered him, not the woman. He lost no time as he showed her his flight line, before turning on a warm smile and hoping that she would be free to join him for dinner at the officers’ mess.
“Well, I’m sorry, but Colonel Dahdi and I already have plans,” she said.
“Good try, Jose,” Father said.
Their final stop was the hangar in which Major Anderson had seen the flat-black L-19 and what he mistakenly thought were Congolese working on it. There she met Major Darrell J. Smythe and the three suddenly-recruited-from-Fort-Rucker aircraft mechanics. Smythe, Lunsford told her, was going to provide what they called “radio cover” for the outposts to be established at Luluabourg, flying over them on a staggered schedule to receive the intelligence gathered by Colonel Supo’s agents and passed to the trackers, and finally radioed to the L-19 by the ASA people with the mixed A Teams on the ground.
His interest in seeing the L-19 was perfectly maintained was understandable, Cecilia thought. If the engine failed and the L-19 went down in the trackless bush, that would be the end of Major Smythe.
Smythe’s respect for Lunsford was obvious.
Barefoot Boy is obviously a special type of man.
Watch it, Cecilia. The last thing you want to do, for a long list of reasons, is get emotionally involved with Major George Washington “Father” Lunsford.
“I’ll come by here at about eight and pick you up,” Father said to Cecilia as they sat in the jeep outside the VIP house. “You just tell the houseboys what you want for breakfast, and when.”
“That would be fine,” she said.
“Unless you’d like to have breakfast with us—Aunt Jemima, Jose, and Doc—in the mess,” he said.
“That sounds even better,” she said.
“Then I’ll pick you up about quarter past seven?”
“Fine.”
“Is that where you planned to have dinner? The mess?” she asked.
He took her meaning.
“Good question,” he said. “I can’t go there, can I? Jose Whatsisname will know we didn’t really have plans. No problem. I’ll find something.”
“Would there be enough food in the house for both of us?”
“Sure.”
“Then we’ll have dinner here.”
“You sure you want to do that?”
“We have an understanding, don’t we? Our relationship will be professional, period?”
“That’s bullshit and you know it,” Father said.
“My, we do talk dirty, don’t we, Major?”
“I’m not very good at this game,” Lunsford said. “I don’t understand women, and never have. I can usually tell when men are lying to me, but I’m not good at that with women, and especially not with you.”
“What have I said that makes you wonder if I’m lying?”
“I just told you,” he said. “With that professional relationship, period, bullshit.”
“It would be an enormous mistake for both of us to get involved, ” she said.
“We’re not talking about enormous mistakes,” Father said. “We’re talking about do you want to, or not.”
“Want to what or not?”
“Shit, there you go again. You know goddamn well what I’m talking about.”
She met his eyes but said nothing.
“I suppose the bottom line is that I’m pretty stupid,” he said. “I just can’t understand how you can drive me crazy, and the only reaction I get from you is that I’m a soldier who talks dirty.”
“I drive you crazy?”
“When Jose Whatsisname came on to you, I wanted to slit his throat,” Father said.
That “slit his throat,” Cecilia decided, is not a figure of speech. “I can only repeat that it would be an enormous mistake for us to become involved,” Cecilia said.
“How the hell would we know that until we do?” Father asked. “Do you always go by the goddamned book? Don’t you ever take a chance? For Christ’s sake, for all you know we could be the greatest goddamned thing since sliced bread!”
She looked at him without speaking, got out of the jeep, and turned to look at him again.
He was sitting, both hands on the steering wheel, looking straight ahead.
She turned and walked onto the verandah, and there thought of something to say.
“George, come on in the house,” she called.
“What?”
“I said, ‘George, come on in the house,’ ” she said. “I am not going to call you ‘Father.’ ”
By the time he got in the house, she was in the corridor, looking into the dining room. She did not turn when she heard him walk up behind her.
“What now?” she asked.
“Well, we could open that bottle of champagne—it’s probably still cold—and sit in there or in the living room and make small talk, or we could take that bottle into the bedroom.”
She turned around and snapped, furiously, “Did you really think you were going to walk in here and jump in my bed? Just like that?”
“I didn’t know,” he said. “It was worth asking. And when you think about it, what’s wrong with it? I don’t think you play by other people’s rules anymore than I do. And, Jesus Christ, I’ve never wanted anything more in my life.”
I should slap his face and tell him to get the hell out of here.
She looked into his eyes.
“If that was over the line,” he said, “and looking at your eyes, I guess it is, it’s because I don’t know where the goddamn line is.”
She reached up and touched his cheek. He stiffened but made no other move.
“Give me five minutes,” Cecilia heard herself saying. “I need a shower. And then bring the champagne.”
“I need a shower, too,” he said.
“You’re not actually suggesting we take one together?” she asked incredulously.
“Why not?”
My God, I’m out of my mind!
In for a penny, in for a pound.
She took her hand from his cheek, found his hand at his side, and took it, and led him down the corridor to her bedroom.
XXIV
[ ONE ]
SECRET
HELP0039 2220 ZULU 14 MAY 1965
VIA WHITE HOUSE SIGNAL AGENCY
FROM: HELPER SIX
TO: EARNEST SIX
SITUATION REPORT #37
REFEREN
CE MAP BAKER 11
1. EARS ONE RELAYED INTEL FROM SUPO’S SOURCES AT LULUABOURG POSITIVELY LOCATING GUEVERA, DREKE AND BULK OF CUBANS AT NEW CAMP SET UP ON LULUABOURG PLATEAU APPROXIMATELY FIVE (5) KILOMETERS FROM KIMBARA. COORDINATES 65545/23009. HEREAFTER LULUPLAT.
2. SAME SOURCE REPORTS GUEVERA ILL, PROBABLY SUFFERING FROM TROPICAL FEVER OF SOME KIND, WHICH MAY EXPLAIN CUBAN MOVEMENT TO LULUPLAT, WHICH IS 5,000 FEET ABOVE MAIN SEA LEVEL, COOLER, LESS HUMID, AND LESS INSECT INFESTED.
HELPER SIX
SECRET
[ TWO ]
TOP SECRET
1920 GREENWICH 16 MAY 1965
FROM STATION CHIEF, BUENOS AIRES
TO DIRECTOR, CIA, LANGLEY
COPIES TO SOUTH AMERICAN DESK
MR SANFORD T 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 AS A RESULT OF HAVING LEARNED THAT SEÑORA CELIA DE LA SERNA DE GUEVARA’S SON IS DR. ERNESTO GUEVARA, THE AUTHORITIES OF THE STAPLER CLINIC INFORMED HER FAMILY THEY NO LONGER WISHED TO PROVIDE MEDICAL SERVICE TO HER, AND SHE HAS BEEN TRANSFERRED TEMPORARILY TO THE ENGLISH HOSPITAL BUENOS AIRES WHILE OTHER HOSPITAL ACCOMMODATIONS CAN BE FOUND. HER PROGNOSIS REMAINS GRAVE WITH DEATH POSSIBLY IN LESS THAN A WEEK.
BEFORE GOD AND ON MY HONOR AS AN OFFICER, I SWEAR TO YOU THAT NO ONE YOU MET IN ARGENTINA OR KNOWN TO ME WAS RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS DESPICABLE ACTION ON THE PART OF THE STAPLER CLINIC. AN INITIAL INVESTIGATION SUGGESTS THAT CERTAIN SENIOR PERSONNEL CONNECTED WITH THE STAPLER CLINIC ARE REFUGEES FROM EAST GERMANY, AND THEIR HATRED FOR ALL THINGS COMMUNIST MUST HAVE OVERWHELMED THEIR SENSES OF COMMON DECENCY.
With reference to the argentine/east german haydée tamara bunke, “tania”: we were informed by our mutual german friend that she had been located in east berlin, and was traced to havana. WE HAVE LEARNED THAT SHE WAS LAST WEEK SENT, USING A URUGUAYAN PASSPORT IN HER OWN NAME, TO LA PAZ, BOLIVIA, TO SERVE AS A DEEP COVER AGENT IN PLACE FOR ACTIVATION WHEN DR. GUEVARA BEGINS TO LIBERATE SOUTH AMERICA. THIS STRONGLY SUGGESTS TO ME THAT HE PLANS TO BEGIN IN BOLIVIA. IF THIS INFORMATION BECOMES KNOWN TO BOLIVIAN AUTHORITIES, IT IS BELIEVED TANIA WILL BE IMMEDIATELY TERMINATED, AND THEREFORE THE BOLIVIAN GOVERNMENT HAS NOT REPEAT HAS NOT BEEN GIVEN THIS INTELLIGENCE.
BEST REGARDS
END
J.P STEPHENS
STATION CHIEF BUENOS AIRES
TOP SECRET
[ THREE ]
9 Degrees 59 Minutes 28 Seconds South Latitude
20 Degrees 33 Minutes 39 Seconds East Longitude
(Route Nationale No. 39, The Bush, Near Saurino, Katanga
Province, Congo)
1310 16 May 1965
Smythe’s flat-black L-19 was at 3,500 feet above, and perhaps a quarter mile behind, a Ford and Peugeot truck convoy moving through the bush. So far as Smythe had been able to see, there was no other traffic on the road for five miles or so in either direction.
He had been following the four-truck convoy for about an hour, ever since it had passed through Saurino. He hadn’t had to stay on its trail like a bloodhound. There was only one road capable of taking the trucks within seventy miles; all he had to do— had done—was make wide circles, which every ten minutes brought the convoy in sight again.
He had flown over the road at a very low altitude the day before with a surprisingly pleasant and cheerful—even, for once, happy—Father Lunsford in the backseat, looking for a place to set up the ambush. Lunsford had apparently done this sort of thing before, because when he saw the hill, with a curving road running along its side, he had pointed it out and told Smythe to land as close as possible so they could reconnoiter on the ground.
Smythe had landed the L-19 on the highway itself, after determining there was no traffic on it that would reach the landing site within the twenty minutes Father said he would need to have a look.
Then he had flown Father back to Kamina, where Lunsford immediately reported to that absolutely stunning lady from the CIA, and then, in two flights, had flown Master Sergeant Thomas and a Congolese sergeant first named Jette to the site.
They would remain overnight, preferring that to a sixty-plus-mile trip in a jeep or three-quarter-ton truck from Kamina.
Doubting Thomas told him it was his military creed: “Never stand if you can lie down; never run if you can walk; and whenever possible, go by air.”
Like he was about many things Doubting Thomas said, in what appeared to be absolute sincerity, Smythe was really not entirely sure how serious he was.
Trucks under SFC Jensen had set out from Kamina at first light, carrying a platoon-plus of Congolese paratroopers. They were now in the bush a half-mile on either side of where Thomas and Jette were in position.
“You should be able to see them any moment now, Jesse James,” Captain Darrell J. Smythe said into his microphone. “They’re about halfway up the hill, about to make the turn.”
“I have a visual, Aunt Jemima, thank you very much. I think you can have the cavalry sound the charge,” Thomas said into his microphone.
He laid the microphone on the ground beside him and picked up a black pistol that looked something like the legendary Luger 9-mm Parabellum. It was, in fact, a Ruger Mark II .22 Long Rifle Caliber semiautomatic pistol, to which had been added what the Army called a “suppressor”—the term “silencer” was either not wholly accurate, or politically incorrect. There was an eight-inch cylinder attached to the forward end of the barrel.
When fired, the sound was a soft thut.
Sergeant First Jette had required a practical demonstration of the weapon—Thomas had set up quart cans of tomato juice beside one of the Kamina runways—before he was willing to accept that, although it went thut instead of bang when fired, it was still a real pistol.
Once convinced, Jette was enthralled with the weapon, and Thomas realized he was going to have to fabricate yet another wholly dishonest official document, this one stating that One Each Pistol, Ruger, .22 LR, SN 14-48070 had been lost while conducting operations against a hostile force. It was either that or fight Jette to the death to get it back.
Thomas also had a little trouble convincing Jette that his concept of shooting tires out on a truck—firing a clip of 7-mm rifle ammunition at them—would not be as efficacious in this situation as what he intended to do.
“We don’t want these guys to hear gunfire, Jette,” he had explained. “That would make everybody in all four trucks nervous, and they would come out of the trucks with their weapons ready to shoot anything they saw. This way, they won’t even hear the thut thut as we shoot little holes in the front tires. The tires will not blow out, but they will quickly go flat, and they will get out to see what happened, leaving their weapons in the truck. And then the cavalry will roll up, from behind and in front of them, with machine guns over their cabs, and their beds full of shooters with their weapons trained, and if these people have the brains to find their ass with both hands, they will just put their hands up. Get the picture?”
“You have done this before, Major, sir?”
“I have done this before.”
Thomas stood up and signaled that the trucks were about to be upon them. He couldn’t see Jette, but he knew that Jette could see him.
Then he went back into the bush, no more than two meters from the road, behind a large tree, and took up a position where he could rest his elbows while holding the Ruger with both hands.
The sound of the first truck grew louder, and then he could hear the sound rocks made when they shot out from under tires as the trucks entered the bush.
Here lies Master Sergeant William Thomas, who took a rock between the eyes on a deserted road in the Congo bush.
And then he se
nsed the truck next to him before he actually saw it.
When he saw the tire, he squeezed the trigger.
Thut, thut, thut, thut.
The second truck appeared. He didn’t fire at it. The second and fourth trucks were Jette’s.
The third truck appeared.
Thut, thut, thut, thut, and, what the hell, thut, thut.
The Ruger’s magazine held ten cartridges.
The fourth truck passed him.
When it was out of sight around the bend, Thomas stood up and signaled Jette to have a look through the bush.
Then he picked up his microphone.
“Do I get the purple stuffed gorilla?” he asked.
“The first truck has pulled to the side,” Major Smythe reported.
“Where’s the cavalry?”
“About a quarter mile in each direction,” Smythe reported.
Not quite a minute later, a military truck roared past him, a Congolese paratrooper standing in the front seat manning a 7.62 machine gun in a ring mount, its bed jammed with paratroopers holding FN 7-mm rifles.
And then the second.
He didn’t see SFC Doc Jensen, which meant he was with the trucks coming in the other direction,
“The cavalry is at the scene,” Smythe reported. “Lots of hands in the air. Good show, Thomas!”
“Right you are, Percival,” Thomas said. “You want to come down and pick me up?”
“You don’t want to go to the scene of your victory?”
“No,” Thomas said. “I don’t.”
And I don’t want to think what’s going to happen to those poor bastards once they get their fair, by-the-goddamned-book court-martial.
Well, shit, they knew what they were letting themselves in for. Why the fuck didn’t they stay in fucking Cuba?
He slipped his arms into the backpack radio and came out of the bush and started walking down the hill to where Smythe would land the L-19.
He found the microphone.
“Custer, Custer, Jesse James,” he called.