I Am Soldier of Fortune

by Brown, Robert, Spencer, Vann

“One of the Americans was blond, less than 40 years old, had no beard and wore dark yellow clothes, the shirt having long sleeves. The other man had dark hair and a beard. I could not tell his age.’’

  After several hours spent debriefing each informant, we decided that there was at least some hope that their accounts were accurate, even if the stories contained circumstantial information at best.

  We realized that with our limited resources, mounting a raid based on these intriguing but unconfirmed reports would be stupid. It would be foolhardy for us to storm into the camp unless we could be certain that we could affect the safe release and return of all POWs in the compound.

  Then, while we were debating back and forth the probability of success of the mission, Mingo, sensing our hesitation, trotted out another Laotian, “Ko Long,” an engineer who was supposedly tight with the Pathet Lao governor at, of course, Muong Sai.

  Mingo’s sidekicks, Tor and Buni, swore this guy was legit. They said Ko could arrange a mass jailbreak should I decide to pay and play along. Ko’s buddy, the governor, see, would get his Pathet Lao buddies to ice the NVA guards, then grab the American prisoners, pile ‘em into trucks, drive at breakneck, bone-wracking speed to the banks of the Mekong to an agreed upon meeting point, then send them across one at a time as I simultaneously launched bags full of $20,000 U.S. greenbacks for each vetted POW

  Movie plots don’t get that wild.

  A summary of his interrogation follows:

  DATE OF INTERVIEW:

  17 June 1981 ; Name: “Ko”—a Lao; Age: 43; Occupation: Engineer

  “I have known the governor of the province in which the POW camp is located for five years and last spoke to him 10 days ago for about 30 minutes. I feel quite certain that for $200,000 U.S., my friend will consider using the Pathet Lao military under his command to rescue by force the 10 to 14 American POWs at Muong Sai. There are approximately 100 Vietnamese at the camp but they will be killed when the camp is attacked. They will use commandeered trucks to drive the 140 kilometers to Pak Bang that will take about two to three hours. When we arrive, it will be necessary to be met at the Thai-Lao border by a representative of yours who would exchange the money for the Americans. Naturally, all involved must be guaranteed political asylum in the United States.”

  We gave “Ko” instructions to report on the Vietnamese unit designations and strengths at Muong Sai, along with trying to obtain the governor’s files on any American hostages or at least their names. “Ko” stated he would depart for Laos on 22 June and return with the information on 4 or 5 July.

  If “Ko” was not speaking with a forked tongue, all we had to do was concentrate on working out the details for the exchange, i.e., money to pay for POWs. First, though, we needed the names of the POWs, and once we had the names, we could contact Admiral Paulson who had promised to provide questions that only aircrew members would know the answers to. Paulson was putting his ass on the line as he was going to provide us with highly classified info. Besides, we did not have security clearances. We sure as hell weren’t going to pay $200,000 for dirt-bag deserters or dope-heads posing as U.S. POWs.

  I again rolled the dice, even though Buni & friend were not exactly batting a thousand: We were still without confirmation from Muong Sai, and receipt of the “Yellow Rain” artillery round and grenade we had heard about was “delayed.” However, we figured, all bases should be covered. Thus, with the first $500 installment of SOFdough, Ko Long, codenamed “Brave One,” set out through the wilds of Laos to follow up on the buy-out possibilities.

  I was thrilled with the preliminary findings of the interviews. I decided it was time to go to Thailand myself to scope out the territory and try to figure out what was fact and what was rumor. I arranged for further and more in-depth interviews with our sources in Chiang Rai.

  Once there, after two days of discussions, I decided that SOFs financial backing would be thrown behind “T’s” organization if it could assist in our POW/MIA mission. We got wind that the leadership of the LULF, who were expecting us to arm them for the revolution after they led us to the POWs, was getting restless because we had not provided them with any funds for the operational base inside Laos.

  They threatened to attack the POW camp on their own, hoping to free two or three of the POWs that they then planned to ransom to the U.S. They said they would use the money to fund further operations against the communists.

  They made it clear that it was do-or-die time for the mission—either I fund a LULF base inside Laos, or they would launch a half-assed attack on the camp which would, even if successful, jeopardize the POWs. But there were a lot of “ifs.” If in fact the POWs were there. If we had a base, it would provide a facility to train a Lao resistance unit which we would use to provide us with security when the money/POW exchange was made at the border — if it was made.

  Two hundred thousand dollars in U.S. greenbacks in my hot little hands in the wild ass jungle of the Thai-Lao border meant that I was going to need a company or two of friendly guns. After all, here one could purchase a “hit man” for $10, and a raw gut-wrenching bottle of bad Mekong whiskey thrown in to boot.

  Granted, we could purchase automatic weapons on the black market, but trying to purchase and carry a large quantity of M-l6s or AK-47s would undoubtedly irk Thai officialdom, who would in return give us free room and board in the local gray bar hotel.

  Reason kicked in. We decided that we would limit our support of the LULF camp to assistance in the design and construction of Liberty City, and the purchase of uniforms, building supplies, tools, boots, webbed gear and food—but no weapons or ammunition.

  ROUND-EYE SPIES

  Back in Bangkok, before finding a location for the camp and beginning construction of Liberty City, Zabitosky, Jim Coyne and Tom Reisinger, whom I had stationed there full time, had been on hold for several weeks at the zero-star Nana Hotel in Bangkok awaiting back-channel clearances to get our armed reconnaissance off square one.

  “The Nana was a palace compared to the hotel that General “Heinie” Aderholt got us,” Jim Morris, another SOF Special Forces vet who took three AK rounds in Nam, who also joined the team before going to Lebanon, said. “Heinie” had a Thai friend who owned a run-down dump that catered to Pakistanis. Every time you walked into the lobby, it was like walking into a Paki armpit that hadn’t seen a bar of soap in a couple of weeks. We were interested in saving money, but this was too much.

  That meant that TR, Coyne and Zab were hanging around with a lot of dead time in Bangkok, which triggered a lot of rumors of undercover CIA agents and high hopes of making some quick bucks by the indigenous irregulars signing up for Liberty City. The hype about the CIA round eyes went viral as the weeks and months rolled by.

  My protest, “Really guys, we’re not CIA!” went nowhere with the gung-ho Doubting Thomas locals. They did not buy the story that some lone crusader, or maniac, would cough up the dough to launch such a costly mission without the support or anointment of Uncle Sam.

  The expenses were piling up, and raising $200,000 for the POW exchange would be quite a feat. I needed to try to recruit potential contributors. We heard a lot of flag waving and emotional ranting from several donors who offered to kick in big bucks, but such offers were just hype. The one that still gives me heartburn was from future presidential candidate H. Ross Perot.

  George Petire, a former SOG operator in Nam, worked for Perot. He arranged for a meeting between us and the billionaire, or so he thought. Two SOFers and I, at SOF expense, hopped a flight to Dallas believing that Perot would be eager to see us after he had given some song and dance about wanting to bring the POWs back home.

  Once we arrived, rather than being welcomed into Perot’s den, we were ushered off to his Number Two who blew us off, muttering that without “concrete evidence” Mr. Perot would not be endorsing any checks. I should have taken a lesson from the ruthless businessman who had no doubt been fleeced in previous POW efforts, but at the time, I was highly irked because
the blowhard bastard had not told me about the “concrete evidence” requirement before I wasted our time and my money.

  By 7 July the Thai officials finally approved the construction of Liberty City. Once our ticket to action, “Mr. Dieng,” a Thai Border Security operative and our liaison to host country intelligence, showed up, we set about tackling the logistical nightmare of feeding, clothing, equipping and training upwards of the first 90 “enlistees” who had drifted into the campsite. More and more were trickling in every week. Why the Thais “authorized” our operation still falls into the category of unsolved mysteries. We all had our theories, but Coyne’s rang as the most likely.

  “I believe the Thais were content to allow Liberty City to operate as long as they knew about it and trusted what we were doing. It was in Laos, not Thailand, and beyond the Kuomintang (KMT) picket, so the Thais had nothing to lose from an intel collection standpoint. The Thais’ request to close down Liberty City coincided with the on-the-cover SOF revelation of it’s existence—then it was no longer plausible to deny knowledge of Liberty City and may have spurred the Thais to have us shut it down,” Coyne said.

  The team could not operate from Bangkok, hundreds of klicks and damn near a 12-hour drive away from the Laotian border in northern Thailand. So we decided that we would set up a safe house in Chaing Rai, just south of the Laotian border where we had interviewed our informants.

  Zabitosky, who was running the show, said, “Since we need a secure training camp, I want Reisinger and Mingo to go with me into Laos just over the Thai border and select a site. Coyne, you go back to Bangkok and complete any stories Robert K. Brown wants done, hang loose and be our contact man. We’ll set up a safe house here in Chiang Rai and coordinate things in this area using runners to go back and forth between here and our training base in Laos.”

  With roving correspondent Coyne down in Bangkok, updating and putting the final touches on articles for the magazine, and me shuttling between the continental U.S. (CONUS), South America, Thailand and the Republic of South Africa (dabbling in big game hunting), Zab and TR held down the fort.

  The locals watched closely the flurry of activity around the Chiang Rai safe house. No wonder—we found after leasing the place that it had previously been used as a safe house by the Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA)!

  Rumors began to fly that Zabitosky and TR were actually DEA agents arranging a bust on a well-known local narcotics kingpin.

  As if TR and Zabitosky did not have enough problems, their numero uno problem became a nasty newly received rumor via our Lao intel net, specifically “T,” that a Thai narcotics kingpin had selected two specific heads, Zab and TR’s to roll: Those attached to the farangs (foreigners) residing in the mansion on Utrakit Road whom he fingered as being new sheriffs in town.

  When the boys voiced concern about their impending death, I told them, “Hell, you guys should be paying me! A lotta people would shell out thousands to be where you are right now! Catch ya in a few days. Out.”

  After “T” reported rumors that the two round eyes were on the drug-syndicate hit list, they put out the word to the locals that drug busts were not in their job descriptions. “T” was successful in his efforts to dispel the rumors, and the hit contract was lifted. A week later a messenger delivered word of their reprieve via messenger to the front door with an apology.

  In Chiang Rai, the boys decided that playing cloak and dagger would only serve to attract even more gratuitous attention from already-suspicious neighbors. To add to the intrigue, the two often left for several-day periods to supervise construction of our base in the clouds, Liberty City. During their time spent in town, over meals or while browsing through shops, they let slip their cover: merely journalists interested in churning out magazine pieces on off-the-beaten-path tourist getaways.

  LIBERTY CITY

  The team refocused on our primary mission at the moment: infiltrating into Laos to the desolate village of Muong Sai, some 160 kilometers distant from our FOB ‘81, or “Liberty City,” where our agents had placed four Americans only several months before.

  After an all-night stay at the safe house, Zabitosky, Mingo and TR, along with eleven LULF troops, began the brutal trek into Laos, splashing through rice paddies, up gently rising slopes and then up the rain-slicked rocky trails for the last nine miles into Laos. Most of the walking was up 60-degree inclines with only slight respites from the agonizing climb.

  With Mingo remaining behind to oversee things after they chose the site, Zabitosky and TR flew back to Bangkok to meet me and brief me on our A-Team site location. All was agreed upon, and Zabitosky and TR left to supervise construction of Liberty City. Due to possible security problems involving the Thais, Zabitosky recommended that the site’s location be moved several kilometers farther into Laos from the original choice. Some of our troops had reconned the area, and its higher ground coupled with its panoramic view of the Mekong River made it a strategic site.

  The “old boy” network in Bangkok and up-country also helped us procure the material just as it had helped us with the troops. We were given the OK to hump the supplies into Laos. Our go-to guy, a Mr. Dieng, who was no doubt with Thai intelligence, had secured road clearances enabling free access to and from our Liberty City training site for transport of non-lethal materiel.

  TR called then-SOF Managing Editor Jim Graves, who wired $18k in greenbacks to a Bangkok bank within 72 hours. It was the first of what was to be far too many more wire transfers.

  The team set about purchasing construction supplies for the camp, clearing ground, digging trenches and building bunkers. Zabitosky and TR shuttled back and forth to Chiang Rai while Mingo remained on-site at Liberty City to supervise construction.

  Anticipating a worst-case scenario such as an air strike, the team threw bunkers together as fast as possible and explored a nearby cave complex. FOB 81 was a virtual A-camp minus the claymores and concertina, inside communist Laos. Far from being a symbolic gesture toward publicizing the POW/MIA issue or ink-generating Hollywood-style hype for Soldier of Fortune, the outpost, constructed under the on-site supervision of former U.S. Army Special Forces personnel, was a bona fide launch site for a planned armed foray to the Muong Sai prison camp.

  I VISIT SOF’S “A” CAMP

  Once it was done, time came for me to check out the camp that I had paid for. Tom Reisinger and I were going up to the base in Laos to meet up with Coyne, Zabitosky and troops of the LULF working with us at the base.

  We stopped in the mud clearing near a small village of 30 huts on stilts, greeted by curious locals trying to get a peek at the two farangs and two Laotian guides who had come to their village just as the other two farangs had done the week before, armed only with cameras and tape recorders. As the villagers watched and chatted quietly at a distance, our Lao host showed up to join us and we headed toward Laos, some seven kilometers away across the rice fields, and up into the mountains.

  The LULF supplied the Lao guides who picked us up in the village at various times. The LULF was established in May 1981, in response to deteriorating economic, social and political conditions within Laos. It hoped to resist further occupation of Laos by Vietnam, and establish a free, independent Laotian state in northwestern Laos. The number of people in the LULF was difficult to estimate—total armed strength was allegedly about 4,000. And I emphasize the word “alleged.”

  Individual units, although widely dispersed over northwest Laos, were under one command, and came from the hill tribes most common to the region: Hmong, Lao Tung, Lahu, Yao, Liu and Lao. Many of the cadres were veterans of the clandestine war waged by the United States in Laos against the North Vietnamese in the 1950s and 1960s. The ranks were rou-tinely trained, armed and equipped by the People’s Republic of China at Szemao in Yunan Province.

  General Vang Pao and his contacts gave us the names and introductions to Laotian resistance representatives in Thailand who arranged for the guided trip over the border to a LULF camp. After a hasty br
iefing outside the village, the LULF guide led us toward the hills.

  The villagers stared at us as we headed into their villages armed with cameras and recorders. For the villagers, SOF was a ray of hope.

  Although TR had made the trek before, he was in a world of hurt as much as I was. Yuppie-style jogging along the Boulder creek and trails as we did daily in Colorado had us thinking that we were totally buff. Did we ever fool ourselves.

  All the jogging and macho working out in the office gym had hardly come close to preparing us for this straight-up mountain trek. We were hurting big time as we sucked in oxygen. Only Mingo, the wiry Indian in good enough shape for trekking across the globe, and several years our junior, was keeping pace with our 110-pound escorts. Mingo got great pleasure out of showing up out-of-shape, ex-Special Forces veterans. More than once we yelled for the guide, who was walking point, to slow down, but all we got was a ration of shit about not being in shape. I could only reply, “You’ve been here playing games for a year asshole; we’ve only just arrived.”

  Meantime we would sigh with relief at the sight of a Hmong village coming into view. The naked kids, animals and curious villagers watched with amusement as we dragged ass into the village headman’s house for a welcome break. The syrupy sweet tea so common in Asia revived my sagging energy. After an hour’s break, we would head off again.

  Hours seemed like days, until finally we arrived at a Thai outpost, a “Shangri-La” set upon a mountaintop we had sighted through a surreal field of clouds. Our prearranged hosts greeted us warmly, and after more sweet tea we departed on the last leg of our forced march.

  Curious villagers on their way to the Thai rice fields scattered quietly out of our path as our small group passed. Jim Coyne, who had paved the way for my visit, had warned me about the grueling nine-hour trip, but his warnings, which I dismissed, were coming back to haunt me as I hiked straight up in the back-busting trek which was worse than the killer technical climb I made up Mount Rainier in 1966.