Tucker's Last Stand

by William F. Buckley

  “That’s right. And we could have used a fifth.” Blackford took a swig of his scotch. “On a few of those passes Sunday we could have done with a third hand. Steering that thing, broadcasting your threatening radio dispatches—good thing you speak Vietnamese like a native—sowing those sound buoys, riding those wakes aren’t something I’d want to do again even with your expert help. Thank God for our two dress rehearsals. And for the blackness of August second.”

  “Yes, Mr. Oakes; there were two or three times when I too felt, well, a bit—overworked?”

  “Yes, but not underpaid, I hope you will agree.”

  Alphonse Juilland bowed his head, in acknowledgment of the very special purse he had received for duty indisputably hazardous. “No, my point is unrelated, Mr. Oakes, to the shortage of extra crew help on Sunday night, and certainly unrelated to the compensation. It has to do, as I began saying, with intelligence practices. The gentleman who gave you orders, whoever he is, is obviously high in government and is secure. Major Montana is a very considerable national asset, I take it, judging from his inventiveness with the instruments we needed to conduct our own mission. And although I do not know the details of his responsibilities at Nakhon Phanom, I deduce that his role is most important.”

  Blackford said nothing, and now only diddled with his drink.

  “As for you, the third of the four insiders, I can only assume that you too are of considerable value to the … Agency. And that you are completely trusted, or else this—delicate assignment would not have been given to you, am I correct?”

  Blackford now knew where Alphonse Juilland was going, and decided on Operation Compression.

  “Dear Alphonse, there is much that I do for my country that I would just as soon not do. For instance, our mission on Sunday night. Much of what I do, I do because I have committed myself to following instructions, and I do follow instructions except when or if—it has not happened to me in thirteen years—such instructions are morally intolerable, which last Sunday’s exercise was not. Though it does serve to instruct us on what political ethicists might call ‘some of the limitations of democratic government.’ But I would not ask you, or anyone else, to serve as a confederate in any enterprise which subsequently required your elimination. That’s what you are coming to, isn’t it?”

  “Well,” Alphonse Juilland smiled, a little more broadly than usual, “yes, I was headed in the direction of asking you that question. Not knowing much about what I call intelligence practices, I permitted myself to wonder whether I was now not merely expendable, but … dangerous, so long as I was alive? I have to admit that—simply as a precaution—I did leave a letter with my cousin in France, who is a solicitor—”

  Blackford banged his drink down. “Oh shit, Alphonse. Now let me tell you something. One: Get that letter back. Two: Burn it. Three: Pretend you didn’t tell me about its existence. Because we’re ready to ride out the whole thing with you as a confederate. But we’re not willing to share presidential secrets with you and your cousin and a piece of paper. You could, after all, die of a heart attack tonight. And what then does your cousin do with that letter?”

  “Ah, Mr. Oakes, please do not be upset. My cousin has been instructed to burn the letter on receipt of a telegram from me—”

  “Saying what?”

  Alphonse smiled again. This time he sipped heavily the vodka before answering. “You desire to know the exact code?”

  “I desire to know it, and I desire you”—he looked at his watch—“to send the correct message as soon as the telegraph office opens. But in the event you do not last until six A.M.—I am speaking of an Act of God—I desire you”—Blackford extended a writing pad and pencil to Alphonse—“to write on that pad the name and address of your cousin and the coded message you are supposed to send him.”

  Alphonse smiled, and bowed his head. “I feel in a bargaining mood, Mr. Oakes.”

  Blackford looked up sharply, quizzically.

  “I will do as you say,” said Alphonse, “provided you give me another drink of vodka.”

  23

  August 8, 1964

  Hanoi, North Vietnam–Washington, D.C.

  Le Duc Sy made a most earnest attempt to persuade the military court that Squadron Captain Thanh-Lang could not have known that Le Duc Sy had completely fabricated his conversations with Colonel Giap, that he never doubted that Hanoi had actually ordered the raid on the American destroyers.

  “I lied to him. It is that simple, comrades. He had been taking orders from me for over four weeks and he simply assumed that anything I passed along to him was in effect an order from Hanoi.”

  Had Captain Thanh-Lang used the verification procedures stipulated?

  “No, comrade judges. It is true he did not do this. But these verification orders had to do with military initiatives by Captain Thanh-Lang’s squadron, and he never took an initiative, he merely followed orders he thought originated with headquarters. It isn’t that he was remiss in regard to a detail to which he was accustomed. Never before having received an order to go on the offensive in the Gulf, he just assumed that my having issued that order, given the authority vested in me on my arrival, was sufficient. And of course I told him in some detail about the order to me from Hanoi. He had no doubts.”

  The court ordered Thanh-Lang demoted to the rank of private in the infantry, assigned to help to carry supplies south on the Trail, with permission to reapply to serve in the navy in twenty-four months.

  At Hoa Lo prison in Hanoi, Bui Tin offered his friend Le Duc Sy a cigarette. Sy took one and joked that now he could avoid worry that smoking would hasten his death. He took from his pocket the letter Bui Tin had promised to accept from him, to be mailed through channels in Singapore to Lao Dai. Bui Tin put it in his briefcase and took out a bottle of brandy and two paper cups. As he poured he said:

  “You should be clear on this point. It is that if I had been one of the judges, I’d have passed the same sentence. Your recklessness at school was punished by flogging. In the field it was punished by unnecessary exposure and perhaps even unnecessary deaths, though I do not conceal that what you did was, yes, reckless, but also very courageous. What you did on Sunday in the Gulf was courageous. But you jeopardized not only yourself but the diplomatic timetable of Ho Chi Minh, and on this the Independence Movement depends.”

  “Did you hear me ask for mercy?”

  “No. I doubt you’d have asked for mercy if you had been carrying out orders personally given to you by Ho Chi Minh.” He raised his cup and drank deeply, as did Le Duc Sy. “I mourn not your removal from the scene—the days and months and years ahead of us are too important to accommodate eccentric misbehavior. I might even say, Le Duc Sy, that what you did was a form of exhibitionism, taking on two U.S. destroyers and precipitating a diplomatic crisis.”

  “Well, what about the North Vietnamese exhibitionists who did it on Tuesday?”

  “There was no attack on Tuesday. That is all U.S. invention.”

  “You are telling me we made no attacks against the American destroyers on Tuesday? You should know, Bui Tin, that friends who have visited me during the past forty-eight hours do not get all their news from Hanoi Radio. They also get it from BBC.”

  “BBC has no reason to question the official American account.”

  “Very well. But every time I think of those American hypocrites arming the enemy, interfering with commercial shipping without any thought given to their precious freedom of the seas, and then, on Sunday, attempting a physical invasion of Hon Me! If only I had hit one of those fuckers with one of those torpedoes and seen their ship go gurgling down! Ah, let’s drink to that!”

  Bui Tin raised his cup. “We drink to your last drink, Le Duc Sy.” The guards were at the door.

  Bui Tin heard the fusillade while sitting at his desk. He closed his eyes for the briefest moment. Then he leaned over and took from his briefcase the letter his late comrade had written to Lao Dai. He could not send it unexamined, and it even c
rossed his mind that it was surprising that Le Duc Sy thought he would do so. He opened the envelope after exposing it to the steam escaping from the teakettle. He read quickly the opening paragraphs, which were professions of great, ardent, perpetual love. And then:

  “My darling, you must know that tomorrow morning I leave on a very hazardous expedition. It is always just possible that I shan’t return. If that should be, communications from me will end. If so, remember that you can memorialize me only by making every effort to advance the great cause of independence, even as I am doing. With all my love, my darling Lao Dai.”

  Bui Tin picked up the telephone.

  “Get me Colonel Giap … Giap? Bui Tin. I wish to read you from the letter written by Le Duc Sy to Lao Dai.”

  After he had read the passage he said to him, “He was reckless and he paid a price. But he was truly loyal. In a few days you will—of course—inform Lao Dai that Le Duc Sy died an honorable death for his country?”

  “Of course, Bui Tin.”

  Senator Goldwater was always faintly amused by intrigue no matter how serious the matters dealt with. Now it was a new communication from General X, one that had not come in the customary way. First, the telephone had rung. As usual, the telephone request came to be put through to Bill Baroody. But then General X had said to Baroody that he would be sending a personal communication by messenger which must go directly to Senator Goldwater. Baroody asked how the envelope would be identified. It would be on writing paper of Washington’s Hay-Adams Hotel. Baroody told the receptionist at headquarters that a messenger coming in with a personal envelope to the senator on Hay-Adams stationery was to be sent up to the inner sanctum.

  Now he took the letter into the office next door, where Senator Goldwater was struggling to adjust the digital recall mechanism on a ham radio set. Baroody handed him the envelope. “General X. Says only for you.” Goldwater sat down, opened the envelope, and read the letter silently. He handed it to Baroody and went back to his radio set. Baroody read it:

  Dear Senator:

  The passage of the Tonkin Gulf Resolution means, as far as I am concerned, that the United States is at war with North Vietnam, never mind the waffle. Anything the President now does is authorized de jure, authorized by Congress, and what he decides to do is wholly his responsibility. But since I believe that we are at war I can no longer take a political view of my responsibilities. He is now my Commander in Chief in wartime. Accordingly, with continuing high regard, I close my final communication to you. With all good wishes,

  X.

  “Eggs says we’re at war, Bill.” The Senator was bent over, observing the effects on the panel of his switching the toggle up front with his right hand.

  “Are we, Barry? You ought to know. You voted in favor of the Tonkin Gulf Resolution.”

  “Yup,” Goldwater said. “We’re at war. But Lyndon’s not going to make any big moves before the election. And I’m not sure he’s going to make any decisive moves after November. We’ll have to lay relatively low on the Vietnam issue from now on. Don’t, really, have much choice.” For once he didn’t end a sentence directed at his chief brain truster with the interrogatory, “Don’t you think so?” Baroody made this unnecessary:

  “Yes, I agree. We’re at war—and maybe at a standstill.”

  BOOK 2

  24

  September 10, 1964

  Saigon, South Vietnam

  It was in early September that Blackford, Rufus, and Tucker next met in Saigon. The political scene had considerably changed since what now went in the military-diplomatic trade by the name of Tonkin 2, distinguishing the events of August 4, which brought on the Gulf of Tonkin Resolution, from the patrol boat raid of August 2. Although President Johnson’s retaliatory bombing of the installations at Quang Khe hadn’t been followed up by more U.S. bombing, there were plentiful signs of accelerated military activity. Most conspicuous was the construction of a massive air base near Saigon. And the Thai jets that under the guidance of the CIA had been furtively harassing illegal traffic from the North down the Ho Chi Minh Trail were now regularly foraging for targets along the Trail, and here and there engaging in direct strikes. These were not greatly productive, granted, given the route’s natural camouflage.

  Camouflage. That, Tucker Montana, hard at work outside Savannakhet, would hope soon to penetrate, after Operation Igloo White was operative. At Nakhon Phanom the great old barnlike building originally commissioned by the French was being reconstructed by a heavy concentration of U.S. soldiers operating with the engineering corps. A moving-picture camera recording the day-to-day activity in the area of the big square building would have caught an occasional Asiatic face, but mostly it was sweat-soaked young Americans carrying materiel into the barn while others furnished new roofing and labored to beef up the structure. A candid movie of the events would have suggested a great army enterprise going on during the summer in swampy country in Louisiana or Florida.

  Tucker Montana unbuttoned a second button on his shirt and rolled its sleeves high on his arm. He was eager to talk about Igloo.

  It was the first time the three had met since Tonkin 2, the historic Tonkin raid against two U.S. destroyers. Conducted by one heavily camouflaged Stiletto 26-footer manufactured by the Sea Ray Company in Florida capable, with its 350-horsepower Mercury, of traveling 45–50 knots.

  “I got to say,” Tucker laughed heartily, “when I read that the destroyers had ‘seen’—‘felt’—‘heard’—‘experienced’?—I forget all the words they used—twenty-two torpedoes, I thought, Oh God, Black and that Frenchman are overdoing it! Course, the next day that twenty-two torpedoes they spotted was down to twelve, and then down to four; don’t know where it is right now—one attack by a water-skier? Damn, but those sonar-delusion containers did a nice job! Kind of sorry we don’t have any more use for those babies; I’m kind of proud of the way they were designed, what you say, Rufus? And I knew that conventional mobile amplifier would do the job on the sonars; you weren’t all that sure, now, were you, Blackford?”

  “Gentlemen.”

  Rufus did not approve of talk about the mechanics of operations that had been consummated. It was hardly a question of security. They were in a Saigon safe house, and all three of them had been intimately engaged in the operation, and one of them executed it. It was habit. Habit! habit! habit! Blackford had once complained; but he was younger then, and now he knew that training the instinct, the reflex, even—the cultivating of correct habits was a part of what Alphonse Juilland called “intelligence practices.” And the habit of not discussing, even among confederates, a deep covert operation once it had been accomplished was one of those habits intelligence agents were supposed to get into, as if ignoring a covert operation heightened the chances that the enemy would also ignore it. Blackford permitted himself to dwell on the irony that the “enemy,” in this case, was the Congress of the United States. The gooks knew they hadn’t done whatever it was that had been done.…

  Blackford softened the apparent reproach by reminding Tucker that he had only been conscripted into formal intelligence duty in June, “just three months ago.”

  “Yup. Before that I was just a soldier of fortune, Black.”

  Rufus said nothing about this soldier of fortune’s basic training, building the atom bomb.

  They spoke of scheduling, and of the nature and function of several innovative devices being constructed. In the Gulf, 34-A was now, of course, an open operation, and such camouflage as Blackford directed be used was for the purpose of foiling only North Vietnamese artillery, not of fooling the AP or Reuters. The little armed “fishing boats,” closely backed by the Seventh Fleet, were on day and night war alert. Rufus summed it up: “There is no difference between how the 34-A-equipped boats are behaving at sea right now and how they would behave at sea if we were in an official shooting war. Scrupulous attention paid to territorial boundaries is a concern of the past. The trouble is, the Viets—our Viets—know that however much of the con
traband they succeed in stopping at sea, the stuff is getting through.” He looked at Tucker. “Coming in your side door, isn’t it?”

  “Yup. And there’s nothing much we can do about it, unless the President orders a few U.S. divisions to come on in and take those passes and hold them down. No, nothing we can do about it until those Spikebuoys come in and get set up—the sensors, the acoustic numbers. I’ve already got most of the preliminary model computers set up, and I got an aide who is lining up analysts and rapid-fire interpreters—not all that easy to get, Vietnamese–English. He’s having to settle, for the time being, for a couple of shifts of Vietnamese-to-French-to-English. See, two interpreters listen to the radio voices, the gook puts it quickly into French, the second guy, American, puts it into English.

  “My goal is”—dramatically, Tucker pulled a stopwatch from his pocket, depressing the lever with a highly exaggerated arm motion, like the starter at an automobile race—“my goal is three minutes, thirty seconds from the time the guy says it, to the time the pilot gets his instructions.

  “The NVA guy, on the Trail, says to the soldiers sitting down eating their lunch, ‘Get moving, assholes’”—he looked up at Rufus. “Sorry, Rufus. The NVA officer says, ‘Come on, gang, wiggle your tail: We got thirty trucks need getting down before dark.’

  “That’s translated into French in forty seconds …

  “Into English in forty seconds …

  “Typed, thirty seconds.

  “Operations officer reads it, decides affirmative for action required, forty-five seconds.