The New Breed

by W. E. B Griffin

  When Doane-Foster got back to his office, he went to the file and got out the confidential file on Air Simba, to which the bank had lent a rather substantial amount of money in a transaction it regarded as rather risky. He made a note that Jean-Philippe Portet had a previously unknown very close personal relationship through his son with Geoffrey Craig, the only child of Porter Craig, Chairman of the Board of Craig, Powell, Kenyon & Dawes, the investment bankers. He dictated a confidential memorandum to that effect for telex transmission to London and then called in his real estate man and told him he needed an apartment suitable for a young junior officer just assigned to the U. S. Embassy.

  "His name is Geoffrey Craig," Doane-Foster said. "His father is Porter Craig, of Craig, Powell, Kenyon and Dawes. Sir Edward called me, Tom. He said he thought it might be a good idea if I did what I could for him in behalf of the bank. And I rather got the idea he had more in mind than my picking up the odd luncheon chit. Do you take my point?"

  (Four)

  The Hotel du Lac Bukavu, Democratic Republic of the Congo 18 May 1964

  Major Pappy Hodges and First Lieutenant Geoffrey Craig had been in their room not more than fifteen minutes, just long enough to strip out of their flight suits and take a shower, when there was a knock at the door.

  Pappy went to the door wrapped in a towel. An African stood there, a large man wearing a white cotton jacket, a round red felt cap, baggy black trousers, and sandals.

  "What can I do for you?" Pappy asked suspiciously.

  "M'sieu would like to buy jade?"

  "No."

  "Well, then, how about a thirteen-year-old virgin? We're running a special on slightly damaged thirteen-year-old virgins."

  "Father!" Geoff cried. Rushing naked and dripping to the door, he wrapped his arms around the African and pulled him into the room. "Jesus Christ, how the hell are you?"

  "Parched," the African said, closing the door and turning to offer his hand to Pappy. "Captain Lunsford, Sir."

  "I'll be damned," Pappy said.

  "Won't we all?" Father Lunsford said. "Have you guys got anything to drink?"

  "There's a bottle of Scotch in my bag."

  "They have room service," Lunsford said. "Get us some beer."

  "I didn't expect to see you here," Geoff said as he picked up the telephone and ordered a half-dozen bottles of beer.

  "Tell them Simba," Father Lunsford said. "They have two kinds of beer here, Simba and elephant piss."

  "Simba," Geoff said to the telephone.

  "And I would dearly like a cigar. I don't suppose either of you?"

  Pappy went to his Jepp case and came out with a box of cigars.

  "Genuine Havanas," he said. "I bought them in Greenland. They're terrible. The communists seem to have fucked that up, to."

  "Expatriate life does tend to make one a terrible chauvinist, doesn't it?" Lunsford said in a mock English accent as he bit the end from his cigar.

  "What the hell are you doing here?" Geoff asked.

  "Reconnoitering," Lunsford said. "I had a guy at the airport and he said that an L-23 had landed. I figured it was probably you, and since I was in the neighborhood. . ."

  "We had a hell of a time getting across the border," Pappy said.

  "Well, Major, you're clearly a pair of mercenaries," Lunsford said, "bent on bringing back colonialism." He exhaled and looked at the cigar. "Kicking the gift horse in the teeth, that is pretty disappointing, isn't it?"

  "And they were six bits apiece," Pappy said.

  There was a knock at the door. Lunsford went quickly into the bathroom and stayed there until the waiter with the beer had gone.

  "Reconnoitering?" Geoff asked as he handed him a bottle of beer.

  "Roads and drop zones," Lunsford said. "And then I was over in Bujumbura having a look at the Chinese. Jesus, I hope we don't get involved in anything here. This is the tail end of a very long supply line."

  "You think we will, Father?" Geoff asked.

  "I don't know for sure, but if I were Mao Tse-tung and wanted to fuck things up over here, I'd sure know how to go about it."

  "How?" Geoff asked.

  "I would ship in a couple of crates of AK-47s as embassy furniture and then pass them out to the most convenient savage who sees himself as the leader of his country," Lunsford said.

  "He would take it from there."

  "'Savage'?" Geoff quoted softly.

  "Savage," Lunsford said. "There are some exceptions they've got a first-rate colonel named Leonard Mulamba, who knows what he's doing. . ."

  "I never heard that name," Pappy said thoughtfully.

  "He stays the hell out of Leopoldville," Lunsford said. "Dills arranged for me to meet him. I guess you've met Colonel Dills? The Strike Command guy?"

  "We're getting our orders from him," Pappy said, and added, "Some of them."

  "Good man," Lunsford said. "Anyway, I got to meet Mulamba, and we hit it off, and I asked him how he would recommend I get around. So he put me in an ANC uniform"-the Armee Nationale Congolaise-"as a major, Major. And we went around together. He could teach some of my instructors at Leavenworth how to conduct an IG inspection. No bullshit.

  Right to the heart of what they, call combat readiness. Or the lack of it-which is about all we found.

  "You went to Leavenworth?" Geoff asked. The U.S. Army Command and General Staff College is at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas.

  "'Went?'" Lunsford asked. "My good fellow, I was the honor graduate of my class. And I have a suitably engraved sword to prove it."

  "I'm awed," Geoff said.

  "You damned well should be," Father Lunsford said. "You're looking at a certified future senior leader of our armed forces." He held out his hand for another bottle of beer.

  "If I'd known what I was getting into over here," Lunsford went on, "I'd have taken my sword off the mantelpiece and brought it with me. The savages are impressed with swords. They have some trouble grasping things like automatic weapons."

  "So did I when I was drafted," Geoff said.

  "You are not listening to me," Lunsford said. "I'm talking savages."

  "For example?"

  "Well, for example, I got this from Colonel Mulamba during the Katangese rebellion. The rebel forces entered battle against the mercenaries with great confidence. They had dawa."

  "What's that?" Pappy asked. "Well, the officers take a recruit and they make little cuts on his forehead and chest. Then they rub magic dust in the wounds."

  "Magic dust?" Geoff asked, chuckling.

  "Shut up and let me finish. Then they drape an animal skin, lion-simba-is best, of course, but goat will do in a pinch. Then they tell the recruit to walk away. They pop a couple of rounds in the air and tell the recruit the ceremony marked, he now has dawa. He is now immune to bullets. And he believes it, because he has heard the shots himself and is still alive."

  "That's hard to believe," Geoff said.

  "You better believe it, Geoff," Lunsford told him seriously, "or you'll wind up in little pieces, a l'italienne."

  "What does that mean?" Geoff asked. "'Like the Italians'?"

  "You're an aviator," Lunsford said incredulously, "and you never heard about the Eye-talian aviators?" Geoff and Pappy shook their heads no.

  "The Italian Air Force sent people down here. . . to Kamina, an ex-Belgian air base-"

  "We've been there," Pappy said.

  "-to teach the Congolese how to fly," Lunsford picked up.

  "And half a dozen of them did not pay some hookers the agreed upon price. They disappeared. The Eye-talians, I mean. They turned up in the market. Neatly sliced into roasts and chops."

  "Really?" Geoff asked incredulously.

  "Really. A lot of these people came out of the trees last week, my innocent young friend. To coin a phrase, this is a whole new ball game. I won't say the rules are different, because there are no rules. If we get into something over here, it's going to be a mess."

  "You think the Chinese are going to start somethin
g, Lunsford?" Pappy asked.

  "I don't know. Felter obviously does, and from what I hear of that guy, he's usually right."

  "Felter told us you were training Congolese paratroopers," Pappy said.

  "And so we are," Lunsford said. "It goes a little slow. You have to start with the basics. 'This is a boot. You put the boot on your foot.'"

  "Three A-Teams?" Geoff asked. "That's all?"

  "You don't think that's enough?" Father Lunsford asked. "Oh, ye of little faith! We are here to save the world for, democracy, and the Green Berets shall not fail or my name is not Maxwell Goldberg. Fuck it-let's eat! The steaks here are not at all bad, and you guys are buying."

  "I thought you didn't want to be seen with us," Geoff said.

  "I will now leave," Captain Lunsford said, "and go downstairs. And then, when you come in the dining room, I will come to your table and offer to sell you jade, and this time, Major, you will try to cheat this poor and ignorant savage out of it."

  XVI

  (One)

  Quarters #1 Fort Rucker, Alabama 1935 Hours 25 July 1964

  When the doorbell rang, the Bellmons had just sat down to dinner. A look of displeasure flashed across General Robert F. Bellmon's face.

  "See who that is, Bobby, please," Barbara Bellmon said to her son. "Tell them we're eating." Bobby was Second Lieutenant Robert F. Bellmon IV, USMA '64, a tall, well-built young man who bore a strong resemblance to his father. In deference to his father's belief that no matter what color it was or what was printed on it, a T-shirt was an undershirt, and gentlemen did not sit at table in their underwear, he was wearing a light cotton, gray, zipper jacket with WEST POINT lettered across the back over his USMA Fencing Team T-shirt. He laid down his knife and fork, rose from the table, and went to the door.

  A young man stood there in a light-blue knit polo shirt and khaki trousers. General Bellmon had another sartorial opinion regarding khaki pants. He didn't care what civilians did, khaki trousers were part of the uniform and. should not be worn as part of civilian attire.

  There was no question in Bobby Bellmon's mind who the young man was. There were not that many flaming-red Jaguar convertibles around. This was the sonofabitch-it had become clear from overheard whispered conversations-who was fucking his sister.

  "Yes?" Bobby Bellmon said. "Can I help you?"

  "I'd like to see Marjorie, please," Jack Portet said.

  "We're having dinner."

  "Would you please tell her I'm here?" Jack said. As he looked a: Marjorie's brother's face, there was no question in Jack's mind that Bobby had heard about him and that he disapproved of what he had heard. "My name is Portet." Perversely, he added, "PFC Portet, Sir."

  "Just a moment, please," Bobby Bellmon said, closed the door in Jack's face, and returned to the dining room.

  "It's Marj's friend," he said. "PFC Portet."

  ""Where is he?" Barbara Bellmon asked.

  "Outside the door. I told him to wait." Barbara Bellmon glanced at her daughter, saw the look on her face, and quickly got to her feet. Oh, Bobby!" she said in exasperation.

  "I'm sorry, Jack," they heard her say a moment later, "Bobby didn't know who you were. Come on in and sit down and I'll set a place for you."

  When they appeared at the door, Jack said, "Good evening. I'm sorry to burst in this way." He looked at Marjorie and their eyes locked, but neither of them spoke.

  "How are you, Jack?" General Bellmon said.

  The telephone rang.

  "Bobby, get that," General Bellmon ordered.

  "I didn't expect to see you tonight," Marjorie said finally.

  "General Bellmon's quarters," Bobby said to the telephone. "Lieutenant Bellmon speaking, Sir."

  "Make a place for him, Marjorie," Barbara ordered. "I'll get a plate and silver."

  "I'm not hungry, thank you," Jack said.

  "I'm sorry, General Bellmon is busy at the moment," Bobby said to the telephone. "May I take a message?"

  "Nonsense," General Bellmon said. "Sit down. There's more than enough."

  "Thank you, Sir," Jack said, and went and stood close to Marjorie. She touched his arm.

  "Dad, it's the AOO," Bobby said. The Aerodrome Officer of the Day. "He said to tell you that a Florida aircraft has just landed and has been put inside the SCATSA hangar."

  "Tell him thank you," General Bellmon ordered.

  "General Bellmon says thank you, Major," Bobby Bellmon said.

  "I guess you're involved with that, Jack?" General Bellmon asked.

  "Yes, Sir."

  "What's a Florida aircraft?" Bobby Bellmon asked.

  "I don't think you've formally met Bob," have you, Jack?" General Bellmon said, rather obviously ignoring the question. "This is our son, who is about to start flight school. And, Bob, this is Marjorie's friend. You should get to know him. He's quite a pilot."

  Bobby Bellmon forced a smile on his, face and offered Jack his hand, "I'm pleased to meet you."

  "How do you do?"

  Barbara Bellmon came out of the kitchen with a plate of meat loaf and vegetables. "Sit" I said. You couldn't have timed your arrival better. We just sat down. And I will refrain from saying, 'Next time, call.'"

  "Something's wrong," Marjorie said thoughtfully. "What is it, Jack?"

  "Nothing's wrong."

  "Yes, there is."

  "I've got to go away for a little while. I wanted to ask you to take care of the car for me."

  "Go away where?" The telephone rang.

  "Bobby," Marjorie said, "tell whoever that is to call back in five minutes."

  "That will depend on who is calling," Bobby said as he reached for the phone. "General Bellmon's quarters. Lieutenant Bellmon speaking, Sir." There was a response and then Bobby looked at Jack, extending the phone to him. "It's for you."

  Jack took the phone from him and spoke his last name. "OK, Luis," he said. "Call the tower and have them relay to Atlantic Area Control that we made- a precautionary landing at Cairns, and tell them we'll be airborne again in about thirty minutes. You better top off the tanks while you're at it. I'll be out there as soon as I can."

  "'Precautionary landing'?" General Bellmon quoted. "Something wrong with your airplane, Jack?"

  Jack met his eyes. "No, Sir. There's nothing wrong with the airplane."

  "I want to know what's going on;" Marjorie said.

  "So do I," Bobby Bellmon added.

  "It may well be none of our business," General Bellmon said.

  "I asked the copilot to bring the airplane here and pick me up," Jack said, "so I could drop the car off There wasn't time to do it any other way."

  "Before what?" Marjorie asked almost angrily. "I want-you to tell me what's going on!"

  "A pilot got sick," Jack said. "Actually, we found out he's an alcoholic when he fell off the wagon. There's just nobody else available. 1 have to fill in for him."

  "And you're going to the Congo!" Marjorie said.

  Jack looked at her and shrugged. "It can't be helped, honey."

  "Does Colonel Felter know about-this?" Barbara Bellmon asked.

  "I don't know," Jack said. "I'm taking my orders from Colonel Fulbright."

  "That figures," General Bellmon said a little bitterly.

  "You're not supposed to go over there," Barbara Bellmon said. "All you were supposed to do is help them get the planes and crews ready to go over there."

  "How do you know that?" General Bellmon asked his wife.

  "'Craig told me," Barbara said. "When Jack first went to Hurlburt."

  "You're going right now, aren't you?" Marjorie asked, making an accusation. "That's what that airplane's doing at Cairns!"

  "'Yeah," Jack began. "That's about-"

  ""Just a moment please, Jack," the General interrupted him. "I have something to say. Primarily to Bobby, but really to all of you."

  There was something in his tone of voice that silenced all of them and made them look at him expectantly, as if, Jack thought, they were awaiting his orders.
<
br />   We're dealing with a highly classified operation here, Bobby," General Bellmon said, "although to judge by this conversation, you'd never know it." Bobby Bellmon looked at Jack in righteous indignation.