The New Breed

by W. E. B Griffin

  One of the theories advanced was that Johnson, who knew how his Attorney General and USIA Director loathed Felter, kept him on to remind them who was now the President. It might be a little premature, the Director of the USIA decided, to interpret the President's humiliation of Felter as the first sign he was growing tired of him. But it was a possibility, and the Director of the USIA was pleased.

  "New I want to see Wheeler," the President said when he'd had enough of public relations. He aimed his finger at the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, "and you, Earl," pointing at the Director of the USIA, "and you and you and you," indicating the Deputy Director of the CIA, the Secretary of State, and Colonel Sanford T. Felter. "The rest can go." The President of the United States wanted to know what was going on in Stanleyville and who was doing what about it. "The best information we have, Mr. President," the Deputy Director of the CIA said, "is that our people there are in no immediate physical danger-"

  "What about the rescue mission?" the President asked impatiently, cutting him off.

  "It was not feasible, Mr. President," Felter said.

  "Mr. President," the Director of the USIA said, "I' m hearing this for the first time. What rescue mission?"

  "Tell Earl, Felter," the President ordered.

  "It was at one time contemplated attempting to evacuate consular personnel by helicopter, using assets already in the Congo." Felter said.

  "You're talking about the use of American military personnel?" the Director of the USIA interrupted incredulously.

  "Shut up, Earl, and listen," the President said. "When we're finished, if you have any questions you can ask them." He turned to Felter. "Why wasn't it feasible?"

  "One, we could" not mount a force of sufficient strength to insure success," Felter said. "Two, even if we had" gotten lucky and managed to get the consular personnel out, we almost-certainly could not have gotten them all out. And three, I was. advised that Olenga was very likely to retaliate against all Europeans-not only against any Americans still there; after a rescue attempt."

  "Advised by who?" Felter was obviously reluctant to answer the question.

  "You mean he's still with them? And you're still in contact with him?"

  "Yes, Sir," Felter said.

  "May I ask who 'he' is?" the CIA Director asked.

  "A Green Beret captain," the President said. "Apparently one hell of a man."

  "It was my understanding," the Director of USIA said, "that whatever our options were in die Stanleyville situation, they did not include the use of United States military personnel."

  "In other words," the President said to Felter, ignoring the Director, "nothing's going to happen right away?"

  "Aside from what the CIA can do to help in the near term;" Felter began, "and a plan I'd like to ask your permission-"

  "It was my understanding." the Director of the USIA said doggedly, "that the question of the use of U.S. military personnel was pretty well decided. That there would be none, in other words, unless there is-"

  "That's all, Earl," the President interrupted him. "You can run along." There was an awkward silence as the Director of the USIA gathered his papers together, closed his attache case, and walked out of the room.

  (Three)

  Kamina Airfield Katanga Province Democratic Republic of the Congo 22 August 1964

  The Air Simba Curtiss Commando, under charter to the Ministry of Transportation of the Democratic Republic of the Congo, made a rather steep approach to the runway, pulled up, and then dove at it again. Just in time, the pilot pulled back on the stick. The Commando was now in straight and level flight twenty feet off the runway. The pilot chopped the throttles and the aircraft settled so smoothly onto the runway that only the sudden rumble of the wheels announced that it had returned to earth.

  Karl-Heinz Wagner, wearing the camouflage pattern coveralls and the pips of a captain of the Armee Nationale Congolaise, sat on the floor of the cabin, his back braced against the rear bulkhead. While the Commando was still slowing on its landing roll, as soon as he could get to his feet he went to the door and with an enormous shove forced it open. Air rushed into the cabin, warm, very humid, but fresh.

  Karl-Heinz stood by the door, taking deep breaths.

  The Commando had neither passenger seats nor provisions for either cabin pressurization or passenger oxygen. It had been a bumpy ride from a small airfield near Johannesburg. The Commando had not been able to climb above the regular afternoon low-altitude thunderstorms and the turbulence they caused. A dozen of the forty men aboard had been airsick. And worse. The interior of the cabin smelled of vomit and feces. He himself had been very afraid that he was going to throw up. But he did think it behooved an officer, even an officer commanding scum of the earth like these, to avoid getting sick to his stomach.

  And he was just a little annoyed with Lieutenant Colonel Michael Hoare, who almost immediately after takeoff went into the cockpit and closed the door after him.

  When the Commando was finally moved into its parking spot, there was a strong temptation to just jump off onto the ground.

  He could not do that, for two reasons: one, the cabin floor was too high off the ground to jump safely; and, two, an officer sees to his men before looking to his own personal comfort.

  In English, and sharply, Captain Wagner ordered a sergeant to get the ladder in place. And then he ordered the Sergeant to debark first, to line the men up in the shade of the wing, and to keep them there. Then he stood in the door and watched, his face expressionless, as the troops debarked.

  A jeep drove up to the plane. It was a civilian jeep, Wagner noticed, painted olive drab to give it a military appearance. But it had thickly padded seats and a f{)ld-down door in the back. He wondered if it would be otherwise identical to a military jeep; specifically whether the floor would -be strong enough to hold a .50 caliber machine-gun mount.

  Hoare came bustling down the cabin. He was wearing the pips of a major. Although he had been promoted to lieutenant colonel, the proper insignia had not been available in South Africa.

  Wagner's captaincy-his promotion from lieutenant-had been one of Lieutenant Colonel Hoare's first -Official acts.

  "You're a good man to have- around, Karl-Heinz," Hoare had told him the night before when the list of people on the first airlift (including Wagner) was announced. "You're a natural soldier." Now Hoare spoke to him again. "Don't let them "scatter all over," he said. "I'll go find out what's going on."

  "Yes, Sir," Wagner said, and then saluted when Hoare drove off in the jeep.

  When the last of the mercenaries had gone down the ladder from the cabin, Wagner climbed down it himself. He looked at the men standing under the wing and wondered which of them had shit their pants. And what right now he was supposed to do about it.

  Then he saw two men sitting on the ground, thumbing cartridges into magazines. He walked over to them.

  "Anyone tell you to do that?" he asked levelly.

  They looked up at him. Both seemed puzzled. One of them shook his head no.

  "I am an officer," Karl-Heinz said. "When I or any other officer talks to you, you say, 'Yes, Sir' or 'No, Sir.' You don't shake your head." They didn't like that.

  "I asked you a question," Karl-Heinz- said. "Did anyone tell you to load those magazines?" Obviously, to judge by the look on their faces, no one had.

  And, just as obviously, they were deciding how to deal with the problem that had so pissed off the Captain.

  Wagner was about to tell them to unload the magazines and not to charge them again until they were ordered to do so when one of the sergeants walked up behind one of them, put his boot in the center of his back, and shoved. The mercenary, a thin faced South African with bad teeth, was sent sprawling on his face and stomach.

  "You miserable sodding shit," the Sergeant said, raising his booted foot to the back of the other one. "You get to your sodding feet when an officer talks to you!" The second mercenary scurried out of the way of the Sergeant's boot on all
fours. The Sergeant ran after him, caught up with him, and applied his boot to his rear end. He went sprawling. Then he got to his feet and assumed what he believed to be the position of attention.

  The first mercenary saw what the other had done, got to his feet, and stood to attention. He was now facing the runway. The second mercenary was ten feet away, facing the line of hangars.

  The Sergeant went to the-first mercenary, grabbed him by the arm, and dragged him into line with the first.

  He put his hands on his hips and moved his face within inches of the first mercenary, then, spraying him with spittle, furiously announced, "The next sodding cartridge you load without being ordered, I will shove up your asshole!" Then he stepped neatly in front of the second mercenary and glowered at him.

  Karl-Heinz decided he would have a word with the Sergeant about kicking people, but this was not the time or place for it.

  "Sergeant," he said.

  The Sergeant turned and stamped his foot in the British manner.

  "Sir!"

  "At the first opportunity, have those two men collect whatever soiled underwear there is and rinse it out."

  "Sir!" Karl-Heinz turned and faced the others. "No one is to load any weapon without specific orders. I thought I had made that clear." And then he saw the jeep. It was an American jeep, and Lieutenant Geoffrey Craig, wearing a flight suit, was at the wheel.

  Geoff got out of the jeep and walked toward Karl-Heinz.

  There was neither a smile nor a sign of recognition on his face.

  Geoff saluted.

  "Captain, may I see you a moment, please?" Karl-Heinz returned the salute. "Carry on, Sergeant!"

  "Sir!" He followed Geoff to the rear of the airplane.

  "Ursula and the baby are in Stanleyville," Geoff said.

  "Ach, du Lieber Gott!"

  "So is Father Lunsford," Geoff said. "Father is now a captain in the Simbas."

  "What about them?" Karl-Heinz asked, even as he realized that if there were bad news-worse news than that Ursula and the baby were in Stanleyville-he would have already been told.

  "Father says they're all right," Gooff said. "The Simbas think they're Belgian, or at least not Americans."

  "What the hell are they doing in Stanleyville?"

  "Leopoldville was socked in," Geoff explained. "The UTA pilot decided to sit down in Stanleyville overnight. Hanni."

  Madame Portet?" Karl-Heinz nodded.

  "She wasn't going to spend the night in the Sabena guest house-"

  "What's that?"

  "Sort of a motel for stranded travelers," Geoff explained. "So she got off the airplane and went to the apartment Air Simba keeps downtown. The UTA pilot, the cocksucker, when he heard the Simbas were coming, took off without them."

  "And nothing has been done to get them out?"

  "You're it," Geoff said.

  "That's all?"

  "We wanted to go in with a couple of H-34s and the A-Teams, but they decided it was too risky."

  "Who decided that?" Karl-Heinz asked, coldly angry.

  "Felter made the call. But it was based on what Father Lunsford thought."

  "I feel sick to my stomach," Karl-Heinz confessed.

  "What they should have done was drop the 502nd in here," Geoff said.

  The 82nd Airborne Division, at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, of which the 502nd Parachute Regiment was part, was charged with being the first U. S. Army unit to move into action. One regiment was always on standby, combat-loaded. The Air Force kept sufficient transports on immediate standby at the adjacent Pope Air Force Base to fly a regiment anywhere in the world.

  "With what's happening in Vietnam," Karl-Heinz said, "it's probably a question of priorities. He may have to send the 82nd Airborne over there."

  "And maybe the sonofabitch doesn't want to do anything that might make him lose the election," Geoff said.

  Karl-Heinz shrugged. "What are you doing here?"

  "Mostly standing around with my finger up my ass," Geoff said. "We try to keep an eye on the Simbas. Once a day, at night, I fly over there and try to talk to Father."

  "How many people does he have with him?"

  "He ran everybody else out," Geoff said. "The Simbas kill each other, especially if they get a little suspicious. Father is the only one who really speaks Jungle Bunny."

  "They're here?" Karl-Heinz said.

  Geoff nodded. "Some of them."

  "Get to them, make sure nobody shows they know me," Karl Heinz said.

  "I'm way ahead of you. I was about to say the same thing to you. "

  "What do you mean?"

  "You guys are going to be the point when you head for Albertville," Geoff said. "You will be accompanied by units of the Arrnee Nationale Congolaise." Karl~Heinz nodded his understanding of that, but he was still confused.

  "If you see familiar black faces in the ranks of your support forces," Geoff said, "don't smile and say 'Hi, there, Sergeant Portky, long time no see, how's the wife and kids?"

  "Portley's here? He's going with us?"

  "Of course not. The participation of American personnel in any combat operation of the ANC is expressly forbidden."

  "I don't understand," Karl-Heinz said.

  At that moment an ANC corporal, a short, squat, very black man in battered, mostly unlaced boots, his web equipment hanging loosely over his mussed and sweat-soaked fatigues, came trotting across the airfield, carrying his FN assault rifle by the muzzle.

  He was smiling broadly. When he reached Karl-Heinz and Geoff, he stopped, came to an absurd approximation of the position of "attention," and loosing a quick torrent of Swahili, saluted in the British manner with his palm outward.

  Karl-Heinz returned the salute, a conditioned reflex reaction.

  "Mein Gott!" he said.

  "What do you say, Dutch?" the ANC Corporal said. "Long time no see."

  "I suppose you two think this is funny," Karl-Heinz said.

  "Funny?" Sergeant First Class Edward C. Portley said. "Why funny? I'm just doing what I'm told. I was over there sunning my ass when some Limey honky wearing major's pips points his finger at me and says, in really bad French, by the way, 'You, there, Corporal, go out to the airplane and tell the Captain I wish to see him.'" Geoff started to laugh, and it was contagious.

  The mercenaries under the wing of the Commando looked at them curiously.

  ( Four)

  Kamembe Airfield Republic of Rwanda 28 August 1964

  Enrico de la Santiago, wearing a gray cotton USOF tropical climate flight suit, put his wallet, his gold bracelet (because his name was engraved on it), and everything else that could identify him into a manila envelope and then walked to a table behind which sat two men in civilian clothing.

  "How about your watch?" one of the men asked.

  "I forgot," de la Santiago said and unsnapped it from his wrist. The stainless-steel back of the Rolex was engraved Enrico de la Santiago, con amor, Louise, 12/12/60.

  The man behind the table took it and put it into the manila envelope. Then he handed him a stainless-steel Omega chronometer. Enrico wound it several turns to start it and then pulled the stem out.

  "Seven oh eight," the man behind the desk said, and Enrico set the time and pushed the stem in.

  The second man went to de la Santiago and patted him down to make sure that there was not in any of the many zippered pockets of the flight suit a second wallet, or a photograph, or anything else that could identify him.

  De la Santiago felt humiliated. He understood the rules and the reasons behind them, but it was still too much like a criminal being searched.

  "Clean," the man, an American, said.

  Enrico walked to the next table, where a cardboard tray was pushed to him. The tray held a heavy, sealed manila envelope in which there was supposed to be a thousand dollars worth of gold Swiss francs and two thousand dollars in Belgian, French, and Swiss currency.

  De .la Santiago put the envelope in the lower left ankle pocket of the flight suit an
d closed the zipper. Then he took a Michelin road map-"Congo Belge 1 :20,OOO"-and put that in the lower right ankle pocket of the flight suit.

  Next, he picked up a Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum revolver, loaded it with the six cartridges lying in the cardboard tray, and slipped it into a shoulder holster. He was aware that he had become the obstruction in the pipeline. The other pilots, having given up all their personal property, were lining up behind him.