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    Special Ops
    Special Ops
    Special Ops
    Ebook1,055 pages17 hours

    Special Ops

    By W.E.B. Griffin

    3.5/5

    ()

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    About this ebook

    In this explosive novel by W.E.B. Griffin, immerse yourself in the action-packed world of Special Ops. This military thriller follows a team of skilled Special Forces warriors as they face off against the legendary Cuban revolutionary Che Guevara.

    Set in the 1960s, the story takes you to the heart of Washington, D.C., where political tensions are high and covert operations are in full swing. With gripping suspense and meticulous attention to detail, Griffin weaves a tale that will keep you on the edge of your seat.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPenguin Publishing Group
    Release dateJan 29, 2002
    ISBN9781440635243
    Special Ops
    Author

    W.E.B. Griffin

    W.E.B. Griffin is the author of six bestselling series—and now Clandestine Operations.   William E. Butterworth IV has worked closely with his father for more than a decade, and is the coauthor with him of many books, most recently Hazardous Duty and Top Secret.  

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    Reviews for Special Ops

    3.5/5

    73 ratings5 reviews

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    • 1/5
      I gave this book a chance, I really did, but I found it so bloody boring that I just gave up after 130 pages (which is a lot more than I'd usually give most books!).

      It's part of a series, apparently the last one, and in it US Special Forces serviceman Jack Portet has just finished helping Belgian paratroopers liberate his family from Stanleyville in the Congo and is being reunited with his fiance, Marjorie Bellmon. Why his family is in Stanleyville, I'm not sure if we're ever told. It's a big mystery to me. And Marjorie is the daughter of a general, which makes Jack being a sergeant a bit of a problem. However, the main plot of the book is supposed to be about the arrival of Che Guevara from Cuba in a hope of driving the fascist imperialists out and bring communism to the people of the Congo. Yep. This is taking place in 1964, btw.

      Aside from mistakes made in the book that other people have pointed out, like Kennedy Airport being named such in 1959 when it wasn't named that until 1963 and Visa cards mentioned in the late '50s when they didn't come into existence for another decade, I was quite simply just bored. I never knew that everyone in the military knew everyone else. General So and So? Oh yes, I know him. His daughter is my son-in-law's best friend's neighbor. General Such and Such? Know him too. We served together 30 years ago. Different units, but I've heard of him. Geez. So many dinner parties. So many wedding and honeymoon arrangements. So many vacation arrangements. Don't these people ever freakin' DO anything? Could they be any more boring? I know this has a good rating on Goodreads, so I know I'm in the minority, but I guess I just didn't get it. I don't see what's so great about this book. Maybe if I had labored through the whole thing, I would have ended with a different perspective, but I just couldn't do it. Not recommended.
    • 4/5
      Final book of the series, but not chronologically. Old and new characters chase Che' in the Congo; a strange mix of tactical operations combined with President Johnson's hands-on approach. I enjoyed the book and the series. Will try another Griffin series.
    • 3/5
      Characters in the series have always been very solid. This book I thought had a bit too much detail, and a lot less character. Not bad, but not my favorite.
    • 2/5
      "Special Ops" could easily have been the eighth book of the series and "The Aviators" could have been skipped altogether. In fact, Special Ops picks up almost immediately where "The New Breed" left off. Jack Portet had just finished helping the Belgian paratroopers liberate his family from Stanleyville in the Congo and was being reunited with Marjorie Bellmon. However, just because one crisis in the Congo was averted it doesn't mean everything had settled down. In fact new international intrigue is just about to start with the arrival of Che Guevara from Cuba in a hope to drive the fascist, imperialist, pigs out and bring communism to the people.

      Honestly this book isn't really about Guevara much either - except as a way to document his overall ineptitude at being a guerrilla leader. Instead, I think, it is more of an opportunity to introduce Argentina, of all places, to W.E.B. Griffin's fans - a locale he revisits in some of the books in his other series dealing with the O.S.S. and the German's in WW2. About 1/5 of this story takes place in Argentina presumably to show the US intelligence gathering techniques which are used to track Guevara. Overall this book didn't really have much of a purpose in relation to the initial "Brotherhood of War Series" and I found it a general letdown as a sequel to "The New Breed."

      The worst part of this book was the end of it. A huge portion of the story is told via memo's between the Special Forces detachment (17) in the Congo and Stanford Felter in Washington DC. It was as if even Griffin realized he didn't have a story to tell so he just gave up on it, went to the bank, and cashed his royalty check. Some people may appreciate the memorandum style but, for me, it was off-putting. Typically, in the series, when I saw the memo format I would just gloss over it. However, in this story you can't or you'll actually miss a large part of the story.

      In other words this couldn't have been a much worse book to finish the series with (though, "The Aviators" would have been an even worse final book - I'll discuss that in it's own review). I realize he left a few things hanging at the end of "The New Breed" but the series would have been better off had he just stopped there.
    • 2/5
      You can always tell when you have a bad book by the "Gee, when will this end?" feeling. This book is sort of like paint drying. An example might be he spends 2 pages 'discussing' how a character in the book doesn't have a sticker for her car, and goes about getting one.

      There is a saying when someone tells you something you don't really want to hear and that is "TMI - Too Much Information." Well I have coined a new one: "TMD - Too Much Detail."

      If it furthers the plot, or endures the reader to the character, or paints a more detailed background, fine, but detail for detail sake is wasting my time.

      I kept waiting, all 772 pages for something to happen. I knew (or sort of knew the ending) but Griffin waited until the last page to confirm it.

      It wasn't a suspense issue. It just felt like I weeded through the swamp to see road I knew was there all the time.

      My recommendation, is don't waste your time on this book. I have read two in the past month. Now I recall why I quite reading him years ago. Maybe I won't forget the next time.

    Book preview

    Special Ops - W.E.B. Griffin

    I

    [ ONE ]

    TOP SECRET

    THE JOINT CHIEFS OF STAFF WASHINGTON, D.C.

    Duplication Forbidden Copy 4 of Seven.

    For Distribution By Officer Courier Only

    8 November 1964

    Commanding General, United States Strike

    Command

    Commanding General, European Command

    Commanding General, United States Air

    Force, Europe

    Commanding General, Seventh United States

    Army

    1. By Direction of the President; by Command of His Royal Highness, the King of the Belgians; and at the request of the government of the Republic of the Congo, a Joint Belgian-American Operation, OPERATION DRAGON ROUGE, will take whatever military action is necessary to effect the rescue of American, Belgian and other European nationals currently being held hostage in Stanleyville, Republic of the Congo, by forces in rebellion against the legal and duly constituted government of the Republic of the Congo.

    2. By Direction of the President, Counselor to the President Sanford T. Felter (Colonel, General Staff Corps, USA) is designated Action Officer, and will be presumed, in connection to military matters, to be speaking with the authority of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

    3. OPERATION DRAGON ROUGE is assigned an AAAA-1 Priority with regard to the requisitioning of personnel, equipment, and other U.S. military assets.

    4. Addressees will on receipt of this directive immediately dispatch an officer in the grade of colonel or higher to the United States Embassy, Brussels, Belgium, where they will make themselves available to Colonel Felter or such officers as he may designate to represent him.

    FOR THE CHAIRMAN, THE JOINT CHIEFS OF STAFF:

    Forbes T. Willis

    FORBES T. WILLIS

    BRIGADIER GENERAL, USMC

    EXECUTIVE OFFICER, JCS

    TOP SECRET

    [ TWO ]

    Brussels, Belgium

    1320 11 November 1964

    Brigadier General Harris McCord, USAF, thought he had yet another proof, if one were needed, that life was full of little ironies. Sixteen hours before, he had been at the USMC Birthday Ball at the Hotel Continental in Paris, tripping the light fantastic with his wife. He had been wearing his mess dress uniform, complete with real medals rather than ribbons, and with more silver embellishments than a Christmas tree.

    Now that he was about to engage in what promised to be a really hairy exercise, he was wearing a somewhat baggy tweed jacket and well-worn flannel slacks. Just before he had left Paris, he had been told to wear civilian clothing. What he had on was all that had come back from the dry cleaners.

    There were five peers, most of whom he knew, at least by sight, all in civilian clothing in a none-too-fancy conference room in the U.S. Embassy, waiting for Colonel Sanford T. Felter and his staff. The whole damned continent had been socked in, and Felter’s plane had had to sit down in Scotland to wait for Brussels to clear to bare minimums.

    He had heard of Felter, but he had never seen him in person and he was not very impressed with him when he walked into the room. Felter was small and slight, and wearing a baggy gray suit. He looked like a stereotype of a middle-level bureaucrat.

    Sorry to keep you waiting, gentlemen, Felter said. He threw a heavy briefcase on the table, then took a key from his pocket and unlocked the padlock that had chained—more accurately, steel-cabled—it to his wrist.

    My name is McCord, Colonel, General McCord said, and went to Felter and offered his hand.

    I’m glad you were available, General, Felter said.

    As the others introduced themselves to Felter, McCord considered that. Felter knew who he was, and there was an implication that he had asked for him by name. That was flattering, unless you were rank-conscious, and thought that general officers should pick colonels, rather than the other way around.

    I think the best way to handle this, gentlemen, Felter began, "is to give you a quick recap of what’s going on in the Congo, specifically in Stanleyville, and then to tell you what we intend to try to do to set it right.

    "There are sixteen hundred people, Europeans, white people, held captive by Olenga’s Simbas in Stanleyville. A four-column relief force—in other words, four different columns—under the overall command of Colonel Frederick Van de Waele of the Belgian Army has been charged with suppressing the rebellion, which includes, of course, the recapture of Stanleyville.

    "There have been some successes, as you probably know from your own sources, but there is no way that Van de Waele can make it to Stanleyville before the end of the month. That poses two problems. The first is the rebels’ announced intention to kill the hostages, a threat we consider bona fide, before Van de Waele can get to them.

    "The second is that we have hard intelligence that since 20 October, at least two, and probably as many as four, unmarked Ilyushin-18 turboprop aircraft have been flying arms and ammunition into the Arau airbase in northern Uganda, from Algeria. Should they decide to do so, it would be easy for them to move the arms and ammunition to Olenga’s forces. The possibility of their doing so, it is believed, increases as Van de Waele’s mercenaries and ANC troops approach Stanleyville.

    "The President has decided, in consultation with the Belgian premier, Spaak, that the first priority is to keep those sixteen hundred people alive. The Belgians have made available the First Parachutist Battalion of their Paracommando Regiment. I’m familiar with it. The First Battalion was trained by the British Special Air Service people in World War II, and they pride themselves now on being just as good. The regiment is commanded by Colonel Charles Laurent, who is a fine officer, and who I suspect will lead the First Battalion himself.

    "They will be carried to Stanleyville in USAF C-130 aircraft. After the airfield is softened up with some B-26s, they will make a parachute landing and seize the airport. Part of the force will remain at the airport to make the airport ready to receive the C-130s, and the balance will enter Stanleyville, find the Europeans, and bring them to the airport. They will be loaded aboard the C-130s and then everybody leaves. No attempt will be made to hold Stanleyville. I don’t want any questions right now. I just wanted to give the rough idea.

    These gentlemen, Felter went on, turning to indicate the men he had brought with him, are Lieutenant Colonel Lowell, Captain Stacey, Lieutenant Foster, and Sergeant Portet. They’re Green Berets. Colonel Lowell is on the Strike staff, and wrote Dragon Rouge. Captain Stacey and the others have been practicing a somewhat smaller operation intended for Stanleyville, now called off. But they know the town, and rebel dispositions and the probable location of the Europeans, and I brought them along to share their expertise.

    The light colonel, Lowell, General McCord thought, looks like a bright guy, if not much like a Green Beret. Stacey looks like a typical young Green Beret captain, a hard charger, tough, mean, and lean. The black lieutenant, Foster, looks as if he could chew railroad spikes and spit tacks. The sergeant . . . there’s something wrong with him: His face is scratched and blotchy and swollen. He can hardly see out of his eyes. And whatever’s wrong with his face is also wrong with his hands.

    Colonel Lowell, Felter went on, as soon as we wind it up here, will be available to explain any questions you might have about the OPPLAN for Dragon Rouge. Stacey and Foster are going to go liaise with the Belgians.

    Felter looked at General McCord.

    I’m going to give Sergeant Portet, to you, General. He’s a former airlines pilot, with extensive experience in the Congo—including, of course, Kamina and Stanleyville—and equally important, because he was involved in getting the B-26-Ks to the Congo, he knows most, if not all, the Cubans who will be flying them.

    A former airlines pilot? McCord wondered. What’s he doing in the army as a sergeant? A Green Beret sergeant?

    Glad to have all the help I can get, McCord said.

    He had another thought: I wonder if the airlines pilot caught whatever is wrong with his face and hands in the Congo? I wonder if it’s contagious?

    Felter looked around the room. I have rough OPPLANs here. Study them overnight, and be prepared to offer fixes for what is wrong with the OPPLAN tomorrow morning. He paused, then went on. That will be all for now, gentlemen. Thank you. But keep yourselves available.

    Felter and three of the Green Berets started to leave the room. Lowell opened a well-stuffed briefcase. Felter caught the sergeant’s attention and nodded toward General McCord. The sergeant went to General McCord.

    Colonel Felter said I am to make myself useful, sir, he said.

    McCord resisted the temptation to offer his hand.

    "You’ve been into Stanleyville, Sergeant? Flown into Stanleyville? "

    Yes, sir.

    Purely as a matter of idle curiosity, I’ve looked at the Jepp charts, General McCord said. I know we can get 130s in there.

    Yes, sir, easily.

    But I should have looked closer, McCord said. How many will it take at once?

    Portet’s swollen face wrinkled in thought.

    No more than six at once, sir, he said. To be safe, I would say no more than five. There’s not much paved tarmac, and the unpaved areas won’t take the weight of a C-130.

    Colonel Felter said you were an airline pilot?

    The rest of the question went unspoken, but Sergeant Portet answered, smiling wryly.

    I got a postcard from my friends and neighbors at the draft board, General.

    Then, as if he was no longer able to resist an awful temptation, he put his hand up and scratched at the open blotches his face— with a hand that was similarly disfigured with suppurating sores.

    What’s wrong with your face, son? General McCord asked. And your hand?

    It’s nothing, sir. A little rash.

    A little rash, my ass, General McCord said. How long has it been that way?

    It started on the plane from the States, sir, Jack said. It’s some kind of an allergy, probably. Nothing to worry about.

    Where were you in the States? Bragg?

    Yes, sir.

    Come with me, Sergeant, McCord said.

    He had seen the military attaché’s office on the way to the conference room, and he led Jack there.

    There was a captain on duty, who glanced up and was not very impressed with what he saw. Two messy Americans in mussed clothing, one of them with what looked like a terminal case of scabies on his face.

    Yes? he asked.

    I’m General McCord, McCord said, which caused the captain to come to his feet and to stand to attention.

    Yes, sir.

    Would you be good enough to get me the commanding officer of the nearest U.S. military medical facility on the telephone, please?

    General, Jack said. I’ll be all right. I don’t want to get put in a hospital now.

    I expected as much from a Green Beret, McCord said. But I would be very surprised if they’ll let you get on the airplanes, much less jump on Stanleyville. It looks to me as if the whole purpose of the Belgians is to keep Americans out of it.

    My stepmother and stepsister are in Stanleyville, General. I’m going in.

    McCord looked at him. Before he could frame a reply, the captain handed him a telephone.

    Colonel Aspen, sir.

    Colonel, this is General McCord. This may sound a little odd, but I want you to dispatch, immediately, one of your best medical officers. I am in the U.S. Embassy, and I have a young sergeant with me who, if my diagnosis is correct, has been rolling around in poison oak. There was a pause. No, Colonel, he cannot come there. I don’t want to argue about this. I expect to see either you or one of your doctors here within twenty minutes.

    He hung the phone up, and turned to smile at Jack.

    They give you a shot, he said. It clears it up in a couple of hours. I had it in survival school in Utah a couple of years ago.

    Thank you very much, sir, Jack said.

    Don’t get your hopes up about anything else, Sergeant, General McCord said. I know they won’t let you jump on Stanleyville.

    Yes, sir, Jack said.

    So tell me what else I should know about the airport in Stanleyville, General McCord said.

    [ THREE ]

    Stanleyville, Republic of the Congo

    0600 25 November 1964

    As a tradition, the men of the First Battalion, the Paracommando Regiment, Royal Belgian Army, continued to use the English-language jump commands the battalion had learned in England in World War II.

    Outboard sticks, stand UP! the jumpmaster ordered.

    The two outside files of men inside the USAF C-130, called Chalk One in the OPPLAN, stood up and folded up their nylon and aluminum pole seats back against the fuselage wall.

    Inboard sticks, stand UP!

    The two inside files rose to their feet and folded their seats.

    Hook UP!

    Everybody fastened the hook at the end of their static line to a steel cable.

    Check static lines! Check equipment!

    Everybody tugged at his own static line, to make sure it was securely hooked to the cable, and then they checked the harness and other equipment of the man standing in front of them—that is to say, in the lines that now faced rear, and led to the exit doors on either side of the aircraft.

    Now the jumpmaster switched to French: Un minute! and then back to English: Stand in the door!

    Chalk One was down to 700 feet or so, and all dirtied up, flaps down, throttles retarded, close (at 125 mph) to stall speed.

    Go!

    Sergeant Jack Portet, wearing the uniform of a Belgian paratrooper, was the sixth man in the port-side stick. The Belgians had been sympathetic to someone who wanted to jump on Stanleyville because his mother and sister were there.

    And if he got into trouble with the U.S. Army, c’est la vie.

    Jack felt the slight tug of the static line almost immediately after exiting the aircraft, and a moment later, felt his main chute slithering out of the case. And then the canopy filled, and he had a sensation of being jerked upward.

    There was not enough time to orient himself beyond seeing the airfield beneath and slightly to the left of him, and to pick out the twelve-story, white Immoquateur apartment building downtown before the ground seemed to suddenly rush up at him.

    He knew where he was now. He landed on the tee of the third hole of the Stanleyville golf course. He landed on his feet, but when he started to pull on the lines, to dump a little air from the nearly emptied canopy, there was a sudden gust of air and the canopy filled and pulled him off his feet.

    He hit the quick release and was out of the harness a moment later. He rolled over and saw that the sky was full of chutes from Chalk Two and Chalk Three.

    And then there were peculiar whistling noises, and peculiar cracking noises, and after a moment Jack realized that he was under fire.

    And there didn’t seem to be anybody to shoot back at.

    And then, all of a sudden, there was: There were Simbas firing from, of all places, the control tower.

    He dropped to the ground, worked the action of the FN assault rifle, and took aim at the tower. As he lined his sights up, the tower disappeared in a cloud of dust. In a moment, he had the explanation. Two paratroopers had gotten their machine guns in action.

    Jack got to his feet and ran toward a trio of Belgian officers. When there was transportation, either something captured here, or the jeeps or the odd-looking three-wheelers on the C-130s that were supposed to land, the officers would get first crack at it. And he wanted to be there when it arrived. He had to get to the Immoquateur, and he needed wheels to do that.

    A sergeant drove up in a white pickup with a Mobil Oil Pegasus painted on its doors.

    One of the Belgian officers looked around and then pointed to Jack.

    "That one, l’Americain, knows the town. Put half a dozen men in the back, and make a reconnaissance by fire."

    And then he made his little joke.

    You better hope you get killed, he said to Jack. "When Le Grand Noir, [The Big Black, by which he meant, of course, Lieutenant Foster] was looking for you and couldn’t find you, he said if you jumped with us, he was going to pull your legs and arms off, one by one."

    Jack smiled and got on the running board of the Mobil Oil pickup, holding the FN in one hand.

    But he was suddenly very frightened. Not of fighting, or even of dying, but of what he was liable to find when he got to the Immoquateur.

    They first encountered resistance three hundred yards down the road, just past the Sabena Guest House. A Simba wrapped in an animal skin, with a pistol in one hand, a sword in the other, charged at them down the middle of the road. Behind him came three others, armed with FN assault rifles, firing them on full automatic.

    The pickup truck screeched to a halt. Jack went onto his belly, his rifle to his shoulder. As he found a target, baffled to see that the Simba’s weapon was firing straight up into the air, there was a short burst of 7-mm fire over his head. The Simba with the sword stopped in midstride and then crumpled to his knees. Before he fell over, a torrent of blood gushed from his mouth.

    The Simbas with him stopped and looked at the fallen man in absolute surprise. Then they stopped shooting and started to back up. There was another burst of the fire from the pickup, this time from several weapons. Two of the three Simbas fell down, one of them backward. The remaining Simba, the one in Jack’s sights, dropped his rifle and ran away with great loping strides. There was another burst of fire from the truck, no more than four rounds from a paratrooper’s assault rifle. The Simba took two more steps, then fell on his face to the left.

    Jack scrambled to his knees and turned to look for the truck. It was already moving. He jumped onto the running board as it came past, almost losing his balance as the driver swerved, unsuccessfully, to avoid running over the Simba who had led the charge with a sword.

    There was a furious horn bleating behind them, and the pickup pulled off the shoulder of the road. A jeep raced past them, the gunner of the pedestal-mounted .30-caliber Browning machine gun firing it, in short bursts, at targets Jack could not see.

    The pickup swerved back onto the paved surface, almost throwing Jack off.

    There was the sound of a great many weapons being fired, but none of the fire seemed directed at them. They reached the first houses. There were more Simbas in sight now, but none of them were attacking. They were in the alleys between the houses, and in the streets behind them.

    The jeep that had raced past them was no longer in sight, but Jack could still hear the peculiar sound of the Browning firing in short bursts.

    The Mobil Oil pickup truck came to an intersection and stopped. Jack looked at the driver.

    You’re supposed to be the fucking expert, the driver said to him. Where do we go?

    Right, Jack ordered, without really thinking about it. The Immoquateur was to the right.

    The pickup jerked into motion.

    Fifty yards down the road, they came across the first Europeans. Three of them, mother, father, and a twelve- or thirteen-year -old boy, sprawled dead in pools of blood in the road, obviously shot as they had tried to run.

    Jack felt nausea rise in his throat, but managed to hold it down.

    Ahead, over the roofs of the pleasant, pastel-painted villas, he saw the white bulk of the Immoquateur.

    Then there was fire directed at them.

    The pickup screeched to a stop in the middle of the street. Jack felt himself going, tried valiantly to stop himself, and then, bouncing off the fender, fell onto the pavement, on his face.

    He felt his eyes water, and then they lost focus.

    Jesus Christ! I’ve been shot!

    He shook his head, then put his hand to his face. There was something warm on it.

    Blood! I’ve been shot in the face!

    He sat up. Someone rushed up to him. Indistinctly, he made out one of the paratroopers leaning over him, felt his fingers on his face.

    And then the sonofabitch laughed.

    You’re all right, he said. All you’ve got is a bloody nose.

    He slapped Jack on the back and ran ahead of him.

    Jack’s eyes came back into focus. He looked at his lap and saw blood dripping into it.

    He looked around and saw his assault rifle on the street, six feet from where he was sitting. He scurried on his knees to it, picked it up, fired a burst in the air to make sure it was still functioning, and then looked around again, this time at the Immoquateur. There were bodies on the lawn between the street and the shops on the ground floor. Simba and European. He got to his feet and ran toward the Immoquateur.

    Jack recognized one of the more than a dozen bodies on the lawn before the Immoquateur. It was the Stanleyville station manager of the Congo River Steamship Company. He had met him when they had shipped in a truck. He had been shot in the neck, probably, from the size of the wound, with a shotgun. The stout, gray-haired woman lying beside him, an inch-wide hole in her forehead, was almost certainly his wife.

    Jack ran into the building itself. There were two dead Simbas in the narrow elevator corridor. One of them had most of his head blown away. The other, shot as he came out of the elevator, had taken a burst in the chest. It had literally blown a hole through his body. Parts of his ribs, or his spine, some kind of bone, were sticking at awkward angles out his back.

    He was lying in the open elevator door. The door of the elevator tried to close on his body, encountered it, reopened, and then tried to close again.

    Jack laid his FN assault rifle against the wall, put his hands on the dead man’s neck, and dragged him free. The elevator door closed, a melodious chime bonged, and the elevator started up.

    Shit!

    Jack went to the call button for the other elevator and pushed it. It did not illuminate. He ran farther down the corridor and pushed the service elevator call button. It lit up, but there was no sound of elevator machinery. He went back to wait for the first elevator.

    One of the Belgian paratroopers from the pickup truck came into the corridor, in a crouch, his rifle ready.

    The sergeant said you are to come back to the truck, he said.

    Fuck him, my mother’s upstairs, Jack said.

    The Belgian paratrooper ran back out of the building. The elevator indicator showed that it was on the ninth floor. Then it started to come down.

    The Belgian paratrooper came running back into the building. Jack wondered if he was going to give him any trouble.

    I got a radio, the Belgian said. They are leaving us.

    Jack felt something warm on his hand, looked down and saw blood.

    The elevator mechanism chimed pleasantly, and the door opened. Jack stepped over the dead Simba. The Belgian paratrooper followed him inside and crossed himself as Jack pushed the floor button.

    The door closed and the elevator started to rise.

    It stopped at the fourth floor.

    A Simba in parts of a Belgian officer’s uniform did not have time to raise his pistol before a burst from Jack’s assault rifle smashed into his midsection.

    The noise in the closed confines of the elevator was painful and dazzling. Jack’s ears rang to the point where he knew he would not be able to hear anything but the loudest of sounds for a long time. The paratrooper with Jack jumped, in a crouch, into the corridor and let loose a burst down the corridor. It was empty.

    The Simba he had shot had backed into the corridor wall and then slid to the floor, leaving a foot-wide track of blood down the wall. Jack thought he saw life leave the Simba’s eyes.

    He took the Simba’s pistol, a World War II-era German Luger, from his hand, stuffed it into the chest pocket of his tunic, and then backed into the elevator. The paratrooper backed into it after him. The chime sounded melodiously again, the doors closed, and the elevator started up again.

    When the door opened, they were on the tenth floor. There was no one there.

    Neither Jack nor the paratrooper moved.

    The chime sounded again, and the door closed.

    Jack reached out with the muzzle of his FN and rapped the rubber edge of the door. The door started to open again.

    Jack, copying what the paratrooper had done on the fourth floor, jumped, in a crouch, into the corridor. But the corridor was empty.

    Jack ran to the door of the Air Simba apartment. It was battered, as if someone had tried to batter his way in, and there were bullet holes in it. He put his hand on the doorknob. The door was locked.

    He banged on it with his fist.

    Hanni! he shouted. "Hanni, c’est moi! C’est Jacques!"

    There was no answer.

    He raised the butt of the FN and smashed at the door in the area of the knob. The butt snapped off behind the trigger assembly.

    He felt tears well up in his eyes. He pulled the trigger to see if it would still work, and there was another painful roar of sound, and a cloud of cement dust as the bullets struck the ceiling.

    He raised his boot and kicked at the door beside the knob with all his might. There was a splintering sound, and the lock mechanism tore free.

    Jack kicked it again, and it flew open. The Belgian paratrooper, in his now-familiar crouching stance, rushed into the apartment.

    There was not the expected burst of fire.

    Jack ran into the room.

    Hanni was standing in front of the bedroom door, white-faced.

    Bonjour, madame, the Belgian paratrooper said.

    Hanni saw Jack.

    Oh, my God! It is you! I thought I was losing my mind!

    Hanni! Jack croaked.

    The bedroom door opened. Jeanine appeared.

    Jacques! she screamed.

    And there was somebody with her. Black. Wearing an animal skin.

    Don’t shoot! Hanni screamed. He’s a friend!

    Jacques, don’t! Jeanine said when Jack trained what was left of the FN at him.

    Who the hell is he?

    Captain George Washington Lunsford, the man in the animal skin said, United States Army, at your service, sir.

    He walked into the room with his hands above his shoulders.

    Jacques, for God’s sake, Hanni said, he saved our lives. Put the gun down.

    Jack saw Ursula Craig holding her baby in her arms in the bedroom. Beside her, a large knife in each hand, was an enormous, very black woman.

    Mon Dieu, the black woman said. C’est Jacques!

    Jack went to the bedroom. Mary Magdalene dropped the knives and enveloped him in massive black arms. As her huge body heaved with sobs and tears ran down her cheeks, she repeated over and over, Mon petit Jacques, mon petit Jacques.

    I hate to break that up, Lunsford said, but there are savages all over the building, and I’d feel a lot more comfortable if I had my rifle.

    Jack freed himself.

    You okay, Ursula?

    I am now, she said.

    Jack turned to Lunsford.

    Captain, I heard there were Green Beanies here, but I didn’t expect to find one dressed like that.

    He knew what the Simbas would do once they saw the paratroopers, Hanni said. He came to protect us.

    I was undercover. If I go get my rifle, Lunsford said, nodding at the Belgian paratrooper, does he know what’s going on, or . . .

    Je suis à votre service, mon capitain, the Belgian paratrooper said, coming to attention, and then added, almost as if he was embarrassed, I speak good the English.

    Lunsford went into the bedroom and came back with his rifle.

    That radio work? he asked.

    Oui, mon capitain, the Belgian said.

    Then you get on it, and tell somebody important where we are, and to come fetch us, Lunsford ordered.

    Oui, mon capitain, the Belgian paratrooper said.

    You close the door, Lunsford ordered Jack. We’ll put the ladies back in the bedroom until the cavalry gets here.

    Yes, sir, Jack said.

    [ FOUR ]

    Quarters #1

    Fort Myer, Virginia

    0605 25 November 1964

    The door to Quarters #1 was opened by one of the chief’s orderlies, a pleasant-looking young man wearing a crisp white jacket.

    Good morning, General. The general is expecting you, sir. The general is in the kitchen, sir. Straight ahead to the rear of the house.

    The chief of staff of the United States Army was wearing a white apron, in the act of slicing a steak from a baked ham with all the precision of a surgeon.

    He looked up when he saw Bellmon, and smiled.

    Just a couple of us for breakfast, Bob, he said. There’s coffee. Help yourself.

    He pointed to the coffeemaker on a countertop.

    Thank you, sir, Bellmon said.

    Bellmon, a stocky, ruddy-faced forty-six-year-old, had been surprised, and just a little worried, when his aide-de-camp, Captain Richard Hornsby, the previous afternoon had told him that the aide-de-camp of the chief of staff of the United States Army had told him that it was the desire of the chief that General Bellmon present himself at Quarters #1 at 0600 for breakfast.

    Bellmon knew the chief of staff—both were from Army families, both were West Pointers, and both of their fathers had also worn the stars of general officers—but this was Washington, the Pentagon, and there were a large number of major generals around, very few of whom were ever invited to take breakfast with the chief of staff at his quarters.

    Bellmon, who commanded the Army Aviation Center at Fort Rucker, Alabama, had flown to Washington early the previous morning to confer with the deputy chief of staff for operations (known as Dee Cee Ess Ops.). DCSOPS was a three-star, and also a West Pointer, the son of a general officer, and an old acquaintance, but he had not invited Bellmon to his quarters.

    I wonder what the hell that’s all about? Bellmon had asked, not expecting an answer. Okay, call Rucker, and tell them we’ll be back as soon as we can tomorrow.

    He had things to do at Rucker, but it had never entered his mind to decline the invitation.

    There’s something about ham and eggs, the chief of staff said. I don’t know what the hell it is, but if you take a slice of baked ham, fry it a little in ham fat, and then fry eggs in the same fat and the same pan . . .

    Yes, sir, General Bellmon said.

    The chief carefully sliced another ham steak from the baked ham and laid it on a plate beside the first.

    Bellmon poured a cup of coffee for himself, and was idly stirring it when another man entered the kitchen. Without thinking about it, Bellmon came almost to attention. The senior uniformed member of the Armed Forces of the United States had just walked into the kitchen.

    Good morning, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff said.

    Jesus, Bellmon thought, did the Chairman forget to shave, or has he been up all night?

    You two know each other, right? the chief said.

    We’ve met, the Chairman said, putting out his hand. Good to see you again, Bellmon.

    Good morning, Admiral, Bellmon said.

    I can use some of that, the Chairman said, indicating Bellmon’s mug of coffee, although God knows I’ve used up my month’s allocation of caffeine in the last eight hours.

    The Chairman took a sip and then raised the mug to Bellmon.

    Thank you, he said. He met Bellmon’s eyes. I spent the night with the President, he said. Would you be surprised, Bellmon, to hear that at midnight, Washington time, a battalion of Belgian paratroops was dropped by USAF C-130s on Stanleyville?

    How did it go? the chief asked as he put ham fat in a large cast-iron frying pan.

    The Simbas made good on their promise to start executing the Europeans the moment they saw a parachute, the Chairman said. But the Belgian paras lived up to their reputation: They took the city in less than two hours, and the Europeans that are left are already either in Léopoldville, or on their way.

    He looked at Bellmon again.

    You don’t seem overwhelmed by surprise, General, he said.

    I expected that some action would be taken, sir.

    You’re telling me you never heard of Operation Dragon Rouge, is that it?

    No, sir. I’ve heard of it.

    Your name is not on the list of those cleared for Top Secret-Dragon Rouge, the Chairman said. Who brought you into the picture, your friend Colonel Sanford T. Felter?

    No, sir.

    Do you think that Colonel Felter would be surprised if he heard that you heard about Dragon Rouge?

    No, sir, I don’t think he would be.

    May I infer that the Colonel arranged for you to be brought in on Dragon Rouge?

    Hey, Charley, the chief said. You promised this was supposed to be friendly.

    So I did. I apologize to both of you.

    How do you like your eggs, Charley? the chief asked. Your choices are up, over, or scrambled.

    Up, but no slime, please, the Chairman said.

    The chief took two fried eggs from the cast-iron flying pan and laid them atop a ham steak and handed the plate to the Chairman.

    Bob? the chief asked.

    Inasmuch as I suspect my ass is in a crack, I don’t really want any eggs, thank you very much. But I can’t say that, can I?

    Up is fine with me, General, he said.

    The chief, a moment later, laid two more eggs on a ham slice and handed it to Bellmon, who, seeing no other possible action on his part, sat down at the kitchen table beside the Chairman.

    This isn’t half bad, Bob, the Chairman said.

    Not bad, my ass, the chief said as he splashed ham fat on eggs in the pan. This is one of God’s Good Meals.

    The Chairman looked at General Bellmon.

    So tell me, Bellmon, out of school, of course, who told you about Dragon Rouge?

    When Bellmon did not immediately reply, the chief called, You can trust him, Bob. For a sailor, you can really trust him pretty far.

    The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff gave the chief of staff of the U.S. Army the finger.

    I was always taught, Admiral, Bellmon said, that a good officer protects juniors.

    A lieutenant colonel, in other words, with a big mouth? the Chairman said, not seeming either surprised or angry. It is hard to keep a secret, isn’t it?

    The chief sat down beside them.

    Actually, sir, it was my daughter’s boyfriend, Bellmon said.

    A lieutenant, then? Maybe a captain? the chief said.

    Actually, sir, he’s a sergeant, Bellmon said.

    A sergeant? the chief parroted incredulously.

    A sergeant, Bellmon repeated. I should have shut him up, but I didn’t. He simply presumed that as a general officer, I knew all about it. I didn’t, but I was curious, and let him talk.

    Marjorie’s boyfriend is a sergeant? the chief asked. And how does that go with Barbara?

    He’s a very fine young man, Bellmon said testily. Barbara likes him, I like him. Before he was drafted, he was an airline pilot.

    A sergeant who knew about Dragon Rouge because he was involved in it, right? Does this sergeant work for Colonel Felter, by any chance?

    Yes, sir, he does.

    Tell me about him, the Chairman said.

    His name is Jacques Portet, and—

    I meant Colonel Felter, the Chairman interrupted. I understand you’re acquainted with him.

    Colonel Felter is a friend of mine, sir.

    Some people define ‘friend’ as anyone they call by his first name. I define a friend as someone you’d go to the mat for, and vice versa. Which is it with you and Colonel Felter?

    Colonel Felter is a close personal friend, sir.

    Then you know what he does for a living?

    I know he works for the President, sir. I think his job title is ‘Counselor to the President.’

    He’s President Johnson’s personal spook, the Chairman said. As he was for Kennedy, and before that, for Eisenhower. He paused, and looked directly at Bellmon. He has been described as ‘one ruthless sonofabitch who runs over anybody who gets in his way.’

    Sir, Bellmon said coldly, I would not categorize Colonel Felter as either ruthless or a sonofabitch.

    Then you’re out of sync with the Commander-in-Chief, General. The President used—sometime around oh three hundred this morning, and admiringly, I thought—precisely those words.

    The Chairman chuckled, then went on: How’d you get involved with someone like Felter, General?

    I’m not sure what the admiral means by ‘involved,’ sir, Bellmon said.

    Well, for example, where did you first meet him?

    Bellmon paused thoughtfully, then shrugged.

    At 1330, 8 April 1945, he said. Outside a stable, in Zwenkau, Saxony, in what is now East Germany.

    Both the Chairman and the chief looked at him curiously.

    You tend to remember precisely where and when you’re liberated, Bellmon said. Maybe especially if, sixty seconds before, you were convinced you were on your way to Siberia.

    I’m not tracking you, General, the Chairman said.

    I was captured in North Africa, Admiral, Bellmon said. On 17 February 1943. I was a POW for two years, one month, and eighteen days, most of it in Stalag XVII-B, near Szczecin—Stettin—Poland. As the Russians advanced through Poland, the camp commandant was ordered to move us westward, toward Berlin. We didn’t make it. We were overrun by the Russians—

    Lucky for you, the Chairman interrupted.

    No, sir, Bellmon said. Our Russian allies almost immediately made it clear they had no intention of turning us loose. Quite the contrary, we were informed that transportation was being arranged to take us to ‘safety’ in the Soviet Union.

    I’ve heard the stories, but—

    I’m afraid they’re all true, Admiral. In some cases, we have no idea why, they held on to our men. In this case, there’s good reason to believe that they were trying to shove their murder of Polish officers in the Katyn Forest under the rug. Russian intelligence officers asked each of us if we had any knowledge of American officers being taken from Stalag XVII-B by German officers to visit the Katyn Forest.

    And had there been?

    "Yes, sir, there had. I had. I was taken to the Katyn Forest by a German officer who had been a friend of my father’s. He wanted to make sure, when the war was over, that the Germans weren’t held responsible for that particular atrocity."

    You were at Katyn? the chief asked, surprised.

    Yes, sir. I was there. None of my officers, my fellow POWs, told the Russians I’d not only been taken from the Stalag but had in my possession photographs and other material which implicated the Russians in the murder of five thousand Polish officers, including two hundred and fifty cadets, none of them older than fifteen.

    Christ, you hear these stories, but . . .

    Well, there I was, Bellmon went on, as if eager to relate the story, at 1330, 8 April 1945, in a stone stable in Zwenkau—in the dark; the Russians had closed all the doors, and there were no windows—with two hundred thirty-eight other American officers, all prisoners of the Russians, with what I had seen at Katyn running through my mind, when I thought I was losing my mind. . . .

    I can understand that, the Chairman said.

    First I heard a trumpet, Bellmon went on. Playing ‘When the Saints Come Marching In’—and then the enormous door of the stable came crashing down, and a half-track with a multiple .50-caliber machine-gun mount backed into the barn, and I thought the decision had been made to eliminate us all. Then I saw who the gunner was. He was about six feet three, weighed a good 250 pounds, and was as black as the ace of spades. And standing beside him was another enormous black trooper, blowing ‘The Saints’ on his trumpet.

    Elements of Colonel Philip Sheridan Parker’s 393rd tank destroyer regiment, the chief said. I’d heard that story, of course, Bob. But I had no idea until just now you were one of those he liberated.

    Bellmon nodded.

    The half-track moved out of the barn, he went on, and I staggered outside into the sunlight. My eyes grew accustomed to the light, and I saw another half-dozen tracks, and a sea of black faces, and in the middle of them, standing next to Colonel Parker, carrying a Thompson submachine gun, one skinny little white first lieutenant, who stood about five feet five.

    He paused and looked at the Chairman.

    That was the first time I ever saw Sandy Felter, Admiral.

    What was he doing there? the Chairman asked softly.

    He was a POW interrogator, and he’d found out about us. He’d taken the information to his division commander, General Waterford, together with a plan to send a flying column in to get us. General Waterford thought it would smack of favoritism—

    What? the Chairman asked.

    Charley, the chief said, General Waterford was Bob’s father-in-law.

    The Chairman’s eyebrows rose, but he said nothing.

    And—my father-in-law—nixed Felter’s plan, Bellmon went on. So Felter took it to Colonel Parker, who put it into execution, which almost certainly cost him the star—or stars—to which he was so certainly entitled.

    He met the Chairman’s eyes.

    Colonel Felter, Admiral, has been my friend since that time.

    Let me tell you, General, what this is all about, the Chairman said. When Colonel Felter was named action officer for Dragon Rouge, I was curious about him. That’s not the sort of responsibility normally given to a colonel. So I told my aide to get me his records. And then I forgot about it, since we were all up to our asses in alligators. But then, the day before yesterday, when Dragon Rouge was put in execution, I remembered about the records, and asked my aide about them.

    Yes, sir?

    Ordinarily, the Chairman went on, when an officer is detailed to the CIA, or another intelligence agency, his records are maintained there, and available to people on a need-to-know basis. Colonel Felter’s records are maintained in the White House. When my aide asked for them, he was told he didn’t have the need-to-know. When he explained that he was asking for me, he was told that my need-to-know would have to be approved by the President. Under the circumstances, I didn’t pursue the issue.

    But you’re the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Bellmon blurted.

    Yes, the Chairman said. Anyway, I mentioned this to Bob, here, and he told me he thought you and Felter were friends. So I thought I could get a picture of him from you, out of school, without having to go to the President to ask for a look at his records.

    I understand, sir. But there’s not much I can tell you.

    You said you’ve been friends for years, the Chairman countered. How did he wind up as counsel to Presidents?

    I have an idea, sir, but it’s a rather long story.

    We have all the time we need. They know where to find me if they need me, the Chairman said. Start at the beginning, please.

    [FIVE]

    Office of the Deputy Director

    The Central Intelligence Agency

    Langley, Virginia

    26 November 1964

    Come on in, Howard, the deputy director said to Howard W. O’Connor, the assistant director for administration of the Central Intelligence Agency. What have you got?

    The deputy director was a slight man in his early fifties who wore his still-blond hair very short. O’Connor was a stocky, ruddy-faced man with a full mane of white curly hair.

    O’Connor waved a long sheet of teletypewriter paper.

    The manifest of the Americans rescued from Stanleyville, being flown via Frankfurt to the States, he said. It just came in from Léopoldville.

    Something, someone, on it is interesting?

    A woman named Hanni Portet and her daughter, Jeanine, O’Connor said. Mrs. Portet is a German national, married to a chap named Jean-Phillipe Portet. He’s an American—he was Belgian, but served in our Army Air Corps in World War II and got his citizenship that way. The little girl—she’s eleven—got her citizenship via the father. There is also a son, Jacques, also an American citizen whom the long arm of the draft caught in Léopoldville, and when last heard of was at Camp Polk, Louisiana, taking basic training.

    Why are the Portets of interest?

    We’ve been looking around for someone to bankroll in setting up Air America II, O’Connor said.

    Don’t call it that, Howard. Air America is a painful subject. No one was supposed to know of our interest in it. We need an airline that doesn’t have parenthesis CIA close parenthesis painted on the tail of its airplanes.

    There have been several suggestions, O’Connor said. The one I like best is ‘Intercontinental Air Cargo.’ We can set it up in Miami; there’s half a hundred one- and two-airplane ‘airlines’ operating out of Miami.

    What about just ‘Intercontinental Air’?

    There is already an Intercontinental Air, O’Connor said. That was one of the reasons I like ‘Intercontinental Air Cargo.’ We can even hide behind their logo and color scheme.

    Why don’t we just buy into Intercontinental Air?

    The people that own it aren’t interested in partners, O’Con-nor said. They’re willing to sell, but we need somebody to buy it who can’t be tied to us.

    This guy Portet?

    Yeah. Right now he’s chief pilot for Air Congo, but he also has his own two-bit airline, Air Simba, flying mostly World War II Boeing C-46s around Southern Africa.

    You think he’d be interested?

    Things are not good in the Congo, O’Connor said. And they’re unlikely to get better, whether or not Che Guevara goes over there and starts causing trouble.

    That’s not funny, Howard, the deputy director said. We told the President that’s not going to happen.

    I think Portet would be very interested, O’Connor said. I wanted your permission to approach him.

    You want to go over there?

    No. He’s coming here with his family. I want J. Richard Leonard of the Gresham Investment Corporation to approach him.

    Do it. Do you know when and where he’s going to be in the United States?

    We’re the CIA, Paul. We can find out.

    Do it, and let me know what happens, the deputy director said.

    [SIX]

    Office of the Commanding General

    Pope Air Force Base, North Carolina

    1520 1 December 1964

    Brigadier General Matthew Hollostone, USAF, the forty-two-year -old general officer commanding Pope AF Base, was at his desk reading with fascination a rather detailed report by the Fort Bragg provost marshal.

    On the one hand, it was encouraging to be reassured that the fighting spirit was as present in this generation of junior officers as it had been in his, when he had been a twenty-two-year-old captain. The detailed list the provost marshal furnished of the damage done to a Fayetteville night spot when a local beauty had aroused the mating instinct simultaneously in one of Pope’s pilots and one of Bragg’s parachutists was clear proof of that.

    On the other hand, there was no question that the behavior chronicled by the provost marshal was conduct unbecoming officers and gentlemen, and he would have to come to some understanding with the commanding general of Fort Bragg vis-à-vis a suitable punishment for both miscreants.

    Sitting on the credenza behind General Hollostone’s desk was a small Air Force blue box containing a speaker. It brought to General Hollostone the radio traffic of the Pope control tower. It was on all the time, but very rarely did anything being said come to General Hollostone’s conscious attention.

    He was a command pilot with more than five thousand hours in the air, and over the years had learned to listen subconsciously to radio traffic. In other words, he heard only those things that had an effect on him. It was not an uncommon characteristic, or ability, of pilots, but the only other people he had ever seen do something similar were experienced radio telegraph operators, who could carry on a conversation with one part of their brain while transcribing the dots and dashes of Morse code at forty words a minute.

    What the speaker transmitted now—

    Pope, Air Force Three Eleven, a Learjet, at flight level two five thousand sixty miles north of your station. Estimate ten minutes. Approach and landing, please.

    —caused him to stop thinking about suitable punishments for the battling junior officers and consciously await the reply of the Pope control tower operator.

    There were very few Learjets in the U.S. Air Force, and as far as General Hollostone knew, all but two of the small, fast little airplanes were assigned to the special missions squadron in Washington. The other two were assigned to the four-star generals commanding the U.S. Air Force, Pacific, and the U.S. Air Force, Europe.

    It was illogical to think that the commanding generals of the Air Force in the Pacific or Europe were about to drop in unannounced at Pope Air Force Base, but that left open the logical probability that the Learjet was carrying someone of the upper echelon of the military establishment, ranging downward from the Secretary of Defense to a lowly lieutenant general representing a four-star general.

    No one with fewer than three stars would be aboard the Learjet. Riding in a Learjet was a symbol of power.

    Hollostone waited until the Pope tower had told Air Force Three Eleven how to get on the ground at Pope, then stood up. He walked into his outer office, which was occupied by his secretary, his sergeant major, and his aide-de-camp.

    Steve, General Hollostone ordered, get on the horn and tell Bragg there’s a Learjet nine minutes out, and we don’t know who is aboard.

    Yes, sir, the sergeant major said, and reached for the telephone. He understood that Bragg meant the Office of the Commanding General XVIII Airborne Corps and Fort Bragg, who would also be interested to hear that a Learjet was about to touch down at Pope.

    You and I will just be walking out of Base Ops when the mysterious stranger arrives, General Hollostone said to his aide-de-camp. Make sure the car is available.

    Yes, sir, the aide-de-camp said.

    Seven and a half minutes later, General Hollostone marched through the door of Base Operations onto the tarmac in front of it. He looked first skyward, and picked out a tiny shining object that had to be the Learjet.

    Then he looked around him, to see if there was anything in front of Base Ops that shouldn’t be there.

    There was.

    There was a soldier—a soldier, not an airman—in fatigue uniform, green beret, and parachutist’s jump boots leaning against the concrete blocks of the Base Ops building.

    And he didn’t even come to attention when he saw a general officer. That’s unusual. Usually the Army—especially the paratroops at Bragg—carries that sort of thing too far.

    Then General Hollostone understood why the Green Beret in fatigues hadn’t popped to attention when he saw a general officer. He was not required to do so, because he was senior by three months to Brigadier General Hollostone.

    Salutes were exchanged.

    It’s cold out here, Red, General Hollostone said. Why didn’t you go inside?

    Inside Base Ops was a VIP lounge for colonels and up.

    I didn’t want to get your carpet muddy, Brigadier General Paul Red Hanrahan, the slight, wiry forty-three-year-old who was commandant of the Special Warfare School at Fort Bragg, said as they shook hands.

    What brings you here? Hollostone asked.

    Hanrahan pointed skyward.

    The tiny shining object had grown into a recognizable Learjet making its approach to Pope AF Base.

    Anyone I know aboard? Hollostone asked.

    I don’t think so, Matt, Hanrahan said, chuckling. Several of my people.

    Nobody important, in other words?

    Probably not to you, Matt, Hanrahan replied. There was reproof, perhaps even contempt, in his voice.

    I didn’t mean that the way it sounded, Red, Hollostone said.

    Good, Hanrahan replied.

    Anything you need, Red? Anything I can do for you?

    No. But thanks anyway, Matt.

    Come see us, General Hollostone said.

    You, too, General Hanrahan said.

    Salutes were exchanged, and then General Hollostone marched back inside the Base Ops building trailed by his aide-de -camp.

    He returned to his office and got there in time to see—through the mostly closed venetian blinds of his window—the Learjet taxi up to the tarmac in front of Base Ops and stop.

    The fuselage door opened and two people got out. One of them was a skinny black man in a white linen suit that looked five sizes too big for him. The other man was white, and wearing a strange, none-too-clean parachutist’s uniform. After a moment, General Hollostone recognized it to be that of the Belgian Paracommando Regiment. The Belgian paratrooper had a bandaged nose.

    The door of the Learjet closed and the plane immediately began to taxi off. General Hanrahan made a signal with his hand, and a Chevrolet staff car appeared around the corner of the Base Ops building.

    It was not flying the checked flag required of all vehicles driving on the flight line.

    It’s a clear violation of safety regulations. And that goddamned Hanrahan, who knows better, should have his ass burned.

    But if I personally report him, he will think I’m chickenshit. And who do I report him to? He’s not under the command of the commanding general of Fort Bragg. He gets his orders directly from the chief of staff of the Army.

    I am not about to call the chief of staff of the U.S. Army and announce that I am an Air Force brigadier onto whose tarmac Red goddamn Hanrahan drove his staff car without flying a checkered flag.

    And who was the black guy in the white suit? Probably the same Congolese, with something to do with Operation Dragon Rouge.

    It has to be something like that.

    The black guy in the white suit meets the chief of staff of the Army at a cocktail party, says he’d like to see Green Beret training, and the chief says, My pleasure, Mr. Prime Minister/Your Excellency/Mr. Secretary./Whatever the hell. I will call the Special Missions Squadron of the Air Force and see if they won’t give you a Learjet to fly you down there.

    It has to be something like that. You don’t get to ride in a Learjet unless you are unquestionably a VIP. Or a four-star.

    Brigadier General Hanrahan turned from the front passenger seat of the Chevrolet staff car to the black gentleman in the far-too -large-for-him white suit.

    Father, he said. You look like death warmed over.

    "Flattery will get you everywhere, mon général," Captain George Washington Lunsford said. Only close friends and commanding generals got to call him by his nickname, a shorthand for Father of His Country, derived from the obvious source.

    Have you been drinking, Father? Hanrahan asked.

    "I cannot, mon général, in the noble tradition of my namesake, tell a lie. Yes, I have. And, if this could be arranged, I would be ever so grateful for a little belt right now."

    Not right now, I don’t think, Captain Lunsford, Hanrahan said. I think what you need right now is a cup of black coffee.

    In the interests of good military order and discipline, General Hanrahan decided it would be far better if, when the word got around that Father Lunsford had returned alive from a really hairy assignment, it was not gleefully bandied about that he had returned in a white suit that didn’t fit, and as drunk as an owl.

    He touched his driver, a nice-looking young Green Beret sergeant, on his sleeve.

    You better take us to the house, Tony.

    Yes, sir.

    First things first, General Hanrahan said as he walked into the sun porch of Quarters 107, a two-story brick home that had been built in 1938 as quarters suitable for a captain. Your coffee, Captain Lunsford.

    Lunsford, who was slumped in a wicker armchair, reached for it.

    My God, he really looks awful.

    Merci, mon général.

    Where’d you get the suit?

    It belongs to Jack’s father. It was in his apartment in the Immoquateur—that’s the apartment building in Stanleyville?

    Hanrahan nodded his understanding.

    When the C130s started dropping the Belgians, I was wearing my Simba uniform, and I knew that the first Belgian to see me would take a shot at me, so I borrowed it from Jack’s stepmother, Lunsford explained.

    Tony, Hanrahan said to his driver. Go find the sergeant major. Tell him Captain Lunsford needs a clean uniform. There’s a duplicate key to the captain’s locker in my safe.

    Yes, sir.

    And, Sergeant, on your way back, stop by Class VI and pick up a bottle of scotch, will you? Captain Lunsford said.

    Hanrahan looked closely at Lunsford.

    You need a drink that bad, do you?

    I really would like a little taste, General.

    I’ll give you a drink, Hanrahan said. Tony, get him his uniform.

    Yes, sir, the sergeant said.

    Hanrahan poured scotch into three glasses, handed one to Lunsford and the other to Jack Portet, and then raised his own.

    Welcome home, the both of you, he said.

    Portet took a sip of the straight scotch. Lunsford downed all of his at once.

    When he sensed Hanrahan’s eyes on him, Lunsford said: It tranquilizes my worm, sir.

    What?

    My tapeworm, sir. I have a world-class tapeworm.

    I will deal with that later.

    What happened to your nose, Portet? General Hanrahan asked. And what’s with the Belgian uniform?

    Mon général, Captain Lunsford said. Sergeant Portet has asked that I serve as his legal counsel. As such, Sergeant Portet, I advise you to claim your rights under the 31st Article of War and respectfully decline to answer the general’s question—at least until you get your medals—on the grounds it may tend to incriminate you.

    What medals?

    "I have it on the best authority, mon général, that this splendid young noncommissioned officer is to be decorated by both the Belgian and Congolese governments for his heroic participation in Operation Dragon Rouge."

    ‘Heroic’? Hanrahan parroted. What he was supposed to do was brief the Air Force about the airfield, and see if he knew anything about Stanleyville the Belgians didn’t already know.

    Actually, sir, Sergeant Portet’s contribution to Operation Dragon Rouge went a little beyond that.

    For example?

    He jumped on Stanleyville with the Belgians, sir, Lunsford said. That’s where he got that uniform. And the busted nose. He fell out of a truck in Stanleyville.

    He was not supposed to jump anywhere, Hanrahan said. And I specifically ordered Foster to make sure he didn’t.

    He looked at Portet, who looked very uncomfortable.

    "Sir, Lieutenant Foster made it very clear

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