Black Operations- the Spec-Ops Action Pack

by Eric Meyer

  As we both started shaking our heads, he hurriedly went on. “Now look, gentlemen, I know you feel sore about what happened, but we’ve caught the traitors now, everything is different.”

  “We’ve caught the traitors? Who is ‘we’ General?” He nodded wearily. “Yeah, ok. You caught them. Well, him. In the end there was only one who was passing information to the enemy, wasn’t there? But whatever, your experience and non-military status means that you can operate where our own people, military people, cannot.”

  “And the CIA?” Paul asked acidly. He swept his hand aside, dismissing them. “Forget the CIA. They have their own agenda which is not necessarily my agenda, the military agenda. Between you and me, there is going to be a massive military build up here over the next few months and there’ll be a pressing need for air transport, especially to the more sensitive areas. You understand that when I say a contract, I’m talking about a long term proposition, you’ll be paid a retainer as well as a substantial bonus for each operation. I’m talking big bucks here.”

  I could sense Paul’s excitement, it would be our big chance to turn the airline around and make us major players in South East Asia. Or it could get us killed. But you could get killed crossing the road. “Paul, what do you think?”

  “Yes, we should take it,” he replied. “It’ll be good for us.”

  “Very well. General, you’ve got yourself a deal, provided we can hammer out the details. I want to get my wife back before we start any operations. We’ll also need to replace Johann, that is urgent.”

  “I can get a list of available people if you wish, Hoffman.” I smiled. “No thank you, General. I think we’d prefer to organise that ourselves, there are plenty of good people kicking around Saigon who would be interested.”

  “Ok, I have to get back. Come in to MACV tomorrow and I’ll arrange for you to put a call through to Washington, to your wife. I’ll get my people onto sourcing a replacement aircraft straight away, you’ll have it within the month. Good day, gentlemen.” He shook our hands and abruptly left. The office seemed strange, alien, just the two of us and all that was left of Johann was a dark brown stain on the floor.

  “So, Paul. It seems we are to be mercenaries.” He laughed. “At least the pay is better, if we’re going to go into high risk theatres, we may as well earn the rate for the job.” I got another bottle of Jack Daniels and broke the seal. I poured two glasses and gave one to Paul.

  “To Johann, wherever he is now, you were a good comrade, we’ll never forget you.”

  “To Johann.” He raised his glass and we drank the fiery spirit down. Then we tossed the glasses against the wall in the old way. Time to get down to some work.

  We still had an airline to run and after we’d cleared up we went into Saigon to try and find a good ground engineer. I knew just the person to ask, Ritter von Schacht. We found him in a disreputable bar, half drunk as usual.

  “Jurgen, Paul, welcome, let me buy you a drink. You have more work for the best pilot in Vietnam?”

  I laughed. “No, Ritter, not just now. Johann is dead. Shot by a Vietnamese traitor.” I told him about Nguyen Cam Le.

  “Scheisse, I knew Le quite well, I thought he hated the commies.”

  “So did we all, but he was a traitor. Anyway, he’s dead now, but he killed Johann in the process. Ritter, I do need an engineer urgently, who can you recommend?” He smiled and spread his hands. “Me, of course. Jurgen, I was tinkering with engines when you were pussying around Russia with your band of SS sissies. I did real work man, dangerous stuff, I learned to do much of the maintenance and ground crew procedures, it was the only way to stay alive. I can do a good job for you. Besides,” he paused for a moment to take a swig of his drink. “I need the work, regular wages, Saigon is getting to be an expensive place to live.”

  I looked at Paul. “What do you think?”

  “I’ve no doubt that Ritter can do the work, it’s the sauce that worries me.” He eyed Ritter’s glass worriedly. “Hah! Is that all?” von Schacht snorted. “I don’t see your American friends doing a very good job, even sober. But if it worries you it’s no problem, I will guarantee to never drink on duty or shall we say eight hours before reporting for work.”

  “Twelve hours,” I said firmly. He sighed. “Ten hours, and that’s more than I need.”

  “Very well, it’s agreed. Welcome aboard, Ritter. We haven’t discussed pay yet.” He gave an airy wave. “I’ve known you guys for how long? And in all that time have we ever double crossed each other? No, I’ll settle for what you decide is fair. Now have a drink with me to seal our new relationship.”

  The barman served up three whiskeys and we toasted the future of our airline, which looked as if it was going to be very promising.

  “I think we’re going to be a lot busier,” Paul said excitedly, “with all of the increased American military activity we’ll be working night and day.” I felt sombre. “You know what that means, Paul? It means that the Viet Cong will be working night and day too, you realise that?”

  I noticed the barman give me a keen look, he was a male Vietnamese of about twenty five. I wondered what he did at nights.

  *****

  ‘Any forces that would impose their will on other nations will certainly face defeat.’

  Nguyen Giap

  “So Comrade Nhat, your nephew failed us,” Giap said sourly.

  “My nephew gave his life in the pursuit of the American bandits,” Quan Nhat, the Area Garrison Commander shot back. “What more could he do?”

  “I do not recall that his orders indicated he should give up his life, do you, Comrade Duan?” The older man present at the meeting shook his head.

  “My orders were straightforward, Nhat, I wanted them stopped and the German taken alive. What could be clearer than that?” Nguyen Giap looked at the Hanoi garrison commander. What a stupid, weak, useless man. Did he not realise that this war was more important than favouring one’s relatives for petty promotions?

  “Clearly my nephew was not sufficiently experienced for such a mission as this,” Quan continued. “On reflection, an older, more experienced officer should have been sent.”

  “That is your opinion, is it?” Giap confirmed.

  The garrison commander nodded, sweat starting to appear on his face. “Yes, yes, it is.”

  “In that case, Comrade Quan, why did you suggest sending your nephew when you knew how little he was experienced? You knew how important this mission was, how important to me personally, Comrade Quan. So why did you make such a flawed decision?” Quan looked down at the table unable to meet the gaze of the General.

  “So, Comrade Le Duan, do you have anything to add?”

  Le shook his head. Giap looked at Quan. “Comrade, you have been found guilty of acting improperly by criminally favouring your nephew and assisting the enemies of the revolution to escape justice. Guards!”

  The door was flung open and four PAVN soldiers came promptly to attention. The first, a captain, saluted. “General.”

  “Take Comrade Quan to the cells, he has been found guilty of crimes against the state and will be detained pending our decision on his sentence.”

  “Yes, Sir. At once.”

  The captain barked orders and the hapless Quan was dragged from his chair and frogmarched out of the room. The door closed and silence returned to the room.

  “You dealt with him severely,” Le said to Giap. The commander of the People’s Army of Vietnam, the PAVN, shrugged. “He was a weak fool, he was sure to fall sooner or later. We’re better off without him and his idiot nephew.”

  “Yes. This business with the Americans, you seem to be taking it personally, Comrade.”

  “It’s not the Americans, Le, it’s the German who was with them. We go back a long way.”

  “I see,” Le said uncertainly, although he didn’t see at all. “Do you wish to mount an assassination mission against him in the South?”

  Giap shook his head violently. “No, definitely not, h
e is not to be touched. Unless he comes North again, in which case this time he must be stopped and if necessary killed. But until then, he is an honourable man, a soldier, I want him left alone.”

  “We are all soldiers, Comrade Giap.”

  “True, but I want him left. Do not press me on this, Le.”

  Le Duan bowed his head in assent. General Giap was not a man to cross, not ever. It would be as he said. Briefly, he wondered how Quan would fare in the cells. Still, it wouldn’t be for long, his sentence would be the usual one ordained by North Vietnam’s leaders on those they regarded as criminals against the state. He would not live long enough to really suffer much at all.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Ten

  ‘Our numbers have increased in Vietnam because the aggression of others has increased in Vietnam. There is not, and there will not be, a mindless escalation.’

  Lyndon B. Johnson

  We came into land in Hue, the most beautiful city in Vietnam, perhaps in all Asia, on the 8th May, 1963. On this occasion, Helene sat in the co-pilot seat. She was fully recovered from her injuries, the American military hospital had served her proud. In addition, she was heavily pregnant and her stomach was starting to bulge noticeably, before long a trip like this would be impossible. This was to be her last trip before she wouldn’t be able to fly any more until after the baby was born. I was flying the newer of our C-47s, the one supplied by MACV to replace our Junkers 52 lost in North Vietnam. The army had done us proud, unlike our first C-47 this one had seen little use, probably it had been kept in reserve at an Army Air Corps base. Everything worked as it should, the upholstery was still comfortable and showing no signs of wear and most importantly, the engines ran smoothly and reliably. We shut off the engines and gave instructions for the unloading of our cargo, and then we went into the city for a meal. Almost immediately, we ran into trouble.

  It was the birthday of the Lord Gautama Buddha, a day very sacred to the majority Buddhist population. We asked the taxi driver taking us into the Citadel what was the reason for the obvious tension between large groups of sullen Buddhists and the many armed patrols who watched over them. He chatted away happily and explained what was obviously going to be another backward step in our adopted country.

  “Under the 1958 law known as Decree Number 10, it is prohibited to display religious flags. This disallowed the flying of Buddhist flags on Phat Dan, the birthday of Gautama Buddha. The deputy chief in charge of security is a Catholic, Major Dang Sy. He is charged with maintaining public security and was commander of the Hue garrison. Major Dang has made it clear he will deal very harshly with any Buddhist demonstrations.”

  We looked at each other. “Will there be trouble, do you think?” I asked him. Trouble in Vietnam meant only one thing, shooting.

  He laughed and shook his head. “No trouble, Sir. They will shout and rave at each other and threaten mass protests but in the end the Buddhists will back down, they are people of peace,” he said, somewhat contemptuously.

  “I take it you are a Catholic,” Helene said to him.

  “Yes, of course, like our President Diem.”

  We exchanged glances again, this was no way to unite a divided country threatened by a communist insurgency from the North.

  We were dropped off at the Citadel, the old centre of Hue and found a good restaurant for lunch. We had been considering overnighting in Hue but, in view of the obvious tension in the city, decided against getting a hotel room for the night, it would be safest to make the run straight back to Saigon. The restaurant was almost deserted, as if the locals knew that today was not a good day to be away from home.

  “Diem must be a total fool if he thinks that oppressing the Buddhists will do anything, other than play right into the hands of the communists,” Helene said abruptly.

  I smiled at her. “You are right, my darling, it’s totally stupid. Sadly, being a total fool does not stop men from becoming heads of state. Look at your Napoleon in France, our own Hitler in Germany. Clever politicians, yes, but in many ways they were complete idiots. We just have to live with their idiocy.”

  “That’s sad, Jurgen, to think that so many people have to suffer because of it. The Vietnamese, the American soldiers, even us, we nearly lost our baby because of it.”

  And you, I thought. Our meal was a sombre affair, there was little to be cheerful about. Something bad was brewing in this city and all we both wanted was to finish up and get out. We called a taxi and started back to the airport, it was then that the trouble began. We were stopped just before a bridge, a squad of steel helmeted troops had set up a roadblock and were turning everything back. A young lieutenant looked inside the cab and when he saw us white Europeans, told the driver to turn around.

  “The road ahead is closed,” he said angrily.

  I leaned forward and spoke to him calmly, the situation looked tense and I didn’t want to ignite any fuses.

  “Lieutenant, I am a pilot under contract to the American military, I need to return to the airport to fly back to Saigon.”

  He sneered. “The Americans can take care of their own, we have our own problems here, the Buddhists are rioting all over the city. You must turn back.”

  As he spoke, he lifted his assault rifle in a way that stopped short of being threatening but was an unmistakable warning. I nodded and told the driver to turn around. As we started back, he said he knew an alternative way back to the airport if we didn’t mind paying the extra fare. I told him to get us there by any means possible. I wanted Helene out of this tinderbox.

  We drove through a series of back roads, tracks and lanes and seemed to be making progress back to the airport when we hit the second obstacle. This time it really was serious, a group of saffron robed Buddhist monks leading a procession of demonstrators. Their route had been blocked by a line of grim face, steel helmeted police. Their officer was shouting at the Buddhists through a loudhailer.

  “What is he saying?” I asked our driver.

  “He’s telling them to disperse, that they do not have an official license for their demonstration. If they do not go back immediately he is threatening to shoot.”

  So far, the police had not levelled their rifles at the crowd and I had high hopes that people would see sense and both sides quietly back down. But neither side did back down. The officer stopped talking through the loudhailer and barked an order at his men. The sound of more than twenty rifles being cocked was like a roll of thunder. The barrels were levelled at the demonstrators, who as far as I could see were unarmed. For a few minutes there was total silence. The lieutenant shouted at them again, his face turning red with anger. There was no need to translate, he was clearly telling them to disperse or else. The crowd had gone silent, they just stood defiantly refusing to move. He shouted again, then again. Still nobody moved, then he turned to his men, shouted a single word and the gunfire started.

  It was a slaughter, men and women screamed, the leading demonstrators crumpled to the road as dozens of them were wounded or killed outright. Astonishingly, the shooting didn’t stop, they just kept firing and firing at the demonstrators, most of whom by now were running for their lives. Some stood too shocked to move, like rabbits caught in a vehicle’s headlights, a few moved amongst the fallen, trying to help them until they too were hit and fell to the ground. Eventually, the shooting petered to a stop. We sat shocked into silence. The lieutenant started shouting more orders to his men who incredibly began to arrest some of the frozen survivors. The dead and wounded they left where they had fallen. I murmured to the driver to back up slowly and move away. This had all the hallmarks of a war crime and if the officer realised that we were witnesses he could turn his attentions to us. In the event, he took no notice and we managed to beat a hasty retreat. Helene, who was a trained doctor, was trying to persuade me to stop the cab so that she could give help to the wounded, but when I explained to her that her unborn baby would be at risk if the Vietnamese police decided that we were unwanted witnesses, she
kept quiet. The driver continued to wend his way through the backstreets of Hue and eventually we got back to the airport unscathed. The air traffic controllers were unhappy about clearing me for takeoff, there was talk of a military clampdown until order was restored, but I played the trump card of U.S. military business and managed to get away. At last we were climbing into the air and I breathed a sigh of relief. Helene tuned the radio into the local AFN station, they were playing a frenetic rock song, ‘The Twist’, the singer was a new name to me, Chubby Checker. I wondered about the title of the song. It seemed very appropriate for Vietnam, the twist, that described everything here.

  I had never heard Helene swear, so I was shocked when she spoke. “They are a bunch of total fucking lunatics,” she said. “They have just recruited a large number of soldiers for the Viet Cong.”

  I laughed. “Welcome to Realpolitik, my darling.” Realpolitik was politics or diplomacy based primarily on power and on practical and material factors and considerations, rather than ideological notions or moralistic or ethical premises. The politics of brute force. As practised in Vietnam, North and South.

  “They’re going to lose, aren’t they, Jurgen?”

  “You mean Diem, and his American allies?”

  “Yes, they’re playing right into the hands of the communists, isn’t that blindingly obvious.”

  “Yes,” I replied. “Just as the French did before them, just as successive Vietnamese governments have done. I fear that within a few years the communists will be in power.”

  “So why are we here, Jurgen?” Why are we helping them?”

  “Because it’s our home, Helene. It’s where we’ve chosen to make our lives, build our business and a home for our child.”

  She was silent for a full hour as we droned on over the endless Vietnamese jungle.