Technical Sergeant Moss looked up at the four civilians and asked, “Can I help you?”
“Y’all have a key to the Projects Office?”
“They’re in there,” answered Staff Sergeant Metson. “Knock on the door.”
“I want to surprise them. You got a key or not?”
Metson glanced at Moss, but did not say anything.
One of the civilians set his flight bag on the table next to the door, unzipped it, and pulled out a MAC-10. “Never mind. We got it,” he said, as he shoved a long magazine into the bottom of the weapon and pulled the bolt back.
“Give him the key,” Moss said through clenched teeth.
Metson’s eyes opened wide when he saw the weapon and immediately pulled the key from his desk drawer and tossed it to them. The other three civilians pulled automatic pistols from their flight bags and stood against the wall on each side of the door with weapons at the ready. One put the key into the lock, nodded, and then shoved the door open. The MAC-10 went in the opened door first followed by the others.
As soon as they moved Metson turned in his chair, his hand dropped, and it came back up with a .38 caliber revolver. He was halfway through his swing to bring the weapon to bear on the open door when he froze. The fourth man was standing in a combat crouch next to the door with his automatic pistol leveled at Metson’s face. The airman saw the guns being pointed and ducked behind his desk. Metson raised his left hand and lowered the revolver back into the desk drawer.
Inside the Projects Office one middle-aged, overweight man sat at the desk writing. He looked up to see an automatic pistol pointed at his face. The other man stood at an open file cabinet. He turned to face the MAC-10.
“FEDERAL AGENTS. THIS IS AN ARREST,” one of the civilians said. “All right, take ‘em.”
Within seconds the two men in the office were handcuffed, searched, and led out of the office into the police admin office. Weapons were put up and two of the civilians began to search the office.
“Mr. Peterson and Mr. Foster, I’m John Slaughter, a federal narcotics agent,” he said as he pulled up his ID. “You two are busted for drug trafficking.”
“You can’t prosecute us. We’re the CIA.”
“You might beat the rap, but you can’t beat the ride. Just in case, though, let me read you the riot act.” He then read them their Miranda rights from a card.
Later that day four of the CIA’s Air America U-10 Courier aircraft flying back from northern Laos were diverted to Ubon. The pilots were told to report to the Projects Office. When they walked into the police admin office they were arrested by John Slaughter and his agents. A total of one hundred bricks of opium were recovered from the four aircraft. The CIA drug supply connection at Ubon was finally broken. Security Police at Ubon would hold the four seized aircraft and would inspect the Projects Office to ensure that no drugs, money, or weapons were stored there.
That evening the Chief of Security Police walked into the Projects Office and set a cold beer on the desk. John Slaughter looked up from his paperwork, nodded, and said, “Thanks, Mack. Have a seat.”
The captain dropped into the couch, swung his long legs over the arm, and stretched out. “Been a helluva day for you guys, hasn’t it?” he said as he popped the top on his beer.
“Yea. Damn shame, though…” he answered and then opened his beer and took a sip. “. . . that we had to wait until the war ended before we could cut the heroin express. Should have done that years ago.”
“Taking down the CIA won’t stop the flow, will it?”
“Slow it down is all. CIA was hauling war material to the mountain people to fight the Communists, then flying the brick opium back out for a cut of the proceeds. Most of that shit was going to Bangkok where the Air Force was hauling it to Saigon on C-130’s and C-123’s. The Air Force would either fly it to the States or the Navy would put it on ships for the States. It was the main pipeline.”
“So, what happens now?”
“Can’t prosecute the CIA, but they’ll all get fired. So far it appears that only an Air Force major from Saigon is facing court-martial.”
“No, I mean what happens to the bricks? How does that stuff get out?”
“Oh.” John took another gulp of beer. “They’ll still pack it out, move it to Bangkok and Singapore on trucks and trains, then it will get to the West. Viet Nam ships out of Haiphong through Hong Kong. It’s slower, but still gets through. Not as much of a market now. GI’s get cleaned up in the States, so the heroin dries up some.”
“Puts you out of a job then.”
“Shit. They’ll either start growing poppy in Latin America where the source is closer to the market or they’ll find something new to make dope out of. Marijuana still grows great from Mexico on south. The next drug attack will be from south of our borders. Americans go crazy for dope.”
“You really think so?”
“Hell, yea. The war is over here for you, Mack. But we’ve got a lot more battles to fight. Why don’t you give up this military shit and join us.”
“I’ve got too much time invested in this to quit now.”
“Come off it, Mack. You’re a fuck’en police chief. That isn’t even considered working law enforcement. Drugs are a real threat to our national borders, where the real action is. Besides, the money isn’t much different and your military time counts toward retirement with us.”
“It’s too damn dangerous for me. My most serious threat was a fake hand grenade my investigator tossed into my office last week.”
“Well, you’re right about one thing. It will be dangerous. But someone has got to do the dirty work. We’ll never stop it, but we can sure give ‘em hell trying.”
UDORN RTAFB
October 1974
Lieutenant Eddie Donevant walked down the hall of the fighter squadron headquarters. As he passed the squadron commander’s open office door he saw the commander had his head down reading a report. Donevant made it two steps past the door.
“Donevant,” the squadron commander called out.
Man, he couldn’t have seen me, Eddie said to himself. He stepped back and stuck his head in the door. “Yes, sir.”
“Get your airplane driv’en ass in here,” he said. “I don’t like to be peeked at around the corner like I’m some kinda zoo animal.”
Eddie stepped into the small office and stood in front of the commander’s desk.
Major Thadius Kinder Jacobs was a big man. He stood six-foot-four and weighed 235 pounds. A star college football quarterback, the war and an ROTC obligation to the Air Force kept him out of the pro-football draft. His lightning fast reflexes made him one of the best F-4 Phantom pilots in the wing. It also earned him the title of “Best Kick-Boxer in Thailand.” All four of his tours of duty in Southeast Asia had been in Thailand. He spoke the Thai language better than foreigners, which allowed him easy access to most parts of Thai society. Among his fellow military personnel he chose a mean talking style to go with his tough guy image. Everyone knew him simply as Big Jake.
“Park your ass, Lieutenant, while I tell you about what I’ve been reading.”
Eddie sat in the soft chair in front of the desk and waited.
“How long you been with us?”
“Here at Udorn, sir?”
Jake looked up. “I didn’t mean in front of my desk and if I meant how long have you been on Earth I’d have asked your age.”
“Just over two months, sir.”
“When this TDY is up you were to rejoin your wing at Kunsan. Ever been to Korea in winter?”
“No, sir.”
“I was. Got so cold I saw a dog frozen to a fire hydrant.” Big Jake leaned back in his chair. “You’re from Texas?”
“Yes, sir.”
Jake nodded and picked up the folder. “Sam Houston State. Degree in Criminal Justice. Worked your w
ay through college as a part-time police officer. Good flight record. Low numbers on all your OER’s. Don’t drink. No visits to the clinic for colds or other illnesses that call for penicillin. You’re either smart or lucky. Definitely career material.”
Again, Eddie said nothing.
“You like Ubon?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. I’ve got a job for you. You’re going back to Ubon on special assignment. You’ll be attached to the air base squadron, security police section. Report to Captain Mack Klevenger. He’s running the cop shop down there. He’ll tell you what this is all about.”
“Well, ah… Major,” Eddie said, trying to find the right words.
“Yea, I know. You think it’s a shit detail, and there’re plenty of fuck-ups around here better suited for the job.”
“Yes, sir. That’s about the way I see it.”
Jake pointed to a stack of papers on his desk. “RIF list,” he said. “I’m saving every good officer I can, but the war is about over. Air Guard and Reserve units are full of pilots, and there just aren’t any active duty slots anywhere. If I send you on to Kunsan, you’ll serve out your tour, then get back into civilian clothes full time trying to find a job somewhere.”
“If I can’t fly, maybe leaving is best.”
“I don’t know. That’s your choice. Right now you’re the only trained, experienced cop I’ve got. And I’m not sending some young john down there who can’t keep his dick in his pants. This is too important for that.”
“When do I have to decide?”
“Now. You’re flying down there in the morning. But, for what it’s worth, I’ll try to get you back up here twice a month to do some flying and keep current.”
Eddie sat in silence for several seconds and then stood up and started for the door.
“Where are you going?” Jake asked.
Eddie stopped, looked at Jake, and shrugged. “Ubon, I guess.”
Jake gave Eddie a rare smile. “Pick up your orders at CBPO. And keep in touch from down there. That flying offer is solid shit.”
UBON RTAFB
It was just after 4:00 p.m. when the klong - the daily C-130 Hercules transport - taxied up to the passenger terminal and shut down. About thirty personnel waited at the terminal door to board the “Freedom Bird” for the first leg of their long journey back to the “World,” but Lieutenant Eddie Donevant was the only passenger to get off.
A sergeant from Security Police met him. “You Donevant?” the sergeant asked.
“Yea.”
“Bobby Brown,” he said and offered his hand. “You have any bags?”
“Yea. Two.”
“Let’s go grab ‘em. I’ve got a jeep parked outside.”
Brown helped carry Eddie’s bags into Captain Mack Klevenger’s office and then pulled the office door shut behind him when he walked out.
Mack came around his desk and shook hands with Eddie. They sat on the couch, and Eddie handed him a set of orders.
Mack looked them over, nodded, and said, “Colonel Waldrop wants to see you. He’s our Group Commander. The short of it is, you’re assigned to me as an admin officer. The long story will be explained to you tomorrow morning.”
“You mean I won’t be a sky cop?”
Mack smiled. “Only on paper. We don’t want to see you in uniform and don’t tell anyone you’re a GI. In fact, don’t tell anyone anything about yourself.”
Eddie frowned. “What’s this all about?”
Mack shrugged, smiled, and took Eddie’s personnel records from him. “You’ll see tomorrow, Mr. Donevant.”
At 8:00 the next morning Eddie walked into Captain Klevenger’s office and found a morning staff meeting about to begin with all the Security Police section heads. Mack took him to the admin office and left him with Staff Sergeant Metson.
Metson introduced himself and sent the airman to get them soft drinks. John Slaughter walked in, introductions were made, and the three of them went into the Projects Office with their soft drinks. Metson sat behind the desk, leaving John and Eddie to sit on the couch.
“Good to have you aboard, Lieutenant,” Metson said. “I see by your records that you have some police experience. That should be helpful to us.”
Eddie’s eyebrows furrowed. “Where did you get my personnel records, Sergeant?”
“Mack gave them to me this morning.”
“Captain Klevenger gave you my personnel records?” Eddie noticed that Metson was the only sergeant on base wearing a blue uniform. Everyone else, including most of the officers, wore camouflage fatigues.
“Let me give you a little overview about what gives around here, Lieutenant,” John said. “This is the Projects Office. Used to be a CIA operation until they got busted moving bricks of opium out of the Golden Triangle through their Air America operation. In fact, you helped fry one of their hilltop supply bases in Laos back in August.”
“John was there when that went down,” Metson said.
Eddie eyed John. “Who do you work for? CIA?”
John laughed. “No. I’m a federal narcotics agent. I’m the guy who’s busting the CIA drug ring.”
Eddie just nodded.
“So,” Metson said, “with CIA in the process of being dismantled here, all I have left to work with is one broke-dick OSI agent, who couldn’t find his ass with both hands, John’s people, who aren’t making friends among the movers and shakers, and me.”
“And just what do you do here, Sergeant?”
“Ray is DIA. Defense Intelligence Agency. He’s supposed to collect and analyze military intelligence coming in from Cambodia and South Vietnam, but he’s now directing all CIA’s covert ops and collecting all their raw intel from the field. This, in addition to running his Air Force job in the police admin shop.”
“I’m impressed,” Eddie said, “but what’s that got to do with me? I’m just an airplane driver.”
“I need help. People to help get the job done.”
“Hey, I don’t speak Thai and I’m no spy.”
“There’s a lot happening over here. With your background, you’ll be a real addition to the team.”
“The war’s over. We lost. It’s none of our business, now,” Eddie countered.
“South Vietnam will fall before long. It’s a violation of the peace accords, but Nixon is gone and no one else in Washington has the backbone to put our bombers back over Hanoi. Cambodia and Laos, too, are expected to go. We hope they’ll quit at the Thai border, but we may need to discourage them from trying.”
“Oh, sure. If they get that far, Sergeant, do you think your little tin badge will stop them at the Mekong River? If Washington has no balls to save Saigon, they sure aren’t going to raise a finger to help Thailand.”
“Eyes and ears, Lieutenant. Our assets reach into Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia. We can reach right into NVA and VC organizations from here. Same with Communist units in Laos and Cambodia. We won’t have to bomb miles of jungle and hope for a hit. We can make each punch hurt.”
“Your four little stripes lets you see all that?”
“This office lets me see all that and more.”
“Who’s running this hot little operation you’ve got going? Thirteenth Air Force? PACAF? Pentagon?”
“DIA now. I’m working with a colonel out of NKP. He’s got Laos and North Viet Nam. I’ve got South Viet Nam and Cambodia. Everyone else is handling local intelligence only.”
“They gave this big job to a staff sergeant?”
“I’m filling the void left by the CIA. This office is the only one that has had contacts with these special assets and knows their organization. It’s my job by default. And just for the record, Lieutenant. As of today, it’s your job, too. Colonel Waldrop will explain that to you at lunch.”
Metson then gave John and Eddie an intelligence br
iefing of the region and discussed future plans.
They had lunch with Colonel Waldrop. He was a short, clean cut, pleasant man in his early fifties. Waldrop explained that Ubon was in the process of closing and he had only about 300 men on base to remove equipment and supplies that had kept a 5,000-man operational base running twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. “My two main problems are, Lieutenant, that we’re sitting on a huge bomb dump off base and a huge supply of jet fuel down by the river. As the Communists close in on Laos and Cambodia, we make a very inviting target sitting just fifty miles from the border. And I can’t move this stuff out too fast, because we may need to use this base in a few months. So, I need to know what’s happening out there. You three are my eyes and ears.”
“Does Sergeant Metson really run this huge spy operation that he explained to me?”
“He does. And with my full support.” Waldrop’s tone of voice left little doubt that he considered Metson to be in charge of things.
At 5:00 that afternoon Eddie walked to the Comm Center and called Big Jake on a secure line.
“Major, I can’t believe this place. Drug agents are arresting all the CIA guys down here and a Security Police staff sergeant has taken over a spy network that reaches through Cambodia to South Viet Nam.”
“Just who the fuck else have you been spouting this shit off to, Lieutenant?” Big Jake snapped.
Eddie hesitated. “No one, sir. I just wanted to talk to you about it.”
“What about it?”
“This staff sergeant says I work for him. Captain Klevenger gave him my personnel file. And the base commander seems to believe the staff sergeant should be in charge of an operation that a general officer should be running.”
“Don’t let those stripes fool you, Lieutenant. Not only do you work for him, but so does Mack Klevenger, Henry Waldrop, and Jake Jacobs.”
“You, sir? You work for Metson?”
“Now that staff sergeant has got a name. You’re in for a lot of surprises down there, so listen up. You keep your mouth shut and your ears and eyes open. You’re at the extreme back edge of the envelope, short on power, and way below punchout altitude. You crash and burn down there you won’t be seeing a clean cell at Leavenworth. It’ll just be another hole in the ground somewhere in Southeast Asia that no one will ever come looking for. You read me loud and clear, Lieutenant.”
The Wrong Side of Honor Page 2
