“Shut the fuck up, and give us beer!” a Marine yelled out.
The Air Force band struck up “Wild Blue Yonder” or something as close to it as a band without instruments could strike up.
5 • Mission lmporkable
A few weeks before we left for Vietnam, Gearheardt mysteriously disappeared for three days. When he returned, he told me that he had been to the White House. I didn’t believe him at first, but he had documents that changed my mind.
A letter on White House stationery said, ‘Get your ass up here. I got a job for you.’ And it was signed by the President. Gearheardt told me that his dual role, CIA and Marine Corps pilot, had drawn the attention of someone on the President’s staff. They had a plan to end the war before things heated up too much, and they needed someone with exactly Gearheardt’s qualifications.
When he got to D.C., Gearheardt was met at the airport and taken to the White House. It was night, and two guys in dark suits and sunglasses practically dragged him out of the terminal.
“You Gearheardt?” one of them asked.
“No.”
“You’re close enough.”
Next thing he knew they were screaming through the nation’s capital in a Ford. Men in a hurry. Driving over curbs, through flowerbeds, knocking over trashcans. The driver took off his sunglasses, and then they stayed pretty much on the road. The other agent giggled, but didn’t take off his sunglasses.
At the White House guard shack, the driver discovered he didn’t have his ID so they had to go back to a suburb in Alexandria and wait in the car while he ran in the house and got his wallet. His wife followed him back out to the car giving him a lot of shit for waking up the kids.
They finally got Gearheardt in the White House and led him to a room in the basement. Inside the smoke-filled room was the President, cutting his toenails, while a dozen guys in business suits sat around a table. The men in suits were arguing heatedly and didn’t look up as Gearheardt came in. The President looked up, though, and smiled at him.
“You Gearheardt?”
“No, Mr. President,” he said, sticking to his story.
“Good. Set your butt down here by me and let me buy you a drink. What’ll you have, Gearheardt?”
“A beer, sir?”
“I thought you said you weren’t Gearheardt.” The President beamed. Three aides appeared behind him and beamed too. “Guess he wasn’t so damn smart after all,” the President said to them. “Get Gearheardt a beer, boys.”
When Gearheardt was seated next to him, a cold Lone Star in hand, the President put one arm around his shoulder and with his other arm made a sweeping motion past all of the dark-suited men arguing heatedly around the table.
“Know what these boys are figuring out, son?”
“I don’t believe so, Mr. President.”
“Call me Larry Bob, son. Saves a lot of time when you’re talking to me. All that President this and President that. Slows down a good confab. Just call me Larry Bob and I’ll tell you when to stop.” He squeezed Gearheardt’s shoulder and withdrew his arm.
“These sons-a-bitches are figuring up how much it’s gonna cost to run this damn Veetnam war deal. Some of the smartest boys in the U.S., right here at this table.” He looked at him as if expecting a comment.
“I guess they’re trying to calculate the budget for the war, Larry Bob. Is that right?”
“Yep, pretty close. These boys are trying to figure how much they can make off it. See that gray-haired feller with the yellow tie? Builds airports. Wants to put military airfields in every Veetnam city that has more’n about two thousand people. Feller next to him is a concrete guy. Over there”—he pointed his long finger—“feller builds ships and is lobbying for us to give some battleships to Veetnam so we can have ourselves a sea battle like we ain’t seen since the Big One. I think that little skinny feller is a tire man, but I ain’t sure. And, oh yeah, you’ll love this one, that fat tub-o’-lard is in the medical supply business. Lookit that possum-eatin’ grin on his face. Already made himself a deal with the Rooskies so he can supply both sides.”
“Is that legal, Larry Bob?” Gearheardt asked.
“It is if I say so,” the President replied.
“You suppose I could have another Lone Star, Larry Bob?”
“I reckon you can. Don’t get too familiar with that ‘Larry Bob’ shit. You’re still just a damn Marine.” The President signaled by raising his hand, and one of his aides ran over with a beer. He began to whisper in the President’s ear. Something about Congress and naked women in the Oval Office. The President excused himself and left the room, carrying one shoe.
Gearheardt sipped his beer and inspected his surroundings. There was no other furniture in the room except for the conference table surrounded by leather swivel chairs and the simpler chairs, evidently for aides, behind them. The ceiling was low; there were no windows. Bright lighting hung over the conference table, leaving the edges of the room in near darkness. Each of the four walls had a door. Gearheardt guessed the room was about twenty-five feet square. He had expected to be in a “war room” with maps, electronic gizmos, telephones, televisions, and transparent boards with grease-penciled aircraft filling every available space. This room was important without looking important, Gearheardt decided.
He tried to concentrate on the conversations going on at the table. They were of little interest to him, but he knew that he was in the presence of America’s greatest businessmen. When he tuned in they were speaking in a language that he did not recognize.
“ … short-term returns, my ass. I’ve got shareholders, you know. You build up faster than I can ramp up, and I’ll have to charge the Army double or triple margins.” The man, who sounded angry, actually smiled. He was the “tire” guy, Gearheardt remembered the President saying.
“Well, somebody needs to remind old Slickhair that the Street doesn’t like surprises near year end. We need to manage the action on a quarterly basis, with the military placing their estimates when it allows my planning boys to get the best spin. Couldn’t we allocate the Army on a quarterly basis? If they run out of ammunition near the end of the month, that’s their problem. If they see there’s going to be a surplus, surely a few big battles can be scheduled without a lot of hoopla. Just to burn up the excess. I would think a quota for each soldier, say 500 bullets a month he needs to shoot, wouldn’t be unreasonable.”
A skinny young guy that Gearheardt hadn’t noticed before popped up near the end of the table. He was wearing heavy black-rim glasses and a gray suit. He waved a tablet of paper wildly.
“TEN YEARS,” he yelled.
There was a great deal of consternation around the table.
“Ten years?” asked the medical supply king.
“Hell, I’ll be living on a golf course in Florida in less than ten years,” the concrete man mused to no one in particular.
“You gentlemen asked me to calculate how long the war had to last in order to get over the fifteen percent hurdle rate. It works out, on the average industry investment that you gave me, to a seventeen percent internal rate of return, again on average, if the war lasts ten years and the average soldier shoots three times his weight in bullets, the enemy shoots down an average of three helicopters and two fighters a day, and the soldiers generally ruin any equipment in their possession in, again on the average, ninety days.”
The room was quiet while the businessmen doodled on pads that had been placed in front of them and conferred with aides, who now leaned in with earnest brows. The mumbling was subdued. Finally a distinguished gentleman rapped his water glass and cleared his throat.
“Gentlemen, if I can have your attention for a moment. Speaking for the oil and gas industry, I have to tell you that I am concerned. Perhaps disappointed would be a better word.” He took a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and daintily wiped his forehead. Looking at him now in his seventeen-hundred-dollar suit, no one would have believed he’d started in the industry thirty-five yea
rs ago as a roughneck on a drilling rig in the Oklahoma panhandle. Worth conservatively two hundred million dollars, he expressed “disappointment” with less anxiety than some would.
“I told the President that I thought we could support his activities in Asia quite comfortably with a return in the neighborhood of twenty percent. Speaking frankly within the confines of this room, I can tell you that my board’s patriotism becomes a bit anemic when we fall below that internal rate of return.” He smiled around the table, knowing that he was in good company. “Now, I’m not saying that we won’t make the investment that’s needed to keep this action moving ahead, but if any of you are planning to drive to Disneyland for a little family vacation, I would suggest you fill up your tanks now. How does three dollars a gallon sound?” Since the executives at the table were clueless as to the price of gasoline, there was little reaction.
Another gentleman of the same vintage, but with a snappier tie, chuckled and spoke to the table. “Jim, you boys in the oil and gas business haven’t had a creative idea since the gas station. The only thing you ever come up with is raising gas prices. You ever think about cutting the price you’re paying the Arabs? Why should the damn automobile owners in America have to pay for this war?”
There were a number of “hear, hears” passed around the table after the chairman of U.S. Motors spoke.
The President had returned and quietly taken his chair next to Gearheardt.
“These boys getting it all worked out?” he said, loud enough for only Gearheardt to hear.
“Well, I have to tell you, President Larry Bob,” Gearheardt said, “it’s a little scary to listen to these men discuss what could be a chance to get my head shot off as if it’s just another marketing opportunity.” He felt out of his element, but he had been asked.
The President grinned at him. “Oh, you ain’t heard nothin’ yet. When we put these boys in the Pork Pit you’ll see … Oh shit, here comes that damn lard-ass from Mississippi. I can’t stomach this sonofabitch. And I can never remember his lard-ass name. Where in the hell are my aides?” He propelled himself out of his chair and extended his hand.
“Howdy, pardner,” the President said. “How’s it hangin’?”
The gentleman from Mississippi took the hand like it belonged to the Pope and put his other hand on top. “Well, Mr. President, I surely would like to know if you’ve given any thought to my suggestion. Maybe we could go somewhere …” He looked down at Gearheardt and then back at the President.
“Oh, this man’s okay, pardner. One of my top men. Got pizza deliverin’ clearance and everthing.”
This last momentarily threw the Mississippian, but he recovered and smiled crookedly.
“I’m sure he’s a good ’un, Mr. President. So, have you given it some thought?”
“Won’t fly, pardner. Gave it long, hard thought and even talked it over with my boys over at the NdoubleACP. They ain’t buyin’ it. And might even run into some constitutional problems.” The Mississippian started to interrupt. “Now hold your horses, I know most folks don’t give a shit. But we get our asses in a sling with the boys in black robes, and it’s goodbye Mr. President.” He laughed and slapped the man on the shoulder. “Nice try though, pardner. I know I can always count on you for those kinds of ideas, not to mention a sizable donation that I never thanked you for. That bankin’ business must be doin’ real good. Take care, now. I’ll see you in the Pork Pit.”
The Mississippian caught the eye of his assistant as he turned around and shook his head negatively. The aide said, “Shit,” and slumped back down in his chair.
Gearheardt had missed most of the exchange, intrigued by the timber baron’s pitch to the group on the benefit of using wood to build tanks and airplanes. He began to realize that planning a war must be a lot more difficult than the military thought. But most of all he wondered what he was doing in this room. Why had the President ordered him here? He looked out of the corner of his eye and saw the President pinching the bridge of his nose as if to shut off pain. His glasses were pushed up onto his forehead. Without looking up he said. “You know what that crazy sonofabitch’s suggestion was, son?” He reached in his shirt pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. He extended it to Gearheardt, who took and opened it. It was on the letterhead of the Bank on the Bank of the Mississippi. This sentence was underlined: “Mr. President, I respectfully urge you to send only Negroes to Vietnam.”
Gearheardt looked at the President, as a slight glimmer of understanding of the weight of governing the kooks and cranks in addition to the regular folks began to enter his head. When he had overheard the early Vietnam discussions as a CIA pizza man, he had thought the President was just an idiot.
The President was looking at him. “Yes, sir, Larry Bob,” Gearheardt said, not sure what he was agreeing to. He realized the President wasn’t looking at him at all. He was actually in a daze or sleeping with his eyes open.
“Mr. President?” Gearheardt said. “Do you suppose you could tell me what I’m here for?”
The President sat up straight and narrowed his eyes at Gearheardt. “I suppose I could if I wanted to. I’m the goddamned President, case you hadn’t noticed, son.” As suddenly as he had snapped this, he changed again and smiled. “What say we head over to the Pork Pit? That show always lifts my spirits. My aides tell you about this deal?”
He rose and indicated that Gearheardt should walk with him. With a nod of his head he stopped the conversation at the conference table. The men shoved papers into briefcases or the hands of waiting assistants, hitched up their pants, and adjusted their ties tight up around their necks. Their air was of preparing to do their duty, but Gearheardt caught a strange gleam in most eyes. With another nod, this one toward the door at the far end of the room, the President strode toward it as his aides rushed ahead to open it. Gearheardt had the feeling that if the aides had fallen, the President would have walked straight into the door without breaking his stride.
The door was opened and Gearheardt and the businessmen followed the President through it and onto a raised balcony. Before and below them lay a good-sized ballroom, the contents of which resembled a Mardi Gras mixed with an auto dealers convention, without the decorum of either. Temporary booths lined the walls and an island in the center of the huge room like exhibits at a home show, each adorned with the name of a state of the Union. The cacophony of voices and music softened, quieted and then stopped altogether as the crowd below turned their heads to the President. The last moving element to stop was a cavalcade of tiny motorcycles ridden by huge men in cowboy hats wearing bright red shirts. Gearheardt watched a balloon drift slowly to the ceiling above them and bump silently one, two, three times before it came to rest. A moment passed as the President, his hands planted on the railing in front of him, scanned the floor as if he were looking for someone to blame for the mess. Then he smiled and extended his arms wide in blessing.
“Senators,” he bellowed, “fresh meat!” He swung his body around to face the businessmen who had followed Gearheardt and the President from the conference room. They had already begun to descend the staircases on each side of the balcony. A roar went up from the floor. The music resumed, and the motorcycles sputtered and jerked forward. The President saw Gearheardt’s slack-jawed stare and stepped beside him, throwing a heavy arm around his shoulders. “Figured it out yet, boy?”
“Are those really senators, Larry Bob?” As he looked down, a man wearing moose antlers and snowshoes rushed to the bottom of the stairs and began dry-humping the leg of the gentleman who ran U.S. Motors.
“Servants of the people, Jack. Dividin’ up the spoils at the moment.”
They went down the stairs, and as they walked through the hall, Gearheardt felt the pull of the President, the aura and power of the man, even beyond the tide. There was a sadness in his blustering reply to those who tried to coax him into their exhibits. He dismissed the exhibitors with a skill that left them hope and as much dignity as someone wearing a wedge
of cheese or a plastic pig snout on his head could have. The President wore simple gray slacks and a cardigan sweater over his rumpled white shirt. Informal yet elegant in his comfort.
They passed a man dressed as a potato, complete with a large plastic “eye,” which followed him and promised low-interest-rate bonds for defense contractors. A booth topped by huge long horns promised cheap Mexican labor and no state tax.
Before they reached the far door, the President took Gearheardt by the elbow, saying, “There’s just one more you gotta see, son. At least a couple of these boys got by Barnum and Bailey Marketing 101.” They approached a simple, unadorned booth manned by two distinguished gentlemen in blue blazers and gray slacks. They both rose from their chairs as the President arrived.
“Hello, Mr. President,” they said in unison.
“Hello, Ben, Dick. Signing any deals?” He laughed as he looked past them to a curtained-off cubicle.
“We’ll get our share, Mr. President,” the taller one said. “We’ve got the most liberal incorporation laws in the union. We just like to take our little piece, if and when it’s coming to us.” He blushed modestly.
“What’s behind that curtain?” The President’s eyes said that he already knew. He glanced at Gearheardt and wiggled his eyebrows.
“You mean your aides didn’t tell you? We got a bit of an advance benefit to give us a little insurance that these gentlemen here tonight don’t overlook us and start looking off-shore.”
He pulled back the curtain to reveal two young Vietnamese women. They giggled and put their tiny hands to their mouths. They were wonderfully, breathtakingly, and unassumingly naked.
“There’s not a product in the world that a naked woman doesn’t help sell, Mr. President.” The short man dropped the curtain.
Nam-A-Rama Page 6
