Special Ops
Page 28
Father laughed.
“That was Hanrahan’s way of announcing that the army had decided that since Special Forces had really gotten started in Greece, and people who had served there—you knew Hanrahan was our colonel there, Felter’s and mine?—”
Lunsford nodded.
“—so anybody who was there could consider himself a Green Beret.”
“I thought it got started in Korea?”
“Not by that name,” Lowell said. “Bull Simon came back from Korea and started it at Bragg.”
“Just for the record, mi coronel, I think you’re as entitled to the beret as anybody I ever met,” Lunsford said.
Lowell looked at him for a moment.
“Thank you,” he said simply.
“My name is Lowell, Corporal,” Lowell said to the Marine guard in the lobby of the American Embassy. “This is Major Lunsford. We’d like to see Colonel Harris, the army attaché, please.”
“Sir, Colonel McGrory left word that if you showed up here, I was to send you to his office.”
“You’ve relayed Colonel McGrory’s message, Corporal. Now please call Colonel Harris and tell him that I’d like to see him,” Lowell snapped, and was immediately sorry. “Corporal, the truth is I’m just a little hungover. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
The Marine corporal didn’t reply, but he picked up his telephone, dialed a number, and told whoever answered, "U.S. Army Lieutenant Colonel Lowell and one other officer to see Colonel Harris.”
Master Sergeant Douglas Wilson came into the foyer less than two minutes later. He saluted.
“Good morning, sir. We’ve been expecting you. Sir, the defense attaché, Colonel McGrory, wants to see you right away.”
“Sergeant, I’ll see Colonel McGrory when I’ve completed my business with Colonel Harris.”
“Yes, sir. Right this way, please, gentlemen?”
The moment they were out of sight, the Marine Corporal called the office of the defense attaché.
“Office of the defense attaché, Master Sergeant Ulrich speaking, sir.”
“Corporal Young at Post One, Sergeant. That Army colonel your colonel was looking for just came in the building. With a major.”
“I’ll come get him.”
“Sergeant, he told me to call Colonel Harris’s office, and Colonel Harris sent his sergeant to fetch him.”
“Okay. Colonel McGrory’s on the can. The minute he comes out, I’ll tell him. Thank you.”
The Marine corporal broke the connection and dialed another number.
“Mr. Stephens, this is Corporal Young at Post One. That Army officer you were asking about just came into the building. He’s on his way to Colonel Harris’s office.”
Lowell, with Lunsford on his heels, marched into Colonel Harris’s office, came to attention, and saluted.
“Sir, Lieutenant Colonel Lowell and Major Lunsford. Thank you for seeing us.”
Harris returned the salute.
“Colonel, did my sergeant major tell you that Colonel McGrory has expressed a strong desire that you report to him immediately, whenever you came into the embassy?”
“Yes, sir, he did,” Lowell replied, still at attention. “I have no business with Colonel McGrory, but I’ll see him when I’m finished here.”
“Colonel, Colonel McGrory’s request is really in the nature of an order.”
“Sir, may I show you my orders?” Lowell said. “They specifically state that both Major Lunsford and myself remain—”
Colonel H. Robert McGrory, USAF, visibly agitated, stormed into the room.
“Colonel Lowell,” Colonel Harris said, “Colonel H. Robert McGrory, the defense attaché.”
“Do you know how to obey orders, Colonel?” McGrory inquired.
“Yes, sir, I think I do.”
“Then, it might be fairly said, you have willfully disobeyed my orders?”
“Sir, with respect, you are not in a position to issue orders to me or Major Lunsford.”
“Goddamn your impertinence!” McGrory flared. “I am the senior military officer attached to the U.S. Embassy and—” he stopped in midsentence, having seen Mr. J. F. Stephens, the administrative officer for housing and medical services of the United States Information Service standing in Harris’s open door.
“Mr. Stephens,” McGrory said. “If you’re here to see Colonel Harris, give me just a minute, and these officers and I will be out of here.”
“Actually, Colonel,” Stephens said softly. “I’m here to see Colonel Lowell. Could you give me a minute, please?”
“Yes, of course,” McGrory said. “Colonel Lowell, you understand that you are to report to me immediately after Mr. Stephens concludes his business with you?”
“Yes, sir,” Lowell said.
McGrory left. Stephens closed the door.
“I called the Círculo Militar, and they told me you were coming here,” Stephens said. He took a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it to Lowell.
SECRET
Central Intelligence Agency Langley, Virginia
FROM: Assistant Director For Administration
FROM: 3 January 1965 2115 GMT
SUBJECT : Guevara, Ernesto (Memorandum #17.)
TO: Mr. Sanford T. Felter
Counselor To The President
Room 637, The Executive Office Building
Washington, D.C.
By Courier
In compliance with Presidential Memorandum to The Director, Subject: “Ernesto ‘Che’ Guevara,” dated 14 December 1964, the following information is furnished:
1. (Reliability Scale Five) (From CIA, Brazzaville, Congo (Brazzaville) SUBJECT arrived Brazzaville 0835 GMT 2 January 1965 aboard UTA Flight 4505. He was met at airfield by Prime Minister Pascal LISSOUBA and taken to Cuban Embassy.
2. (Reliability Scale Five) (From CIA, Brazzaville) SUBJECT met with President Alphonse MASSEMBA-DEBAT and LISSOUBA at Presidential Residence at 1245 GMT 2 January 1965 for lunch.
3. (Reliability Scale Three) (From CIA source) At luncheon MASSEMBA-DEBAT and LISSOUBA asked for Cuban military aid and expressed willingness to cooperate with liberation movement. SUBJECT promised to furnish instructors for guerrilla operations, weapons, and money.
Howard W. O’Connor
HOWARD W. O’CONNOR
SECRET
Lowell read it and handed it to Lunsford.
“Colonel, I’m sorry,” he said to Harris, “but I happen to know you don’t have the right clearance for that.”
“I understand,” Harris said.
“Will there be a reply, Colonel?” Stephens asked.
“Not a reply, but I sure would like access to your hot line, Mr. Stephens.”
“None of my business, of course, but could your message have something to do with Colonel McGrory?”
“Indeed it does,” Lowell said.
“Same address as before?” Mr. Stephens asked.
“Right,” Lowell said. “Colonel, could I have a sheet of paper?” Stephens gestured with his hand that that would not be necessary. He walked to Harris’s desk and held his hand over one of the telephones on it.
“Okay, Dick?”
“Help yourself,” Colonel Harris said. “Would you like me to step outside for a moment?”
“Up to Colonel Lowell,” Stephens said as he picked up the telephone.
“Is that what I think it is?” Lowell asked.
“This is Stephens,” the mousy little man said. “Put me through to the farm, please.”
There was a slight pause.
“Put me through to the White House switchboard,” Stephens said. He handed the phone to Lowell. “I presume you know the extension?”
“White House Secure,” a male voice said.
“Two-two-seven, please.”
“Mr. Finton speaking, sir.”
“Finton, Lowell.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Is he there?”
“I can reach him in ninety seconds, sir.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Life insurance sold, but the defense attaché here, an Air Force absolute asshole colonel named McGrory, is going to screw things up, and he has to be told firmly and immediately to butt out.”
“I’ll take care of it, Colonel.”
“The operative word, Finton, is immediately.”
“I’ll take care of it, Colonel,” Mr. Finton said. “Anything else, sir?”
“No. That’s it.”
“Yes, sir,” Mr. Finton said.
There was a click on the line.
“White House Secure. Have you finished?” the male operator asked.
“Yes, I have, thank you,” Lowell said, and hung the telephone up.
He looked at Colonel Harris.
“Sir, I regret my intemperate language.”
“Colonel, I think that’s what’s known as calling a spade a spade,” Colonel Harris said. “Do you think it’s going to work?”
“I devoutly hope so,” Lowell said.
“Why don’t you take a few minutes to collect your thoughts before reporting to Colonel McGrory?” Colonel Harris suggested. “Can I offer you and the major a cup of coffee?”
“That would be very kind, sir. And if you happen to have an Alka-Seltzer, something like that?”
“The colonel and the major were out until the wee hours last night,” Stephens said.
“Coming right up,” Harris said.
“For two, please, sir,” Father chimed in.
“So you sold our friend the life insurance, huh?” Stephens asked. “I didn’t have a clue whether you were going to get away with that.”
“You’re curious about that, are you, Mr. Stephens?” Lowell asked.
“What I’m curious about is what’s inside that building,” Stephens said. “It sure doesn’t look a place for an all-night party.”
“Just some old soldiers sitting around swapping war stories,” Lowell said. “You know how that goes.”
Stephens chuckled.
I’m probably not thinking too clearly, Lowell thought, but obviously Stephens has put together (a) Felter has got the CIA doing a “where-is-he” on Guevara with (b) that I’m in that loop and with (c) that I’m talking about it with Pistarini and SIDE and with (d) that I reported to Felter that I sold the life insurance. And he’s come up with Felter’s surrogate has sold the Argentines on not blowing Guevara away. Langley will hear about that, and probably within the next fifteen minutes.
You don’t get to be the CIA station chief anywhere unless you’re bright as hell, and this guy’s brighter than most, and that selling life insurance line didn’t need a rocket scientist to figure out.
Question: Why didn’t Felter arrange for me to have access to that secure radiotelephone? Why did he send that CIA report to Stephens to give to me?
Answer: (Probably severely influenced by most of a bottle of Argentine cognac, which went down as smoothly as Martel’s best) Sandy Felter does not share my high opinion of the CIA or its station chiefs. He wanted the CIA to know I’m down here, hoped they would send the station chief a heads-up. And since that might not happen, and in any case the presumption was this guy couldn’t find his ass with both hands, he set it up for him to find out himself. It would come to the CIA’s attention that a visiting officer was sending classified material, and he would want to know what that’s all about.
The CIA will now know that Pistarini—the C-in-C of the Argentina Army—is going along with him, and they can’t bitch that he’s interfering with their mission of making deals like this, because they don’t officially know about it.
Felter, you Machiavellian sonofabitch!
“We do that in the U.S. Information Agency, too,” Stephens said. “Sit around over a couple of drinks and tell propaganda stories, come up with the best way to win hearts and minds. You know how it is.”
“Yeah.” Lowell chuckled.
Colonel Harris handed him a glass with an Alka-Seltzer fizzing in its bottom.
“Sir,” Lowell said. “You may just have saved my life.”
“For example, apropos of nothing whatever, one of the times we were sitting around,” Stephens said, “one of the guys said that Che Guevara . . . you know who I mean? The guy with the beard and the beret?”
“I’ve heard the name,” Lowell said.
“Anyway, one of the guys said Guevara was going to give us hearts-and-minds problems, but maybe we would get lucky and he would have a fatal accident or something.”
“And what did you say to that?”
“I said if the sonofabitch had an accident, he would become an international saint, and that would really give us hearts-and-minds problems.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, of course, Mr. Stephens, but as a shot in the dark, I’d say you’re right on the money,” Lowell said.
From the smile that just flickered across your lips, Colonel Harris, I don’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure out that despite our cutesy-poo talking around the subject, you know exactly what Stephens and I are talking about. And if there are any questions unanswered, Stephens will answer them. And just as soon as Lunsford and I are out the door, you will tell Stephens what the L-23 is really for, and who the players are.
But we didn’t tell Stephens, and he probably won’t tell Langley, because if it came out they knew, Harris would have his ass in a crack. And if I can get Felter to keep that Air Force asshole out all of this, that’s going to be very useful.
And you had that all figured out, Sandy, didn’t you?
“How long are you going to be down here visiting Colonel Harris, Colonel?” Stephens asked. “I mean, if that’s not classified and you can tell me?”
“Another couple of days, but not long.”
“If there’s anything I can do for you—like set up a tour of the sights of Buenos Aires for you—or anything else, let me know.”
“I don’t think there’s going to be time for that,” Lowell said. “But I’m sure the officers and noncoms who are going to be coming down here to join Colonel Harris would really like something like that.”
“Consider it done,” Stephens said. “Well, I’ll leave you fellows alone. I know you’ve probably got military secrets and stuff like that to talk about.”
He held out his hand.
“It’s been a pleasure, Colonel,” he said, and then we walked to Lunsford and tapped Lunsford’s Silver Star.
“I heard where the last one came from, Major,” he said. “If you ever want to change employers, give me a call.”
He shook Lunsford’s hand and walked out the door.
Major Charles Daley, USAF, knocked at the door of the defense attaché, waited until permission to enter was granted, and then opened the door and stood in the center, almost at attention.
“Lieutenant Colonel Lowell to see you, sir.”
“Permission granted,” Colonel H. Robert McGrory said.
Lowell marched into the office, stopped thirty inches from Colonel McGrory’s desk, came to attention, saluted, and said, “Sir, Lieutenant Colonel Lowell reporting to the defense attaché as ordered.”
McGrory crisply returned the salute.
“Major, I do not wish to be disturbed,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” Major Daley said, and left the office.
“You took your time getting here, Colonel,” McGrory said. “I will want, of course, to get into the nature of your business with Mr. Stephens, but we will get to that in a moment.”
Lowell, who was still standing at attention, his eyes focused six inches over McGrory’s head, did not reply.
McGrory had a yellow lined pad on his desk. Lowell dropped his eyes very quickly, long enough to see that it was a list of his sins, which Colonel McGrory was arranging sequentially.
The door opened. Major Daley was standing in it.
“You may stand at ease, Colonel,” McGrory said.
You sonofabitch, you didn’t “for
get” to put me at ease. If that major hadn’t shown up, I’d still be at attention.
“Major Daley, I thought I made it clear that I did not wish to be disturbed.”
“Sir, it’s the vice chief of staff,” Major Daley said.
“What?”
“It’s the vice chief of staff of the Air Force, sir.”
“Would you like me to step outside, Colonel?” Lowell asked.
“You stand right where you are!” McGrory flared, and added, “At attention.”
Lowell popped to attention.
Colonel McGrory picked up his telephone.
“Colonel McGrory speaking, General,” he said.
“Yes, sir. He’s in my office at this moment, General.”
“Yes, sir,” Colonel McGrory said.
He repeated this at least ten times in the next ninety seconds, and then put the telephone back in its cradle.
He looked at Lowell. His face was white.
“My orders, Colonel, are to ask of you how I may be of service to your mission here. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“No, sir.”
“In that case, we have nothing to discuss, do we?”
“I don’t believe we do, sir.”
“You may take your post, Colonel.”
“Yes, sir,” Lowell said. He saluted. The salute was returned. Lowell executed an about-face movement and walked out of Colonel McGrory’s office.
As he passed Major Daley, he winked.
[ TWO ]
Dependent Services Branch
Office of the Assistant Chief of Staff for Personnel
Headquarters, XVIII Airborne Corps and Fort Bragg, North
Carolina
0830 5 January 1965
It was not the first time she had registered a car on a post, and when Mrs. Marjorie Portet walked into the rambling, one-story frame building (built in 1940 and intended to last no more than ten years), she was reasonably convinced that she had everything that she would need with her.
First, a copy of Jack’s orders assigning him (them, as she now thought of it) to Fort Bragg. The car’s title. The certificate of insurance. A Xerox of his driver’s license, and a just-issued-by-the -provost-marshal certificate that the Jaguar’s headlights and stoplights worked and were properly adjusted; that the tires had an adequate amount of tread depth; that the brakes had an adequate amount of lining; that the horn made a proper amount of noise and the exhaust system did not make an excessive amount of noise and did not emit a cloud of noxious fumes.