Special Ops

by W. E. B Griffin

  “But you will have time for lunch?”

  “Of course,” Felter said. “Very kind of you, sir.”

  Captain Portet of Intercontinental Air came down the ladder and put his arm around the shoulders of Captain Portet of Air Simba.

  “Well, aren’t you the fashion plate?” he asked. “What’s that all about?”

  “I’ll tell you over lunch,” Jack said. “Every time I called and got through, you weren’t there, and I thought you’d rather hear about my conversation with Mobutu straight, rather than relayed through Hanni or Marjorie.”

  “Okay. There’ll be time. Marjorie has visions of you up to your ass in lions and cannibals in the bush,” he said. “Shall I disillusion her?”

  One hour and twenty-three minutes later, Intercontinental Air Ltd.’s Flight 1002 lifted off from Stanleyville, bound for Kamina, where it would take on fuel for the return flight to the United States.

  It had left behind one partially disassembled DeHavilland L-20 Beaver; one partially disassembled Cessna L-19 Birddog; and other supplies, ranging from 10-in-1 rations and ammunition through aviation and ground radios and aircraft parts, so many of them that the airplane had been more than a little over the prescribed maximum gross takeoff weight when it left Pope Field, North Carolina.

  It would return to Stanleyville, Colonel Felter informed Colonel Supo, just as soon as it could, within a week at the latest, bringing another partially disassembled L-19, a partially disassembled Bell H-13 helicopter (capable of use as either a medical evacuation aircraft or as an aerial gun platform with two .30-caliber machine guns, depending on what was fixed to the skids), additional supplies of all kinds, and, with a little bit of luck, two more aviators.

  XVIII

  [ ONE ]

  Apartment B-14

  Foster Garden Apartments

  Fayetteville, North Carolina

  1730 12 March 1965

  When Mrs. Marjorie Bellmon Portet, who was wearing blue jeans and a sweater, answered her door, she found her father-in-law, Captain Jean-Phillipe Portet, and Colonel Sanford T. Felter standing there. Both were in full uniform, and neither looked very happy.

  Her heart sank and her face went white.

  “Jesus!” she said.

  “If I can read your mind, honey,” Felter said, “Jack is fine.”

  "Hello, Marjorie,” Captain Portet said, and leaned forward and kissed her cheek.

  “The other thing happens, as you damned well know,” Marjorie said to Felter. She leaned down and kissed him on the cheek. “Come on in—you have just solved my booze problem.”

  “What booze problem is that?” Captain Portet asked.

  “I had just—although I really wanted one—talked myself out of a double scotch because I know you shouldn’t drink alone.”

  “Then we can all have a double scotch—I need one, too,” Felter said. “And then we’ll take you out for dinner.”

  She led him into the kitchen, where an unopened bottle of scotch sat on the bare kitchen table.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “Strange,” Felter said, “I would have thought your first question would be ‘How’s my Jack?’ ”

  “I have also been trying to force myself not to think about my Jack,” Marjorie said. “Okay. How’s my Jack?”

  “When we left him, beer glass in hand, he was fine. He was all in white,” Portet said. “Shirt, shorts, knee-high stockings, and shoes.”

  “What’s that all about?” Marjorie asked, handing him a whiskey glass. “Jack, in white shorts?”

  “And knee-high stockings,” Felter said. “It’s an involved story, but Jack is operating Air Simba, and that, apparently, is the uniform for that.”

  He touched her glass with his.

  “I’ve had visions of him stalking around the steamy jungle while a lion, three lions . . . what do they call it?—a pride of lions—stalked him.”

  Portet chuckled.

  “The only thing Jack’s being stalked by is the number-one boy with a fresh supply of cold beer.”

  “We had lunch in the roof garden on top of the Immoquateur building,” Felter added. “Broiled fish, steamed vegetables, white linen, crystal, china . . . very nice. But a little strange, really.”

  “How strange?” Marjorie asked.

  “Stanleyville is a ghost town,” Captain Portet answered for him. “You don’t see much evidence—except for vandalized trucks and cars—that the Simbas were ever there, or for that matter very much evidence of the hell of a fight the Simbas put up when the Belgians jumped on it. A few bullet holes here and there, and lots of missing glass, but—”

  “And there’s virtually no whites, no Belgians,” Felter interjected. “I don’t know how many want to come back, but Jack said the government is discouraging those that do want to. Mobutu won’t—can’t—afford to station enough troops there to protect it.”

  “Jack’s there,” Marjorie said. “Who’s protecting him?”

  “Three Congolese paratroops,” Felter said. “Colonel Supo— he’s the Congolese officer running things—insists on that.”

  “If there’s nobody there, why are they there?”

  “They’re going to use Stanleyville as sort of their air base,” Felter said. “Supo has his headquarters in Costermansville, but the airfield for Costermansville is across the border in Rwanda, and keeping black airplanes there overnight, or for repair, would be awkward. They can land on a broad street—”

  “Avenue Bernard,” Captain Portet furnished. “In the daytime, and there are dirt strips out of town where they can stay overnight, but no place to maintain them.”

  “—once they get the planes up and flying,” Felter went on. “Father Lunsford said they’re—he and Jack and Doubting Thomas—probably going to move to Costermansville.”

  “I think that’s probably because the Hotel du Lac in Costermansville is back in business,” Portet said. “And Jack always liked staying there.”

  Felter chuckled.

  “So, back to my first question, what are you doing here?”

  “Having the airplane reloaded,” Portet said. “We couldn’t carry everything in one haul.”

  “You’re going back over there?”

  “We’re not,” Portet said. “The plane is. None of the pilots that came with Intercontinental had ever been to Africa before, so I thought I should make the first trip a training flight. They’re going to send a plane for Sandy, and you and I are on the 9:05 Southern flight out of here for Miami, via Atlanta, in the morning. Is there someplace I can rest my weary head?”

  “Last question first,” Marjorie said. “There’s always room for you here, and I may even throw in breakfast, but I don’t know about going to Miami with you.”

  “Hanni’s orders,” he said. “And thus have to be obeyed. We can talk about it over dinner.”

  “And if I can use your phone, honey,” Felter said, “I will call my bride and tell her I’m back.”

  “Help yourself, Uncle Sandy,” Marjorie said.

  Damn it, I don’t want to go to Miami.

  Damn Jack. I’m worried sick, and he’s having broiled fish in a roof garden, swilling beer, and running around in white shorts and knee-length socks.

  Damn, I miss him!

  At dinner in the main officers’ club at Fort Bragg, and to which General and Mrs. Hanrahan and Captain and Mrs. Oliver were also invited—primarily, Marjorie decided, so that they could be brought up to date on conditions in the Congo, and be told what would be required of them—Mrs. Marjorie Portet had one additional drink of scotch whiskey, and two glasses of wine with the entrée, and a Grand Marnier with her coffee.

  She also learned:

  That Mrs. General Hanrahan had spoken only that afternoon with Mrs. General Bellmon, who really wanted Marjorie to come home to wait for Jack.

  That the Intercontinental Air 707 would, if things went well, and there was no reason they shouldn’t, lift off from Pope the next afternoon at 1700. Th
e crew was already out there, getting the aircraft ready.

  That there was a really good program at Fort Bragg, personally run by Mrs. General-Commanding-the-XVIII-Airborne-Corps to keep the wives of young officers away on TDY busy and entertained.

  That the Hotel du Lac in Costermansville, Republic of the Congo, was really nice, and that Jack would almost certainly be staying in the top-floor suite, which Air Simba kept permanently to house its crews.

  That Mrs. Liza Wood Oliver was really looking forward to having Marjorie help her select furniture and drapes for the 2,700-square -foot three-bedroom Dutch Colonial that she and Captain Oliver had purchased at a price that was a real steal.

  That it wasn’t at all true that Central Africa was a steaming jungle. Costermansville, which was on the amazingly clear waters of Lake Albert—the Hotel du Lac’s cocktail bar balcony was over the lake and you could see the fish in the water while you had your drinks—was a delightful place, 5,800 feet above sea level, and the climate always reminded Captain Portet of San Francisco: nice days and cool nights.

  That, since the Intercontinental Air Cargo 707 wouldn’t be carrying nearly as much weight as it had on the first flight, and given a decent jet stream, it was entirely possible that after taking on fuel in Casablanca, Morocco, it would be able to make Stanleyville with enough fuel remaining for the relatively short hop from there to Kamina, where it would refuel for the return flight to Miami.

  That that would be a good thing, because there were all sorts of zealous Congolese bureaucrats who had to be dealt with at Kamina, and the authority at Stanleyville was now Lieutenant Colonel Dahdi, who wasn’t about to ask questions about aircraft, weapons or anything else.

  That, unfortunately, it looked as if Jack was going to have to stay in the Congo for at least ninety days, and maybe even a little longer. Maybe, if that happened. Marjorie could fly to Brussels, and Jack could fly up, and they could have at least a couple of days together.

  “You do have your passport, don’t you, honey?” Captain Portet inquired.

  I’m drunk, Mrs. Marjorie Bellmon Portet decided. I had that double scotch at the house, and another one here, and the wine, and then the Grand Marnier. What I’m thinking is the booze talking.

  [ TWO ]

  Pope Air Force, North Carolina

  1635 13 March 1965

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” the Air Force air policeman said, “this is a restricted area. I can’t let you through.”

  “I was told it was a restricted area,” Marjorie said. “Captain Oliver expects me.”

  “Ma’am, I have my orders.”

  “Not all of them, apparently,” Marjorie said. “Please take me to Captain Oliver.”

  She was only a lieutenant’s wife, but on the other hand, she had spent most of her life as a general’s daughter. With that background, she spoke with a certain assurance.

  “It’s all right, Sergeant,” Captain Oliver said to the air policeman. “I’ll take care of Mrs. Portet.”

  He waited until the sergeant had driven off.

  “That’s for Jack, huh?” he asked, nodding at her two suitcases. “We should have thought of that last night; it would have saved you the trip out here.”

  “Johnny, why don’t you take off?” Marjorie said. “That way, you can truthfully say the last time you saw me I was talking to the crew, and you thought I was just going to give them suitcases for Jack.”

  “You’re insane,” he said, immediately taking her meaning.

  “Last night, I thought I was drunk,” she said. “But I’m stone sober now, and the question still is ‘why the hell not?’ ”

  “Oh, Jesus, Marjorie!”

  Marjorie picked up her suitcases and started up the ladder to the cargo door of the 707.

  She had just reached the top when a gray-haired man in a white shirt, the epaulets of which bore the four stripes of a captain, came out of the airplane.

  “Can I help you, ma’am?”

  “I’m Mrs. Portet,” Marjorie said. “I’m going with you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “My father-in-law said he would try to phone before he caught the flight to Atlanta. Didn’t he?”

  “No, ma’am, he didn’t.”

  “Well, no problem,” Marjorie said. “I’m here.”

  She fished in her purse and came out with a set of car keys. “Johnny,” she called. “I almost forgot. Take care of Jack’s car for me, will you, like a darling?”

  He caught the keys.

  Marjorie looked at the captain expectantly. After a moment, he understood she was waiting for him to pick up her bags.

  He did so, and carried them into the airplane, and installed the new boss’s daughter-in-law in a seat. Then he went back out onto the head of the movable stairs, intending to ask the Army captain what the hell was going on.

  The Army captain was walking toward Base Operations, and when the captain called to him, apparently couldn’t hear him.

  “Oh, what the hell,” the captain said, and signaled for the ground crewmen to move the stairs away from the fuselage.

  Then, with a grunt, he hauled on the door until it began to move.

  He walked through the cabin and stopped at Marjorie’s chair.

  “We’ll be lifting off in a couple of minutes,” he said. “Once we’re in the air, there’s a thermos of coffee on the bulkhead.”

  “Thank you very much,” Marjorie said, giving him her most dazzling smile.

  [ THREE ]

  Quarters #9

  Fort Bragg, North Carolina

  1910 13 March 1965

  “Good evening, sir,” Captain John S. Oliver said to Brigadier General Paul R. Hanrahan, as Hanrahan got out of his car.

  “Jesus, you scared hell out of me,” Hanrahan said. “Why the hell are you lurking in the dark corners of my garage?”

  “I thought it best if Mrs. Hanrahan didn’t see me, General,” Oliver said. “She would certainly have asked me what was on my mind.”

  “And what is on your mind that wouldn’t wait until tomorrow morning? And that you didn’t want my bride to ask about?”

  “Sir, I think I have fucked up by the numbers,” Oliver said.

  “How?”

  The door from the house to the garage opened. Patricia Hanrahan stepped into the garage.

  “I thought I heard voices in here,” she said. “Hello, Johnny. What’s on your mind?”

  “Captain Oliver was just about to tell me,” Hanrahan said.

  “Marjorie got on the Intercontinental Air 707,” Oliver said.

  “So what?” Hanrahan said. “It’s her father-in-law’s airplane, and I really suspect she has a good idea of what’s going on.”

  “And then the airplane took off for Casablanca,” Oliver finished.

  “She can’t do that,” Patricia Hanrahan said.

  “She did it, Mrs. Hanrahan,” Oliver said. “And I’m the dummy responsible.”

  “Let’s go in the house,” Hanrahan said. “I need a drink, and I think Oliver could use one.”

  “What is she, crazy?” Patricia Hanrahan said.

  “On reflection, Captain,” General Hanrahan said several minutes later, “the situation is probably not as bad as it seems at first glance.”

  “Oh, Red,” Patricia protested, “how could it be any worse? You’re going to have to tell Barbara Bellmon. I won’t.” She paused and then warmed to the subject. “Why didn’t you stop her, Johnny? Throw her over your shoulder if you had to?”

  “You’re right,” Oliver said. “That’s what I should have done.”

  “Or called the MPs,” Patricia Hanrahan said.

  “May I say something?” General Hanrahan asked, and when they both looked at him, he went on. “Legally, Marjorie did nothing wrong. She is twenty-one, and enjoys all the rights of any other citizen, which means if she wants to go to Africa, she can go to Africa.”

  “That’s stupid, and you know it,” Mrs. Hanrahan said.

  “Possibly, but it’
s a fact,” Hanrahan said.

  “Bob Bellmon’s going to go right through the roof, and so is Sandy Felter, and with every right,” Patricia said.

  “For the time being, we are not going to say anything to either Bob or Sandy,” Hanrahan said. “Or anybody else.”

  “They’ll find out,” Patricia said. “You know they will.”

  “By the time they find out, I think she’ll be back here,” Hanrahan said. “And then it can be just a funny story to tell.”

  “What’s funny?”

  “Marjorie flew all the way to Africa to be with Jack, and then had to fly all the way back, because she didn’t have a visa, and they wouldn’t even let her out of the airport—just flew her straight home. Ha ha.”

  “I’m almost sure she doesn’t have a visa for the Congo,” Oliver said.

  “The story I got was that it took Jean-Philippe Portet having to go to the Congolese ambassador personally and remind him he was a pal of General Mobutu to get visas for Felter and the others, ” Hanrahan said, and then had an unpleasant second thought: “Unless she’s been planning this all along?”

  “She said she got the idea last night at dinner,” Oliver reported.

  “And I know why,” Patricia said. “The picture Sandy and Jean-Philippe painted for her of Jack all dressed in white and living in a hotel on a lake. No wonder she wanted to go. Men are such damned fools!”

  "On that philosophical note, Captain Oliver, I think you can go home to your wife.”

  "Yes, sir,” Oliver said. “Sir, their radio is scheduled to be on the Net no later than 2400 tonight. Should I send Father a heads-up? ”

  “No, you will not, repeat not, send Father a heads-up. If Father, or Jack, knew that Marjorie was coming, they would somehow arrange for the Congolese foreign minister to be waiting when the airplane landed with a visa and a bouquet of flowers.”

  “Yeah,” Oliver agreed.

  “They’re not going to let her into the Congo without a visa,” Hanrahan said. “She doesn’t have a visa, and I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they turned her back at Casablanca, before she even gets to the Congo.” He paused. “I’m glad you didn’t throw her over your shoulder, Johnny. That would have been hard to explain to General Bellmon, and Jack would probably try to cast . . . punch you in the nose.”