I Am Soldier of Fortune

by Brown, Robert, Spencer, Vann

  “What are we doing about the Cubans and Nicaraguans coming to the Pan Am Games?” I asked.

  “To my knowledge, nothing, boss,” came the reply. “Not good enough,” I growled, and the planning session was underway.

  With a timetable centered around the opening of the Games, barely 10 days away, gallons of spare midnight oil and quantities of Skoal were laid in. What was our mission? “We’re gonna let people know those commie bastards come here to spy on the United States.” The concept of the operation was about as simple as that. Execution, though, was a bit more difficult.

  Our first major planning and idea throwing session took place on Monday, 3 August, less than a week before opening day. The main problem was how to most effectively get the word out that Cuban and Nicaraguan security and intelligence personnel would be accompanying their athletic delegations to the Games.

  We knew they’d be there, of course. It was common knowledge within the intelligence community. Whenever any contingent traveled to the United States from a communist country, the heavies invariably came along. Their job was to provide security for their people. However, on a more insidious basis as any defector will tell you, they come to prevent defections to the United States. And they come to spy. Someone brought up the point that a few unseasoned reporters would no doubt query: What intelligence value could Indianapolis offer Havana or Managua? Another staffer with a long intel background summed it up: “Intelligence work is 99 percent information gathering. Bits of information here, bits of in -formation there. How people dress; the kinds of things they’re talking about; air, bus and rail schedules; prices; locations of federal, state and city offices; security at the entrance to Fort Ben Harrison; and personal contacts.”

  “It all adds up,” he continued. “Ten or 20 agents report back; their information is analyzed, processed and transformed into an intelligence picture.”

  He jammed his cigarette out in an ashtray. “Next time an agent comes through, he or she has a good working knowledge about what to expect. Kind of like seeing the test before the exam.”

  Ideas for “getting the word out” bounced around like ping-pong balls. How about radio spots? We could rent a billboard . . . take out a full-page newspaper ad. Paul Fanshaw, our in-house former French Foreign legionnaire, volunteered to skydive into the stadium, dumping leaflets on the way down. I was leaning toward authorizing the project when someone observed, “Great idea, boss, but Fanshaw will probably get arrested.” And that was the end of that.

  Leaflets. That was the answer. English on one side, Spanish on the other. Pass them out at the Games. That’ll get the message across. With the concept finalized, the office became bedlam. Who would we send back east? Could we print the leaflets in time and get them out there? How would we distribute once on-station?

  By Saturday, 8 August, the answers had sorted themselves out. A staffer with connections in Indianapolis organized a distribution team. The leaflets themselves were rush-printed and sent overnight express. My scheduled trip to Central America went off as planned; I didn’t even miss my flight.

  Did we accomplish our mission? Undeniably, yes. Word of our $25,000 offer spread like wildfire. Even the Cuban delegation to the Games lodged an official protest. Did anyone defect? We never did have to pay.

  MEANTIME, I TRY SHORTCUTS TO EASY STREET

  I’m not much of a gambler so I can’t explain why I have been suckered into so many schemes to get rich. First in grad school I invested in a failed Beryllium mine prospect that mined more money out of investors’ pockets than it did the ground. Then a couple of dry oil wells. Then there was the altruistic purchase of stock in a corporation allegedly developing cutting edge technology to identify breast cancer, which went down the tube. I’ve often thought of starting a consulting business, in which for a significant sum of money, I would guarantee not to buy stock in my clients’ firms.

  NEW GUINEA GOLD

  But some of the investments I made that never paid off were a kick in the ass. Most were just a kick in the bank account. Like trying to locate and recover gold a priest had allegedly horn-swoggled from natives in New Guinea before WWII and who, as the Japs approached, enlisted the aid of a young American medic to hide the treasure. He hid it so well that he could never find it again. Even my much more financially conservative brother, Alan Brown, with an ever-cheery demeanor set off with a blond brush cut and blue eyes over a long distance swimmer’s body, was sucked in with the lure of gold. Peder Lund, tough, bushy eye-browed no bull guy, also fell in with us. So did Brigadier General Hiney “Heinie” Aderholt, who had somehow run into this “key” to hidden treasure. At the time, coauthor Vann gave SOFreaders a detached scoop on the scam.

  “RKB, his brother Alan Brown, Peder Lund and a daffy, conniving old-timer called Posey had planned a rendezvous in one of the local hotels. The late General Heine Aderholdt, always up to some scheme if it involved money, had introduced the three to the old-time shyster who convinced the group that millions of dollars in gold bars were stashed in the walls of a parsonage in Papua, New Guinea. Mind you, this was early 2000 and this group’s search for the New Guinea gold had been going on for nearly two decades.

  “In what proved to be a most entertaining evening, I watched the three, with a crazed, lusty gleam in their eyes as they tried both right side up and upside down to read a probably phony, indecipherable map that was going to show exactly where the gold was stashed away over half a century ago behind the walls of an ancient parsonage. Venerable old Posey’s eyes twinkled with glee, winking at me slyly, as he knew that I was on to his scheme.

  “According to Alan Brown, the gold bars were worth over $ 3 million at the time the good pastor stashed it away to hide it from the approaching Japanese in WWII, and at least $34 million at the time of the meeting.

  “Now it takes a great leap of faith to believe that the good pastor was paid that much for his selfless services in an impoverished country, even if he had lived several lifetimes. It takes an even greater leap of faith to believe that the good minister did not go back for his stash, unless he and all his ancestors had died, that is, and no one knew whether they had or not. This SOF group had taken that great leap and there was no going back. These guys, dead serious about the con, shot me withering glances, wishing me to evaporate, annoyed at my undisguised amusement. It’s called gold fever and I got a firsthand taste of what drove the California Gold Rush. These investors had it bad. Or maybe to them it was another wild adventure that gave him an escape from publishing woes.

  “Anyhow, after sending the conniving old timer on many free pleasure trips to his WWII stomping grounds, and a few expeditions with his patrons; and after the gold seekers invested in metal detectors, lots of airfares and hotel rooms and other extravagances, having spent a small fortune, the group finally gave up on the deal and the old timer died with his secrets.”

  I have dismissed from my mind the description of the devious old hoot that did the sucking.

  THE PIPER AZTEC AND SMUGGLING INTO MEXICO

  Then there was the twin-engine Piper Aztec with long-range fuel tanks that John Donovan and I bought through Ed Dearborne, a legendary Air America pilot in Southeast Asia. Dearborne, a fucking bum who still owes me $13,000, was the private sector advisor to the Contras meager airforce. We were going to smuggle electronics—TV’s, Microwaves, etc., from the U.S. into Mexico. It was not against American law but was a violation of Mexican law, if they had any. Dearborne, a rugged, square-jawed pilot, got us a pilot, Rocky Newsome. Nothing happened; and then more nothing; then simply nothing. This went on for months—no Mexican customs busting—until the Mexicans figured out they could solve the problem by shooting down interlopers. So ended that not-so-clever smuggling venture, which we figured was even less clever when we found out good old boy pilot Newsome couldn’t get a contract to haul the contraband because he had already crashed three planes. Donovan and I at least sold the plane, which we never saw, and only lost a few grand.

  A NEAR
KILLER KEVLAR BOAT

  But the most intriguing and adventuresome venture was when John Donovan, Dr. John Peters and I invested in a Kevlar-hulled, fast attack boat built by the Harley Boat Company. I had been lured into the deal at a meeting during the 1982 SOF Convention with two former CIA agents and a former Brown River Navy man from Nam, Lt. Commander Karl Phaler. Phaler’s pitch was intriguing. Using this relatively new concept of using lightweight Kevlar in boat construction, we could save mucho weight and go mucho faster. Thus, ipso facto, the U.S. Navy, Customs, Coast Guard, and foreign navies would be our market.

  Two boats, a 27-footer and a 42-footer, were built by Harley and shipped to Phaler who had an office and a slip at Marina Del Rey in San Diego. Phaler, anorexic thin, graying hair and piercing blue eyes that would wilt the fervor of a hangman, was wired to the gills 24/7 with nicotine and caffeine. A former lawyer, he was brilliant, though some would say raving mad. His IQ must have ranged up around 180.

  He sold the Navy command in San Diego on the concept of hiring our fast attack boats to play the part of aggressors in naval exercises focusing on defending against attacks by small boats. This was before the Navy faced the threat of swarm attacks of small Iranian boats in the Persian Gulf.

  Phaler was extremely opinionated and, even worse, extremely vocal. He ended up getting in a letter writing wrestling match with the Chief of Naval Operations (CNO), who got so irritated by Phaler’s persistence that he ordered the Navy command in San Diego to refuse to pay Phaler and our company $1,000 for services rendered during the exercises. As my brother, Alan, a former Navy officer, said, “When you get in a pissing contest with the CNO to the extent that he gets down to the level of $1,000 issues, you know you are screwed.”

  Surprise—no sales to the Navy. Phaler’s other problem was that he was insistent on browbeating potential purchasers, that he rather than they should decide what type of engines, transmissions, electronics and weapons systems should go along with the Kevlar-hulled boat. This didn’t go over well. With his offensive, know-it-all attitude, he couldn’t have even been a successful used car salesman. I kept telling him, “Karl, Karl, we don’t give a shit what kind of engines they put in it. They can power it with rubber bands, or hamsters on a treadmill for all we care. All we want to do is sell hulls!” He wouldn’t listen.

  There was one unanticipated side benefit from this impending disaster. We hauled the boat back to the east coast for demonstrations to various government officials including the Director of Customs, Willie Von Rabb. We also had a meeting with Ollie North in his office to try and use his influence to obtain sales. (As mentioned earlier, it was during this meeting that we decided SOF should offer $1,000,000 for a defecting San-dinista Mi-24.)

  Phaler came up with a concept to gain cheap publicity for our dead-in-the-water project. “Look, guys, we will take the 42-footer and break the world speed record on the sea of Cortez between San Filipe and Cabo San Lucas.”

  “Well,” I said, “Why not. I haven’t risked my life recently and I’m bored.” Donovan and my bro, Alan, decided also, “Why not?”

  Karl drove his pickup truck from San Diego to the Baja in Mexico. The sea was too choppy and rough for the first three days. The hotel we stayed in had no hot water and bad Mexican food. We were the only guests. “Let’s get a beer,” I told the guys the first night. Phaler and his mechanic opted out, but Donovan and I went wandering.

  We ended up in the Perro Negro (the Black Dog). The tables and chairs were bolted to the floor, and the beer was served in plastic cups. We knew we had a problem. We were the only gringos in town, and the locals were hostile, to say the least. We downed our beers and got the hell out of Dodge before there was an international incident. So much for the nightlife.

  On day four, Karl and Donovan went down to the beach, and swells were 5 feet high, but we figured that was good as we could get. Donavan remembered, “Karl felt that we could average 50 mph, breaking the speed record for the 350 mile run. We packed water and sandwiches from the hotel and departed. No radio. No flares. No extra gear. Into the sea we went, along with a mechanic.”

  My brother, with four years of Navy experience, suddenly decided that he had some urgent business and headed back to San Diego. We later found out that he decided this project was doomsday folly as there were no other boats at sea and the weather was kicking up heavy seas. His “business” he decided was not to drown.

  We were going 50 mph as planned at first and bucking 5-foot swells, but it was not bad enough to keep Donovan, who enjoyed his chow, from eating. I told him he better quit inhaling all that food or he would run out on the long trip. I put rest of it in the back of the boat in a box.

  The swells reached 15 feet high and were getting wilder. Within three hours of taking off, the deck started taking water. The food was floating in the sea water. An hour later, we were running five miles from the shore of the jungle with no other boats in sight. Karl was sick as a dog by then and the wild seas were reaching 20—30 feet high. The water pumps were running full time and the boat was beating around so violently that it was about to capsize. We started taking more water when the deck started to peel back from the hull.

  “How much trouble are we in?” we asked Phaler.

  “Don’t talk about it,” Phaler, who was by then green, said.

  After six hours out, Karl told us to be on the lookout for a place to harbor up. Then a maverick wave shattered the windscreen. Karl finally got the message. No world record today or ever. We finally chugged into a small village and docked for the next six hours. Then we headed back to San Filipe. The lights weren’t working but Phaler navigated us to shore by some miracle and docked the boat.

  Donavan was seeing red. “I’m walking back to the hotel,” he roared, jumping out of the boat, only to sink up to his waist. He told us to go ahead without him and meet him at the bar. An hour after we finally got to the hotel, Donovan came dragging in.

  We ran out of money, sold no boats, and gave up on that very expensive get-rich-quick scheme.

  26

  HOSTAGE TO HOLLYWOOD

  SOF DUO MAKES FILM DEBUT

  “AYE SAY, old chaps, there will be no obscene or vulgar language in the studio or on location. A good movie does not have to have profanity, sex or violence,” the Director announced.

  John Donovan looked at me and I looked at him—the message passed at a glance: with this rude introduction, our movie careers were off to a rocky start.

  Some weeks earlier in 1986, a Special Forces Reserve buddy of Donovan’s, Michael Leighton, who made a fortune from computerizing the commodity market which he managed to piss away making “B” movies in Tinsel Town over a decade contacted me,

  “Brown, how about playing a role in a movie I am going to film in South Africa? You play the commander of a group of mercenaries out to whack a bunch of Muslim terrorists who had kidnapped the grandson of a wealthy businessman. I also want you to be the technical advisor.” he said.

  I wasn’t particularly enamored with the idea as I’d already had a walk-on role in the movie, Stagecoach which was filmed near Nederland, Colorado, in 1966. There was plenty of star power—Slim Pickens, Stephanie Powers, Bing Crosby, Ann Margaret, Robert Cummings—and a lot of waiting around. I was a stand in for Robert Cummings, which meant I rode in the stage coach and fired blanks at charging Indians. They weren’t real Indians but Hollywood stunt men with make-up. The real Indians who had been brought on location, kept riding their horses down to the small hippie-infested mountain town of Nederland and getting drunk and they were eventually sent back to their reservation. And if you think anyone ever shot an Indian on a galloping horse out of a bouncing stage coach, you are smoking too many funny cigarettes.

  Being on location was disillusioning as I got to see how phony Hollywood was. For instance, when the “Injuns” were chasing the stagecoach, the movie carpenters simply moved some rocks and trees around over a 50-yard stretch of ground, giving the impression that the action was going on ov
er half-a-mile. The major lesson I learned was to bring lots of books to location.

  However, although the money offered for this South Africa venture— $500 a week and expenses—was far from attractive, the fact that we would shoot for 10 days, be off 10 days and then shoot for 10 days would allow me to go hunting for a week and a half which would make it worth while.

  “I will only do it if you bring over Donovan and write him into the movie,” I insisted. I had no intention of being limited to associating with a bunch of fruity film personalities for the best part of a month.

  Leighton flew me out to Hollywood to meet the director, a South African. I met with him in Leighton’s office, and said, “I think you should let me get former Rhodesian SAS veterans to play the parts of my mercenary team, trying to play my role as technical advisor.”

  “I say,” he whined, “We’ll get the extras from central casting.” Though Donovan and I were also to be the technical advisors, it was obvious this dork was going to listen to no one but his “inner-self.”

  In Africa, during the first day in the studio we found we had come all that way to play parts in a movie about mercenaries directed by a powder puff named Percival who didn’t understand that soldiers don’t talk, or act, like church deacons.

  Leighton elected to film in South Africa where there were no labor unions and where the government was desperate for business. I sensed there was some kind of currency hanky-panky but never uncovered the details. Leighton brought over a bunch of fading movie stars from America, including Karen Black and Kevin McCarthy, who was a real pro, and Wings Hauser.

  As I was leaving Leighton’s office I ran into Karen Black, who played the part of a rundown, aging porno star, who, while waiting to be interviewed by Percival, started singing opera in a gurgling voice. While being driven to the airport by one of Leighton’s foxy assistants, I asked her: “Is Karen Black crazy?” She responded smugly, and grimacing said, “All actresses are crazy.”