"That's the one that looks like the old Colt six-shooter?" the Graf had asked.
"Uh huh," Felter said. "I've got one with a 7.S-inch barrel it has adjustable sights, and the springs are coil springs. It's not a copy, you understand, but an improvement on the Colt."
"So I've heard," the Graf had said.
When he went home, Felter went to the Alexandria, Virginia, Ace Hardware Store to buy the Graf a Ruger Super Blackhawk .44 and a couple of hundred rounds Of ammunition for it. Felter had few friends, and the Graf was one of them, and he owed him a thousand favors and courtesies and had never before seen an opportunity to repay him. He didn't buy the Ruger at the Ace Hardware store. He shut off the salesman's enthusiastic recital of the Ruger's virtues by telling him he knew, he had one. This-one he intended to send to a friend in Germany.
The salesman had then told him he couldn't do that. You couldn't export either firearms or ammunition without a license from the Department of Commerce, approvingly endorsed by the Arms Control Administration of the Department of State.
Felter checked and then gave up. The salesman was right.
Several days later he had a conversation concerning the Graf von Greiffenberg with the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency, and almost as an idle afterthought had mentioned his inability to send the Graf a pistol.
The Director chuckled and then said, "Write down what kind, Sandy. We can take care of that. The next time you get to Frankfurt, go by the office and it'll be there. Or you want it delivered?"
"This is sort of personal," Felter had Replied. "I'd like to give it to him myself."
"It's done, Sandy." The next time he had gone to Frankfurt, he had gone by the Frankfurt Station, where he found three crates waiting for him.
He opened the smallest one first. It contained a mahogany case, lined. with green felt. When he opened that he found a pair of glistening Ruger Super Blackhawk Caliber .44 Magnum revolvers and a small typewritten note: "Colonel Felter, these are clean. "
That did not mean that they had recently been cleaned and oiled, but rather that they could not be traced as to their source. The largest crate contained a case (500 rounds) of Remington, 44 magnum, cartridges, with 240-grain semi jacketed hollow. point bullets. The third crate contained a Bianchi shoulder holster, a Bianchi hip holster and matching belt, both embossed in a basket-weave pattern; and a Douglas Brothers, El Paso Texas, two-gun belt-and-holster set, engraved in a floral pattern, as worn by the hero's of motion picture Westerns. There was very little the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency would not do to keep his German counterpart happy.
There was nothing to do but turn it all over to the Graf and tell him what had happened. The Graf had been amused and pleased.
He liked the Rugers. He was carrying his now in the shoulder holster, and Felter was carrying the other one in the Bianchi belt holster.
The cowboy, holsters had been given to the Graf's-grandson, Peter-Paul von Greiffenberg Lowell, then thirteen, and Felter had been able to ship to him, without involving the Departments of Commerce, State, or the CIA, a pair of Crossman Model 1861 "Shiloh" CO-2 powered BB-pistols to go with them.
The Graf von Greiffenberg stopped the old jeep with a squeal of brakes on a dirt road near the top of a hill, and he and Felter got out.
"If you would be so kind, Herr Jagermeister Hasberger," the Graf said, "to wait for us at the bottom, at the narrow point by the stream. Colonel Felter and I will work our way down to you."
"Jawohl, Herr Graf," the master hunter said, and then looked at Felter. "May I be so bold as to remind the Herr Oberst that only mature boar are permitted to be taken?"
"I understand, Herr Jagermeister," Felter said. "Thank you very much." Major von Methes-Zach and the Jagermeister got in the Jeep.
The Major turned it around and started down the hill.
"Do you sometimes feel that the Jagermeister doesn't quite approve-of me?" the Graf asked.
"I wonder whether it's the pistols," Felter said, "or me?"
"I don't think it's you, Sandy. Our clothes, maybe, and probably the pistols. The lower classes are frightfully snobbish and hate to see standards fall. I guess you noticed the way von Methes-Zach was dressed? And his drilling?" "Gorgeous," Felter said.
"The rifle, I mean. It must have cost a fortune."
"I thought he looked rather gorgeous himself," the Graf said.
"When he saw us, he felt a little foolish. I guess he wasn't briefed on my barbaric hunting practices. But I lost my temper with him yesterday, and I thought it might make it up to, him a little if I asked him to join us."
"Excuse me" Felter quoted, chuckling"
"How does the Herr Generalleutnant Graf intend to hunt with that pistol?"
" Von Greiffenberg snorted his amusement."
"Now if Craig were here," Felter said, the Major would approve of him. He had his hunting clothes, made in Boston."
Von Greiffenberg laughed. "He called yesterday; In great good spirits. . . any way you chose to interpret the word. From Fort Rucker. There was a party, and the Bellmons were there. I had a chance to speak with Bob and Barbara."
"He's the Army Aviation officer at Strike Command," Felter said. "I guess you know?"
"I knew he was there," von. Greiffenberg,. said... "I didn't know what he was doing. "
"Grumbling. He wanted to go to Vietnam."
"I know he hated going to college," von Greiffenberg said.
"I found it a little strange, frankly" myself."
"'Ours not to reason why,'" Felter quoted jokingly. "Ours but to give in to the idiocies of the paper pushers." Von Greiffenberg smiled.
"Speaking of strange," Felter said, "there are those who might find this whole business a little strange. A Jew, armed with a pistol, setting out to hunt, on Christmas morning, a dangerous animal, whose flesh his religion forbids him to eat."
"Hunting, with a good friend, who is also a good hunter," the Graf said, "is a pleasure few people ever get to enjoy."
"I'm flattered," Felter said, the flush on his face showing he meant it.
"It'll take them ten, fifteen minutes to get in place," the Graf said. It was not a casual comment, although he would have shown no indication had Felter taken it as one, rather than a suggestion that here, where no one could hear them, was a good place to speak his mind.
"I just came from Africa," Felter said."
"Specifically the Congo-and Rwanda-Burundi."
"I was there," von Greiffenberg said. "Years ago, when it was German East Africa"
"l was about to bring that up" Felter said. "I drove from Bukavu in the Congo, through Rwanda to Bujumbura in Burundi. I was going to tell you, 1 came across an immaculately tended German military cemetery. From World War One. A small one-I stopped and looked-with perhaps twenty or thirty tombstones. Concrete with brass markers. The concrete had been whitewashed and the brass had been cared for. Not polished, but not corroded either. Very curious. 1 would have guessed something like that would have been long overgrown and reverted to the jungle."
"A missionary, perhaps," the Graf said Or some African with a sense of duty who passed it on. to his sons, who are still waiting for the Herr Hauptmann to come back and give over their. back pay."
"Maybe you should send someone over from Mohkoto and settle up," Felter said casually.
The Graf's face momentarily registered surprise, and for a briefer moment his eyes grew cold. West Germany was conducting rocket-launching tests, forbidden by the Peace Treaty, in a three-thousand-square-mile area in the absolutely uninhabited center of the Congo. Until this moment, von Greiffenberg had been convinced they were doing so in absolute secrecy.
"I, of course," the Graf said finally, smiling broadly, "have no idea what you're talking about."
"Well, it's not much of a secret. Even the CIA knows about it."
The Graf laughed heartily. "Is that what you were doing in the Belgian Congo, Sandy? Running down outrageous rumors?"
"The Democra
tic Republic of the Congo," Felter corrected him.
"What do you want to know about Monkoto that you don't already know?"
"I'm not interested in rockets," Felter said, "but I do need a favor. More or less out of school."
"In school or out-what do you need?"
"I think there is a very good chance that Major Michael Hoare may have to be called from his well-earned retirement," Felter said dryly. "I want to put somebody in to watch him."
Von Greiffenberg's face grew thoughtful. Michael Hoare was a controversial and legendary character in the Congo and South Africa. Until 1960 there had been two Congo's, French and Belgian. On June 30, 1960, in Leopoldville, King Baudouin had granted independence to the former Belgian colony, which immediately proclaimed itself the Democratic Republic of the Congo. There were at the time thirty citizens of the new republic who possessed a college degree.
Joseph Kasavubu was elected as President and Chief of State.
Patrice Lumumba became Prime Minister. Joseph-Qesire Mobutu, whose previous military service had been as a corporal in the Belgian-officered Force Publique was promoted colonel and named to head the Armee Nationale Congolaise (ANC).
Twelve days later on July 11, 1960, President (we would call the office Governor) Moise Tshombe of the Katanga Province declared the province independent. Katanga was by far the wealthiest and the most industrially advanced of all the Congolese provinces. Enormous and enormously profitable tin and copper mines were in Katanga, operated by the Belgian firm Union Miniere. Tshombe could see no reason to share Katanga's wealth with the rest of the new republic.
When the Leopoldville government had taken steps to suppress the rebellion with the Armee Nationale-Congolese, Tshombe had countered by commissioning Michael Hoare into the Gendarmerie de Katanga as a major.
Hoare, born in Northern Ireland, had served with the Chindits in Burma during World War II. After the war he had moved to Durban, South Africa, where he opened an automobile dealership. Hoare had promptly recruited a force of mercenaries in South Africa, elsewhere in Africa, and in Europe, and taken them to Katanga, where they had quickly proven themselves more than capable of dealing with the ANC.
In November 1961 the United Nations demanded the reunification of Katanga Province with the rest of the country. Tshombe responded by making preparations for all-out war, and it was not an idle bluff, for he had powerful Belgian and other European backers who were willing and able to provide whatever Michael Hoare's mercenaries and the other Katangese military forces required.
"All out war seemed quite possible. It would have been not only bloody, but it would have caused havoc by interrupting the flow of Katangese copper, tin, and other raw materials, into the just..recovering European economy.
In December 1962, with the approval of the United States, UN forces began military operations against Tshombe in Katanga. Surprising everybody, he gave up the next month.
Hoare's mercenaries were disarmed and ordered out of, the Congo. But he, and they, had remained a wild card in what had happened since.
"You think it would come to that?" von Greiffenberg asked.
"I think it's entirely possible," Felter said simply.
"And so you want to watch him?" Felter nodded.
"I'm surprised the Company hasn't already done that," the "Graf said, and then, after a moment's thought, added: "As a matter of fact, we're rather counting on it."
"I was in Durban, too," Felter said, "I talked to him. If Hoare doesn't know who the Company's man is, Hoare is far more stupid, than I think he is. Leaving the Company's man in place, I want to put my own man in."
"How," can I help?"
"I heard that Hessische Schwere Konstruktion is building a new bank building in Durban. Is that all there is to it?"
"At the moment, yes," the Graf replied without hesitation.
"We plan to be so pleased with" the prospect of future business, however, that we will open a permanent Durban office."
"Would another construction engineer raise questions?"
"Presuming he were German, or really fluent in German, no."
"The man I have in mind used to be in the East German Army Pioneer Corps."
"Then he would be right at home," the Graf said. "How do you plan to send him in?"
"I think if he were here, and sent to Durban by Hessische Schwere Konstruktion, it would be less suspicious than if he were to show up in Durban and be hired there." The Graf nodded his agreement. "Let me know when you're ready," he said. "Can I count on getting from you what he gets . . . now that you've sown the seeds of less than full faith in the Company?"
"Of course," Felter said.
"Anything else I can do for you?"
"That's it."
"Then let us hunt. If they're not in place yet, they will be in a minute or two. "
The wind was blowing toward them, which was a lucky circumstance. Boar have acute senses of smell. But they also have acute senses of hearing, and when Felter and the Graf von Greiffenberg had been walking fifteen minutes, through the forest, they heard the unmistakable sound of a herd of boar crashing through the underbrush ahead of them.
"Damn!" the Graf swore in English.
Five minutes later there was the sharp crack of a .30-06, followed a moment later by another. The boar had reached Major von Methes-Zach and the Jagermeister, where they were backing them up.
Felter and the Graf moved slowly now through the forest, pausing every few steps to listen for the sound of the herd of boar, having been re-turned, coming back. Finally it came, and they froze in their tracks and took the pistols from their holsters.
The boar would now be exerted. A big boar Would go three hundred, three hundred and, fifty pounds, the sows seventy-five pounds lighter. They had no fear of attacking men anyway, they were now excited, and their tusks used against a man who lost his footing were deadly.
They waited a long time, absolutely silent, breathing with a conscious effort, slowly and through the nose.
And then they heard the herd coming toward them." Felter saw nothing, but then he heard the peculiar click of the Ruger Super Blackhawk revolver as it cocked. He snapped his head around and smiled. The Graf, in the classic pistol marksman's position, the pistol extended at arm's length, the other hand in his trousers pocket, was aiming at something Felter couldn't see in the trees.
And then there was a sound immediately before Felter and he saw a boar coming toward him quickly and with surprising delicacy.
He threw his pistol up, holding it with both hands, drew a quick bead, and fired. The boar didn't even hesitate, Felter fired again, more carefully, and hit where he had aimed, in the eye.
The boar fell over dead.
There was a rush of sound and fleeting glimpses of other boars and sows rushing past him through he trees, and then the sound of the Graf's pistol firing, once, twice, and then a third time.
And then all was silent except for the diminishing sound of the herd moving away from them in the forest.
"You all right?" the Graf called.
"You?"
"I got a double," the Graf called back, pleased.
Felter walked to his. boar and could see from thee condition of the, skull That it had, to be dead, And then he saw the chest. He hadn't missed. There was a nearly halfinch hole on the boar's chest. What it was, was that the most powerful handgun cartridge ever developed could not penetrate the layer of gristle over the chest cavity of a 325-pound wild boar.
The Graf walked over.
"Mine aren't neatly that big," he said. "That'll go a hundred and sixty kilos." Felter was aware that his heart was beating fast, that he was excited, even exulted.
"Well" now that we've done this," he said, "can we go find something to eat-and drink?"
The "Graf von Greiffenberg laughed aloud and then put his arms around Felter's shoulders and hugged him.
Then came the sound of electronic beeping. The Graf took a small radio from his pocket.
"Ja?" he asked,
and then told Major von Methes-Zach that, everything was fine; that they'd had some luck; and-to bring the jeep. He put the radio back in his , pocket and took out a monogrammed silver flask.
Generalleutnant Graf von Greiffenlberg and Colonel Sanford T. Felter sat on the ground and emptied the flask of Marnier Lapastolle cognac between them before the jeep found them.
(Three)
Headquarters United States Strike Command McDill Air Force Base, Florida' 5 January 1964
The New Breed Page 10
