by Bob Mayer
“What’s going on?” Ortega asked.
“I’ve got three men posted,” Yazzie said. “Your men can back them up.” He indicated his ‘brother’. “Tsosie, you stay in here with her. I’ll take your overwatch. You all come with me,” he said to Ortega.
“Who are we guarding against?” Ortega asked.
“Most likely one man,” Yazzie said. “He might have some help with him but—” Ortega cut him off with an incredulous laugh.
“One man? We got dragged out to this shithole for one man? And you’ve got three with you? Who is this guy?” He glanced over at Toni. “And who the fuck is she? She with you?”
“She’s what he’s coming for,” Yazzie said.
“A hostage,” Ortega said. “And she’s seen our faces. What kind of fucked up—”
He didn’t finish because Yazzie hit him in the throat with a knuckled fist, a savage, unexpected strike. Ortega’s hands went to this throat, gasping for air, but Yazzie was still moving, grabbing him by the shoulders and sweeping his legs out from under him. Ortega hit the stone floor hard and Yazzie was on top of him, pistol drawn, pointing between Red’s eyes.
The other two reached for their pistols, but Tsosie had the drop on them, M-16 aimed. “Don’t move.”
Ortega coughed, tried to speak, but couldn’t.
“Are you listening?” Yazzie spoke loud enough that the other two could clearly hear. “This one man killed three of my brothers with his knife. Face to face. My brothers were skilled with the knife. He was better. He’s ex-Special Forces. He’s good with his hands, with a knife, with guns and with explosives. He did a tour in ‘Nam with a unit you dipshits have never heard of. He’s coming and he’s not going to stop until he gets her or he’s killed. And here’s the hard part. I need him alive. He has something on him that I have to get. Do you see the problem?” He got off Ortega and stepped back, getting some distance. As Ortega got to his feet and reached for his gun, Yazzie held up his hand. “There is a fifty thousand bonus per man direct from me to each of you, beyond the heroin deal. I’ll also discount this load fifty percent. Do we have a deal?”
The other two all looked at Ortega. He coughed, cleared his throat, turned his head to the side and spit. “Yeah,” he managed to croak out. “We got a deal.”
20
Monday Afternoon, 19 May 1969
LONG BINH,
SOUTH VIETNAM
Kane has his CAR-15 in hand, the forty-five on his hip, as he walks through the sprawling American base. He feels more exposed in the supposedly secure base of over fifty thousand Americans than he does at the tiny A-Team firebase in the Parrots Beak. Most of the soldiers he passes are unarmed, trusting to the perimeter and sheer numbers. How quickly they’ve forgotten Tet when the perimeter was breached and, worse, in ’67, when the supply depot was hit by sappers who exploded over fifteen thousand 155mm artillery rounds.
The post is one of the largest cities in South Vietnam, located 20 klicks northeast of Saigon, and mostly American, although there are numerous Vietnamese working many of the jobs that keep a city running. Kane has no doubt a significant number of them are NVA , casing the place, waiting for the word to rise up. There is a movie theater, snacks bars, PXs, swimming pools, gyms and more to be maintained and staffed. It’s almost like being back in the United States and as if there isn’t a war going on outside to wire. There’s even a bowling alley.
It’s overwhelming to Kane. The jungle he can understand, but this isn’t war. This is something else, some obscene beast that has landed in a foreign country and tried to make it a mini-America so that the REMFs stationed here will feel at home. For Kane making it like home, makes it worse with the reminder of the reality that it isn’t.
He follows the signs to hospital, thinking as he does so, that the signs would be superb for infiltrators. He spots one for MACV Headquarters, just down the road at Tan Son Nhut Airport, also known as Pentagon East. He figures they might as well have a yellow brick road.
Kane pauses outside the hospital. He hates them. No one goes into the place because things are good. Pain, sickness and death.
He slings the CAR, figuring he should be relatively safe inside and he’s been getting strange looks from the REMFs. He’s unaware the looks aren’t strange, they’re respectful of his uniform, the faded green beret on his head, and simply the aura about him.
Kane walks to the desk. “I’m looking for Sergeant Merrick.”
The fresh-faced girl in starched jungle fatigues gives him directions.
Kane keeps his eyes forward as he walks through the wards. He’s seen enough broken bodies and broken men this past year and in ’67. He spent enough time on his own ward after Dak To.
“You must be lost,” Merrick calls out. He’s sitting in a wheelchair, a pair of Red Cross candy stripers perched on his bed. His left leg is in a cast and sticks straight out, supported by a strap. His torso is heavily bandaged. “Girls, this is my team leader, Will Kane.”
Kane mumbles a greeting while looking over Merrick.
“You’re gonna have to excuse me,” Merrick says to the two young women. “He’s got his serious face on.”
The two go to their cart and push it, moving down the ward to spread snacks, candy and fantasy.
“You look good,” Kane says, grabbing a chair.
Merrick lets down the façade. “It fucking hurts and I’m trying to keep the pain killer to a minimum. Between you and Thao, damn near killed me with the morphine.”
“My fault,” Kane says. “I didn’t put the needle in your collar and Thao checked, didn’t see it. He was doing his job.”
“I know,” Merrick says. He indicates his leg. “Doc says I’d probably have died except the pain from that getting smashed when the pilots dragged me through the trees shocked me. Seems like all the people on my side wanted to hurt me.” He notes the look on Kane’s face. “What is it?”
Kane reaches into the breast pocket of his jungle fatigue shirt and pulls out a picture. “Intel finally got around to getting that roll of film I picked up in Cambodia.”
Merrick frowns, trying to recall. “What roll of film?”
Kane realizes that Merrick has no way of knowing about it because they’d been on the run with no chance to disseminate information and then when they got back to Camp on the stabo line, he’d been put inside the chopper and medevaced.
“When we were doing the target assessment. I found a roll of film.” He has the picture in his hand.
“And?” Merrick presses. “Family portraits? Nature shots? What?”
Kane hands it over.
Merrick looks at it. “What the fuck? The son-of-a-bitch. He almost got us killed. He put me in here. Killed the guys on the other two teams. Fucking Ngo.” Merrick remembers. “Shit, Will, he changed the freqs on your radio that night you had the ambush. Fucking double agent.”
Merrick shakes his head, then hands it back. It shows a smiling Ngo standing with two NVA officers who were in uniform.
“What’s the CO going to do?” Merrick asks, meaning the B-Team commander.
“He’s back in the States on emergency leave,” Kane says. He glances around, making sure no one can listen in. “It didn’t go to Group. It went to Gamma.” He’s talking about the organization in charge of the cross-border missions. It’s technically part of 5th Special Forces, the overall Special Forces command in Vietnam, but since its conducting missions into places US soldiers (and bombs) aren’t supposed to be, it’s not exactly clear what the chain of command is, as orders come from various sources, primarily the CIA.
“Who is handling it at Gamma?”
Kane tells him the name of the intelligence officer, a major, who has the original film. “He’s already pulled Ngo in to their compound. They’ve interrogated him.”
“And?” Merrick asks.
“The major wouldn’t tell me. Wouldn’t let me see the transcript.”
“That don’t make sense,” Merrick says. “Did Ngo confess?”
“Need to take him up a couple thousand feet and kick him from a chopper,” Merrick says.
Kane checks the ward, then leans closer. “The major went to the Agency to ask them what should be done about Ngo.”
“Ah, geez,” Merrick says. “Asking them is a mistake. Just give Ngo to them. Drop him on their doorstep. He came via their recommendation and they set all this cross-border bullshit up anyway. What did the Saigon cowboys say?”
“I only got this second-hand,” Kane says, “but the word was that ‘elimination is the best course of action’.”
“They can’t fucking say kill him?”
“You know the Agency.”
“What about Group?” Merrick asks.
“Change of command,” Kane says. “The new Group commander is inbound so nobody is doing anything up there until they figure out which way the wind is blowing.”
“What are you going to do?” Merrick asks.
“There’s something more to all this,” Kane says. “It was an entire roll of film. The major only showed me this one picture. What was on the rest of the pictures? What caused the major go to the Agency? He’s acting all weird.”
“Ngo’s gotta die,” Merrick says.
21
Sunday Early Morning,
14 August 1977
AIRSPACE,
EASTERN UNITED STATES
The interior of the small private jet was dimly lit, perhaps on the remote possibility the three passengers might want to catch some sleep. Instead, Kane, Kinsman and Caitlyn were in captain’s seats, turned facing each other, imagery of the area of operations on the low table between them illuminated by a light directly above. The door to the cockpit had been shut when they got on board and remained closed. There was no flight attendant. The cabin could seat ten, but they were the only occupants. The plane had no exterior markings, just a tail number, which Kane suspected might be temporary.
Caitlyn and Kinsman had listened to Kane’s barebone plan, which had taken only a few minutes to sketch out.
Kane finished with: “We’ll need a truck and a trailer and, of course, a horse with the appropriate gear.” He and Kinsman looked at her.
“The flight plan was to Camp Douglas in Utah,” Caitlyn said. “A National Guard base. I doubt there’s been cavalry stationed there in a few decades.”
“I can get the truck, horse and trailer,” Kinsman said.
“Where?” Caitlyn asked.
Kinsman tapped a small town on the map in Arizona, just below the Utah border and southwest of Hole in the Rock. “But then we will have to get it closer, on the other side of the river. That will be a long drive.”
Caitlyn leaned over and noted the location. “Why drive when you can fly? I’ll be right back.”
She went to the cockpit door and picked up a black phone next to it. Spoke for a short bit and then was back. “Four hours and change,” she said. “We land around dawn.”
“Good,” Kinsman said.
“There’s something else,” Caitlyn said.
Both men looked at her.
“Crawford has reached out for help. He got some local bikers involved and is flying in personally with more guards.”
“The CIA?” Kane asked.
“No,” she said. “It’s all private.”
“What are you talking about?” Kinsman asked. “The CIA? What is this place?”
“The airstrip on top of Fiftymile Point is part of a drug pipeline,” Caitlyn said. “The poppies come originally from the Golden Triangle, which the CIA tapped into after World War II. It’s processed in Mexico or Central America into heroin. The Agency always looks for ways to get its hand on money to use to finance projects they want to keep off the books.”
“Illegal projects,” Kane said.
“Originally, they were running arms to Chiang Kai-shek’s generals in exchange for intelligence on Communist China. They used money from transporting the poppies for other parties to buy the arms. Once they saw how that worked, they saw no reason to stop. While the French fought in Vietnam, the Agency worked with French intelligence to conduct a clandestine war in Laos and Cambodia against the communist movements there, financed by exporting poppy.
“When the French lost, and we gradually took over the war, the Agency used the poppy trade to fight the Pathet Lao, the communist movement in Laos. They had the Royal Laotian Air Force flying the poppies out of the Plain of Jars, until it was overrun in 1964. Then Air America stepped in.”
Kane held up a hand. “I’ve got to ask. Are we on Air America right now?”
Caitlyn shook her head. “No. A private contract. We’re not doing anything illegal.”
“Right.”
“Eye on the ball, Kane,” Caitlyn chided him.
“You’re paying for this?”
“The Cellar is arranging our support,” Caitlyn said. “There are billions of dollars in the Black Budget that Congress passes every year. The Cellar gets the first taste.”
“Now you’re sounding like Sofia,” Kane said.
“Cappucci?” Caitlyn shook her head. “I don’t know if that’s a compliment or an insult. She is rather unique. The mafia is involved in this, though, on the distribution end. For a while this ran smoothly but then word began to leak. Which is understandable given the size of the operation and the number of people involved.”
“’Three might keep a secret if two are dead’,” Kane quoted. “I think that was Benjamin Franklin.”
Caitlyn pressed on. “Rolling Stone ran an expose in 1968 about the CIA’s involvement but it didn’t do much. The CIA even claimed whatever it was doing in Laos was legal because it had the support of the legitimate government. Nevertheless, the handwriting was on the wall and even the Agency eventually took notice. According to internal memos, the Agency shut down its involvement two years ago in 1975.”
“But that didn’t stop the pipeline, correct?” Kane asked.
“Correct. Too much money involved.”
“What mafia families in the US are involved in this with the CIA?” Kane asked.
“Initially, Miami, since the poppies first came in via ship. But once it went airborne, all over the country.”
“In New York City?”
“The Genovese,” Caitlyn said.
Kane laughed. “They recently had a contract out on me. Small world. Bottom line, some bad people have a vested interest in keeping this intact and Crawford made some calls, there will be more firepower.”
Caitlyn nodded.
“Why isn’t the Cellar taking care of this?” Kane asked.
“Because the CIA isn’t involved anymore,” Caitlyn said. “It’s a civilian operation. However, we are involved.” She indicated the plane and then herself.
Kane was staring at her. “What else?”
“Excuse me?” Caitlyn said.
“You’re acting weird,” Kane said. “There’s something you’re not telling us.”
Caitlyn retrieved a picture from her file. “Here.”
Kane took it. It was black and white image of two men against a jungle backdrop. Kane instantly recognized one of them. “That’s Ngo!” He looked at Caitlyn. “Is this from the roll of film I brought back from the bomb assessment mission in Cambodia in ‘69?”
“It is according to the attached report.”
“That was carefully phrased. Who is he with?”
“Laotian. General Vang Pao.”
Kane slumped back in the plush seat. “Fuck me.” Then he leaned forward, dropping the picture to the deck and putting his head in his hands as the implications slowly sunk in. “Ngo was a triple agent.”
“No,” Caitlyn said. “As best could be determined, Ngo worked for himself. He’s one of the small pieces, consider them ball bearings, free floating, that insert themselves between larger entities, like countries or criminal organizations, to keep them moving. General Vang Pao was the CIA’s man in
Laos. His army of Hmong tribesmen fought against the Pathet Lao, the communists. To get supplies and arms from the Agency, he supplied poppy which the Agency fed into various pipelines, including the one we’re heading toward.
“You’re a fan of history, Kane. In the Civil War, Lincoln allowed Southern blockade runners on the Mississippi to bring cotton from slave states. Because the north needed the cotton to make the uniforms for the soldiers who were fighting the Confederacy. That’s essentially what the CIA was doing. Ngo was a piece of that.”
Kane stared at her. “Are you justifying what he did? He killed my teammates.”
“I’m not justifying,” Caitlyn said. “I’m explaining the reality of the situation. Ngo owed allegiance to no one. To nothing greater than himself. He played all sides so he could move freely among them to do his business.”
“Was he directly connected to Crawford?” Kane asked.
“Ngo was connected to General Vang Pao. The general emigrated here to the States two years ago and settled in California, partly sponsored by James Roosevelt.”
“Is Roosevelt connected to this Golden Triangle network?”
Caitlyn shrugged. “Nothing indicates that but it’s doubtful Roosevelt is taking care of Vang Pao out of the pure kindness of his heart. There is probably some exchange of money or favors. I doubt Roosevelt has any direct connection to the trade. Vang Pao is well thought of among the Hmong community who had to flee once the communists took over in Laos. He’s still got his finger in the Golden Triangle and is dealing with the Pathet Lao, his former enemy, to export poppy. Once more, greed triumphs political belief. This way station that Crawford runs is directly connected to Vang Pao and where poppy that is processed in labs in Mexico makes its first stop in the states. Then it’s cross loaded for transportation, mainly to distributors in California, a number of them among Vang Pao’s people. He makes money on both ends. Crawford is flying in on Monday afternoon with four Hmong gunmen from Vang Pao. Former soldiers.”
