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  “No, sir.”

  “On landing, you will tie the aircraft down in the prescribed manner, arrange for it to be refueled, supervise such refueling, and then you may join me in the coffee shop.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jack said.

  Pappy opened the door and got out and walked to the small Base Operations building.

  Shaking his head, Jack reached for the microphone.

  “Gordon, Army Sixteen Twenty-Six, an L-19 aircraft, by Base Ops, request taxi and takeoff permission for a local flight under visual rules.”

  “Sir, the aircraft has been serviced and is tied down,” Jack said to Pappy at the coffee shop in Base Ops.

  Pappy put out his hand.

  “Congratulations on your first solo flight,” he said.

  Jack ignored the hand.

  “Actually, I soloed when I was twelve,” Jack said.

  “I have had several telephone calls concerning you lately,” Pappy said. “The first came from Craig Lowell. He said you were getting a commission and wanted to know if there would be any problem in getting you checked out in an L23. I told him I didn’t think so.”

  Then what’s all this nonsense about soloing in that damned L-19?

  “Call two was from Bob Bellmon. He had two concerns. The first one was for your well-being, and the second that he didn’t want it bandied about that the general’s son-in-law was getting special treatment. He asked me if I would personally check you out, as opposed to doing it with a ballpoint, and I said sure. Bob Bellmon is one of the good guys.”

  “I understand,” Jack said.

  “Not yet, you don’t. Call three was from Miss Marjorie, who I literally bounced on my knee when she wore diapers. ‘Uncle Pappy,’ she said, ‘he doesn’t even know how to pin his bars on. When he’s out there with you, will you teach him how to act like an officer? He’ll take it from you, and he doesn’t like it when I say something.’ So I told her sure, too.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Jack said.

  “You still don’t know that,” Pappy said. “But still no problem. Then came call number four. Sandy Felter. Another of the good guys, and I owe him. He called last night, at half past nine. He wanted two things. He wants you to be checked out yesterday in everything with a special instrument ticket to go along. And he wants us both to meet with Father Lunsford—you heard the President got him promoted to major?”

  Jack nodded.

  “. . . at twelve today at Bragg. I figured no problem. We’d hop in the Mohawk about nine o’clock, which would give us plenty of time to be there by noon. I also figured I could check you out in the Mohawk on the way. But then I realized I couldn’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “As of yesterday, you have an Army record of your Army flying. I can fudge a little on that. You need a minimum of four hours dual instruction before you can solo. By the time we get to Bragg, you’ll have that four hours, so I will say you soloed en route. That’s more or less honest, and we’ll have the L-19 tail number in the records . . . understand?”

  Jack nodded.

  “I could not get away with saying you soloed in a Mohawk,” Pappy said. “Nor do I want your records to say that on the day you soloed, you also got checked out in the Mohawk, and satisfied the cross-country IFR requirements for an instrument ticket, much less a special instrument ticket. I realized we’re going to have to do this one step at a time. From here to the Beaver, from the Beaver to the Otter, then the L-23. Somewhere along the way, you’ll get an instrument rating, and then the special instrument ticket. I have no idea how the hell we’re going to teach you how to fly rotary wing.”

  “I see the problem.”

  “If I was a little gruff on the phone last night, it was because I realized I was going to have to get up at oh-dark-hundred and fly all the way to Bragg in a goddamned L-19. And then back.”

  “No problem, Pappy,” Jack said, enormously relieved that Pappy was pissed not at him, but over things over which he had no control.

  “Of course there’s no problem,” Pappy said. “One of the things I think Miss Marjorie would like me to teach you is that what a lieutenant has to understand is that majors don’t have to explain to lieutenants why they have a hair up their ass.”

  He smiled at Jack and put out his hand again.

  “So congratulations again on your solo flight.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Now go untie the goddamned L-19 and we’ll be on our way.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  [ FIVE ]

  SECRET

  Central Intelligence Agency Langley, Virginia

  FROM : Assistant Director For Administration

  DATE: 20 December 1964 1505 GMT

  SUBJECT : Guevara, Ernesto (Memorandum #3.)

  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, Algiers, Algeria) CIA Surveillance of SUBJECT resumed on SUBJECT and party’s landing at Algiers 0915 GMT 19 December 1964

  2. (Reliability Scale Four). They were met by members of the Algerian Council of Ministers and the Cuban Ambassador and transported to residence of Cuban Ambassador.

  Howard W. O’Connor

  HOWARD W. O’CONNOR

  SECRET

  [ SIX ]

  Base Operations

  Pope Air Force Base, North Carolina

  1135 20 December 1964

  George Washington Lunsford was standing just outside the plate-glass doors to the Base Operations building when Major Pappy Hodges and Lieutenant Jack Portet walked across the tarmac from the transient parking area. He was in fatigues, and there were major’s leaves on his collar points and pinned to his green beret.

  Jack, as he saluted, was not surprised at the rank insignia. Pappy was.

  “Patton did that in North Africa, you know,” he said. “Considered himself promoted—pinned on a third star—before his promotion orders came down.”

  “That wasn’t very nice of him, was it?” Father said. “I myself modestly waited until I had my promotion orders in my hot little hand before I pinned my major’s things on.”

  “No kidding. They came down already?”

  “Yesterday,” Lunsford said. “I haven’t even had time to wash them down.”

  “Congratulations, Major,” Jack said.

  Lunsford looked at him.

  “And this newly commissioned young officer, to judge by his bare-of-any-insignia flight rompers, is carrying modesty to the extreme.”

  He raised his eyebrows, then wrapped an arm affectionately around Jack.

  “How the hell are you, sport? What happened to the bandaged nose?”

  “It kept coming off in the shower. I never figured out what it was supposed to do, anyway.”

  “Well, come to think of it, you are properly dressed for what I have in mind for you.”

  “Sir?”

  “Among friends, you may address me as ‘Father,’ but when we get to Mackall, hit the ‘sir’ and ‘major’ a little heavily.”

  “Yes, sir, Major,” Jack said.

  “Is that where we’re going, to Mackall?” Pappy asked.

  “You’re going to see our noble leader, General Hanrahan. Jack and I are going to Mackall. Is there any reason Jack can’t fly me there in the L-19?” He paused. “And frankly, Pappy, I am surprised to see the L-19. Are you on somebody’s shitlist at Rucker? I expected at least an L-23, maybe even a Mohawk.”

  “It’s a long story,” Pappy said. “What’s Hanrahan want?”

  “He’s going to bring you up to speed on Operation Earnest, give you some heads-up. And Felter wants to talk to you on the secure line.”

  “Which means I am going to be involved
up to my ass in this, right?”

  “A succinct and correct, if somewhat obscene, assumption. Yes, you are. We need you, Pappy. The rear echelon is an important facet of any military operation.”

  “Damn,” Pappy said. He looked thoughtfully at Jack.

  “Do you think you can put the L-19 down at Mackall without killing yourself and the major?”

  Jack nodded.

  “If you don’t bend the bird, I could sign you off on Unprepared Fields,” Pappy said. “If you bend it, I’ll swear under oath you stole it. Okay, Father. He can fly you out there. It would save time, and I’d like to go home today.”

  Lunsford didn’t reply.

  “Why do I suspect you know something I don’t know?” Pappy asked.

  “Hanrahan wants to pick your brains,” Lunsford said. “I hope you brought a change of undies, as that may take some time.”

  “I didn’t,” Jack said. “I thought we were going to fly around the pattern at Rucker.”

  “Well, when we come back from Mackall, you can buy some at the PX when you’re buying your bars,” Lunsford said.

  “How do I get from here to Hanrahan?” Pappy asked.

  “Hanrahan’s car and driver are outside,” Lunsford said. “I think he’s even going to buy you lunch.”

  Pappy looked at both of them, and then, without a word, walked into the Base Operations building.

  “Anytime you’re ready, Father,” Jack said.

  “I know you were an airlines pilot,” Lunsford said. “But why was Pappy worried about you bending the L-19? How much experience do you have flying puddle jumpers?”

  “Not much,” Jack said. “As a matter of fact, the first time I flew one of these all by myself was on the way down here.”

  “Oh, what the hell,” Lunsford said. “Live on the edge, I always say.”

  “I think I can get us back and forth to Mackall in one piece,” Jack said.

  “When we get to Mackall,” Lunsford ordered as they overflew Fort Bragg en route to the “dormant, former base” twenty miles from Fort Bragg that was used for Special Forces training, “go along with whatever I say. Don’t ask questions, and don’t volunteer any information.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jack said.

  There was a stocky black master sergeant sitting in a jeep at the dirt airstrip when Jack landed the L-19.

  Jack had been here before during his “special course” in becoming a Green Beret. He had never been inside one of the buildings then, and only when he had been put on ice at Mackall had he learned that they contained showers, cots, stoves, and refrigerators for the use of the training cadre. Trainees washed in creeks, slept on the ground, and ate as well as they could from field rations, and/or from what they could catch, kill, and cook over open fires.

  The master sergeant waited until Jack had parked the airplane and was starting to tie it down before driving the jeep up and getting out.

  He saluted Father.

  “Those leaves look good on you, sir,” he said. “Congratulations. ”

  “Thank you,” Father replied in Swahili. “I told you I wanted you guys to speak nothing but Swahili between us.”

  “Sorry,” the sergeant said in Swahili.

  “And on the subject of Swahili, the AG turned up this officer, who studied it in college, and may join us.” He turned to Jack. “You get that, Lieutenant?” The adjutant general’s department handled Army personnel matters.

  “Yes, sir,” Jack said.

  “Can you say that in Swahili?”

  “Yes, sir,” Jack said in Swahili.

  “Lieutenant Portet, Master Sergeant Thomas,” Father said.

  “How are you, Lieutenant?” Thomas said. “I didn’t know they taught Swahili in college.”

  “They do at the Florida Baptist College,” Father answered for him. “The lieutenant was studying to be a missionary in Africa when he got drafted, and decided he’d rather fly airplanes. Isn’t that so, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, sir,” Jack said.

  “He had just finished flight school when the AG found him. I asked for black guys, but they sent him anyway. No offense, Lieutenant.”

  “None taken, sir.”

  “And since he had flown all the way here from Rucker, I figured nothing would be lost if I showed him around. If nothing else, he’ll see if anybody understands him when he tries to speak Swahili.”

  “I get the idea, sir,” Thomas said.

  “I’ll remind you again, Lieutenant,” Lunsford said, “that anything you see here is classified, you’re not to discuss it with anyone—are you married?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You seemed to hesitate, Lieutenant.”

  “I’m about to married, sir—23 December, sir.”

  “That will probably keep you from being assigned to us,” Lunsford said thoughtfully. “Maybe we shouldn’t show you around. Oh, to hell with it. We’re here. To get back to what I was saying: You will not discuss anything you see here in any way with anyone, and that includes your fiancée, or, when she becomes your wife, with your wife. Clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Does the young lady speak Swahili?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I thought perhaps she was also studying to be a missionary,” Lunsford said. “Okay, Sergeant, if you’ll give the lieutenant a thirty-minute tour of the establishment, I’ll have time to snoop around here and see how you’ve been screwing things up.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sergeant Thomas said.

  “Make sure he speaks to every man,” Lunsford said. “Have everybody on the team explain his function. In Swahili.”

  “Yes, sir. If you’ll get in the jeep with me, Lieutenant?”

  When Master Sergeant Thomas was sure they had driven far enough to be out of Major Lunsford’s sight, he turned to Jack.

  “Lieutenant, is your Swahili good enough for you to understand what I’ll be saying? No offense, sir.”

  “I’m having a little trouble understanding you, Sergeant,” Jack said. “But maybe if you spoke slowly . . .”

  “I’ll try, sir,” Sergeant Thomas said. “Now, what we are trying to do here, Lieutenant, is simulate, as well as we can, what life would be like for a Special Forces team operating clandestinely in a sub-Saharan African country.”

  “Very interesting,” Jack said.

  When they returned to the landing strip, and the small collection of tarpaper-roofed crude frame buildings around it, thirty minutes later, they found Lunsford sitting on the steps to one of the buildings.

  He did not get up as they approached, and returned their salutes with a casual wave of the hand.

  “See anything interesting, Lieutenant Portet?” he asked in Swahili.

  “Yes, sir. It was very interesting.”

  “And did the lieutenant have any trouble conversing with you, or any of the men, in Swahili?”

  “Not much, sir,” Master Sergeant Thomas answered graciously.

  Lunsford raised his hand in the manner of a clergyman blessing his flock.

  “By the power vested in me by God, the President of the United States, and General Hanrahan, I declare a training schedule amnesty for all hands,” Lunsford said. “You will go get them, Sergeant Thomas, and bring them back here. And when you do, Lieutenant Portet will critique our little operation.”

  “Sir?” Thomas asked incredulously.

  “It’s truth time, Sergeant Thomas,” Lunsford said. “And the first truthful answer I would like from you is whether you have had your run today.”

  “No, sir,” Thomas said.

  “Then why don’t you kill two birds with one stone, so to speak, and jog out to the men, and lead them as they jog back here for the lieutenant’s critique?” He turned to Jack. “We in Special Forces have found, Lieutenant,” he went on, “that a daily jog of no more than five miles keeps the body in tip-top shape for our strenuous duties. Isn’t that so, Sergeant Thomas?”

  “Yes, sir,” Sergeant Thomas said.

  “Put y
our heart in it, Sergeant,” Lunsford said. “We don’t want to keep Lieutenant Portet waiting around, do we?”

  “No, sir,” Sergeant Thomas said, visibly fuming.

  He turned and started to trot off down the road.

  Jack looked at Lunsford.

  “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

  “This is what is known as setting the stage, Lieutenant,” Lunsford said. “Unless I am truly mistaken, what Sergeant Thomas is going to do, when he arrives, huffing and puffing, at the campsite, is say, ‘You’re not going to believe this, but what we’re going to do is jog back to the airstrip where that honky-motherfucker of a candy-ass airplane driver is going to tell us what we’re doing wrong,’ or words to that effect.”

  Jack chuckled.

  “Why are you trying to piss him—everybody—off?”

  Lunsford said, “If you’re trying to teach somebody something—anything—” Lunsford said, very seriously, “the first thing you have to do is get their attention. That’s particularly true with a group like this. The junior man out there is a staff sergeant. They’re all fully qualified Green Berets, and with more than a little justification, they think—they know—they’re pretty hot stuff. And unless I can get their attention, that’s likely to get them killed.”

  He pushed himself off the stairs.

  “Come on,” he said. “I’ll need some help, and I think Thomas—who is about as good a noncom as I’ve ever known— is going to set a speed record out there and back.”

  He led Jack into one of the tarpaper-roofed buildings. There was a huge refrigerator in one room, and a huge freezer sat beside it. The doors to both were locked shut with heavy chains through their handles, and secured with massive padlocks.

  Lunsford opened both.

  He pointed to two galvanized iron washtubs.

  “I load,” he said. “You chop the ice.”

  The freezer held huge blocks of ice, and the refrigerators cases of beer, as well as food.

  There were ice tongs in the freezer, and Jack picked them up. “Shit!” he proclaimed. They had frozen to his hand.

  “You don’t look that stupid,” Lunsford said, and hurried him to a water spigot and got him unfrozen after a moment.