"You Were never at Hurlburt Field, Florida," Finton said.

"And therefore you know nothing about it. You don't know anything about B-26 aircraft or about B-26 aircraft being flown to Africa. You have not been to Africa since you left to get drafted. Get the picture?"

"Everybody on the Gulf Coast knows about those airplanes," Jack said. "Why all the secrecy?"

"I didn't come over here to argue with you, Jack. I'm telling you how it is." There was steel in his voice, and Jack heard it. "Sorry," he said.

"Everybody on the Gulf Coast knows about those airplanes," Fenton said, "but not where they went. They were intended for Vietnam, not for the Congo."

"Without sounding like a wise guy-and I really don't mean to, what's the difference?"

"There are people around the President who are violently opposed to any American intervention in the Congo," Finton said. "And could, and would, use you as a means to stop Operation Eagle."

"Me? PFC Portet?"

"You're a soldier. You're military."

"So are Geoff Craig and Pappy Hodges."

"They are military attaches to the embassy. You're not. It could make headlines in the Washington Post if it got out-and if anyone of fifty people in the White House and the State Department heard about it, it would get out-that we were using military personnel to fly B-26 bombers to the Congo."

"That's a little hard to believe."

"If you heard Felter eat Fulbright's ass out for letting you fly that airplane to the Congo, you'd believe it."

"There was no one else to fly it. The guy that Fulbright hired to fly it turned out to be a lush."

"Then it should have stayed at Hurlburt until they got somebody else. Take my word for it, Jack, if it had gotten out-if it gets out-it could blow the whole operation out of the water." They had driven through an area of five- and six-story apartment buildings. Now they were in an area of substantial one family homes, some of them nearly mansions.

"That sign says Onkel Tom Strasse," Jack said. "Our Uncle Tom, as in Harriet Beecher Stowe?"

"Ours. The Berliners took that yarn to heart."

"Where are we going?"

"To Zehlendorf," Finton said. "We have a house-a compound, really-there. I brought your uniforms with me from the States. You will report in, in uniform."

"Who is 'we'?" Jack asked. "As in 'we have a house'?"

"An agency of the U.S. government."

"Why Berlin?" Jack said. "Why couldn't I have gone back to McDill?"

"Why go to all this trouble, you mean?"

"Exactly."

"Because it's that important, Jack, that you vanish into the woodwork."

"Can tell my girl, my family, where I am?"

"Your girl already knows," Finton said, "so that's not a problem. And Pappy Hodges will explain the situation to your father if he hasn't already. I think the flaming ember has been pissed on. All you have to do is keep your mouth shut." Jack grunted.

"You'll like Berlin, I think," Finton said as he turned off Onkel Tom Allee onto Sven Hedin Strasse. He then drove the Opel through a gate in an eight-foot-high fence. The gate closed after them. Jack saw a beautiful German shepherd sitting with a stocky man. The dog looked curiously at the car, as if he hoped it contained someone to play with him. And then Jack saw that the stocky man had a submachine gun slung over his shoulder.

"Looks like a lot of fun," he said.

(One) The Situation Room The White House Washington, D.C. 2 August 1964 When the alarm bell went off on one of the battery of high speed radio teletype machines against the wall, the Army Signal Corps Master Sergeant who had the duty rose quickly out of his chair and walked to it, getting there before the message had been completely typed.

When the last letters had been typed out, the Master Sergeant tore the message-it was an Operational Immediate- from the machine and turned to carry it to the duty officer. A man in a baggy gray suit touched his arm, stopping him, with the obvious intention of reading the message.

That was not the prescribed procedure. Incoming messages, especially those of higher priority-and Operational Immediate ....-as second only to Flash-were to be delivered to the duty officer, who would determine the distribution.

The Master Sergeant had been only recently assigned to the Situation Room. All that he had been told about the man in the baggy gray suit was that he was an Army colonel named Felter and he worked in some unspecified function "upstairs," in other words, in the White House itself.

By the time the Master Sergeant had made up his mind to Politely remind the Colonel of the prescribed procedure, Felter had read the message.

xv .....

(One) Stanleyville, Democratic Republic of the Congo 17 July 1964 Pappy Hodges made a very slight adjustment to the trim-tab wheel of the L-23 Twin-Beechcraft and turned to his copilot.

"Do you have to smoke that fucking thing? It smells like a smoldering rope."

"You are looking at one of the world's most widely traveled cigars," Geoff Craig replied. "Rolled between the thighs of some Cuban belle, it was transported to the Orient, there to be purchased by my cousin Craig and brought to the United States.

Then it was flown from Florida here as a suitable gift to mark the birth of his first nephew, at God alone knows what cost to the taxpayers. I respectfully put it to you, Major, Sir, that such a cigar is entitled to stink a little."

"You left out illegal," Pappy chuckled. "It's illegal to import Cuban cigars into the United States."

"Cousin Craig doesn't allow patriotism Or the law to interfere with the simple pleasures of his life."

"And he probably gave them to you because he couldn't stand the stink either. But gimme one anyway," Pappy said. "Maybe if I smoke one myself, it will mask the noxious odor." Geoff unwrapped a cigar, handed it to Pappy, and then extended a cigar lighter.

Pappy puffed appreciatively.

"I gotta admit it tastes better than it smells," he said. "But I guess it would have to, wouldn't it?" Geoff chuckled.

"What are you reading?" Pappy asked. Geoff handed it to him.

15 July 1964 Memorandum Re: Punia For: lLT Craig From: Capt Weaver Until the discovery of tin near Punia, and its exploitation by Union Miniere, Punia did not exist. It lies in the Equatorial jungle, approximately one hundred miles north-northeast of Kindu and thirty miles east of the Lualaba River, which, in a more or less straight line, cuts across the jungle between Stanleyville and Kindu.

To accommodate Union Miniere, the government of the Belgian Congo first cut a road from Punia to the Lualaba River so that tin could be shipped on the river. Later, roads from Punia to Kindu and due north to Lobutu, where there is a junction with the main highway between Bukavu and Stanleyville, were built, whereupon the Punia-Lualaba road was allowed to revert to the jungle.

All but twenty miles of the Kindu-Punia road is classified "partly improved," which is the euphemism for a widening path cut out of the tropical forest. All of the road from Punia to Lobutu is "partly improved.:' To accommodate its administrators and mining engineers, Union Miniere cut a 2000 foot swath through the forest and bulldozed a 2000 foot runway. This was an enormously expensive project. Not only do the trees in this area often top three hundred feet, but it was later determined that it cost more to get the two Caterpillar-3 bulldozers into Punia than they had cost, delivered to the docks at Matari. It was decided that it was not economically sound to remove the bulldozers once the landing strip had been leveled. They were left there.

During the Katangese rebellion, Union Mihiere temporarily abandoned mining operations in Punia and in nearby Yumbi and removed all Europeans from the area.

Operations have not been resumed to date. It must be presumed that jungle and Equatorial rain have begun to reclaim the small town and its improvements, and that the airstrip will not be usable. So far as is known, Punia is uninhabited, although there may be one or more Congolese caretakers present.

"Weaver is the AIS?" Pappy asked, referring to the Area Intelligence Specialist.

"Yeah," Geoff said.

"You asked him about Punia?"

"I thought casually. I didn't expect him to come up with that."

"He's nosy," Pappy said.

"He didn't get curious," Geoff said.

"Maybe asking him wasn't such a good idea," Pappy said.

"He could run to the Attache and tell him Hodges and Craig are involved in something in Punia. That would get him two brownie points with the Attache."

"When I got that, I called him back, thanked him profusely, and asked if he could do the same thing for me for Luashi," Geoff said.

"Where the hell is that?"

"On the South African border."

"You learn quick, don't you?"

"Some things I already know," Geoff said.

"Meaning what?"

"Well, I know you taught Lindbergh how to fly, Major, Sir, and I don't want to piss you off, Major, Sir. . ."

"But?"

"I think I should fly the OlE," Geoff said. The OlE was a single 213hp piston engine, two-seater observation and liaison aircraft manufactured by Cessna and originally designated L-19.

"Why?" Pappy asked reasonably.

"I've been picked up in situations like this," Geoff repeated, "and I know Father Lunsford."

"I don't want you doing anything dumb," Pappy said after a moment's thought, "like taking a chance on landing before you know the field's OK."

"I'll be careful."

"You dump that airplane, you won't be able to walk out," Pappy said. "I guess you thought of that?" Geoff nodded.

"He don't clear you to land, you just dump the stuff and come home," Pappy said. "And you don't loiter if he ain't there."

"It's one five zero miles," Geoff said. "Call it an hour ten.

Call it two hours thirty minutes round trip. That'll give me an hour to loiter and a half-hour reserve."

"When you get back here, you better have an hour's fuel aboard," Pappy said, "which means you loiter no more than thirty minutes."

"OK.".

"If he's not there, he's not going to be there. And I don't want to find myself explaining what happened to the L-19. Not to mention trying to explain to Lou why I let a brand-new daddy dump his airplane so he'd have to wander around the jungle dodging lions and cannibals."

"In the new Army, Major, Sir, the aircraft is known as 'OlE.'"

"Fuck you, Lieutenant," Pappy said.

When they landed at Stanleyville a half hour later, they each had five inches or a little more of the original seven inches of the H. Uppmann Corona Corona clenched between their teeth.

"If you had to bet," Pappy said between his teeth, which of those guys would you say was the diplomat?" There were four men standing in the shade of the overhang of the terminal building. One of them wore a snap-brim straw hat, a blue-and-white cord suit, and carried a briefcase.

Geoff chuckled. As soon as Pappy had parked the L-23 and shut the engines down, the man in the cord suit walked over.

"I'm Mr. Manley, Sir, from the U.S. Consulate."

"How do you do?" Geoff said, offering his hand. "Geoff Craig."

"My orders are to show you the aircraft, Sir, and then take you over to Immoquateur. The Consul would prefer, unless it is necessary, that you not visit the consulate."

"The Consul? I thought you were the Consul," Pappy said as he jumped to the ground from the wing. "We were told he'd meet us."

"No, Sir," Manley said." I'm the crypto officer. Warrant Officer Manley, Sir. The Consul asked me to handle this."

"I guess the Consul doesn't want to be seen with a couple of scruffy soldiers," Pappy said.

"Just between us... scruffy soldiers," Manley said, "he's really pissed about this, whatever it is you guys are doing. He fired off a TWX every hour on the hour to Leopoldville, 'protesting in the strongest possible terms,' until he got an Immediate from the Ambassador himself telling him to shut his mouth and do what he was told."

"We didn't hear that of course," Pappy said. "But thanks. Where's the airplane?" Manley pointed. Geoff saw that the OlE, parked with a line of light aircraft, had been stripped of its paint and that it had no markings.

"It came in that way?" he said. "Without markings?"

"Yeah," Manley said. "I never even saw who brought it. I was duty officer at the consulate and a guy-an American, I'm sure called up and said the package we were expecting was at the airport. And then hung up. What the hell are you guys doing?"

"Photographing emergency airstrips in the jungle," Pappy said.

"Yes, Sir," Manley said dryly. "I knew it was something like that."

"Well, let's have a look at it," Pappy said. "And then I'm for a cold beer." They had a very nice dinner in the restaurant of the Hotel des Chutes and then went to the Immoquateur, a nine-story apartment building overlooking the docks on the Congo River. It was Warrant Officer Manley's apartment, furnished simply but comfortably.

There was a balcony looking down on the river, and once inevitably, Geoff thought-the two old soldiers turned up mutual 01' buddies, they sat there telling war stories over ice-cold Simba beer, while Geoff made do with the local citron presse, a sort of carbonated lemonade.

At daylight they were back at the airport. The OlE had hardpoints under each wing, and the two drop bundles were attached to them. They contained rations and batteries for Father Lunsford's radios. And ammunition.

Geoff emptied his pockets of everything but matches and four of Cousin Craig's H. Uppmann Corona Coronas. If he were captured, or killed, there would be nothing on him or his body to identify him as an officer of the United States Army.

And then he got in the OlE, fired it up, and took off. The takeoff took him over Stanleyville. It looked, he thought, like someplace in Southern California. The only thing that was missing was flashing signs for gas stations, motels, and Monster burgers.