Special Ops.

by W.E.B. Griffin.

For Uncle Charley and The Bull.

RIP October 1979.

And for Donn Who would have ever believed four four stars? stars?

And for Russ Who would have ever believed Pee-Wee's Dog Robber would grow up to be a major general, a division commander, and a university president?

And for Mac RIP December 1987 And for All Those Special Operations Types Who Laid Their Lives on the Line To Keep Africa and South America Free of the Communists

I.

[ ONE ].

TOP SECRET TOP SECRETTHE JOINT CHIEFS OF STAFF WASHINGTON, D.C.Duplication Forbidden Copy 4 4 of Seven. of Seven.For Distribution By Officer Courier Only8 November 1964 Commanding General, United States Strike Command Commanding General, European Command Commanding General, United States Air Force, Europe Commanding General, Seventh United States Army1. By Direction of the President; by Command of His Royal Highness, the King of the Belgians; and at the request of the government of the Republic of the Congo, a Joint Belgian-American Operation, "OPERATION DRAGON ROUGE," will take whatever military action is necessary to effect the rescue of American, Belgian and other European nationals currently being held hostage in Stanleyville, Republic of the Congo, by forces in rebellion against the legal and duly constituted government of the Republic of the Congo.2. By Direction of the President, Counselor to the President Sanford T. Felter (Colonel, General Staff Corps, USA) is designated Action Officer, and will be presumed, in connection to military matters, to be speaking with the authority of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.3. OPERATION DRAGON ROUGE is assigned an AAAA-1 Priority with regard to the requisitioning of personnel, equipment, and other U.S. military assets.4. Addressees will on receipt of this directive immediately dispatch an officer in the grade of colonel or higher to the United States Embassy, Brussels, Belgium, where they will make themselves available to Colonel Felter or such officers as he may designate to represent him.FOR THE CHAIRMAN, THE JOINT CHIEFS OF STAFF: Forbes T. Willis FORBES T. WILLIS.

BRIGADIER GENERAL, USMC.

EXECUTIVE OFFICER, JCSTOP SECRET.

[ TWO ].

Brussels, Belgium 1320 11 November 1964.

Brigadier General Harris McCord, USAF, thought he had yet another proof, if one were needed, that life was full of little ironies. Sixteen hours before, he had been at the USMC Birthday Ball at the Hotel Continental in Paris, tripping the light fantastic with his wife. He had been wearing his mess dress uniform, complete with real medals rather than ribbons, and with more silver embellishments than a Christmas tree.

Now that he was about to engage in what promised to be a really hairy exercise, he was wearing a somewhat baggy tweed jacket and well-worn flannel slacks. Just before he had left Paris, he had been told to wear civilian clothing. What he had on was all that had come back from the dry cleaners.

There were five peers, most of whom he knew, at least by sight, all in civilian clothing in a none-too-fancy conference room in the U.S. Embassy, waiting for Colonel Sanford T. Felter and his staff. The whole damned continent had been socked in, and Felter's plane had had to sit down in Scotland to wait for Brussels to clear to bare minimums.

He had heard of Felter, but he had never seen him in person and he was not very impressed with him when he walked into the room. Felter was small and slight, and wearing a baggy gray suit. He looked like a stereotype of a middle-level bureaucrat.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, gentlemen," Felter said. He threw a heavy briefcase on the table, then took a key from his pocket and unlocked the padlock that had chained-more accurately, steel-cabled-it to his wrist.

"My name is McCord, Colonel," General McCord said, and went to Felter and offered his hand.

"I'm glad you were available, General," Felter said.

As the others introduced themselves to Felter, McCord considered that. Felter knew who he was, and there was an implication that he had asked for him by name. That was flattering, unless you were rank-conscious, and thought that general officers should pick colonels, rather than the other way around.

"I think the best way to handle this, gentlemen," Felter began, "is to give you a quick recap of what's going on in the Congo, specifically in Stanleyville, and then to tell you what we intend to try to do to set it right.

"There are sixteen hundred people, Europeans, white people, held captive by Olenga's Simbas in Stanleyville. A four-column relief force-in other words, four different columns-under the overall command of Colonel Frederick Van de Waele of the Belgian Army has been charged with suppressing the rebellion, which includes, of course, the recapture of Stanleyville.

"There have been some successes, as you probably know from your own sources, but there is no way that Van de Waele can make it to Stanleyville before the end of the month. That poses two problems. The first is the rebels' announced intention to kill the hostages, a threat we consider bona fide, before Van de Waele can get to them.

"The second is that we have hard intelligence that since 20 October, at least two, and probably as many as four, unmarked Ilyushin-18 turboprop aircraft have been flying arms and ammunition into the Arau airbase in northern Uganda, from Algeria. Should they decide to do so, it would be easy for them to move the arms and ammunition to Olenga's forces. The possibility of their doing so, it is believed, increases as Van de Waele's mercenaries and ANC troops approach Stanleyville.

"The President has decided, in consultation with the Belgian premier, Spaak, that the first priority is to keep those sixteen hundred people alive. The Belgians have made available the First Parachutist Battalion of their Paracommando Regiment. I'm familiar with it. The First Battalion was trained by the British Special Air Service people in World War II, and they pride themselves now on being just as good. The regiment is commanded by Colonel Charles Laurent, who is a fine officer, and who I suspect will lead the First Battalion himself.

"They will be carried to Stanleyville in USAF C-130 aircraft. After the airfield is softened up with some B-26s, they will make a parachute landing and seize the airport. Part of the force will remain at the airport to make the airport ready to receive the C-130s, and the balance will enter Stanleyville, find the Europeans, and bring them to the airport. They will be loaded aboard the C-130s and then everybody leaves. No attempt will be made to hold Stanleyville. I don't want any questions right now. I just wanted to give the rough idea.

"These gentlemen," Felter went on, turning to indicate the men he had brought with him, "are Lieutenant Colonel Lowell, Captain Stacey, Lieutenant Foster, and Sergeant Portet. They're Green Berets. Colonel Lowell is on the Strike staff, and wrote Dragon Rouge. Captain Stacey and the others have been practicing a somewhat smaller operation intended for Stanleyville, now called off. But they know the town, and rebel dispositions and the probable location of the Europeans, and I brought them along to share their expertise."

The light colonel, Lowell, General McCord thought, General McCord thought, looks like a bright guy, if not much like a Green Beret. Stacey looks like a typical young Green Beret captain, a hard charger, tough, mean, and lean. The black lieutenant, Foster, looks as if he could chew railroad spikes and spit tacks. The sergeant . . . there's something wrong with him: His face is scratched and blotchy and swollen. He can hardly see out of his eyes. And whatever's wrong with his face is also wrong with his hands. looks like a bright guy, if not much like a Green Beret. Stacey looks like a typical young Green Beret captain, a hard charger, tough, mean, and lean. The black lieutenant, Foster, looks as if he could chew railroad spikes and spit tacks. The sergeant . . . there's something wrong with him: His face is scratched and blotchy and swollen. He can hardly see out of his eyes. And whatever's wrong with his face is also wrong with his hands.

"Colonel Lowell," Felter went on, "as soon as we wind it up here, will be available to explain any questions you might have about the OPPLAN for Dragon Rouge. Stacey and Foster are going to go liaise with the Belgians."

Felter looked at General McCord.

"I'm going to give Sergeant Portet, to you, General. He's a former airlines pilot, with extensive experience in the Congo-including, of course, Kamina and Stanleyville-and equally important, because he was involved in getting the B-26-Ks to the Congo, he knows most, if not all, the Cubans who will be flying them."

A former airlines pilot? McCord wondered. McCord wondered. What's he doing in the army as a sergeant? A Green Beret sergeant? What's he doing in the army as a sergeant? A Green Beret sergeant?

"Glad to have all the help I can get," McCord said.

He had another thought: I wonder if "the airlines pilot" caught whatever is wrong with his face and hands in the Congo? I wonder if it's contagious? I wonder if "the airlines pilot" caught whatever is wrong with his face and hands in the Congo? I wonder if it's contagious?

Felter looked around the room. "I have rough OPPLANs here. Study them overnight, and be prepared to offer fixes for what is wrong with the OPPLAN tomorrow morning." He paused, then went on. "That will be all for now, gentlemen. Thank you. But keep yourselves available."

Felter and three of the Green Berets started to leave the room. Lowell opened a well-stuffed briefcase. Felter caught the sergeant's attention and nodded toward General McCord. The sergeant went to General McCord.

"Colonel Felter said I am to make myself useful, sir," he said.

McCord resisted the temptation to offer his hand.

"You've been into Stanleyville, Sergeant? Flown Flown into Stanleyville? " into Stanleyville? "

"Yes, sir."

"Purely as a matter of idle curiosity, I've looked at the Jepp charts," General McCord said. "I know we can get 130s in there."

"Yes, sir, easily."

"But I should have looked closer," McCord said. "How many will it take at once?"

Portet's swollen face wrinkled in thought.

"No more than six at once, sir," he said. "To be safe, I would say no more than five. There's not much paved tarmac, and the unpaved areas won't take the weight of a C-130."

"Colonel Felter said you were an airline pilot?"

The rest of the question went unspoken, but Sergeant Portet answered, smiling wryly.

"I got a postcard from my friends and neighbors at the draft board, General."

Then, as if he was no longer able to resist an awful temptation, he put his hand up and scratched at the open blotches his face- with a hand that was similarly disfigured with suppurating sores.

"What's wrong with your face, son?" General McCord asked. "And your hand?"

"It's nothing, sir. A little rash."

"A little rash, my ass," General McCord said. "How long has it been that way?"

"It started on the plane from the States, sir," Jack said. "It's some kind of an allergy, probably. Nothing to worry about."

"Where were you in the States? Bragg?"

"Yes, sir."

"Come with me, Sergeant," McCord said.

He had seen the military attache's office on the way to the conference room, and he led Jack there.

There was a captain on duty, who glanced up and was not very impressed with what he saw. Two messy Americans in mussed clothing, one of them with what looked like a terminal case of scabies on his face.

"Yes?" he asked.

"I'm General McCord," McCord said, which caused the captain to come to his feet and to stand to attention.

"Yes, sir."

"Would you be good enough to get me the commanding officer of the nearest U.S. military medical facility on the telephone, please?"

"General," Jack said. "I'll be all right. I don't want to get put in a hospital now."

"I expected as much from a Green Beret," McCord said. "But I would be very surprised if they'll let you get on the airplanes, much less jump on Stanleyville. It looks to me as if the whole purpose of the Belgians is to keep Americans out of it."

"My stepmother and stepsister are in Stanleyville, General. I'm going in."

McCord looked at him. Before he could frame a reply, the captain handed him a telephone.

"Colonel Aspen, sir."

"Colonel, this is General McCord. This may sound a little odd, but I want you to dispatch, immediately, one of your best medical officers. I am in the U.S. Embassy, and I have a young sergeant with me who, if my diagnosis is correct, has been rolling around in poison oak." There was a pause. "No, Colonel, he cannot come there. I don't want to argue about this. I expect to see either you or one of your doctors here within twenty minutes."

He hung the phone up, and turned to smile at Jack.

"They give you a shot," he said. "It clears it up in a couple of hours. I had it in survival school in Utah a couple of years ago."

"Thank you very much, sir," Jack said.

"Don't get your hopes up about anything else, Sergeant," General McCord said. "I know they won't let you jump on Stanleyville."

"Yes, sir," Jack said.

"So tell me what else I should know about the airport in Stanleyville, " General McCord said.

[ THREE ].

Stanleyville, Republic of the Congo 0600 25 November 1964.

As a tradition, the men of the First Battalion, the Paracommando Regiment, Royal Belgian Army, continued to use the English-language jump commands the battalion had learned in England in World War II.

"Outboard sticks, stand UP!" the jumpmaster ordered.

The two outside files of men inside the USAF C-130, called "Chalk One" in the OPPLAN, stood up and folded up their nylon and aluminum pole seats back against the fuselage wall.

"Inboard sticks, stand UP!"

The two inside files rose to their feet and folded their seats.

"Hook UP!"

Everybody fastened the hook at the end of their static line to a steel cable.

"Check static lines! Check equipment!"

Everybody tugged at his own static line, to make sure it was securely hooked to the cable, and then they checked the harness and other equipment of the man standing in front of them-that is to say, in the lines that now faced rear, and led to the exit doors on either side of the aircraft.

Now the jumpmaster switched to French: "Un minute!" "Un minute!" and then back to English: "Stand in the door!" and then back to English: "Stand in the door!"

Chalk One was down to 700 feet or so, and all dirtied up, flaps down, throttles retarded, close (at 125 mph) to stall speed.

"Go!"

Sergeant Jack Portet, wearing the uniform of a Belgian paratrooper, was the sixth man in the port-side stick. The Belgians had been sympathetic to someone who wanted to jump on Stanleyville because his mother and sister were there.