Jeanine Portet, who was eleven, gangly, and freckled, was standing, her arms folded over her chest, waiting impatiently for one of the rods to get something on its line. Helene's Passion VI Helene's Passion VI was trolling for whatever might be down there-Geoff suggested they might get lucky and run into Spanish, and maybe even king mackerel-with four lines, one port, one starboard, and two centerboard. was trolling for whatever might be down there-Geoff suggested they might get lucky and run into Spanish, and maybe even king mackerel-with four lines, one port, one starboard, and two centerboard.

Jeanine didn't care what kind of fish took the bait, just as long as she could jump to the bent rod, take it from the holder, and wrestle the fish into the boat.

She was one of three females aboard. The other two, Marjorie Bellmon and Ursula Craig, were sunning themselves on the forward deck. Barbara Bellmon, Hanni Portet, and Helene Craig "thought they'd pass," and Porter Craig excused himself without giving any reason.

"He wants to play with the kid," Geoff said. "He's nuts about the kid, but playing Grandpa is beneath his dignity."

Geoff was running the boat. Her full-time captain, a deeply tanned, muscular man in his forties, found himself reduced to being more or less the steward. He didn't seem to mind either being the steward or having Geoff at the controls. He told them he had joined the Craigs with Helene's Passion III, Helene's Passion III, and had absolute faith in Geoff's ability to handle the boat, because he had taught him, starting at age nine, the fine points of small-boat handling. and had absolute faith in Geoff's ability to handle the boat, because he had taught him, starting at age nine, the fine points of small-boat handling.

Jack was half dozing, thinking of, for perhaps the tenth time, what Marjorie had told him in the very early hours of the morning. It was astonishing, in this day and age, but he believed it.

"You may not believe this, or even want to hear it, but I will only be a partial hypocrite when I march down the aisle in bridal-virginal-white."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Our first time, on the beach at Panama City, was my first time, period."

"Really?"

"Yes, really, and I thought you should know."

"Well, you may not believe this, or even want to hear it, but you certainly show a natural talent for the sport."

"You bastard!" she had said, and straddled him, and started to pound his chest with her fists. He had caught her hands and they'd looked at each other, and she had changed her mind about what she wanted to do to him.

"I've decided it's time to get out of the Congo," his father said suddenly, breaking Jack's reverie. "Out of Africa, period."

"Really?" Jack asked, surprised. "Why, all of a sudden?"

His father raised his hand and pointed to Jeanine.

"That's reason one," he said. "When I was sitting in Leopoldville, wondering what that lunatic Olenga might do to her-might already have done to her and Hanni-I was sick with shame that I hadn't gotten them out when I first began to think about it."

"Dad-"

"Let me finish," his father said.

Jack made a "have at it" gesture with his hand, and took a pull at his Heineken.

"The first time I thought about it was when Kasavubu made Mobutu chief of staff of the Army. That was more than four years ago."

Joseph Kasavubu became the first president of the Republic of the Congo when it became independent in 1960.

"Why?" Jack asked. "I thought you liked Mobutu. I do."

"I do," Jean-Phillipe Portet said. "I liked him when he was a corporal in the Force Publique and I liked him when he was working for L'Avenir. L'Avenir. And I still like him-a little less, frankly- now. But he was-is-no more qualified to be a lieutenant general and chief of staff of the Army than I am. I knew that, but I didn't want to face facts." And I still like him-a little less, frankly- now. But he was-is-no more qualified to be a lieutenant general and chief of staff of the Army than I am. I knew that, but I didn't want to face facts."

Captain Portet took a pull at his beer, then went on: "Our friend Joseph Desire Mobutu is now calling himself Mobutu Sese Seko. And did you see the leopard-skin overseas hat?"

Jack chuckled.

"Yeah, I saw the hat. What the hell, he's an African. Why not?"

"I had dinner with him the night before the Belgians jumped on Stanleyville," Jack's father said.

" 'The Belgians'?" Jack quoted. "Not, with chauvinist pride, Belgians'?" Jack quoted. "Not, with chauvinist pride, 'We 'We Belgians'?" Belgians'?"

His father chuckled, but not, Jack sensed, really happily.

"Let me put it this way," his father said. "I had dinner with Mobutu Sese Seko the night before my American son, making his American father's heart beat with pride, jumped on Stanleyville with some other parachutists, who I understand were Belgians."

"I'm missing something here, Dad."

"When we got off the airplane from Frankfurt," his father said, "The immigration guy looked at my passport, did a double take, and then said, 'Well, you've really been away a long time, haven't you? Welcome home, Mr. Portet.' "

"I forgot you had an American passport," Jack said. "You used that to get into this country?"

"More important, I have American citizenship," his father said. "Awarded for the faithful service during wartime of Captain Portet, J. P., U.S. Army Air Corps, 0-785499. I never thought much about it, really, until she was born." He inclined his head toward Jeanine. "We had three choices: Hanni's German, so we could have gone to the German consulate in what was then Leopoldville, and registered her as a German. Or, going to the U.S. Consulate, and getting her an American passport. Or going to the Belgian Registry office, making her a Belgian. It didn't take Hanni and me long to decide that Jeanine would be better off all-around as an American. So Jeanine 'came home,' too, after eleven years abroad."

"You never told me any of this, Dad," Jack said.

Captain Portet chuckled again.

"The immigration guy took a look at Jeanine's passport and said, 'This has expired. You'll have to get her another one before she leaves the country again.' "

"But this isn't her first trip here?"

"She always traveled, as we all did, from the time I went down there to start up Air Congo, on a Congolese passport," his father said.

"What are you going to do, move here?" Jack asked incredulously.

His father did not respond directly.

"I had dinner with Mobutu the night before the drop on Stanleyville, " Captain Portet said. "Several significant things were said. He told me he had just come from seeing Kasavubu, who was drunk, and in a rage against the Belgians, who were, he is absolutely convinced, behind Olenga. Mobutu said nothing he could say would shake this conviction, and he quickly stopped trying."

"My God, where did he get that idea?"

"It fits neatly in with Kasavubu's belief that the Belgians will do whatever they have to take the Congo back," Captain Portet said. "He thinks the Belgians were behind the Katangese Rebellion-"

"The Belgians sent troops to put the Katangese Rebellion down," Jack argued.

"Kasavubu believes it gave them an excuse to send troops down to restore colonialism. And he believes the jump on Stanleyville was going to be more of the same thing."

"Jesus!"

"What Mobutu said was that Kasavubu's unwillingness to accept this-Kasavubu's willingness to accept the Belgian intervention at Stanleyville, in particular-proves that Kasavubu is unfit to lead the country, and will have to be replaced."

"Did Kasavubu really think the Belgians were going to stand idly by as the Simbas killed the Europeans one by one?" Jack asked angrily.

"Kasavubu believes the Congolese Army, under the leadership of Lieutenant General Mobutu, would have dealt with the problem in good time," Captain Portet said sarcastically. "Mike Hoare's mercenaries, much less the Belgian paras, were not necessary. "

"Jesus," Jack said. "Was it the booze talking?"

"Sure. But in vino veritas, in vino veritas, Jacques." Jacques."

"You said Mobutu thinks Kasavubu has to be replaced. Who does he have in mind?"

"Who do you think? He almost came out and said it, and believe me, Jacques, there is no question in my mind that sooner or later, probably sooner, Mobutu is going to stage a coup against Kasavubu, and probably succeed. I want to get out before that happens-or the other inevitable thing happens. The result in either case being chaos."

"What other inevitable thing?"

"The Communists have another shot at taking over that part of the world. They're not through, and I don't like to think what would have happened in Stanleyville if they had managed to get arms to Olenga."

"What will happen to Air Simba?"

"I'm going to sell it to one of Joseph Desire Mobutu's cousins," Captain Portet said. "That was another interesting thing he said at dinner. He said that he has a cousin who would like to 'take a position' in Air Simba. I wondered who taught him to say 'take a position.' "

" 'A cousin'?"

Again his father didn't respond directly.

"And I realized that once the camel's nose came under the tent, we could kiss Air Simba good-bye, anyway. In two months, there would be fifty more cousins on the payroll, fighting over which one got to put his hand in the cash register today."

"Where would he get the money?"

"He told me his cousin 'found himself in a strong cash position' and was 'looking for a suitable investment opportunity.' I told him that while I was here, I would come up with a price. I know what it's worth, so the price will be that, plus the price of the house, the cars, the furniture, everything else. For that his 'cousin' can have a fifty-percent 'position' in Air Simba."

"And you won't go back for the rest?"

His father shook his head, no.

"I'll come out of the Congo considerably richer than when I went in," he said. "Which is more than a lot of other people can say."

"And what are you going to do?"

"There's a lot of old Boeing 707s on the market," Captain Portet said. "I'm going to buy a couple of them, maybe three or four, and start up an air cargo, or maybe air cargo/passenger charter operation here. Operating into South America, and maybe, even probably, into Vietnam. That war seems to get bigger by the day."

"Yeah," Jack agreed.

"Are you going to have to go over there?"

"I don't know. Christ, I hope not. Before the Stanleyville thing came up, I didn't think so. They assigned me to the Instrument Examiner Board at Fort Rucker-"

"You were flying?"

"They don't let enlisted swine fly. What they had me doing was writing the written parts."

"Any regrets about not being an officer?"

"Not until Marjorie. Or until that got serious. I don't think Marjorie cares, but her family, both sides, have been officers for generations."

"I think you made a good choice there, but with her background, is she going to be happy married to an airplane driver?"

"I guess we'll have to find that out," Jack said. "But to keep the record straight, I did a little flying. When they were getting the B-26s ready for the Congo, they didn't have anybody who knew how to fly them, so they looked the other way and turned me into an IP."

"Where'd you get B-26 time?"

"I got about twenty hours just before I became an IP," Jack said. "They were really desperate. I even flew one to Kamina, because there was no one else around who could. But to answer your question, what I'm hoping to do is finish my time giving written instrument exams at Fort Rucker."

"I wouldn't count on it," his father said.

"You know something I don't?"

At that moment, what turned out to be a fifteen-pound grouper struck the port line, the rod bent nearly double, the reel screamed, and they jumped out of their chairs to help Jeanine. Jack's question never got an answer.

[ THREE ].

Walter Reed U.S. Army Medical Center Washington, D.C.

0930 12 December 1964 Brigadier General James R. McClintock, Medical Corps, U.S. Army, a tall, silver-haired, hawk-faced man of forty-six, arrived in the ward unannounced. He was wearing a white smock over a uniform shirt and trousers. The smock bore an embroidered caduceus, the insignia of the U.S. Army Medical Corps, but it did not have pinned to it, as regulations required, the small oblong black piece of plastic he had been issued, and on which was engraved his rank and name and branch of service.

He did not, General McClintock often informed his aide-de-camp when the question of the missing name tag came up, have to look down at his chest to remind himself who he was, and if there was a question as to his identity in the minds of the staff, the aide should tell them.

General McClintock was alone when he got off the elevator. Usually he was trailed by at least his aide, and most often by a small herd of medical personnel, and these people were most often smiling nervously. In addition to being an internist of international repute, General McClintock had a soldier's eye. When he visited a ward, in other words, he was just as likely to spot a military physician whose hair was too long, or whose shoes needed a shine, as he was to find a misdiagnosis or something wrong with a patient's chart.

He walked across the highly polished linoleum floor to the nurses' station. There were three nurses and two enlisted medical technicians inside. The nurses looked busy, so General McClintock addressed one of the medical technicians: "Hand me Captain Lunsford's chart, will you, son?"

"Yes, sir," the technician, a specialist six (an enlisted grade corresponding to sergeant first class), responded. He knew who General McClintock was, and, consequently, his response was far more enthusiastic and militarily crisp than usually was the case. So much so that it caught the attention of the senior nurse, Major Alice J. Martin, ANC, who had been standing with her back to the counter, talking on the telephone. She glanced over her shoulder, hung the phone up in midsentence, and walked quickly to the counter.

"May I be of help, General?" she asked.

"I thought I'd have a last look at Captain Lunsford before he's discharged," McClintock said.

He took the chart, which was actually an aluminum folding clipboard, and which with all the forms clipped in various places inside was nearly three inches thick, from the medical technician, nodded and smiled, and said, "Thank you."

Major Martin headed for the opening in the nurses' station.

"That won't be necessary, Major," he said. "I won't need you. Thank you."

"Sir, he has visitors," Major Martin said, more than a little annoyed and disappointed not to be able to exercise her prerogative of accompanying the chief of internal medical services while he saw a patient on her ward.

"Well," General McClintock said, "he's about to have at least one more."

"He's in 421, General," Major Martin said.