"It is one thing for a U.S. Army aircraft assigned to the U.S. Embassy to move around the Congo carrying passengers on embassy business, and quite another for U.S. Army aircraft to be actively engaged in supporting military operations," Hakino said. "The President has made it clear he does not want the U.S. Army operating in the Congo."

"Speaking hypothetically, Mr. Secretary," Lunsford said. "What if a U.S. Army Beaver, or an L-19, showed up here, mysteriously, as if someone had flown it across the border from South Africa when no one was looking. And then, somehow, the aircraft was painted black so that it didn't say 'U.S. Army' on the wings and fuselage . . ."

"And the pilot's face would be painted black, too?" Hakino asked, smiling.

"Still speaking hypothetically, of course," Lunsford said, "what if the hypothetical pilot of this hypothetical aircraft, and its hypothetical maintenance crew, all happened to be black?"

"I suppose this hypothetical aircraft could be given Congolese Army identification," Hakino said, smiling conspiratorially.

"With respect, sir," Lunsford said. "If it had no identification at all, then no one would know who it belonged to, would they? Everybody could say, 'What airplane?''' "

Hakino and Supo chuckled.

"The decision is yours, Jean-Baptiste," Dannelly said, shaking his head.

"I think Major Lunsford and I understand each other," Supo said. "And that he understands the problems-tactical and political-here. I think he and his men could be very useful."

"We'll try, Colonel," Lunsford said. "We'll try hard."

Supo nodded and offered Lunsford his hand.

"I have an apartment here in the Immoquateur," Supo said. "I'd be pleased if you all joined me for dinner. At eight?"

"We would be honored, sir," Lunsford said.

Supo gave his hand to Jack, turned, and walked off the balcony.

With Hakino and Dannelly in the apartment, it wasn't until Lunsford and Jack were alone in what had been Jack's bedroom that Jack could ask, "Where are you going to get these airplanes you promised him?"

Lunsford looked at Jack for a long moment before replying, "I figured that if Felter can steal an L-23 from some general to send to Argentina, he can steal a Beaver, a couple of L-19s, and an H-13 to send here-"

"Felter doesn't know about your offer?"

Lunsford shook his head, no.

"Since we're dreaming, why not a Huey?" Jack asked sarcastically. "For that matter, a Mohawk?"

The sarcasm went right over Lunsford's head.

"It would be hard to credibly deny a Huey or a Mohawk," he said. "The South Africans and the Israelis have Beavers, L-19s, and H-13s. The problem we're going to have is talking enough black guys, with visions of flying a Mohawk or a Chinook gloriously in Vietnam in their heads, to come here and fly L-19s and H-13s in a war that doesn't exist, and never will, but from which, nevertheless, they stand a good chance of returning in a body bag."

"Can you do it?"

"Of course I can do it," Lunsford said. "I'm a Green Beret. I can do anything."

XIII.

[ ONE ].

Camp David The Catoctin Mountains, Maryland 1530 22 January 1965 The President of the United States and the chief of staff of the United States Army were shooting skeet when the peculiar fluckata-fluckata fluckata-fluckata sound a Bell HU-1 helicopter makes caught the President's attention. sound a Bell HU-1 helicopter makes caught the President's attention.

He looked skyward, in the direction of Washington. A U.S. Army Huey could be seen approaching.

"That's probably Colonel Felter, Mr. President," the chief said.

The chief of staff was at Camp David because of Colonel Sanford T. Felter. The red White House switchboard telephone on his desk had gone off-it was rigged so that it didn't ring until a red light had flashed five times; the chief had caught it, he hoped, on the second flash-at half past ten that morning.

"Have you got heavy plans for this afternoon?" the President of the United States had inquired without other preliminaries.

"No, sir."

No plan has priority over any plan of the Commander-in-Chief.

"Come over here so that we can take off for Camp David-say, quarter to twelve," the President ordered. "Don't come by chopper; the goddamn press will interpret that to mean we're about to go to war."

"Yes, sir."

The phone had clicked off.

The chief and two aides-de-camp had arrived by Army sedan at the White House at a few minutes after eleven. The presidential helicopter had fluttered down on the South Lawn of the White House at twenty past eleven. At twenty to twelve, a Secret Service agent had come to the waiting room outside the Oval Office and told the chief of staff that it was time for the chief to board the presidential helicopter.

"Just you, General," the Secret Service agent said.

"I'll call when I know something," the chief told his aides, who would now have to wait for God Only Knew How Long.

Lyndon Johnson boarded the helicopter last, just after the Secretary of State. He delayed takeoff long enough to walk, stooped, to where the chief was sitting.

"Felter will land in New York in about twenty minutes. By the time they can get him to Andrews, and on a chopper, it'll be half past three before the sonofabitch can get to Camp David."

"Yes, sir," the chief had said.

The President had walked forward and taken his seat, impatiently waving away the crewman who wanted to help him strap himself to the seat.

The chopper took off and headed north-northwest toward the Catoctin Mountain presidential retreat that still bore the name of President Eisenhower's grandson.

The Secretary of State got off the helicopter at Camp David only to immediately get aboard a Huey that was waiting, rotor turning, and before they reached the main guest house was already airborne and presumably headed back to Washington.

The President took lunch privately with Mrs. Johnson.

At two o'clock, a Secret Service agent led the chief of staff to the skeet range, where the President, in a windbreaker and blue jeans, was practicing mounting his shotgun to his shoulder.

"Regular skeet, a dollar a bird?" the President asked.

"Fine, Mr. President," the chief said, wondering if the stock of the shotgun he was handed was going to soil the shoulder of his tunic, which was new.

"I've got Felter trouble again, as you may have guessed," the President said. He had volunteered no further details, but the chief noted that the President had said, "It will be half past three before the sonofabitch can get to Camp David."

When Lyndon Johnson heard the inbound Huey, he was on Station Three, about to fire on the low house. He turned to one of the Secret Service agents standing behind the firing line.

"If Colonel Felter is on that chopper, bring him here," he ordered. "Only him."

"Yes, sir," one of the Secret Service agents said, and started to walk toward the helicopter pad.

"Pull!" the President called, and then, in one smooth movement, turned around and raised his shotgun-a Winchester Model 12 pump 12-gauge-to his shoulder.

After a moment, a clay pigeon emerged from the low house. The President fired and missed, and then quickly worked the action and fired again. This time the clay disc disappeared in a small cloud of black dust.

The President worked the action again, ejecting the fired shell, peered at the shotgun to make sure that there was no round in the chamber, and then turned and stepped off the station.

"I'm not taking that as a miss," he announced. "The way it's supposed to work is that when I call 'Pull,' you're supposed to pull, right goddamn then, not when you come back to paying attention to what you're supposed to be doing."

"Sorry, Mr. President," the Secret Service agent who was "pulling" targets said.

"That all right with you, General?"

"It was a bad pull, Mr. President," the chief said.

"Goddamn right it was," the President said, and waved the chief of staff on to Station Three.

Colonel Sanford T. Felter, who was wearing a gray suit in need of pressing and who had a leather briefcase chained to his wrist, was led onto the skeet range as the President fired at the high house from the center station. He broke the bird.

"I'm out of shells," the President announced. "I had that bad pull on the low house three, and had to shoot at it twice. But that's twenty-four, and you can't win anyway, General, can you?"

"I have an extra shell, Mr. President," the chief said, and offered it to Johnson, who dropped it into his shotgun, called for the low house bird, and broke it.

"That's straight, right?"

"Yes, Mr. President," the Secret Service agent keeping score agreed.

"Your shot, General," the President said.

The chief, who was firing a Remington Model 1100 semiautomatic, broke the high house and "dropped" the low.

"The President is straight, and the general is twenty-two," the Secret Service scorekeeper said.

The President held out his hand, and the chief of staff counted out three one-dollar bills into it.

"No good deed goes unpunished, General," the President said. "If you hadn't given me that shell, it would have cost you only two dollars."

The chief chuckled.

"How are you, Felter?" the President called.

"Good afternoon, Mr. President," Felter said. "Very well, thank you, sir."

The President walked toward Felter, with the chief of staff following. A Secret Service agent came forward and took the President's, and then the chief's, shotguns.

"You know each other, right?" the President said.

"Actually, sir, no," the chief said. "I know who Colonel Felter is, of course, and we have mutual friends, but-"

"How do you do, sir?" Felter said.

"I'm really glad to finally meet you, Colonel," the chief said, putting out his hand.

"He's really a legend in his own time, right?" the President said, chuckling. "Everybody knows who he is, but hardly anybody actually knows him."

"I suppose that's true, Mr. President," the chief said.

"You ever shoot any skeet, Felter?" the President asked.

"Yes, sir."

"You a gambling man, Felter?"

"Every once in a while, sir."

"You want to shoot a round of Humiliation for a buck a bird, winner take all?"

"I don't know what Humiliation is, Mr. President," Felter said.

"All doubles," the President explained. "You don't get off the station until you break both birds. A buck in the kitty for each missed bird. If you get left behind when everybody moves to the next station, you're humiliated. Get the picture? Okay with you?"

"Yes, sir," Felter said.

"You better take the briefcase off," the President said. "What have you got in there, anyhow?"

"I had my assistant bring my accumulated overnights to meet my plane in New York, Mr. President. I hoped to have time to read them on the plane to Washington."

The President beckoned to a Secret Service agent with his finger, and when he quickly walked over to him said, "Sit on Colonel Felter's briefcase while we're shooting."

"Yes, sir," the Secret Service agent said, and waited for Felter to unlock the padlock.

"And he'll need a shotgun. An 1100 all right with you, Felter?"

"Is there another Model 12, Mr. President?"

"Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, right?" the President said. "Get him a Model 12."

"Yes, sir."

Felter, now in his shirtsleeves, suspenders showing, with a shell pouch hanging low on his leg, stood at Station One.