"When was the last time you shot skeet, Felter?" the President asked.

"I don't remember, sir. Some time ago."

"You want a couple of don't-count shots to bring you up to speed?"

"Yes, sir. I think that would be a good idea."

"Two, four, how many?"

"I'd like four, if I can have them, sir. I'd like two singles and then a double."

"Have at it."

Felter broke the first-high house-single, and dropped the low house single. Then he called for doubles, which caused clay pigeons to be thrown simultaneously from the high and low houses. He broke both of them.

"Ready now?" the President asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Have at it," the President ordered.

Felter loaded a round in the magazine and pumped it into the chamber and then loaded a second round in the magazine.

"Pull," he called.

Both birds disintegrated.

The President took his turn and broke both birds.

The chief of staff took his turn; he broke the high house and missed the low.

"He has to stay there while we move on to Station Two," the President said. "That's why it's called Humiliation."

"Yes, sir," Felter said.

Felter and the President both fired two shots from Station Two, and both broke both birds. The chief fired again from Station One, and this time broke both birds.

Felter broke both of his birds on Station Three; the President dropped the low house. The chief dropped the high house when he fired from Station Two.

When the round was over, Felter had gone straight, which left him standing alone at Station Eight. The President had failed three times to break both of his targets, which left him at Station Five. The chief had failed six times to break both targets, which left him on Station Three.

They walked back to the rear of the range.

The President gave Felter three dollars, and the chief of staff counted out six.

"You ever think that's why you're not a general, Felter?" the President said.

"Sir?"

"The President outranks the chief of staff, so he lets me win," Johnson said. "The chief of staff-any general-outranks you, so you were supposed to let him win. Instead you humiliated the both of us."

"I thought that was the name of the game, sir," Felter said.

"I think they call that tunnel vision," the President said. "Set your eyes on what you want to do, and pay attention to nothing else. Like a horse with blinders."

"You may be right, sir," Felter said.

"The Secretary of State says that our ambassador to the Congo is going to be very humiliated if President Kasavubu finds out that you-which means the U.S. government-have gone to this General Mobutu behind his back," the President said. "And that if you could only have found the time in your busy schedule to speak with him, he could have told you your efforts were doomed to failure."

"I'm sorry he feels that way, Mr. President," Felter said.

"The Secretary of State tells me he has every confidence that after a cooling-down period, and after he sees the situation develop, Kasavubu will agree to accepting some help, and that all you did, more than likely, was make the sonofabitch dig in his heels more than he already had."

"General Mobutu has agreed to accept a Special Forces team to operate covertly to deal with Guevara, Mr. President."

"No shit?" the President asked, genuinely surprised. "What's that going to cost us?"

"A Beaver, two L-19s, and an H-13, Mr. President."

"What's a Beaver?"

"A large, single-engine, six-place airplane designed for use in Canada and Alaska-"

"Oh, yeah," the President said. "That's all?"

"Some tactical radios, Mr. President. And a handful of additional personnel-pilots, maintenance people."

"Goddamn, Felter, you really pulled that off?"

"Actually, sir, Major Lunsford did."

"What's with you commandeering the embassy's airplane?"

"General Mobutu said the final decision would be up to Colonel Supo, the military governor in that area of the Congo. Lieutenant Portet-the young officer who jumped on Stanleyville with the Belgians-flew Major Lunsford, the assistant secretary of defense for provincial affairs, and General Mobutu's friend Dr. Dannelly to Stanleyville to talk to him."

"You couldn't have told the ambassador what you were going to do with his airplane?"

"I couldn't take the risk, Mr. President, that the ambassador might think it was a bad idea, or insist that he be part of the negotiations. In my judgment, any delay might have been fatal."

"In other words, you're telling me that not only didn't you care to hear the ambassador's opinion, but that you thought you could negotiate a deal better than he could?"

"With respect, sir, the ambassador's negotiations had failed."

"So the end justifies the means?"

Felter didn't reply.

"After the Secretary of State complained about you, again, this morning, Colonel, I decided to hell with it. I asked the chief to join us here for two reasons. First, to inform him Operation Earnest was to be transferred to the CIA as soon as possible, and second, to tell him that despite the mess you had made of things, you had acted in good faith, and when you went back to the Army, I didn't want them giving you command of a supply depot somewhere, that you had earned the command of a regiment you'd always wanted."

"Yes, sir," Felter said. "Thank you."

"Mr. President," the chief said uncomfortably. "I'm not personally involved in the selection of regimental commanders. There is a process-"

"Well, I am," Lyndon Johnson said coldly. "I'm the Commander-in-Chief. If I say he gets a regiment, he gets a regiment. "

"Yes, sir," the chief said.

"Now that we understand each other on that," Johnson went on, "it's actually moot. I should have known Felter was going to pull his chestnuts out of the fire before they got burned."

"Sir?" the chief asked.

"See that Colonel Felter gets whatever he thinks he needs," the President said.

"Yes, sir," the chief said.

"Give my best regards to Major Lunsford when you see him, Felter."

"Yes, sir."

"And don't worry about the State Department. I'll deal with Foggy Bottom."

"Thank you, sir," Felter said.

The President looked like he was going to say something else, but didn't.

He beckoned to his Secret Service detail to follow him, and walked toward his private quarters.

[ TWO ].

Apartment B-14 Foster Garden Apartments Fayetteville, North Carolina 0645 23 January 1965 Mrs. Jacques Portet, although she and her husband had retired early-actually, very early-the previous evening, had not actually gotten much sleep during the night, and she was therefore annoyed when the door chimes sounded, and even more annoyed when she glanced at the bedside clock and saw that it was only quarter to seven.

She nudged her husband, who, like her, was sleeping au naturel, because he could, she reasoned, more quickly slip on a pair of pajama bottoms and answer the door than she could modestly cover her nakedness and do the same thing.

His groan of protest, which was almost a groan of agony, made her regret her selfishness. He was exhausted. He had every right to be exhausted. Not only had he flown all over the Congo when he was there, but he had spent twenty-eight hours returning from the Congo and then, on arrival the previous late afternoon and evening, expended considerable energy on the nuptial couch.

She pushed herself upright and then out of bed, finally found her bathrobe, which had somehow wound up under the bed, and walked through the living room to the door.

There was a small lens through which she could examine callers. She peered through it, deciding as she did that it would have to be Jesus Christ himself out there before she opened the door this time of morning, thereby depriving herself of rest-and very possibly, some physical manifestation of husbandly affection-in her bed.

It was not Jesus Christ. It was instead Major George Washington Lunsford, in a class A uniform.

She opened the door anyway.

"Whatever it is, no," Marjorie Bellmon Portet said.

"We have a small problem," Major Lunsford said.

"You have a small problem," Marjorie said. "Jack's exhausted. I won't wake him up." have a small problem," Marjorie said. "Jack's exhausted. I won't wake him up."

"Johnny is supposed to fly me to Rucker this morning," Father said. "Last night, he drank about a quart of scotch. He's still drunk."

Johnny was obviously Major Lunsford's roommate, Captain John S. Oliver, Norwich '59, and former aide-de-camp to Major General Robert Bellmon. Mrs. Portet had never seen him drunk, or heard of him being drunk.

"What happened?" Marjorie asked.

"When he called the Goddamn Widow to tell her he was going to be at Rucker, she hung up on him."

"Goddamn her," Marjorie said as she opened the door wide enough for him to enter.

"Was Jack drinking last night?" Father asked, quietly.

"I had a bottle of champagne on ice when he got here," Marjorie said. "We drank that early. That's all."

"I'm sorry, Marjorie," Lunsford said.

"Where's Johnny?" Marjorie asked.

"In the apartment. I called Doubting Thomas. He's on his way from Mackall to baby-sit him."

"You weren't with him?"

"I thought he was over that woman," Lunsford said. "If I'd known he'd called her, I would have stayed home."

"Put some coffee on, you can take a Thermos with you," Marjorie said. "I'll wake Jack up and get him showered."

"I'd like to say we'll be back tonight," Father said. "But it will probably be tomorrow or the day after."

"No problem," Marjorie said. "This will give me a chance to go back to Sears Roebuck and count the tools in the hardware department again."

"Is it that bad for you?" he asked.

"Yeah, it is," Marjorie said. "You say you think you're going to at least RON?"-Remain Over Night.

"I think we'll have to."

"Stay in the Daleville Inn," she said. "Separate rooms."

"You're going to fly down?"

"If I can get on an airplane, I will. If I can't, I'll drive the Jag. Don't tell Jack."

"Okay."

[ THREE ].