"This Colonel Lowell is an interesting chap. . . ."

"I've heard the name."

"His father-in-law is General von Greiffenberg."

"That is interesting."

"Felter is about to send a small Army airplane down there and a couple of ex-Cuban Army officers now in Special Forces to work with the Argentines. That wouldn't be happening if the Argentines weren't going along."

"Damn!"

"And guess who's flying the airplane down there? Young Lieutenant Portet."

"How good is your information, Howard?"

"Five all the way. State routinely gets copies of orders sending Army officers out of the country not in connection with a troop movement. And of augmentation to defense attache staffs. I have a friend over there. They're as unhappy with Felter as we are."

"Unfortunately, President Johnson is happy with him."

"We have to consider that Felter is entirely capable of dropping into one of their private conversations that we're setting up young Portet's daddy in a covert airline."

"What's young Portet got to do with the President?"

"When the Belgians parachuted into Stanleyville, one of them was young Portet in a Belgian uniform. The King of the Belgians, and Mobutu, are giving him medals. The President thinks young Portet is the all-American boy of fame and legend."

"That goddamn Felter has his nose in everything," the deputy director said.

"The conversation I don't want to take place is as follows," O'Connor said. "Felter: The Agency is bankrolling another Air America-type airline. Maybe this one they can keep secret. Johnson: How do you know that? Felter: The front man is young Portet's father. Chuckle, chuckle. They don't know I know, or who Captain Portet is."

"Shit," the deputy director said bitterly. "You're right, Howard, you should have known about the Portets, pere et fils." pere et fils."

"The last word I had was that the son was a draftee private taking basic training, and his stepmother and half sister had just been rescued from Stanleyville."

"I thought you just said he was an officer?"

"When he came back from the Congo, they commissioned him," O'Connor said.

"I'll have to bring the director in on this," the deputy director said. "And he will ask me what I think should be done. What are the choices?"

"I tell the Gresham Investment Corporation to terminate their negotiations with Portet as of the day before yesterday-"

"Which would give us this conversation: Mr. President, chuckle, chuckle, I guess the Agency just found out the man they were setting up to run a really covert airline, since Air America has become sort of an open secret, is all-American boy Portet's father. They broke off negotiations just as they were about to write the check. For some reason, chuckle, chuckle, they don't seem to want to have anything to do with me. Pity, he really could have done a good job for him."

"Yeah," O'Connor agreed.

"Or," the deputy director said, "you get on the telephone in the next few minutes, and you tell Dick Leonard that you're sick and tired of their feet-dragging with Portet, and to get off the dime."

O'Connor considered that for a long moment.

"That's another possibility," he said. "Which would give us this conversation: You, or the director himself: Mr. President, I thought you might be interested in knowing that we've set up another covert airline, now that Air America isn't the secret we hoped it would be. And we've found a fine man to run it for us, as a partner. All sorts of the right kind of experience, and, as a matter of interest, the father of that fine young all-American boy who jumped with the Belgians on Stanleyville. Oh, sure, Mr. President, we knew all about that."

The deputy director picked up on the imaginary conversation: "Me, or the director: As we knew all about Felter being in the Congo, and his man Lowell in Argentina, we still feel that it's highly unlikely that Guevara's going to cause any serious trouble in the Congo, but we can't be too careful, can we?"

Howard W. O'Connor grunted approvingly and smiled.

"I like that conversation a lot better," the deputy director said. "If Portet's holding out for something-money, whatever-give it to him. Get it done."

"It's done."

"Just to be sure, keep me advised. Off paper."

"Certainly."

The deputy director looked at his watch.

"I've got to get going," he said. He looked at O'Connor. "Try not to get any more egg on your face, Howard."

[ SEVEN ].

Pope Air Force Base Fort Bragg, North Carolina 1325 29 January 1965 Mrs. Marjorie Bellmon Portet, Mrs. Elizabeth Wood Oliver, Mrs. Carmen Sanchez Otmanio, Captain Stefan Zabrewski, and Warrant Officer Junior Grade Julio Zammoro drank coffee in the VIP lounge in the Base Operations building while waiting for the pilots-and other interested parties-to finalize the flight plan of the first leg-Fort Bragg-Fort Lauderdale, Florida-of their flight to Buenos Aires.

The room was furnished with chrome, plastic-upholstered chairs and couches, a coffee machine, a television set, and two coffee tables, on which sat an array of out-of-date magazines. A speaker mounted high on the wall relayed the radio traffic of the Pope tower.

Captains, warrant officers junior grade, and the wives of captains, lieutenants, and sergeants first class are not normally given access to the VIP lounge, but the AOD, a major, on duty had heard Brigadier General Paul R. Hanrahan order Captain Zabrewski to "take the ladies and Zam in there while we're in flight planning" and was highly unlikely to challenge the general's desires.

Through the window they could see three soldiers-two of them Green Berets-in camouflage fatigues stuffing luggage into an L-23 parked on the transient ramp. They were Major George Washington "Father" Lunsford; SFC Jorge Otmanio, and Captain Darrell J. Smythe, who had already become known to the team as "Aunt Jemima."

There wasn't much luggage. Weight was a real consideration. There was a uniform and a set of civilian clothing for each of the five who would be aboard, plus linen for three days and toilet gear.

Six footlockers labeled PRIORITY and addressed to the U.S. Army attache, Buenos Aires, had been entrusted on Thursday to the Air Force, which flew a weekly round-robin around South America delivering cargo and sometimes passengers to the various embassies.

They contained the uniforms, civilian clothing, and personal gear Zammoro, de la Santiago, and Otmanio would need to stay in Buenos Aires, and additional clothing and uniforms for Oliver and Portet to use while they were there. There was no promise when the footlockers would actually arrive in Buenos Aires.

Planning the flight had mostly taken place in the kitchen of the Portet apartment, with time-outs for various distractions, including the wedding and reception of Captain and Mrs. John S. Oliver, Jr.

The first leg, Fort Bragg-Fort Lauderdale, was, in comparison to the rest of the trip, about as complicated as driving to a gas station and filling up. From there on, it got complicated.

It was impossible of course, to overfly Cuba. The first fueling stop from Lauderdale would be South Cariocas Island, which was 635 miles from Fort Lauderdale and about 250 miles northeast of the U.S. Naval Base at Guantanamo, on the eastern tip of Cuba. This would be about a four-hour flight in the L-23, which cruised at about 150 knots. If they left Fort Lauderdale as planned at 0800, they would make South Cariocas about noon.

Landing there posed no problems, because South Cariocas was a British possession, and there was a long-standing bilateral agreement that military aircraft of one nation could land at airfields of the other.

If they took off, as planned, from Cariocas at 1400, it would be a four-hour flight to cover the 600 miles to St. Maarten in the Leeward Islands. The Netherlands and France have shared administration of the island since 1648. To get permission to land there and at Paramaribo, Suriname, in Dutch Guinea, Mary Margaret Dunne had had to go the Netherlands Embassy in Washington. Colonel Felter had brought the documentation with him when he arrived at Bragg in a presidential Lear jet, with General and Mrs. Bellmon aboard, "coincidentally" just in time to witness the Oliver/Wood nuptials.

They would spend the night in St. Maarten, Jack had decided, both because they could probably get a much better dinner in St. Maarten than they could have in Port of Spain, their next stop, and because by then, they would have spent eight hours-plus in the L-23 and be tired.

If they left St. Maarten at 0730, as planned, they could make the 520 miles to Port of Spain, Trinidad, by noon. Trinidad, off the northeast tip of Venezuela, was a British possession and there was no problem landing there.

From Port of Spain to Paramaribo, Suriname, was 560 miles, or another four hours. If they left Port of Spain at 1330, as planned, it would take them four hours-until 1730, or thereabouts-to Belem, on the northern coast of Brazil.

The military attache of the Brazilian Embassy in Washington, who handled military flight permissions over Brazil, smilingly told Mary Margaret that his friend, the U.S. military attache at the U.S. Embassy in Brasilia, would be green with envy and probably red in the face as well, when he heard that he was going to be asked to provide overnight accommodations for the crew of an L-23 ferrying the aircraft to the U.S. attache in Buenos Aires. The American attache in Brasilia, he reported, had been trying for years, without success, to get an L-23 to fly between Brasilia, in the center of the nation, to Rio de Janeiro and Sao Paulo, the two largest cities in Brazil, both many hundreds of miles from Brasilia.

They would spent the night in Belem, before taking off at 0800 on the longest leg-right at 1,000 miles-to Brasilia. That meant about seven hours in the air-approaching what Jack called the Bladder Limit Factor of the flight-but there was nothing that could be done about that except to remember to take the two empty quart plastic milk bottles from the baggage department before takeoff, and hope than no one had bowel problems.

They would spend the night in Brasilia, and take off at 0800 for Sao Paulo, on the Brazilian coast south of Rio de Janeiro. That was a 550-mile leg-another four hours or so. After a quick fuel stop there, they would take off at 1230 for Porte Alegre, on Brazil's Atlantic Coast, not far from the Uruguayan border, another 500-odd mile, four hour, plus or minus, leg.

It was another 520 miles from Porto Alegre to Buenos Aires, or a final four hours in the air, most of it over Uruguay. If they could take off from Porto Alegre at 1800, that would put them into Ezeiza, Buenos Aires's international airfield, at 2200 or thereabouts.

"All of this," Jack had announced, "presumes that nothing will go wrong. Does anyone wish to offer me odds that nothing will go wrong?"

"You sure you want to spend twelve hours in the air the last day? And the final four hours at night?" Lt. Col. Craig W. Lowell asked. Lowell had flown up from Strike Command at McDill Air Force Base to "check final arrangements," his trip "coincidentally" permitting him to witness the Wood/Oliver nuptials.

"Why not?" Major Pappy Hodges asked. He had flown up from Rucker in a Mohawk to review the flight plan, and had been genuinely surprised to learn this his visit coincided with the Wood/Oliver nuptials.

"There's three pilots aboard," Pappy went on. "If Oliver flies the first leg, one of the other two can sleep in the back. And the other one can on the second leg. That would put Jack and de la Santiago at the controls for the final leg. De la Santiago speaks Spanish, if that comes up. That your thinking, Jack?"

"Yes, sir," Jack said.

"You're the experts," Lowell said.

That's true, Marjorie had thought in wifely pride. Of all the pilots who had "helped" Jack with the flight planning, only Major Pappy Hodges was more experienced, and he hadn't offered a suggestion to improve-much less a criticism of-what Jack had laid out. Marjorie had thought in wifely pride. Of all the pilots who had "helped" Jack with the flight planning, only Major Pappy Hodges was more experienced, and he hadn't offered a suggestion to improve-much less a criticism of-what Jack had laid out.

Captain Oliver, Lieutenant Portet, and WOJG de la Santiago came out of the flight planning room twenty minutes later. Behind them trailed General Hanrahan, Lieutenant Colonel Lowell, and Major Pappy Hodges. Everyone but General Hanrahan was wearing a flight suit and carrying a large, squarish case-much like a salesman's sample bag.

They were Jeppesen "Jepp" cases, and they contained the approach charts for every major-and just about every other-airport in the world, plus the tools of aerial navigation, and sometimes a change of linen.

Lieutenant Portet walked up to his bride, who was trying very hard to be cheerful and pleasant, and handed his Jepp case to her.

"Hang on to it for me, will you, baby?"

"Won't you need it?" Marjorie asked, surprised.

"We only need one. We can get by with de la Santiago's," he said. "There's no sense hauling Johnny's and mine all the way to Argentina, just to haul them back."

"Sure," Marjorie said, taking the case. She immediately put it on the floor. It was heavier than it looked.

Captain Oliver handed his Jepp case to Liza without saying anything. She smiled and set it on the floor beside the other one.

"I hope, Mrs. Oliver," Lieutenant Colonel Lowell said, "that you realize how lucky you are?"

Liza eyed him suspiciously.

"How is that, Colonel?" she asked.

"Well, when the wives start swapping stories about how the Army has interfered with their marriages, you can top them all. 'I was married at four in the afternoon, and at noon the next day the Army sent my husband to Argentina.' "

"I'm not exactly the virgin bride, Colonel," Liza replied. "And knowing the Army as I do, I wasn't even surprised."

Lowell was visibly surprised at the tone of her reply, and there was an awkward silence for a moment, until General Hanrahan patted Liza's shoulder approvingly.

"Good for you," he said. "Score one for the captain's lady."

Lunsford, Smythe, and Otmanio came into the lounge, shivering and rubbing their hands.

"I have just had a cheerful thought," Lunsford announced. "It's summer in Argentina. Out there"-he nodded toward the parking ramp-"it's as cold as a witch's . . . broom handle."

Neither Mrs. Oliver, Mrs. Portet, nor Mrs. Otmanio seemed amused.

"Smythe, you about ready to go?" Pappy Hodges said.

"Yes, sir."

"Where are you going, Smythe?" General Hanrahan asked.

"Rucker, sir."

"What I meant to ask is why are you going?" Hanrahan asked.

"I'm going to bring the L-19 up here tonight, sir."

"What's that all about?" Lowell asked. "The Air Force is- somewhat reluctantly-going to pick it up at Rucker."

"Colonel, Aunt Jemima wanted to test the radios they put in at Rucker with the team's radios here," Lunsford answered.

Lowell's eyebrow rose at "Aunt Jemima," but he didn't say anything.

"You're talking about the black L-19, right?" General Hanrahan asked.

"Yes, sir."

Hanrahan stopped, and looked uneasily at the three wives, who didn't have Top Secret/Earnest security clearances.

"Captain Smythe's going to bring it up tonight, sir," Lunsford said. "Take it to Camp MacKall."

"How's he going to land it there at night?" Lowell asked.

"The team is going to improvise runway lights, sir," Smythe said.

"I don't know . . ." Lowell said.

"Sir, I have Colonel Felter's permission," Lunsford said.

"What about the Air Force picking it up at Rucker?" Lowell asked.

"Mr. Finton changed that, sir. I talked to him this morning."