Those who wore it, p.8
Those Who Wore It, page 8
“Oh, come on, Chatman. We just wanted to make sure you had a proper commemoration of your special day. Anyway, I’ve been there too many times myself, so I am sorry for your pain, old buddy.”
Chat took another short sip of his now cold coffee and then refilled his cup. “By the way, did you happen to locate my flight jacket? If you have, I could almost forgive you.”
Dooley’s reply took on a more serious tone. “Sorry to say no on that account, my friend. I’m peeved about that too. I know that jacket had real sentimental value for you. Even in Laos you never went anywhere without it. I think you told me you had an uncle who was also a pilot, and he gave it to you, right?”
Shaking his head slowly so as not to aggravate the hangover headache, Chat replied, “No, not an uncle, just a really good family friend. Right before my father was killed in China, my father sent him the jacket as a gift. I think I told you my father flew with the Flying Tigers.”
Dooley nodded in sympathy. “Yep. That is special. Makes it even more important, then. We gotta find that jacket for sure. My best guess is one of those Guat Army dudes who was back-slapping us each time a round of drinks came is the culprit. I’m guessing one of them grabbed that jacket and skedaddled out of that bar with it. Don’t get too down about it for now, Chatman. I’ve got several local contacts who can keep their eyes and ears open. Whoever filched that A-2 is going to want to show off his prize, and when he does, we’ll nail the bastard. Anyway, I’m truly sorry, but concern for your health is not the only reason I’m here this mornin’. Before heading over, I ducked into flight operations to see if anything was in the works. Surprise! Looks like we’re first aircrew up on the duty roster today, and word is we got a mission coming down to fly some company spook and a couple of the local Federales up to a powwow somewhere in the Coban Region.”
Chat raised a hand in protest. “Sorry, Dooley, but I’m in no shape to fly right now. I’m taking a sick day—that’s all there is to it.”
The response was immediate. “Oh, no, you’re not. I’m not going without you, good buddy. Anyway, the good news is Bob Carpenter is your copilot today. He’s a good stickman in my book. All you gotta do is keep those Ray-Bans of yours tight over your bleeding eyeballs and try not to puke ‘til after we get well into the takeoff climb. Bob will manage the flight duties just fine. Besides, our fearless group leader, Stewart, knows about your big birthday celebration last night, and I feel sure his special gift to you was putting you first up today. Most likely it chapped him that he was not included when the party-hearty invites went out. If you ask me, they must’ve cut out that guy’s heart during the company indoctrination and stuck in an extra asshole.”
Chat responded with a slow back-and-forth motion of his head and a deep breath. “Then damned if I’ll give that guy any satisfaction. Okay, I’ll manage to rally somehow, but only if you promise to get your local network of spies in gear to locate my lost jacket.”
“No problem, good buddy. I’ll get on it ASAP.”
Chat took a few slower breaths, blowing out each time through his mouth. “All right, then. Just hope Señora has more aspirin somewhere in that kitchen. What time is takeoff?”
“Mission sheet says 1030, but hopefully they’ll be late as usual,” Dooley replied with a confident smile and a wink.
Logbook Entry: 8
Flying for the Company
La Aurora Airport, Military Aircraft Parking Ramp, Guatemala City, Guatemala
September 20, 1968, 1015 Hours
The in-country flying had been fairly intense for the past three months. It seemed to Chat that the Guatemalan government was pursuing an all-out effort to eliminate as much guerilla resistance as possible while US anti-rebel sentiment and military support were freely flowing. The rebels were calling themselves the Fuerzas Armadas Rebeldes (FAR). As history has shown in the case of dictatorial purges, the common populace, unfortunately, bears the brunt of the oppressive efforts of the government to crush any perceived opposition. Many innocent victims were swept in with the true hard-core sympathizers. Rumors abounded of government-sanctioned death squads and mysterious disappearances of hundreds of people.
The arrival on the airport ramp of a large, heavily armored black sedan, accompanied by two military jeeps full of armed soldiers, caused Chat to look up from his normal preflight activities on the helicopter. He watched as the soldiers dismounted and proceeded to set up a security perimeter around the sedan, their rifles facing outward, ready to thwart any would-be threats. He was unable to see anyone inside of the sedan due to the heavily tinted windows.
Appearing satisfied that all was in order, a Guatemalan Army sergeant moved to open the right-rear door of the big sedan. A Guatemalan Army officer wearing a camouflage field uniform emerged from the back seat, followed by a Caucasian-looking man wearing civilian khakis with no insignia or other markings on them. Chat immediately noticed the Caucasian’s shoulder holster with the 45-caliber pistol. He had seen this man on previous occasions when the man had flown with him on missions to outlying towns and villages. Chat knew him only as Quinn. Chat was certain the man was a spook, a moniker most folks outside of the agency used to refer to the in-country CIA operatives.
After exiting the car, the officer and Quinn appeared to be speaking to each other in hushed tones. The officer was doing most of the talking while Quinn nodded in response. Chat was able to see the officer’s rank insignia now—he was a major.
After completing his preflight activities outside the helicopter, Chat motioned Quinn and the major over to the helicopter for a quick safety briefing just prior to loading. As the group collected around him, Chat made a quick visual appraisal of his passengers. The major’s impeccably trimmed black hair and mustache, clean fingernails, and smooth hands indicated manual labor was not part of his daily routine. The gold Rolex on his left wrist said he had means beyond the meager military service remunerations the Guatemalan government paid. He wore a freshly starched camouflage field uniform set off by a green silk ascot. The camouflage-style jungle fatigues had been recently provided by the Guatemalan Army’s “rich Uncle Sam” and were currently only worn by the Special Commando Unit of the Guatemalan Army (SCUGA), a counterterrorism unit charged with gathering intelligence by any means necessary.
The Guatemalan Army sergeant who now stood beside the major was dressed in a similar fashion as his superior, but everything else about him was a contradiction to the officer. His rugged face carried a deep scar that ran horizontally along the length of his left cheek. His eyes were dark and menacing. The double-bladed Gurkha knife in the sheath on his webbed belt, along with the 45-caliber pistol and extra magazine pouches, indicated he was the one to do the major’s bidding. Chat surmised this man was well-versed in ways to kill or inflict pain.
In addition to the CIA man, Quinn, there was a fourth passenger, an American soldier Chat knew well, Sergeant First Class Miguel Rivera, a US Army Special Forces soldier assigned as an advisor to his Guatemalan counterparts.
“Morning, Rock. Good to have you along on this flight.” Chat had given his friend the nickname after the comic book character Sergeant Rock since Rivera had a similar imposing, muscular build.
“Good to see you too, Chatman. You’re looking a little green around the gills today, my friend. Everything okay?” Rivera’s observation was accompanied by a knowing smile.
Chat quickly slipped his Ray-Ban sunglasses back on. “Yeah, well, I think you know why since you were one of the perpetrators last night and …”
Quinn, the CIA spook, interrupted. “All right, you two lovebirds. Button it up and let’s get going. We have real work to do today. We’ve all heard your pre-mission safety spiel before, Connally, so you can skip it with this group. I assume you received the coordinates for our first destination and can find them without too much difficulty?”
The spook’s smug look and condescending tone grated on Chat, but he let it pass for the moment. “Well, all right then. I guess we’ll dispense with any safety brief.”
Addressing the Guatemalan Army officer, Chat asked, “Major, I am assuming you understand English. Do you have any questions, Sir?”
“Thank you, Capitán. I am just curious to know the time it may take to reach the designated area in Coban.”
“Yes, Sir. I am estimating maybe fifty minutes flying time to the first grid coordinate.”
“Very good. Then we should leave soon.”
Pointing up to another man already sitting inside the passenger compartment of the helicopter, Chat said, “This is Mitchell Dooley. He’s our crew chief for the day and will see you get belted in. Now let’s mount up and go.”
As he finished speaking, Chat gave Rivera a final nod. The Green Beret glanced over at Quinn and then back at Chat, flashing his friend a knowing smirk. Chat began moving toward the right-side pilot door of the helicopter.
On Chat’s signal, the copilot, Bob Carpenter, hit the helicopter starter trigger. A second later came the shrill whine of a turbine engine spooling up; simultaneously, the big main rotor blades of the UH-1D Huey helicopter began to accelerate in their rotational plane above the cockpit. The dull gray helicopter was devoid of any external registration markings that might have revealed its origin. The parking pad where the aircraft was sitting was located on a protected ramp area on the east side of La Aurora Airport. The perimeter was bordered with razor-sharp rolls of concertina barbed wire stretched along the top and bottom of a ten-foot-high steel-barred fence. It was plain that the Guatemalan military did not want any unauthorized eyes observing operations in this portion of the airport.
After a shallow climb to clear the airport environs, Chat turned his attention to the navigational map he held in his left hand and began rechecking the course plot to their intended destination. Then he keyed the helicopter intercom button and relayed the compass heading to Bob Carpenter, who was flying the helicopter. Bob acknowledged the instructions and turned the Huey to the northeasterly heading.
As the helicopter leveled off on the course to the first destination, Chat pushed back in his right-side crew seat and leaned his head against the rear seat frame. The crew window was fully open on his side, and he was content to let the rushing air blow full across his face. The pounding headache was finally beginning to fade, and Chat felt a catnap might give him a little boost for the day.
“Bob, you okay with flying for a few minutes while I take some deep breaths. Feels like my eyes are bleeding.”
Smirking and then keying the intercom to reply, Bob said, “Roger that, Chatman. I figured you might be feeling a little worked over this morning when I saw you arrive at ops. Take a few minutes and relax. I’m familiar with the area we’re heading to, and everything is in the green on the dials. We’re good for now.”
Dooley had been absolutely right when he had said Bob was a good stickman. The former Army helicopter pilot with a Vietnam tour of duty under his belt had checked into Aero Sur with a fairly impressive résumé, and after only a few flight missions in-country, he had demonstrated he was an experienced pilot, competent to handle all cockpit duties.
The crew chief, Dooley, was as also as good as they came in aviation mechanics. His superior knowledge of the mechanical intricacies of airplanes and helicopters made him an invaluable asset to Aero Sur. In addition to his technical skills, Dooley billed himself as a self-proclaimed expert when it came to understanding and explaining the mindset of the opposite sex. Dooley’s little witticisms concerning male and female relations were a constant source of amusement and nonsensical logic for the close-knit group of pilots and mechanics who worked for Aero Sur.
Chat had barely closed his eyes when the silence on the aircraft intercom was shattered as Dooley broke in from his crew position in the back to offer an observation. “Hell of a shindig last night, Chatman. Hope you’re feeling celebrated, good buddy—and a real shame about the A-2. We’ll find it, man. A jacket like that will be pretty visible if somebody decides to try it out.”
Chat responded over the intercom without opening his eyes. “Yeah, I’m a little down about that; it was very special to me.” In an effort to change the subject, he added, “How ‘bout you? Your mood seemed a little up and down last night. What was that about, man?”
“How soon they forget. If I told you once, Chatman, I’ve told you umpty frickin’ times, your birthday is bittersweet for me. It’s been two years ago yesterday that Elvis died.”
Bob Carpenter entered the exchange. “Hey, Dooley, my recollection is Elvis is still alive and doing his thing. Did I miss the memo?”
“Not that Elvis, Bob. I’m talking about my longtime best buddy, Elvis, my pet hamster.”
Chat and Bob stifled laughs in the front cockpit. Chat tried hard to sound concerned as he keyed the intercom. “That’s right, sorry, man. I do remember you telling me more than a few times about Elvis. Sorry for that, man.”
“Thanks, Chatman. Today’s another day, and I’m getting past the Elvis mourning.”
The conversation lagged for the moment. Chat, realizing that any attempt at a nap was a lost cause, turned his focus back to the mission at hand. He began comparing the terrain below with his topographical map in order to verify their position.
Behind Chat’s seat, back in the passenger area, Dooley started unpacking a long canvas bag strapped to the floor under the rear seats. As he pulled the heavy zipper back, the soft sides spread open to reveal three new-model M16 automatic rifles along with several twenty-round magazines of 5.56-millimeter rounds. The canvas bag had been stowed out of sight of prying eyes for the departure. Dooley handed one rifle and a couple of fully loaded magazines to Rivera. The Green Beret checked that the chamber was clear and then slipped one of the 20-round magazines into the M16 but did not chamber a round. He laid the weapon across his lap with the barrel facing out of the helicopter since both the left and right sliding cargo doors had been secured in the open position to allow for a good field of view and quick return fire if the bad guys showed themselves. Dooley was sitting in the open door on the opposite side and did likewise with his rifle and magazine. Then he keyed the radio intercom, “Weapons up and ready in the back.”
Quinn, who had been observing the two men’s every movement, reached inside his jacket to the shoulder holster with his 45-caliber pistol. He flipped the holster’s retainer strap up so the weapon would be immediately available.
Chat acknowledged his friend over the intercom. “Thanks, Dooley. Let’s hope we won’t need to use them on this run.” He and Bob exchanged nods across the cockpit.
Bob chimed in. “Amen to that, Skipper, just a routine out and back.”
As the chatter dropped off, Chat again closed his eyes, returning to other thoughts. The world could be so complex at times, and not many things in it made a whole lot of sense to him these days. Up in the air, though, everything seemed ordered and logical. In an aircraft, it was always simple—for every action, there was always a reason and an expected result. If a pilot pushed the stick control forward, for example, the airspeed would gradually increase, and likewise, a move of the stick in the aft direction resulted in a climb and a corresponding decrease in airspeed.
The problems came the second Chat’s foot hit the tarmac. Human actions many times defied logical explanation. What sense was there to a war where most days resulted in so-called legitimate government forces rounding up and then beating the crap out of ragged peasants in the middle of the jungle, trying to make them give up information they, in all likelihood, didn’t know and that nobody cared a damn for anyway? More often than he wanted to remember on these missions into the backcountry, he had witnessed senseless torture and even heard the shots when the more unfortunate prisoners were led off into the brush. Their lifeless, bruised corpses would be left along the trail for their comrades to find, all in the name of maintaining the status quo so a few rich guys back home, “in the land of the free,” could sell more bananas and get richer. Chat’s brow was furrowed, his lips drawn tight. This is stupidity; more than that, it’s madness. I’ve got to find bluer skies and leave these spooks to wallow in their own mire.
Dooley, never one to stay quiet for long, broke the silence that had settled over the helicopter’s occupants. “Hey, you guys hear the latest that’s going on over in Nam. Looks like the Viet Cong are starting up the meat grinder again.”
“I heard things are bustin’ out all over the country,” Bob responded.
Dooley pressed on. “Hey, Chatman, how come you and Rivera didn’t clean that mess up the last time we were over there anyway, huh?”
A long pause followed over the intercom. Dooley’s prod had sent Chat’s mind momentarily to another place and time. Ignoring his friend’s query, Chat keyed the intercom and asked Sergeant Rivera for their present location and estimated time of arrival (ETA) at their first landing zone (LZ). “Hey, Rock, where do you think we are right now?”
Rivera had his own topographical map open across his lap, and his right index finger held the course trace. He was an infantry soldier, not a pilot, but he prided himself on his ability to accurately navigate from a helicopter as well as on the ground. He had spent many hours honing his craft. After rechecking his estimate, the Green Beret responded. “Looks like we’re maybe thirty to forty minutes out, Chatman. I estimate us about six klicks west of Salama right now.”
Rivera was the epitome of a warrior—tough, disciplined, and dedicated to his profession. All Green Berets were trained in multiple military skills, and Rivera was no exception. A native Puerto Rican, he spoke Spanish and English easily. He was an expert with light automatic weapons and demolitions. The big man’s towering height and bodybuilder physique caused people to naturally clear a path when he approached. Chat and Rivera had become close friends after an unexpected encounter in another combat zone across the world a few years prior.
