Laughter in the Shadows (31 page)

Following their visit to Angafula, they went on to Buwana, where the senator asked for a briefing on Agency activities in Angafula. I gave a briefing for the senator and his aide on Uhuru, explaining the origins of the project and its objective to support the two anticommunist independence movements in Angafula.

At this point, the senator’s aide broke in to castigate the Agency for supporting two “ultraright” groups instead of Sappho’s group of “dedicated freedom fighters.” I countered that the “democratic” credentials of Sappho, an alumnus of Moscow’s Patrice Lumumba University and leader of an organization bankrolled by the Soviets, were tarnished if not completely discredited. The aide angrily retorted that to run down Sappho just because he studied in Moscow and was friendly with the Russians was as shortsighted as our policy of snubbing Ho Chi Minh for the same reasons.

“And where did that get us? A lost war and an international black eye! Sappho is a poet laureate whose only goal is peace and freedom!”

I interrupted her paean to point out that ten thousand Cuban soldiers and batteries of Soviet rocket launchers were hardly “harbingers of peace and freedom.”

The senator broke in to say that during their travels around Angafula, they never saw any Cuban soldiers or Soviet rocket launchers.

It was obvious to me that the senator and his aide had made up their minds about our program in Angafula, probably before they left Washington. The purpose of their trip was simply to validate their conviction that we were involved in an illegal and immoral war in Angafula.

After the briefing, I overheard the senator tell his aide he was going to “shut this war down” when he got back to Washington. The irate senator and his starry-eyed aide were determined to “deep-six” the covert program in Angafula. It was only a matter of time before they would succeed.

Shortly after the senator’s visit, the national security adviser arrived in Bintang en route to a conference in Cairo. He asked me to bring him up to date on Uhuru. I gave him a rundown on the escalation of the war. Fidel’s troops and batteries of Soviet rocket launchers were pouring into Lunda. Cuban forces were hammering the FLA and preparing a final offensive against Ambrizio. They would then concentrate on Sanchez’s UTIA forces, which the Cubans were already probing around in Silvo Porta and Cremona. Unless we could bring in bigger guns or the French Foreign Legion, Uhuru was in trouble. I added that there were some bright spots, however, and told him about the air bridge, the commandos, and our projected maritime operations. Sanchez, now well supplied, was preparing to launch a counteroffensive.

As I began briefing him on the bright spots, I noticed that Heinzleman wasn’t really listening. The escalation of the war by the Russians and their Cuban surrogates was to him the writing on the wall, a warning that his plan to thwart the Soviets in Angafula would not be realized. He was also probably aware of the mounting opposition in Congress to the “secret war” in Angafula. I didn’t mention the senator’s visit and his threat to “shut down” Uhuru, but Heinzleman probably already knew his enemies in Congress couldn’t wait to see him fall on his sword.

After I finished briefing Uhuru’s architect, Heinzleman and I walked onto the terrace overlooking the river immortalized by Conrad and Stanley. When the rains came, the clumps of water hyacinth would break up and be carried out to sea, where they would, finally disappear, like Uhuru. When we shook hands to say good-bye, I sensed I was no longer in good favor.

Heinzleman was an extraordinary man, a brilliant strategist, and a tough protagonist. He was a strong supporter of covert action, and I felt that somehow in the case of Uhuru, I had let its godfather down. It was not for lack of trying. The
blame lay primarily with the Soviets, who didn’t have to worry about low profiles, sterilized weapons, or congressional watchdogs.

Ring Down the Curtain

The curtain, a funeral pall,

Comes down with the rush of a storm,

And the angels, all pallid and wan,

Uprising, unveiling, affirm

That the play is the tragedy, “Man”

And its hero the Conqueror Worm.

—EDGAR ALLEN POE,
Ligeia

Victory has a thousand fathers, defeat is an orphan. The lullaby of Langley when an operation is about to go under.

Senator Smothers had made good on his threat. On December 5, 1975, the Foreign Relations Committee recommended termination of support for the war in Angafula, and an amendment to that effect was subsequently submitted to the Senate. On December 19, by a vote of 54 to 22, the amendment was passed and signed into law by the president.

The curtain had fallen on the Last Covert Action.

The cable advised that Uhuru had been officially terminated. I was to advise Rebello and Sanchez that we could offer them no further support other than a termination bonus for their irregulars. I was instructed to dispose of all Uhuru-related assets, including Land Rovers, printing, generators, and so forth.

I was also ordered to terminate all aircrews and commandos on the Uhuru payroll and to settle property leases with Buwanan landlords.

A clean sweep, fore and aft.

The Curtain Falls

Why . . . better to ring down the curtain before the last act of the play, so that a business that begun so importantly may be saved from so singularly flat a winding-up.

—WILLIAM JAMES, “The Dilemma of Determinism”

I broke the news to Rebello first. The former evangelist was visibly shaken. Recent hammering had taken its toll on his forces, and it was only a matter of time before Ambrizio fell to the Cuban/PMFA forces. Without our support he knew his movement would collapse and his followers would disappear back into their villages.

I passed him the termination bonus and wished him well.

To break the news to Sanchez, I had to go to his base in Cremona, a picturesque town on a high plateau with tree-lined boulevards, baroque balustrades, and gothic churches, reminders of their Portuguese colonial heritage.

I had always enjoyed meeting with Sanchez, the former soccer star turned freedom fighter. I could imagine the charismatic bearded figure addressing the UN General Assembly, pointing to his look-alike Castro and lambasting the Cuban leader for sending troops to kill his freedom fighters.

Now I was going to say good-bye and pay him off.

I flew to Cremona on a C-47. The German pilot, Heinze, who flew supply runs into Angafula and Bintang, had made a number of trips to Cremona. He and Sanchez had become friends, and he was sorry to hear this was the last time he would be seeing the UTIA leader.

In Cremona, a driver was waiting in a jeep on the tarmac. As we drove toward Cremona, we passed columns of UTIA troops heading north. When we arrived at Sanchez’s compound, it was a beehive of activity, crates being loaded onto trucks, rations and ammunition being passed out to troops assembled in the compound. The UTIA leader had just finished briefing his commanders, who were filing out of UTIA headquarters, leaving behind clouds of blue smoke from Gauloises stumped out in overflowing shell-casings. He came over to meet us, carrying three glasses. After uncorking a bottle of Portuguese wine, he proposed a toast to “friends and freedom.” I responded with something about “courage and victory.”

Breaking the news to Sanchez wasn’t going to be easy.

Sanchez was preoccupied with reports of a Cuban force advancing on Cremona. He estimated that if the reports from his scouts were correct, they would be outside the city in twenty-four hours.

When Sanchez looked at me, I thought for a moment he thought I had come to Cremona as a show of support for the UTIA leader and his beleaguered forces. He quickly reassured me, however. He said he knew why I had come, because he had heard about the congressional amendment on his shortwave radio.

During the evening when we had a chance to talk, I assured Sanchez the amendment was not against UTIA or the FLA. It was a backlash from the Vietnam War. Several senators had convinced their colleagues that the United States was being dragged into another “no-win” war, and the amendment was the result. Unfortunately, the war in Angafula had followed too close on Vietnam.

Sanchez brought out a bottle of brandy, and we talked until midnight. We could hear scattered firing in the distance as Cuban patrols began probing UTIA’s defenses. Sanchez advised us to get an early start before the Cubans arrived. He had no intention of trying to defend Cremona and give the Cubans an excuse to destroy the
town. He would withdraw and move his forces deep into the interior, where they could reorganize and prepare for a guerrilla campaign against the occupiers.

I wished Sanchez the best of luck and handed him the envelope with our final settlement. He thanked me for all we had done for him and his people: “Merci, St. Martin. Please thank the man in the White House and your chief and all the others who have helped us. Tell them the fight isn’t over, that we will continue the struggle until Angafula is free.

“Bonne nuit.”

When we went to bed, I couldn’t drop off to sleep, thinking about Sanchez and his freedom fighters. I was burnt out. Too many unfulfilled commitments, callous terminations, hollow good-byes. I was almost glad it was over.

The Wrecking Crew

The urge for destruction is a creative urge!

—MIKHAIL BAKUNIN

A quick breakfast washed down with a “hair-of-the-dog” coffee laced with cognac, bear hugs from Sanchez, and we were off. The driver made it to the airport in record time, let us out, and roared off. An eerie silence hung over the airport, deserted except for our plane. Heinze climbed into the cockpit and started the engines. Leaving the engines running, he climbed back out of the plane, holding a crowbar in his left hand.

He checked the blocks under the wheels to make sure the plane, its engines vibrating, wouldn’t veer off the tarmac. He then jogged toward the terminal, motioning for me to follow. The sliding doors of the terminal entrance were open, and we went inside. The lights were on and the overhead fans were still turning. Heinze grabbed a fire ax off the wall and handed it to me

“Now,” he said, “we’re going to put this airport out of action, make it Kaput so those Cuban bastards can’t use it! Leave the air control and radar devices to me. What I don’t take, smash with that ax, and don’t leave anything intact!”

I could hear small arms and mortar fire in the distance, and it wouldn’t be long before the Cubans made it to the airport. Heinze told me not to worry, because we would be gone before they arrived. I wasn’t so sure, but since Heinze was my only way out, I followed him as he climbed up into the tower. Heinze immediately went to work with his crowbar, prying off panels, the air control screen, and radar devices, telling me how much they would bring on the Berlin black market. I began chopping cables, smashing circuit breakers, and breaking out windows.

When Heinze finished disconnecting and prying off the items he was going to take with him, he descended from the tower carrying boxes filled with Texas
Instruments and IBM trophies. By the time he made his last trip to the plane, the tower was a shambles, with shards of broken glass and machine parts littering the tower and lobby.

When Heinze returned from the plane, he went around to the back of the terminal and came back with a gerry can of gasoline. He emptied the contents onto the floor of the terminal, then picked up a rag and soaked it with gasoline. He lit the rag with his Zippo lighter, tossed it on the floor of the terminal, and then we both ran out to the plane.

Heinze climbed into the plane as I kicked away the wheel blocks and climbed in, slamming the door behind me. He finished revving up the engines and taxied down the runway. Then I remembered the Cubans and went up to the cockpit to look out. I could see smoke billowing through the broken windows of the terminal and the tower and could also make out muzzle flashes coming from figures in green uniforms running down the tarmac. When Heinze saw the flashes, he nosed the plane up to get out of range, then banked around and headed north to try to locate Sanchez. When he spotted his column, he dropped down to wag his wings in a final salute. Sanchez looked up and waved, and we headed back to Bintang.

On the way back, Heinze told me the equipment from the tower would bring him almost $50,000 on the black market. I suggested sending part of the proceeds to Sanchez for his war chest, which would soon be depleted. I ran into Heinze almost a year later when I was passing through Frankfurt, and he invited me for a drink at a nearby Bierstube. We spent over an hour reminiscing about that “last flight to Carmona,” and at one point I was about to ask him if he had sent a portion of the funds from the airport “fire sale” to Savimbi as I had suggested. Then I remembered the new Porsche parked outside and decided not to ask.

Coup de Grace

The glory that blushed and bloomed

Is but a dim-remembered story

Of the old time entombed.

. . . Vast forms that move fantastically

To a discordant melody;

. . . A hideous throng rush out forever,

And laugh—but smile no more.

—EDGAR ALLEN POE,
Fall of the House of Usher

It was over. Ambrizio had fallen, and the Cubans had taken Carmona. Uhuru was on its deathbed, but we had no time to administer the last rites. Antennas came down, maps were rolled up, and crates of undelivered M-16s repacked
with cosmolene. Portuguese crews and commandos now made redundant sat in bars in Le Cite drinking pastises and wondering where to go next. Fokkers, their logos and altered tail numbers blocked out and repainted, stood forlornly outside Obie’s hangar, waiting to be repossessed. The
Christina
, its mortar and Gatling gun removed, had already been stripped by predators. The
De Gama
lay on its side, sand pitted and rusting on the beach near Ambrizio.