The Cassandra Conspiracy (17 page)

Parker nodded a silent “you’re welcome”. They finished tying and gagging their prisoner, and headed to the extraction point. G-2 had their prisoner. But more important, Parker had become an accepted member of the team.

.   .   .   .   .   .

When he returned from his two tours of duty in Vietnam, Parker found himself without any plans for the future. He had put everything on hold until after his commitment was over. Besides, there was no sense in worrying about what he was going to do if he didn’t survive his time “in-country”. If he made it through and got out in one piece, then he’d worry about his future. Meanwhile his first, second, and third priorities all centered on staying alive.

By the end of Parker’s second tour of duty, he’d had more than enough of Vietnam. Although the Army pressured him to extend his enlistment, he had already decided that it was time to get back home. Several of Parker’s stateside friends had written him, saying how difficult things were for the returning vets. Parker read the letters, but their significance wasn’t driven home until he stepped off the plane at Lackland Air Force Base, Texas.

He arrived only to find that the returning GIs were spit upon by the “peace-nicks”, and shunned by the rest of society–-treated more like something to be stepped on than men and women who should be honored for serving their country. He had seen too many of his friends die, and for what?  So that a third rate country could run the U.S. out of Southeast Asia with its tail between its legs like a whipped puppy dog?

The years after his return only strengthened his resolve that major changes had to be made if the country wasn’t going to sacrifice its leadership in the world community. Nixon’s near impeachment, Carter’s disembowelment of the CIA, the post-Bush recession, and Clinton’s hollow promises all made Parker emotionally nauseated.

Parker knew it was long past the time that the two-party system is tossed out. He watched with deep bitterness as good men who didn’t want to be politicians sat on the sidelines while the politicos and pundits tried running the country. If the nation couldn’t elect the right person to the presidency, it was doomed.

Not long after Parker began working for Wingate, the old man briefed him about the Committee. In addition to his other responsibilities, Wingate’s director of security provided related services for the Committee’s members. Although not a member, he swore allegiance to their objectives, hoping they could do something about the problems facing the nation. Parker was certain the country’s founding fathers were spinning in their graves. Something had to change.

CHAPTER 12

October 6th

A nagging problem with the estate’s security system had been haunting Parker when his office phone rang. As soon as he had picked it up, Charles Wingate asked, “Can you spare a few minutes?  There’s a pressing matter we need to discuss. Meet me in the library.”  The phone clicked as Wingate severed the connection.

Parker tightened the knot of his tie before walking out the front door of the guesthouse that served a dual role as his office and living quarters. He walked the half-mile up to the mansion, entering through the front door. Parker was such frequent visitor that he didn’t bother ringing the bell, nor did he wait for the butler to admit him. He walked down the hall, stopping only when he reached the library entrance. There he knocked, waiting until Charles Wingate told him to come in.

Before he had the chance to ask his boss what he wanted, Wingate walked over and closed the library’s double doors. Parker wondered what subject Wingate wanted to discuss with him that warranted such precautions. Somehow he was certain that he was about to find out.

Normally discussions between the two men took place at either the massive wood desk from which the industrialist conducted most of his business or the conference table to the right of the library entrance. Today, however, Wingate moved toward the wing chairs clustered around the fireplace.

Gesturing to Parker, Wingate said, “Let’s sit where we’ll be more comfortable.”  They sat opposite each other, and Parker waited for his boss to explain what he needed. “I’m afraid we have a problem, Bill–one that craves immediate resolution. You are, of course, aware of the Committee’s current project.”  It was a statement not a question.

“Yes sir, I am.” 

“Then you know how important it is for our work to move forward unimpeded. I’m afraid the project’s in jeopardy. One of our members, a man who’s sworn fealty to the Committee, appears ready to defect.”

“Who?”

“Grover Albright. Since the Committee’s last meeting, I’ve had a number of conversations with our Mr. Albright. I believe he’ll try to prevent us from carrying out our plans, and we simply can’t have that. I’m afraid that I see no alternative course of action,” Wingate stated grimly.

“Is this supposed to look like an accident, or do you want the problem resolved in the most expeditious manner?”

“I. . . I mean the Committee would prefer that it appear to be an accident. But given our schedule, it’s most important that it be handled expeditiously.”

“Very well. When do you wish this taken care of?” Parker asked, trying to gauge Wingate’s urgency. The more time he had to plan, the better his planning, and the less chance he’d make a mistake in the plan’s ultimate execution.

“The Committee’s plans are most sensitive, and Mr. Albright has been privy to those plans since he joined our group. If we are to be successful, we must be able to act without outside interference. He could go public with what he knows at any time. The sooner we eliminate this threat, the better. Could this be handled say, within the next week or two?”

Parker found Wingate’s approach interesting. He never referred to Albright as a person of flesh and blood. Instead, Wingate chose to dehumanize the man, terming him a threat. “I’ll have the problem resolved within the next ten days. Is there anything else, Mr. Wingate?”

Wingate stood, a sign their meeting was over. “No, Bill, that’s it. I’m sorry there’s no other solution.”  As Parker left the room, he glanced over his shoulder. Wingate sat at his desk, smiling shrewdly.

CHAPTER 13

Parker left the mansion and headed back to his cottage. He had been with the Wingate Trust for quite some time now, doing Wingate’s bidding. As he walked, Parker thought about how he ended up in old man Wingate’s employ. Like so many other things in his life, it had started in Vietnam.

Vietnam, 1973:  Near the Laotian Border

A hand on his shoulder halted Parker’s forward movement. Team Alpha had been arrayed with Parker in the lead position, followed by Charlie Wingate. John Barron covered their rear. Although Parker had the point, the team was moving through the steaming hot jungle more as a single unit so there really wasn’t a discernible point man. He stopped to see what Wingate wanted.

Barron scanned both the trail and the surrounding jungle, making certain they hadn’t been spotted. G-2’s intelligence briefing had alerted them to enemy activity in their immediate area. As usual, they had to get in, get the job done, and then get out–all without getting caught. It was like trying to get the honey out of a beehive without pissing off the bees.

Charlie
Wingate carefully removed a leech from Parker’s neck. It came off without much fuss, which meant that it hadn’t been there long enough to really dig in. Leeches were an everyday part of life in Vietnam, but then so were the myriad of snakes, most of which were highly poisonous. And, of course there was always the Vietcong.

The team had been together for a little over eight months, working under the directives issued by MACV/SOG, but indirectly by the CIA. Given his rocky start with John Barron, Parker couldn’t believe how well their two personalities had finally meshed. Of course, he didn’t have the same kind of relationship with Barron that he did with Charlie Wingate, but at least Parker felt that he was finally part of the team.

Alpha’s mission load increased as the war heated up, and as the Saigon command became more concerned about the influx of troops, equipment, and supplies from Laos and Cambodia. The Viet Cong was using the neighboring countries to resupply their forces, which then attacked the U.S. ground troops in South Vietnam. The White House ruled out air strikes into either country, and rarely did the helicopter gunships or F-4s run across a supply caravan coming from the west. The net result was that the VC could resupply their forces virtually unimpeded.

“What the fuck are we doing in Laos?” Wingate asked rhetorically. “Almost a week since we crossed the fence.” 

Barron checked his watch. “Take five. We’re well ahead of schedule.” Wary of booby traps, they moved off the trail and into the dense underbrush. Unable to risk carrying on a normal conversation, the three men huddled together, each watching the jungle behind the opposite member.

“We’re doing exactly what we’ve been ordered to do,” Barron responded. “Someone’s decided that if we’re going to stop the flow of supplies and matériel out of Laos, HQ needs some kind of advance notice. Since the VC has no intentions of telling anyone where and when they’re going to cross into South Vietnam, these babies are supposed to do it instead.”

Barron tossed one of the acoustic sensors to the ground. “After all, the techno-brains in the Pentagon are not going to be outmaneuvered by a bunch of little men in black pajamas,” he added, a smirk on his face.

The sensor, along with its radar and microwave cousins, had been developed under then Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara’s concept program, “REMBASS”–Remotely Monitored Battlefield Surveillance System. McNamara envisioned the battlefield of the future peppered with countless sensors, all relaying information back to a central command authority, which could then dispatch the appropriate response right to wherever it was needed. The first operational program even had a new, classy code name: “Igloo White”, which originated out of the Advanced Research Projects Agency, or ARPA as it was called among those with security clearance high enough to even know about the super
-secret agency.

Parker scratched his neck. “I wonder what they spent on this shit? I’ve heard that HQ’s seeded the Ho Chi Minh Trail and every major route into the south with thousands of these things, and each one transmits up to some kind of blimp. What will those assholes come up with next?”

There were several approaches to seeding the roads and trails, one of which consisted of doing an F-4 drop over the targeted area. Some of the devices, designed to float down after their little parachutes opened, would hang up in the trees near the target roads sending information back when their acoustic sensors detected the rumble of Vietcong trucks.

Others were shaped so that when they hit the ground, they sank into the soft South Vietnamese earth, sounding off when troops or convoys tripped their seismic detectors. The field commanders now had a way to tell when the Vietcong was moving supplies and men out of Laos and into South Vietnam. Saigon Command waited for a raft of signals from a given area,
and then called in the air strikes. The second, and far less glamorous, way of placing the sensors exactly where command wanted them was by sending in the Special Forces units.

HQ relied on the SOG unit to place the sensors exactly where they were needed. These special combat teams could quietly sneak over the border, or as it was called, “the fence”, place the sensors where the command authority would get the maximum amount of warning, then sneak back into South Vietnam. Of course, ultra
-tight security blanketed these incursions. Only their battalion commander knew where the teams had been inserted and what their mission was.

Charlie Wingate had seen enough of Laos and western Vietnam the past five days to last him a lifetime. “I’d feel useful if we had a fat North Vietnamese colonel to off. But going across the fence to play electronic farmer doesn’t hack it. I wonder how many water buffalo we’ll make into buffalo
-burger this week,” he said sarcastically.

The Vietnamese all-purpose farm implement moved along the trails at all times of the day and night. Unfortunately, the sensors couldn’t tell the difference between a Vietcong truck and a water buffalo. The U.S. government was constantly paying damages to local farmers whose water buffaloes were killed by screaming U.S. jets.

“Shut up before every VC in Laos knows we’re here,” Barron grumbled under his breath. “Ours is not to reason why, and all that bullshit.”  That was their standard motto when orders flew in the face of more acceptable logic. He thought for a minute before adding, “No pun intended.”

All the
men were fully camouflaged including their faces and hands. If they had to get off the trail in a hurry, it was imperative that they not be seen scrambling for cover in the heavy undergrowth. The team was stripped for covert action. They had left their dog tags back at the camp along with any other form of identification that could be used against the U.S. forces in the ongoing propaganda war.

Barron pulled out a map, and checked their position. “We need to seed a few more of these things and then di di mau the hell out of here. If the VC weren’t active in this area, we wouldn’t be here planting these little babies,” Barron said as he buried one of the cylindrical sensors next to the trail. “We’ve been lucky the last few days, but I don’t want to push it.”  The team used every rest period to its maximum extent considering they were deep inside VC territory. Even so, they were always ready to fight.

“Charlie, take the point. Let’s keep a little distance between the point man and us. I don’t expect trouble, but that’s no excuse for getting stupid,” Barron directed. So far the VC hadn’t detected their penetration, and everything was going according to plan–the best time for a mission to go to hell. When they moved back to the trail, Charlie Wingate took the point. They had gone another two klicks at the most when the boom of a mine shook the ground beneath their feet.

“Jesus Christ! Charlie’s tripped a mine,” Barron yelled, the anxiety apparent in his voice. The VC loaded their mines with one hundred and fifty pounds of high explosives. If Charlie Wingate was in the middle of that blast, there’d be little they could do for him.

Parker ran toward Wingate. Barron shouted back, “Watch out, it could be an ambush!” But Parker had already moved out, oblivious to the warning.

Parker tore through the jungle until he got to where Wingate’s mangled body lay along the narrow path, blood soaking the ground underneath the mortally injured soldier. A crater the size of a small room marked the point where the Vietcong had placed the land mine.

Where Wingate’s legs were supposed to be, he saw only the tattered remnants of the man’s jungle fatigues. Blood spurted from other, less serious wounds. Parker was surprised his friend was still alive, much less conscious. Even with a medic, Charlie Wingate probably wouldn’t make it–without one, there was no doubt. Parker dropped his rucksack and cradled Wingate’s head in his arms.

“I didn’t see it,” Wingate said, the words stammered from behind clenched teeth.

“It’s okay, Charlie, it could have happened to any of us. Hang in there, guy.”

John Barron had set up a hasty “perimeter” in front of where Parker sat with Charlie Wingate. If the VC were in close, he’d be ready.

“Company’s coming. How bad’s Charlie?” he asked, nervously, glancing over his shoulder toward his two teammates. Parker sat there cradling Wingate’s body, and shaking his head despairingly.

“Give him a shot of morphine.”

Parker took out the first aid kit from his rucksack and removed the morphine ampoules. He shot two into Charlie’s arm, but didn’t bother trying to stanch the flow of blood. He knew that there was no way that Wingate was going to pull through. Amazingly, Charlie Wingate didn’t pass out either from the pain or from the double dose of morphine.

“You’ve got to leave me,” he implored.

But Bill Parker didn’t have any intention of abandoning the dying man. “We’ll be all right. Hang in there, Charlie. I’m right here with you.”

“Give me a couple of those frags,” Wingate said, his eyes tracing a line to where Parker’s three fragmentation grenades hung from his flak vest.

Parker looked at Barron. Wingate’s eyes told the story. He was dying. They had to leave him, and get back across the border as fast as possible. Reluctantly, Parker gave his friend two fragmentation grenades. He pulled the pins on both grenades, carefully placing one in each hand. Wingate’s eyes had an almost tranquil look in them. He knew the end was near, and he was ready.

“Get out of here. . . now.”

Parker picked up his pack and with Barron watching their rear, they moved off as fast as they dared down the trail toward the border. A few minutes later, they heard the staccato fire of AK-47s, followed by the back-to-back thump of the two frag grenades. Parker slowed a little, but Barron prodded him forward. “There’s nothing we could have done for Charlie, and certainly nothing that we can do now except save our butts.”

Charlie Wingate probably took out a few of the VC, but the remainder of the squad would be hot on their heels. Barron knew they had to do something or they’d never make it back alive. He had to make the VC more cautious and less interested in catching up with them. “We’ve got to slow ‘em down,” he told Parker. “Let’s use the claymores. We can set them up here. Call for a dust
-off while I position the mines. We’ll never make it over the fence before the VC are on us.” 

“They may not direct a dust
-off across the fence.”

“They sure as hell better. I’ll be damned if I’m going to die out here because some rear echelon asshole thinks violating Laotian air space is worse than letting his men hang.”

Both men dropped their gear. While John Barron set up the Claymore mines, Parker cranked the PRC-25 transceiver and called Triple C, their comm command, for an emergency evacuation. Barron fanned out three mines so that he had coverage on the trail and along both sides of it. He set the trip wires so the first few VC would get closer to the mines, but not so close that their bodies would shield the rest of the squad from the blast.

“What’d they say?” Barron asked as he finished prepping the Claymores. “Where’s the exfil point?”

Parker was still yelling into the handset, plainly having difficulty with their base camp. “Keep talking, but we’ve got to get out of here.”  Barron grabbed Parker’s rucksack. They bolted down the trail as fast as they could.

Finally Parker slammed the handset into its cradle. “No deal until we cross the fence. The orders came down from the CIA shit who’s running the program, and no one’s going to buck him.”

“Jesus Christ, I don’t believe it!  Those bastards!” he cursed bitterly. “We’re dead meat.”

The sound of the claymores signaled that the VC
was closing in. They heard the screams and shouts of the injured and dying back along the trail as they double-timed their way toward the border. A few minutes later, Barron called a halt. “Look, unless we stumbled on a whole battalion, we’re probably facing a dozen or so at best–after the ones Charlie killed. . . and the Claymores. We’re in good shape ammo wise. If we keep this pace up, they’ll overrun us. Let’s finish this–if we can.”

Barron’s thinking made plenty of sense. If they used the remaining two Claymores, and then ambushed the remaining VC, they might get out of there in one piece.

“Okay, go for it.”

Parker and Barron rigged the last two mines, setting the detonators to go off by radio control. The remaining VC wouldn’t be too quick to trip over a wire again. When the mines were ready, each man took the remaining grenades from his rucksack. Parker found a fallen tree behind which he had good cover and could lay down effective fire. Barron dropped behind a hillock that afforded him the same benefits. In position, they waited for what was to come.