bitch
all
lit up.
âNow, listenâ â he lets a stream of air out and his chiseled features tighten â âwhen I said we have to cut our losses if something goes wrong, let me spell it out so we have a clear understanding. If you are captured
alive,
the kind of interrogation youâd be subjected to might place your country in a compromising position it could ill afford. That means youâll be expected to take those measures weâve discussed with you. Now I know that each of you have had this run by you again and again, but it is imperative you fully grasp both our position and yours. We will maintain complete, unilateral, nonnegotiable deniability with regard to your existence or to that of the mission. Officially you will have ceased to exist.
âYouâve met Lieutenant Spangler, and this is as good a time as any to let your team leader say a few words. Roy, do you have any comments you want to add to what Iâve said?â
A wiry young Marine butter bar stands. âYes, sir. Some of the men may understand the critical seriousness of the mission, but they might find it difficult to believe that an out-and-out covert radio station would dare to operate this far south, or even in the Z. Weâre used to associating this kind of a black radio op with the more traditional propaganda voice coming out of a satellite country such as East Germany.â He looks at the cobra.
âThe fact is, we operate several broadcast stations like this ourselves: Voice of Freedom in Hue, Radio Vietnam, which we set up with dissident North Vietnamese, many more. Psy-ops has several things running from piston-propeller craft in conjunction with CIA/DIA operations. There are all types of black radio ops on both sides. But this oneâ â he looks at the colonel and shakes his head â âwe gotta hit it.â
The hooded cobra is impassive, a master of the burning, bridge-of-the-nose stare. Every brush-cut hair is chiseled from gray granite. The face is hard-core, deeply tanned, lined with payback. âAny further questions at this point? . . . Yes?â
Somebody in the back of the room has a question. A man clears his throat as he carefully frames his inquiry and we turn to look.
It is Harold, of course, smiling pleasantly. Or his approximation of a deathâs head smile.
âUh, you know, like uh â â he begins quietly, âif we, uh, souvenir us some gook stuff ânâ that. Lak, kin we mail stuff home?â
There is a sudden fit of loud coughing, many of the coughs sounding strangely like stifled giggles.
What would Haroldâs home be? I wonder. What family waits for the odd package from sonny? Does an old granny still rock back and forth on the porch, waiting for the return of their prodigal killer? Will her eyes grow misty as she opens the crudely lettered container, government franked and drop-shipped. (Look, Jethro, they wusnât no stamps onnit.) And will she smile and shake her head as she opens the horrid box with a plastic bag full of . . . gook stuff that he has âsouveniredâ her, and chuckle, âOh, that Haroldâll be the death of me!â Will Harold be the death of
me
? Or will he follow me all the days of my life, helping me to fear no evil as I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, knowing that our tail-end Charlie is the baddest motherfucker in the valley?
Chapter 9
âBurnt offering and sin offering thou hast not required.â
â Psalms 40:6
0811. Operation Toledo Blade is running. Cranked, radiating poisoned karma and fear, Iâm doing what every grunt hates. Humping the boonies. I can cut it, however, because I am high on life. On line:
White Laidlaw, a custom-made point man so long as he lives to tell about it. White Laidlaw, teenage assassin.
Smith. Quiet little fucker. Seems like a good man.
Washington. Tough. Sharp, solid splib.
El Tee, the lieutenant.
Dutchman.
Doc, the
all
lit up.
âNow, listenâ â he lets a stream of air out and his chiseled features tighten â âwhen I said we have to cut our losses if something goes wrong, let me spell it out so we have a clear understanding. If you are captured
alive,
the kind of interrogation youâd be subjected to might place your country in a compromising position it could ill afford. That means youâll be expected to take those measures weâve discussed with you. Now I know that each of you have had this run by you again and again, but it is imperative you fully grasp both our position and yours. We will maintain complete, unilateral, nonnegotiable deniability with regard to your existence or to that of the mission. Officially you will have ceased to exist.
âYouâve met Lieutenant Spangler, and this is as good a time as any to let your team leader say a few words. Roy, do you have any comments you want to add to what Iâve said?â
A wiry young Marine butter bar stands. âYes, sir. Some of the men may understand the critical seriousness of the mission, but they might find it difficult to believe that an out-and-out covert radio station would dare to operate this far south, or even in the Z. Weâre used to associating this kind of a black radio op with the more traditional propaganda voice coming out of a satellite country such as East Germany.â He looks at the cobra.
âThe fact is, we operate several broadcast stations like this ourselves: Voice of Freedom in Hue, Radio Vietnam, which we set up with dissident North Vietnamese, many more. Psy-ops has several things running from piston-propeller craft in conjunction with CIA/DIA operations. There are all types of black radio ops on both sides. But this oneâ â he looks at the colonel and shakes his head â âwe gotta hit it.â
The hooded cobra is impassive, a master of the burning, bridge-of-the-nose stare. Every brush-cut hair is chiseled from gray granite. The face is hard-core, deeply tanned, lined with payback. âAny further questions at this point? . . . Yes?â
Somebody in the back of the room has a question. A man clears his throat as he carefully frames his inquiry and we turn to look.
It is Harold, of course, smiling pleasantly. Or his approximation of a deathâs head smile.
âUh, you know, like uh â â he begins quietly, âif we, uh, souvenir us some gook stuff ânâ that. Lak, kin we mail stuff home?â
There is a sudden fit of loud coughing, many of the coughs sounding strangely like stifled giggles.
What would Haroldâs home be? I wonder. What family waits for the odd package from sonny? Does an old granny still rock back and forth on the porch, waiting for the return of their prodigal killer? Will her eyes grow misty as she opens the crudely lettered container, government franked and drop-shipped. (Look, Jethro, they wusnât no stamps onnit.) And will she smile and shake her head as she opens the horrid box with a plastic bag full of . . . gook stuff that he has âsouveniredâ her, and chuckle, âOh, that Haroldâll be the death of me!â Will Harold be the death of
me
? Or will he follow me all the days of my life, helping me to fear no evil as I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, knowing that our tail-end Charlie is the baddest motherfucker in the valley?
Chapter 9
âBurnt offering and sin offering thou hast not required.â
â Psalms 40:6
0811. Operation Toledo Blade is running. Cranked, radiating poisoned karma and fear, Iâm doing what every grunt hates. Humping the boonies. I can cut it, however, because I am high on life. On line:
White Laidlaw, a custom-made point man so long as he lives to tell about it. White Laidlaw, teenage assassin.
Smith. Quiet little fucker. Seems like a good man.
Washington. Tough. Sharp, solid splib.
El Tee, the lieutenant.
Dutchman.
Doc, the
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