The Hamlet Warning (7 page)

“They flanked us,” he said. “Hit us good with Claymores. I’ve only got about thirty men left.”

Loomis watched the gunship as it swung in close to the target area. He knew the Huey’s heavy firepower would be devastating at such short range. He called to the bird hovering over the landing zone, telling the pilot to come in for the pickup. “Get ready!” he yelled to the De la Torre family.

He turned to Rodríguez and shouted over the clatter of the rotor blades and the roar of the machine guns. “I’ve got to go in with the family,” he said.

Rodríguez looked at him and said nothing. Loomis wanted to explain. The De la Torres were his responsibility. If the bird were crippled on takeoff, went down in the forest, or if the
palacio
grounds were under fire on landing, he
had
to be there.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can, with as much help as I can round up,” he promised.

They both knew that Loomis was talking in terms of more than an hour’s trip.

“Good luck,” Loomis said.

Afterward, Loomis sought to remember the subtle inflections in Rodríguez’s tone: if there were hidden barbs in his reply, Loomis didn’t detect them. But he always wondered.

“
Y
buena
suerte
a
ti
,
también
,
compañero
,” he said.

As the helicopter touched down, Loomis picked up the boy Fredrico, urged the rest of the De la Torres to their feet, and led them as they ran for the bird. Raul carried Nina, and De la Torre had his arms around Juana, who was screaming, holding back, frozen with fear.

They were halfway to the Huey when their eardrums were assaulted by a terrific explosion. Loomis dropped to one knee, still holding the boy, and turned to see a huge ball of orange flame where the gunship had been. It plunged to earth with an awesome roar.

“Bedoya!” Loomis yelled, rising to his feet to run toward the wreckage.

But there was no way anyone could have lived through that explosion. He watched helplessly as the burning remains of the gunship settled into the trees.

The recoilless rifle. Some persistent idiot had lugged it all the way from the highway for one fantastic, lucky shot.

Or had it been lucky? Could he do it again? At slightly longer range, but with a more stable target?

“Into the chopper, quick!” Loomis yelled.

As he ran for the bird, he tried to remember the time required to reload and fire a recoilless rifle. Not long, he recalled.

He literally tossed the boy to a crewman, then turned to help De la Torre with Juana, now screaming and fighting in earnest. A waist gunner grabbed her wrists and she was lifted into the ship.

Loomis could hear Rodríguez and his men expending precious ammo in a sustained fire to keep rebel heads down. But he also heard bullets hitting the Huey as Ramón’s rebels concentrated their fire on the bird. Raul, María Elena, and the maid scrambled aboard, aided by crewmen. Loomis dived into the chopper, landing on his stomach.

“Pull pitch!” he yelled at the pilot. “Lift!”

The pilot needed no further urging. The De la Torre women screamed, not from the constant slap of bullets hitting the ship, but from the express elevator takeoff and the stomach-freezing tilt as the pilot swung away over the trees.

Loomis checked to make certain no one was hurt and that there was no serious damage to the Huey. He then took a headset and reported the loss of the gunship. He gave instructions for preparation of a relief force.

But as he suspected, the effort was futile.

By the time he returned to the clearing with help, Rodríguez and his men were dead. And Ramón’s rebels had simply vanished.

Loomis found Rodríguez’s bullet-riddled, decapitated body beneath a tree. His machine pistol was empty, as were his bandoliers. Bedoya’s body was burned beyond recognition.

It was then that Loomis began remembering Rodríguez’s words which, literally translated, said, “And good luck to you, too, Old Buddy.” And he began to wonder how Rodríguez meant that.

Loomis knew that his decision to go with the family had been right.

But the knowledge didn’t help at all. 

Chapter 8

Minus
9
Days
,
23
:
57
Hours

President Robertson first learned of the outbreak of revolution in the Dominican Republic from his regular morning situationer delivered by State. The report was brief, almost hidden amidst the lengthy accounts of the latest developments in the Middle East, Asia, and the new hot spot, the Bering Strait. The news from the Dominican Republic obviously was based on confused, incomplete data. Before leaving his 10:00 A.M. breakfast, Robertson summoned an aide and requested that all information on the revolt be fed to him minute by minute, as it arrived at State.

By 11:00 A.M., enough information was in hand to define Administration policy. Although the morning papers had carried little more than bare bulletins on the revolt, the early afternoon editions contained far more extensive stories, inspired by accounts of the narrow escape of the De la Torre family. Most front pages carried photographs of María Elena de la Torre, gleaned from their files.

Robertson assumed that with this dramatic aspect to what would seem to be a routine revolution, the matter of United States policy would arise at his 1:00 P.M. news conference. He was not mistaken. He was prepared.

The situation in the Dominican Republic was being watched carefully, Robertson told the press in the serious, thoughtful manner that had become so much a part of his political image. No, he did not at this time anticipate United States intervention. If the Dominican authorities should ask for aid, and if the lives of United States citizens and other nationals should be adjudged in danger, then of course a new evaluation of the situation would be made. But he wanted to stress most strongly that the best information available was that the administration in the Dominican Republic was in control of the situation, and he had complete confidence that the authorities there would do their utmost to protect the lives and interests of United States citizens.

He fielded a carefully loaded question from the
Washington
Post
: No, he saw no reason to attempt to draw parallels between the present situation in the Dominican Republic and any prior situation that had instigated United States occupation. Those interventions were for the judgment of history. Not being in full command of the information that had led to those actions, he would not make second guesses as to whether there had been sufficient provocation. He was concerned only with the present situation.

He even managed to end the issue in a light vein — another technique that fast was becoming his trademark. He shifted to his droll, wrinkled, deadpan manner and offhand tone of voice. He was happy, he said, that the De la Torre family was safe, for he long had been a great admirer of María Elena — for her acting, not her politics, he added in mock haste. He thought hers the best interpretation of Joan of Arc he’d ever seen. And, he reminded the reporters, he was old enough to remember Wallace Reid and Geraldine Farrar in the silent version. 

In the polite, indulgent response, Robertson managed to turn attention to a safe, planted question.

But his aides, by necessity perceptive of such things, noticed that there was no levity in Robertson’s mood as he emerged from the press conference. He secluded himself in his hideaway office and placed six phone calls to his most select confidential advisers, allocating twenty minutes for each call.

He was still on the phone when the men from Langley arrived. His appointments secretary knew better than to interrupt, but he also frequently and emphatically had been made aware of Robertson’s penchant for promptness. So he sent a memo in by the President’s personal secretary, reminding him of the appointment. The reply came back scrawled across the bottom of the memo: “Keep them waiting. Urgent I see them. Will be over in a few minutes.”

There was a belief, prevalent among the President’s aides, that his walk often conveyed his state of mind. While pondering an issue, he often walked with head lowered, his steps methodical and plodding. Those who saw him cross the drive from the Executive Office Building to the White House that Wednesday afternoon were certain that Robertson was in the throes of indecision on some matter.

He met the men from Langley with a curt, almost distracted nod. He waited until they were seated in the Oval Office and he had a fresh cigar going before he broached the question.

“State thinks El Jefe can hold out. What do you people say?”

Wallaby glanced briefly at his Deputy before replying, a habit that was beginning to irritate Robertson. “As you know, sir, Loomis rolled up our operations there some time ago,” the Director said. “So we don’t have a wide base on which to make an assessment. But Johnson is an experienced man, and he has been on the scene four days now. He believes El Jefe will retain control through the next few days, at least.”

“How will the fighting affect our problem?”

“Obviously, it complicates things,” Wallaby said. “But it might be a blessing in disguise. It would provide the cover for intervention which, sir, we recommend most strongly.”

Robertson wasn’t surprised. He had his own sources at Langley. And he knew the past histories of the agency and its role in interventions. He had known what Wallaby wanted. And the President knew his response might be the biggest decision of his administration.

“What are your reasons?” he asked quietly.

“It would give us a handle on the situation,” Wallaby pointed out. “We would gain control — if not the entire cooperation — of El Jefe, and of Loomis.”

“But under duress,” Robertson said. “Do you think that would be wise?”

Wallaby’s mouth opened in surprise. “But — I thought that in your news conference you carefully left the door open for intervention.”

“I didn’t close the door. But I didn’t open it in the first place,” Robertson said. “I’m not eager to have my administration remembered for another Bay of Pigs, another Vietnam. And I might add that I’m fully aware of the role of the CIA in past administrations. In my view, past presidents received highly inaccurate estimates of crucial situations. I must warn you now. I will not allow my administration to be influenced by such tactics.”

Wallaby’s face slowly flushed beet red. He made a move to rise from his chair. Robertson could see the muscles in his jaw working as he fought for control. “Mr. President,” he said. “May I respectfully remind you that
no
administration in history has been faced with a problem of such dangerous ramifications.”

“All the more reason we should handle this thing in the right way,” Robertson said evenly. “Don’t get your hackles up. I’m not blaming you for past mistakes made by others. But you’re running the same outfit over there that made those mistakes. You’ve got to be aware of it. I’ve got to be aware of it.” He paused for a moment, stoking his cigar. The more he thought about the matter, the more firmly convinced he became that his first instincts were right. He tried to put them into words. “As I see it, intervention would probably create new problems, not solve the one we’ve got. Why not deal direct, and in a straightforward way, with the Dominican government? We might see where that gets us.”

“Loomis wouldn’t cooperate with us,” Wallaby predicted. “He’d want to retain full control down there.” Everything kept coming back to Loomis — the unknown factor. “What exactly did Loomis say?” Robertson asked.

“Mostly, that he was too busy with the new revolution to come to Washington for the briefing. ‘To play grabass,’ was his exact terminology, I believe.”

“Well, I can understand that,” Robertson said. “He doesn’t know our problem.” He considered the matter for a moment. “Does Loomis work well with Johnson?” Wallaby glanced at Ogden, signaling him to field that one.

Ogden stared at the bowl of his pipe and took his own sweet time about answering. “They used to be inseparable,” he said. “They were one of our best teams. If we assigned one to a mission, the other would find some way to bring himself in on it. Then they had an ideological falling out over the Diem assassination. We even took the precaution of sending Johnson to head the station in Beirut before we dismissed Loomis. We were concerned that Johnson might learn of the extreme prejudice situation and attempt to stop it.”

Robertson studied Ogden. He was developing a genuine dislike for the smug little bastard. Why couldn’t he answer a question straight out and in fewer words? “Then they are close friends?” 

“I wouldn’t say that, sir.”

“Then what
would
you say, presuming that someone really wanted to know the answer to that question?” Robertson demanded.

Ogden smiled easily. “Well, the truth is that a fist fight they had over the Laos operation was one of the factors that strongly influenced our decision to eliminate Loomis. He broke Johnson’s nose and jaw. That made it much easier for us to get Johnson out of the way and off to Beirut. I don’t think they have communicated with each other since, not until this operation. In summing up, I would say they retain a healthy respect for each other’s talents. But they are no longer close friends.”

“What was the fight over?”

Ogden hesitated, and glanced at the Director, who gave a slight shrug.

“It was just one of those things,” Ogden said. “We needed some information in a hurry. We had some prisoners — a half-dozen Pathet Lao — who had the information. Loomis, at some point in his career, had received helicopter training and became very adept. He and Johnson simply took an interpreter and the prisoners up several thousand feet — bound hand and foot, by an open door. When the first man refused to answer, Johnson kicked him out. By the time he got to the third man, we had all the information we needed. Loomis apparently hadn’t intended to go to that extreme.”

“My God,” Robertson said.

And Johnson was still on the payroll.

Ogden seemed to sense Robertson’s thoughts. With raised eyebrows, he spoke in a tone that struck Robertson as a bit haughty. “I would estimate that Johnson saved at least two hundred American soldiers, and maybe more, by sacrificing only two of the enemy,” he said.

“Of course,” Robertson said wryly. “A nasty war. And Loomis objected?” 

“Later, while drinking, they started a discussion of the incident. And one thing led to another.”

Robertson had heard nothing that altered his view of the matter. Yet, he felt he should give the men from Langley one last opportunity. “Do you people have any serious objections to giving Johnson the authorization to apprise Loomis of the full situation?”

“Yes, I object most emphatically,” Wallaby said. “Loomis would not cooperate with us. He’d want to retain total control of the operation.”

Robertson sighed. “Mr. Director, I’d trade with the Devil himself on this if I thought it’d do any good. Right now, it looks like we’re stuck with Loomis. And maybe he’s the man we
need
to run this operation. Frankly, from what I’ve heard about the man so far, I like his style.”

“May I remind you, sir, that Loomis is not covered by the Secrets Act,” Wallaby said. “We don’t know what he’ll do, what sort of compromising situation he might put us into.”

Robertson snorted in disbelief. “My God, Wallaby. Doesn’t that strike you as a trifle absurd? Here we have a man you’ve twice attempted to kill. We have two old murder charges against him we can’t possibly prosecute. He has served, is bearing arms for foreign governments, and has lost all rights of American citizenship. But now we need him. And you’re worried about his security clearance.”

“There’s one other possibility,” Ogden said quietly.

“What?”

“Renew the contract on Loomis. With him out of the way, we could move into Santo Domingo in force with a clandestine operation to handle the matter.”

“I suppose we should keep that option open,” Robertson said. “But at the moment, it seems to me we can work better with Loomis than without him.”

“I still recommend intervention,” Wallaby insisted. 

“With marines in Santo Domingo, and the navy offshore, we would be able to do whatever we want.”

“Again, I suppose we should keep that as an option,” Robertson said. “But I have polled my advisers on this, and I concur with their judgment. We must try for cooperation. Please instruct Johnson to inform Loomis of the full situation.”

Wallaby hesitated. “Mr. President, if this ever becomes a public issue, I will be forced to reveal that I protested most vigorously.”

Robertson clamped his cigar in his teeth and stared Wallaby down. “That’s your prerogative, Mr. Director,” he said. “And it’s mine to make the decisions.”