Siege of Silence Read online

  He’s looking very pissed off. Behind his casual exterior he’s a guy who enjoys authority. I could get slung out but there’s no other way. With great deliberation he lights another cigarette. The smoke curls out of his mouth and then one curt word: “Explain.”

  “Sure. That plan has less than a thirty per cent chance of success. I can give you a dozen detailed reasons why. If you understand them and believe them and are able to make the President understand them, he may order a revision of the plan. Then the generals and their whizz kids go back to the computers and fuck around with the details- different plan, same result.”

  Very coldly, and with a tinge of sarcasm he says, “And in the few minutes since you watched that briefing, you’ve formed a totally radical plan.”

  “You got it.”

  “Don’t be flippant, Colonel.”

  I stand up. “Mr Komlosy, sir. You know what’s waiting for me back at Fort Bragg. If I sweet talk you, maybe you’ll pull another string. But sweet talk gets stuck in my throat. You may as well get it straight. You brought me here to massage your ego. You watched that briefing last night with the President and all the brass. On the surface it’s damned impressive . . . to a civilian. Afterwards there had to be a discussion. As far as the military aspects were concerned, you couldn’t have had much to say. A guy like you- close to the President- that must have rankled. You’d have been on the side-lines . . . NSC or not. You gotta get back into the ball game. So before the next discussion you whisk me up here by jet and chopper to look it over. Then you debrief me on it and pick up a load of pointers. That might do you some good with the President but what’s the bottom line? You want to get those hostages out alive or in body bags?”

  He blows smoke at me.

  “That’s a disgusting question.”

  “You’re a politician.”

  “And that means I don’t care?”

  “If you care . . . get me in to see the President.”

  I expect scorn, or even laughter. I get a contemplative look.

  “And then?”

  “And then I tell him what’s wrong with his armed forces.” I hold up a hand. “Okay, I know. He’s the CIC. He’s put the ‘P’ back into patriotism, he’s built up the forces like no other President in thirty years. He thinks his Generals and Admirals emit pure sunshine from their asses. If he keeps thinking that there’s a seventy per cent chance those hostages are going to die. You personally can’t tell him that. Admit it!”

  I am angry and I guess it shows. I don’t care. I think of all the years. All the goddam stupidity. All the waste. Komlosy is looking up at me. He’s tapping the finger nails of his right hand on the polished desk. He asks, “And you can tell him?”

  “Damn right. I’m a soldier. He’s my Commander-in-Chief. It’s my duty to tell him. You brought my ass here- he’s only yards away. What have you got to lose . . . ? Your influence . . . ? You said I talked sense that night in Raleigh. That’s why my ass is here, so let me talk to my President!”

  He’s looking past me now. He’s considering it. Really considering it. Slowly, not to interrupt his thoughts, I sit down again. In spite of his exhaustion this man gives off all the vibes of power. He’s only just passed fifty, but looks younger; kind of boyish with lank blond hair and a face active in its movement. Guys like this must be born with more energy than most. Real achievers. They’ve just got to be top dogs in school and college. Then in whatever career they choose. We’ve got Generals like this guy. They get there by pure effort. No difference whether it’s the army or a corporation or politics. But at least this one listens and sometimes even thinks.

  I guess there’s only a one in ten chance, but it was worth a shot.

  He lights yet another cigarette and asks, “Colonel, that plan is wrong for all the reasons you talked about in Raleigh?”

  “And more.”

  He sighs. “And you don’t simply want to tell me about them.”

  “Waste of time unless you just want to score points.”

  Another sigh. But he’s nodding his head slowly.

  “Okay, Colonel, I’ll give it a try. He may want to call General Grant first.”

  “If he does it’s a non-starter.”

  He stands up and stretches. “Yeah, I know it. Wait here. Don’t get your hopes up.”

  When he reaches the door I say, “I’d sure appreciate some coffee now.”

  He nods and goes out. I get up and start to prowl around. It’s a plush office with real leather chairs in one corner grouped around a glass coffee table. There are pictures on the wall. They look so goddam awful they must be expensive. There are also lots of framed and signed photographs. Komlosy with visiting Heads of State; Komlosy with Cabinet members; even Komlosy with the Pope. I’m impressed. This is one top cat. There are two doors set in a wall. I open one of them. It lets into a small room which contains a cupboard and an army cot. Even the blankets are army issue. I open the other door; a tiled bathroom. I go in and splash cold water on my face. The towels are snow-white and fluffy and decorated with the Presidential seal. Back in the office I look at a leather-framed photograph on his desk. A smiling, pretty woman flanked by a young boy and a younger pretty girl. This cat’s got it all wrapped up. He even hit home runs on his children.

  The door opens and a young woman comes in carrying a tray. She gives me one of those smiles they paint on Barbie dolls. She puts the tray on to the glass table and I walk over and sit down. She leans over, picks up the jug and pours. Her blouse opens a little. The jug bears the Presidential seal; she has great tits.

  “Cream? Sugar?”

  “No thanks, just as black as me, lady.”

  She laughs nervously and I smile up at her.

  “I guess there’s a lot of overtime going on here.”

  “Sure is, Colonel. Poor Mr Komlosy has hardly gotten home since the San Carlo crisis.”

  “I saw the cot.” I gesture at the photograph. “Must be tough on the wife.”

  She shrugs. “Mostly they understand.”

  No doubt about it. The emphasis was on “mostly”.

  “I guess everyone puts a lot of time in. You all have your own cots?”

  She shakes her head and backs off towards the door. She’s blushing a bit. No doubt at all. Ol’ Komlosy’s pickin’ up the perks that go with power.

  “Call me if there’s anything else.”

  “Sure thing.”

  The coffee’s good. I drain the cup and pour another, then put my mind working. If the chance comes, I’m gonna have to be ready.

  Twenty minutes later Rogers is at the door crooking a finger. The chance has come.

  He walks with an important spring-heeled step, his head bouncing up and down. I am barely aware of the route or surroundings. Up some steps and along a couple of corridors.

  We come to a large wooden door. There’s a Secret Service type outside. He opens it. Rogers murmurs “Good luck,” turns and bounces away. I go in to find Komlosy standing alone in a small room. His voice sounds harshly loud in the hushed atmosphere.

  “Colonel, we’re going in to see the President now. Tonight is a rare chance for him to have dinner alone with the First Lady, so try to keep it brief.”

  I nod and he turns to a door and opens it. We go through. It’s true. It is oval. Large but kind of intimate.

  I hardly notice it. I only have an impression of the spaciousness of the room and the man sitting at the desk in front of the tall window with a dark blue flag behind his shoulder. He is reading something. There is a pen in his right hand. Komlosy coughs and says, “Colonel Slocum, Mr President.”

  The President looks up. I snap out a crisp salute and see the brief impact of shock on his face. For a second I’m puzzled, worried, then I realize. Komlosy has not told him that I’m black. More than black; I’m goddam ebony. The Commander-in-Chief has just set eyes on the biggest, blackest soldier in his entire army- and was not expecting it. I wonder about Komlosy. Was it an oversight, or deliberate?

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nbsp; The President recovers quickly. A lowered glance at Komlosy and he rises and comes round the desk. His smile is genuine as he holds out his hand. His grip is firm. He puts his other hand on my shoulder and urges me towards a group of low chairs. We sit down. I’m excited but not nervous. The President is looking at the slab of fruit salad on my chest. He says, “Colonel Slocum, your many decorations tell me that you have long been a courageous defender of our country.

  But I wonder if it’s appropriate that I receive a soldier who is shortly to be court-martialled.”

  He is smiling just a little. I’m not sure what to say. I hear my voice.

  “We . . . yes, sir, Mr President. . .”

  “After all, son, it’s a serious offence striking a general officer.”

  His words confuse me. His tone is stern but I can’t remember when anyone last called me “son”. I think for a moment, then say, “Sir . . . Mr President. I’ve tried to be repentant but it doesn’t work. Eight good men died . . . my men.”

  He nods solemnly. “It was a terrible tragedy, but you of all people know that these exercises are essential. We often have casualties.”

  “Yes, sir, but those were not necessary. Conditions were over the limit. In real combat, I’d have kicked those boys out of the aircraft and then jumped myself. He was just trying to prove how mentally tough he was. He was sitting on the ground in a nice safe command post. I just saw red. I regret it but I’m not repentant . . . Mr President, I’ll take my chance at the court martial.”

  “Of course. Now Mike here tells me that you’re worried about some aspects of the San Carlo rescue plan. Tell me about that.”

  I’m uncomfortable. The chair is low and softly sprung. My knees are just about up to my chin. I can’t sit here for any time. I say, “Er . . . Mr President, do you mind if I stand up? I think better on my feet.”

  He waves a hand in agreement and I push myself up. It’s no better. Now he has to crane his neck to look up at me. He smiles and stands and walks to his desk. “Go ahead. I’ll sit here. Pace if you wish. Oh, and Colonel, you’re having trouble whether to call me ‘sir’ or ‘Mr President’. Make it ‘sir’ if it’s easier.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Komlosy has pulled a chair up sitting off to my left. I decide that I may as well start as I mean to go on. I look the President in the eye and say, “Sir, Mr Komlosy asked me to keep this brief. You’re shortly going to have dinner. Sir, either dinner gets cold or you only get to hear part of what I need to say.”

  I slide a glance at Komlosy. He’s looking unhappy. The President glances at his watch, purses his lips and gives me a long, level stare. Finally he says, “Colonel Slocum, if I believe that what you’re telling me is important, then my dinner can wait.”

  First hurdle over. I take a deep breath and state flatly, “Sir. It is my duty to tell my Commander-in-Chief that for the past thirty-five years the United States military establishment has been guilty of gross, professional incompetence.”

  Total silence, except for the faint wailing of a distant siren. The President is looking at Komlosy as though he were a cat that had dragged in a stinking, decomposed rat. He turns back to me and says harshly, “It is not your duty to malign the uniform and the medals you wear; and the thousands of fine men and women who have fought and died for freedom and their country over those years.”

  I shake my head. “No, sir. I honour them. I have been a soldier for twenty-eight years. The American soldier, airman and sailor is as fine as any in the world and better than most. I criticize the command. Its attitude, its structure and its thinking. In a nutshell your armed forces are incapable of being an efficient instrument of your global policies.”

  Another silence. His face reflects indigestion. In an ominous tone he says, “Explain yourself, Colonel.”

  “Sir, in the past thirty-five years, our country has not enjoyed a single military success.”

  He sighs. “What about Grenada?”

  “Grenada was a mess. I was on it. But I’d like to come to that later. I’d like to start with Korea. The Inchon landings, 1950- ‘Operation Cobalt’.”

  “Oh! That was also a mess?”

  “No, sir. It was brilliantly successful. It was our last success.”

  I start pacing in front of his desk. My steps make no sound on the thick beige carpet. I hold up one finger.

  “Sir, it was followed by the advance to the Yalu River. MacArthur took no notice of all the evidence the Chinese would intervene. He didn’t wait to consolidate, he pushed forward, over-extending his lines. The Chinese attacked and routed our forces and pushed us into the longest retreat in our history. Result: final stalemate, partition of Korea and our first overseas defeat.”

  He interjects, “Some wouldn’t see it that way.”

  I swing around to face him.

  “Sir, historians do and will. Our soldiers did. I knew many of them.” I hold up a second finger. “‘61. The Bay of Pigs. Okay, it was a CIA operation but our military were deeply involved in the planning. Another mess. Classical errors for an amphibious assault. No air cover. No dispersal of ammunition reserves, disgustingly bad Intelligence.” A third finger. “Vietnam. With a massive superiority in all aspects of military power we lost because the generals at the Pentagon decided to rotate our boys in and out on six-month tours. Sir, I was there for six years and watched them coming and going. For the first three months they were learning. For the last three months they were taking the least risks possible. There was lack of cohesion and pride among fighting units. It’s human nature. In the early days, the British were fighting a similar war in Borneo against the Indonesians, They sent their troops in and told them they would stay until they won. They did the job in under three years.”

  The President looks an enquiry at Komlosy who nods. I raise a fourth finger.

  “‘68. The ‘Pueblo’. The navy sent an unescorted, barely armed Intelligence ship to the edge of North Korean waters. A volatile, hostile area. It was attacked. When it signalled for help the chain of command was inefficient. No help was available. The Commander failed to scuttle his ship as was his duty. It was taken . . . a mess.”

  He is watching me intently now. I am standing still, facing him. I raise a finger of my other hand. “‘70. The Son Tay raid. A brilliantly planned mission to rescue American POWs from a prison in North Vietnam. When the Commandos got there . . . no Americans. They’d left months before . . . an Intelligence mess.” I raise another finger and resume pacing. “ ‘75. The ‘Mayaguez’. American cargo boat and crew seized by Cambodians: a patched together rescue attempt. More bad Intelligence. Every branch of the services trying to get in on the act. We assaulted an island and then discovered that the crew had already been released . . . it would have been comic but we suffered forty-one dead.”

  I give up on the fingers. I’m running out of them. “ ‘79. The Iranian hostage rescue attempt. Maybe the biggest mess ever. Colonel Beckwith and his men were among the finest soldiers on this earth. After five months of training, the operation never had a chance because of incompetent planning. So complex you’d have had to be a chess grand master to figure it out. Okay, long distances, big problems but . . . badly rehearsed; faulty command structure. No one in a position to compromise. No back-up. The computers said it was perfect. Did they feed in sandstorms? Pilot error? Civilians roaming about where they weren’t supposed to be? Poor chopper maintenance? It just fell apart . . . a mess.” I swing around. He’s looking gloomily at his desk top. I glance at Komlosy, he’s gazing at the far wall. Very quietly I say, “‘83. Beirut.” The President looks up. I feel a little sorry for him. “Beirut, sir. 241 marines killed mainly because of professional military negligence. Sir, in two days’ time I’m gonna be court-martialled for hitting a General. He got a sore jaw. How many Generals were court-martialled for Beirut?”

  He sighs and leans back in his chair. There is a long silence. I can feel the pain in my head again. Am I getting through? He looks at his watch, then at K
omlosy. What’s it going to be? With another sigh he reaches forward, picks up the phone and punches a button on the console.

  “Julie, get me the First Lady.” A pause. “Hi, honey. Now don’t get mad, huh. I’m going to be a mite later than planned . . . Yeah, honey, the San Carlo thing . . . I know, honey. Wait a minute.” He looks at me. “Colonel, how long you going to be?”

  “‘Bout half an hour, sir.”

  Into the phone he says, ‘Half an hour, honey . . . Sure. You did? That’s just wonderful . . . I sure am . . . An’ me, honey.” He hangs up.

  “Okay, Colonel. I’m gonna hear you out. Don’t think I agree with everything you say. In these matters there are factors of chance, fate, call it what you like. But what was wrong with Grenada?”

  “Well, sir. We won that one. We had no choice, I guess. We used a steam-roller to crush a walnut. And in the process the roller got knocked about a bit.”

  “How so?”

  “We took unnecessary casualties. Again, all the services wanted in on the act. We should have done it with a thousand paras. We had so many troops running around they were in danger of colliding with each other. Ostensibly we went in to protect the lives of our medical students. It took us forty-eight hours to secure them. It should have taken two. Again, our Intelligence was God awful. The biggest damage we did was to a mental home. The only smart idea the Generals had was keep the media out. They saved themselves a scandal.”

  The President smiles slightly and stands up. He walks to a cabinet and opens it. Inside are glasses and bottles. Over his shoulder he says, “Colonel, I generally mix myself a martini this time of the evening. Mike enjoys one. How about you?”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

  I’d prefer a beer but how do you say that to a President? He mixes the drinks carefully. Komlosy walks over and collects his. The President hands me a glass and perches on the edge of his desk.

  “Cheers.” I take a sip. It’s dry enough to numb my tongue.

  “Great martini, sir.”

  He smiles. “Thanks, son. Now tell me . . . briefly . . . why those so-called messes happened.”