The Assassination of LBJ (In the Summer of Love)

By Rick Ainsworth

The Assassination of LBJ - In the Summer of Love
By Rick Ainsworth
A Compelling New Novel by the Award-Winning Author of Thunder and Storm, the Haverfield Incident

An exciting roller-coaster of a story, set in 1965-66, set in the battlefields of Vietnam, the streets of San Francisco, and a presidential administration bent on keeping information from the American public.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jan 31, 2020
• ISBN: 9780977037674

Book preview

This book is a work of fiction. The battle at LZ Albany occurred at the time and place described; however all names, characters, places and incidents portrayed in this novel are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Published by VRA Publishing of Las Vegas

www.vrapub.com

The Assassination of LBJ (In the Summer of Love) Copyright © 2019 by Rick Ainsworth, copyright registration number TXu 2-171-704. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address VRA Publishing, 2505 Anthem Village Parkway, Suite 345, Henderson, NV 89052 or [e-mail]

Cover design by Creative Publishing Book Design

ISBN: 978-0-9770376-7-4

Novels by Rick Ainsworth

RJ Davis Series

Thunder and Storm – The Haverfield Incident

Murder on Pratas Reef

American Dictator Series

American Dictator – Changing of the Guard (Vol 1)

American Dictator – The New Republic (Vol 2)

Upcoming

American Dictator - American Core (Vol 3)

The Deavers Files

Upcoming

The San Antonio Murders

The Horace Mann Killings

The Ghost Murders

The Jesuit Killer

The Parallel Killer

The Harmony Killer

The Deavers Killer

The Lilac Killer

The Phoenix Killer

The Carnival Killer

The Red Stick Killings

The Dashiell Hammett Killer

The Gaelic Killer

The Bikini Killer

Patton Connor Series

Upcoming

A Sunless Sea

The Abyss Stares Back

Stand Alone

Upcoming

The Teasdale Continuum

Table of Contents

Preface

Prologue - The Road to Albany (1965)

Part One - Boone (1965)

Part Two - Phin (1965)

Part Three - Return to Country

Part Four - Homecoming

Part Five - The Diagonal (1966-67)

Part Six - The Haight

Part Seven - The Assassination of LBJ

Epilogue

Dedication

Preface

My generation grew up playing cowboys and Indians, witnessing the miracle of television unfold before our eyes; watching Howdy Doody and the Mickey Mouse Club, lusting after Annette, wearing coonskin caps and carrying cap pistols. Those are the experiences that ought to define us.

No generation should be judged by the behavior of its lunatic fringe.

No generation should be remembered for the societal destruction it wrought or the standards, mores, and values it perverted.

No generation should be identified by war and violent political dissension.

No generation should be remembered for an utter lack of shame.

And no generation should be defined by a list of names on a stark, black wall.

But we are…and I fear we have earned it.

Rick Ainsworth

Henderson, NV

2019

For Hector

He knows why

&

For Therese

She is why

Prologue

The Road to Albany

(1965)

The Road to Albany

Ia Drang Valley

LZ Albany

November 17, 1965

Charlie Company, 2nd Battalion, 7th Calvary Division

Hot, humid jungle, Croc thought as he trudged forward with the rest of the column. Fetid. That’s the word for it. Fetid was coined with the sole purpose of describing the jungle. Fetid. Perfect.

It just don’t make no sense, Lieutenant, Staff Sergeant Waldo Winston droned while he marched behind First Lieutenant Alan Croc Crockett as Charlie company made its way carefully through the humid jungle, keeping a wary eye out for the North Vietnamese Army. We’re hiking miles to a new LZ. What the hell’s wrong with the old LZ? Hell, it’s secure, ain’t it?

Crap. There he goes again.

Lieutenant Crockett had grown weary of Winston’s constant harping on the short trek from LZ X-Ray to the new extraction point. That, along with the damn burdensome heat which felt like a heavy shroud wearing his body down, the insects and the smelly, rotting jungle, had frayed his nerves to the point of frazzle. The entire regiment had gone without sleep for three days and nervous energy was all that kept most of the men on their feet. Crockett said a short prayer of thanks that they were being extracted. The Second of the Seventh was exhausted and Crockett had his doubts about its fighting efficiency in case of an attack. He took a deep breath to calm himself and shifted the pack on his back so the straps didn’t cut so hard into his skin. His breath was wet with jungle air, nothing like the refreshing mountain air of the Colorado Rockies. The Boulder/Longmont Diagonal seemed far away; indeed, it was halfway around the world. He slapped at insects feasting on his neck and thought of Eileen Murphy, dubbed the ‘Girl from the Diagonal’ by his best friend, J.W. Boone. The memory made him smile and his spirits lifted.

Ours is not to wonder why, Sergeant, the lieutenant replied in as pleasant a tone as he could manage. Keep your head up and push onward. Garry Owen and glory!

I hate that damn song, Winston complained. He had abandoned all sense of marching and dragged along as if he could hardly keep his feet under him. And speaking of Garry Owen, Winston continued without missing a beat, wasn’t it Custer who said, ‘Never leave a good LZ to march ten miles to a bad LZ?’

Two miles, Winston. I’m sure you can keep it together for two miles, the lieutenant said wearily. And consider this a direct order, Sergeant: shut the fuck up and pick up your feet, dammit! You’re in a military unit, not blowing the tuba in the school band.

Clarinet, Winston replied sullenly, stung by the rebuke. I played the clarinet in the band.

Yeah? Well, you march like you’re on American Bandstand and you’re doing the stroll.

I always liked that show, Winston said, looking up at the sky wistfully. Lots of cute chicks shaking their booties on that show.

Crockett managed a small chuckle and they came out of the jungle into a clearing covered with waist-high elephant grass. The air seemed sweeter than it had in the fetid jungle and Crockett was able to breathe a little easier. His uniform stuck to his body with perspiration, but the dampness coupled with a mild breeze cooled him just a bit.

You know what I think, Lieutenant? Winston droned on. I think Sitting Bull and all those Indians wiped out Custer because they kept singing that damn song. Them Indians didn’t like that song, neither.

Crockett laughed, and not just because of Winston’s almost comical complaining. The sky was a beautiful blue away from the jungle, the air cleaner and fresher. It felt like spring and made him think of the colors of springtime and wonder why there were no birds singing since they came out of the jungle. Birds ought to sing in the springtime. Crockett forced those thoughts out of his mind and concentrated on the terrain. The elephant grass slowed their progress, but it was a welcome relief after the dank air of the jungle.

Just don’t know why we can’t be extracted from LZ X-Ray, Winston groused on.

Lieutenant Crockett sighed and shook his head. Sarge, he said, patiently glancing around the landscape. He felt uneasy but did not know why. You’ve heard of the island of Guam, right?

Yeah? Sergeant Winston replied in a flat, skeptical tone. His first looey always like to tell a parable or two when discussing anything. Friggin’ college guy!

Well, on that island, which is really not that far away as the crow flies, is a U.S. Air Force base.

Okay.

And on that base they have these big-assed bombers, you see, called the B-52 Stratofortress.

Winston rolled his eyes. Of this I am aware, sir. He took off his helmet and wiped his sweaty head with a handkerchief.

Then you’re probably also aware that these airplanes carry about fifty-five thousand pounds of bombs in their bellies, said bombs destined for our little battlefield right here in this God-forsaken valley, where they will drop all kinds of fire, hell and damnation on LZ X-Ray and any NVA assholes who are still hiding in that tall grass. He stopped and turned to glare at Winston, his weariness of the sergeant’s complaints evident on his face. Now, you tell me, Waldo, while you’re putting that damn helmet back on, would you like to go back there and hope a bomb doesn’t get dropped on your enlisted ass, or would you prefer to conduct yourself like a soldier and accompany me to the extraction point?

Winston nodded his head and mumbled, Sorry, sir. He quickly put on his helmet.

Crockett looked around again at the landscape. Emerging from the jungle into the semi open clearing of waist high elephant grass had slowed their movements quite a bit and added to their weariness. Little ground creatures scurried from their paths to hide and observe the invaders from the safety of their secret burrows. He smiled coldly. Or maybe you like it here, Waldo. Crockett looked up at the blue sky with little puffy white clouds floating above and said in a serious tone, If we don’t get extracted soon, Sergeant, some of us might spend eternity here.

You’re making me nervous, Lieutenant. Waldo looked around and wiped sweat off his face with his already damp handkerchief. I’ll bet this stinkin’ place is haunted. I’ll bet the ghosts come out at night in this stinkin’ place.

Just keep a sharp eye, Waldo.

I just hope those people at Command know what they’re doing.

Would you like me to radio ahead and make sure the coast is clear for you, Waldo? Crockett asked with a crooked grin. The elephant grass seemed to get thicker and pushing through it exceedingly more difficult.

Well, no, sir, Waldo replied, smiling self consciously after taking a moment to consider the offer. Besides, we got no radio operator. Gysler’s with the captain, they all went to the meeting.

Crockett said nothing, merely shaking his head. An officer did not complain to an enlisted man. That happened the other way around. An officer certainly would not share his concerns over the actions of the battalion commander. Why call all company commanders and their radio operators to a staff meeting when we’re ass-deep in elephant grass, not knowing where the enemy is? These companies have no commanders and no communication. The meeting made no sense. They had captured two PAVN soldiers, so what? Couldn’t the colonel and the major interrogate them? Did it take all company commanders and their radio operators to question two prisoners? And setting fire to those storage hooches, that was a mistake. The smoke columns from the fires most certainly showed the enemy exactly where they were. If they were out there, and Lieutenant Crockett sensed they were.

Crockett looked up and back at the column of American troops. The entire scene made him uneasy. Platoons from the Second Battalion moved forward in a single file, the Recon company on point, then Alpha Company, Delta Company and Crockett’s Charlie company, followed by HQ company and finally, an attached unit, Alpha Company of the First battalion Fifth cavalry, replacing Second of Seventh’s Bravo company which covered the withdrawal from LZ X-Ray. All were snaking through the elephant grass toward LZ Albany which would take them out of this Godforsaken valley. Meanwhile, their commanding officers were huddled together with the colonel going over what was presumed to be strategy. And they took the radio operators with them, so the platoons were left high and dry with no means of communication. Except screaming. They would learn to do much of that very soon.

Word came down the line for a rest break and Second Battalion, Seventh Cavalry was ordered to halt and take ten in place. Crockett took another look around the ground and sent for staff sergeant Hector Marmolejos, lead company sniper. A tall, dark staff sergeant with a smile so bright it made you smile came up to the lieutenant and saluted.

Hector, the lieutenant said, putting an arm across the sergeant’s shoulders and pointing toward a large natural green wall made up of trees, bushes and several other types of vegetation off to the right of the column. I want you to place your men along our flank here.

You think we’re vulnerable, sir? Hector asked, looking at the large wall and wondering what if anything, was behind it.

I think this is a good place for an ambush, Crockett replied. We’ve been parallel to that damn thing for over two hundred yards. And thanks to some brilliant asshole up front with a Zippo, the fires he set can be seen from here to Santa Barbara, for Christ’s sake. They’re out there watching, Hector, at least we better think so. If they try to sneak up on us, I want to know as soon as possible.

Consider it done, sir, Hector replied with a salute. He left to muster his squad.

Crockett turned to his company. Take ten and keep your eyes open! he ordered.

’Bout time, Winston said, dropping down into the tall grass and trying to maneuver himself into a comfortable position. He put his canteen to his lips and drained about half of it. I ain’t slept in days.

Almost sixty hours, Lieutenant Crockett said irritably. And that’s for all of us, Waldo. You’re not the only pup who’s dog assed tired. Look around you. Guys are laying on their dead asses all over the place. Now just shut the fuck up and sit down if you have to!

Well, I don’t know about you, Lieutenant, Winston replied, but I’m gonna lay down and close my eyes until I’m ordered to do otherwise.

Crockett leaned over to advise Winston to get all the rest he could, and then all hell broke loose. Automatic rifle fire erupted on the right flank and Crockett’s first thought was, that’s Hector and his boys. They must have spotted something. If so, that meant…

He yelled, Get down! and dropped to the ground, covering his head with his arms and taking stock of his situation. The battalion was being ambushed, that much was clear. The first explosions occurred at the head of the column and the attack continued down the entire right flank. PAVN soldiers ran along the column of Americans firing automatic weapons, throwing hand grenades and moving in close for hand-to-hand combat in a coordinated, well organized ambush. Crockett’s training took over and the only thought in his head was to get his men out of the kill zone. What he was taught. In case of an ambush, you get your people out of the kill zone.

Get up and go! he yelled at the top of his lungs. Follow me! He arose from the elephant grass and began running toward a small copse of trees, signaling for his men to follow along behind him, running low in the tall grass. Bullets kicked up the ground among them as they ran and several men fell. Explosions erupted on all sides and sweating, cursing men were backing up, rifles in hand, looking for something to shoot. Men fell and others closed ranks and scrambled along behind Lieutenant Crockett.

The clearing erupted with small arms fire and grenades, creating a cacophony that allowed no verbal communications and Crockett signaled furiously at his men to get out and follow him to the trees as the smell of cordite, small arms fire and men’s frantic screams and shouts hung in the air. Dirt kicked up all around them, bullets slashing through the tall grass and popping at their heels as they scrambled frantically out of the kill zone. The NVA swarmed them, firing AK 47’s into the column at point blank range. American soldiers fell like wheat being threshed in the field.

Screams echoed throughout the battlefield and it was impossible to tell where the screams were coming from and who was doing the screaming. When men are wounded and dying, they all scream the same.

Lieutenant Crockett didn’t feel the round that hit him in the head. He had glanced back to make sure his men were following and he took a sniper round through his helmet. Crockett slumped to the ground as his life ended. His last thought as he died in the arms of his platoon was, Those fucking fires!

It took Second Battalion several seconds to realize what was happening, but by then almost a quarter of the force had been knocked out of action. With their commanding officers stuck at the head of the column in their ill-advised staff meeting, junior officers and sergeants were forced to take command of their platoons amidst a frenzy of fire and panicked confusion. Seventy percent of all junior officers in the battle were killed in the first forty five minutes. Lieutenant Alan Crockett was one of them.

Garry Owen

"Let Bacchus’ sons be not dismayed

But join with me each jovial blade

Come booze and sing and lend your aid

To help me with the chorus.

"Instead of spa we’ll drink brown ale

And pay the reckoning on the nail

For debt no man shall go to jail

For Garry Owen and glory.

"Our hearts so stout have brought us fame

For soon ‘tis known from whence we came

Where’er we go they dread the name

Of Garry Owen and glory!

"Instead of spa we’ll drink brown ale

And pay the reckoning on the nail

For debt no man shall go to jail

For Garry Owen and glory!"

Official marching song of the U.S. Seventh Cavalry

adopted by George Armstrong Custer, circa 1876.

Part One

Boone

(1965)

The Funeral

Mount Carmel Cemetery

Boulder, Colorado

Friday, December 17, 1965

Under a cold, gray Colorado sky, Marine First Lieutenant Jacob Warden Boone joined with the Army honor guard in saluting the casket of his childhood friend, Alan Crockett. The dark mahogany box was slowly and gently lowered into the cavern in the ground which would soon be sealed over to become Lieutenant Crockett’s tomb for all eternity.

The frosty air froze his tears to his cheeks, but J.W. Boone felt no shame for his tears, brought on by the mournful and excruciatingly beautiful notes of ‘Taps’ being blown by an Army bugler. He ended the salute and brought his hand back to his side. He took a deep breath, thinking about Croc, always finding ways for a couple of young boys to get into trouble, and J.W. always following along no matter how stupid the stunt sounded. Croc had more than his fair share of energy and lived life in big, hard to chew chunks. It was only a matter of time until he choked on it.

Boone squeezed his eyes shut tightly and the image of Eileen Murphy popped into his mind. He mentally kicked himself for not thinking of her sooner, and he wondered if she were there. She must be. He turned hesitantly from the grave and saw her and her sister standing back several feet on a small knoll, watching him intently. She looked beautiful in her black dress and ankle-length overcoat, her blonde hair falling over her shoulders. She had let it grow out. J.W. liked that. She wore a small hat with a black veil obscuring her face. But J.W. knew what expression she wore. He had seen it many times before when she got upset about something. Not just anger, but disappointment and always directed at herself. He knew he couldn’t break her mood, so he decided to wait.

He glanced at her expectantly but she turned and walked away. Eileen’s sister came up to J.W. and silently handed him a folded piece of paper, then blinked away tears and walked back toward her sister.

J.W. waited until they had disappeared over the knoll to unfold the paper. It had four letters written on it and when he saw them he couldn’t help but smile.

S.A.S.P.

Eileen wanted to meet, and she told him where and when. The old code the gang used to arrange to meet, passing it back and forth in class at Longmont High. Sunset at Sunset Park. He knew she would be there. And so would he.

Talking with Croc’s mom was the hardest thing Boone had to do. Miriam Crockett was a warm and loving woman, who had her only child in her late thirties. She worshiped Croc and he worshiped her. After the death of his father when he was twelve, Croc and his mother had grown even closer, and they both grew closer to the Boone family.

Mrs. Crockett held Boone tightly as she whispered how glad she was that he was home. She looked up into his eyes and more passed between them then they could speak of. She took a deep breath and gave him a smile she usually reserved for her son.

I’m so sorry, Mimi, Boone said, holding both of her hands and looking into her eyes. I am so very sorry.

I know, Jake, she replied softly. Only family called him Jake, which included the Crocketts and Eileen Murphy. Everyone else called him J.W. You three were like triplets in high school. She looked up at the small mound which held the gravesite and sighed deeply, as if she were steeling herself for the years to come. It was good to see Eileen.

I’ll get together with her later, J.W. said softly.

Mrs. Crockett smiled wanly and nodded her approval. You do that, Jake, she said. Eileen isn’t as strong as she pretends to be.

J.W. nodded and held her close.

The worst thing, I think, she whispered, was that a cab driver brought me a telegram. A cab driver, Jake. She opened the small clutch she carried and took out a yellow piece of paper. I have it right here.

Boone took the telegram and unfolded it. He read it twice, the tears coming despite his resolve not to cry.

MRS. MIRIAM CROCKETT, 1200 SUNSET ROAD, LONGMONT, COLORADO. THE SECRETARY OF THE ARMY HAS ASKED ME TO EXPRESS HIS DEEP REGRET THAT YOUR SON, FIRST LIEUTENANT ALAN CROCKETT DIED IN VIETNAM AS A RESULT OF GUNSHOT WOUNDS TO THE HEAD. HE WAS ON A SEARCH AND DESTROY OPERATION WHEN HIT BY METAL FRAGMENTS. DEATH WAS THE RESULT OF HOSTILE ACTION.

Boone stood staring at the telegram for several moments, letting the memories flood in. He and Croc riding their bikes down to the river and skipping stones all day, or fishing in the mornings and swimming in the afternoons. It was hard for him to comprehend that his friend, and the son of this wonderful woman, was dead. It did not compute for him.

Can you find out, Jacob? Mrs. Crockett asked, using his formal name, which she rarely did.

Find out what, Mimi?

Find out what happened and why. I need to make sense of this, Jacob. I need to know why.

Boone looked around at the cold landscape. In early years Croc and he would have their sleds out, shooting down the snow covered hills, racing as always, and as always, arguing about who won when they got to the bottom.

I’ll try, Mimi, he said to her, not wanting to make a promise to this woman he couldn’t know if he could keep. He didn’t know where he would start, but he too wanted some questions answered, though asking questions could be risky in the military, especially at war. They tended to cover and explain away many things under the so-called fog of war. It was their go-to position when questioned about anything.

He held his friend’s mother close for a long time before letting go of her and promising he would find out what he could, though he really didn’t know where to start. At the battlefield, he reasoned. At the place where this tragedy happened.

Boone stood staring at the gravesite, hoping to see Croc pop his head out of the casket like it was all a big, funny joke, but it wasn’t and he didn’t. At least Croc died an honorable death, Boone reasoned. He was a soldier in a war and he paid the price all soldiers know they could be asked to pay. No shame in that. No lack of pride there. It made Boone proud to be a part of the same mission as his friend, a mission in which they both deeply believed, and in which they had complete faith. Lieutenant Boone began to admit that his faith in that mission had been badly shaken by his best friend’s death.

Lieutenant Boone?

Boone turned to the sound of his name. A tall Army staff sergeant stood at attention and saluted him. Boone returned the salute. Yes, soldier?

I served with Lieutenant Crockett, sir, the soldier said. I was there at LZ Albany. I saw him fall, sir.

Boone wanted to smile, but his face didn’t feel much like it and neither did he. At ease, soldier, he said softly. The sergeant relaxed. What’s your name?

Marmolejos, the soldier said. Staff Sergeant Hector Marmolejos, sir.

Boone held out a hand. It’s good to meet a man who served with Croc.

Thank you, sir. The thing is… He looked around the cemetery, seeming to examine each and every funeral goer before turning back to Boone. See, he didn’t necessarily have to die, Marmolejos explained. Not like that. None of them had to die like that.

What are you saying, Sergeant? Boone asked, frowning at the man.

That operation was a complete cluster fuck, Marmolejos said with undisguised anger. One fuck up after another. Fucking Command got those troops killed, sir. He looked around anxiously again and then added, I was there.

Boone looked the man over. A tall, dark, athletic looking young man, he had an inappropriate paranoia about him. Why does a man so young seem to carry so much burden? And what if he’s right? What if Croc died unnecessarily because of command screw-ups? What could be done about that?

Call me J.W., Boone said with an encouraging smile. Can I buy you a beer?

They decided to go to the local VFW, avoiding the bars around the University of Colorado, where long-haired, unshaven and unkempt hippie assholes tended to give men in uniform dirty looks. Yeah, and faded when those dirty looks were returned in kind.

After graciously accepting beers and handshakes from the veterans in the bar, they settled into a corner with a pitcher of beer and spoke in low tones.

Please tell me what you know, Hector, Boone said. Then we’ll discuss what you suspect, okay? Facts first.

Okay. Hector took a long drink of his beer. We’re part of the cavalry, right? So, we go in fast and hard, hit ‘em and kill ‘em and then leave quickly. But the cavalry don’t use horses anymore, right? We use helicopters. Hueys, fifty cals out of both sides and carrying about eight troops each. We come swooping into an area where we suspect the NVA are operating, find a suitable landing zone, and drop into it, spread out, establish a perimeter.

Boone nodded. I’m familiar with the doctrine.

That’s what we did in the Ia Drang Valley. Hector took another drink and lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke at the ceiling. That’s another lesson we didn’t learn over there.

Tell me about the day Crockett died.

Hector sat back and looked off in the distance. It was a nice day, a Tuesday. First Battalion’s battle was over and we were mopping up, he recited in a soft voice. The sun shining, a soft breeze blowing. Hot, though, hot like it gets over there, you know. We landed the battalion at LZ X-Ray and fanned out into the field, looking for NVA. Wasn’t long before we were taking incoming…

J.W. Boone and Hector Marmolejos talked and drank beer for three hours, during which time the bartender, former Marine lance corporal Jeff Ault made sure they had hamburgers and fries and kept their pitcher