Once Upon a Time There Was A War - A Very Secret War

By Jim Miller

President Eisenhower warned Americans about the domino effect that might cause all of Asia to fall to communists, just as China and Eastern Europe had. Kennedy listened and sent a small band of advisors to Vietnam and Laos. Johnson may have thought he was fulfilling Kennedy's legacy of supporting free, independent, and democratic countries when he expanded the scale of the intervention and then Nixon upped the scale of bombing geometrically.

 

Between 1964 and 1975, more bombs were dropped on the small country of Laos than on Germany, or Japan, during World War II. The resulting devastation is still evident throughout the nation. The number of Americans killed in the Laotian campaign is disputed, but roughly three hundred have never been accounted for. The number of Laotians killed has been estimated to be over twenty thousand.

 

This tale, told through the eyes of young Carter Williston, is a fictional account about how the CIA directed their secret war. But it is fiction born of vivid memories of the soldiers, aircrews, and technicians who thought they were saving the world with their courage and thankless hard work. Thousands of Americans risked, and often lost, their lives in a shadow war with fluid and obscure political/military objectives.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hydra Publications
• Release date: May 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201149079

Book preview

February 12, 1968 Civil Service Job Fair

Andover High School, Maryland

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Carter, wearing his only suit coat, found his way to the cafeteria table with a sign that read, US Government Intelligence. He saw his name and appointment time on a clipboard, signed in, and expected a long wait; this being the government, after all.

But it wasn’t long. The man being interviewed ahead of Carter was just standing for a final handshake. The interviewer, an older man with a fleshy, furrowed face, looked over the top of his half-moon glasses and forced a smile as he consulted the clipboard.

Have a seat, son. So, I see from your application you’re looking for a government job with overseas travel and challenges. Is that right, Mister Carter, yes?

Actually, I’m Carter Williston. Carter is my first name.

The interviewer leaned back in his chair and squinted at the folder before him. Oh, yes, I see that now. He flipped a few pages of a folder that included a couple of photos. And you are fluent in French, yes?

Carter sat back, trying to look professional, not too nervous. Not fluent, but I took two years…

No matter. We’re looking for people who want adventure, exotic locales, and excitement. Does that sound like you Mister… He hesitated and looked back down at the application… Mister Williston?

Carter shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Yes, sir, I believe so.

The interviewer had a slight tic in his cheek. Carter found it distracting. He also noticed a couple of long-healed facial scars.

The older man sat back and steepled his fingers. So, tell me why you want this job, a government job.

Well, to be honest, security first. I don’t expect the government to go out of business anytime soon. But, second, I’m hoping for a little adventure. I worked my way through college and missed all the frat-boy good times. Now that I’ve graduated, I want to get out, see the world, and do some good.

"Security…do some good?" The interviewer sat back. The facial tic returned. Suppose the job we have available turned out to be dangerous? Just suppose it might involve doing a lot of things outside the bounds of normal business. Suppose the risk could be…life-threatening? He raised his eyebrows and looked over the top of his glasses.

Carter thought the man was trying to scare him off. Well, my uncle works for the DIA. He’s the one who recommended I apply to you. I’ve heard some of his stories, and they sounded really cool.

Shit, Carter, ‘cool’ is not a great interview word, not professional. Tighten up, man.

The interviewer - Carter still didn’t know his name - went back to the folder and turned a few more pages. I see you’ve been in a little trouble, a couple of scrapes with the law, one night in jail for a DWI and back-talking to the arresting officer. Is that right?

Carter sighed. Okay, they know. This job interview is probably a lost cause. Yes, sir. That’s true. I can only say that I was much younger…

The interviewer had so far shown no hint of emotion, but now he closed the folder, sat back, and gave a fatherly smile. Your arrest isn’t a deal breaker. In fact, it’s a plus. We’re looking for field agents, men who can be audacious, buck the system and cut corners. Breaking rules and getting away with it, that’s our bread and butter. You see, Carter, I’m not recruiting for the DIA. That’s the Defense Intelligence Agency, mostly a bunch of technical brainiacs who sit in dark cubbyholes and do endless analysis.

He leaned forward as though about to whisper. "We are the Central Intelligence Agency, and what we need are cowboys who get things done, regardless of the rules. So, what do you think, Carter? Can you kick ass and make things happen for the good of your country? Can you do things that would make brave men tremble, and do them with deliberate caution, good judgement, and courage? Can you lie, cheat, steal and still be an honorable agent who is ready to die for his country?"

Carter Williston was taken aback. He took a deep breath, grinned, and thrust out his hand. Yes. Oh, hell yes. I can’t think of anything I’d rather do. But, say, I never caught your name.

The man stood and accepted the handshake with a vigorous grip. That’s right, you didn’t. We’ll be in touch.

Swell, let me give you my phone…

Carter…we’re the CIA.

Oh, yeah, sorry. I’ll be waiting by the phone. Thank you, sir.

The man jotted notes and set Carter’s folder to his left. He read the clipboard, picked up another folder from his stack, and began to read while motioning for the next man forward.

Next guy looked like an over-eager preppie. He almost lunged to take the seat Carter just vacated. But, before he sat all the way down, next guy hesitated as though trying to decide on protocol. He half-stood and extended his hand over the table.

The interviewer was still reading the folder and ignored the gesture.

Next guy hesitated, frowned sheepishly, and withdrew his hand as he sat back in the chair.

Carter just shook his head and walked away with a muttered, wimp.

A Job, at Last

Two weeks passed. Six interviews with six firms that were all looking for company men who could be trusted to fit their corporate mold and make no waves. Carter was feeling depressed, hopeless. Then, an early morning knock on his apartment door. He was moving slowly after a long night of drinking, but the knocker was insistent.

Barefoot, wearing only pajama bottoms, he opened the door to face a buttoned-down, middle-aged woman with her hair in a bun and the facial expression of a post office clerk at one minute before closing time.

Carter Williston?

Yes, ma’am.

I have a job offer. It is a starting grade of GS-5, base pay about five thousand a year with a bonus provision. You’ll need to sign seven places, once for each tab.

Please, come in.

She looked him up and down, made a skeptical face, and brushed by to sit at the Formica kitchen table. There, she spread her paperwork before her and unscrewed a fountain pen, which she laid carefully on top of the stack. She made eye contact and sniffed as Carter sat across from her, still bare-chested and scruffy.

One legal signature at each tab.

Okay, not a big conversationalist. He signed each form in turn, and she silently took them one-by-one. Don’t I get a copy?

She shrank back as though that was a really strange request and, with a simple, No, she gathered her papers and was gone.

Carter scowled and spoke loudly into the vacant room. Nice meeting you and, oh, by the way, when and where do I report, and what the hell is my job?

The room did not answer.

He shrugged and began brewing another cup of coffee just as the phone rang. Carter didn’t have time to say hello before a deep voice said, We have a passport for you. Report to the reception desk at the Fort Meade NSA building. You know where it is. You will also receive a bus ticket and a personal backstory. You need to memorize it all before you go overseas. Welcome aboard, Carter. It’s going to be a wild ride. Click.

Carter yelled, Wait, overseas, wild ride, what the hell…

The line was dead. He took a really deep breath. Overseas? Better wear shoes and pants.

In the World of Spies

Carter dressed in jeans and T-shirt. He was just going to pick up paperwork, after all. He did know the NSA building, a monolith with no identifying signs, or markings. The National Security Agency complex looked like an ancient fortification set in a multi-acre field. Several stories high, square and featureless, it loomed almost like a modern-day pyramid.

He drove to the outermost sentry post of the outermost chain link and barbed wire fence around the compound.

The sentry who stepped out of his little guard shack wore a neat khaki uniform with a white Sam Brown belt and shiny chrome helmet. His boots were spit-polished. He bent to scan the interior of Carter’s car and then made a curt demand. ID card and badge.

Carter was unsure. I…I don’t have any. I’m actually here to pick them up. Carter Williston; I’m sure I’m on your list, or something.

The sentry stepped back and pointed. Park in that visitor spot and remain in your car. He kept eye contact as he extended his arm and index finger in that direction.

Carter parked and shut off his engine and waited. Cars passed in and out of the gate. The guard saluted each and waved it on. Fifteen minutes, twenty, how long should he sit?

After thirty minutes, he decided to take some action, to do something. He opened his door, stood, and stretched.

The guard went into a slight crouch, put a hand on his holstered pistol, and shouted, Freeze. I told you to stay in the car. Now, raise your hands, slowly.

Carter shrugged. Seriously, thirty minutes. How long does it take to check your log, or whatever? If you don’t have any information on me, call whoever does. This is a waste…

Hands up. The guard sounded serious now, maybe even nervous. Carter saw that he had unsnapped his holster.

C’mon, I’m no threat. I’m just a new-hire guy here to pick up my badge. So, relax and make the call, okay. Let’s not waste each other’s time.

Another voice sounded, this one behind Carter. It’s okay, Sergeant Collins, he’s on the list.

The guard stepped back, still frowning, still with his hand on his gun. His voice was as crisp as the crease in his pants.

You’re assuming responsibility, sir? I’m going to enter this into my log.

Yes, yes. I take full responsibility. So, you go ahead, Sergeant. Go fill out your log.

The newcomer was a beefy, slightly stooped man who wore an overcoat despite the mild day. He seemed almost jovial as he approached and thrust out a hand. That hand was missing a little finger. Carter Williston, John Wentworth, Operations Management. Sorry to keep you waiting. He smiled. It was a test you know, to see how long you’d sit there.

Carter chuckled. So, did I pass?

Yes, I suppose so. Why don’t you come inside for a cup of coffee and a chat? He turned and limped away.

Carter shot a parting glance at the guard and made a face worthy of a teenaged girl.

The sentry returned an equally immature sneer.

Inside turned out to be an austere hallway with no pictures, no door markings, and no people. It had a prison-like feel. Mister Wentworth opened a door to an equally austere room with two metal chairs and a metal table. He hummed as he walked.

Wentworth sat with some effort, as though he had some sort of injury, or disability. He still wore the overcoat. After a deep breath, the big man began. Carter, we’ve got a different assignment for you than the one you were originally hired to fill.

Well, sir, since I had no idea what that original job was, I can’t be too concerned.

Yes, well, the good news is you get to keep your birth name and your actual life story. That’s unusual but, then, the job you have been assigned is unusual, even for us in the agency. You have a brand-new passport that has stamps from your visits to several European countries and visas for a couple of more in Asia.

Wentworth looked up with a smile. It seems you’ve been quite a traveler. And there’s your plane ticket to Bangkok, along with instructions for further travel on to Udorn Royal Thai Airbase. You have a contractor ID card that allows you to shop in the U.S. military base exchanges and to get a private dormitory room. Your office will be a trailer close to the base communications center at Udorn. Any questions?

Well, yeah. Why am I going to Thailand? What am I going to do there?

Ah, yes, fair questions. Well, you are aware that we have a major air war going on, and not just in South Vietnam. You’ll be working with a group dedicated to interdicting the Ho Chi Minh trail. That’s your job, interdicting their supplies.

"Um, I am supposed to interdict a North Vietnamese Army? Okay, and how exactly will I do that?"

Wentworth smiled. Oh, the guys there will explain it all.

Sir, you are aware that I have no military background.

Wentworth shrugged. So?

Baltimore to Bangkok

Carter went back to his apartment, popped open a beer, and sat at the Formica table to sort through the manila envelope Wentworth gave him. It had a bunch of stuff, a copy of his birth certificate and social security card, an international driver’s license, two clip-on CIA badges complete with pictures. How in hell did they get pictures and enough information to make out a driver’s license? How did they even know he’d take the job? There were lots of papers, several official-looking letters, a bus ticket to the Baltimore National Airport, and tickets on a Pan American Airlines flight to Bangkok, Thailand, seriously, Bangkok ? He didn’t need the bus ticket.

There was a knock on the door, and Wentworth, the big man he met at the NSA building, stood outside. He simply said, You ready?

Right now? I haven’t had time to do anything, not even tell my parents where I’m going. They’ll be worried…

You can write them a letter. Your plane ticket is for today, and we need to rush if you’re to make it on time.

Okay, just let me pack up a few things and…

No, you can buy everything new. There’s plenty of money in your envelope and more in your new checking account, but we need you over there quickly; no time to waste. He made a smile, but only on one side of his face. Could it be a partial paralysis?

Carter tried to argue, but Wentworth was insistent. You were originally hired for a vacant position at a listening post in northern Greece, but the Thailand job is a much more urgent opening.

"Yes, you said Thailand. I know nothing about the country. What exactly will I do there?"

Wentworth made a little chuckle. Oh, yes, reasonable question. Your Pan Am flight will take you to all the way to Bangkok, with changes at San Francisco, Hawaii, and Manila. When you arrive at Don Muong Airport in Bangkok, find the military assistance booth, and they will explain how to get the Klong to Udorn Royal Thai Air Base in the northeast of the country.

And then?

Oh, there’s too much to explain.

With a shrug, the new-hire college boy took his thick envelope, left his worldly possessions, such as they were, and followed the lumbering CIA man for a ride to the airport. The big guy was still wearing the bulky overcoat despite the springtime warmth.

Wentworth talked constantly as he drove, a stream-of-consciousness monologue that left no opportunity for questions. In your packet are documents, a list of contact numbers, and several bundles of money. There’s a thousand U.S. dollars of different denominations, and about six thousand Thai baht; the exchange rate is twenty to one. Basically, that’s a nickel a baht. That should be enough to cover you for a while.

Carter interrupted, "Okay, great, but what is this Klong thing that’s supposed to get me to, what did you call the place, Ow darn?"

The Klong? Yes. That’s a daily shuttle plane that hits all the air bases in Thailand, including Udorn – that’s ‘You-dorn,’ rhymes with ‘newborn.’ That’s how it’s pronounced.

Wentworth chuckled. Your ticket on Pan Am is first class. The Klong is a C-130 cargo plane, better suited to hauling livestock, which it sometimes does. You’ll get used to the smells. Thailand is an aromatic land; animals, spices, charcoal fires, incense, and sweat. Everybody sweats all the time. The big man made what might have been a nostalgic smile.

So, I’d guess you’ve been to Thailand?

Spent years there, but Laos was my primary stomping ground. You’ll get to know Laos well. Your job will be to run the air war in Laos.

An air war going on in Laos; I thought the fighting was in Vietnam?

Good. That’s what the American people are supposed to think, that President Johnson just has us over here in Thailand helping our allies; you know, good will, and all that. That’s why we call it our little ‘secret war.’ It’s really not that much of a secret except, of course, from the American public.

Carter thought that over before asking. So, who are we fighting, and why is it secret?

Wentworth shrugged under his overcoat. Well, we’re fighting the North Vietnamese in Laos, and it’s secret because, for our military, just being there is illegal as all hell. Congress has never authorized any of it, but we have six air bases in Thailand with hundreds of American bombers daily pounding the crap out of the Ho Chi Minh Trail that runs through Laos. That’ll be your job, scheduling those missions.

But I don’t know anything about scheduling military…

Wentworth shrugged. So, learn. Make it up as you go. There are three guys there who will show you the ropes. It’s a fantastic place; you’re going to love it. You’ll probably wind up wanting to stay.

Carter sucked in a breath. A fantastic place that we are bombing the hell out of?

Wentworth laughed long and deep. Carter, we checked you out. When we lost Johnson, your name was the first to pop up. We know you, know what makes you tick, what makes your blood run. You’re gonna love this.

"What do you mean, when you lost Johnson?"

Unfortunate accident. Ah, here we are, the airport departure area. Well, welcome aboard. This will be the adventure of a lifetime. Wentworth dropped Carter and his single bag off at the curb and then pulled away with a cheery farewell wave.

Carter Williston stood for a long minute, just taking stock. He felt alone, very much alone. His old life had just evaporated, no great loss. His new life was a mystery, a crazy, wild mystery. He had never been out of the country before and, now, Thailand and working with the military? His college classmates were all anti-war protestors or, at minimum, sympathizers.

He stood there on the airport sidewalk curb, and it seemed like the edge of the earth. He, like Alice, was about to take that step into the rabbit hole, embarking on a voyage into a strange new world, one he expected to be frightening and weird and who knew what else.

Deep breath. He picked up his CIA-supplied valise full of money and documents and took that first step.

Thailand, the Land of the Smile

The flight was good, even enjoyable. He had only flown three times before, and then it had been cattle car, never first class. The stewardesses were attentive, constantly checking on him and serving non-stop Old Milwaukee beers. Luckily, the first-class bathroom was close.

After more than twenty-four hours and three plane changes, he arrived at Don Muong airport in the dark of night.

Wentworth was right. Thailand was an aromatic country, and all the smells were new to him. Well, all the smells except his own. He needed a shower but, first, he had to find the military assistance desk and schedule his ride on the Klong.

The very polite lady at the desk told Carter he was too late to catch the daily Klong flight. She recommended he spend the night at the First Hotel and get some sleep after his marathon flight. He had no idea what time it was in Bangkok, just that it was dark.

Outside the terminal, he was confronted by a mob of shouting cab drivers vying for his business. They waved and yelled, part English, part whiny-sounding Thai, Heh, G.I., good cab, good price for you.

He chose one and they headed off through darkened streets jammed with other cabs, rickshaw-like bicycles, and three-wheeled motorized vehicles that cut through masses of brightly dressed Thai pedestrians, late-night shoppers, who surged along the narrow lanes.

Shop keepers and street vendors sold directly from stores, carts, temporary stalls, and even long, narrow boats moored in the canals alongside the road. The endless market was lit by paper globe lanterns with candles inside. Occasional electric lights dangled from overhead wires. Everywhere, sellers shouted, waved, and held up their wares enthusiastically, aggressively promoting their goods.

Carter leaned forward from the back seat. Why are so many people shopping so late?

The cabbie seemed to find that a strange question. When sun high, too hot for walking around. Much better, you wait ‘til dark.

Eventually, the cab wound up at a very Western-looking, high-rise hotel. The driver turned and held out a hand as he grinned and announced, Two hundred baht.

For the half-hour long ride?

After a heated discussion, they settled on fifty.

Inside the lobby, Carter felt he had been teleported from the street mob scene into an entirely different universe. After the chaotic masses of urban shoppers and shouting vendors on overcrowded streets, this was a quiet, carpeted palace. Classical music floated among the potted palms. The feeling was serene, luxurious.

Uniformed porters scurried silently between marble columns and plush furniture. Clerks at the front desk were stiff, but polite, in their immaculate uniforms. The entire staff had excellent posture, pleasant smiles, and a deferential crispness.

The lady who checked him in asked for identification, and Carter produced his new military contractor badge. She looked at it for a moment, conferred with the older man working the desk, and finally made a slight bow to the man before returning to Carter.

Mister Weeleyson, you are GS-5 It wasn’t a question. You have a very nice room on third floor. She turned to a waiting porter and handed him a key, along with a string of instructions in Thai. The porter wore a short double-breasted, brass-buttoned waist coat and pillbox hat right out of a 1930s movie. He bowed repeatedly.

The man tried to take Carter’s small satchel, the one full of money, but gave up after a brief tug of war and settled for a follow me wave.

After a quick elevator ride, they arrived at the third floor. Carter suspected important people stayed on higher levels. The room was large, Western-looking, but sparsely furnished. There was a faint smell of teakwood, incense, and disinfectant. It didn’t matter. Carter was so tired after his marathon flight he would have slept on a rock. He debated the tip and settled on five baht.