pursue the enemy with an intensity
befitting the best Special Forces troops. They walked a bit prouder because
they knew they bore a heavier load. Twice, their platoon, leading the company
as usual, wasn’t ambushed because of their intensity and alertness. Instead,
the Vietcong had ambushed trailing platoons that were walking and talking, some
even wearing headphones.
Eventually,
soldiers were requesting transfers to Whitaker’s platoon. The platoon had
earned the much-deserved reputation as the best platoon in the battalion, and
if you were a draftee who wanted to do some good and come home safe, you
wanted to be with Whitaker.
Whitaker
flourished. He fought the war with such intensity that before long, he went
from a platoon with twenty-three men to a company with more than a hundred men.
He returned to America after his tour was up, but ultimately, Whitaker missed Vietnam
and couldn’t handle the hippies.
Frustrated,
he returned. He worked in Saigon in intelligence. He re-enlisted and extended
his time and finally got to fill in as a battalion commander while only a Major.
The
power was incredibly addictive though Whitaker was only battalion commander for
three weeks. Seeing there were few opportunities for command and knowing he was
not cut out to wait to earn lieutenant colonel and command a battalion,
Whitaker sought other opportunities.
He
eventually finagled his way to working intel directly for Ranger teams, Long
Range Recon Patrol squads, and even a few CIA teams operating in Cambodia and
North Vietnam. He left the Army shortly thereafter and entered the shadows,
working for the CIA. And he had been in the shadows ever since.
“Alright,
people,” Whitaker said, finally stopping his ambling. He stood at the head of
the conference table since he never sat when he was in this kind of mood. His tall
figure helped remind them of the chain of command, which way it went, and
exactly where his position on it was.
All
thirty-one of his undercover people were in the room, and his three eight-man
strike teams were present as well. All wore civilian clothes, but they were
packing heat under coats, in briefcases, and in ankle holsters.
Looking
around the room at his people, he announced, “We are changing plans. Forget the
restaurants and the gas stations. Start checking out cheap motels. Also, start
pulling badges and drop the you-are-looking-for-your-friend story. We’re pulling
out all of the stops on this one.”
His
troops listened and tried to hide the concern. Whitaker’s change of plans
concerned them. None of them wanted to find Nick Woods alone. And they knew they
couldn’t call for back up with every possible confirmation made by some motel
manager. One of them would inevitably knock on some door and a very dangerous,
super paranoid man would answer.
Whitaker
understood this. Even knew this, but was willing to lose an agent to locate
Nick. Once he was located, Whitaker’s strike teams could move in, and they
would take him down. And if they couldn’t get there fast enough, the local law
enforcement could cordon off the area. They’d finally kill him though it mist
cost them some men.
Nonetheless,
it was a win-win situation as far as Whitaker was concerned. National security
trumped concerns for his people and local law enforcement.
It
was no different than taking a hill as he had done many times back in the Army.
You knew you would lose a few soldiers, but you took the hill. Holding a hill allowed
you to dominate terrain, and dominating terrain allowed you to win a war.
Killing
Nick Woods was a national priority because he was a threat to one of the
greatest, most effective operational units the CIA had ever created.
Chapter
25
Nick
Woods had been busy.
He
spent the day going through the classifieds of the local weekly paper, The
Oak Ridge Observer .
He
had found a car to buy, as well as a used rifle. Nick had made phone calls
about likely vehicles, narrowed it down to three,
befitting the best Special Forces troops. They walked a bit prouder because
they knew they bore a heavier load. Twice, their platoon, leading the company
as usual, wasn’t ambushed because of their intensity and alertness. Instead,
the Vietcong had ambushed trailing platoons that were walking and talking, some
even wearing headphones.
Eventually,
soldiers were requesting transfers to Whitaker’s platoon. The platoon had
earned the much-deserved reputation as the best platoon in the battalion, and
if you were a draftee who wanted to do some good and come home safe, you
wanted to be with Whitaker.
Whitaker
flourished. He fought the war with such intensity that before long, he went
from a platoon with twenty-three men to a company with more than a hundred men.
He returned to America after his tour was up, but ultimately, Whitaker missed Vietnam
and couldn’t handle the hippies.
Frustrated,
he returned. He worked in Saigon in intelligence. He re-enlisted and extended
his time and finally got to fill in as a battalion commander while only a Major.
The
power was incredibly addictive though Whitaker was only battalion commander for
three weeks. Seeing there were few opportunities for command and knowing he was
not cut out to wait to earn lieutenant colonel and command a battalion,
Whitaker sought other opportunities.
He
eventually finagled his way to working intel directly for Ranger teams, Long
Range Recon Patrol squads, and even a few CIA teams operating in Cambodia and
North Vietnam. He left the Army shortly thereafter and entered the shadows,
working for the CIA. And he had been in the shadows ever since.
“Alright,
people,” Whitaker said, finally stopping his ambling. He stood at the head of
the conference table since he never sat when he was in this kind of mood. His tall
figure helped remind them of the chain of command, which way it went, and
exactly where his position on it was.
All
thirty-one of his undercover people were in the room, and his three eight-man
strike teams were present as well. All wore civilian clothes, but they were
packing heat under coats, in briefcases, and in ankle holsters.
Looking
around the room at his people, he announced, “We are changing plans. Forget the
restaurants and the gas stations. Start checking out cheap motels. Also, start
pulling badges and drop the you-are-looking-for-your-friend story. We’re pulling
out all of the stops on this one.”
His
troops listened and tried to hide the concern. Whitaker’s change of plans
concerned them. None of them wanted to find Nick Woods alone. And they knew they
couldn’t call for back up with every possible confirmation made by some motel
manager. One of them would inevitably knock on some door and a very dangerous,
super paranoid man would answer.
Whitaker
understood this. Even knew this, but was willing to lose an agent to locate
Nick. Once he was located, Whitaker’s strike teams could move in, and they
would take him down. And if they couldn’t get there fast enough, the local law
enforcement could cordon off the area. They’d finally kill him though it mist
cost them some men.
Nonetheless,
it was a win-win situation as far as Whitaker was concerned. National security
trumped concerns for his people and local law enforcement.
It
was no different than taking a hill as he had done many times back in the Army.
You knew you would lose a few soldiers, but you took the hill. Holding a hill allowed
you to dominate terrain, and dominating terrain allowed you to win a war.
Killing
Nick Woods was a national priority because he was a threat to one of the
greatest, most effective operational units the CIA had ever created.
Chapter
25
Nick
Woods had been busy.
He
spent the day going through the classifieds of the local weekly paper, The
Oak Ridge Observer .
He
had found a car to buy, as well as a used rifle. Nick had made phone calls
about likely vehicles, narrowed it down to three,
Similar Books
