Support Our Boys in Nicaragua

Me? Sweet, quiet Jeffrey Coates? Attack Desi Arnaz with a rolled-up copy of Soldier of Fortune magazine? Man, I was the last guy in the world that you'd figure for that kind of psycho scene--before I went to Nick, that is. Hey, pre-Nick, I used, to watch "I Love Lucy" all the time. Ricky Ricardo was my hero. But after I came home from my tour of Nick, my whole take on Desi started changing. One afternoon, for absolutely no reason, I set fire to my bongos.... Every time I heard a mambo, I'd break out in a cold sweat. I didn't realize in my, like, conscious mind how much Desi reminded me of that 'raguan lieutenant that captured me.... But then, one night, I'm walking down 57th Street in N.Y.C., right, givin' all the rich folks my jungle-warfare stare, and suddenly I'm eye-locked with old Desi himself. But, like, he wasn't Desi anymore--he was that Sandy lieutenant crouchin' down in the brambles! And I just went into total Nick flashback.... It's been a tough recovery. Both Desi and Lucy have come to visit me in the rehab center--separately, natch--and that's a class move on their part. But what about my buddies out there on the street? They're walking time bombs, man! They could freak any time and start dynamiting Mexican restaurants or whatever.... And what about the boys who'll be shipped down there by the boatload? What about the ones who won't come back?"

--Jeffrey Lee Coates, Nicaragua vet

Those are poignant questions that Jeff Coates asks from his cot in the CIA compound in Langley, Virginia. (Since the American presence in Nicaragua is still a covert one, we can't yet treat its veterans in V.A. hospitals.) The war in Vietnam ended 12 years ago, and we waited far too long to start helping those soldiers recover from their ordeal. Fortunately, word has come down from the President himself: Let's not make that same tragic mistake again. This time, let's not wait until thousands of (continued on page 196)Nicaragua(continued from page 94) our young men have suffered and died in vain before we pay tribute to their courage. Let's pay tribute before they suffer and die in vain--and, most important, while they're suffering and dying in vain.

So far, our casualties in Central America have been small--a few CIA operatives and some hard-core mercenaries, the guys whose T-shirts say kill 'em all--let God sort 'em out. And some observers feel that the Reagan Administration could never "sell" America on the idea of sending in ground troops. These skeptics point out that Americans disapprove of such action by more than three to one, according to the latest polls. But Playboy has obtained copies of a brilliant top-secret plan--code-named Operation Love Boat--for waging what Reagan media experts call "an upbeat war" in Central America. Operation Love Boat, according to this document, is a quasi-official project of the U.S. Government, and it's supposed to include Caspar Weinberger, several hundred students, Phyllis Diller, an anonymous California millionaire and a bunch of weary comedy writers. Sound complicated? It's just war politics, 1985 style.

Ever since Congress cut off some of the funding for the covert war in Nicaragua, members of the private sector have cheerfully taken up the slack. I was able to interview the anonymous California millionaire who is coordinating Operation Love Boat at his seaside ranch, and when I relayed Jeffrey Coates's questions to him, he halted his magnificent palomino for a moment and looked me straight in the eye.

"Everything we're doing is for the soldiers' benefit. We've learned from Vietnam." Breaking into a canter again--I rode along beside him--he shouted, "Op Love has three simple phases. Step one: Get the soldiers into Central America. Step two: Keep 'em smiling while they're down there. And step three: Bring 'em home just as happy as they can be. Support 'em every step of the way."

Later, over brunch, the tanned millionaire explained the Love Boat rationale. "See, last time, those soldiers suffered because Vietnam was an unpopular war." It's strange to call wars popular or unpopular, as if they were seniors at a ritzy high school. But in that context, the millionaire was right--Vietnam was the biggest pimple-face in class. Still, it's starting to look like a blond stud quarterback compared with Nicaragua. Even the millionaire admitted that "right now, folks just don't see why we ought to fight there." At that point, he offered me some foie gras and smiled. "Fortunately, work is already under way to popularize this war. And I like to think I helped out a little ... to the tune of several million bucks!"

After careful study of the Grenada invasion, this civic-minded millionaire--teaming up with TV experts and Government agencies--has taken step one of Operation Love Boat. Working in secret and using only contra labor, he has built an American medical college in the jungles of Nicaragua! Once the last piece of equipment--an electrocardiograph machine--is carted through the dense foliage, the Anastasio Somoza School of Medicine will be open for business. Positions are now available for the class of 1988. I asked the tanned benefactor what kind of student would risk going to college in the middle of a civil war.

"Rich kids who can't get into med school in America or Mexico or even Grenada," he said. "These med school kids will be our finest and bravest--but they may not be our smartest. Honor 'em and respect 'em," he said tearfully--adding, with a chuckle, "but don't let 'em operate on your spleen!"

Students will be airlifted directly to their dorms. Once enrolled, they will be placed in some kind of vague jeopardy from their Nicaraguan neighbors, but their brief sacrifice will be repaid handsomely: After the Armed Forces of America rescue them from menacing Sandinistas, both the students and the soldiers will be flown straight to the White House for an emotional chicken dinner. And then, according to the plan, the war's popularity will skyrocket--so that its veterans won't have to walk the streets of America feeling like they're wearing Argyle socks and Bermuda shorts. Jeff Coates and his buddies will be cool guys. From a cool war. Popular.

OK, I said--assuming for the moment that public opinion can be manipulated that easily, how will the Government support its soldiers while they're down there fighting a guerrilla war?

"Step two," the millionaire said, teeing off on his private nine-hole golf course. "Once our boys are down in Nick, you don't think ol' Ski-Nose will be too far behind, do ya?"

I'd thought Bob Hope was too old for another war, but I was proved wrong. In fact, one clear sign of stepped-up military planning came earlier this year, when Hope put his gag writers on round-the-clock shifts. Yes, it seems that America's favorite war-zone comic is gearing up for his final campaign, and I was allowed to read some top-secret comedy patter from an upcoming special, Bob Hope: On the Road to Managua, which co-stars Brooke Shields, Phyllis Diller, a bevy of Playmates and the great Jerry Colonna. According to the script, at one point, Hope gives the soldiers news of home: "Health clubs are big now. And you men thought Nautilus was just the name of a nuclear sub! But seriously.... I hear that you enlisted men have your own way of keeping slim down here--you drink the water! Speaking of being in good shape, how about that Brooke Shields, huh? Isn't she something? And speaking of ... something, how about that Phyllis Diller? Isn't she a gutsy dame? She offered to get secrets out of a Sandinista general by seducing him--but our top brass turned down the idea. They said it might be considered a war crime! But seriously...."

Seeing the wan smile on my face as I scanned the pages, the millionaire snatched the script from my hand. "Well, of course, you have to hear Bob say those lines--it's all in his timing...."

I tried to assure him that I fully appreciated the slow takes and sly pauses of ol' Ski-Nose, but I also pointed out that Hope's visits in and of themselves didn't keep our Vietnam vets from being traumatized. By this time, the millionaire was stalking away from me, moving quickly across the well-barbered lawn of his huge croquet field. I ran after him, but I could see that he was angry. "You know your problem?" he said. "You see only the negatives."

Now I was getting a little heated myself. "Wait a second!" I shouted as we crossed a Japanese footbridge, with the evening sun going down over the nearby San Rafael mountains. "War is famous for its negatives! What about the legacy of Vietnam--the battle fatigue, the drug abuse?"

The millionaire stopped and gazed into the distance, in the general direction of the Reagan ranch. "You're living in the past, my friend. Tell me something new. Tell me about a problem specific to this war, and maybe Op Love can solve it."

"Fine. How about Jeff Coates's going crazy and jumping Desi Arnaz? How about the soldiers who'll come back from the war with a deep hostility toward all Latin Americans?"

To my surprise, the millionaire squinted thoughtfully and nodded. "You know--you're right. I certainly hope that every veteran doesn't go around beating up aging bandleaders! Xavier Cugat is frail enough to begin with; he must not be made into a punching bag--a scapegoat for global conflicts!

"Make a note," he commanded, suddenly turning me into his assistant. "Arrange for a special concert at the White House--where Marine and grunt can mingle with Arnaz and Cugat; where a single cha-cha can heal the wounds of generations, and--"

"I think you're missing the point!" I shouted, and by the time my voice echoed back to me from the distant San Rafael mountains, I felt sure that our interview was over. But the tanned and white-haired gentleman just leaned close to me and whispered, "The point is whatever we choose to make it. The point is what people see on TV. Once you understand that, everything will start to become clear."

Unfortunately, it all stayed murky, but dinner was amazing. Over canapés, I asked him a long-shot question: What if American ground troops are not committed in Central America? What if we just keep on fighting the war through surrogates? Will that spell the end of Operation Love Boat?

"No way," he said. "With so much American cash flowing into local wars, we can truly say ... todos somos contras." (Actually, the way he said it, with three bourbons in him, it sounded like "Todd is an accountant"--but I knew what he meant.) "We're all in this war together. Some of us may not come back; but the ones who do--brother, watch out! That's step three of the operation. When those boys get off the plane and set foot back on U.S. soil, it's gonna be hats-and-horns-and-party-favors time!" He was rubbing his palms together in giddy anticipation, but then he went melancholy for a moment. "See, that's the one thing I hate about a CIA war," he said. "Where do you send the musicians?"

"Musicians?"

"Yeah. You know how the Vietnam vets were always bitter because when they came home from the war, there weren't any brass bands to greet them at the airport? Well, a bunch of CIA operatives flew back from 'ragua last week, and I sent a brass band to meet them--but nobody would tell those poor damn tuba players which plane to greet. So they just wandered around with their instruments from runway to runway, playing Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Old Oak Tree to all these confused businessmen. God bless that brass band, they went from tarmac to tarmac, looking for battle scars, hollow eyes--you know, some clue as to who the CIA men might be. But no luck. So I can't wait until it's official and we can play that heavy Sousa stuff to men in uniform. And the music is only the beginning."

I had to admire his generosity once he started describing the gifts that he and his fellow millionaires were going to lavish on Nicaragua veterans. "Remember what happened when the hostages came back from Iran? Merchants gave them free VCRs and complimentary hams and season tickets and what not? Well, we're gonna make the hostages' gifts look like chickenshit, and you can quote me!" He went on to catalog, in a rush of bourbon enthusiasm, all the presents he would offer the vets--appliances and clothes and health-club memberships, with bonuses according to the degree of their injuries. But the last gift he mentioned was the most generous--so generous that it should be given only to the generals and policy makers, the ones who really believe in this war: lifetime passes to Walt Disney World.

The brandy was so heady, the desserts so rich and silken, that I almost hesitated to ask my last question. What about the boys who don't come back, who'll never enjoy the year's free Jazzercise classes or the journey to Frontierland? What are you planning to do for them?

"Not enough," he said, lapsing into one last moment of sad reflection. "You can never do enough for them, can you? But I can tell you this. We've already started planning the war memorial. We're not gonna wait all those years, like they did after Vietnam--that was very bad. We've got to avoid that unseemly lag time between the deaths and the dedication ceremony." He looked me over carefully, as if seeing me for the first time, and apparently decided that I was trustworthy. "Come on. I want to show you something."

We entered a richly appointed library. A sheet of white Irish linen was draped over a billiards table, with some unrecognizable form lurking under it. With a gleam in his eye, the well-fed man squeezed every bit of drama from the moment. Finally, he gripped the edge of the linen sheet and said, "You want to see a memorial that's gonna knock your eyes out?" And with that, he pulled back the sheet to reveal a scale model of the sculpture--an enormous banana peel of polished bronze.

"Once the mourners take a good look at this," the millionaire promised, "they'll be glad we planned ahead."

" 'See, last time, those soldiers suffered because Vietnam was an unpopular war.' "