The
members of the CIA commando squad "Spooky 8" have the high tech
gadgets. They have guns, and are willing to use them. They mutter bon
mots (generally obscene) before pulling the trigger. And they’ll
drink a glass full of puke on a bar room bet.
Think James Bond, hillbilly style.
Bob King, the jowlly, middle-aged author pictured on the
jacket of Spooky 8: The Final Mission, claims to have lead this
team of ex-military commandos on numerous missions, primarily in Central
and South America, between 1975 and 1992. He is fairly convincing. The
book is written in what could best be called acronym realism, with an
alpha-numeric code for each procedure and piece of equipment, and in a
style that does not betray a tremendous amount of imagination. ("The
sun rose as it always did: hot," King writes of a Cambodian sunrise.)
It’s part of the book’s charm.
The plot of Spooky 8 resembles half the spy
novels in print. King’s team is ambushed and betrayed, leaving the
remaining members scrambling for safety, looking for moles and plotting
their revenge. What raises King’s story above slicker paperbacks on the
dimestore rack is his claim to be telling the truth. When King describes
sinking a knife into the neck of a hapless Nicaraguan border guard, the
reader’s flinch is more profound than when Agent 007 machine guns a
whole platoon of communist soldiers. And Spooky 8 is a page-turner.
The jacket copy on my edition suggests how
"shocking" it is that the government double-crossed King and his
men, plotting their anonymous deaths. Perhaps, but it’s hard to feel too
sympathetic for a guy who kills as indiscriminately as King said he did.
The men of Spooky 8 have an interesting story, but you still wouldn’t
want to invite them home for dinner.
--Stephen Siff 1/19/00
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