The Deep State

by Jason Chaffetz

  We took off from Stuttgart on a beautiful sunny day and headed out over the Alps. Within a fairly short amount of time, we were off the coast of Libya. The flight itself is less than two hours—highlighting the proximity Tripoli had to Europe. The fact is that Libya is not at the end of the world. It was a couple hours’ flight from where we had major military assets. And yet . . .

  In a short amount of time we were cleared to land in Tripoli, after flying over the coast and then the capital city.

  I remembered thinking, as we were landing, that as a young man in 1986 driving from Utah to Arizona, I listened to coverage of President Ronald Reagan’s decision to bomb Tripoli in an effort to kill Muammar Qaddafi, or at least get him in line. Qaddafi was funding and participating in terrorism around the world and Qaddafi’s antics were a direct threat to the United States of America. In my Honda CRX, I could listen late at night to KNX Radio out of Los Angeles and then a Phoenix radio station for hours when the radio announcer was sharing the details of this attack. It still bothers me to this day that France would not allow our military to fly over France. France made our jets fly around the country on their way to bomb Libya.

  Listening to the radio account of the attack and the subsequent pictures from Libya had painted a picture in my mind. It was a land far away, with camels, sand, tents, dictators, and oil making them all cash rich.

  Now here I was flying with the four-star general over a country that had been ravaged by war and smothered in sand. The ocean water was a brilliant, beautiful blue, and on the edge of the beaches were numerous oil facilities and homes with a smattering of multistory buildings. In the distance, the sand stretched as far as the eye could see. Obviously, this was a poor, third-world country.

  We landed smoothly on a warm, hot, sunlit day without a cloud in the sky. With the dry desert breeze, I felt like I was back in Yuma, Arizona. The plane taxied near the main airport terminal, where there were a lot of people waiting for us. There was a convoy of fortified Chevy Suburbans and our site security team, including more than a dozen armed guards contracted by the government to protect the general and me. These were Americans who had previous military experience. They knew how to wield a gun and had been highly trained. My eyes and ears were on high alert as I was continually aware of the danger and also doing my best to memorize the details of everything I was seeing.

  The local Libyans were also there to welcome us. The door of the plane went down and General Ham went first to greet his Libyan counterpart. They knew each other from previous interactions and were joyfully hugging, as they had known each other for years.

  General Ham oversaw Odyssey Dawn, the military offensive the United States carried out in conjunction with our allies to displace Qaddafi. No Americans died in the offensive, which we are all grateful for, but the way we did it still bothers me.

  At the time, Libya was not a “clear and present danger” to the United States of America. Under those circumstances, a president, in this case President Obama, should have gone to Congress seeking a declaration of war. It didn’t happen.

  Nevertheless, as I stood up to step out of the plane, I kept thinking to myself, Please don’t let there be a sniper, please don’t let there be a sniper. I exited the plane and shook the hands of the local Libyans, then the lead of our protection team hurried me into the Suburban in the second row.

  I have been in a lot of convoys but nothing like this. Leaving the airport in Tripoli I found there is no rhyme or reason to its parking. You could barely scoot out between cars. In fact, we were pushing other cars out of the way with our front fender in order to progress. Once we got out of the airport and onto the main highway, I was subjected to the wildest ride I’ve ever experienced. At high rates of speed, we were zigzagging all over the highway, pushing other cars out of the way that were not compliant in yielding the proper space. And I mean literally knocking cars aside.

  At one point we took an exit, flipped a U-turn, went back around, and then whipped through some local neighborhood at an amazing speed. It was all necessary, unfortunately, and done to protect all of us. We were being followed. I noticed people in cars behind us trying to record our movement with video cameras. I had no idea who they were or why they were following us.

  The farther we drove the more it seemed like we were going the wrong way. We were getting into a more and more rural setting. As we traveled down a dirt road, there was the initial checkpoint for the embassy. The United States had lost its embassy during our bombing campaign. Back then it was located downtown, in proximity to local government buildings. Now the embassy was in a rural setting. The United States had rented a compound of homes in between Tripoli and the airport.

  Despite popular belief, the outsides of embassies are guarded by locals and not United States Marines. In the wake of the 2012 Benghazi attack, this policy changed for certain embassies, but not across the board.

  One of the more disturbing sights that day was a Libyan guard handling his weapon with sloppy movements as we approached the embassy. His obvious lack of training was not just embarrassing, but dangerous. They waved us through and we drove in to be greeted by the local embassy staff. After exchanging pleasantries, we sat in the equivalent of a large living room, where I got to speak with a good portion of the embassy staff.

  Just weeks ago, their friends had been killed. I’ve had lots of meetings with government employees through the years, but I’d never experienced anything like this. Serving in a post away from their families, having gone through their horrifying attack, they had not been allowed to go home. I sat there for more than an hour and listened to their stories and shared our concern and love from all of us in the United States. Among them was Deputy Chief of Mission Gregory Hicks, an experienced diplomat who was in charge now that Ambassador Stevens had been murdered. It was an emotional time for Hicks and everyone in the room. Nevertheless, they bravely shared their stories and perspectives. It was hard for them to understand how America perceived what they had gone through. They wanted to be home with their families and loved ones, but the State Department was making them stay in place. It was an emotional meeting, and I came to deeply understand the grief and difficulty they were going through. After this meeting, they gave me a tour of the facility.

  I had pushed to spend the night at the embassy. I was fighting back on the notion that it wasn’t safe. After I toured the grounds, I couldn’t believe we were letting anybody stay there.

  The embassy had low walls and lacked the fortifications typically found at embassies around the world. Later we would come to learn there had been untold dozens—if not hundreds—of exemptions granted by the State Department to the normal security protocols. This would become the focus of a key hearing with the under secretary for management, Ambassador Patrick Kennedy, and Deputy Secretary of State Charlene Lamb.

  Jeremy Freeman, whom I now referred to as the State Department spy, was in tow and within earshot every step of the way. Yet when we met with the Marines, things were different.

  I was invited to join a Marine by climbing a ladder to the highest point of the embassy. The Marines had surrounded it with sandbags and a large-caliber gun. They could view 360 degrees and watch for pending attacks. Atop this location, it was just me and the seniormost Marine.

  He was frustrated that he and his men were put in this vulnerable situation. The compound walls were not nearly high enough, the barbed wire was insufficient, the cameras and motion sensors were incomplete, and there were trees in the way obstructing their view of potential incoming attacks. Even in Tripoli, they had very few strategic positions to engage an enemy.

  To the south of the compound, he pointed out a home that was adjacent to the embassy. On the embassy side of the wall there was a large pile of who-knows-what that was about as tall as the wall itself. He told me that on the day they arrived, there was a ladder propped up outside against the embassy wall. Each day the family at the adjacent home would climb the ladder and dump their garbage into the embassy
grounds. I could imagine the pungent odor that would emanate from that garbage heap on a hot summer day in the desert.

  The Marine told me the story of how he sent some Marines over there with their weapons to explain that if anything came on our side of the wall, he would have no other options but to shoot them. It truly is amazing our embassy personnel were so politically correct that, before these Marines arrived, they would allow locals to dump their garbage on our embassy grounds. This pile had grown to nearly six feet high and was a total embarrassment.

  The embassy did not have sufficient medical supplies, either. It was ill prepared to deal with a rocket attack or large numbers of people attempting to come over the wall. There was not nearly enough secure space in case of an attack. The entire place was a major vulnerability, and this was the new embassy. Marines were exceptionally frustrated and concerned about the vulnerability. The more I learned, the angrier I became.

  On the night of the Benghazi attack, a Marine Fleet Antiterrorism Security Team (FAST) was mobilized to make their way not to Benghazi but to Tripoli. As the Select Committee on Benghazi concluded, there was not a single human asset outside of Libya that was ordered to go to Benghazi and help save Americans under attack.

  The Marine FAST Team . . . wasn’t.

  They did not adequately meet the goals set forward to mobilize in a timely way to secure a vulnerable embassy. One of the reasons they were delayed was a dispute between the State Department and the Department of Defense. As the Marines were preparing to deploy, word came from State that they were not to wear their standard military gear. They were instructed to move into their civilian clothes.

  What? The State Department was concerned with clothes? Or did the department not want it to appear that Marines, American military personnel, were being deployed to protect a consulate under attack?

  This came as a great frustration to the military, who have military uniforms for a reason. Not only are they needed to tell who’s who, but they’re needed to carry their gear, communications equipment, and other supplies. Yet in a vulnerable situation, where hostilities were likely to break out, the State Department was taking the lead in deciding what our military should be wearing. This stunning decision became a major source of frustration for those who had to go to Tripoli that night.

  As few know, after the fight in Benghazi had started, the Tripoli embassy was evacuated. Later the embassy personnel would return to the building I was now visiting. It wasn’t safe then, and it wasn’t safe while I was there.

  As I toured the compound, it became increasingly evident that the bureaucracy in Washington, D.C., had made decisions in the name of expediency that put our men and women in an unacceptably vulnerable position. They knew it. I knew it. With a very real possibility the embassy in Tripoli was going to come under attack, these people would be sitting ducks. There wasn’t much our personnel could do to defend themselves, even with Marines. The physical barriers protecting that embassy were poor and inadequate in relation to the potential threat.

  Instead of taking notes about the security vulnerabilities or showing concern for corners his agency had so obviously cut, Jeremy the spy from the State Department was tenaciously documenting what I saw and what was said to me.

  After lunch I was given an opportunity to have a very highly classified briefing from the seniormost U.S. person in Libya.

  The room for this meeting is deeply fortified, with exceptional control mechanisms limiting access to very few people. It is essentially a box, inside a compound, that is highly secure and impenetrable to electronic surveillance. It was a rustic and small space meant for high-level discussions of intelligence. Maps covered the walls and electronics were strictly forbidden inside the room. I had been in several of these through my travels, and you get a sense you’re locked off from the rest of the world. The walls were white and yet the room was well worn. My staff person brought in a bottle of water, and the briefing was going to begin. I met the seniormost U.S. person and behind him Jeremy Freeman tried to join us.

  Outmaneuvering the Deep State

  In retrospect, our luckiest break in Libya was the opportunity to capitalize on a critical State Department mistake.

  My staff person made it clear that I was to get the highest-level briefing possible, one that required the most secret clearance. I chimed in and insisted nothing be held back. I traveled from the United States, I was the chairman of the Subcommittee on National Security, four of America’s best had been murdered in a terrorist attack roughly three weeks ago, and I wanted to know every detail I possibly could.

  Freeman was asked verbally what level of security clearance he held. This was compared to the paperwork submitted in advance. While he had a security clearance, he didn’t have a high enough clearance for a discussion at the security level we had come to receive. It wasn’t my decision. It wasn’t the decision of the person giving the briefing. It was the fact he didn’t have the right clearance for this meeting.

  Well, our blond-haired spy became irate. He began raising his voice, insisting and insisting again that he be allowed in the meeting. He told us that the top people in the State Department required he be in all discussions! This led to ten minutes of back-and-forth debate and argument about the reality of a security clearance. In a fit, he finally left the room and insisted that we not begin the discussion until he returned. That was a ridiculous request. My time there was limited, and I wasn’t going to wait for the State Department to clear up some paperwork so they could listen in to what I was hearing. I was conducting an investigation.

  Upon his return to the room, Freeman was more worked up than ever, insisting that we not have the briefing and demanding that his presence be granted. There was no possible way I was going to limit the information I could receive so that this guy could join the conversation when his only goal was to provide a report back to the seventh floor of the State Department.

  It was extremely disruptive, and it slowed us down. We finally closed the door. I got the briefing and learned a lot. I wish I could share every bit of it with you but obviously it was highly classified. Most of it came out publicly; some critical components did not.

  So here was the Deep State in action. About ten to fifteen minutes later there was a pounding at the door. We stopped the briefing to find Freeman demanding the briefer take a call from Cheryl Mills. A lawyer, she was the chief of staff to Secretary Clinton and one of the secretary’s most trusted advisors. Cheryl Mills is legendary as Hillary Clinton’s enforcer. Her tenure goes all the way back to 1999, when she defended President Bill Clinton during impeachment.

  She was being called in the wee hours of the morning in Washington, D.C., to inform her of what was happening! Nobody I’ve ever spoken with has ever had such an experience. They evidently had a lengthy discussion because it took a long time for the briefer to return.

  There was absolutely no reason for Jeremy Freeman to join us in this briefing, quite aside from him not having the proper security credentials. Congress has the duty and obligation to investigate matters in an unfettered manner. I was in Libya, and the State Department was trying to interfere. Their actions were meant to intimidate, suppress, and affect what I was hearing and seeing. His presence was making it exceptionally difficult for those on the ground to speak with candor, confidence, and clarity. As if it weren’t enough that Congress was poking around, here was a young but senior bureaucrat from the agency they work for taking notes about what they were saying.

  For example, I was trying as we toured the grounds of the compound to get the regional security officer (RSO) to share insight into what was happening. He whispered back that he was in no position to talk with other people around and it made him nervous that I would even stand close to him. I slid him my business card with my personal mobile phone and email address on it, hoping he would contact me at some point. Later we tried to bring him in for a transcribed interview in Washington, D.C., but he had some sort of breakdown and was unable to testify. We did no
t make a public note of this at the time, but it does show the severity of the pressure.

  I thought there was contention before that meeting, but now the minder was enraged. We continued the tour and discussion until we needed to move to the airport.

  As we swiftly darted out of the embassy and toward the airport, there were a few cars outside with people taking video of our convoy. This highly concerned our security detail and we drove as fast as we possibly could to the airport in the same dramatic fashion that brought us there. We boarded the plane and safely took off toward Germany.

  As a side note, as we approached the German airspace it was now dark. Near approach, the plane had slowed and was circling when the pilot came back to tell us they were having problems with the landing gear.

  Here we had a four-star general and a member of Congress on a plane trying to approach, and the landing gear wasn’t going down into a locked position. Every emergency vehicle you could possibly imagine was lining the runway when the pilot said he had to take a chance and try to land the plane. They could not get confirmation that the landing gear had fully locked and there was a fear that when the wheel hit the runway, the gear would fold back up into the plane. General Ham said he had never been involved in such a thing and neither had I. I’ve traveled a few million miles in airplanes and I’d never been through that. Whew. All was well.

  Getting the Backstory

  Upon returning from Libya, I knew we weren’t finished digging. But our efforts to get the whole story were met by a sluggish bureaucratic response—a classic Deep State tactic.