by Mike Maden
“I can probably find you an easier one roughnecking on an oil rig. I met a few guys today I can introduce you to.”
“Ha-ha, Madame President. Speaking of critics, Diele wants a meeting with you. Today, if at all possible.” Jeffers checked her calendar. “You’re free at two this afternoon, if you can stomach the idea.”
“What do you think he wants?”
Jeffers grinned. “Your job.”
“Speaking of which, where’s the vice president?”
“Probably sitting in your chair with his feet up on the Lincoln desk. You want to talk to him?”
“Not if I can avoid it.”
34
The White House, Washington, D.C.
Diele arrived at the Oval Office ten minutes late, his petty reminder to the president of his seniority in elected office. Myers had invited Dr. Strasburg and Mike Early to join them, along with the vice president.
The Senate Armed Services Committee chairman was clearly agitated that he wasn’t getting a private meeting with the president as he’d requested. Everybody took their seats on the sofas and chairs in front of Myers’s desk.
“To what do I owe the pleasure, Senator Diele?”
“First of all, congratulations on that oil rig speech. Great optics. I just wish you would’ve invited a few of your friends on the Hill to accompany you.”
By “friends,” Diele meant himself, of course. Screw everyone else. There were several big energy companies based out of his state and they stood to profit handsomely from Myers’s “Drill, baby, drill!” policy. So did Diele.
“Then let’s put together some comprehensive energy legislation and pass it, and I’ll give you all the optics you want, Gary, along with all of the credit, if that’s what it takes.”
“You misjudge me, Madame President. All I want is what’s best for the American people, which leads to the reason why I’ve asked for this meeting.”
Diele took a sip of coffee. Myers had taken the liberty to order it with heavy cream and three sugars, the way she knew Diele liked it. So did the White House steward. He’d been schlepping coffees for the rancid old legislator for years.
“And what have I done—or failed to do—that leads you to think the American national interest isn’t being served?”
“I believe I made my position clear the other day. We need a strong, forceful military response to the Houston attack, not a ‘law enforcement’ exercise. Have you seen the papers? Every op-ed page around the country is calling for some sort of military strike.”
“Gary’s right, Margaret. The nation is scared. A swift, surgical strike into Mexico and you’ll get a ‘rally-round-the-flag’ bump in the polls.” Greyhill had seen plenty of presidents use military action to bolster public approval when the opinion polls flagged.
“I’ve thought about it a lot, Gary. The Houston attack underscores the reality that the drug lords represent a strategic threat to the United States. My responsibility as president is to defend our borders against such attacks.”
Diele smiled. “We’re in agreement on that point, I assure you.”
“I’ve initiated a plan to seal the U.S.-Mexico border. The Department of Homeland Security is coordinating with the relevant federal law enforcement agencies, state governments, and the Pentagon to ensure that no undocumented person may enter the country, and no illegal drugs or weapons, either.”
“You’re aiming at the wrong target,” Greyhill insisted. “It isn’t the dishwashers and the pool cleaners who are threatening our way of life—”
“And I’m calling for the full enforcement of the immigration laws we currently have on the books, including fines, penalties, and jail time for those employers who are employing illegal aliens.”
She leaned forward in her chair.
“This isn’t just a terrorism issue, it’s a public-safety issue. Tens of thousands of illegal aliens fill our jails and prisons. Many of them are members of criminal gangs like the Bravos. One GAO report stated that illegal aliens committed over seven hundred thousand crimes in just one year, over eighty thousand of which were for violent offenses like murder, robbery, assault, and sex crimes. It’s estimated that between 1,800 and 2,500 Americans are killed by illegals every year, and too many of those who die are law enforcement officers. Many illegal immigrant criminals are repeat offenders and, worse, have been deported on multiple occasions. This will not continue during my administration.”
“But you can’t close the border. A billion dollars a day crosses over on twelve thousand trucks and railcars.” Diele’s voice rose a couple of octaves when he got excited. Many of his big donors relied on cheap illegal labor to run their enterprises at a profit. This new policy wouldn’t sit well with them at all.
“A lot of the problems we’re facing—human smuggling, drugs, guns—are coming in through those NAFTA trucks,” Early said.
Greyhill shook his head. “You’re biting the hand that feeds you. American industry needs the raw materials and manufactured goods that those trucks carry. The National Association of Manufacturers is going to jump down your throat on this one.”
Myers took a sip of coffee.
“I’m more worried about the American worker than the NAM. We’ve got to turn off the spigot of cheap, undocumented workers that flood our labor market decade after decade. It depresses wages while draining away expensive, taxpayer-funded public services for lawful citizens. If Congress wants to change the immigration laws, fine, but until they do, it’s my constitutional responsibility to vigorously enforce the laws that Congress has already put on the books.”
“You know you’re going to be painted as a racist xenophobe, don’t you?” Diele asked. “Punishing poor Hispanic migrant workers who are just trying to feed their families so that you can protect the oil companies—”
“I don’t care what other people think. I know my own motives. Do you doubt me on this?”
“Not at all. I’m just trying to protect you. After all, we’re in the same party.” Diele turned to Strasburg. “What is your opinion on these matters, Doctor?”
“I believe, Senator, that your analysis is fundamentally correct but incomplete. By shutting down the border, more pressure is put on the Barraza administration than ours. The Mexican economy is far more fragile and far more export-dependent than our own.”
“That should put a fire under their tails to get at Bravo and his thugs, pronto,” Early added. “Let them do the dirty work of kicking down doors and midnight raids.”
“That is what you asked for, isn’t it?” Myers asked. “Put pressure on the Mexican government to act?”
“I see,” Diele said, setting down his coffee. He smiled thinly at Myers. “It appears that this was less of a meeting of minds than a school lesson for yours truly. Be it far from me to try to dissuade you from your plans. After all, you are the president.”
Myers fought the urge to laugh. Diele was a frustrated presidential candidate from years past, and Greyhill’s number one supporter last year. Was he merely lamenting the fact she was the person occupying the office? Or just reminding himself that he wasn’t? Probably both, she told herself.
Diele made a point of checking his watch, then stood. “Looks like I’m late for my next meeting. Thank you for your time, Madame President.” His smile faded. “Mr. Vice President. Gentlemen.” He turned on his well-polished heels and left.
“That didn’t go well,” Greyhill said.
“Why would you say that?” Myers asked.
“He’s a dangerous man. Not one to be trifled with.”
“What do you want me to do? Invade Mexico so that Diele’s feelings won’t be hurt?”
“There is some value to listening to the opinions of others. Especially ones with decades of experience in these matters.”
Myers wasn’t sure if Greyhill was referring to Diele or himself.
&nbs
p; “I do listen, Robert. Carefully. And what I hear is a frustrated old man more worried about his reputation than his country.” Myers hoped Greyhill caught her double meaning.
He did.
35
Near the Snake River, Wyoming
It was late. Pearce was skyping with Tamar on a secure line. She was propped up in her hospital bed with her arm bound in a sling.
“I wanted you to know how it happened. Menachem just briefed me,” Tamar said.
“You should rest,” Pearce insisted.
“Mossad really had broken into the Quds Force mainframe all right, but Quds had planted a sentinel program at the portal. When we broke in, the Quds program was alerted, and the sentinel program followed our signal all the way back to our mainframe. The Iranians knew which file had been stolen and the contents of those files.”
“And they used that intel to set up the ambush,” Pearce concluded. “What was the name of the Iranian you and Udi were chasing?”
“Ali Abdi. Udi said you knew him?”
“Quds Force commander. A real shit bird. We ran into his outfit in Iraq a few times. Big on IEDs and ambushes. Last I heard he was in Syria.”
“Now he’s in Mexico. Or was. We have no idea what his current location is.” Tamar laid her head back, exhausted.
“I’ll find him, and I’ll kill him. You have my word on that.”
“I know. I just wish I could be there to help you when you do it.”
The President’s Private Quarters, the White House
It was after midnight when Myers received a call on her private number. She had passed out, exhausted from the frenetic pace of the last twenty-four hours. But she was a light sleeper and the phone woke her easily. It was Jeffers.
“It’s Pearce, on Skype. You want me to patch him through?”
“He wouldn’t call at this hour if it wasn’t important. Give me two minutes.”
Myers rose with a yawn and stretched and headed for the bathroom. She saw herself in the mirror and suddenly became self-conscious about the way she looked, but she wasn’t sure why. It was just Pearce, after all. She splashed cold water on her face and brushed out her hair just the same. Looked pretty darn good for having just rolled out of bed, even without makeup, which she hardly needed to use anyway.
After pulling on a pair of form-fitting track pants, a sports bra, and a Red Hot Chili Peppers concert T-shirt, she dashed back to her desk in her bedroom suite and fell into the chair, then woke up her laptop computer. It was already opened to Skype. She logged on.
Pearce was already online, his grim face weathered and rough like the rustic cabin wall behind him. Early had briefed Myers on the failed rescue attempt and Udi’s tragic death.
“Hello, Troy. What can I do for you?”
“I know who took out Udi and his team.” Pearce told her everything he knew about Ali Abdi, but that wasn’t much, and how Ali’s trail had gone cold, despite Ian’s best efforts. The Israelis didn’t have any luck, either. “This is getting to be a bad habit, but I need another favor.”
“That’s what friends are for. What do you need?”
“I need you to redeploy some assets for me. CIA and NSA, for starters.”
“All of our intelligence assets are pointed at the Bravo terrorists right now. As soon as that’s resolved—”
“Ali was working with Castillo. Now that he’s out of the picture, maybe Ali’s partnered with Bravo. Find Ali and you’ll find the Bravos, I’m sure of it.”
“I was thinking the other way around. Once we find the Bravos, maybe we’ll find your killer. So help us find them.”
“The Bravos aren’t my problem. I need to stay focused on hunting Ali.”
“You once told me that personal vendettas weren’t in your mission statement,” Myers reminded him.
“The mission statement got changed.”
“I need you to see the big picture here, Troy. If the Iranians are somehow involved in Mexico, it means we’re in a whole new strategic situation. I need your help.”
“To do what? Take out the Bravos? Then who comes after that? You can’t keep escalating this war tit-for-tat. It’s a losing game.”
“I have no intention of playing that kind of game. I’m going to overturn the whole damn board.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m going to change the government of Mexico.”
Pearce shook his head in disbelief. “You’ve got a pair on you, ma’am, if you don’t mind my saying. You don’t mess around, do you?”
“Not when it comes to the security of the United States.”
“Or anything else, I bet.”
She smiled, barely. “No, not really.”
She leaned in closer to the screen. “I can’t do this without your help.”
“I don’t see how you can pull it off.”
She gave Pearce the big-picture summary. He asked probing questions. Myers was impressed with the depth and breadth of Pearce’s grasp of Mexican politics and the geopolitical landscape.
“So, what’s the verdict?” Myers asked. “You think this will work?”
“On paper, sure. In reality? I’d say it’s a definite maybe at best. Who else is backing you on this?”
“My cabinet, mostly.”
“Is Greyhill still out of the loop?” Pearce asked.
“Yes.”
“What about congressional support?”
“We’ve put out a few feelers, but we can’t afford to tip our hand just yet. It’s better to hand Congress a fait accompli. If I open it up to debate, nothing will get done and the opportunity we have right now will be lost. But I’m still missing the most important piece of the puzzle.”
“What’s that?” Pearce asked.
“You. I still need your services to pull off the strike piece.”
“You’re in charge of the world’s largest killing machine. Use it.”
“Nothing’s changed on our end,” Myers said. “I still can’t put boots on the ground.”
“I can’t help you, either. My operations aren’t big enough to carry out the unmanned part of the mission. You need more assets.”
“Like the Pentagon?”
“For what you want to accomplish in the time frame you’re talking about? No. Check that. Make that hell, no. Not the way things are currently organized.”
“What do you mean?” Myers asked.
“Once you open the Pentagon door, you’re begging for trouble. First of all, you have army, navy, Marine, and air force units that all operate various drone and robotics systems. Many of those systems aren’t compatible and they certainly don’t all coordinate or communicate with one another, with the limited exception of the JCE, and that’s just the army and the air force and that’s just for UAVs. And then you have all of the command and control problems that come with the jurisdictional bullshit. But that’s just the beginning of your woes. Once you activate the U.S. military, they’re going to draw on other national intelligence assets like the NSA and all of the DoD resources. Once you’ve done that, you’ve triggered congressional oversight and micromanagement. There are over one hundred congressional committees that have jurisdiction on homeland security alone. Add in subcommittees on intelligence, defense, Latin America—you’re just warming up the big brass tubas for a gigantic Hungarian cluster dance.”
Myers laughed.
Pearce had never heard her laugh before. He was charmed.
“I’m not much of a dancer, Hungarian or otherwise, so what would you propose?”
“Like many other areas of modern life, you should imitate the Germans. Go find your best war fighter and form a separate operational structure under him. Call it ‘Robotics Command’ or ‘Drone Command.’ Let him pick and choose the best weapons systems and the best operators wherever you find them. If they’re military, pull t
hem out of their respective service hierarchies, at least temporarily, the way NASA does for their astronaut cadre. Keep everything lean and nimble. This can’t be about medals or pulling rank or promotions. It’s about getting the job done fast and efficiently.”
“How about you? You’d be perfect for the job.”
“No, thanks. Desks and paperwork make me itch.”
“Then whom?”
“Have Early contact Dr. T. J. Ashley. She’s the current assistant director of National Intelligence for Acquisition, Technology, and Facilities. She’s former navy with combat experience and has the technical chops for the job.”
“How do you know her?” Myers asked.
“In 2007, Early was going to run an op in the Persian Gulf near Iranian waters and he’d requested one of the new UAV support teams for an intel assist, but the local commander turned him down.”
“But Dr. Ashley stepped in?” Myers asked.
“It was a good thing she did. Her drone disabled an Iranian patrol boat and saved the lives of Early and his team, but it nearly earned her a court-martial. She told Early she didn’t care because she thought she had done the Lord’s work. That makes her good people in Early’s book.”
“Mine, too,” Myers said.
“Early pulled a few strings and got her off the hook. In fact, he even got her promoted. But she resigned her commission right after that and took a research position with the University of Texas. That’s when I tried to hire her into my firm, but she turned me down. She’s a dyed-in-the-wool patriot and wanted to get back into government service.”
“Sounds like she’s the one,” Myers said.
“She won’t say no to Early.”
“Okay.”
“One more thing. Please tell me that Jackson didn’t turn off DAS.”
“You’d have to speak with him about that.”
“He needs to get Stellar Wind rolling, too, if it isn’t already. And we can’t keep pointing both of them in just one direction, if you catch my drift.”