Battleline (2007) s-5

by Jack Terral

  "To tell you the truth, I ain't all that religious," Sikes said.

  "Well," Khohollah said, "at the present time we have much more to worry us than the fate of suicide-prone martyrs. We should turn our attention to how the arrival of the twenty reinforcements was discovered by the Americans."

  "And soon enough to do something about it," Sikes added. "It's a bit o' bother, alright. Those were twenty damn good blokes wot was wiped out."

  Khadid, who had been content to simply listen to the conversation, now joined in. "There is a leak, no doubt. A turncoat somewhere within our organization, and I would think the traitor is back in Iran somewhere. Perhaps he's serving on or near the General Staff."

  "Whoever he is or whatever his position, it is baffling how he managed to get the information out," Khohollah said.

  "I'll leave them intelligence blokes to work on that," Sikes said. "It ain't my cup o' tea worrying about spies and the like. I'll put me mind on keeping me defenses proper and manned. I can you tell you one thing for sure, gents. This next attack against them Amercians is gonna be a sight to behold, hey?"

  CHAPTER 10

  WHITE HOUSE

  OFFICE OF THE PRESS SECRETARY

  12 JULY 0945 HOURS

  OWEN Peckham, the White House Press Secretary, sat at his desk slowly sipping a cup of coffee. He was tired, but not so much physically as one would be from overexercise or hard work. His fatigue was mental and spiritual, and the man was emotionally beaten down. The problems of disaster relief, border security, crooked lobbyists, the war against terrorism, and a myriad of other unpleasantness he had to deal with were draining him of all enthusiasm for his job. He wondered what else would pop up to plague him.

  Peckham checked his watch, noting that within a quarter of an hour he would have to go out into the press room, where eager denizens of the media were ready to fire salvos of provocative questions at him--each journalist able to gain prestige, pay raises, and career advancement from beating up on the poor White House Press Secretary.

  His attention was diverted when Arlene Entienne stepped into his office after a couple of raps on the door. Peckham gave her a nod and a smile. "How're you doing, Arlene?"

  "Pretty well under the circumstances," the White House chief of staff answered, giving him a close look. "Are you coming down with a cold?"

  He shook his head. "I'm just way down-period."

  "Dear Owen," she said, sitting down in the chair to his direct front. "You've been through a hell of a lot."

  "Oh, it's no more than you do, except I have to deal with those birds of prey out in that press room."

  "And for that you have my sincerest sympathies," Arlene said. "But I think today they'll be beating a herd of dead horses. We've been through the same issues for several weeks now. The troubles in the Middle East are down to some suicide bombings, and that happens so often it doesn't attract much attention anymore. Those cold-blooded reporters are in a constant need of bad news to keep themselves in the limelight."

  "Yeah," Peckham said, "you're right. They'll even reveal classified information if they run across any they think is newsworthy. Today I'm going to disarm them with a string of terse announcements. Maybe I'll create a vacuum they can suffocate in."

  "I think you've got everything under control," Arlene said, standing up. "I just dropped by to see how you were doing. I've been worried about you."

  "Your concern is much appreciated," Peckham said.

  .

  WHITE HOUSE PRESS ROOM

  1000 HOURS

  OWEN Peckham stood at the end of the short hall leading into the press room, with his hand on the doorknob. After three deep, steadying breaths, he opened the portal and stepped inside the room.

  Now showing a confident and cheerful grin, he strode up to his podium and set his notes down on it. "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen! So nice to see you today." He nodded to several people he knew personally and had hobnobbed with at various social functions around Washington. "Hello, David. How are you, Betty? Jim, you're looking quite chipper today."

  The crowd of journalists, all well known to the American public, sat in anticipation of the coming press conference, hoping something would happen, such as Peckham making a glaring slip in which some phenomenal misconduct by a member of the White House staff would be revealed.

  "First I have some announcements to make," Peckham said. "As you know, indictments have gone out this week regarding the lobbying scandal. At this point I have no statements to make regarding that unhappy situation until the accused have shown up in court to plead their innocence or guilt. That's the American way; at least as long as we follow the principle of those under indictment being innocent until proven otherwise."

  But that did not deter Joyce Bennington of the Boston World Journal. "How far into the White House has this situation penetrated?"

  "As I said, Joyce," Peckham replied, "no statements will be issued at this time." He turned to his notebook. "The border security question is firmly resolved with the approval of not only National Guard but also active duty military units bolstering the Border Patrol until all the safeguards such as fences--both physical and electronic--are installed."

  Brian Mackenzie of the Ontario People's Advocate spoke up. "Does the President really feel these drastic steps are necessary?"

  "I wouldn't employ the adjective 'drastic,' " Peckham said, smiling at the Canadian. "I believe 'necessary' would be a more appropriate description. Anyhow, I'm surprised you're not up there in Canada looking into your own immigration procedures." He shifted into an impersonator, speaking in a contrived Canadian accent. "And I believe they've proved somewhat inadequate, hey?"

  Some chuckles showed appreciation for his mimicry, and a wag in the back of the room spoke to the Canadian journalist, also out to hassle the guy, "You Canucks better start being more careful about all them foreign hosers getting visas to come to your snow pile, hey? There's probably more terrorists in Toronto than Baghdad, hey?"

  "Now, now," Peckham said, "let's not make light of our neighbors to the north."

  But he couldn't suppress a grin at that one; Mackenzie was a royal pain in the ass. "And to change the subject, all the misspent money on hurricane relief has been identified and the people responsible for this mismanagement face penalties for these oversights and mismanagement. I'm sorry, but I have no names to give you right at this time." He paused and surveyed the crowd. "Now I'm ready for more of your questions."

  A short, pudgy man quickly got to his feet, quickly identifying himself. "Dirk Wallenger, Global News Broadcasting."

  Peckham flinched inwardly in spite of the friendly smile he showed to Wallenger. "How are you, Dirk?"

  "Fine, thank you, Owen," Wallenger said. "I am wondering if you have any comment or news regarding the wounded Arab prisoner who was summarily executed by an American Special Forces group in western Afghanistan on the seventeenth of June."

  "I know nothing of the incident," Peckham stated, truly puzzled. "May I inquire as to your sources?"

  "I'm afraid not," Wallenger said. "But I can ensure you that they are impeccable and accurate."

  "I'll have to investigate the incident and get back to you on that," Peckham said. "But I can tell you now that the White House has not received word from the Pentagon about any prisoners being executed."

  "Maybe not," Wallenger said, "but would the people in the Department of Defense inform the President of such an incident?"

  "Of course they would," Peckham said.

  "Does that mean you deny it?"

  "Dirk, I can neither deny nor confirm it until inquiries have been made." He pointed to another journalist, knowing that the opening rounds in a new slant of the antiwar campaign had just been introduced.

  .

  OVAL OFFICE WHITE HOUSE

  1400 HOURS

  "I just wish I knew where that tubby little son of a bitch gets his news tips."

  The President's voice was edged in anger as he sat at his desk looking
across at Owen Peckham, Arlene Entienne, and Colonel John Turnbull of SOLS.

  "If he's been given the correct location it has to come from somewhere within the Persian Empire caper," Arlene said.

  "That's what I was afraid of," the President said. "Evidently something critical has occurred in one of our most sensitive areas." He glanced at Turnbull. "Isn't that where we're having a standoff with an Iranian Special Forces team?"

  Turnbull nodded. "Yes, Mr. President. It's been dubbed Operation Battleline." He shifted in his chair. "Maybe this Wallenger punk is blowing smoke. The screeching leftists haven't had a chance to raise hell for a few months now."

  "He's a radical, alright," Peckham said, "but he would never make a statement at a White House press briefing unless he knew it to be true." He quickly added, "Or had some evidence that made it seem to be true."

  The President had to admit that Peckham was right. "I believe Carl Joplin and Edgar Watson are in the vicinity of Persian Empire, are they not?"

  "Yes, sir," Arlene said. "They're the other half of the Lamp Committee." She was referring to a small group including her, Colonel Turnbull, Joplin, and Watson, that had been set up to deal with the mysterious intelligence informant who had been code-named Aladdin. "We thought it best to have them handy in case this situation with Aladdin broke wide open."

  "It's hard to believe that such a thing could happen," Turnbull said. "I've become extremely familiar with that SEAL officer Brannigan over the past year. His men are considered wild and almost unpredictable, but I doubt if they would kill a wounded EPW in cold blood. If such a thing happened, they must have had a reason." He paused for a moment. "But it could have happened in the heat of battle or if something awry threw a desperate situation further out of kilter."

  "God!" the President said. "I hope not.

  But we have to make a thorough investigation of this thing. Arlene, send word to Carl and Edgar to look into this and get a report back to me ASAP."

  "Yes, Mr. President."

  .

  GNB STUDIOS

  WASHINGTON, D. C.

  15 JULY 2258 HOURS

  THE broadcast area was quiet as Dirk Wallenger settled down at the desk on the set. His notes were arranged in front of him, and the teleprompter was keyed up and ready to go. He was eager for the night's program to begin, and everyone in the studio realized the importance of the news about to be broadcast. Even the network president, Don Allen, stood behind the cameras to witness the event. The credits began rolling at 11 P. M., announcing the Wallenger Report with Dirk Wallenger. At exactly the right moment the floor director looked at the commentator and counted, "Five, four, three, two, one, go!"

  "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," Wallenger said the instant the red light glowed on the camera to his direct front. "This is Dirk Wallenger with breaking news from the war in the Middle East. And do not expect to see anything of this story for a few days on other broadcasts. This information came to me through my network of concerned informers. My expose of the incident will force the other TV news organizations to acknowledge it happened and they will have to report it to the public in spite of government censorship." He paused for effect. "I regret to say that there has been yet another heinous crime committed by members of the American armed forces in the Middle East. This sad event occurred in the west of Afghanistan, up in the Gharawdara Highlands, where a group of Special Forces Green Berets sneaked up on an international aid group from several Arab countries and attacked them. The result of this armed assault was the massacre of all with the exception of three who managed to surrender and save their lives despite the hail of gunfire directed at them.

  "Did I say 'saved their lives'? Well, two of them did; the third, who had been badly wounded, was not destined to receive mercy from his war-mad captors. You see, ladies and gentlemen, this unfortunate man who had come to offer succor and aid to suffering Afghanistan people who are being smashed under the boot heels of the American occupiers turned out to be a burden to the murderers. Imagine! They would have to actually carry him--or have his unhurt companions do the job--but it was an inconvenience either way because it slowed them down. And what was their solution to this bother? I imagine many of you have already guessed the answer to that question. For those of you who are in suspense, I shall tell you what these brave Green Berets did. They shot him in cold blood. Yes! As he lay there in agony, unable to defend himself, they fired a bullet into his head." He paused again to let his words be contemplated by the viewers. "And when I return, I will provide more grisly details of this wanton criminal act."

  The floor director signaled that the commercials were running. Don Allen gave Wallenger a thumbs-up. "That's the way, Dirk! Give 'em hell!"

  Wallenger winked back at him, arranging his notes for the continuance of the program.

  .

  USS COMBS

  PERSIAN GULF

  16 JULY 0830 HOURS

  THE MH-60G chopper came down onto the helipad on the aft end of the ship, landing softly. Lieutenant Bill Brannigan stepped out and was met by Commanders Tom Carey and Ernest Berringer. There were no vocal greetings because of the noise of the aircraft's engine, only an exchange of salutes. Brannigan, carrying his M-16 and a bandolier of ammo, followed the other two officers off the landing area into the ship's superstructure.

  They could speak in the passageway as they hurried farther into the vessel's interior. Brannigan, who was between the two, was not in a good mood about being pulled out of the SEAL base camp. He spoke angrily to Carey, to his front. "What the fuck's going on--sir?"

  "You have an appointment with General Leroux," Carey answered over his shoulder.

  "Who the hell is he?"

  Berringer replied, "He's Army and the CG of the SFOB aboard the Combs. He's also a representative of the JCOS and has direct access to other command levels at the snap of one of his impatient fingers."

  "Shit!" Brannigan blurted, thinking, What the fuck did I do now?

  A marine stood at the entrance to Leroux's compartment and immediately opened the door as the three men walked up. Carey led the way in, where another door was opened for them by a Special Forces sergeant, who was obviously part of the SFOB staff. At that point Carey indicated that Brannigan was to step in first.

  When he entered he found himself facing a grizzled U. S. Army brigadier general who had the look of someone who was more at home in the field than in an office aboard a naval destroyer. Leroux leaned back in his chair and returned Brannigan's salute. He didn't say anything for a few moments, then growled. "So you're Brannigan, are you?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "There's a chair in the corner," Leroux said. "Grab it and drag it over here, then plop your ass down on it." He waited until the order was obeyed. "Alright, Brannigan, what's this shit about you shooting a wounded EPW?"

  Brannigan, now aware that both Carey and Berringer were standing behind him, took a deep breath. It was all coming home now. "It's true, sir."

  "Well now, ain't that some shit," Leroux said. "One of them pansy journalists at a White House press conference brought up the situation and it went out on the eleven-o'clock news. Real nasty, Brannigan! So you just tell me what happened. And I don't want any bullshit."

  "Aye, sir."

  "Goddamn! I'm getting real tired of all this sailor shit and this fucking boat and everything else," Leroux spat. "With me it's 'yes, sir' and 'no, sir,' not this 'aye' and 'nay' or whatever else y'all use. Got it?"

  "Yes, sir," Brannigan said.

  "Now, I know all about your Operation Battleline, so you can leave that out," Leroux said. "Tell me what happened at the ambush that led up to this wounded raghead getting killed."

  "Yes, sir," Brannigan said. "We were back at the LZ waiting for the chopper to begin the exfiltration with the three EPWs we'd captured. One of them suddenly jumped up and made a run for it."

  "Ha!" Leroux exclaimed. "So you shot him trying to escape, huh?"

  "No, sir," Brannigan said. "He tried to get into a
bunch of boulders when a cobra bit him."

  "Jesus!" Leroux said with a laugh. "The son of a bitch was snake-bit?"

  "Yes, sir," Brannigan said. "Two of my men had chased him up to the spot and saw that the poison was spreading fast. There was nothing any of us could do to save him. So one of my men shot him in the head to put him out of his misery."

  "Was he following your orders when he killed the guy?"

  "Negative, sir. I was still back with the main group, and he did it on his own," the SEAL explained. "The guy is one of my best men, but he's impetuous as hell."

  "How did you handle the shooter?" Leroux asked.

  "I gave him the choice of a court-martial or administrative punishment," Brannigan explained. "He chose Article Fifteen, so I put him on watch-and-watch with plenty of chores to tend to between his stints of duty."

  "Okay, Brannigan," Leroux said. "We're going to have to do some fudging on this, understand? When the guy made his escape attempt, he was not wounded or injured at that time, right?"

  "That's right, sir."

  "Good," Leroux said. "The other two EPWs are confined at the Barri Prison in Bahrain. The source of the information might have come from one of them or maybe one of your guys. Have any of them been out of your OA since the incident?"

  "No, sir."

  Berringer, the intelligence officer, interjected, "I've spoken with the S-Two at Station Bravo, and we've come to the conclusion the leak came from inside the prison. We're prepared to start a probe."

  "Do it!" Leroux said. He turned back to Brannigan. "Okay, here's how it's gonna be. The official report of the investigation--which we just had right here in this office, by the way--is that a healthy, uninjured EPW was shot while trying to escape. I want you to make sure all your men understand this. It's not an outright falsehood, but the truth of the matter is that the guy got killed during an escape attempt. Now, if somebody pops up and happens to ask if he was bitten by a snake, we'll have to handle that a different way. But that's not much of a possibility. Hell! It's not even a probability."

  "Alright, sir. I understand."

  Leroux's demeanor relaxed, and he actually smiled. "So how's everything going in Operation Battleline?"