by Dale Brown
“Yes, sir,” Lifter agreed. “As for a name, General Freeman has the standard computer-generated package name, but we should pick a better one for the press. I suggested Operation Peaceful Hands. Simple, nonaggressive, interdenominational.”
“I like it,” the President said, truly pleased for the first time during the entire meeting. Of course Freeman hated it, but he had no plan to try to change it. Fights with the White House had to be avoided at best and chosen very, very carefully at worst.
The President was truly enthused now. “Hey, you know I can even go to the Ebenezer Baptist Church for Martin Luther King Day and talk about Operation Peaceful Hands without offending anyone. Good job, Don. Get me a press package on these military units with the women in them—I’ll talk that angle up, too. Okay, I think we got a plan of action for that problem right now. Anybody got anything else for me?”
There was a whole slate of things to discuss. The First Lady came in during the subsequent discussions. She was quickly brought up to speed on all the previous topics, and then she joined in as if she had been present right from the very beginning. When General Freeman was notified that the draft military operations order was ready for his review, he excused himself and departed the Cabinet Room. To his surprise, he was stopped by the First Lady, who accompanied him downstairs to the lower lobby.
“I wanted to discuss the deployment of those combat units to Turkey, General,” the First Lady said tightly, her face a smile, but her eyes cold as steel. “I—”
“You’re concerned about the women in the units, how they’ll be treated by the Turks, by the international press, ma’am?”
The First Lady gave Freeman a commending smile and a nod, as if he’d just put the right peg in the hole on “Romper Room.” Freeman was one of the few Chairmen of the Joint Chiefs of Staff to wear a moustache, thin and dark with no hint of gray, which many women, both in and out of government, found attractive and bold. The First Lady came up to Freeman’s shoulders, and her upraised eyes made her look disarmingly innocent, but Freeman knew better. He had to remind himself of the Steel Magnolia’s background, of her training and education and, most of all, of her aspirations to power—but he had always found her attractive, even desirable. That put him at a distinct disadvantage, and he had to keep himself in check.
“I’m also concerned about how Sam Donaldson and Wolf Blitzer treat them as well, General,” the First Lady said innocently, as if she were protecting lambs from the slaughter. She had a few laugh lines in the corners of her green eyes, and she was a “touchy” person, adept at the slight, casual touch of an arm, the warm handshake extended a second or two longer than expected. She used such gestures even now with Freeman to disarm and persuade, calculating every move.
“I think you’ve proven you can handle them, ma’am,” Freeman said. “I’m not sure if you’ve ever taken on a Turkish mullah before.”
“No, and the President of the United States, or his men and women in uniform serving overseas protecting American allies, shouldn’t have to either,” she said with a sudden edge. “I wanted to know what steps you will be taking to assure that our combat troops deploying overseas will be properly taken care of and given the support and respect they deserve.”
“We’ve had a military presence in Turkey for over forty years, and women have been sent to Turkey for the past twenty-five years,” General Freeman said uneasily. “Relations between the U.S. and the Turks have always been good. The key to that success has been the discipline of our troops and the proper respect paid to the Turkish nation by the American government. As long as we treat the Turks like valued allies and not like Islamic-fundamentalist mountain heathens, we won’t have any problems.”
“Are we treating the Turks as anything more or less than valued allies, General?” she probed, staring at him dead-on.
Freeman knew that anything he said would go directly to the President’s ear, and quite possibly to the press and to Congress as well, so he hesitated before answering, but he finally replied, “I detect an attitude in some circles that might suggest we’re doing Turkey a favor by providing them military assistance.”
“We do tend to jump when they call, General,” she said tightly. “And it does seem as if we give more than they offer in return.”
“All we want is a stable, strong ally in the Middle East,” Freeman said. “We don’t have any allies these days who unconditionally agree to everything we say or want. I think it’s in our country’s best interests to extend to Turkey every possible benefit.”
“An alliance, especially one such as NATO, is a give-and-take affair,” she informed him. “But reasonable people can differ about all that, General. My concern remains the same: can we expect to see any problems crop up with having American women soldiers in Turkey during Operation Peaceful Hands, and if so, what are you going to do about it?”
“The answer to your first question is yes, I do expect some cultural, societal backlash,” Freeman replied. “Asking a Turk to accept a foreign woman to defend his homeland will definitely cause problems—to what extent, I don’t know. The answer to the second question is, we will do our assigned mission until ordered by the President to withdraw. Any soldier, man or woman, who can’t follow orders or who has a problem with any aspect of the indigenous situation will be relieved, removed, and replaced.”
“That doesn’t sound very fair to me, General,” the First Lady said coldly. “A Turkish man whose mind is trapped in the eighteenth century doesn’t like the idea of a well-trained, highly intelligent woman defending him against danger, and the woman has to suffer for it? Don’t our women soldiers have enough to worry about?”
“All our soldiers had better worry about one thing: the threat—and the threat is not from Turkey, but from Russia,” Freeman said, putting on his service cap to signify that he was ready to leave. “They should worry about their level of proficiency; their knowledge about potential adversaries, proper procedures, and their own weapon systems; and about maintaining a winning attitude. Everything else is wrong thinking, inappropriate thinking, and it will only hurt the mission and hurt the force.”
“What if the threat our women soldiers face is an ally, or even one of their own?” she asked. “How are they supposed to deal with that?”
“They don’t deal with that—I deal with that, ma’am,” Freeman said. “And when it becomes a problem, I will deal with it.”
“I know you will, General,” she purred, patting his arm as if to reassure him. “And I consider it my job to deal with such problems as well. I believe in our women soldiers, General. I know they face many more difficulties, real deeply seated societal difficulties, and they need special help to overcome those problems just so they can be given the right opportunity to do their job. I consider it my duty to make sure they are given the proper atmosphere to succeed.” She visually sized up the tall general with a glance, as if to say, your kind doesn’t scare me, then she smiled. “Thank you for listening to me, General—good day.”
When General Philip Freeman stepped into his staff car to return to the Pentagon, he found his jaw muscles tightly clenched, and he had to consciously work to relax them. Christ, why couldn’t that bitch stick to ribbon-cuttings? He was getting it from all sides of this Administration—including one side he never expected. He knew he served at the pleasure of the President, but sometimes he wanted to know exactly what that meant—was it the man himself, or was it everyone around the man, and did that mean everyone?
In certain jobs, certain fields, the women chosen to serve in those positions did outstanding work. Whether or not the environment was influenced or guarded by the First Lady, most of the women serving in the U.S. military were first-rate, and this was recognized by most of their male counterparts. Then why the low-key dressing-down by the Steel Magnolia? Why the veiled threats? Was it just the unknown mystery of Turkey or was something going on he didn’t understand?
That question was going to have to be back-burnered for the t
ime being—deploying an air battle wing, an Army battalion, and three combat vessels and their support units halfway around the world in the shortest time possible would require all his attention, not to mention dealing with the Congressional leadership and the press once the operation was made public knowledge. Philip Freeman reached for the secure telephone in the back of the staff car and got to work.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Plattsburgh Air Force Base, New York That Afternoon
After being released from the hospital and spending nearly an entire day answering questions for the accident investigation board, Rebecca looked forward to her one-day pass. It would be a good opportunity to check in at Liberty Air, have a quiet dinner someplace, sleep in her own bed, and perhaps see Ed. Her shoulders and legs still hurt a bit from the crash landing, but she wanted nothing more than to get that episode out of her life and get back to normal—if generating her flight to fight a possible nuclear war could be considered normal.
But just getting off-base that day proved to be nearly impossible. As she drove off-base and headed toward home, it felt to Rebecca as if she was abandoning the Air Force in the midst of a crisis, abandoning her unit, even her country. A series of signs along the exit road read, HAVE YOU SIGNED OUT WITH YOUR CQ? BASEWIDE ALERT STILL IN EFFECT—CONTACT YOUR UNIT, and ALERT IN EFFECT—UNAUTHORIZED DEPARTURE PROHIBITED. The line of cars waiting to get into the base was long because the guards were stopping and searching every car, and there was someone at the guards’ gate taking down license numbers of those leaving the base. Rebecca had her twenty-four-hour pass from the flight surgeon taped to the inside of her windshield for the guard to check. The expressions she saw from the guard and from those in the line of cars waiting to enter the base were strange and eerie. She imagined them thinking: Why on earth is she leaving now, with a Defcon Three status?
Her first destination was Liberty Air Service at Clinton County Airport. The place—indeed, the whole airport—looked like it was deserted. Rebecca found all of her airplanes on the ramp, with a thick layer of snow on them. Why they were out here in the snow instead of in the hangar, she didn’t know. Judging by the amount of snow on them, they hadn’t been anywhere in quite some time. That spelled trouble, and Rebecca knew why: with the aircraft accident at Plattsburgh and with the alert aircraft-generation in full swing, the Air Force would have requested the FAA close down Clinton County Airport, only three miles from the base, for security and air traffic control reasons. A sign on the door of Liberty Air confirmed it: her assistant manager, Adam Parker, had left a sign which said, CLOSED DUE TO AIRPORT RESTRICTION, along with his phone number in case of emergency.
She went inside, turned on a few lights, and spent a few minutes reading messages left for her on the computer and checking the schedule. Flights were being canceled by the dozens. She put in a call to Base Operations at Plattsburgh Air Force Base, requesting permission for her planes to be shuttled out of Clinton County Airport as soon as possible. She had friends in Albany, New York, and Portland, Maine, that would let her stage her flying service from there (for a price, of course) while Clinton County Airport was closed, but she would need permission from the FAA and from the Air Force before she could launch her planes. After leaving a computer message with Parker to organize the transfer of operations, she went out to look over the maintenance shop.
There was a surprise for her in one hangar, and now she knew why her planes weren’t in the hangar: the first of her new million-dollar-plus Cessna Caravan cargo planes had arrived, spiffed up with a great big red ribbon and bow. Obviously it was meant as a surprise for her when she finished Hell Week. It even had LIBERTY AIR SERVICE and her company logo painted on the fuselage, and her name painted in elegant calligraphy below the pilot’s-side window. It had been washed, waxed, and polished to a high luster, and the wheels had even been spray-painted with gloss black paint to make them look showroom new.
This was Ed’s surprise, she thought happily. The bank loan wasn’t supposed to have come in for another three or four days, and delivery of the plane itself wasn’t supposed to be for a week after that. Ed Caldwell must’ve hurried things along for her. Yep, the guy could be a sweetheart sometimes. It was the best thing that could have taken her mind off the incident this morning—and she had Ed Caldwell to thank—personally thank if she could catch him. She returned to her office and put in a call to Ed.
The phone was answered on the other end, but whoever had picked it up was obviously distracted with something—or someone—else. Rebecca heard a few giggles, a lot of heavy breathing and groaning, and an unmistakable rhythmic rustling of sheets and bedsprings. Then, a woman’s voice, flushed and husky, finally answered with, “Satan’s garden of delight, Eve speaking. Satan is having his horn polished, but if you’ll leave your name, your number …”
The phone was snatched away from her mouth, and Rebecca could hear Ed’s voice. “I said, let the machine answer it, baby.”
Rebecca slammed the phone back down in its cradle. Well, so much for thanking the sonofabitch. Somebody else was doing it for her. Rebecca didn’t know whether to cry or throw the phone through her office window. She sat there, simmering, furious that she’d let herself be lulled into thinking she was the only one in Ed’s life. That voice on the other end … she knew it from somewhere. Some stupid bleached blonde who worked at the bank, always purring and meowing whenever Ed was around. At least he could have screwed someone with a brain, or a career, or something. But that bimbo … it was just too insulting to think that was her replacement. That Barbie Doll probably didn’t know the difference between the prime rate and prime rib. Rebecca stared at the phone, finally starting to cool down. Well, it really shouldn’t surprise her. They certainly had no agreement on their living arrangements. Although the way Rebecca was raised, growing up in Vermont, where you gave a commitment to someone that counted for something. At least that’s how she’d always felt. Ed obviously had different ideas. Fine. Screw him. He was no different than some of those active-duty assholes she’d had to put up with over the years. Didn’t men ever change?
The pain in her shoulders from the seat harness was coming back, and the room felt decidedly colder. This had been one hell of a fucked-up couple of days, like a roller coaster out of control. Going home was out of the question now. Ed was smart: he would guess that it was she who called, verify it by calling the squadron, finish snaking Marilyn (he was smart, but he wouldn’t pass up a fast screw, either), then head over to her house to explain himself. They would argue, fight, scream and holler; he would be tender, understanding, apologetic, denying everything while reassuring her that she was the only one for him. She would eventually tell him about the crash and the war, and he would tell her about the loan and the plane, and she would collapse in his arms, from exhaustion or surrender or loneliness or fear. He would offer her a massage, dinner, a drink, and they would be back to being an item once more.
Like hell that was going to happen. Maybe in the past, but not now. Who needed that on top of everything else she’d been through? Christ, she wasn’t a masochist. Besides, there was nothing at home she needed, so she decided to head back to the base and crash at the alert facility. Her clothes were there, her flying gear was there, and she was going to get called in by midmorning anyway to start generating her sortie for alert. She closed up Liberty Air without stepping into the new Caravan’s cockpit—no use in getting too attached to it, since she might have to give it back to the bank if she couldn’t start flying again—then headed back to the base.
Her first stop was the base hospital, where she went to the intensive care ward. Mark Fogelman was awake and alert—yesterday she’d been told he was in a mild coma—but he looked as if he should be unconscious just to spare himself a little discomfort. His face, which had hit the instrument panel glare shield so hard it had broken his visor and helmet, was swollen and purple, like a boxer who had taken a pummeling in the ring. There was a thick bandage over his forehead, and his eyes were black a
nd nearly swollen shut. He wore a neck brace, which only served to make his face look even puffier. His shaved head make him look worse.
“Hey, Yot,” Furness greeted him, using the pilots’ favorite nickname for their F-111 weapons officers, “Yot,” which stood for You Over There, on her weapons officer. “You gotta tell the kitchen not to use so much MSG.” She sat down beside him on the bed, opened up her flight jacket, and handed him a brown paper bag with a copy of Penthouse inside. “I smuggled it in past the nurses. It’s my boyfriend’s. I knew it would drive you crazy—that’s why I brought it.”
“Thanks, Becky,” Fogelman mumbled. A wad of cotton had been stuffed inside his upper lip where he had bitten through it. He accepted the magazine, lifted it out of the bag to check out the cover, then smiled a very painful-looking smile. “Contributing to the delinquency of a minor. I love it. You’re my very first visitor.”
“I’m honored, then. How do you feel—as if I couldn’t guess.”
“Shitty,” Fogelman replied. “I see stars everywhere, and I’ve had a splitting headache. Just breathing is painful, so you can imagine what going to the bathroom does for me. Otherwise, I’m okay. How about you?”
“I’m fine. They had me in here for about a day. I’m heading back to the squadron—my predeployment line should be coming up soon.”