by John Dalmas
With that, the priest left, and when Haugen finished reading the intelligence summary, he returned to his diagrams. After a bit he looked at the wall clock: 0934. Again he buzzed his secretary. "Ms. Martinelli, I'd like you to call a Duluth, Minnesota number for me: Regis High School. That's area code 218, and the number is 723-5110. Tell the receptionist it's the President of the United States calling Father Stephen Flynn."
He grinned again as he turned his attention once more to a diagram. He'd finished before Martinelli buzzed back. "Father Flynn is on line one," she said.
He touched the blinking key, and Flynn's face appeared on the CRT. "Hello, Steve. Glad you could call back."
"Oh my! No problem. A secretary came and got me out of class." He laughed, not a frequent event for the usually serious Flynn. "You should have seen the faces in my class when she said the President of the United States wanted to speak to me. You've made my reputation, Mr. President."
"Glad to help keep life interesting. And between you and me, I'm still Arne. Look. Do you think your superior would approve your coming to Washington as the White House chaplain?"
The silence at the other end stretched on for five seconds or more. Haugen's grin grew.
"Are you okay Steve?"
"Yes." Flynn grinned briefly back. "And I have little doubt that he would. But—Why is it you've chosen me?"
"I haven't really rationalized that." Haugen laughed. "Shouldn't every ruler have a Jesuit behind him?" He turned thoughtful then. "I suppose I want an auxiliary conscience, in case my own fails me. Someone in addition to Lois that I can talk freely to and trust—and with a non-government viewpoint. And we're friends, and you're a trained listener."
Again there was brief silence, this one shorter. "Arne," said Flynn, "I'd be happy to. To be of any help I can. How soon must I be there?"
"There's no urgency about it, but there's no reason at this end to delay, either. Let's say in ten days, if that's all right with you and the school. But you'll be welcome sooner if it's convenient. Why don't you take it up with your superior and let me know. My secretary is Ms. Martinelli; she'll make sure I get your message, or your call if it's practical for me at the time."
Haugen paused. "This is all right with you, isn't it? It occurs to me that you might miss the classroom, and the associations."
"Don't worry about that, Mr. President. This is something I'll be very happy to do. But a warning: If I'm to be your chaplain, I'll be speaking my mind on things."
"Fine. I'll want you to.
"I'll let you go now though. I've got a National Security Council meeting in a few minutes. My first. I'll look forward to hearing when you'll arrive. Meanwhile have a good one."
"Thank you, Mr. President."
The line went dead, and Haugen looked again at the clock, wondering really why he'd done what he'd just done.
TEN
The emergency phone beside the presidential bed ruptured Haugen's sleep with shrill urgency. He groped for it, nerves vibrating. "This is the president."
"This is General Hammaker, Mr. President. I have something very important to tell you."
His military aide. Haugen squinted, reading the luminous dial of his bedside clock: 1138. He'd been in bed less than half an hour.
"All right. Let's have it."
"The Soviet Union has invaded Iran, about an hour ago. An army group, part of the Trans-Caucausus Command, moved south across the border, out of the Nakhichevan SSR. Another army group started across the eastern border from the Afghan SSR at about the same time."
"When did you find this out?"
"Intelligence picked it up monitoring Iranian and Soviet military radio less than an hour ago. We have satellite verification now."
The president was aware of his Wife sitting up, looking at him. He covered the mouthpiece with a hand. "Russia's invaded Iran," he murmured to her. Then, into the phone:
"What's the action situation?"
"We don't have much on that, but they're moving pretty rapidly."
"All right. Have a communication center set up here in the White House by 0700. With computer equipment that can generate large-scale maps and receive and process satellite images. Can that be done?"
"I'm sure it can, Mr. President."
"Fine. Do the media have this yet?"
"Not that I know of. But if they don't, they will soon. They're sure to know about it in Ankara by now, and probably Amman and Jerusalem. Uh—Regarding the media, is there something you want stated or withheld?"
"No." Haugen sat silent for a moment. "I'm going back to sleep now. Call me again at five and update me."
"Yes sir, Mr. President."
Haugen hung up, then switched on his bedside lamp and sat staring at nothing. Lois got out of bed.
"I don't know about you," she said, "but I'm wide awake. Would you like a midnight glass of wine with me?"
He grunted. "Just what I had in mind." Insomnia was something neither of them had trouble with, but he'd need to settle down for a few minutes before he'd be ready to sleep again.
***
Paul Willard Randolph Massey slept alone; at age sixty-four, he was long a widower and disinterested in sex. This morning he too was awakened by phone, its ring less strident than the president's. The basic message was much like that received by Arne Haugen, but eight hours later; it was already daylight.
The official throne of the Massey financial empire was in the Randolph Building on Manhattan, but it was so tightly organized and run that most often its master stayed at home in the forested hills of Connecticut's Litchfield County.
To those who have always had a great deal of money, other interests tend to be paramount. And as often as not, what Paul Massey worked on had nothing to do with business, or was peripheral to it.
In the last decade of the twentieth century, the electronic communication net allowed a new mode of operation. And when electronic communication wouldn't do—if he was needed in Manhattan or preferred to be there—there was always the helicopter.
Of course, electronic communication is not as secure as face to face communication in a safe place. And in some enterprises, security is important. But electronic safeguards—scramblers and other countermeasures—had become extremely sophisticated; while with ultra-miniaturized bugs, and other even more advanced listening devices, even face to face communication involved a degree of security risk.
After eating, Massey called Barron Tallmon, his chief of staff for Holist operations. From another apartment in the Massey compound, Tallmon's long horsey face appeared on the screen.
"This is Barron."
"Phone up Jaubert for me."
"Mr. Massey, Jaubert is here. At the compound. He arrived last evening about nine. We have just eaten breakfast and were talking."
"Put him on please, Barron."
Another face replaced Tallmon's, rounder, and fine-boned beneath a mostly bald head. The mustache, thin and black as a mascara brush, seemed a relict from the 1920s or 30s.
"Yes, Mr. Massey?"
"What have you been able to obtain on Haugen?"
"Nothing of conspicuous value. Actually he did belong to a political party in the 1970s—the Libertarian Party. But he did not participate beyond attending some meetings, and he left it in 1978, reportedly with the comment that its overall philosophy was impractical of implementation. Or words to that effect.
"So far, my people have uncovered no indication of scandal or criminality in either his personal or business life."
"Hm-m," Massey looked unconvinced. "Keep looking, Jaubert, keep looking. And remember, it is not essential that we find anything factually disgraceful. Although that would be best. Something that can be interpreted... D'you know what I mean? If it suggests something reprehensible... If we can't have an expose, then a whispering campaign will do, especially if it is rooted in some actual association. Yes." Massey's mind raced. "Check his close associates, from boyhood on. For, say, neo-Nazi associations, the Ku Klux Klan, homosexuality.
.. You see what I mean. After all, we will not be connected to any accusations. We'll leave that to the media. The tabloids if necessary; they're widely read, even if most people don't take them seriously."
"Of course, Mr. Massey."
Paul Massey was beginning to feel a certain exhilaration. Yes, this Haugen would be handled. "Put Barron back on please."
Barron Tallmon had, of course, heard all of it. They were not using a privacy receiver; output at either end was normally through a desk speaker. Massey somehow seemed to overlook that, perpetually. Tallmon simply moved in front of the miniature video pickup.
"Yes, Mr. Massey."
"I am encouraged by Mr. Haugen's background in the Libertarian Party. Even given his rejection of it as a political organization, to the extent that it reflects his philosophic tendencies, he will botch his presidency."
He paused as if pulling on some thread of thought.
"And while you're at it, Barron, please have Mr. Jaubert investigate General Cromwell. As vice president, it would be helpful if we could find some latent scandal fermenting in his past.
"Oh, and one thing further. In contracting with Mr. Jaubert, please do not be prodigal with my money. I realize that Jaubert's is a very valuable, a very resourceful, a very circumspect agency, to be treated with a certain generosity. And that you two are—close friends. But after all, Barron, you are responsible for the judicious management of project funds.
"Do you see my position on this?"
"Of course, Mr. Massey. I understand fully."
"Good. I was sure you would. I'll be in the steam room and then with the masseur for a while. After that I expect to spend most of the day with Barnes at the computer. As soon as you and Mr. Jaubert have completed your business, I'll want to talk with you personally. Do not hesitate to interrupt me then.
"Meanwhile please give Mr. Jaubert my best regards."
"Yes Mr. Massey." As if, thought Tallmon, Alain wasn't right here listening.
***
When Massey broke the connection, he sat contemplating the carpet for a minute. Scandal didn't have the impact it used to, unless it was flagrant. And anything flagrant would bring investigation, which could prove dangerous if the scandal was bogus.
I suppose, he thought, it would be well to have Barron prepare contingency plans for the demise of this Haugen.
But it wouldn't do to bring the subject up in the presence of an extraneous third party, and murder was not Alain Jaubert's kind of business.
ELEVEN
As General Hammaker had promised, the communications center with the Pentagon had been set up in Hammaker's office when Haugen arrived at 0700. Hammaker didn't say much, just let a summary scroll slowly up the large screen, interrupted by occasional maps and reconnaisance overflight pictures.
There were photos from a recon satellite—photos whose detail astonished Haugen. Even more detailed were photos shot from seventeen miles up by Lockheed's latest version of the SR-71. And as always, Iranian and Soviet radio traffic had been recorded.
Neither combatant was issuing combat communiques. So far, in fact, the Soviets had said only that they had "sent military forces into Iran to end its barbaric genocide of the Iraqi people." Whether that meant that the Russians planned to take over both countries was not clear.
There had been fighting in Teheran itself hundreds of miles in advance of Soviet ground forces. The Russians had dropped spetsnaz commandos—suicide companies—into the capital to kill key government figures, destroy key government and utility installations, and sow general confusion. The Iranians claimed that all Soviet commando units had been eradicated, but overflights and radio monitoring indicated that some still held out under heavy pressure. They'd done a lot of damage, but the Iranians insisted that the Ayatollah Jalal had escaped "the godless terrorists" and was leading the Iranian people in their holy fight against the Great Russian Satan.
In the northeast, in the angle formed by boundaries with the Turkmen and Afghan SSRs, the terrain was not as ill-suited to rapid movement by ground forces, especially now that the desert's summer heat had passed. And particularly since the Iranian army had pulled its better-trained, better-equipped units out of the region for use in the conquest of Iraq. Soviet "motor-rifle divisions"—mechanized infantry—preceded by strong aerial ground support and heavy mortar and rocket bombardment, had broken through Iranian defense positions, and Soviet tank divisions had poured through. Already these had collapsed the entire Iranian defense zone there. Soviet second-level mechanized infantry divisions—units superior to the first level shock units—were now moving briskly down the road toward Teheran some six hundred miles west. Also, airborne forces were being used to take and control occasional difficult terrain.
In the northwest too, road access was limited to a single highway, and in addition the terrain was rugged. It was very difficult country to invade through; the Pentagon wasn't fully agreed on why the Russians were even bothering. One suggestion was that they were using it as a sort of training and shakedown mission. Whatever their primary purpose, they were proceeding methodically, according to the Soviet textbook, and it was providing an excellent test of invasion procedures for mountainous country.
Here the Iranian army had set up a defense zone in depth, suited to the circumstances, but apparently it too was manned mostly by second-class troops. Reportedly and apparently, when the Soviets had begun their threatening military demonstrations north of the border, the Iranians had hurried demolition squads to bridges along the sole highway, to blow them if and when the Russians invaded. Numerous other small units had already been located close below strategic ridge crests and in side valleys, from which they could either shell bridges, and the road itself where it traversed steep sideslopes, or make coordinated strikes against Soviet military columns on the highway.
However, there was no indication of major fighting. Apparently and predictably, the Soviets had dropped spetsnaz forces at numerous points to take bridges before they could be blown, and to destroy hardened artillery and rocket emplacements. Also, after sharp air attacks, airborne assault battalions, elites of the Red Army, had been landed to destroy or disperse Iranian counter-strike forces which the Soviet command considered important enough.
Nonetheless, the Iranians had destroyed several bridges, and the highway had been severely damaged in a number of awkward-to-repair places. Soviet engineering units, equipped with motorized, prefabricated bridge sections, giant Mi-6 and Mi-10 transport helicopters, heavy construction equipment, and specially trained and equipped demolition specialists, had moved quickly to span ravines and in general clear the highway of obstructions as the army came to them.
Despite Russian dawn airstrikes on Iranian airfields, the Iranian Air Force had managed to fly sorties on both fronts, but both their electronic countermeasures and their surviving numbers were inadequate in the face of the world's best mobile surface-to-air defenses. USAF radio monitors in Turkey reported fights between Iranian and Soviet planes, and losses by both sides.
That was the status of the Soviet-Iranian war eight hours after it began. Haugen frowned thoughtfully, reached for a house phone, then changed his mind.
"Thank you, Ernie," he said, and left the room. Walking briskly to his office suite, he paused at Martinelli's desk.
"Ms. Martinelli," he said as she looked up, "what is your first name?"
"Why, Jeanne, Mr. President."
"Good. I noticed that first day that Milstead and others called you Ms, Martinelli, so I've been following their example. But as frequently as I speak to you, I'd rather call you 'Jeanne.' If that's all right with you."
"That's fine, sir. You can call me Jeanne if you prefer. I suppose the others call me 'Ms. Martinelli' because President Donnelly did."
"Good. Jeanne, get General Cromwell on the phone for me."
"Certainly, sir. And sir, Mr. Okada asked to talk to you as soon as practical."
"Okay, I'll take him first."
He went into his off
ice wondering what she'd say if he invited her to call him Arne. No point in breaking needlessly with tradition though. He hadn't sat down yet when she buzzed him. "Mr. Okada was across the street, sir. At the Executive Office Building. He should be here in three or four minutes."
"Thanks." Haugen's eyes moved to the clock and he sat back to wait. There was a moving-belt underground walkway from the Executive Office Building; three or four minutes was a reasonable prediction.
Actually it took three minutes and twenty seconds for his press secretary to arrive.
"Good morning, Mr. President."
"Good morning, Lester. What is it you want?"
"The White House press corps is pretty eager to find out what you've been doing; they've been after me about it, actually. And it occurred to me that it might be good public relations if I could schedule a press conference for you.
Haugen frowned. "What do you mean, they've been after you?"
"Their spokesman, their pipeline to me, is Frederick Rohmer of the AP. He called me at seven this morning and said they want to hear your reaction to the Soviet invasion of Iran."
"What did you tell him?"
"I told him I hadn't had a chance to talk to you about it yet." Okada paused, clearly not done yet. "You could brief me, of course, or have Mr. Milstead brief me..."
The president was frowning: The Secret Service would shit a brick if he let the press back into the White House. "Where would a press conference be held?"
"I've arranged for a room across the street to be available for presidential press conferences. When I talk to them, I go to the temporary press area in the Quaker Hotel."
"Okay. Tell them I'll talk to them across the street at—" Haugen looked at the clock. "At eight-thirty."
"This morning?" Okada was clearly startled.
"Why not?"
"Well, it's already five after eight."
"They'll just have to hustle around and get there. It's feasible for them, isn't it?"
"It would be calling it pretty closely sir, for the television coverage. But what I meant, sir, is—That doesn't give you any time to prepare. Briefings and so forth."