Executive Actions

by Gary Grossman

  Seconds later the SAM sites were obliterated by the Hellfires. The same for their radar installations.

  “Opposition sidelined,” sqawked Rupp.

  Coons cut in, “Four blocked field goals.”

  “Heading back to the showers. Fullback has the ball for coach,” chimed in Cpt. Coons from his Black Hawk.

  Ground radar painted them three more times on the return leg. The installations were quickly turned to smoldering cinder blocks when their radar was answered by the deadly force of the aptly named Hell-fires. No more Libyan SAM’s gave them trouble after that.

  CHAPTER

  60

  Tripoli, Libya

  0216 hrs

  “What do you mean?” screamed Fadi Kharrazi. “Who came? From where? How?”

  The self-appointed heir apparent expected better from his aide, Lakhdar al-Nassar. Al-Nassar was lucky for now that he was on the telephone and not facing Fadi in person.

  “They came in on helicopters and went through the windows.”

  “Who came?”

  “It had to be Americans.”

  “And the building guards. Exactly where were they?”

  “Downstairs.” He decided to add, “Like always. But they were cut off. Four were killed, more on the street in an armored vehicle. By the time the rest made it to the top floor it was all over.”

  “What was over?”

  “The break-in.” Al-Nassar smiled. “But good news. All they took were some files.”

  “What files? Tell me in the name of the Prophet what they took!”

  “I don’t know. The guards who got there just said the file cabinets were ransacked.”

  “Which ones?” But Fadi knew the answer even if al-Nassar was too stupid to figure it out.

  The chaos on the Tripoli streets successfully stalled General Kharrazi’s troops. The single armored vehicle that did get through had been taken out. No others made it across the debris field in time. It had all been too quick.

  Vinnie D’Angelo slipped into the busy street scene and disappeared. But he had one more bit of business. Purely personal. He knew exactly where Secret Police Major Yassar Hevit lived and where he would die.

  Sami Ben Ali followed his pre-arranged escape route, not waiting another moment. He was finally going home, vowing never to return.

  One hour later the Black Hawks carrying the Special Ops team touched down on the USS Carl Vinson. The Apaches landed three minutes later, followed by the four F/A-18C’s.

  The cameras kept rolling. A Secret Service officer took over Aplen and Recht’s video cameras assuring uninterrupted coverage to the CommCenter. Smiles, handshakes and high-fives greeted the Special Ops team.

  A Navy detail led Roarke through a maze of corridors. No one offered to take the files from him. They didn’t know what he was holding, but rumors had spread that it was explosive.

  Roarke and the accompanying vid ops entered a heavily guarded conference room at a running clip. It was brightly lit for optimum video coverage and completely mic’d for sound.

  Three six-foot-long folding tables draped with white table clothes formed a U-shape in the room. Men and women were at each, with a pile of books Roarke presumed to be foreign dictionaries. Two copy machines were humming against the back wall. Two scanners and a pair of printers were also on-line. A grease board marked Assumptions/Strategies hung at the head of the room. A forth table with food was in the far corner.

  “Scott! So good to see you.” The first words were from President Taylor who greeted him with a sincere and gratifying bear hug.

  Roarke let out a sigh and allowed his body to relax. “I felt like an old man out there.”

  “Well, you don’t look too worse for the wear,” the president said to Roarke. “Then again…”

  “Someone had to do the heavy lifting,” Roarke joked.

  “And while we’re on the subject, let’s take that package off your hands.”

  “Be my guest.” Roarke handed over the backpack. At the same time, four Secret Service agents brought in backpacks carrying the rest of the material snatched from Fadi’s offices.

  “Thank you, Scott. Let’s give it to some people who can make more out of it.”

  The president passed the signed and sealed parcel to Jack Evans, who in turn opened it in view of an overhead camera.

  “Now, Scott, while they’re getting started, how about some coffee. There’s also cold cuts from the mess. What’s your pleasure?”

  “I’ll just go for the java, sir.”

  The president nodded and walked Roarke over to the food table.

  “What’s the situation? Are we gonna make it in time, boss?” It was already very early in the morning of January 20th in the Mediterranean. But the time difference was on their side. Washington was seven hours behind. It was still evening on the 19th.

  “We have sixty-eight minutes to wheels up,” the president explained. He didn’t tell them that the weather wasn’t going to hold much longer. They had to get back to Washington. “First to Ramstein. Then we’ll high tail it to Andrews on Air Force One. We’ll be home by oh-eight-hundred local time. It’ll be tight and we’ve got a helluva lot to pour through before we go.”

  By pouring through, Taylor meant translating. He had Arabic and Russian experts from the NSA waiting at two of the tables. Everyone wore a microphone, feeding discreet audio channels to multi-track DAT machines. Every word they said or read would be part of the record.

  “Any idea what’s really there?” Roarke asked.

  “Probably more than we counted on. We’ll know soon enough.”

  “And then?”

  “Then we do everything we can to stop this. I have the attorney general working up legal precedent.”

  Roarke swallowed hard. “Sir…”

  Roarke’s unusual use of “sir” immediately put the President on alert.

  “You should know I also have someone on it.” He had to tell the president what he had done; which was a direct violation of his security clearance.

  “Mr. President,” he continued.

  Taylor thought that something was way out of line. Sir and now Mr. President?

  “My lawyer friend may be further along in that research than the AG.”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “Sir, my decision. The woman in Boston…”

  “Who?”

  “Kessler. The woman at Marcus’ law firm. The one I’m seeing…”

  “You did what?”

  “I told her…confidentially.”

  “You risked the entire security of the operation?” the president shouted right into Roarke’s face.

  People couldn’t avoid overhearing the president.

  “I trust her. And I ask you to trust her, too.”

  “I could have you arrested on the spot.”

  Other members of the president’s Secret Service team stepped closer. Morgan Taylor nodded for them to stay away.

  “Mr. President, I believe she can help us. Give her the chance. Let her present what she has to the AG.”

  Morgan Taylor, still inches from Roarke, studied his eyes; the eyes of a man he also trusted with his life. “Roarke, you realize you’ve broken the law?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And willfully?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Morgan Taylor continued to look deeply into Roarke’s eyes. Finally, he relaxed his stance.

  “And you think she’s that good?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Stay right here. Don’t move a muscle.”

  Morgan Taylor went directly to a secure phone across the room. Roarke, watching him, now prayed that he was right about Katie. The president talked for two minutes then hung up.

  Taylor then motioned to O’Connell to join him across the room. He mouthed the words, “Come meet someone.” It was Roarke.

  Without explaining anything about the last few minutes, the president launched into a casual introduction. “Mr. O’Connell,
this is Scott Roarke, Secret Service. He’s going to fill you in on what went down.” Roarke nearly choked on his sandwich.

  “But sir,” he complained without going further.

  “We’re going to release the videotapes, Scott. He might as well have the details first hand.”

  Then the president told O’Connell, “But no names, O’Connell. He’s simply a member of the Special Forces team. Is that okay?”

  “Is that all?”

  “Yes,” Taylor answered.

  “I can live with that.”

  “Thank you. Now if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen. I’ve got some reading to do. The translations are going to be coming fast.”

  “But Mr. President,” Roarke said trying to get him to stay.

  “Yes?”

  “What we were talking about a moment ago. Then the call you made.”

  “We’ll discuss it later, Scott. Right now, do as you’re told.” It was an obvious slam.

  Taylor left Roarke and O’Connell together. They took two seats in a corner near the door. Roarke, visibly on guard, kept his distance.

  “I saw you on the tape.”

  “Yeah.”

  This one’s gonna be like pulling teeth, the reporter thought. He had no idea they’d talked before.

  “Did you expect opposition?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many Libyans did your team engage?”

  Roarke took immediate exception to the question. “I believe that’s classified,” he said without expression.

  “I can find out later,” O’Connell responded.

  “Your prerogative.”

  “On the way back? What did you encounter?”

  Roarke had the same answer, only shorter. “Classified.”

  “Look, as you heard, you have permission to speak with me. I’d appreciate some cooperation.” O’Connell added a sincere, “Please.”

  Roarke caught the president’s eye who recognized he’d left his man squirming. “Okay, Mr. O’Connell. The basic facts. Four SAM’s were up our ass. Four SAM’s scratched.”

  “On who’s authority?”

  “The Authorization for Use of Military Force Joint Resolution. Senate Joint Resolution 23. Signed by President George W. Bush, 18 September 2001.” He paused. “If I remember correctly.”

  “Which means?”

  “Which means, Mr. Connolly, that the president can take necessary and appropriate actions to insure that the United States can exercise its rights to self-defense and to protect its citizens against unusual and extraordinary threats to the national security and foreign policy of the United States. In plain English it means the president has the authority under the Constitution to take action to deter and prevent acts of international terrorism against the United States.”

  “Come on,” he said playing devil’s advocate. “Do you believe there was enough proof to invoke such extreme means?

  “Enough proof to put us in country?”

  “That’s my question.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you had this proof?”

  “I did.”

  “And where did you get it?”

  Roarke’s antagonism now dissolved. He suddenly realized why Taylor allowed him to speak with the reporter directly. Payback time. He grinned through his response. “As a matter of fact, Mr. O’Connell, I got it from you.”

  O’Connell’s pen slid across the paper right off the page. “From me?”

  “From you.”

  “How? I never gave you anything.”

  “Yes you did. A photograph.”

  “I don’t understand…”

  “From a barbershop,” Roarke explained. “In Marblehead, Massachusetts. You found it for me.”

  O’Connell’s mouth opened wide in utter shock.

  “You?” the Times writer finally managed.

  “Yes. Perhaps I called you under somewhat false pretenses. I said I was with the convention.”

  “You?” O’Connell asked incredulously again.

  “Me.”

  “You’re a sonofabitch.”

  “That’s me. And you should have checked your sources.”

  “You used me. You fucking used me!”

  “So did Lodge. But I used you to undo the damage he had you doing. And I gave you something in return. Information on Newman, remember?”

  “Yes, but…”

  “And now you’re here because you’re going to tell the truth, Mr. O’Connell.”

  The reporter closed his eyes. It seemed everyone used him. When he opened his eyes he nodded, finally understanding why he’d gotten the call from the president.

  “It’s Roarke?” he asked without any edge in his voice.

  “Yes. Scott Roarke.”

  “I guess you had me at a disadvantage.”

  “No more than the rest of the country’s been.”

  “Point taken. Tell me one thing.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “How did that picture make the difference.”

  Roarke beamed. He tested the strength of his chair, leaned back and put his feet on the table. “Well, let me explain all about a man named Touch Parsons and the particular skills he has.”

  This was supposed to be his day. The third circled date in his calendar. The inaugural of the new president of the United States—his president. But it had all gone wrong.

  Fadi Kharrazi tore the calendar to shreds and cursed Morgan Taylor. He cursed his dying father for making him a rival with his brother. He cursed his mother for bearing Abahar. And he cursed his brother Abahar, supposedly—the brilliant one, the more magnificent one—for living.

  The best thing that could happen was for everything to remain quiet. Perhaps Taylor would have the presence of mind not to create an international crisis. However, he couldn’t assume that. Depending upon how the events played out, his brother could try to assassinate him. If circumstances were reversed that’s what he would do.

  Fadi needed a strategy and a scapegoat. First he would have a personal conversation with his father to explain the attack, leaving out key details, then ask him to round up some spies. That useless al-Nassar for one. The Arab world was familiar with CIA-conspired plots. This would be the Mother of them All. Then he would plant a news story expressing his outrage. Finally, he would phone his loving brother and claim how he was about to be framed.

  But there was one international call he had to make first. A call to Florida.

  Fisher Island, Florida

  Ibrahim Haddad’s nightmares. They had told as much as the man ranting on the phone in Arabic. He instantly gathered the gist of the outburst.

  Haddad slammed his phone down without saying a word after “Hello” and went to his computer. He had one more message to send out.

  CHAPTER

  61

  Washington, D.C.

  Monday 19 January

  11:58 P.M. ET

  Washington belonged to Teddy Lodge. An army of Lodge supporters had descended days earlier for the pre-Inaugural dinners, parties and fireworks. Now, all told, probably 450,000 admirers and string-alongs were in town for the revelry. Close to a half million spenders. Washington was happy.

  Another two thousand reporters were on hand to cover everything from the important to the uneventful. In the past two weeks, they’d devoted an enormous amount of coverage to the president-elect’s prospective cabinet appointees. Lodge himself called local talk shows to push his team and his agenda. He handled unknown callers like they were lifelong friends. They loved him.

  Lodge also appeared supremely confident on the morning network news shows, laughing his way through softball questions. The customary honeymoon had begun.

  A few reporters took snipes at Morgan Taylor for dropping off the radar scope. But most Americans showed almost no interest in the the outgoing president.

  This was exactly what President Taylor had counted on.

  “Hello?” the vice president-elect said as he answered the phone in his suite at the W
illard just down the street from the White House.

  “Henry, it’s Morgan. I hope I’m not disturbing your celebration.”

  “Why no, Mr. President,” he said as he put down his nightcap. “I’m just getting ready for bed. It’s going to be a full day tomorrow.”

  “Oh, it certainly will be. May I start it a bit earlier for you?”

  “Of course, but…”

  “I’d like to speak to you confidentially at the White House. Oh-eight-thirty. And Henry,” the president’s tone changed. “I do mean confidential.”

  “But, Mr. President…”

  “My way, Henry.”

  The governor was suddenly aware that the call had the distinctive echo of a mobile transmission, with a slight delay and a digital quality. He felt a rumble in his stomach. It was the kind he used to feel before battle. The governor finished his scotch with one gulp.

  “Your Secret Service detail will be at your door fifteen minutes before and lead you out.”

  “Morgan this sounds serious.”

  “Oh-eight-thirty, sharp!”

  The line went dead. Lamden poured himself another scotch, taller than his first and wondered, What in God’s name is going on?

  Aboard Air Force One

  The president, wearing a Navy flight jacket and faded blue jeans, sat at his desk in the forward compartment of Air Force One. He and his two most trusted associates. Bernsie and Jack Evans, were reading English translations of the Ashab al-Kahf—People of the Cave—pages delivered to them by the CIA translators. The portions that dealt with Andropov Institute were the most intriguing.

  The original of each page was copied onto the back of the typed translation. Then the English side was signed and dated by two people—the translator and J3—to confirm authenticity. Many of the pages were typed on original Andropov letterhead, the formal home of the Red Banner curriculum.

  Taylor made specific notes in the columns of various pages and wrote general thoughts on a yellow legal pad. Undoubtedly, this would be his last flight in Air Force One. He was making every minute count.