By Order of the President

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Sure,” Torine said and smiled. “You seem to have a feeling for this line of work, Mr. Lopez.”

  “The way it is, Jake, is that Five-Oh-Seven-Five has unlimited, frequent, unscheduled permission to enter Mexican airspace. Usually, our destination is Mexico City, Oaxaca, or Bahias de Huatulco, but I don’t think alarm bells are going to go off when somebody reads our flight plan to Cozumel.”

  He saw the look of curiosity on Torine’s face and responded to it. “The family has a ranch near Bahias de Huatulco. Used to be cattle, but now it’s mostly grapefruit.”

  “I didn’t think Americans could own property in Mexico,” Torine said, and then quickly added, “I don’t mean to pry.”

  “You goddamned yankees can’t own land down here,” Fernando explained. “Which is why my mother happened to be in Mexico when I was born. That made me a Mexican by birth.”

  “Dual citizenship?”

  Fernando nodded and said, “So was our grandmother south of the border when Charley’s father came along. Charley screwed up the system when he got himself born in Germany, but two of my kids are also bona fide Mexicanos. We won’t tell them that until we have to.”

  Torine shook his head, smiling in wonder. “Why not?”

  “It causes identity problems,” Fernando said, chuckling. “And, sometimes, official ones. The Counterintelligence Corps shit a brick when they found out that Lieutenant F. Lopez of the 1st Armored Division held Mexican citizenship. For a couple of days, it looked like they were going to send me home from Desert One in handcuffs.”

  “What happened?”

  “Our senator told the secretary of the Army whose side the Lopezes were on at the Alamo,” Fernando said, chuckling. “And that Cousin Charley was a West Pointer, and his father—my uncle Jorge—had won the Medal of Honor in Vietnam, and that he didn’t see any problems about wondering where our loyalties lay.”

  “General McNab told me about Charley’s father,” Torine said.

  “He bought the farm before Charley and I were born,” Fernando said, “but he was always a big presence around the family. Our grandfather hung his picture—and the medal, in a shadow box—in his office. It’s still there. We knew all about him. He was right up there with Manuel Lopez and Guillermo de Castillo.”

  “Who were?”

  “They bought the farm at the Alamo,” Fernando said, and then went on, “Jake, why don’t you go back in the cabin and get out of the flight suit? And wake up Sleeping Beauty? I want to get our little act for Mexican customs and immigration straight with him.”

  Torine unfastened his harness and started to get out of the copilot’s seat.

  “Merida area control,” Fernando said into his microphone, “this is Lear Five-Zero-Seven-Five. I’m at flight level three-five-zero, indicating five hundred knots on a heading of two-zero-niner. International, direct Cozumel. Estimating Cozumel in ten minutes. Request approach and landing to Cozumel. We will require customs and immigration service on landing.”

  “The only problem we have is if customs wants a look at Sergeant Sherman’s suitcase,” Charley said. “How do we explain the radio?”

  “They might not want to,” Fernando said. “They have the flight plan; they’ll know we came from the States. People usually don’t try to smuggle things into Mexico. And if they seem to be getting curious, you have that envelope I gave you?”

  “Envelope?” Torine asked.

  “The cash-stuffed envelope, Jake. It usually makes Mexican customs officers very trusting,” Fernando said.

  [TWO]

  Office of the Commanding General United States Central Command MacDill Air Force Base Tampa, Florida 0935 10 June 2005

  When Sergeant Major Wes Suggins had gone into the office of the CentCom commander, General Allan Naylor, USA, to tell him that Frederick K. Beiderman, the secretary of defense, was on the secure line, Naylor, as he walked quickly to the phone booth, had signaled for Suggins to stay, which Suggins correctly interpreted to mean he was supposed to listen to as much of the conversation as he could overhear.

  Suggins complied by leaning on the doorjamb of the phone booth while Naylor was on the horn, and Naylor held the handset as far from his ear as he could and still hear the secretary.

  “Yes, Mr. Secretary, I’m sure we can handle this, and I will get back to you with how it’s going,” Naylor said, ending the conversation and thoughtfully replacing the handset in its cradle.

  He looked at Suggins.

  “I’m surprised that it took them this long to find it,” Sergeant Major Suggins said, “not that it took this long after they did decide to tell us to neutralize it.”

  Naylor grunted.

  “Is everybody here, Wes?”

  “Yes, sir. I even mentioned to General McFadden, after we got the ‘We found it’ message, that you would probably want to see him shortly. He was on his way to the golf course.”

  “A sound mind in a healthy body, Sergeant Major,” Naylor said. “Round ’em up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Just under five minutes later, what Suggins thought of as the “Heavy Brass” (General Albert McFadden, USAF, the CentCom deputy commander; Vice-Admiral Louis J. Warley, USN, the CentCom intelligence officer; and Lieutenant General George H. Potter, USA, the J-5 special operations officer) and the “Heavy Civilians” (Mr. Lawrence P. Fremont of the CIA and Mr. Brian Willis of the FBI) were all sitting around the conference table in Naylor’s office.

  The civilians, Suggins thought privately, weren’t really needed. The CIA and the FBI had done their job. The stolen 727 had been located, even if that had taken a hell of a lot longer than it should have. But if they had not been summoned, Suggins knew, they would have felt left out, and Suggins knew how important it was to Naylor that the civilians felt they were part of the team.

  General McFadden was even in uniform. Usually at this time of the morning, he was dressed for the links. It was his practice to come to his office early, read the overnight intel and messages, and then commence his physical training regimen. General officers were permitted to select their own method of physical exercise; McFadden had a permanently reserved 0845 tee time. Rank Hath Its Privileges.

  “I’ve just spoken with Secretary Beiderman,” General Naylor began. "CentCom has been tasked with neutralizing the stolen 727, which, as you all know, has been located at an airfield, Zandery, in Suriname. Secretary Beiderman made it clear that he wants this done as quietly as possible.”

  He looked around the conference table and had a sudden tangential thought.

  I’ll be damned. Here’s my chance to zing McFadden. And I almost blew it.

  “Let’s see,” Naylor asked, innocently, “who’s junior?”

  “I guess I am, General,” Brian Willis of the FBI said. “But I’d really like to defer to someone in uniform.”

  “I associate myself totally with my learned colleague,” Lawrence Fremont of the CIA said.

  There were chuckles. General Potter said, “Cowards!” “I guess you’re next up on the totem pole, right, Lou?” Naylor asked.

  “Only because the Navy refuses to appropriately acknowledge my talents,” Admiral Warley said.

  “Okay, Lou. How do we handle this?”

  “The first thing that occurs to me is putting an umbrella over the coast of Suriname, and, if this plane tries to go anywhere, we force it to return to Suriname.”

  “And if it refuses to return to Suriname?” Naylor asked.

  “Take it out, General,” Admiral Warley said.

  “Anything else?”

  “The umbrella is Step One. Step Two, in my judgment, would be to send McNab’s people in as backup in case the CIA is unable to quietly neutralize the airplane on the ground. I’m presuming you’re already working on that, right Larry?”

  “I don’t want to give the wrong impression when I say, ‘Sure we are,’ ” Lawrence Fremont of the CIA said. “We are, but I understand we have a one-man station there—he’s the guy who made the visual confi
rmation—and there’s not much he can do by himself. I’m sure help is on the way. No telling, frankly, how long that will take.”

  “Thank you, Larry,” Naylor said. “And now we will hear from the next-senior officer, General Potter. Is there any doubt in anyone’s mind that he will not suggest sending in the Peace Corps to reason with these people?”

  There were chuckles.

  “I agree with Admiral Warley that we send in McNab’s people . . .”

  “Why am I not surprised?” Naylor asked.

  “But not with his priorities. I think McNab—Gray Fox— has the experience to deal with this sort of situation. If you order it done quietly, that’s what you’ll get.”

  “That’s it?” Naylor asked.

  “Yes, sir,” General Potter said. “It looks like a no-brainer to me.”

  “And General McFadden?” Naylor asked.

  “I really have nothing to add, General,” General McFadden said.

  Is he saying that because he’s miffed at me? Or because there’s really nothing to say beyond what’s already been said? Potter’s right, this is a no-brainer.

  “Okay,” Naylor said. “Everyone seems agreed that we should send General McNab’s people—we’re talking about Gray Fox to neutralize the airplane—and as soon as possible put fighter aircraft in the area—not entering Suriname airspace, of course, but over the Atlantic outside Suriname territory in case the airplane takes off. Whereupon, they will intercept it and order it to return to Zandery. If they fail to comply, they will shoot it down. That about it?”

  He looked around the table. When his eyes met those of Admiral Warley, Warley said, “The Rules of Engagement, General? Are we going to give the pilots the authority to take the airplane down or do you want them to ask for permission? And from whom?”

  General Naylor looked at General McFadden.

  “Al?”

  “When I heard the CIA had found the 727,” General McFadden said, “I ordered an E-33down there. The nearest one was refueling at Guantanamo. They said it would take thirty minutes to get it in the air. That was about thirty minutes ago. So it’s probably wheels-up. It’s about eighteen hundredmiles from Gitmo down there. At a little better than five hundred knots, figure three hours twenty minutes. I also ordered up two KC-135s out of Barksdale.4Both are wheels-up, one headed down there and the other to Gitmo, where it will be on a ten-minute runway alert. I also have a four-plane flight of F-15s on a ten-minute runway alert at Eglin.5

  “Worst possible scenario: The 727 takes off in the next few minutes, whereupon we scramble the F-15s at Eglin to intercept. The intercept point would be about 150 miles south of Miami, a little south of Cuba. They could either order it to land at Gitmo or shoot it down.

  “The decision to do either would be in the hands of the pilot. For obvious reasons that’s risky. But there’s no other way to go until we get the E-3 there and up and running.

  “I admit this isn’t an ideal situation, but the truth is, we just weren’t set up to deal with an airplane sitting on a field in Zandery, Suriname.”

  “And the best possible scenario, Al?” Naylor asked.

  Naylor was impressed with the action McFadden had taken and felt a little guilty for having staged “the junior speaks first” business.

  “That would mean the airplane doesn’t try to go anywhere soon—in other words, before we can get the E-3 down there, which will give us both a more positive means of identification and communications here—in other words, take the shoot-it-down-or-not decision off the pilot’s shoulders and hand it to you. Then we get McNab’s people down there and they neutralize the airplane—quietly, very quietly —before it gets in the air. That’s possible, even if we shouldn’t count on it. By the time McNab can get a C-17, Little Birds, etcetera, to Hurlburt—which, obviously, won’tbe in the next hour or two—I should have heard from the CIA where he can set the C-17 down in Suriname.”

  “You’ve asked for that intel from the CIA?” Naylor asked.

  “I’m told, General,” Lawrence Fremont of the CIA said, “that it will take another couple of hours to get our man out to—and back from—an area about forty miles from the field that we show will take a C-17. But the data’s a couple of months old and we don’t want McNab to get there and find the field is either under water or filled with lumber or scrap metal.”

  “I must tell the both of you I’m impressed with all you’ve done,” General Naylor said. “Now, let’s hear what General McNab has to say. Get him on the secure line and put it on the speakerphone, please, Wes.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sergeant Major Suggins said and went into the Phone Booth, coming out in less than a minute. “You’re up, sir,” he said.

  “General McNab, please,” Naylor said.

  “Speaking, sir.”

  “You’ve been made aware the 727 has been found in Suriname?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, here’s where we stand. The secretary of defense has tasked CentCom to neutralize the airplane. Everyone here is agreed that Gray Fox is the way to do it. Backed up by Air Force fighters that will intercept the plane should it take off before you can get your people there and either force it to land in Suriname or shoot it down.”

  “In other words, sir, what you’re hoping is that a Gray Fox operation to keep the airplane on the ground could be put into play as soon as possible?”

  “Yes. You want to tell me how you would proceed?”

  “Actually, sir, it probably will be less difficult than it seems. We’re not going to have to land on a hostile airfield, for one thing, and I can’t imagine that they are going to have any meaningful forces defending the airplane. So what has to be done is to put a half-dozen Little Birds—two gunships, four troop carriers—in a C-17 with thirty men, wait until I know where I could sit down the C-17—I’ve asked DIA about possible landing areas; I haven’t heard back yet—and then go do it. ‘It’ is defined as anything from grabbing the airplane to blowing it up.”

  “You think you could take over the airplane, Scotty?”

  “I think that’s possible, sir. And that would be the best thing to do.”

  “This operation has to be done quietly, Scotty, you understand? ”

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  “Staging out of where?” General McFadden said. “Hurlburt? ”

  “Yes, sir. Was that General McFadden?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Sir, I’d appreciate any help you could provide about someplace to sit down the C-17.”

  “I’m working on it, Scotty. The CIA has someone—as we speak—confirming that a field about fifty miles from Zandery is usable. Between the CIA and the DIA, we should have confirmation shortly.”

  “Thank you, sir,” General McNab said.

  “Scotty, how long would it take you to get an adequate team of your people and the Little Birds to Hurlburt?”

  “Not long at all, sir.”

  “How much is ‘Not long at all’ in hours and minutes, Scotty?” Naylor asked. There was a tone of impatience in his voice.

  “As a matter of fact, sir, as we speak I’m in the shade of a C-17’s wing, watching the Gulf of Mexico lap on the sandy beaches of Hurlburt.”

  “Do I understand you to say, General,” Naylor asked, icily, “that you are at Hurlburt Field?”

  “Yes, sir. With six Little Birds and thirty stalwart special operators, waiting for your order to go.”

  “Who authorized you to go to Hurlburt, General?” Naylor asked, coldly furious.

  “Mr. Castillo suggested that if I organized the team and brought it to Hurlburt, it would save a good deal of time, sir. I could not fault his reasoning, sir, and acted accordingly.”

  “You are referring to Major Castillo, General?”

  “In a way, sir. But I have been calling him ‘Mister.’ That seemed appropriate, inasmuch as he was at Fort Bragg as the personal representative of the president, sir. And in civilian clothing.”

  “You’re a goddamned lie
utenant general, Scotty!” Naylor exploded. “And you don’t take goddamned ‘suggestions’ from a goddamned major! And you goddamn well know it!”

  “With all respect, sir, he’s not functioning as a major. The national security advisor made it quite clear on the telephone that he was coming to Bragg as the personal representative of the commander in chief, sir, and, as I said, sir, I have acted accordingly.”

  Naylor threw his hands up in outrage and disgust and looked around the room. The officers and civilians at the conference table were looking anywhere but at him. Sergeant Major Suggins was standing just inside the Phone Booth making signs with his hands, moving them between a gesture of prayer and a gesture meaning cool off.

  Naylor tried to collect himself, thinking, When you are angry, you make bad decisions in direct proportion to the level of your anger.

  You cannot afford to make a decision now you will regret later.

  That sonofabitch! I’ll nail his and Charley’s balls to the wall when this is over!

  “General McNab,” General Naylor ordered, “maintain your readiness to place this operation in action on my order. And only on my order.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And when this is over, you, Major Castillo, and I have a good deal to talk over.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Naylor looked around the table.

  “Does anyone else have anything for General McNab?” Naylor asked.

  “General McNab,” General McFadden asked, “is Colonel Torine readily available?”

  “No, sir, he’s not.”

  “He went back to Charleston?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And are you going to tell me?”

  “Yes, sir. He should be in Cozumel about now.”

  “Cozumel? The island off the Yucatán Peninsula?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You don’t happen to know what he’s doing on a Caribbean island, do you?”

  “He went there with Mr. Castillo, sir. Mr. Castillo said he needed an expert in 727 series aircraft and Colonel Torine volunteered to go with him.”