By Order of the President

by W. E. B Griffin

  There were also a half dozen mechanics whose primary function was the folding of Little Bird rotor blades, loading the Little Birds onto the C-17, and then unloading them, unfolding the rotor blades, and making sure they were safe to fly when the C-17 touched down. There were also two avionics technicians to make sure everything electronic on the Little Birds was functioning properly and two armorers to handle the weaponry. The technicians, too, were all fully qualified Special Forces soldiers, and when the Little Birds had taken off they, too, would switch to being shooters and establish a perimeter guard around the Globemaster.

  Just about everybody was drinking a Coke or a 7UP or munching on an ice-cream bar on a stick or wolfing down a hot dog heated in one of two microwave ovens that were carried along routinely even if they didn’t appear on any list of equipment.

  The base exchange at Hurlburt had had a good day. General McNab would not have been at all surprised if some of the plastic coolers from the exchange held six, maybe eight, cases of beer on ice. He hadn’t asked or looked, nor was he worried. His people were pros; they wouldn’t take a sip until the job was done.

  And three-quarters of the way down the cargo bay, on the only upholstered chair in the bay, a Gray Fox special operator sat before a fold-down shelf that held one of onetime sergeant Aloysius Francis Casey’s latest communications devices.

  He had just stuffed perhaps a third of a chili-and-onion dog in his mouth when he saw General McNab walking toward him. He started to chew furiously as he started to stand up.

  McNab signaled for him to keep his seat and waited for him to finish chewing.

  “I understand we’re having a little communications problem, Sergeant Kensington,” General McNab said.

  “Yes, sir?” Kensington replied, momentarily confused at first, then following.

  “Everything but imagery is down, I understand?”

  Sergeant Kensington turned to the control panel and flipped switches. Green LEDs went out as he did so.

  “Yes, sir, nothing’s green but imagery.”

  “Well, you never can really predict when these things are going to work and when they’re not, can you?”

  “No, sir, you never really can.”

  McNab touched his shoulder, smiled at him, and walked forward in the cargo bay. He caught the eye of one of the CWO-5s, a massive—well over six feet and two hundred pounds—black man named Shine, whose bald skull re flected light and was thus logically known to his peers as “Shiny Shine,” and motioned him over.

  “A no-bullshit-the-general answer, Shine,” McNab said. “Once I give you the coordinates, how long will it take you to program the computers?”

  “Sir, that’s done. We can be in the air in no more than ten minutes after the door opens.”

  “You never listen to me, Shine. That’s probably why you’re not a general.”

  “We’re not going to Suriname, General?”

  “I didn’t say that, Shine.”

  “Come on, boss, I have to know. I’ve got a bag full of CDs of approaches to South American airfields. Maybe one of them’s what you need. If so, all I’ll need is fifteen minutes to reprogram. Otherwise it’ll take me an hour, maybe a little more.”

  “You got anything in your bag for Costa Rica, by chance?”

  “I don’t know, boss. I’ll have to check.”

  “Why don’t you do that? And let me know.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Keep it as quiet as you can.”

  “When they see me going in the bag, they’ll know something is up.”

  “Let them worry; it’ll keep them on their toes.”

  “You’re a badass, General,” Mr. Shine said, smiling. “With all possible respect, sir.”

  McNab walked farther forward in the cargo bay, opened one of the white plastic coolers, took out a hot dog, a roll, put the hot dog in the roll, spread it heavily with chili and chopped onions, and put it into one of the microwave ovens.

  [FOUR]

  The Oval Office The White House 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW Washington, D.C. 1120 10 June 2005

  “His plate is pretty full,” the chief of staff to the president of the United States said to the secretary of homeland security. “Is this going to take long?”

  Matthew Hall gave the appearance of someone who was annoyed, had been about to say something unpleasant, but had changed his mind and instead said something else.

  “Is Natalie Cohen in there?” he asked. “If she’s not, send for her.”

  He then opened the door to the Oval Office and went in, denying the chief of staff his privilege of going in first to announce him.

  The president was sitting in one of two upholstered chairs facing a coffee table. Secretary of Defense Frederick K. Beiderman was sitting on the couch on the other side of the coffee table. The president looked up from pouring coffee.

  “Speak of the devil,” the president said. “How did things go in Philadelphia? Do we have one highly pissed off mayor on our hands?”

  “We’re probably going to have one, Mr. President,” Hall said.

  “You couldn’t convince him that the problem is under control? ”

  “With some difficulty, sir, I think I did. The problem is . . . the problem is that the problem is not under control.”

  “There’s been a problem neutralizing the airplane in Suriname? I didn’t think they’d even had time to get there.”

  “The airplane in Suriname is not the 727 the terrorists have, Mr. President,” Hall said.

  “What?” the president asked, incredulously.

  “Tell that to the DCI,” Beiderman said. “He even has a visual from a CIA agent down there.”

  “I intend to tell the DCI, Fred,” Hall said, pointedly. “But I thought the president should hear it first.”

  “Where are you getting your information, Matt? From the Russian?”

  “From the Russian, yes, sir. Via Major Castillo. But there’s more, sir.”

  “What more?”

  “We’ve made . . . I don’t know why I said ‘we.’ I had nothing to do with it. When I heard this first from Castillo, frankly I was as dubious as you, Mr. President, but, then, when I heard everything I became a convert.”

  “What ‘everything’?” the president asked, impatiently.

  “The Philadelphia police—with the at first somewhat reluctant help of the FBI—have identified the people who stole the airplane. Pevsner said they were Somalians and they are. They were in Philadelphia as mullahs and the counterterrorism people there took their pictures and made a positive ID . . .”

  “Made a positive ID of who?” Dr. Natalie Cohen asked, entering the room. “I presume I’m invited to this meeting?”

  “You’re invited but you’re probably not going to like it,” the president said.

  “Mr. President,” Hall continued, “I’ve got Major Miller and a Philadelphia police counterterrorism officer, Sergeant Schneider, with me. I think maybe if you heard all this from them, it would be better than . . .”

  “Bring them on,” the president ordered, impatiently, then asked, “The same Major Miller?”

  “Yes, sir. He’s been in Philadelphia . . .”

  The president gestured impatiently for Hall to bring them in.

  Hall went to the door.

  “Mr. President,” the chief of staff said the moment it opened, “you’ve got the Speaker in ten minutes.”

  “Stall him,” the president ordered.

  “Will you come in, please?” Hall called.

  First, Sergeant Betty Schneider and then Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., who was in civilian clothing, entered the Oval Office. Both were visibly nervous.

  “Good morning,” Dr. Cohen said, approaching them with her right hand extended. “My name is Natalie Cohen. Thank you for coming. I expect you recognize the president. The gentleman with him is Secretary of Defense Beiderman.”

  The president, who had risen from his chair when Cohen came into the office, walked to Betty Schneide
r and put out his hand.

  “We’re all anxious to hear what you have to tell us,” he said with a warm smile, and added, as he gave his hand to Miller, “what the both of you have to tell us. And I’ve been anxious to meet you, Major.”

  Both said, “Yes, sir.”

  “You take it, Betty,” Miller ordered. “I’ll fill in.”

  “I’m very sorry but I have to go to the restroom,” Betty Schneider said. “Right now.”

  “Just come with me, dear,” Dr. Cohen said and led her through a door.

  In under a minute, the national security advisor was back. “Nobody thinks that’s funny, right?” she challenged. “Good. Okay, Major, you’re up.”

  Miller exhaled audibly. “I’ll take it from the top,” he began. “From the beginning, we thought there might be a Philadelphia connection. It came together one piece at a time, starting with the fact that the 727 is owned by Lease-Aire in Philadelphia. And then Castillo’s Russian told him in Vienna ..."

  “Castillo’s Russian?” the president chuckled.

  “Yes, sir. I regret the choice of words.”

  “I shouldn’t have interrupted you,” the president said. “Please go on.”

  “The Russian national sometimes known as Aleksandr Pevsner,” Miller began again, this time more formally, “who made contact with Major Castillo in Vienna told Major Castillo he believed there was a Philadelphia connection, although he gave no reason.

  “But as one item of intel after another Castillo got from Pevsner—that the airplane was in Chad, for example, that it had been repainted with Suriname registry numbers— proved to be accurate, Castillo began to place more credence in the Philadelphia connection theory.

  “It was there, but at first we didn’t know where to look for it . . .”

  “You’re saying, Major, that the information this man Pevsner has provided has been both accurate and valuable?” Beiderman interrupted.

  “Yes, sir. Everything he’s told us so far has been right on the money. There is just no reason not to believe the latest intel he’s given us.”

  “Which is?” Natalie Cohen asked, softly.

  “That’s right, you came in after the movie started, didn’t you?” the president said. “The last tidbit from Castillo’s Russian is that we are about to violate the sovereign territory and airspace of Suriname and neutralize the wrong airplane. ”

  “My God!” Cohen said. “Where’s the one we’re looking for, if it’s not in Suriname?”

  “Somewhere in Costa Rica, ma’am,” Miller said. “With a new identity.”

  “Wow!” Dr. Cohen said.

  Sergeant Betty Schneider came into the room.

  “I’m very sorry,” she said. “And more than a little embarrassed. ”

  “Don’t be silly,” the president said. “That happens all the time to Matt Hall. Every time he suspects that I’m displeased with him . . .”

  “Jesus!” Hall said.

  Dr. Cohen looked at the president in disbelief, shook her head, then smiled, and finally giggled.

  Betty Schneider looked at her and then the president with enormous relief.

  “The major was about to tell us . . . all right if I call you ‘Betty’?” Cohen asked.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Betty, the major was about to tell us what you think these people are going to do with the airplane and exactly how they plan to do it,” Cohen said. “Why don’t you give it a shot?”

  Betty gathered her thoughts—not as completely as she thought she had—and began, “Well, when Charley called from Mexico . . .”

  “ ‘Charley’ being Major Castillo?” the president interrupted.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And what’s he doing in Mexico?” the president asked, almost rhetorically.

  “He was in Cozumel, Mr. President,” Hall said. “At the moment, he’s on his way to Costa Rica. Same purpose: Finding and neutralizing the airplane.”

  “Dumb question,” the president said.

  “How’s he moving around?” Cohen asked. “I’m concerned about airspace, territorial violations.”

  “His family has an airplane, a Lear 45XR,” Hall said. “He borrowed that.”

  “His family has a 45XR? No wonder he can afford to live in the Mayflower,” Dr. Cohen said.

  “It also probably has something to do with his Secret Service code name,” the president said.

  “Excuse me?” Dr. Cohen asked.

  “Don Juan,” the president said, obviously pleased with himself. Then he saw Dr. Cohen’s face and that she was obviously not amused and looked at Sergeant Schneider and went on: “What about when he called from Mexico, Betty?”

  “When Castillo told Major Miller and I to go to the airport and find out what airlines regularly flew into Philly from Costa Rica,” Betty replied, “I played a hunch and got lucky and called Terrence Halloran, who owns Lease-Aire, who owns the missing 727, and asked him what he knew about Costa Rican airlines flying into Philly. He knew of one right away. He’d sold a 727 to an outfit called Costa Rican Air Transport. They fly wholesale flowers, grown down there, into Philly at least once a week. They sell them in supermarkets. ”

  “The Somalians are going to substitute the stolen airplane for a legitimate Costa Rican airplane?” Dr. Cohen asked.

  “Right, Natalie,” Hall said. “Castillo told me the Russian told him that the airplane was flown from Africa to a private field in Venezuela, near Lake Maracaibo, and given new numbers—Costa Rican numbers—there.”

  “Castillo’s Russian is a virtual cornucopia of useful, reliable information, isn’t he?” the president said, not at all pleasantly. “How nice if we could say the same about the CIA.”

  No one said anything for a moment

  Miller finally broke the silence. “There’s more, Mr. President. They pass through customs at Tampa on their way to Philadelphia, which means when they move on to Philadelphia they’re a domestic flight, not an international flight. And they’ll have clearance to approach the Philadelphia airport. ”

  “It’s what we cops call circumstantial, Mr. President,” Betty said, now having lost her nervousness. “No positive, concrete, take-it-to-the-bank proof, but everything fits . . .”

  The president raised his hand in a signal to stop.

  “Fred,” the president ordered, “call off the invasion of Suriname.”

  “Call it off, Mr. President?” Secretary of Defense Beiderman asked. “A complete stand-down?”

  “I don’t want those F-15s shooting down a Surinamese airplane. I don’t care what you call it, just see that it’s done.”

  “Yes, Mr. President,” Beiderman said and walked toward a credenza that held two telephones.

  “Or the CIA blowing one up on the ground,” the president went on as if to himself. He picked up a telephone handset from the coffee table, said, “Get me the DCI. I’ll hold.”

  It took less than twenty seconds to get the director of Central Intelligence on the line.

  “This is the president, John. Now, listen carefully, as I have time neither to repeat myself nor explain nor debate it. I want no action of any kind taken in Suriname. None. Period. I’ll get back with you shortly and explain this, but, right now, I want you to call off whatever you may have planned. Thank you.”

  He hung up.

  He exhaled, looked around the room, smiled at Sergeant Schneider and Major Miller, and then had another thought, which caused the smile to fade.

  “And how did the mayor of Philadelphia react on being informed that we still have a little problem with the Liberty Bell?” he asked.

  “I didn’t tell him, Mr. President,” Matt Hall said. “He would have immediately gone on TV and ordered the evacuation of Center City Philadelphia.”

  “Jesus!” the president said. “Well, he’s going to find out sooner or later. How do we deal with that?”

  “There’s no reason he ever has to find out, Mr. President, ” Hall said.

  The president’
s eyebrows rose in surprise and it was a moment before he asked, “Presuming we can neutralize the real airplane, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Worst-case scenario, the airplane leaves Costa Rica and makes it to Tampa, where we grab it on the ground,” Hall said.

  “That presumes they won’t have a change of mind en route and fly it into a cruise ship parked in Miami Harbor, Disney World, or some other target that makes about as much sense. We have to do better than that, Matt,” the president said.

  “Shoot it down the minute it leaves Costa Rica,” Beiderman said. “Over international waters.”

  “What we are going to try to do,” the president said, “is quietly neutralize it on the ground in Costa Rica. I emphasize the word quietly. Is there any reason Gray Fox can’t be trusted to do that?”

  “Presuming we can find the airplane in Costa Rica, no, sir.”

  “Gray Fox is presently airborne on its way to Suriname, Mr. President,” Secretary Beiderman said.

  “I called the invasion of Suriname off,” the president said, and now there was a very nasty tone in his voice. “Weren’t you here when I gave that order, Fred?”

  “Sir, normally we have instantaneous communication with a Gray Fox transport. But, at the moment, there’s a glitch. It happens, sir. Sunspots . . . other things.”

  “You mean we are not in contact with Gray Fox?”

  “For the moment, no, sir.”

  “How far is it away from Suriname?” the president asked.

  “Several hours, sir.”

  “Between now and the time it gets to Suriname, Mr. Secretary of Defense, I want you to get word to General McNab that he is to divert to Costa Rica, there to await further orders in connection with his original mission. Jesus Christ, Fred, send F-15s after him and force him to turn around if that becomes necessary.”

  “Yes, sir. Where in Costa Rica, Mr. President?”

  “General McNab is a resourceful fellow. Why don’t we let him decide that?”

  The door to the Oval Office opened.

  “Mr. President, the Speaker is here,” the chief of staff said.