“No,” Stovic said defensively. “He didn’t have me locked up.”
“Right. He had Commander Bruno locked up. And then he shut his radar off and turned away.” She looked up into his eyes to make sure he was getting her point. “To make sure his missile didn’t guide. He transmitted to his ground controller that his missile came off the rail in error. He squeezed the trigger when turning. He said he was turning away to disengage when you shot his wingman.”
Stovic didn’t know what to say. “You buy that? You think his master arm switch just happened to be on? Was that a mistake too?”
“Does the MiG-25 have a master arm switch?” she asked, making a note.
“Sure as hell,” Stovic replied. “Sorry. I’ve got no sympathy. Anybody that goes into a fight—even an intercept with a fighter from another country—with his master arm on is taking the risk of an accidental shot. That’s just too bad for him.” He shrugged. “That’s the way things go in the major leagues. When you throw at a batter’s head, you might just get hit yourself. Even if the ball just got away from you.” He turned to go back into the ready room. “The guy should’ve jumped out earlier.”
“He couldn’t,” Harrow replied.
“Why not?” Stovic frowned. Suddenly hot, he rolled up the sleeves on his olive flight suit, the same one he had been wearing during the shoot-down.
“His seat failed. He was burning to death, so he jumped out. He hit the water right after his jet. They’re trying to recover the body.”
Stovic closed his eyes and nearly laughed. Unbelievable. Hero to goat in eight short hours. “Thanks for telling me. You really made my day.”
“I thought you’d want to know what happened,” Harrow said.
Stovic was about to say something he would regret. He held his tongue, walked quickly back into the ready room and down the row to his still warm seat. No one could see that his ears were red from embarrassment and humiliation.
“Rewind!” Bruno yelled to the duty officer, who was about to do just that when the ready room phone rang again. He answered it, argued with the person on the other line, then nodded vigorously as he looked at his luminous watch dial for the current time. He placed the receiver back on its cradle and stood at his duty desk. He yelled to Stovic, “Animal! CAG wants to see you!”
Stovic’s blood went cold. “What for?” he asked weakly. The others laughed and slapped him as he made his way down the row again.
“Get this,” Grubby said, getting everyone’s attention as he turned down Arnold’s carnage. “Today show sent a message. They want you on in two days, and CAG is flying you off to Rota, Spain, to head back to New York!”
“Whoa!” the officers yelled.
Bruno stood and shook his hand. “Hero for a day!” he said, smiling. “The Ragin’ Bulls will be watching!”
You were saying?” Kendrick said to St. John, who was running the meeting, much to the distress of Stuntz, the Secretary of Defense, and Woods, the Director of Central Intelligence.
“Yes, sir. We’ve been hearing loudly and directly from Algeria,” she said, looking at Woods. “They are beyond furious. They are screaming we set them up, that we attacked after an inadvertent shot came off their plane, that they turned away and we took advantage of the situation to embarrass them. They say it is an act of war, a declaration of war on our part, and we had better be prepared for a response.”
“Or what?” Stuntz interjected. “What are they going to do? Send more of their crack Air Force out after the carrier battle group? Let them send them all. I hope like hell they do. This is nothing a sound ass-kicking won’t take care of, Mr. President. This new group of lunatics that has gotten control of the country needs to understand the penalty of playing recklessly with the big boys.”
Kendrick tried not to laugh. Stuntz was a great Secretary of Defense. He got everything organized, running smoothly, and ran the budget like a Swiss railroad, but he was over the top in his belief that force could solve any problem. “What penalty did you have in mind?”
“Well, the National Security Advisor a minute ago—if I heard her right, and I may not have—just suggested we pull back outside the two-hundred-mile limit. I say the hell with that. We should go in to the twelve-mile limit, the only recognized international waters limit, which is really three anyway, but for—”
“Stewart, what are you hearing?”
Woods waited until there was complete quiet. “We have good information that they are planning a strike against the carrier battle group. Probably at first light. They’re not much for flying at night anyway, but over the water? Never. We think they’re going to come after the Truman first thing in the morning.”
“What do they have that they could put in the air?”
“Some more MiG-25s, MiG-21s, MiG-23s, the usual Soviet fighters, but not that many of them.”
“Could the Truman handle them?”
Stuntz wanted to answer that. “If you don’t mind, Stewart?” Stuntz insisted.
Woods shook his head.
“Sir, the Truman almost certainly could handle it. With its battle group and antiair capability, they could take whatever Algeria wanted to bring. But there might be an American plane or two that would get lost, and there’s always the risk of a kamikaze type of attack. There would be some risk.”
“What is the other carrier relieving the Truman?”
“Eisenhower.”
“Can they handle it between them?”
“Almost certainly. But I think we just let that come. If they want to attack two American battle groups with their old MiGs? Let them. What we need to decide is whether to pull them outside this bogus two-hundred-mile limit. I vote a big hell no. Move them in closer. Stick their stupid noses in it.”
St. John was less sure. “There’s no additional risk, and it could easily be seen as a desire to give no further provocation—”
“Further?” Stuntz asked.
“Yes. Further. I told you going inside that limit would set them off. Well, it did.”
“So what?” Stuntz asked, amazed.
“So if we hadn’t done that, we wouldn’t be here now. The can of worms is open, but we don’t know what’s inside. These people have no track record. They could do anything.”
“And if they hadn’t set a silly, arbitrary limit, we wouldn’t have had to test them, would we?” Stuntz asked her.
“In any case, Mr. President, as your National Security Advisor, it is my belief that there is substantial additional risk in leaving the Navy ships within that limit, and virtually no benefit. We’ve made our point. There is great benefit in pulling them back a little, and no additional risk. I think we should take both carrier battle groups outside two hundred miles. Then if the Algerians come out, our carriers will see them coming from a long way away and can take whatever action is appropriate.”
“State?”
The Secretary of State, Richard Moore, thought for a while, then walked slowly to the front of the room and stood in front of the electronic chart. He was the oldest person there by at least ten years. “Mr. President, I think when teaching someone a lesson, it’s best to confine the learning to one subject. One thing at a time. Otherwise there could be confusion. Right now they are angry. Humiliated and angry. That is a dangerous combination. And although it’s not that big a lesson, it is a clear one. If that’s the picture you want, you should pull back now. If on the other hand you want to start a war with Algeria, then you should keep the carriers where they are.”
“How’s the diplomatic community responding?”
“Officially? They are disappointed in our provocative moves. In private, the Europeans at least say they would have done the same thing.”
“What about this idea that our pilot shot when he didn’t have to?”
Stuntz turned his head toward the President, sitting at the end of the table opposite the Secretary of State, who was still standing in front of the electronic chart. “Sir, I’ve personally reviewed the gun camera t
ape. It was sent back from the carrier. Everyone on my staff agrees—under the pressure of the moment, our pilot was justified in shooting. It met the criteria as a hostile act under the rules of engagement they have been using. Anything else is just academic. He was justified, and he shot. Nobody can second-guess him now.”
The President stood slowly. “I want hourly updates from intelligence and diplomatic traffic. This thing may heat up a lot, or it may cool down. If it heats up, it won’t be because of anything we have done. I want the Eisenhower to steam through the Strait of Gibraltar and rendezvous with the Truman. And tell both the battle groups to stay two hundred miles away from Algeria to the extent they are able. Stewart, how are we for the ability to collect intelligence on Algeria?”
“We’re in good shape, sir. Lots of things in place. Anything big coming, we should hear about it.”
Kendrick looked calm. “Then we’re right where we want to be,” he said.
* * *
Rat checked his pulse as he stepped off the treadmill. He much preferred running outdoors, through woods or by streams, but he had wanted to check out this civilian gym in D.C., which had the reputation of being an outstanding gym without too many politicos. Not too many obsessive staffers and interns beginning their idealistic little political careers.
The gym was three floors high, with free weights on the ground floor, exercise equipment on the second floor, and a track on the third floor. It was sparkling new and overall was the best gym he had ever seen. Rat had spent most of his time in small, smelly Navy gyms or packed into some forgotten corner of an amphibious ship where a universal gym had been crammed. He kept a log book recording every workout. It helped him keep a balanced program and kept him honest on the rare days when he didn’t feel like working out.
Rat rubbed the sweat off his arms with a small towel and saw the logo for a special report from Fox News emerge on the screen of the small television at the head of the treadmill. He quickly grabbed the light headphones and listened.
A man came on the screen. “We have a special report, an update on the shoot-down in the Med.”
Nice to have something catchy to call it, Rat thought.
“The Algerian government continues to express its outrage at what it calls the aggressive and unlawful conduct of the United States. It has called for an emergency meeting of the UN Security Council to discuss sanctions against the United States for violating Algerian airspace and attacking Algerian aircraft within that airspace.” The picture cut to a balding man standing before a blue curtain and a blue oval sign that said the pentagon and had a drawing of the building. The man was from the Department of Defense and was obviously answering questions at a press conference. He said, “The United States continues to believe in freedom of navigation on the high seas and in international airspace. The fact that someone claims it as their own contravenes international law and threatens international commerce. It will not be tolerated. The shoot-down was an unfortunate incident, but American forces are entitled to defend themselves when fired upon.”
The reporter continued. “There was rioting in the streets of Algeria tonight, with firebombs and bricks being thrown at the American embassy.” Taped pictures showed an angry mob hurling things over the fence around the embassy. Rat watched the back of the crowd to see if the anger was universal or mostly the few in the front of the swelling mob. The fury looked authentic, deep, and widespread.
“The Marines at the embassy are on full alert and are prepared to defend the embassy. The President and his national security staff are at Camp David and following developments very closely. It is unknown whether President Kendrick intends to cut his working vacation short and return to Washington to deal with this developing crisis or stay in Camp David.
“One thing that may ease tensions somewhat is that, according to a source in the Department of Defense, the American carriers are being pulled back behind the claimed two-hundred-mile limit. But although moving out of the disputed area is expected to ease tensions, Algeria wants compensation for the family of the dead pilot, replacement of its MiG fighter, an apology from the United States for intruding into its sovereign airspace, and a promise never to intrude again into the two-hundred-mile limit without permission of the government of Algeria.”
Rat had heard enough. He replaced the headphones on the treadmill and tossed his towel in a bin. Good old Algeria. He had been there often enough to know they would use this for all it was worth.
* * *
The next morning at 7:20 a.m., Ismael stared at the Today show on the small television on the table in his studio apartment. He watched in horrified fascination as the immaculate Navy pilot in his white uniform narrated the gun camera film from his Super Hornet. Ismael watched his brother’s MiG-25 turn back toward the Americans, do nothing aggressive at all, then get shot by the American pilot. He watched his brother spiral down to the water for what seemed like minutes. The Navy pilot spoke in a calm, clinical tone about what had happened. Ismael waited until he saw his brother’s plane splash into the water. He put the banana he had just peeled back on the plate and sat back in his rickety chair. The American pilot feigned humility and had meekly tried to deflect being called a hero. Smoke curled up from the toaster behind Ismael as the small slice of bread from the baguette he had bought that morning started to burn. When he turned off the television, his hand was shaking. He looked at his watch.
He pulled out a scrap of paper and wrote: “Lieutenant Ed Stovic. Virginia Beach.”
* * *
Sarah St. John was beginning to believe they had weathered the storm. As the sun prepared to rise over Washington, she sipped her coffee and reviewed the latest intelligence reports. Algeria continued to make threats and noise, continued to try to keep the attention of the international media focused on its claims of offense and violation, but it had been very careful to take no military steps at all; and in spite of the continuous mob presence outside the U.S. embassy, there had been no mob attack. Maybe Stuntz was right, she thought. Maybe the presence of the two battle groups during the hours and days right after the shoot-down was enough.
She glanced up as Brad Walker, a member of her staff, came in to give her the hard copies of the slides he planned to use for the morning’s intelligence brief. “Morning,” she said.
He sat down across from her in silence as she reviewed his presentation. He glanced at his watch. They didn’t really have time for major changes. She was a perfectionist, and he knew it. Anything that wiggled, that didn’t say what they thought, had to come out. Anything they couldn’t prove had to say so clearly. She had made it clear since taking her job as National Security Advisor that there would be no half-assed briefs, no “close-enough” attitudes. She took her job very seriously, and although she had been regarded skeptically by the lifelong professionals when she came in, she had impressed them. She was willing to listen, and she took what they knew and expanded on it. She handed the slides back to him. “These look good.” He began to get up, but she stopped him. “What’s your conclusion?”
He smiled. “Ah, you noticed the last slide only says ‘conclusion.’ “
She returned his smile. “Exactly.”
“Well, I think we’ve basically dodged the bullet. Algeria is now unable to do us harm. We’re back to normal, and they’ve had their opportunities to tell the world what they think. So on we go.”
“You think their shot was an accident?”
He nodded. “Yes. I do.”
“Wouldn’t that make it more likely that Algeria isn’t going to just let this sit?”
“They don’t have many options.”
She shook her head. “It’s the very sort of thing that might make them throw in behind the terrorists. They’ve been on the sidelines. Now they may do something stupid.”
“But we don’t have anything to fill in the gap. To tell them what we think is likely to happen.”
“No, we don’t,” she said, standing and putting on her suit coat. “But we
’ll mention it. Maybe it will start someone thinking.”
“Stuntz will be on the opposite side.”
“Of what?”
“Of whatever we say.”
She smiled. “You noticed.”
He stood to join her. “Oh yeah. I also noticed that you don’t think much of him.”
She didn’t say anything.
“Seems to me that you think he’s a dinosaur. You’re the new regime, and he’s old news. That about sum it up?”
“You are perceptive, aren’t you. We see things differently, true. But I also don’t trust his motives. He’s into empire building, which I despise. I’m motivated by the truth. By doing what’s best for the country.” They stepped out the door of her office, and she got a glimpse of his skeptical face. “What?” she demanded.
He shook his head. “You think you should be Secretary of Defense, don’t you?”
“I don’t really have the experience.”
They walked down the corridor together. “But you at least think the National Security Advisor should be a cabinet level position.”
“It does seem that the Security Advisor would have more interesting things to say at a cabinet meeting than, say, the Secretary for Veterans’ Affairs. I don’t want to be harsh, but don’t you think national security is more important than building the next VA hospital, or raising their benefits by exactly the cost of living?”
“Without a doubt. But if you could, you’d be SECDEF right now, wouldn’t you?”
She walked ahead, faster than she had been walking. Walker hurried to catch up.
* * *
Ismael stepped off the Air France jet into the terminal in Algiers. He saw his father first, Dr. Mohammed Nezzar. He tried not to show any emotion, but he knew no homecoming would ever be the same now that Chakib, the great hope of the family, the Air Force pilot, was dead. He crossed to his father and embraced him. Only then did he see his mother standing behind her husband, unable even to look up, as if she were responsible for what had happened. Ismael knew she would never forgive herself for having encouraged Chakib to fly, to be one of the elite of Algerian society, one of the leaders in the Air Force. The fact that it had been a burning desire in him since he was a small boy gave her no comfort. In her mind, it was her fault.
The Shadows of Power Page 4