by Gordon Ryan
“General, have you met the new president yet?” Carlos asked.
“Not since he’s become president,” Pug replied.
Carlos remained silent, but tilted his head slightly, questioning the meaning.
“I’ll fill you in later, Carlos, but I knew President Snow over twenty years ago. He and my father and two other men were partners in a law firm in Phoenix. He taught me to play golf and my older brother is married to his daughter.”
Carlos whistled softly. “So you’re family.”
Pug bristled at the inference. “I don’t see it that way, Sergeant Major, and that information goes no further than this room until I decide how to address the issue.”
“Yes, sir. About the SAS and the extraction of Wolff?” Carlos said, a quick subject change seeming appropriate. “I’d like to be involved. He’s my first Trojan assignment, and if I’m likely headed for the bench, I’d like a bit more field time.”
“True, you’re not on the bench yet, and I agree that it’s probably necessary for you to accompany whoever is sent to get him. We might decide that it will be just you, with a small team to back you up. And . . . we might decide that it’s not an extraction.”
“I understand,” Carlos replied.
“But remember this, Carlos: there’s more than one way to fight a war. Especially the type of war we currently face. We both better get used to it. While we’re on the subject of East Timor, what do you make of this Intel?” he asked, handing Carlos a sheet of paper.
More than once, Pug had come to the same conclusion he was suggesting to Carlos—the necessity of stepping out of field operations—but for far different reasons. He had counted it up once when he was reviewing his life and his poor choices along the way. Pug had married Cheryl the week after he graduated from Annapolis in 1992. Within four months, he had gone to sea with a Marine Expeditionary Unit as a platoon commander. Out of eight years of marriage, over four and half of them he had either been at sea, commanding a platoon or company of Marines, or on a special covert assignment where he couldn’t even tell her where he was going, when he would be back, or where he had been. Finally, she’d had enough and told him, essentially, that she needed a husband who worked nine to five, cut the grass, went to bed with her, woke up next to her, and was going to be around to help raise the kids, if he was ever home long enough to participate in making any children. They’d parted ways in 2001, shortly before 9/11, and he’d remained single every since, notwithstanding the opportunities that had come his way. Fortunately they’d made the decision to divorce before children had complicated the process.
Scanning the document the general had handed him, Carlos assumed the role of analyst.
“It’s from Security Intelligence Service, Canberra,” Carlos said, basically to himself. “This confirms what we got last week from the DHS Intel Day Sheet, General. Increased indication that Al Qaida leadership is expanding operations in the Indonesian theatre and the South Pacific. They’ve got a lot of Muslim support there, just as many fanatics, but not much in the way of sophisticated weaponry. And the island Muslims are not happy about Australia’s support of the coalition forces in the war zone. They proved that a few years ago with the bombing in Bali, which targeted mostly Australian tourists, and more recently in Fremantle during the yachting regatta.”
“No sophisticated weapons, you say? Carlos, you know as well as I do that a reliable weapons delivery system in the Middle East, Indonesia, or anywhere else for that matter, can be nothing more than one single religious fanatic, a bulky overcoat, and a dozen sticks of dynamite plus several hundred ball bearings and nails strapped to his—or her—body. I want you to give this top priority. It coincides with your search for Wolff, at least geographically, and it may help to clarify why he’s going to East Timor in the first place. Put together an analysis of capability, timing, anything you can conceive of that terrorists could mount in the south and west Pacific theatre. You might need to have a chat with the Aussies.”
“I understand, sir. I’ll get right on it.”
“And let me know what the Brits decide. I think Brigadier McIntyre is right that they’ll be a bit anxious to get the SAS involved in this . . . what is it the Brits would call it, an arsehole convention?”
“Yes, sir.”
“One further thing, Carlos,” Pug said, stepping behind his desk. “Your retirement is not until February 28th, but let’s drop the Sergeant Major and commence immediately with Mr. Castro, Deputy Director, especially for the interviews tomorrow. Some of these guys may know you, and those that don’t will check us out with the SOG network. Since most of them are officers, we have to ascertain that they can work under the direction of a former enlisted man. Leave that part of the interview to me.”
“Yes, sir. No problem.”
“And Carlos, I’m going to remain on active duty as a general officer. In private, feel free to call me Pug, but in a public or staff setting, we will retain protocol.”
Carlos smiled again. “No problem . . . Pug.”
Carlos walked down the corridor toward his office, his thoughts mixed with regard to the possibility of going after Wolff, and the new, certainly more dangerous possibility of Al Qaida developing a new geographical base of operations in Indonesia. As he entered his office, he saw a Post-it note on his telephone, signed by his secretary.
Carlos, Brigadier McIntyre has called twice in the past hour.
Carlos looked at the note briefly, closed the door, sat behind his desk, picked up the phone, and dialed.
“British Embassy, Military Attaché’s office. May I be of assistance?”
“Brigadier McIntyre, please. Carlos Castro returning his call.”
“Certainly, sir, one moment please.”
A slight pause ensued, and then McIntyre came on the line. Brigadier Sir Colin McIntyre had served Her Majesty through three decades and part of a fourth, as a young officer with the Coldstream Guards, eventually rising to command the regiment, and then as a member of MI6, Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service, posted abroad the past decade.
“Carlos, thank you for returning my call. Your Irish information has stirred up the proverbial hornet’s nest, dear boy. Are your swimming skills still in good form?”
“Sir?”
“About now, or certainly within the hour, I suspect General Connor will be getting a call from the Pentagon. The thrust of the message, lad, will be that Her Majesty’s government shall be requesting the use of your personal skills.”
“In what capacity, Brigadier?” Carlos asked.
“Who dares, wins, I should think, Carlos. You know those Stirling Lines SAS boys, of course. The CRW, our counter-revolutionary warfare wing, will probably be assigned this mission, although given the proximity of the target, they might farm it out to the colonials. That would be the Aussies to you.” He laughed.
Carlos smiled briefly, recognition of a previous assignment in the Middle East drawing distant memories. “It seems I’m destined to spend a portion of my career seconded to Her Majesty’s Special Air Service. And we’re going swimming, you say?”
“Indubitably, my dear boy, but not to worry. It’s quite warm in the South Pacific this time of year, so I’m led to believe, and with six to eight inches of snow due here in Washington later this week—well, I envy you. Were I twenty . . . no, make that thirty years younger, I’d see about a set of togs and flippers for myself. Let me know when you hear something.”
“Certainly, Brigadier. Thanks for the heads-up.”
Chapter 7
White House Oval Office
Washington D.C.
February
President William Snow, 5’ 11”, trim and healthy at age 59, with a thick shock of salt-and-pepper hair and a piercing set of steely gray eyes, sat comfortably on a soft, terra cotta-colored lounge chair, its new smell faint in the Oval Office.
Former President Joshua Steadman, 71, was a native of South Carolina and had retired to a secluded, Hilton Head Island estate.
His hair was now thinner and a slight paunch had begun to appear in what had remained, well into his 60’s, a stocky, athletic build. He sat across from Snow on an equally new, burgundy-toned settee.
Steadman had served two terms as president, departing just over eight years ago after transferring power to President Eastman. He had returned to Washington to participate in President Clay Cumberland’s inauguration, and had stayed for the funeral ceremony. Six weeks later, he had graciously accepted an invitation to meet with President Snow.
Despite his advancing age, Steadman was visibly animated in his actions and speech, his mind clear, decisive, and his verbal presentation authoritative, yet not directive. Both men had spent the previous thirty minutes in discussion, alternating between casual chatter and more serious, penetrating, conversation. From opposite political parties, they had only met once previously. However, on this second occasion, arranged at the personal invitation of President William Snow, each had taken an immediate liking to the other, notwithstanding their philosophical differences.
“I could beat around the bush, Bill, but to get to the heart of the matter, there’s only one real question you need to answer,” Steadman said. “Do you want a chance at a second term?”
Bill Snow smiled and nodded his head, agreeing with the other man. “That would be the bottom line, wouldn’t it?”
“Indeed,” the older man replied. “The answer to that question will form all your other decisions in these first few weeks. If you act forcefully, relying on your own counsel and those you know you can trust, and if you make your own decisions and are determined in what you seek, you’ll undoubtedly set some of your own party against you. Unfortunately, there’s no way around that. I came here today, at your invitation, to discuss this with you as candidly as possible. You’ve got an unprecedented opportunity, Bill. You can do what few of us who have sat behind that desk have truly been able to do.”
“How so?” Snow queried.
Steadman smiled broadly, reaching to retrieve his coffee cup from the side table. “Despite what your party hacks are going to claim to the contrary, you have absolutely no obligation to honor any political deals Cumberland made. All bets are off. They died with that poor unfortunate soul at the end of his three-hour presidency. You owe ‘nothing to nobody,’ as the saying goes. You can make your own cabinet nominations without fear or favor to those who supported Cumberland, and you can set the agenda for your first, and perhaps your only, term.” He chuckled. “In short, Bill, you’ve come to this office without baggage—without owing an arm and a leg to everyone who claims he brought you his county, his state, or a bag of electoral votes. That in itself is rare, practically unheard of in this day and age. But,” the former president said, “if you have any thoughts of a second term, they’ll hold you over the barrel and demand you support their favorite nominees, programs, or hare-brained ideas.”
Snow leaned back into the soft, yet firm cushions of his chair, crossing his legs and pursing his lips. “I’d certainly anger all those in my own party who made the promises, those who paid the bill for Cumberland’s—and my—election.”
“True. But at what price? Four years with a management team someone else chose, some of whom will be inclined to repeatedly remind you that whatever you want to do, it was not what President Cumberland would have done. Or would you prefer freedom to do what you think is right? What—in your own opinion—the country needs? With a top-level team of your own choosing? To be perhaps the first president to ever come in here with a clean slate and no human debt? It’s not only the economy, security and general national issues—you’ve got this dammed secession issue to consider. What will you do about California? Cumberland voiced his determination to take any and all measures necessary to put a halt to it. Personally, Bill, I think military intervention would be the worst thing you could do.”
Snow remained silent, a slight smile played across his lips as he listened to the highly popular former president, a man who had left office after eight years still possessed of a sixty-three percent favorable poll rating. Steadman sipped on his coffee and watched the younger man.
“You’ve thought all this through, haven’t you, you desert fox?” Steadman asked, using the term the Arizona press had coined when Bill Snow had—against all odds—run for governor and won.
“Choosing my own team has certainly crossed my mind, Josh, but I haven’t made any firm decisions yet. I’m also not certain how to handle California. In some respects, we’d lose a lot of problems if we just let them go. Let them fend for themselves. At last look, they were bankrupt. We either need to let them go it their own way, or bail them out.”
“That’s true, but don’t underestimate the precedent. We might end up with two nations between the Atlantic and the Pacific. I’ve heard rumblings from some western colleagues.”
Snow nodded. “So have I, but let’s get back to cabinet appointments and my immediate problems. California can wait until next week.” He laughed. “I’m not anxious to get crossways with my own party, but the thought of a clean slate, choosing my own cabinet, is enticing. Other vice presidents who took over from their president did so well into their terms of office and had to show at least a semblance of completing the guys’ work. I don’t see it that way in this case. Cumberland made campaign promises, but had no initiatives started yet. There truly is an opportunity to put the right people in the right places—my people—regardless of the clamor it would raise among your party or mine. Of course, there are the Senate confirmation hearings to consider, and the Republicans are still in the minority where I need the votes. And the first consideration is a vice president.”
Steadman nodded in agreement. “In light of the events that have transpired, if you move quickly, decisively, the American people will support you and the Senate won’t have the ability to deny confirmation of your nominees. Even the press will take up your cause, loving that ‘in-your-face’ attitude it will throw at Congress.”
“You really believe that, Josh?” Snow asked, his interest suddenly heightened.
“I’d work with you to see that it happened. You have my word on it.”
“A truly bi-partisan effort, you mean?”
“Oh, no,” he said, placing his coffee cup back on the saucer. “I’d have to be completely covert. Totally behind the scenes to try to convince some of my party that it would be a good time to get political hacks and lobbyists out of the executive recruitment business, putting their lackeys in office, then coming to them for favors. And I could support you in the media, with the obligatory cautionary statements to distance myself, of course,” he said, a small laugh following. “Remember, I am a South Carolina Baptist.” He laughed even louder. “I can’t be openly seen to be supporting an Arizona Catholic. Goodness gracious, how would all those fire and brimstone televangelists raise money if Christian religions starting agreeing with each other, admitting they weren’t the only ones who spoke for God?”
“You mean Jesus isn’t a Republican?” Snow said, joining Steadman in laughter. Turning serious, the new president leaned forward. “Josh, I’ll probably be in touch with you again on California, but for today, you came prepared to offer sage advice, right? Who you would recommend for the half-dozen key jobs? Vice president, for instance?”
“I have a few thoughts,” Steadman replied, “but I’d rather hear yours. I was sincere when I said this is your opportunity, not mine, for another go around. I served my time in that chair.” He nodded toward the chocolate-brown leather executive chair positioned behind the mahogany desk that once sustained Andrew Jackson’s presidency.
Snow rose from his seat and stepped over to the desk, retrieving a leather folder and walking back. He stood behind his chair for a moment, leafing through several papers in the folder. “Most of Cumberland’s selectees,” he said, waving the documents, “have already been through this office or on the phone, subtly and not so subtly trying to remind me of the promises made and of their willingness and capability to serv
e.”
“I’m sure they have,” Steadman replied, shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Some of them are good men and good women, Josh. Good choices.”
“Well, then nominate them. But make sure they’re your choice as well as Cumberland’s. Even then, remember that they will be inclined to remind you that when Cumberland offered them the job, he ‘. . . gave them to understand, this and that . . .’”
President Snow nodded his agreement. “And as for the vice president, I really haven’t had a good thought about it. No name has jumped to the surface.” He paused, looking at his folder. “Hank Tiarks is a really good man, Josh,” he commented, again leafing through the papers. “But I think due to their friendship and level of trust, Cumberland wanted him in Homeland Security because he felt domestic security was going to be a real problem as these terrorist threats continue. I actually think that Cumberland wanted Tiarks as his vice president, but our party forced him to select me.”
“That could be, Bill, but don’t let it deter you from choosing someone you want. Are you thinking of Tiarks for VP?”
“Maybe. He’s well respected. Cumberland mentioned to me that he thought Tiarks would stand up to the heads of the various intelligence agencies. But I think his talents lie elsewhere. Law enforcement or direct action planning are not his strengths, at least as I see it.”
“What is his strength,” Steadman asked, “in your opinion?”
“Possibly VP, or Secretary of State. Perhaps even the United Nations. He’s well thought of abroad.”
“I agree. He could fill either of those slots. See, you’re on the right track already. And Homeland Security? Cumberland was right, you know. You’ll need someone you can trust who has exceptional judgment and the courage to implement his decisions. Someone who’s not beholden to the political world and not afraid of ruffling feathers in the intelligence community. It will take a tough individual, one who’s not constantly looking for his next higher office. Also, someone who isn’t inclined to push for military intervention in California. Someone familiar with the problem out there.”