Call to Duty
Page 10
“You don’t want to know,” Mackay said.
“Damn it, Colonel, I do need to know.” In a few wellchosen words, Mackey told her exactly what had happened and how Woodward had interrogated and shot the three men. “My God,” Mazie whispered when he was finished. She looked at him, not able to credit that such a sane and rationalsounding man could be part of what she had just heard. “I can’t take that upstairs.”
“Is that all, Miss Kamigami?” Mackay stood up and pulled his coat on.
“I can’t believe—”
“Can’t believe what? That the only rule out there is survival? You’ve lived in the civilized world too long, Miss Kamigami.” He was moving toward the door.
“Not so damn fast, Colonel.” Her voice was shaking. It was the first time she had been exposed to the reality of covert operations. “The CAT is meeting with Mr. Cagliari in twenty minutes. You need to be there.” Mackay sat down and watched her poke through the mass of paperwork, quickly extracting the summaries, source reports, and intercepts she wanted to take to the meeting. Mackay was impressed that she knew exactly where everything was. Her organizational approach may have been totally different from Mackay’s but she was just as efficient.
“Let’s go,” Mazie said and led him down into the basement and through a tunnel underneath West Executive Avenue to the Situation Room in the basement of the White House. The national security adviser and the rest of the CAT, the Crisis Action Team, were there.
“Okay,” Cagliari said, not waiting for introductions, “we’ve got an hour to get our act together.”
“But I thought the NSPG wasn’t meeting until this afternoon,” Mazie protested.
“It still is,” Cagliari told her. “But this is taking on some heavy political dimensions and a general from Special Operations Command is joining the CAT. Let’s get to work.”
Mackay sat in a corner and watched the team hash through the mass of information they were deluged with, trying to paint a coherent picture of the kidnapping. Finally, the critical question was before them—who was responsible? “Chiang Tse-kuan,” Mazie stated, hard conviction in her voice. When the protests that they could not be sure became too heavy, she had Mackay tell them about the interrogation. When he was finished, stunned silence came down in the room.
“What was your role in all this?” Cagliari demanded.
Mackay leaned across the table, remembering Woodward’s words about being hung out to dry by politicos. “I just smiled at whoever Captain Woodward was interrogating,” he said, deciding to smile at the national security adviser.
“And that made them tell the truth, I suppose,” Cagliari shot at him.
Mazie Kamigami was not above rattling her boss. “He’s smiling at you now,” she said.
“My God,” Cagliari said. A green light came on over the door, drawing his attention away from Mackay. “President’s coming…not expected…be cool.” Everyone stood up.
“The President likes to do this,” Mazie told Mackay, “drop in unannounced on his staff when we’re working and talking.” Mackay could sense the tension in the room. A few moments later, the door opened and Pontowski walked in. He was followed by three men: Cox, his chief of staff; General Charles J. Leachmeyer, the Army’s Chief of Staff; and an Air Force three-star general.
“I think you all know General Leachmeyer,” Pontowski said. He liked making introductions. “And this is Lieutenant General Simon Mado from Special Operations Command. General Mado has flown in from Florida to join you.” Everyone in the room knew that the United States Special Operations Command, USSOCOM, was headquarters at MacDill Air Force Base outside Tampa, Florida, and that by making Mado part of the CAT, the President was seriously considering military action to free the five Americans. Mado certainly looked the part: tall, athletic build, dark blond hair with touches of gray, stern jaw and clear blue eyes.
“Mr. President,” Cagliari said, “this is Lieutenant Colonel John Mackay, the exchange officer with the SAS.”
Pontowski walked around the table to shake hands with Mackay. “I understand things got a little exciting for you,” the President said.
“Yes, sir,” Mackay replied.
“I believe Chiang Tse-kuan could be involved in this,” Pontowski said as he sat down. He looked at Mackay expectantly, waiting for a response. No one else answered.
Mackay was impressed. The President had done his homework, drawn his own conclusions, and got right down to business. “Sir, I’m certain that he’s behind it,” Mackay answered.
Pontowski looked at his national security adviser. “Mike, what do you think?”
“It all fits,” Cagliari said. “Although we cannot be absolutely sure at this point. I think we should proceed on the assumption that Chiang is behind it but keep looking for other players.”
“Please show me what you have,” Pontowski said.
Cagliari nodded at Mazie, who stood up. She walked over to a wall map and quickly summarized the situation to date, using selected intelligence to support her interpretation of events. She was cogent, persuasive, and well-organized. Mackay made a mental note to avoid arguing with the dumpy woman. When she was finished, Pontowski nodded and stood up. “Mazie,” he said, “I want you at the NSPG meeting this afternoon to tell them the same thing.” He stopped on his way out of the room. “Why don’t you all get acquainted with General Mado”—he grinned—“while I wander through the Office Building and shake up a few of your colleagues.” Then he was gone.
Cagliari had Mazie brief Mado on what the CAT was doing and how the team was organized. Different members would add details when she touched on their areas of expertise. It was a smooth and productive introduction.
“I think,” General Simon Mado said when she was finished, “that it is obvious why I’m here. The President is seriously considering using military force to rescue the hostages. As you know, that is my area of expertise. Perhaps you recall Operation Warlord when I commanded Task Force Alpha and successfully rescued two hundred and eighty POWs out of Iran.”
Cagliari bit his tongue and said nothing. He had been in the National Military Command Center when the rescue went down and Mado had been little more than a passenger aboard the orbiting AC-130 gunship that had provided fire suppression to the rescue force. Others on the ground had been responsible for the success of the rescue but owing to the nature of the military, Mado had gotten the lion’s share of the credit. The then Chief of Staff of the Air Force, General Lawrence “Get the Hell out of Here by Sundown” Cunningham, had tried to set the matter straight, but a heart attack had killed the crusty old general before he could nail Mado. Cagliari was convinced that the Air Force had been going downhill ever since Cunningham had died.
“I take it then,” Cagliari said, “that USSOCOM has a plan in the works to rescue the hostages.”
“We have a plan for a scenario such as this,” Mado said. “But we need to thoroughly evaluate the situation, coordinate with other agencies, and revise the plan before we implement it.”
Mazie keyed on what Mado was saying. I need to check this guy out, she thought. And why is he staring at Mackay?
After the meeting broke up, Mackay headed for the underground tunnel that led back to the Executive Office building. “Colonel Mackay,” General Mado called, stopping him. “I need to speak to you for a moment.” Mackay walked back and joined Mado outside the door of the now darkened room. “I know you will be shortly returning to your normal duties. Please keep me apprised as to your whereabouts so I can contact you in case I need more information.”
“Yes, sir,” Mackay said, careful to keep his face impassive, wondering why Mado would be concerned with so small a matter. He certainly wanted to get out of Washington, D.C., at the earliest opportunity and away from the shaky ground of politics.
“Also,” Mado said, “I don’t want any misunderstandings about this. But after listening to what happened at the Gurkha camp and your failure to effect a rescue I’m not impressed.”
Now what was that all about? Mackay thought as he watched Mado disappear. Michael Cagliari stepped out of the darkened room, surprising Mackay. “He’s a piece of work,” the national security adviser told Mackay. “This lovely part of his personality has been coming out ever since Operation Warlord.”
“I don’t understand,” Mackay said.
“Mado is trying to stake out special operations as his private preserve and doesn’t want any competition on the scene.”
“I’m only a lieutenant colonel,” Mackay reminded him.
“Rank doesn’t hold much water in special operations. During Operation Warlord,” Cagliari said, “a captain, James ‘Thunder’ Bryant, made him look like a fool.”
“Bryant was black?” Mackay knew the answer even as he asked the question and a deep anger flared in him.
“Right,” Cagliari said. “But not to worry.” He walked down the hall, leaving Mackay wondering just what games were being played in the corridors of power of the nation’s capital. Whatever the games are, he decided, they have nothing to do with combat and I’m not going to get involved.
Within twenty-four hours, three events took place that were to prove him wrong.
Mazie Kamigami walked calmly to her car, no sign of the frustration she felt visible on her bland and smooth face. She did slam the car door of her beloved 1969 bright yellow Beetle convertible harder than normal, but she immediately apologized. “I’m sorry, Humphrey,” she told the car. She sat in the car thinking about the problem of Simon Mado. She had checked him out and three sources had confirmed her suspicions that he was a political general—not one of the doers. If the President did want a rescue mission mounted, the CAT would need someone with the necessary expertise to drive a decision, not play politics. She had a recommendation in mind who she would mention to National Security Adviser Cagliari.
It was clear that Mado would not agree to any plan until it had been coordinated with just about every intelligence agency in the government and received their “chop,” meaning their agreement. In Mazie’s experience that was a sure formula for paralysis. The way to solve that problem was to present Mado with a clear-cut situation and force him into agreement. That way, they could bypass the intelligence community, where fights over turf were much more important than getting the job done.
What Mazie needed was a source of intelligence that was unimpeachable. And that required an operative on the inside, which the CIA would not, or could not, provide. To get an intelligence collection operation started, she would have to send a Clandestine Intelligence Operations Proposal up through the bureaucracy to the CIA’s Policy Coordinating Staff, who, given their past record, would most likely staff it to death, taking anywhere from six to eighteen months to give it their stamp of approval. She needed to get a spy inside Chiang’s operations and bypass the CIA. Fortunately, she had access to System 4, the highly classified computer system that the NSC used to monitor all covert intelligence operations and she knew how to read between the lines.
She wheeled out of the parking structure and headed for Fort Belvoir, calling ahead on her car phone for an appointment. Her ID got her past a sharp MP at the gate and she headed for the Special Activities Center on the northern part of the post. The Special Activities Center was the Air Force organization responsible for HUMINT—human intelligence—bureaucratese for old-fashioned spying. Once inside, she was ushered into the office of Brigadier General William G. Carroll, an old friend.
“Mazie,” he beamed at her, standing up, “it is good to see you again. Who’ve you been terrorizing lately?”
“How’s the boy wonder of military intelligence?” she replied. “Don’t you ever get old?” At forty-one years of age, Carroll looked ten years younger and was the youngest brigadier general in the Air Force. Other officers, unfamiliar with his career, would sarcastically speculate how a nonpilot, a ground pounder, could rise so fast through the ranks until they saw the medals on his chest. The dark and slender general was one of the most decorated officers on active duty and wore the Air Force Cross on top of a heap of medals. He had earned them all the hard way, by duty in the field. The general was a fluent linguist and had been instrumental in rescuing 280 POWs out of Iran before that country realized the United States was not the enemy. Then he had played a key role in keeping the latest round in the Arab-Israeli war from jumping the firebreak and flaring into an exchange of chemical and nuclear weapons.
“Compliments now!” Carroll laughed. “You must want some big favor.” He waved Mazie to a seat and sat down next to her. “No doubt, something to do with the abduction of Senator Courtland’s daughter,” he added.
“Am I too late,” she asked, “or do I have to get in line with all the rest?” He gave her a noncommittal smile. “You do play your cards close to the chest,” she told him.
“You know I’ll help if I can,” Carroll told her. He listened impassively as she recapped the situation. When she was finished, he turned and looked at a group picture on the wall labeled “Task Force Alpha.” “That’s Simon Mado,” he told her, pointing to a man seated in the middle. “He’s one of the most competent managers in the service and, without a doubt, the biggest asshole in the Air Force. Be careful how you handle him.” He looked at her, his decision made. “We’ve got agents in the area and can help you.” He stared at her. “That’s closehold information not to go outside this office.”
“Does the CIA know?” Mazie asked.
“You’ve got to be kidding. It was pure luck and a spinoff from another, very much approved operation, that got our operatives in place. We have no intention of losing these sources because of bureaucratic infighting over who controls them.” The CIA and many of the other intelligence-gathering agencies of the United States were experts at high-tech reconnaissance and monitoring communications. While they could count the tiles on the roof of buildings and tell when the lawns were watered or how many times the toilets were flushed, they knew little about what went on inside. The Air Force Special Activities Center under Carroll had a different philosophy of operations. “I’ll set you up with a contact,” Carroll said as he buzzed for his assistant.
Michael Cagliari, the assistant to the President for national security, took pains to corner General Leachmeyer, the Army Chief of Staff, alone during a cocktail party at the elegant Georgetown townhouse of one of the power brokers of Washington, D.C., society. The men spoke quietly and three minutes later, Leachmeyer had agreed to let the National Security Council use the services of one Lieutenant Colonel John Author Mackay, United States Army.
Tosh Pontowski was sitting up in bed when her husband walked in to share a morning cup of coffee. They exchanged looks and he knew immediately that the wolf was back. “It’s too soon to tell,” she said. Lupus, the disease that ravaged her body, came and went with frightening unpredictability and intensity. “I suppose ‘l’affaire Courtland’ still has top billing,” she said, changing the subject.
“Along with the balance of trade, a health care system that is crumbling, and a Congress that doesn’t understand the meaning of compromise or fiscal responsibility.” He made himself comfortable in a chair next to her bed.
“All can be dealt with.”
“In time, love, in time.” He smiled at her, as always, amazed at her unfailing optimism. “Unfortunately, time is the one commodity in short supply with Courtland. We are dealing with too many unknowns—”
“And given the uncertainty,” she interrupted, “who to rely on.”
“Yes,” he replied, “and when to act.”
“You’ve had to live with those uncertainties before.”
“Yes, I have,” he said, remembering.
1943
Off the Coast of Holland, near Zandvoort
Zack Pontowski lay in the bottom of the sma
ll boat in two inches of water listening to the urgent whispers of the two men who had pulled him out of the frigid waters of the North Sea off the Dutch coast. Why are they whispering? he thought. In the distance, he could hear the dog barking again. Zack strained to hear what they were saying, surprised that he was having trouble understanding them. Because his mother was German, he was fluent in that language and had been mistaken for a native German many times.
One of the men bent over him and examined the wound on his face while the other started to row. The pilot flinched as the man’s fingers explored the cuts on his face. Zack understood him to say, “He’s bleeding badly from two cuts. Probably smashed his face into the windscreen.”
The rower muttered something like “The patrol has moved south.”
Then it came to Zack—they were speaking Dutch, not German. “I’m an American and speak German,” he said in German. It was a mistake. The rower lifted his oar out of the oarlock and brought it down hard, knocking him out.
Dust filtered down through the cracks in the boards three feet over Zack’s head and he sneezed, waking himself up. His head pounded and he tried to see in the darkness. He could feel a thick bandage wrapped over his head and under his chin. His right leg ached. Slowly he became aware of his surroundings. He was lying on a hard pallet in a crawl space between floors and could hear voices above and below him. He was thankful for the thick down comforter that covered him since he was naked. “What the hell…” he muttered in English.
A hatch near him popped open and the head of a teenage girl appeared. “Are you feeling better?” she asked, her voice marked with the harsh guttural consonants of the Dutch language.
“Yes,” Zack answered. “I think so. I’m hungry…” The hatch dropped closed and he could hear the girl asking her mother for food. Then she was back, passing him a large bowl of soup and a spoon. “Danke schon,” he said in German.