“We’re back with former Secretary of Defense and Senatorial hopeful, C.K. McNamara. Mister Secretary, please amplify your earlier remarks.”
“Sure, Jim. Initially, it was thought that Sergeant Stiles died in an explosion of mega proportions. He was scheduled to return to the states where he would receive a less than honorable discharge and a reduction in rank for an earlier transgression. We mistakenly thought he had made the ultimate sacrifice for his country. He was honored as a patriot at a burial ceremony that was a final salute from a grateful nation to a grieving family. When it became clear to us that he had actually fled to Baghdad rather than return in disgrace, I decided to spare his family this embarrassment and let matters be. Apparently, as a defector, he has discovered that Iraq is no paradise, and no easy answer to his problems. But if he believes he will return to a hero’s welcome, he is sadly mistaken. He will not fool this nation with stories of captivity. The man is a traitor, Jim, and very possibly was responsible for the death of his own men, who if alive, would have witnessed his defection. As a citizen, Jim, I am outraged. If I were still SECDEF I can promise you this, he would arrive on our shores and go straight to Leavenworth.”
“My Lord,” Leherer breathed, obviously affected by what he’d been told. “This is a fascinating story, and I would love to pursue it, but we are out of time. I hope you will join me tomorrow night for another edition of…” Willy turned the set off.
“What was that all about?” Phil questioned.
“Unbelievable,” Daniel said as if winded.
Phil upped his volume. “Will somebody tell me what the hell is going on?”
Smitty and others brought Phil up to date on what he missed, the resignation, the Senatorial race, and Brandon surfacing in Turkey. It was a lot to absorb.
Willy said, “C.K. McNamara is going to crucify Brandon. He wants to shine his own apple while eatin’ ours. The man is pond scum.”
“Right on,” Daniel agreed. “His accusations will be his undoing, and we need to see to it. We can’t let Brandon become CK’s stepping stone to the Senate.”
Smitty asked for quiet and tried to sum things up. “It will be our word or evidence against his, Daniel, and he’s the former Secretary of Defense. Who would John Q. Public believe? Not us, not without compelling evidence. Brandon will be getting a lot of press, all bad, because regardless of what he says, he won’t be believed. SECDEF has seen to that. Our buddy has been branded as a traitor. We need the transcripts, Daniel. McNamara confiscated them when you presented them as evidence, but tell me you made a backup copy?”
“Printing classified material and making a copy is illegal, Smitty. I could go to jail.”
“Did you make a copy?”
“Oh, yeah, sure.” Daniel answered to everyone’s relief and amusement. Smitty waved his bouquet and Daniel laughed.
“I’ve got a bad feeling, guys,” Smitty said, “call it intuition or paranoia but hand me that phone book, that blue binder over there. I have a feeling that Brandon’s records are about to get sanitized or classified, if we’re not too late already. Remember Roland Sneed, Daniel? Sam Sneed? Well, I’m hoping he might help us one more time.”
He dialed. The phone was answered on the second ring.
“Sam Sneed you’re working late tonight. This is Smitty Smith.”
“Smitty? Well I’ll be! We have a bad connection, Ace, can you call me right back?”
“I could, Sam, but the problem is not the connection, it’s me. I had a little accident and it will affect my speech for a while, long story, but no big deal. I was calling to ask if you heard the news.”
“Have I? Yeah, the Pentagon is buzzing. Stiles escaped. It’s wonderful news.”
“Sam, C.K. McNamara has accused Brandon of being a traitor; he plans to lock him up. I think CK’s next move will be to reclassify or somehow sanitize Brandon’s file. I need a copy before he messes with it. CK is running for the Senate and Brandon is his ticket.”
“That sorry son-of-a-bitch.”
“Yeah, he’s that and a bucket of fries. I need your help Sam.”
“Oh, damn, Smitty. I’m a short timer, seventeen days and a wake up. I could lose my pension and go to jail. If CK needs to bury some evidence, chances are he has someone working on that now. Do you see what you’re asking Smitty?”
“Yes, I do, and I wouldn’t ask if there was another way.”
The line was silent.
“I’d better get on it now. Tomorrow will likely be too late. If I get caught maybe Brandon and I can share a cell and catch up on old times.”
“Thanks, Sam, I owe you.”
“Yes, you do. Just add it to the list because you never did pay off on the bet we made on Super Bowl XXV. My boys whipped up on your Bills pretty badly. Did you forget?”
“Sam, I got real forgetful for a while, but as I recall, the score was Giants 20, Bills 19. That’s not a whipping, and knowing how compassionate you are, I thought it would embarrass you if I paid for a lousy one point loss.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Sam countered, “It’s embarrassing, but I’ll learn to live with it. Pay up or your knee caps are mine.”
“Now that I understand the depth of your feelings, it is my intention to settle that bet A-S-A-P!”
“Smitty, the road to Hell is paved with those, and I gotta go, prison awaits.”
The line went dead.
“What did he say?” Daniel asked
“He said he’d do it. He’ll try to download Brandon’s file before someone working for CK blocks it, probably by raising the classification. If they succeed, it will be like trying to access the Manhattan Project file after WWII. The hard copy file is probably already out of reach. It’s a long shot, we don’t even know if the file could be used to harm Brandon, but we can’t take any chances with that snake. We know he’ll be covering his six at least until November and until after the election. I hope we aren’t too late. If Sam gets caught, his pension is gone and he’ll probably do jail time.”
Jerry whistled.
Raul added graphically, “You must have a picture of him having sex with a goat. He’s really hanging his ass out for you.”
“Unfortunately, Raul, I was out of film when the goat got amorous,” Smitty cracked. “In truth, Sam Sneed is one of God’s best works. He’s not doing this for me. He’s a man driven by honor to right wrongs. I say we should hold back a million dollars just in case he losses everything he has invested in Uncle Sam’s Army for the past twenty-five years. What do you say, Willy?”
“I’m in.”
“Jerry?” Smitty asked as he made the rounds to full consensus.
“Gentlemen, getting back to the business at hand, I have an idea. Let’s give the other four million dollars to the Campaign to Elect C.K. McNamara.”
Everyone laughed.
“I’m serious.”
Everyone stared silently in disbelief at the tortured figure on the bed, until Daniel angrily pronounced, “Have you been skipping your meds, Smitty? CK gets our money over my dead body.”
“That can be arranged,” Smitty teased.
“I mean, for crying out loud, Smitty, have you totally lost it?”
“Hear me out; that’s all I ask. Just, hear me out.”
No one argued, Smitty had the stage and everyone’s rapt attention.
“CK wants to ride this wave of publicity as long as he can because the exposure is free. He needs money, every campaign does, but the Democrat he faces can fund his own campaign if need be. He’s loaded. CK can’t match his opponent’s advertising, dollar for dollar. He’s desperate. I say we help out and take cash to his campaign headquarters.”
“Why do that?” Willy protested.
“Here’s why. We tell the campaign staff that CK is the man for us. We can’t even tolerate the thought that his liberal opponent might get elected. H
ow could real Texans get representation if that happened? We couldn’t, and that’s why we came forward to show our support.”
“I disagree,” Daniel said. “I think I see where you’re headed, Smitty, but I believe just one of us, one, rich donor, is more believable than a group who all contribute fifty dollar bills.”
“I see your point,” Smitty agreed. “One wealthy, eccentric Texan, who doesn’t believe in banks, but who does believe in electing a tough Republican Senator, rides in to save the day. He’s one of a thousand oilmen no one has heard of, but he’s loaded. This Texan believes the Democratic candidate is a closet socialist, who must be defeated. CK’s staff won’t argue with that, or with a fat wallet who happens to think their man is the best thing since sliced bread. Our oilman will preach to the staff that it’s a patriotic issue. America needs C.K. McNamara. He was a tough Secretary of Defense and he has the President’s support, and, by God, he will be a great Texas Senator.”
Smitty paused to sip water through a straw and continued, “Does that ring true?”
Bewildered, Raul asked, “You’re both nuts. Why help CK? Can you name one soldier who would vote for him?”
“Raul is right,” Jerry argued, “Whose side are we on anyway?”
“We’re on Brandon’s side. I’ll let Daniel explain.”
“The committee to elect McNamara will take our money bowing and scraping, and they’ll spend it on TV and print ads just as Smitty said. What he didn’t say was what we do next. How do you think the Secret Service will react when they get a tip to check for stolen cash at CK’s headquarters? What will the Press and the media say about the Secret Service investigation of CK’s campaign? Does CK have some connection to the Gunnison Gang?”
There were whoops and hollers, but high fives outnumbered any other accolade four to one in the pandemonium that followed.
“So who will be our eccentric oilman? Daniel, you’re out of it. CK knows you.” Smitty said, quelling the celebration. “I look like John Wayne but I can’t say howdy. That rules me out. So, who else looks the part? Willy, you and Raul are out, too ethnic, sorry. Blacks and Hispanics aren’t believable supporters of a man whose philosophy is ‘I’ve got mine, now let’s see if you can get yours.’ Harold, you’re too young. Jerry, sorry, you just don’t have the look of a Texas oilman. Phil, that leaves you. You’re a native and you can talk the talk and walk the walk. You have the requisite middle-aged spread too. What do you say?”
“I say you could have skipped the part about my middle age spread. That was totally unnecessary, and it hurts.” Phil emoted to the phony sympathy of the others.
“Take this; it’ll make you feel better,” Smitty said, tossing the wrap of fifties Daniel had given him. “Five thousand dollars should buy you a nice wardrobe, boots, hat, buckle…the whole shebang. Shop at a store where you aren’t likely to be remembered. Harold, can you get Phil a nice set of wheels for a day?”
“I can get him a Rolls convertible at Exotic Cars in Dallas. I still have the ID and credit cards.”
“Okay, use them, but that reminds me, Harold, we need to collect all that stuff from everyone and deep six it. Harold has a list of what was handed out to each of you, and he’ll want it all back, the papers, IDs, certificates, maps, and rental agreements. Keep your cell phones with you until your last assignment is complete. When I call you for the last time, wipe the phone clean and put it in with the garbage. Harold we can incinerate right here at the hospital, but where you dispose of the items isn’t what matters. Just make sure it gets done and nothing can be traced back to us.”
“Will do,” Harold answered, “and I’ll leave the big pickup at the American Airlines terminal. AA is the big kahuna at DFW. The truck won’t be noticed among thousands of vehicles in its lot, and when it is, who among tens of thousands of passengers parked it?”
“Just be sure it’s wiped clean, Harold. Phil, when are you free for a day?” Smitty asked.
“I’m free tomorrow and the next six days. I took some time off and I don’t have to report back to work until 0600 Monday.”
“Good. We need to act ASAP.”
“If you want, I’ll go shopping for clothes tonight. The Galleria in Dallas is open until nine, and they have what I’ll need.”
“You do that, Phil, and I’ll call you at home later with instructions for tomorrow. If you’re ready, I’ll call Harold so he can make arrangements for the wheels.”
“Via con Dios, muchachos; I’ll see you later,” Phil said. He flipped a casual salute.
The discussion continued with Smitty running the show. “Harold, Phil will be driving the Rolls from Dallas to Austin and back. That’s a pretty good hike, so you’ll want to make an early rental. I’ll tell Phil what I’m telling all of you when I speak to him later tonight. Phil will drive to Daniel’s place and load the car.”
Daniel cut in, “Four million dollars in fifties weighs 175 pounds. I’ll get some laundry bags and put about twenty pounds in each.”
“Daniel, we may need additional laundry bags. If Sam gets away clean, his million and what’s left over from Phil’s shopping will go to CK too. We don’t want any connection to that money. It’s hotter than hot.”
“Would that many bags fit in the trunk, Harold?” Daniel asked.
“We’d need a big trunk. I’d better rent a coupe; it’s not as flashy as a convertible, but it has a cavernous trunk and still makes a statement.”
“Our oilman might like that better anyway,” Smitty offered. “Remember, Phil must be remarkable but in the end he must be beyond description. He will avoid having his picture taken. He’ll hide behind the sunglasses and the big cowboy hat. Phil’s a born actor, and he’ll be convincing, you can count on that. What say we get some sleep lads and talk again tomorrow sometime after Phil has made his contribution to the McNamara for Senate Committee.”
It was midnight when the phone jangled and Smitty woke with a start.
“Did I wake you darlin’?” Sam joked.
“What time is it? It’s still dark outside.” Smitty groaned.
Sam sang, “The stars at night are big and bright deep in the heart of Texas. They are, aren’t they?”
“That’s for tourists, Sam, it’s pitch dark down here, and way past bedtime.”
“Well, it’s oh-dark-thirty here too Smitty, and I probably won’t sleep tonight. I am wired, totally jazzed. I signed out at oh-three-hundred and in came a crew. Five minutes earlier and my ass was grass. They’d have taken me to the hoosegow and we wouldn’t be having this little chat.”
“You got the goods?”
“Have you got ten bucks for Super Bowl XXV?”
“I do.”
“Then rest assured one bureaucratic shenanigan has been foiled. And the package is on the way.”
“You’ve already mailed it?”
“Hell yes, I mailed it. Fed-X, over night, Smitty. This is a hot potato I want gone. CK’s crew will know the files were accessed and I was the last guy in section to sign out. I expect to be at the top of a short list of suspects. They’re probably sitting on my doorstep now so I’m working on my cover story.”
“We owe you big time, Sam. You just saved Brandon’s butt. That’s for sure.”
“Glad to help, Smitty. I did some checking and I know about your injuries, I’m real sorry, pal. Take care and give the Sandman my regards.”
The White House, Tuesday Afternoon (30 August 1994)
“Mister President, C.K. McNamara is waiting outside,” the aide whispered.
The President surveyed his Cabinet before speaking. “CK is here. We’ll take a break and address this POW business now. Show the Secretary in.”
“Good morning, Mister President,” CK said somberly.
“Let’s get to it CK. The media is snapping at our heels. Brandon Stiles has been flown from Ankara to Ramstein Air Base in Germany. He�
��ll be there for three days undergoing medical evaluation and a military debriefing. CIA will have a crack at him too. The entire world is watching, CK. The Secretary of the Army has provided me with details, and frankly, I am at a loss as to why you would brand the man a traitor. I want that Senate seat for you CK, but now I’m between the proverbial rock and a hard place. Stiles would have received a hero’s welcome when he landed at Ramstein, but your comments to Jim Lehrer and to others on every talk show I know of, put the kibosh on that. Here’s a guy we thought to be dead, come back to life. There should be flags waving and signs of welcome, but did you see the Ramstein footage?”
Cabinet members nodded that they had.
“I saw one flag. The curious were on hand and they were polite, but this was not a warm welcome by any definition. What must that soldier be thinking? The welcome committee was made up of soldiers and airmen and their families. If they weren’t excited by his return, who would be?”
“The crowd got it right, Mister President. We don’t cheer for turncoats. NSA passed along an intercept of Sergeant Stiles making deals by satellite phone. He made five million dollars. Does that sound like POW money? We don’t know why the money was deposited in a numbered account for him but I expect the debrief will disclose that. I saw to it that certain specific questions would be asked.”
“The Company doesn’t agree with you. Are you aware of that?” the President asked.
“Are you referring to John Keiley’s opinion?”
“I am.”
“John is a spook. He thinks like a spook. Sometimes the obvious is just what it seems, but a professional spook never sees the obvious. I’m surprised he had the balls to send it to you.”
“Actually, he didn’t. He sold Frank Anderson and Frank is nobody’s fool. Frank took it to Wooton and that’s how I got it. Wooton and Anderson think Keiley walks on water, and Keiley’s gut tells a different story.”
“Well, Keiley is a fool and he has fooled some better men. Stiles faced demotion and discharge in disgrace when he returned from Desert Storm. He punched out a Colonel, the Provost Marshall, no less. When El Sharif blew, he saw his chance to defect. There would be no demotion, no disgrace and if he returned years later he would be a hero and all would be forgiven. He’s a cold calculating S-O-B. Did Keiley tell you he took a prisoner to Baghdad with him when he surrendered to Iraqi forces? Barter perhaps? Whoever he was, he must have been important because Stiles retired to a prominent person’s home, a relative or friend of Saddam Hussein himself and lived there for a long time. While a guest in the influential Iraqi’s home, he earned five million dollars and left, apparently with Saddam’s blessing. Do you think he just walked from Baghdad to Ankara? Come on; look at it for what it is. Brandon Stiles is not a hero. He is a traitor.”
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