Hardly a minute more, enlisted men and women in various colored vests were all over his plane. These were the deck crew of the nuclear powered Nimitz class aircraft carrier, USS Carl Vinson.
“Welcome to my second home,” a voice shouted across the noise. It was Taylor, lively and dynamic. In sharp contrast, O’Connell felt wobbly and dazed. He stood up in the cockpit and put one leg over to the ladder. After getting down, he removed his helmet and shook his head to recover his senses. It didn’t help much. “How was it, son?” he asked. “Not many civilians come in the way you did.”
“I can’t imagine many would want to,” O’Connell said laughing. “The service sucked.”
“Well, it’s better onboard. You’re on a great city.”
On a city? mused the writer. What an odd expression, but it was true. He’d been told that the Vinson had everything a city of 4,500 could possibly need.
Next, Morgan Taylor saluted the ranking officer, Rear Admiral Boulder Devoucoux.
“Permission to come aboard, sir?”
“Permission granted, Mr. President. The command is yours.”
It was a formality and even though Morgan Taylor had left the service as a Commander, he now commanded all of America’s armed forces.
“Thank you, sir, but I think I’ll leave that in your able hands if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all, sir. It’s an honor to have you aboard.”
“It’s good to be back.”
“Rear Admiral, I’d like you to meet Michael O’Connell. He’s our historian for this little adventure.”
Devoucoux had been advised that the reporter was accompanying the President.
“You’ll extend him every courtesy and answer his questions by the book.”
“Yes sir.” Devoucoux offered his hand.
“Good to meet you, Mr. O’Connell.” The career officer was pleased that Morgan Taylor had added the caveat “by the book.” He picked up on the cue immediately. It allowed him to explain ship’s operation in strictly Popular Science terms and nothing beyond. The reporter smiled thinking he would get more. Everyone was happy.
“Nice to meet you, sir. And about the only question I have right now is where’s the nearest bathroom.”
The president smiled to his former commanding officer. “Boulder, our guest actually has a good idea. We’ll hit the head and get on with things.” Morgan Taylor raised his hand in the air and Secret Service, which had arrived earlier, seemed to come out of nowhere. They fell into place around him.
“You’re in good hands, Mr. O’Connell. I’ll catch up with you soon.” With that Morgan Taylor moved in double time and passed the five planes that had made the trip across the Atlantic. Their wings were now folded up, like bats ready to sleep.
“Mr. O’Connell,” a young enlisted man called out. “This way. I’ll get you where you need to go.”
“Thanks. And you’re?”
“Seaman Pearlman, sir. At your service. We’ll let you get freshened up.”
O’Connell followed slowly; he didn’t have his balance yet. Pearlman noticed. “Don’t worry, sir. You’ll have your sea legs soon.” He thought better of telling him the truth.
While O’Connell was in the head, another plane landed on the deck. He heard the rumble but didn’t think to ask about it. Had he inquired, he would have been politely told it was a heavy lift CH-53 transport from the mainland. No one would have said who was onboard.
The men who did de-plane talked to no one along the way. There were only salutes. They had other things on their mind. First and foremost, the weather. Like President Taylor, O’Connell and the escorts, they’d used a short break in the storm system to land on the Vinson. That window was closing again.
The White House Briefing Room
Tuesday 13 January
“Where’s the president?” asked the CBS reporter at the daily White House news briefing. The city lived on rumors. A number were circulating; quietly leaked by high level staffers under instructions from Morgan Taylor’s Press Secretary, Bill Bagley; instructions he didn’t even understand.
“I have a report that the president is at Camp David with severe depression and is under medical supervision.”
That was a new one to Bagley.
“I can assure you that the president is in complete control of his faculties. He could probably hop back into a fighter and take the stick if he wanted to,” said the press secretary. “He is right where he belongs. At work.”
A young CNN reporter took up the charge. “My sources have him in secret meetings in India.”
“Not true.”
“Talking to Boeing about joining the board?” asked another.
“No.”
“Vacationing?”
“Look, a man who’s scheduled to be out of work in eight days doesn’t need a vacation now.” Bagley went on to explain what he knew to be the truth—which was very little. John Bernstein said to handle the questions directly. The president was busy and unavailable. Everything on the street was rumor, or more to the Beltway parlance, “disinformation,” partly to give the press something to write about, partly to suggest to Teddy Lodge that Morgan Taylor was isolated in his final days.
“Look, he’s not scheduled for any public appearances until the Inauguration. He’s got a great deal to do in a very short time. Next question?”
Newman’s speechwriter and Lodge’s plaything was busy at all of her jobs. All three.
Christine Slocum had an impressive grasp of words and a natural feel for the way Lodge could deliver her lines. That made her invaluable to both men. But she also provided the eyes and ears for another.
Though she only cryptically communicated via sex chatrooms, her correspondent knew exactly what to read into the messages. She conveyed mood, manner, strengths and weaknesses to her benefactor; a rich man who had provided college scholarship money when little else was available. A thoughtful businessman who flung open doors of opportunity to her that would have otherwise remained closed. In return, she wrote a little, she spied a little and she fucked a lot. She liked all three and prided herself for her talent in each area.
For Slocum, it was a game where she advanced with the winner. Slocum was already getting noticed by some members of the press corps. The twenty-five-year-old wunderkind from Miami was likely to head the White House speechwriting staff. Lodge even hinted it himself. Newman said it directly.
And once again Ibrahim Haddad’s patience had paid off handsomely. He had groomed the talented writer for years, always manipulating things her way. Of course, if she eloped with some undergraduate love interest, there were others with the same ability. Haddad always had others. But she remained a faithful prodigy and a willing associate.
As a result, Haddad now had two people to watch over Lodge. Newman controlled the politics. Slocum played with his emotions. There was no question in Haddad’s mind that Lodge had become tense over the last few months. That’s why he sent her in; that and her ability to write for him.
Haddad thanked Christine Slocum for the words she wrote in Lodge’s speeches and the words he assumed she whispered in his ears. He thanked her with a bonus in a Cayman Island bank account; money that could never be traced back to him. And he thanked her each time the press wrote another glowing article or heralded the new chief executive.
“Move over Taylor. Lodge is moving in,” trumpeted the host. The Bennington Banner editorialized that their favorite son would “breathe life into a government-gone-stale.” “Lodge to re-invent the role of America,” touted The Los Angeles Times.
Reporters everywhere were tripping over one another to score a personal interview with the president-elect, now even Fox News. And then Haddad thought for a moment. The New York Times reporter? O’Connell. Where’s he been? He’d get word to Slocum. Maybe it was time for her to cultivate another “friendship” on the outside.
Wednesday 14 January
“More unseasonably bad weather’s in store for the south-central Mediter
ranean. With gale force winds blowing on shore, continuing inland with downpours through Northern Libya and Tunisia.”
The CNN International weatherman didn’t delve into specifics. It meant nothing to most of the audience. But some very important people were interested in more information. Fortunately, they had their own private meteorologist.
Onboard the USS Carl Vinson, the CIA’s Dutch Tetreault explained why the system had stalled out. Rear Admiral Boulder Devoucoux listened. He knew the winds all too well and the dangers they brought. But he only needed a short window to open up.
Devoucoux instantly flashed on D-Day and the uncertainty Dwight Eisenhower must have felt before proceeding with the invasion of Normandy. The one thing Ike couldn’t control was the weather. Now with his own operation to launch, Devoucoux drew the parallel. General Eisenhower only waited a day. How long will I have to?
“Come on, Tetreault, there’s got to be a break coming.”
The meteorologist handed a sheet of paper to the rear admiral that answered his question.
ALERT 01500 CHARLIE JAN 14.
SUBJ/JAN 14 MEDITERRANEAN SEA HIGH WIND.
AND SEAS WARNING//
1. THIS WARNING SUPERCEDES AND CANCELS ALL PRV.
2. WARNINGS ARE FOR OVER WATER AREAS BUT ARE DESCRIBED FOR BREVITY
AND OVERLAP LAND MASSES OR AREAS OF LESSER WINDS/SEAS.
3. WAVE HEIGHTS REPRESENT THE AVERAGE HIGHEST ONE-THIRD (1/3) OF COMBINED SEA AND SWELL. INDIVIDUAL WAVES MAY BE SIGNIFICANTLY HIGHER.
4. WIND WARNINGS.
A. GALE WARNING VALID FOR THE 48 HOUR PERIOD BEGINNING AT 0150O CHARLIE JAN 14. MAX SUSTAINED WINDS EAST AT 73-76 KTS WITH GUSTS TO 88 KTS.
5. SEAS 22 FT OR GREATER FORECAST FOR THE 36 HOUR PERIOD.
6. NEXT MEDITERRANEAN SEA HIGH WIND AND SEAS WARNING WILL BE 1800 CHARLIE.
Devoucoux read it and passed it down the line to Colonel Langeman. “Here Slange. Get out your dramamine.”
“Fuck me!” he shouted as he read the report. No one in the chain of command took exception with his comment. They all were feeling that they’d run out of time. Most of all the president.
“Dutch, I want the bottom line,” Taylor said.
“Mr. President, we’ve got very cold upper air and steep temperature lapse rates. In turn, high atmospheric instability supports thunderstorms overshooting the tropopause. In addition, rotating storms embedded within the squall line are throwing off tornados and waterpouts.”
“In English,” insisted the president.
“Mesocyclones.”
“English!”
Tetreault had to go back to his TV weatherman days. “Ah, the squall line’s stalled and we’re right under it.”
Morgan Taylor turned away from the others. He put his hand to his forehand and stroked his hair, grabbing and holding the nap at the back of his neck. He kept his expression and immediate anger out of sight.
“Worst of it is,” continued the meteorologist, “this thing’s still intensifying. I’m waiting for the latest high resolution images from our satellite sounders. But right now I don’t see how anybody’s going anywhere.”
The president circled the room and faced everyone again. There was no sign of hopelessness on his face; only determination. “The very second,” he paused to correct himself. “No, make that the very nanosecond we have achieved even minimal acceptable conditions between 2200 and 0330 hours, we launch. I will not put our team in jeopardy, but we will go.”
There wasn’t a man on the bridge who didn’t read President Morgan loud and clear.
However, the weather was not under Taylor’s command and the USS Carl Vinson rocked in the waves for four more nauseating days. When the seas finally calmed where the Vinson sailed, a new squall, with heavy winds and rain stalled over Tripoli.
Fisher Island, Florida
Saturday 17 January
Ibrahim Haddad used his influence to learn that Michael O’Connell hadn’t been at his desk in ten days. He had missed invitations to This Week and Meet the Press. Nobody passed up that kind of exposure, especially twice. One of his editors was heard to say in the men’s room that O’Connell was on the network’s shit list. “And he’s gonna be covering the New York State Assembly instead of the White House if he doesn’t check in.” However, a friendly call to a Times editor indicated that he was working with an “inside source” on an important story.
Haddad ran the possibilities. O’Connell was onto something. He covered the campaign. They wouldn’t take him off it now. He wasn’t with Lodge. That left only one other person.
He left a message that was picked up by his source at the FBI. Soon he learned that a DC cab driver remembered dropping off a man at the White House who fit the description of O’Connell. And now Taylor was AWOL. Why? Haddad wondered if Taylor took him to the Pakistani-Indian border to get him away from Lodge.
At the end of his mental exercise, Haddad concluded that he needed more information. He decided to do two things in the morning: Press his contact at the FBI for something concrete and send another encoded message in an e-bay picture to a business associate waiting in Washington. It was time to implement a contingency plan.
As his bedroom digital clock clicked over from 11:59 P.M. to midnight, Haddad turned off his night light and willed away his anxiety. Two days and it would be over. Two more days and the country will have a new president. It took the conservative Republican Nixon to open up relations with the Chinese communists. It will be the liberal Democratic Lodge who will undo the United States’ allegiance to Israel and eventually install a new generation of Kharrazi leadership in Libya. Yes, just two more days, he thought.
One hour later, Haddad slipped into a fitful sleep. His dream returned. This time more vividly. The speeches. The bands. The jets overhead. The swearing in ceremony. The face. The face laughing now. Laughing loudly. The sound reverberating in his head, echoing as his body bolted upright again. Cold sweat drenched him. Haddad groped for his inhaler and stared across the darkness of his room. The room was pitch black, but for the first time he could see the face.
Morgan Taylor!
CHAPTER
59
Mediterranean Sea
aboard the USS Carl Vinson
2347 local hrs
Monday 19 January
The ceiling was low, almost on the deck. But it wasn’t pouring and the winds had died down. The only illumination for miles emanated from the glow of the Vinson in the temporarily calm seas. The pulsing tracer lights on the flight deck dotted the active runway. The massive vessel headed into the cold 15 knot winds, now just 150 nautical miles off the coast of Libya.
High overhead, a USAF AWACS, with its saucer disc mounted on the fuselage, scanned the skies and the ground below. It flew parallel to and 60 miles north of the Libyan coast at 36,150 feet.
Boulder Devoucoux gave the order. “We commit in 38 minutes. This is it. Stations.”
First to takeoff from the USS Carl Vinson were a pair of UH-60 Special Forces Black Hawks, each carrying three members of the Special Forces team. They flew inside an envelope created by four fully armed Apache AH-64D copters 500 hundred feet away.
At 0040, four single seat F/A-18E’s, known for their night attack precision, shot into the skies over the Med, excelerating from from 0 to 160 mph in three just seconds.
Operation Quarterback Sneak was officially and finally underway.
Tripoli, Libya
0057 hrs
Tuesday 20 January
Many tea rooms and cafés were still open, though most of the customers had left or were just completing their nightly rounds of backgammon.
In the corner of one small establishment near the Hotel El Kabir, sat a tired traveler in ragged African garb. He was listening to an old, cracked portable radio through worn earphones. He tuned to a specific station, adjusted the volume to minimize static from the florescent lights, and heard what sounded like the play-by-play of an English language football game. It was unusual to listen to
football, but not illegal. If anyone heard it they wouldn’t understand the coded plays that were being called to an audience of one—Vinnie D’Angelo.
D’Angelo could change the station just by tilting the radio 45 degrees. He’d immediately do that if someone of authority approached.
The announcer punched through the recorded crowd noise to describe the 1st quarter—the flight to Tripoli. The second quarter would be a “fake.” There would be no halftime in this game. The big action would come in the 3rd quarter. The 4th quarter—the return flight to the Vinson. And if the game went well, there’d be one spectacular celebration in the locker room, which he’d miss.
Five blocks away, a man took a seat under a park bench lamp. He wore casual slacks and a turtleneck covered by a heavily worn windbreaker to keep him warm. Once comfortable, he lit up a cigarette then removed a paperback book and a flashlight from his jacket pocket.
There was nothing immediately suspicious about the man or his actions. But in fact he was on what he hoped would be his final Libyan assignment.
Like D’Angelo, the man had a special piece of equipment. For him, his flashlight. When the bottom battery compartment of the flashlight was given a quarter turn to the right, the on and off button was pressed in a 3-2-4 sequence, and the back returned to its locked position, the flashlight could “paint” a four story office corner building hundreds of feet away with a powerful, narrow laser beam.
“Painting” had a specific purpose. The building was a target. The computers in the cockpit of the lead F/A-18E Super Hornet would lock onto the reflected laser. The laser’s reflection would then be “ridden” by a pair of the plane’s missiles all the way to the target.
This was Sami Ben Ali’s job. The 2nd quarter fake. He had to help the fliers create a diversion, clearing the way for the actual assault. Ben Ali had exactly five minutes before aiming his light down the street. He prayed that the Mavericks would be accurate. He was only 1500 feet from the building. Close enough to die if a missile was off its mark.
Scott Roarke 01 - Executive Actions Page 47