The Hamlet Warning

by Leonard Sanders

  Although he was deeply disturbed by the anger and hostility flaring in the small conference room, he didn’t take part. He wanted all factions to express their views freely, with no hint of influence from their President.

  Afterward, he would make the decision. Until then, he intended to keep an open mind, unaffected by emotion.

  President Robertson was aware of the speculation in the Press Room. He received constant feedback from his press secretary, and on the table before him lay two bulletin leads from the wire services. He knew that these stories of conjecture, if allowed to continue, could be damaging. But he also knew that most of the nation was still asleep. Within an hour he would take action generating bulletins that would supplant all the random speculation with solid news.

  Draining his brandy, Robertson listened to the firm, unhurried Oklahoma drawl of the Vice-President, chairing the council. Vice-President Threadgill was raising his voice to quell the uproar.

  “All right, all right, let’s just stop right here and sum up this situation,” the Vice-President said. He referred to notes he had been making on a scratch pad. “Let’s take a look at what we know. One, we’re piss-positive the bomb is there. Two, without adequate search, the bomb probably won’t be found. Not in time, anyway. Three, unless this war is halted down there, either one side wins or the other, or we get us a cease-fire, there won’t be adequate search. Four, there doesn’t seem to be any way the war can be halted unless we intervene. Five, if the bomb isn’t found and disarmed before one o’clock today, Dominican time, tens of thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands, of people will die. Six, that disaster will throw the door wide open for the United States to be extorted, literally held for ransom, by whoever is behind this, if the other bomb isn’t found. Now, does anybody have any quarrel with that assessment?”

  “I think it is an excellent analysis,” the Defense Secretary said in his clipped Boston accent.

  “What we’ve got to decide here is if we can stop that chain of events, and where,” the Vice-President said. “As I understand it, our people screwed up good early in the game, wasted a lot of time trying to bring this fellow Loomis up here and all, playing cops and robbers all over Europe and Africa. No use crying over spilt milk. That’s all under the bridge. But as I see it, these mistakes have brought us down to our point four — intervention. We’ve got to decide whether to try and stop things at that point — and if it’s worth the risk. All these other things, recriminations, backbiting, and conflicts of personality, are out of order here today. Does everybody agree with that?”

  President Robertson never ceased to marvel at Vice-President Threadgill’s rambling prose, devastating logic, and uncanny influence on other men. Easterners often were surprised to learn that the lanky Vice-President, with his relaxed, rough ways, was a Rhodes scholar, an authority on Renaissance art. They seemed to find inconsistency in these facets of his personality. Born a millionaire, he’d never doubted his position in the world or seen any need to be other than himself. By contrast, the Secretary of Defense spoke in restrained, formal terms but had come up the hard way, never completing high school, building a small factory into a corporate giant through three decades of relentless effort. He remained in constant fear that all he had built would someday collapse. He forever faced the world tense, on guard. President Robertson tended to like the Vice-President better. He never quite trusted the Defense Secretary or his motives. Yet, the Defense Secretary held a position that gave him a unique view of the world. His opinions would have to be considered carefully. Robertson closed his eyes, massaged the deep furrows on his brow, and listened to the man’s argument.

  “We must intervene,” the Defense Secretary said. “We simply have no choice.”

  “Let’s look at it from every angle,” the Vice-President said. “What’s the earliest time you could put Marines on the ground?”

  “Nine A.M., Dominican time,” the Secretary said promptly. “That’s lifting them in by helicopter from a hundred miles out. They would have air cover, including helicopter gunships, but no firepower from the sea until near noon. Our experience in 1965 was that we can expect minimal opposition. The imbalance of power is obvious.”

  The Vice-President nodded. “What’s the latest assessment of the military situation down there?”

  A naval aide quickly pinned a map of Santo Domingo to the wall. The Secretary rose and picked up a pointer. “From all we can learn — and we have worked closely with Langley on this — the rebels hold seventy or eighty square blocks of the Old Town, roughly from here to here, and they control the eastern approaches to the river. They are within a few blocks of the national palace, here, and it is virtually certain that they will take the seat of government this morning, if we don’t intervene.”

  “And how do you propose to do that?” the Vice-President asked.

  “By landing our marines here, in the Polo Grounds, and in the Botanical Gardens, here. With light tanks, armored personnel carriers, and so forth, they would move rapidly up Bolívar Avenue here, cutting the rebels off from the palace, then push them back to the river along a front, here.”

  The Secretary of State lit a cigarette and reached for an ashtray. “Suppose we intervene, as you propose, but fail to find the bomb, and it goes off. Won’t we be blamed?”

  “Let us look at it another way,” the Defense Secretary shot back. “Suppose we don’t intervene, and the bomb goes. Most of the world knows by now that the National Security Council is meeting in emergency session — an extraordinary night meeting. The press is not completely stupid. They will know, with any reflection, that an ordinary decision to intervene in the Dominican Republic probably would have been made after a telephone conference of the President with his most trusted advisers. After the bomb blows today, there will be demands for an accounting from this meeting. The facts will be plain. We knew of the bomb beforehand but failed to act.”

  The table fell silent. Then the Vice-President chuckled.

  “I think you just grabbed the issue by the nuts, Charlie,” he said. “We’re damned if we do, damned if we don’t. Let’s examine the alternatives. What about our spook group down there, and this bad boy Loomis? Is there any chance they’ll produce?”

  “We’ve been expecting too much out of Loomis,” the Secretary of State said. “His government is collapsing, the whole organizational structure of the country has broken down. There’s fighting in the streets. Early last night an attempt was made to assassinate him. He’s got his hands full. We can’t risk acknowledging that Johnson and his men are down there. They must keep a low profile. Their hands are tied. I don’t think we can expect them to perform miracles in that situation.”

  “Then we have to intervene,” the Defense Secretary said.

  “Not necessarily,” State countered. “The Vice-President has listed a number of steps, a progression of events. I believe we are too late to stop those events at point four — intervention. I believe we must realistically acknowledge that we are helpless in the present situation. Our only option is to devote all our energies to finding Hamlet and the other bomb.”

  “I don’t think you are looking at this realistically,” the Defense Secretary said. “When this nuclear extortionist group — whoever they are — makes public its demands, with fifty to a hundred thousand or more dead in Santo Domingo, we will be faced in this country with unprecedented panic. We’ve got to find that bomb.”

  An aide entered from the Communications Room and handed a sheet of paper to the President’s National Security Adviser, who glanced at the note, then handed it to President Robertson.

  He stubbed out his cigar while he read the message. He felt all eyes on him.

  “Well, this is a new development,” he said. “One that El Jefe didn’t bother to mention in his dramatic plea for intervention. I don’t know that it clarifies the situation. First, the De la Torre girl is safe. It seems Loomis and Johnson grabbed a hostage of enough importance that Ramón agreed to an exchange. Secondly,
Ramón has proposed a coalition government, with himself as First Secretary and El Jefe’s brother as President, if El Jefe will leave the country. El Jefe has refused.”

  A murmur of surprise swept the table. The Vice-President chuckled. “He’s banking on intervention, Mr. President.”

  “You’re probably right,” Robertson said. He reread the message. There was one aspect of it that bothered him. “What I can’t understand is Ramón. Why did he make the offer, right when he’s on the edge of a clear-cut victory?”

  “The bomb,” the Vice-President said. “Ol’ Ramón doesn’t quite believe the bomb exists, but then on the other hand he doesn’t quite disbelieve, either. This way, he hands El Jefe the option.”

  President Robertson nodded his understanding. He always tended to trust the lanky Okie’s logic.

  “I think we have defined all the issues,” Robertson said, pointedly ending the discussion.

  He knew that the time had come to act.

  He had analyzed, assessed, judged until he was dizzy with thinking. And there were no good solutions. There were only good men to study. One could only derive what knowledge he could from their experiences, their mistakes. He never ceased to be amazed at the varieties of idealism that drove men. Loomis, continually seeking justice in a world without justice. El Jefe, striving through benevolence to gain public acceptance in a thankless position — the wrong job in the wrong country. Ramón, honestly seeking human dignity in the most dangerous corner of the political spectrum, following the deceptive lights that had led so many good men astray. The Vice-President, seeking a deeper meaning to life in public service. The Defense Secretary, seeking security in power …

  There were so many lessons to be learned.

  President Robertson sat for a moment, feeling the pressures of office as he’d never felt them before. On his decision within the next few minutes would rest the fate of hundreds of thousands of people. He was tired and sleepy. Dawn was arriving and with it his bedtime. He had pondered all the issues and he still couldn’t decide. He felt the need of one more painstaking examination of the matter. Rising, he faced the council.

  “Ultimately, of course, this is my decision,” he told them. “Harry Truman defined my position. Harry faced the heat of the first two nuclear disasters in human history. I’m now feeling the heat of the third. There’s no way I can pretend I didn’t know or avoid facing the responsibility. Less than eight hours from now, we will have one of mankind’s major disasters unless something is done. Before I decide what action our government will take, I would like to have the benefit of your thinking. A brief assessment from each one of you. Charlie?”

  The Defense Secretary didn’t hesitate. “Intervention,” he said. He pointed to the map. “Santo Domingo is a relatively compact town. In four hours the bomb might be found. And in taking that risk, we might get a lead on where the other bomb is located, and possibly some clue as to the identity of the extortionist group.”

  “State?”

  “We’re too late,” the Secretary insisted. “I say let’s consider this a lost cause, seek whatever redemption we can in helping the Dominican Republic in the wake of the disaster, and bring everything we have to bear on finding the other bomb, in nailing the Hamlet people.”

  “Emergency Planning?”

  “Nonintervention, Mr. President. Every time we’ve entered another country in the last twenty-five years we’ve lived to regret it. We’ve lost face, lost ground. I think the chances of finding the bomb are minimal, the risk excessive.”

  “Mr. Vice-President?”

  “I’m afraid I’m for landing, Mr. President. I’m aware that the odds are against us, the risks overwhelming. But I don’t see how we can sit back and do nothing, when we have an entire naval strike force within range. Now, I’ll admit, Mr. President, that if you had a heart attack in the next ten minutes, flopped over right here deader’n a doornail, and the decision was then mine to make, I might feel completely different. But from where I sit, I move for intervention.”

  “You don’t always have to be so candid, Hank,” Robertson said. The Vice-President smiled, winked at the Defense Secretary, then laughed.

  “Mr. Adviser?”

  “Nonintervention, Mr. President. I feel that the scales are just about balanced pro and con. But my gut feeling is for nonintervention.”

  President Robertson nodded slowly, thinking. He toyed with his brandy snifter for a moment, then reached for a phone. His private secretary was not in her office yet, so he dialed her dictaphone. “Please have Ron inform the press I will speak to them at ten o’clock EDT on a matter of national security. Full television coverage approved. If the question arises as to whether it concerns the Dominican Republic, the answer is affirmative. But Ron is to say no more at this time.”

  He hung up the phone. “A gambit,” he said. “Speculation beforehand might be damaging. This will provide a solid news lead for the early editions and hold off the pack until ten.”

  He rubbed his eyes, forcing himself to recheck every angle one last time. He felt the subject had been covered adequately.

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” he said. “As it so happens, I agree with everything you’ve said. You’ve helped me to define matters.”

  He paused, wondering if his decision was the wrong one. Time was the only true test. The man in the hot seat had to block all personal and emotional considerations, listen to his logic, then stick to his decision through all that would follow.

  President Robertson again faced his advisers. “I have decided not to intervene,” he said. He turned to State. “Please forward my regrets to El Jefe. Word it softly, but imply strongly that he simply waited too long to ask, that we are convinced our assistance at this time would not be of benefit to him, to us, or to the people of the Dominican Republic.”

  The President studied reactions. Around the table there were no signs of disappointment or of protest — only of relief that the decision had been made.

  The President felt he should add one more thing. “There is no need to burden El Jefe with this thought, but my main concern in the decision is that I see no way of finding that bomb in time. And I do not intend to go down in history as the stupid son of a bitch who sent twenty thousand U.S. Marines marching into a nuclear blast.”

  Robertson again turned to State. “Let’s get word to Johnson and Loomis: they’re on their own. They’d better find that bomb. They’re our only hope.”

  He turned to his assistant. “Have the staff prepare a simple statement to the effect that although unconfirmed reports have led us to consider seriously — and stress unconfirmed reports — the possibility of intervention in the Dominican Republic, I have decided not to take action on a request from the President of the Dominican Republic for military intervention. Add that a naval task force is standing by to protect, and possibly to evacuate, any Americans or other foreign nationals who may be in danger, the usual shit. I’m going up to the Oval Office now. Bring me the first draft as soon as it’s prepared.” As he walked toward the elevator, the Vice-President came and put an arm around him. “I sure hope you don’t take my little jokes seriously,” the Vice-President said. “I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you. Why, I’ve got a red hot domino tourney going on over in my office, and I’m two games ahead!”

  He walked on into the elevator with the President, roaring with laughter.

  Chapter 27

  Minus 04:14 Hours

  One by one, the Super Sabres and Mirages swept low over the palacio, engines, rockets, and cannon blending into an earsplitting barrage. The rebel targets were now so close that the rockets and cannon were fired well to the north of the palacio, the shells angling over the roof and plowing into the rebel emplacements near the Parque Independencia.

  The government’s ten French AMX-13 tanks were now arrayed along the Avenida Simon Bolívar, their 90-mm cannon steadily pounding rebel entrenchments south of El Conde Gate. From his balcony, Loomis could hear the chatter of the tanks’
7.62-mm machine guns. Tracers arced across the park and disappeared into the buildings beyond.

  The battle was now an hour old. The lines had not shifted since daylight, but on the army’s radio net the government generals seemed confident that the sheer pressure of firepower would soon push the rebels back.

  Loomis had no such illusions. He remembered other bombardments, other wars.

  As the earth-shattering roar of a Mirage faded into window-rattling explosions, Loomis heard the ring of his bedside phone.

  “What do you think now?” El Jefe asked.

  “If we wait more than another thirty minutes, I can no longer be responsible for your safety,” Loomis said.

  “The tanks are not holding?”

  “They’re holding. But they’re too concentrated. Ramón will flank. He will come in from the east.”

  “We have moved reinforcements there.”

  “Not enough. It’s time to bail out, at least until the battle is decided.”

  “No, Loomis. If I leave the palacio, I will be admitting to four million Dominicans, and to the world, that Ramón has won. I simply cannot do that until I am convinced no other course exists.”

  “It’s almost nine o’clock,” Loomis told him. “We will have to evacuate within four hours, in any event. I think we will have to assume that we are close enough to ground zero to put the palacio in danger.”

  A shrieking Mirage interrupted the argument. El Jefe waited until after the explosions.

  “We still have time,” El Jefe said. “My generals are much more confident than you. We may be able to push them back. Even the hint of some U.S. Marines would make the difference. I still have not heard from Washington. Can you call your friend Johnson? Perhaps he has heard something.”

  “I’ll try,” Loomis promised. “But in the meantime, just in case your generals are wrong, why don’t I institute Contingency Plan B, on a standby basis?”

  El Jefe’s reply was interrupted by a tremendous explosion. The first rebel rocket had penetrated the south wall of the palacio.