“A fight with Iran has been looming for many years, since Desert Storm and Iran’s military buildup after the war, sir,” Freeman said. He saw the President nod in silent agreement. “We had to be ready if Iran, or North Korea, or China struck.”
“You two have lost me,” Ellen Christine Whiting interjected. “I know General Curtis, and General Elliott when he was with Border Security, and I’m familiar with most everyone you’ve mentioned in the old administration, and Marshall Brent, of course—he was the greatest, the reincarnation of Abraham Lincoln himself—but I’ve never heard of HAWC or this Old Dog. And what’s all this got to do with Iran?”
“Ellen, back in the midst of the Cold War and the turmoil in the Soviet Union and China, we didn’t want to do anything to upset the superpowers, our allies, or the American people,” the President explained. “We had a military research unit called HAWC—hell, I don’t even remember what it stood for, probably some string of military-sounding words just so the acronym came out cool and tough—commanded by Brad Elliott, way before his stint with the Border Security Force. He had a small to medium budget, buried so deeply in the Air Force budget that I think everyone mistook it for a warehouse or a military band or something. It was always getting slashed, and that bastard would march up to the Pentagon and scream and holler and jump on desks until we gave him a few bucks more just to shut him up.
“Anyway, Elliott and his staff could take a piece-of-shit plane like a B-52 bomber and make it dance, ” the President went on, so excited with his reminiscing that he found himself talking with his hands, something he rarely did. “Elliott was building stealth bombers years before the B-2A; he was playing with TV-guided bombs and small satellites and brilliant search-and-destroy cruise missiles years before Desert Storm, even before most experts in the Pentagon ever heard of them. He was so good .. . the stuff he turned out was so reliable, so effective, that we .. . used them a few times.” “You what?” the Vice President asked incredulously. “Used them ... as in, sent them off to war?”
“Sent them off before the war,” the President said, still smiling. “Remember that Soviet laser site in Siberia, the one that was shooting down satellites and even taking shots at our intelligence aircraft? Remember how it just up and blew itself apart one night?”
“We all assumed it was the Navy SEALs or Delta Force.”
“Delta Force didn’t even exist back then,” Freeman corrected her. “The defenses were so thick around that site, we couldn’t get a plane or a sub in close enough to infiltrate a SEAL or Green Beret team. We thought we’d need an ICBM to take it out.” He turned to the President. “That was Elliott? Flying one of his experimental planes?”
“A fucking B-52 bomber, a job older than most of the crew members who flew it. They called it the Old Dog. Called Brad Elliott that, too,” the President said proudly. “Elliott called it a ‘flying battleship,’ had it loaded up with smart bombs, decoy drones, even air- to-air missiles, if you can believe it.”
“I can’t believe this,” Whiting exclaimed. “Congress knew absolutely nothing about it?”
“No one knew, except for the White House inner circle,” the President said. “Heck, even I got briefed after the fact! But Elliott did it, Ellen. He was so successful, we used him again and again. A Chinese radar site and a big battleship needed taking out in the Philippines? Nobody else around within a thousand miles, no carriers, no subs—but Elliott’s toys would take them out. Elliott’s toys destroyed an entire Belarussian armored battalion, a hundred tanks and armored vehicles, in one night—hell, in one pass—without anyone in Europe knowing about it.”
The Vice President was still shaking her head. “What happened to him?”
“He was fired, forced to retire,” Martindale replied. “He started to make mistakes, got a little overconfident. He was a throwback, too. He’d go out looking for fights—he’d want to fly his hybrid spaceships in each and every little conflict that cropped up in the whole friggin’ world. Fortunately for us, he would never quit—un- fortunately for him, he never learned when to quit.”
“Sounds like my kind of guy,” Freeman said with a smile.
“No, Phil, not anymore. If you’re thinking about using him in some way for this Iran thing, forget it. He was a loose cannon. We stayed awake nights thinking of how we were going to explain things to Congress, to the American people, to our allies, if Elliott screwed the pooch.”
“I wasn’t thinking about Elliott,” Freeman said. “I was thinking about McLanahan.”
“Who?” asked Whiting.
“Patrick McLanahan,” said Martindale. “One of Elliott’s deputies. Damned talented youngster. But I thought he was gone, too.”
“I found him,” Freeman said with a mischievous smile. “I found most of the surviving members of Elliott’s gang. . . and I prescreened most of them under NSA Article Three.”
“Article what?” Ellen Whiting asked. She hurriedly read through a draft Executive Order that Freeman handed to her. “And you’re proposing that we create a military force that acts under sole authority of the White House? The Pentagon will never support it. The Cabinet will never buy it. Congress will never fund it. The American people will scream bloody murder.”
“We’ve already got the force in place, Ellen,” Freeman said. “It’s called the Air Force Intelligence Agency, based out of San Antonio, Texas. They’ve been in business for four years now, assisting the Air Force and other agencies in combat, scientific, and human intelligence operations. The agency is a combination of assets from other forces, including Air Combat Command. These were the guys that helped pick out targets in Baghdad for the stealth fighters; they operated in Iraq and even in Haiti, picking targets for the Air Force. They’re experienced with working with the National Security Agency, CIA, and foreign intelligence services. So what we do is team them up with the Intelligence Support Agency to find Iran’s mobile missiles and mess up their command-and-control system. If we destroy their communications and command-control network, maybe we can head off a war before it starts.”
The Vice President remained openly skeptical; the exasperated shake of her head told her opinion of the legal authority to conduct military operations without notifying Congress, not to mention the commonsense logic of doing such operations without getting the entire Cabinet on board. “Ma’am, I’m not suggesting we start a war— I’m suggesting that we get some high-tech eyes out there to keep an eye on the region and get some precision, survivable firepower in the area in case something does happen,” Freeman went on. “We all know that Iran would very well start a war if we do a Desert Shield-type escalation or overtly threaten them with any show of force—that’s why I’m suggesting we do this operation as quietly and as stealthily as possible.”
“But we have political and diplomatic realities to face, General.” The President held up a hand to the Vice President. “Hold on, Ellen. Let’s let the general dig himself out of this. What are you proposing, Philip?” the President asked.
“I’m proposing an escalation of technologies, if you will, all employed by the Air Force Intelligence Agency, and all centered around keeping an eye on Iran as it conducts this saber-rattling routine,”
Freeman said. “I want the same B-2A HAWC flew over the Philippines in the China conflict, the one that carried the exotic weapons that no one ever heard of. We’ll need specialized crews for this plane. They happen to be civilians, but I think they’ll come back and fly for us.”
“Why that particular plane, Phil?” the Vice President asked. “Why a civilian to fly it?”
“The Air Force doesn’t have the new weapons yet—no one has them, except the crews that used to work at HAWC in Nevada,” Freeman replied. “Even the B-2As still use dumb bombs. Only a handful of fliers know how to use the real twenty-first-century Buck Rogers hardware—and I found them.”
“So you’re proposing sending this B-2A loaded up with smart bombs and flown by CIA spies over Iran to blow up a command center—with
out declaring war or notifying Congress?” Whiting asked incredulously. Both Freeman and Whiting noticed that the President was perfectly content to let her play “devil’s advocate” and come up with as many negatives as possible, so she charged ahead: “I can’t think of a faster, easier way to start a world war, bring down international condemnation on this office, and be branded as lunatic terrorists ourselves!”
“If the force is never, never applied within the United States, the American people won’t care what we did as long as it got results.”
“You sound like Bud McFarlane or Oliver North all of a sudden, General,” the Vice President said acidly. “Are you forgetting the Iran-contra debacle? We may have a Republican Congress now, but that doesn’t mean they or the American people will like or appreciate what you’re trying to do.”
Whiting turned to the President and went on: “Let’s assume for a moment that there is legal precedent for forming such a group, Mr. President, that this Air Force Intelligence Agency can legally do these missions. The question you need to ask yourself is, will you take the bombardment of criticism we’re undoubtedly going to receive? You cannot hope that General Freeman or anyone else is going to deflect or absorb the negative press for us. Could this be considered an abuse of power? Could this be considered an impeachable offense? Will this affect our chances of a second term—or could this even affect our ability to effectively govern through our first term in office?”
The President returned to his desk and slouched, as he was fond of doing in private when he had an important matter to consider. He saw lines lighting up on his phone—his staff was holding all calls for now, but he knew the ones lighting up the phone were the most important ones. Time was running out.
Iran was gearing up its war machine. He could feel it. Just like Saddam Hussein in the 1980s, like Milosevic and the Bosnian Serbs in the 1990s—the signs were all there of an impending calamity, of a dangerous and bloody war. All of these dictators had one thing in common: they wanted to use a strong military force to demonstrate to their friends and foes alike that they were powerful leaders. The instant that a conflict or threat developed, such leaders were too quick to send their bloated military forces off to war. Martindale had always faulted others for not seeing the signs and reacting in time— he was determined not to let that happen again.
History would not treat him kindly if some disaster occurred before the bad guys started hostilities. If the B-2A crashed over Iran while doing a secret reconnaissance, or if one of those anti-radar missiles hit a school or hospital and killed innocent civilians, Martindale would be labeled a warmonger. When he had been Vice President, he’d gladly accepted that title—now he wasn’t so sure such a name would be good for his political career. But if the presence of the B-2A kept a conflict from escalating, if it was at the right place at the right time, it would be a major military and foreign-policy victory for him. . . .
“Do it, Philip,” the President said. “Quietly. Form a team, map out a plan, bring them together, then report back to me. I’ll brief the
Cabinet myself after I’ve heard your plan. This plan might die at birth, but get things moving. Baby steps, General. Quietly and gently. Full security.”
“Yes, sir,” Freeman responded.
He saw Whiting close her eyes, and said to her, “I’ve answered your question, Ellen—yes, I’ll take the heat. If it’s legal, I’ll do it. I need to do something—I can’t wait for the Middle East to blow up in our faces before we act. I want something in my hip pocket ready to go, to try to stop the hemorrhaging before it’s necessary to go to our allies and to Congress to authorize an act of war.” He hit the button to the outer office, instructing his personal secretary to give him a list of the most important callers. “That’ll be all, ladies and gents.” But he was wrong, the President knew as he had his secretary dial the first number on his growing priority phone list. This was not all—this was only the beginning.
Aboard air Force One, somewhere over Texas
LATER THAT DAY
As was his custom when traveling on Air Force One, the President wandered back to where several members of the White House Press Corps were busy preparing news items, and he spent a few moments with each person over coffee and bran muffins that had been freshly prepared in one of Air Force One’s two kitchens. The President had ditched his usual dark blue business jacket and red silk tie and was wearing a blue cotton Air Force One windbreaker, with two buttons open on his white business shirt underneath. “How’s it going back here this afternoon, folks?” the President greeted them. They all came to their feet as he entered, preceded by a Secret Service agent, and he heard an unintelligible chorus of words and lots of smiling, so he assumed they had all said, “Fine, Mr. President,” or something to that effect. Traveling with the President of the United States aboard Air Force One had to be the ultimate assignment for a reporter, and he rarely heard a complaint.
“Please, take your seats, thank you. Got enough coffee back here?” Nods and smiles all around. “Got enough work to do? I could use a hand with this National Education Association speech.” He got a faint ripple of laughter. “Anybody got anything for me?”
“We noticed Miss Scheherazade didn’t join you on this trip, Mr. President,” one lady reporter asked. “Everything OK between you two?”
“Well, according to the briefing I got this morning, I hear some of you in the press have been saying that Monica was mad at me because I didn’t attend the premiere of her new film,” President Martindale said with a boyish smile. “I feel like a hunk of raw meat in the tabloids sometimes. The truth is that Miss Scheherazade is filming this week in Monaco ... oops, I wasn’t supposed to reveal that. Sorry, Monica.” His mischievous grin told the reporters that he enjoyed playing these media-public relations games. “Anything else?” “I know the country doesn’t seem to care too much about anything else but your love life, Mr. President,” a veteran news anchor- person chimed in, his cameraman dutifully behind him taking pictures, “but there are reports from Reuters that Iran attacked a vessel and possibly an aircraft last night in the Gulf of Oman, near the Persian Gulf. Any information on that?”
“No,” the President replied. “It apparently wasn’t an American or allied ship, because I’ve received no complaints or protests about it. Anything el—?”
“Are you concerned that Iran is apparently operating this aircraft carrier so close to the Persian Gulf, and they apparently have it fully armed with very sophisticated aircraft and missiles?”
“Lots of nations have ships with extremely sophisticated weapons operating in or near the Persian Gulf, the United States included,” the President replied. “The United States and its allies can defend themselves if necessary, but there doesn’t seem to be a reason to be concerned. In fact, I’ve received a very interesting proposal from the Iranian Foreign Ministry to which we’re giving a lot of thought—a plan to remove all offensive, land-attack warships from the Persian Gulf entirely. I don’t have any details about the idea, but it sounds intriguing, doesn’t it?”
“It seems a bit incongruous for Iran to sail its carrier through the oil-shipment lanes, and then to propose that everyone do away with such vessels....”
“Well, that might suggest that the carrier is nothing but a symbol of their resolve, of their desire to be a major player in the region,” the President offered.
“So you feel the Iranian carrier battle group is no threat?”
“Any nuclear-powered vessel with the firepower that ship apparently has is potentially a threat,” the President said, “but we’re prepared to deal with any threat. However, the prospects for peace look very promising. If President Nateq-Nouri has a proposal, I’m anxious to look at it. I like the idea of demilitarizing the Persian Gulf.”
“Even though you didn’t go to the premiere, do you plan to see Monica’s new movie, Mr. President?”
President Martindale breathed a silent sigh of relief. Good, he thought, they were moving back to the
subject of his personal life again. As difficult as it was to have his private life under the media microscope every hour of every day, the topic of Iran’s growing threat in the Middle East was even worse. The veteran anchorperson noticed his relief and nodded knowingly—smug bastard. When it was time for their short one-on-ones, the subject of Iran was sure to come up again. “Actually, I did see Limbo,” the President replied with a smile. “I had my own . . . private screening.”
There was a conspirational “Ahhhhh!” through the press corps. “And what did you think of the nude scene?” he was asked for the two hundredth time since the movie opened last weekend. “Do you approve of the love of your life doing nude scenes with Brad Pitt?” The President let loose one of his boyish, innocent-looking grins again, and replied, “I’ll bet Mr. Pitt was asking himself the very same thing about me.”
CHAPTER TWO
BARKSDALE AIR FORCE BASE, BOSSIER CITY, LOUISIANA WEDNESDAY, 16 APRIL 1997, 1412 CT
One of the most beautiful places on earth had to be Louisiana in the springtime, thought Air Force Lieutenant General Terrill “Earth- mover” Samson. Little humidity, perfect temperature, cool, clean air—perfect. Too perfect for him to be cooped up in the office all day.
The big three-star general was having a great day. It had started with his weekly two-mile morning jog with about one hundred senior officers and NCOs, which he hoped would serve as a motivational fitness incentive for all base personnel. That was followed by a breakfast meeting with local businesspersons to suggest ways in which the Air Force could help improve and revitalize the community and cut down on crime; a rather productive morning in the office answering mail and reviewing paperwork; and an informal Q-and-A lunch with the students at the current session of Eighth Air Force’s Non-Commissioned Officer Leadership School. Now, Samson, forty-six years young with the heart of a twenty-year-old and with a cleared-off desk and calendar, was going to goof off this afternoon and do something he rarely had time to do these days—go flying.
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