PointOfHonor

by Susan Glinert Stevens

  Jonas pressed the PRINT key and a thermal printer produced an image copy of the message for his briefcase. He pulled a chart from his briefcase and flipped it to southern Iraq. He looked at the message and drew a circle in red ink around where they thought the boat had vanished.

  TheSeahawk is tasked with close quarters anti-submarine capabilities. The detection gear should work equally well on a scuttled boat as well as a submarine trying to hide.

  He tapped the pilot on the shoulder and pointed to the chart. “Can you get us here?”

  The pilot checked the fuel gauge on his instrumentation panel. “Not without refueling first. Besides that’s Iraq proper and we don’t have sufficient force to ensure your security. That was something the flight boss made real clear to us. Your security is top priority.”

  Jonas pulled out the FLASH message and said, “This is my authorization. Tell me, what we can do?”

  The copilot looked over their shoulder and said, “You know they could get a company of marines from thePeleliu pretty fast.”

  Jonas seemed puzzled. “What’s thePeleliu ?”

  “Amphibious assault ship—part of the carrier task force. They’ve got something like thirteen hundred marines on board. I’m sure they could spare a company or two for you.”

  “How long?”

  “Don’t know, sir. But we can sure dial up theGeorge Washington and get it started,” suggested the pilot. “Just love telling Admirals what they’re going to do next.” He chuckled his best evil laugh. “Makes it worth getting up in the morning, if you know what I mean, sir.”

  “Do it. We have to go back to the carrier anyway once we get the floater,” replied Jonas.

  Twenty minutes later a CH-53Sea Stallion lifted off the deck of theUSS Peleliu with thirty marines, two fresh divers, and a course heading straight for theGeorge Washington .

  TheSeahawk and its divers retrieved the floater. The badly bloated corpse already was rotting in the elevated temperatures of the Gulf. Besides the violence done to the floater by nature, the brutal assault of the nerve toxin had ruptured most of the blood vessels in the man’s face. His death had been particularly violent.

  The lead diver pulled off his hood, taking the proffered towel to dry his hair. He looked up at Jonas asking, “Why’s this guy Chinese Navy?”

  Jonas stared at the man. “You sure?”

  “Yeah. He’s got the flag on his arm patch. The bio suit he’s wearing kept him afloat, but it sure didn’t stop whatever it was that killed him. It looks as if the stuff ate right through the suit.”

  “We think something went wrong, but we really don’t know what.”

  The diver dropped the towel between his feet and spat. “From everything we have seen in the training films they send us, it looks like there was a weapons release. His torso is almost cut in half, like it was a kind of acid or something.”

  “Could it have been an accident?” asked Jonas.

  “Pretty strange way to have an accident. Unless this stuff was under pressure, it certainly didn’t get there by simply opening the top.”

  “You double bagged him?”

  The diver laughed. “We triple bagged him once we saw what we were dealing with. Don’t worry, none of us were too keen to touch the bugger once we saw what happened.”

  The pilot keyed his microphone. “TheWashington’s coming up. Best strap in for landing.”

  They roared towards the massive carrier seemingly alone on the blue sea. Only she was not alone; over the horizon standing picket duty were the frigateReuben James and the destroyersJohn Young andIngersoll . In addition, the powerful AWACS battle management aircraft, owned by the Saudi Air Force and flown by the United States Air Force, maintained a constant watch on all aircraft. The Saudi’s had purchased twelve AWACS systems.

  The AWACS was basically a Boeing 707 with a rotating radar dome mounted like a huge knob on the back of the plane. It was packed with avionics, electronic countermeasures, and constantly escorted by fighters. It could literally track hundreds of aircraft and direct counter-force aircraft in a defensive posture, or prosecute a massive air campaign in an offensive posture.

  TheGeorge Washington remained safe under its protective umbrella. Should the order be given to punish Saddam, theGeorge Washington could deliver more precision guided munitions—what the public calledsmart bombs —than had been launched in all ofDesert Storm with two thirds the available air wing that had been present on the carriers during the Gulf War.

  TheSeahawk came to rest on the rear deck of the carrier. Jonas clambered out of the chopper and found a smartly dressed commander waiting for him. The General Electric motors were winding down, and the commander leaned close to Jonas. “The Admiral would like to see you, sir.”

  Jonas turned to the skiff canister and the commander waved to the detail standing to one side. “They’ve been briefed on your requirements, sir.”

  Jonas nodded. “Lead on.”

  The commander headed into decks of theGeorge Washington . Jonas was relieved that no one expected him to find the admiral on his own. ANimitz Class carrier is basically a floating city hosting between five and six thousand men. There are flight decks, hanger decks, and two nuclear reactors. The carrier has 450 computer workstations networked using Novell. The information systems department processes over 1200 messages per day during peacetime, and the eight ATM machines disperse $320,500 in an average month. The various messes provide upwards of 18,000 meals everyday. Into this, Jonas plunged after his escort, certain he would be lost if left to his own devices.

  Jonas was totally turned around by the time he found himself face to face with Admiral Trevor Barnes. He waved Jonas into his stateroom and closed the door. Barnes was the task force commander responsible for the lives of several thousand men, billions of dollars in ships and aircraft, and directly answerable to the Fifth Fleet Commander.

  “Coffee?” he asked, pouring into his mug.

  “Yes, thank you,” replied Jonas, unsure of what was coming next.

  Barnes turned with two steaming mugs proffering one with a drawing of the Naval Academy. “Sugar is on the table over there.”

  Jonas accepted the mug and settled into a chair.

  “I suppose you’re wondering why I asked to see you.” He settled himself in a chair across from Jonas. Barnes did not wait for a reply. “I understand you’re the analyst who first saw these photos.” He dropped a spread of photos on the table. They were copies of the ones in Jonas’ briefcase.

  Jonas cocked his head to be sure, then replied, “Yes, sir.”

  “I see a Chinese sub with a hole in its pressure hull. I see another boat, presumably Iraqi in nature, along side. And I am getting nonsense from Washington—which brings me to you.” His eyes bore down on his visitor.

  Jonas looked right back at the Admiral. He kept his silence. Jonas had met men like Barnes before—tough, honest men trying to the right thing and uncertain that they were being told the entire story.

  Barnes let the pause linger a moment longer. “I have received orders to give you all possible assistance. The Chief of Naval Operations signed it. Now, the CNO doesn’t sign my orders unless he is directed by National Command Authority, namely someone in the White House.” He spun in his chair and pointed to the choke point in the Gulf. “I’ve got an attack boat sitting twenty knots inside theStraitplaying goalkeeper on this Chinese sub. Her skipper hasn’t asked for clarification of his orders, which means he’s ready to sink the Chinese boat if he has to.

  “So tell me, Mister Benjamin, is that the right decision?” He turned back to his visitor.

  Jonas thought back to Stillwell’s analysis in the initial briefing yesterday. He recommended sinking the Chinese boat because he was unsure whether the transfer had been from the Chinese to the Iraqis or the other way around. “I don’t know.”

  Barnes smiled for the first time. “An honest answer. I like honesty, son. Nevertheless, let me tell you a reality that is going to take place sometime in the
next twenty hours. I’ve got a very good sub driver by the name of Jeff Andrews, and he has an improvedLos Angeles Class attack boat called theSpringfield . He got a photo of this little transaction as well. If I were in his shoes, I’d say he has a wounded animal coming towards him. What do you think he’ll do if theHan opens her outer doors on her torpedo tubes?”

  “Fire first,” replied Jonas without blinking.

  Barnes nodded. “All right.” They had sent him a sharp one. “Besides dumping a reactor core into relatively shallow water and killing some fish, what else are we sending to the bottom?”

  Stillwell had been so certain the transfer was incomplete. He had written an Official Naval White Paper on Chinese global strategies related to the Middle East. Some had dismissed it as fantasy, but what if the National Security Advisor believed Stillwell? What if Brian Stillwell was right?

  Jonas leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “I think you might be sinking components for a first strike chemical or biological weapon.”

  “Anthrax?”

  Jonas realized Barnes had read the same intelligence briefs suggesting Saddam had a thousand-year supply of dried anthrax. “No. Something much worse.”

  “And its targets?”

  Jonas had worked through this scenario several times. Saddam had some conventional forces, but nothing capable of challenging the Turks to the north or the Americans to the south. “We were basically unsuccessful in targeting SCUD launchers in the last war. We believe we can account for up to eighty missiles. Now, what we don’t know is what he is capable of loading onto those missiles. But he certainly would target Israel, the Saudis, and you.”

  Barnes turned back to the map.

  “The SCUD doesn’t have to hit you, it only has to be close. An air burst on the wrong side of the carrier could kill half your men and take you out of any conflict. A coordinated strike against all his targets could kill millions and provoke a nuclear response from Israel. Then you have a major conflict on your hands. Indeed, we have stated publicly that any use of chemical or biological weapons against our troops would result in an American nuclear strike.”

  “You don’t paint a pretty picture, Mister Benjamin,” Barnes said slowly.

  “My job’s to prevent that from happening. If I fail—and I pray I don’t—you may have to do your job.”

  Barnes nodded and set the mug down on the side table. “I understand you’ve requested a company of marines.”

  “Yes, sir. We believe the Iraqis did not attempt to navigate the Tigris River up to Al Basra. It looks like they scuttled her southwest of Al Faw.”

  Admiral Barnes stood. “Good hunting, then.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I hope you can stop this, because I have no desire to be in the chain of command that launches nuclear weapons against civilian targets,” he said sadly.

  “But you would if you had to?”

  Barnes imagined what theGeorge Washington would be with three thousand casualties. He remembered the private moments between husbands and wives, boyfriends and girl friends, before a deployment into harm’s way. It was quiet, personal time before a long separation. He thought of the moms and dads, wives and children, who turned up at Norfolk to receive them back from the sea. They were his people, and his people were his responsibility.

  “Oh yes, Mister Benjamin,” he said solemnly. “I would send fire from heaven. May God forgive me.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  White House

  Saturday, November 15, 1997

  11:30 P.M. EST

  Arthur clicked the PRINT icon on his word processor. An annoying little happy faced Windows character shaped like a paper clip winked back and started a print pantomime on the screen. The document spooling to the laser printer next to the screen was more serious than the smiling paper clip. A Presidential Finding is a legal document indicating that the President is convinced, for reasons of national security, that a clandestine action against a foreign power is required. A Finding provides the President with the latitude to take unilateral action on behalf of the country without the immediate knowledge of the various Senate and House oversight committees.

  The Executive Branch directs American foreign policy, but there is a tension between the Secretary of State and the National Security Officer. Modern Secretaries of State tend to fly around the world meeting with foreign leaders and acting as mouthpieces for administration foreign policy. They preside over a large bureaucratic organization and attend cabinet meetings, however space and time limit their access to the President. The State Department is located at Foggy Bottom, inside the District, not 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

  National Security Advisors operate with a much smaller staff out of the White House West Wing. Their offices are the largest, second only to the White House Chief of Staff. They have the opportunity to see the President every morning and craft foreign policy presentations that, more often than not, circumvent a Secretary of State. Best of all, the NSA is not a cabinet member and thus avoids the lengthy and sometimes embarrassing Senate confirmation process.

  It is a strange irony that the people who become the most powerful figures in the world’s greatest democracy never stand for election or submit to congressional inquiry. National Security Advisors have been called before various congressional committees, but not for the purposes of advise and consent. They appear to report and explain, sometimes behind closed doors away from the prying eyes of the fourth estate. NSA staff members become virtually invisible to the American people, even though they daily enter through the White House gates and have FBI security clearance. Staff members become the true architects of American foreign policy, each specializing in their own niche of expertise.

  Arthur plucked the pages from the printer’s tray and made his way down the hall to the NSA’s office. He knocked once on the half open door before entering. At this time of night very little was happening in the White House.

  The NSA looked up and smiled, “Arthur, have a seat. You’ve got everything typed up the way we talked about it?”

  “Yes, sir.” He handed the proposed Finding across the desk.

  The NSA cocked his glasses further down his nose. He carefully went through each paragraph trying to assess it the way a lawyer would. After a few minutes he smiled, “Good work, very good work.”

  “Thank you,” replied Arthur. “We really should get it signed immediately. TheGalaxy left Andrews about and hour ago.”

  “Yes, well—eh, the President is currently in conference. The Secret Service has promised to notify me as soon as he is available.”

  A flash of anger rippled across Arthur’s features only to be replaced by the same happy-faced nonchalance they expected. Conferences in the Oval Office at midnight on a Saturday meant the President was pursuing another dalliance. Arthur supposed every leader had their foibles, but this one seemed to have so many of them. This administration claimed the ethical high ground, and found itself hounded by special prosecutors and right-wing media critics. So far, nothing had stuck to this President, but the behavior and arrogance seemed to increase with each passing day.

  “You don’t approve, do you?” asked the NSA.

  “It doesn’t matter what I think,” responded Arthur. “I’m here to do a job, and I perform those duties very well. What the President chooses to do on his own time is up to him.”

  The NSA chuckled. “You know, I might make a politician out of you yet.”

  “I doubt we could be that unlucky. Leave me to the details we would both rather not talk about.”

  “Yes, yes. The housecleaning always has to be taken care of. So did we get everyone we wanted on the team?”

  Arthur nodded. “Harper made a bargain about insurance policies for everyone on the team. I believe the CIA man took care of it. Of course, you can cancel those at anytime. We are certainly under no obligation to honor something forced on us by a steroid driven Spec War nobody.”

  “You don’t have a great deal of respect fo
r this team.”

  Arthur shook his head. “What do we hope to accomplish? By the time anyone gets on the ground, the Chinese contraband will have disappeared into the desert again. We’ve accomplished nothing except the exposure created by a Presidential Finding.”

  The NSA raised an eyebrow. “You think I should shred this document and not bother the President? Seems to me there was a predecessor of mine who failed to tell his Commander and Chief about a secret mission. He ended up with a passel of lawyers and a special prosecutor.” He shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. “I have no desire to spend the rest of my days in Washington defending a covert action and make another group of lawyers rich. No, we play this by the book.”

  “All right, we play it by the book. Let’s suppose they get in and get out. Let’s suppose they come back with enough information to pinpoint every weapons facility in the country. What are we going to do? Start a war?”

  “Maybe.” The NSA spread his hands. “You see, Arthur, we need to look beyond the scope of the current mission. It’s obvious to a number of people that a female Secretary of State is fundamentally ineffective when dealing with the Arab and Asian states. Their cultures simply do not accept the idea, and in fact, they look at this as a sign of weakness.

  “That’s where we come in. The National Security Advisor runs foreign policy in this government, not the State Department. We make the policy decisions and maintain a low profile. Maybe this team will strike it big, and maybe there’s nothing left at this data site. I don’t know. Nobody does until it’s over. However, consider the possibility that tensions between America and Iraq will continue to escalate.

  “Eventually, someone is going to ask for a target list and we all know who will be running that meeting. The Pentagon will have some ideas, but State is filled with people who remember the Tuesday afternoon luncheons during the Johnson administration. Do you know what they did?”