I made the appropriate notifications and a sequence of intelligence-oriented efforts were initiated. Reconnaissance assets were positioned to provide the best possible insight into what had taken place. That raw data was analyzed and became the focus of countless meetings and discussions that consumed the next few weeks—meetings with scientists, engineers, military strategists, and all manner of intelligence experts and specialists—the very top minds joining forces to provide answers that would help us determine the severity of the threat.
The conclusion was chilling: not only had the production cycle begun, but estimates were that as soon as it reached its full capacity, the plant could produce six kilograms of plutonium a year, enough to make two nuclear bombs.
The North Koreans expressed outrage at our contention that the plant was being used to produce weapons-grade material. “Its sole function is to produce electricity to power and heat our city,” they declared to the International Atomic Energy Agency. That was about as believable as the time I struck out Musial, Maris, and Mantle—in order, with nine straight hundred-mile-per-hour fastballs.
Two years later, they recanted their assertion, instead rationalizing that a bona fide nuclear deterrent was essential for their own self-defense. “The Democratic People’s Republic of Korea is compelled to bolster its nuclear weapons arsenal in order to protect the ideology, system, freedom, and democracy chosen by the people,” their foreign ministry announced.
Around 9:45 p.m. on October 9, 2006, Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice’s evening was interrupted by an alert from the U.S. Embassy in Beijing. Within minutes, she personally relayed the urgent message to National Security Advisor Stephen Hadley, who instantly conveyed its contents to President Bush. The Chinese had tipped us off that the North Koreans were moments away from conducting their first nuclear test—the culmination of many years of planning, research, development, and financial investment. No sooner did Hadley disconnect from the president than the United States Geological Survey detected a tremor of 4.2 magnitude on the Korean Peninsula. An explosion had taken place in the North Hamgyong Province, once and for all eliminating any doubt about their intentions all along.
Since that time, the threat has intensified significantly. By September 2016, North Korea had successfully conducted four more nuclear tests, all at the Punggye-ri Nuclear Test Site about sixty miles from their border with China, with each one increasing in explosive yield. From a yield of just under one kiloton in 2006, the 2016 blast approached twenty kilotons, generating shock waves equivalent to a magnitude 5.3 earthquake. It’s highly unlikely that they’ll be stopping there.
In April 2017, the New York Times ran an article titled “North Korea May Be Preparing Its 6th Nuclear Test.” As I read about recent indications that a sixth test might be imminent, I couldn’t help but flash back to the call I’d received about the Yongbyon activation. It also brought to mind a colonel I had worked with at the Pentagon. At the time, I was Chief of Staff and he was chief of the Air Force Senate Liaison office. Today he’s a three-star and back at the Pentagon—which is why he came to mind. As the current director for operations (J-3), John Dolan might very well have been the one to receive the NMCC alert of the incident that prompted that Times article. In late March 2017, satellite imagery revealed noteworthy anomalies at the Punggye-ri testing site: expanded spoil pile (rocky debris) excavated from one of the underground detonation tunnels, uncharacteristic auto and rail activity, a large gathering of people assembling at the main administrative building, plus various classified signs—more than enough to catch our attention and raise the red flag.
In June 2017 testimony before the House Armed Services Committee, Secretary of Defense Jim Mattis categorized the North Korean nuclear bomb and missile programs as the “most urgent” threat(s) to national security. “The regime’s nuclear weapons program is a clear and present danger to all, and the regime’s provocative actions, manifestly illegal under international law, have not abated despite United Nations’ censure and sanctions,” he said.
Retired Air Force General Michael Hayden, the former director of both the CIA and the NSA, injects an even more ominous prediction: “I really do think it is very likely that by the end of Mr. Trump’s first term, the North Koreans will be able to reach Seattle with a nuclear weapon onboard an indigenously produced intercontinental ballistic missile.”
The current DIA director, Lt. Gen. Vincent Stewart, concurs, reporting to Congress that if left unchecked, North Korea is on an inevitable path to obtaining a nuclear-armed missile capable of striking the United States mainland.
Regardless of whether North Korea will ever succeed in their goal of fielding a fleet of ICBMs, there’s no dispute that it is South Korea that faces the most imminent danger from North Korea’s burgeoning ballistic missile arsenal. Prior to leaving office, President Obama struck an agreement with the then current South Korean leader to deploy the THAAD (Terminal High Altitude Area Defense) antiballistic missile system to enhance the existing missile defense. Designed to intercept and destroy incoming missiles from the North, each system consists of six truck-mounted launchers (each capable of firing eight interceptor missiles), a fire control and communications unit, and an AN/TPY-2 radar.
On April 25, 2017, six oversized trailers lumbered up the winding mountain road that terminated at the entrance to the Lotte Skyhill Country Club in the southeastern county of Seongiu, South Korea. At over 2,200 feet above sea level, its eighteen-hole, par seventy-two championship golf course provided a spectacular view of the cottages and sprawling melon farms below, and an ideal location for the country’s first battery of THAAD missile launchers. Cutting sharply off the access road and onto the fairway, South Korea’s first THAAD antiballistic missile system had arrived at its destination.
TROOP STRENGTH TESTIMONY
“General Schwartz, thank you for coming to this closed hearing of the Senate Armed Service Committee. It’s nice to have the benefit of your experience in the profound issues of interest to this committee, and we are honored to have a man of your experience and integrity working with us …”
It was late February 2003, and Chairman John Warner could not have been more affable in welcoming me. I had been up there to meet with staffers, members, and for hearings, but this was the first time as the J-3 that I’d been sworn in and questioned in a formal congressional hearing. There would be many more. Most would take place in one of the huge caucus rooms located in the various House or Senate office buildings. These are the ones often seen on TV, with the long row of senators or congressmen gazing down at the witness from a raised wooden dais, as the witness stares back from a small table bearing only a microphone, a glass of water, and an identifying name placard. Add in the visitors and throngs of reporters packed in behind the witness, plus the pit jammed with photographers kneeling out of view in front, and it made for a fairly intimidating setting—at least that’s how I found it for my first few testimonies.
But this was a classified hearing, so it took place in one of the smaller, secure committee rooms inside the Russell Senate Office Building. The purpose of this one was for the senators to gain a better understanding of just exactly where we stood on the matter of troop strength for the potential conflict in Iraq, which by this time had grown into a contentious topic. It was one on which I felt intimately well-versed.
Besides the many months spent in close interaction with Gene Renuart on behalf of CENTCOM, I had been interacting with Doug Feith (undersecretary of defense for policy) and Ryan Crocker (then interim chargé d’affaires to the new government of Afghanistan)—a world class diplomat—on matters related to a potential Iraq mission. Feith was very hands-on during the entire process, which was fine by me, but didn’t go over too well with General Tommy Franks (CENTCOM commander), who called him “the dumbest fucking guy on the planet.” Rumsfeld, however, held Feith in high regard, referring to him as “one of the most brilliant individuals in government, just a rare talent.” Same man, viewed entirely diff
erently by two strong leaders thrown together to take our great nation to war: one a civilian corporate head who believed that less is more—new approaches, more efficiencies, transformation to take us into the future and give us a decisive advantage today; the other a battle-hardened, hard-core Army infantry officer who rose to the top with a belief that there’s strength in numbers—overwhelming the enemy with a decisive force advantage in terms of decidedly more well-trained warfighters armed with lots of effective weapons and equipment. Both were well-intentioned; both adamantly believed that they knew best. Observing how these two strong leaders battled through their differences—and in fact working with Gene to capitalize on the strengths of both positions—gave me new tools that I’d find indispensable in years to come as my level of responsibility increased.
I felt well prepared as I entered Room SR-222 of the Russell Senate Office Building for that Armed Services Committee session. It was a far more intimate setting than the massive caucus rooms. SR-222, just like the almost identical SR-232a and SR-236, had the senators seated along the outside of tables that had been configured in the shape of a hollowed-out rectangle. Perched beneath a pair of stunning crystal chandeliers, the tables had room to accommodate six senators along the two long sides of the arrangement, and I was to take a seat in one of two black leather chairs on the short side at the north end of the room. Directly across from me were Chairman John Warner and Senator Carl Levin, at that time the ranking member. Immediately behind them was an enormous gold-framed mirror that tended to make the room look much larger than it really was. Set atop an imposing marble fireplace mantel, the mirror served to frame the two senators in a way that seemed to give them an air of royalty. Truly an interesting design.
I took my seat, had a quick sip of water, and made note of the wooden “push to talk” box from which the microphone extended. I felt appreciative of Chairman Warner’s kind introduction. On the cusp of his twenty-sixth year in the Senate, the five-term Republican senator from Virginia was one of few veterans to have served in two branches of the military—first as a seventeen-year-old sailor in World War II, then subsequently as a marine in Korea. By the time he was first elected in 1978, he had already served as both the secretary of the Navy and sixth husband to actress Elizabeth Taylor. As would always be the case for our many interactions over the following nine years, between his thick silver mane and his hand-made double-breasted black suit, he exuded a distinguished and elegant presence completely befitting the upper chamber of Congress.
“Thank you, sir,” I responded. “Rest assured that I will do everything in my power to live up to your kind words.”
It didn’t take long before the pleasantries gave way to an intense grilling as they sought to pin me down for my personal estimate of the number of combat troops that would be required in Iraq. It was Senator Levin (six-term Democrat from Michigan) who first posed the question. This was just one day after General Shinseki had testified that he believed “a couple hundred thousand” troops would be necessary to secure and keep the peace in a post-hostility Iraq. As for the estimates for force strength during the combat phase, they had not yet been finalized. In fact, they were all over the place—anywhere from 150,000 to 550,000. So the truth was that I had no accurate idea. In addition—and this has never been released to the public until now—just a few hours earlier in our morning meeting, Secretary Rumsfeld had issued explicit guidance to avoid such speculation. I answered Levin’s question per the boss’s guidelines: honest, yet delicately phrased.
“Senator, the plans are far from firm,” I said. “So because of that, I prefer not to speculate.”
He tilted his head down and hunched over a bit, gazing at me over the top of his wire-rimmed reading glasses, which seemed to be permanently affixed to the tip of his nose. He pushed—still respectful, but clearly not thrilled with my response. “General, I understand. So then just give us a range … it doesn’t have to be an exact number.”
“Sir, it would be inappropriate for me to speculate,” I explained, hoping that he would understand and just leave it at that. But instead, the back and forth continued. He was getting agitated. Then others tried to get me to commit. I held firm. What started as uncomfortable became awkward, and finally quite tense. I had just started giving these testimonies and already it appeared that I was not satisfactorily providing them with the information they desired. They were displeased with me and I felt that I had let them down and lost a no-win situation. In the weeks and months to come, the matter seemed to fade from the radar screen as other more pressing issues demanded their attention. I thought I’d heard the last of it, but years later it would resurface with a vengeance, not only catching me completely off guard, but almost derailing my entire career.
What I failed to mention at the time, due to Rumsfeld’s explicit guidance, was that we had put together a range of options depending on how the plan unfolded. It could have been as few as 150,000 or as many as 550,000. It was all clearly delineated in a then secret graphic (which the Joint Staff subsequently had declassified) unofficially referred to as the “green mountain chart.” It summarized what the force buildup would look like in terms of personnel, with different options represented in the form of off-ramps predicated on our level of success at the time. In the case of maximum success, we’d be able to use an off-ramp that indicated a lower troop level than would be required in the event that our efforts were not sufficiently successful at that point. Greater success allowed for less commitment of personnel. The debate continued well into early 2003.
The “green mountain chart” summarized force buildup, including off-ramps based on various levels of success.
With each subsequent testimony I’d become more at ease. Good thing, because soon they’d be occurring at least every few weeks—sometimes before the House, sometimes the Senate. Both needed to be kept fully abreast of the latest combat operations and other military-related issues that would pop up.
WAR COUNCIL
Once we actually “crossed the line” on March 19, 2003, what had been a nonstop marathon suddenly became a year-long sprint. IRAQI FREEDOM was in full force and demanded even more of our attention than did its buildup, and that was in addition to the ongoing requirements of Afghanistan and every other crisis that erupted anywhere in the world. Secretary Rumsfeld was working six days a week, and the rest of us were working seven.
Every morning at exactly 7:00 a.m., I’d leave my office and make the short walk to the E-ring, then bound up the stairs and down a small corridor across the hall from the SECDEF’s office. This is where I’d enter the Executive Support Center, a little-known highly secured facility that contained the “OSD Cables” area—the secretary’s communications link to the military’s NMCC (National Military Command Center), the White House Situation Room, and the global footprint of the Department of Defense. The Cables staff of nineteen operate twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, maintaining direct communications with all key members of the secretary’s staff, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the Executive Secretariat, and the State Department.
By 7:05 a.m. I’d be inside the secretary’s Secure Video Teleconference Room, most likely visiting with the other attendees as they filtered in for the SECDEF’s daily War Council. It was a relatively small group, considering the magnitude of the discussions. The conference table seated about twelve, with five on a side, Secretary Rumsfeld at the head, and usually Paul Wolfowitz straddling the corner between Rumsfeld and Doug Feith. Immediately to Doug’s right was Steve Cambone (then newly nominated undersecretary for intelligence), followed by Ric Shinseki (Army chief of staff) and Vern Clark (chief of naval operations). Opposite Doug (to Rumsfeld’s left) was the chairman, then Pete Pace (vice chairman), George Casey (then director of the Joint Staff), John Jumper (Air Force Chief of Staff) and Mike Hagee (commandant of the Marine Corps). Stan McChrystal and I would usually sit along the wall just behind Generals Myers and Pace. On some days Vice President Cheney made an appearance via video conference.
He’d be patched in to the huge wall-sized video on the far side of the room opposite Rumsfeld, often in a split screen including General Tommy Franks from CENTCOM’s forward headquarters at Camp As Sayliyah in Doha, Qatar, and Lt Gen Michael “Rifle” DeLong (CENTCOM deputy commander) from the CENTCOM secure VTC facility in Tampa.
Just to the left of the huge screen was an American flag—a constant reminder of why we were all there—and immediately above it were four red LED digital clocks, respectively labeled Zulu, Local, Kabul, and Baghdad. Once the “Local” clock clicked over to 0710, Rumsfeld would burst through one of the thick steel doors that sealed the room and take his place at the table’s head. The meetings were brisk and to the point, and there was no time for chitchat. To his credit, the last thing he wanted was “yes-men.” Debate was encouraged, but arguments were expected to be impeccably well thought out and backed up with thoroughly documented research. Citing precedent as one’s rationale was a surefire way to incur the boss’s ire. It’s not that he wanted change for the sake of change, but I do believe he felt that there was almost always a better way. The weak need not apply.
Still on the way to his seat, he’d zip up the black collared vest he so often wore over his shirt and tie and utter a terse “Good morning, everybody,” as he glanced my way. “Norty, what do you have for us?” Generally, I’d be the first up with an ops/intel update, followed by an abbreviated report from theater, then inputs from JCS and OSD principals.
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