Headwind (2001)

by John J. Nance

  “Mr. Reinhart, we’re already in motion. We had a C-17 passing less than a hundred miles away and we’ve turned him toward Sigonella. Now, we still need approval from President Cavanaugh, but the plan is to get that C-17 on the ground in about twenty minutes, transfer President Harris from that civilian craft to the C-17, and then get him the hell out of there and fly him nonstop back to the States.”

  “Thank God, General!” Jay exclaimed, sighing in relief. “That’s wonderful news.”

  “I’d better talk to President Harris directly at this point, Mr. Reinhart. Can you tie the lines together?”

  “Uh, no, I don’t have the equipment. I could have him call you on that number, though.”

  “Good. As fast as possible.”

  “But, General, as his lawyer, I have to keep everybody focused on the fact that there’s an international arrest warrant out there and some powerful people who will be trying to serve it. I must stay in the loop and on the line. Can you conference me in at the same time if I break the connection and have him call?”

  “Yes, Mr. Reinhart. As soon as he calls, we’ll patch you back in.”

  Jay passed his home number, relayed the plan to John Harris on the home phone, and disconnected both calls. He sat staring at his home phone, mentally calculating how long it would take to establish the three-way connection and trying to envision what was happening at that moment in Sigonella. He could imagine the big C-17 barreling toward the Navy base at four hundred fifty knots, and he could imagine that Stuart Campbell would be closing in on Sigonella as well with a certified copy of the warrant, an Italian arrest version, and a carefully planned formation of Italian authorities ready to make the arrest. But if the President could make the transfer to the C-17 before Campbell found an Italian official brave enough to authorize an intrusion onto leased American military real estate, he would be safe. There was no way they would try to stop an Air Force aircraft from departing in such a confused diplomatic situation.

  He checked his watch again. Twenty minutes, the general had said, before the Air Force transport arrived, and maybe another five minutes to taxi to the ramp and open a door. He could feel his heart pounding and wished there was some sort of television camera on the ramp broadcasting on the World Wide Web. Waiting was an agony.

  This may all be over in forty-five minutes! he told himself.

  For the first time in over an hour, he got to his feet and opened the refrigerator for more orange juice, thinking how nice it would be to build up the fire and sit there for hours with a cigar, something he seldom let himself do anymore.

  Escapist thinking!

  He closed the refrigerator and looked to the left, catching a glimpse of the open bedroom door. Linda’s angry departure flooded back on a tide of guilt. Had it really been necessary to hurt her? It seemed like days ago, but once the President was safely airborne, maybe he should chase her down, go to her house, somehow try to explain what he meant.

  Thank God we’re going to get him out of there! I can’t imagine what would have happened otherwise.

  Images of a frantic flight to Europe, an endless string of twenty-four-hour days, voluminous research, and high-stakes poker with Harris’s adversaries unreeled like the blueprint of an unfathomable nightmare, now that he didn’t have to pretend to himself that he could handle it. The reality that it wasn’t quite over yet was better suppressed.

  He sat on the kitchen stool and stared at the phone, which remained silent.

  FOURTEEN

  The White House—Washington, D.C.—Monday—10:30 A.M. Local

  Interrupting the President when he was immersed in a serious meeting was contrary to White House policy, and Chief of Staff Jack Rollins was the man who’d set the policy in the first place.

  Yet, there had to be exceptions.

  Rollins hesitated outside the door to the Cabinet Room, aware of the voices filtering through from the intense discussion on the other side. They had one last chance to arm-twist the budget through the House, and the President was the only one with the charisma and political IOU’s to do it. He’d been working his magic on twelve angry swing-vote congressmen for the last thirty minutes, but the Harris situation was becoming critical and it was time to act.

  Jack Rollins opened the door and moved quietly to Cavanaugh’s side.

  “Excuse me, folks,” the President told the group when he saw Rollins enter and come over to stand by his side. Rollins whispered in his ear, “The situation with Harris is ripening. We’ll be to a major decision point within twenty minutes.”

  “Give me a few seconds,” the President said to the group as he stood and moved to the door with a hand on Rollins’s shoulder.

  “You need me right this minute?” the President asked.

  “I think we do, sir. The Air Force has already set a rescue in motion, but it needs your sign-off.”

  “Why don’t I just authorize it from here?” the President asked.

  “I wouldn’t do that, Mr. President,” Jack Rollins counseled. “There are some volatile aspects still unfolding.”

  Cavanaugh nodded. “Okay. Ten minutes.”

  “Should I send someone in to get you?”

  “No, Jack. I need to finish this. I’ll be there as quickly as I can.”

  Rollins slipped out as the President turned back to the assembled group.

  Once again the Oval Office was filling with worried advisors watching the clock. General Davidsen flanked Jack Rollins beside the President’s desk with a phone to his ear. Press Secretary Diane Beecher and National Security Advisor Roger Villems occupied one of the couches facing the Deputy Attorney General and Assistant Secretary of State on the other, all of them holding coffee cups and balancing notebooks and briefing papers.

  At the opposite end of the Oval—as staffers referred to the world’s most photographed office—the newest member of the administration stood in deep thought by the fireplace. Michael Goldboro, the Assistant to the President for National Security affairs, otherwise known as the National Security Advisor, had scanned the briefing papers and reread the Treaty Against Torture before coming over from the Executive Office Building by specific request of the President. A quiet man with darting, suspicious eyes, his years as a tenured professor at Georgetown, plus a long list of honored books and papers on the history and future of statecraft, had made him a favorite of President Cavanaugh’s—though the Ivy Leaguers in the Cavanaugh administration and the Democratic Party considered him a poor successor to an office once held by Henry Kissinger. Goldboro was well aware of his nonacceptance, and as a result, he chose his battles with great care.

  General Davidsen pulled the receiver away and motioned to Jack Rollins.

  “We’re getting critical on timing here, Jack.”

  “Tell me.”

  “The C-17 is on the ramp and waiting, but the commander of the base, a Navy captain, tells me he’s got a delegation from Catania at the gate, including a magistrate, a bunch of police officers, and someone from the Carabinieri national police. He also says he was bullied into letting both a private jet and an empty chartered airliner land, both of them from Rome.”

  Rollins nodded. “Are they ready to make the transfer?”

  “President Harris is ready. I was just talking to him. Our crew is ready to crank and go as soon as he’s aboard. They’ve positioned Navy security police around both airplanes, but no one’s trying to force their way . . . hold on.”

  The general put the phone back to his ear, listening and responding for a minute before turning to Rollins again.

  “Now they’re making demands, Jack. There’s a representative of the Italian Foreign Ministry aboard that private jet, and there is a demand being relayed, presumably from him, that the base commander essentially step aside and surrender the 737 and all the passengers, including the President, to Italian authority.”

  “Who’s the Navy skipper on that base?”

  “Captain Swanson.”

  “Is he asking for instructio
ns?”

  “Not yet. He’s informed them that the base is under the jurisdiction of the U.S. Navy, and any unauthorized attempt to enter will meet with armed resistance.”

  “Strong words.” He turned toward the sitting area, where Assistant Secretary of State Rudy Baker was in animated conversation.

  “Rudy? May I ask for your help?” Rollins said. Baker got up and moved to stand beside them, listening intently as General Davidsen briefed him.

  “That base commander does not have the right to refuse access to Italian law enforcement officers,” Baker said, noting that Alex McLaughlin, the Assistant Attorney General, had followed him over from the couch and was listening intently.

  “What do you mean he doesn’t have the authority to refuse?” the general asked.

  Baker nodded, his brow deeply furrowed. “That isn’t United States soil, gentlemen. It’s Italian.”

  “It’s a leased base, Mr. Baker,” the general said.

  “Leased, yes, but not immune to Italian legal authority. Let me talk to him,” Baker said, stepping closer and taking the phone from the general to introduce himself.

  “Captain Swanson, you can’t keep them out if they insist on entering the base.”

  He listened carefully, shaking his head. “No, Captain, listen to me. You do not have the legal right to protect that real estate as if it were American territory, and if your orders are otherwise, they’re wrong. You’ll create a substantial diplomatic mess with the Italians if you keep this up.”

  Baker looked at Jack Rollins and rolled his eyes before interrupting the Navy commander. “I . . . I . . . excuse me, Captain, can I get an edge in word wise? Thank you. I know I’m not in your direct chain of command, okay? But I’m trying to advise you on the reality of the situation. They didn’t cede that land—they merely rented it to us. You above all people should understand the Status of Forces Agreement with Italy, since you’re charged with upholding it. By the time you’re through, you may just get us kicked out of there and the base closed. This has to be handled delicately.”

  Rudy Baker listened to the reply, nodding his head. “All right. We’ll see to it that your commander is briefed. But in the meantime, please realize that you’re walking on razor blades.”

  He handed the phone back to the general. “He says he’s going to let them on NAS-One, which is the main, nonflying portion of the base about four miles from the flight line. But he says he’s going to keep them away from NAS-Two at this point, which is the ramp and the aircraft. He said they have agreed that they won’t enter NAS-Two without his approval.” He lifted the phone. “Captain, please stand by.” He handed the receiver back to the general and turned to Jack Rollins and Alex McLaughlin. “If we’re going to snag him out of there, we’d better do it right now. Otherwise this will deteriorate into an impossible standoff. Right now, letting President Harris get on our Air Force jet and leave is simply an “Oops, we’re sorry we didn’t stop to ask your approval” situation. In ten or twenty minutes, however, any rescue will become a direct challenge to the sovereign authority of Italy, and I’ll bet my desk we’ll lose the lease on the base.”

  “We need the President’s approval,” Jack Rollins said. “Anybody disagree?”

  “We also need someone, if not the President,” Baker continued, “to brief the Chief of Naval Operations quickly so they can get this cowboy under control.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Assistant Secretary,” General Davidsen said, his voice acidic and his hand still over the mouthpiece, “but I believe Captain Swanson is quite under control and admirably handling a difficult situation.”

  Rudy Baker sighed and raised a hand. “Sorry, General. Bad choice of words.”

  The general brought the phone back to his ear as an aide to the Press Secretary entered and whispered in her boss’s ear. Diane Beecher got to her feet immediately and moved to the television console to the left of the President’s desk to pull out the remote and click it on. The image of a CNN anchor filled the screen.

  “Excuse me, everyone. The story’s broken.” Diane said.

  Various file photos of President John Harris and old footage from his administration were showing in a box on the screen as the anchor related the reported hijacking, the previous uncertainty of the situation, and new information from a source in Rome that President Harris was about to be arrested on criminal charges that he’d personally ordered the CIA-driven torture and murder of Peruvian civilians during his time in office.

  We are going to bring you a live picture, now, by satellite, being broadcast by Italian television . . . the shot is apparently of the EuroAir Boeing 737 carrying former President John Harris. That airliner, which was earlier reported to be hijacked, is now sitting on the ramp at an American Navy Base in Sicily called Sigonella.

  The Air Mobility Command C-17 could be seen clearly sitting to one side of a P-3 Orion, with the 737 visible on the other side.

  “Oh, wonderful!” Jack Rollins muttered under his breath. “Our quick and easy little covert operation in living color.” He turned and motioned to his secretary, who’d been hovering at a discrete distance. She moved rapidly to his side.

  “Tell the President I need him in here immediately. Tell him things are critical and we’re at the decision point.”

  Aboard EuroAir Flight 42—on the Ground,

  Sigonella Naval Air Station, Sicily

  A set of portable stairs had been brought to the forward entrance of the 737 before Craig had given approval to open the door, but with the Navy commander asking to come aboard, it was time.

  The Navy captain and the airline captain conferred briefly at the front door before Captain Swanson was shown into first class and introduced to President Harris, who was still holding a telephone receiver connected to the White House Situation Room.

  John Harris handed the receiver to Sherry as he stood to shake Swanson’s hand and listen to his assessment of the situation.

  “Are they going to try to stop me from getting on that C-17?” the President asked evenly.

  Captain Swanson shook his head no. “We have two groups. One is from Catania and they are taking their orders by phone from Rome. The other is a small group that flew in on a Learjet from Rome. One person on the Lear is, I think, the deputy to the Italian foreign minister. The other is a tall guy, a civilian lawyer representing Peru, or so I’m told.”

  “That would be Stuart Campbell.”

  “That’s the name. I’ve left them in my office on the other part of the base we call NAS-One, essentially under guard.”

  “Other part of the base?”

  “About four miles away through flocks of sheep and Sicilian countryside. Campbell and the Foreign Ministry representative are in a deep disagreement over their jurisdiction. Campbell believes they have the right to just charge out here and pull you off the plane, and the Italians believe they’re prohibited during the duration of the lease from entering any area we’ve designated as secure, which is primarily the flight line. I personally don’t think they have the right to enter either base unless I approve it, which I did under pressure from the White House. Finally, sir, the Italian representative is arguing that even if Campbell is right and they could enter the ramp, they have no right to enter a foreign flag airliner.”

  “They do have that right, actually,” the ex-President said. “Foreign registration of the aircraft is legally irrelevant when it’s on foreign soil. But the Italian government may be purposefully dragging their feet to give me time to get out of here.”

  “That thought crossed my mind, Mr. President. And if that’s true, that’s all the more reason to make you disappear.”

  “Indeed. With all due respect, Captain, I’d rather see your base some other time. So what do we do?”

  “Well, sir, all we’re waiting for is the formal sign-off from the White House. No one’s going to stop your C-17 crew from leaving once you’re aboard. They’ll be off the ground in an instant. I could escort you over to the C-17 right now, but
I had a rather rancorous talk about that with several people in the White House a minute ago, so now I think we’d better sit tight for a few more minutes just to make sure they’ve got all the i’s dotted and all the t’s crossed.”

  “All they’re waiting for is President Cavanaugh’s approval,” Sherry interjected, the phone still pressed to her ear. “Any minute now. He’s headed back to the Oval Office to give the green light.”

  “They’re supposed to call me back, too.” Swanson held up a GSM cell phone. “It’s just pro forma from here.”

  A small two-way radio crackled to life and the Captain pulled it from a belt clip.

  “This is Swanson. Go ahead.”

  “Sir,” an excited voice began, “we have a line of vehicles at the front gate of NAS-Two demanding to get in and saying they’re under Italian authority.”