“A rather pessimistic speech, Arnold,” said Admiral Morris, wryly. “Illuminating, but pessimistic. For Christ’s sake, don’t repeat it in front of the President this afternoon. He’ll think you’ve become some kind of a fellow liberal traveler.”
“George,” chuckled Arnold. “That day ever comes, I’ll step out of this room with my service revolver, and do the honorable thing, like an officer and a gentleman.”
9
1330 (Local), Tuesday, September 29
The Atlantic Ocean, 18.00N 53.00W.
THE BARRACUDA was making 15 knots through deep waters, east of the Puerto Rican Trench, 600 feet below the surface, with 2,500 fathoms under her keel. Shortly before first light that morning, they had come to periscope depth for a seven-second satellite check, and the signal awaiting them, more than 20,000 miles above the planet, confirmed their course and mission…A cruel sea for the songbirds…
Gen. Ravi Rashood, plotting and planning in faraway Bandar Abbas, did not consider the sin of self-congratulation to be among his faults but he did harbor one small vanity—he believed he composed one hell of a military signal…and a cruel sea for the songbirds was one of his finest, prearranged with Ben Badr. It was stuffed with hidden information. The Cruel Sea, the famous book by Nicholas Monsarrat, meant that the attack on Montserrat had been a total success, the mention of the songbirds referred to…“Onward! My brave boys to the Canary Islands.” Three words to explain that the sensational Scimitar missile attack on the Soufriere Hills had been accurate, devastating, and world-news-worthy. Three more to confirm the Barracuda’s next mission, and to seal the fate of the arrogant Satan who dominated the Middle East. Not to mention most of the world.
Admiral Ben Badr was ecstatic as he and his cohorts crept along towards the destiny Allah had awarded them. Everything was going according to plan.
The Barracuda was now 560 miles from Montserrat, steering zero-eight-three, in open water, approximately halfway between the burning Caribbean island and the relative safety of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge.
Admiral Badr and his Chief of Boat, CPO Ali Zahedi, were down in the missile room sipping coffee and inspecting the arsenal they had left—ten Scimitar cruises, eight of them with conventional warheads, plus two Mark-2s, with their 200-kT nuclear warheads. Two hundred kilotons—the explosive equivalent of 200,000 tons of TNT. Ten conventional warheads (500 pounds each) pack a combined wallop of a couple of tons of TNT.
Ben ran his thumb over the sharp reinforced-steel nose cone of the nearest Mark-2, and he trailed his hand lightly, hesitantly, over the casing, as if stroking a dangerous lion. And he bowed to the golden lettering SCIMITAR SL-2—“It is the will of Allah,” he said softly, contemplating the coming thrust to the heart of the Cumbre Vieja.
1500, Tuesday, September 29
The White House.
President Charles McBride had agreed with undisguised irritation to a short meeting with Gen. Tim Scannell and the Chief of Naval Operations, Adm. Alan Dickson. He agreed because he had no choice. Even his Chief of Staff Bill Hatchard had managed to shake his massive head when the President tried to evade seeing the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs…“Forget it, sir,” he had hissed from across the Oval Office. “You have to see him.”
In the following minutes, Big Bill pointed out that no President can avoid his CJC. “It’s simple, sir,” he said, unnecessarily, because if it had not been simple he would have had trouble with the concept himself. “If he has some really important information for you, and you refuse to see him, and the worst happens, he has it in his power to see you impeached. You have to see him, and that’s that.”
Charles McBride gave General Scannell and the Chief Executive of the United States Navy ten minutes at 3:05 P.M. They arrived five minutes early, in two staff cars because there were rather more of them than the President was expecting.
In the backseat of the first car sat the CJC in company with Adm. Arnold Morgan. In the front passenger seat was Gen. Kenneth Clark, Commandant of the United States Marines.
In the second car was Admiral Dickson, with Adm. Frank Doran, Commander in Chief of the Atlantic Fleet, and Gen. Bart Boyce, NATO’s Supreme Allied Commander. With the exception of Admiral Morgan, the rest were in uniform.
They came in through West Executive Avenue
, parked in front of the steps leading up to the Diplomatic driveway and the “front” door to the West Wing. Then they strode in tight formation, accompanied by a detail of four Marine guards who had been awaiting their arrival.
They marched to the Marine Guard Station right on the West Wing door, where a tall, polished guardsman in full-dress uniform of red and blue with gold braid, snapped to attention and said crisply, “Good afternoon, sir.” The remark was addressed to General Clark, who smiled and nodded as the Marine pulled the brass handle to open the door.
Inside, the White House “greeter,” a six-foot-six-inch former Naval Petty Officer, plus one of the resident Secret Agents, were plainly ready for this onslaught of military power. The agent ventured to ask the CJC if he could help.
“Two things,” said General Scannell. “A U.S. Navy helicopter from Andrews will be landing on the lawn in less than ten minutes. Make sure the military office knows about it. Inform the main White House telephone executive next to the ops room over in the Old Executive Office Building, we are conducting an emergency exercise, strict security. No further calls for one half hour, incoming or outgoing, as of now.”
“Right away, sir,” said the agent, a former Army Captain himself. “Oh…er…Admiral Morgan, sir…Will you be requiring a visitor’s badge?”
“Sit down, Tommy, I’m busy.”
The agent, who had always held an almost hero-worshiping view of the former National Security Adviser, laughed despite himself. And he utilized the Admiral’s favorite phrase, one he had heard so many times during his five-year career in the West Wing.
“No bullshit, right, sir?”
“No bullshit, Tommy,” replied Arnold.
And with that, all six of them, plus the Marine guard detail, marched along the corridor towards the office of the President of the United States.
Outside the Oval Office, Bill Hatchard was speaking to the President’s secretary, who bid General Scannell a polite “good afternoon,” curiously looking at the little group. She had not realized there were so many people scheduled for the short meeting, she said, apologetically.
“Don’t worry about it.” General Clark turned to one of the two Marine guards already on duty outside the Oval Office and ordered him to summon at least eight more to the corridor.
“SIR! YES, SIR!” the guard snapped, obeying quickly and instinctively. The secretary now looked vaguely anxious and her alarm deepened when General Clark said to the other guard, “Head down to the main telephone switchboard and ensure that there are no incoming or outgoing calls. The order to suspend all service in and out of the White House has already been issued.”
“SIR! YES, SIR!” he replied to his Commandant, and set off instantly for the Old Executive Building, where the lines of telephone operators guard the President and his senior people from unwanted calls.
General Scannell now walked straight past the stunned secretary and opened the door to the inner sanctum of the U.S. Government. Charles McBride was at his desk, reading some papers, and he looked up in surprise, as five senior military figures strode in behind the General.
“General, this is unacceptable. I agreed to see two people, not six. Please ask four of them to leave.”
The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs simply ignored him. “Mr. President, at 10 A.M. you informed me you would not give permission for the United States Military to take steps either to prevent, or otherwise cope with, a threat from the Middle East terrorist organization Hamas. May I presume you have not changed your mind?”
“You may. It’s just a load of nonsense. Now, if that’s all you have to say, I’ll thank you to leave now.”
“Sir. This is by no mean
s all I have to say. I must confirm that the Head of your Navy, the Head of your Army, the Supreme NATO Commander, the Commander in Chief of the Atlantic Fleet, the Commandant of the United States Marine Corps, plus Admiral Morgan are unanimous in their belief that you are wrong.
“Each one of us believes that the East Coast cities of the United States are in mortal danger from a ruthless enemy. You are not just absolving yourself from the responsibility, you are hindering our efforts to protect the citizens and their property. Not to mention the historical documents and treasures of this country, which are held in those important cities.”
“Listen, General, these decisions are mine to make…not yours, nor any other Military Officers in the Pentagon.”
“Sir, I assure you that if we consider this nation to be threatened, and we have an incompetent President in this office, he will go, not us. We are the permanent guardians of this nation. And I think you’ll find that the people of the United States trust us more than a politician.”
The President stared at him, disbelief on his face.
“How dare you speak to me in that manner? I’ve had enough of it, do you hear? I have had quite enough. Now get out, all of you, before I have you escorted out by the guards.”
“Perhaps I should remind you, sir, that the White House is guarded by the Marine Corps, and their Commandant is standing right next to me…”
The President banged his fist on the desk. “We’ll see about that,” he shouted, picking up the telephone. But the line was dead, as were all lines in the White House. And that was the way they would stay for another twenty-five minutes.
He crashed down the phone, his hands shaking. In short angry bursts, slightly disjointed, and too loud, he hissed “I’ve always thought you were all crazy…You’re asking the impossible…I can’t just evacuate the East Coast…I can’t persuade Israel to help…I don’t even understand deployment of ships…Why are you doing this? Why the hell can’t you leave me alone? To do what I was elected to do…”
“Sir, it is our opinion that you are not competent to lead this nation in the crisis we now find ourselves in. The President has to talk to the people…today…and it plainly cannot be you.
“On behalf of the United States Armed Forces, I am relieving you of office. For the next ten minutes, this country will be under a self-imposed Martial Law. By that time, we shall have sworn in the new President…As you know, under our Constitution that’s Vice President Paul Bedford…”
“YOU CAN DO NO SUCH THING!” yelled Charles McBride.
“Can’t I?” replied the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “General Clark, summon a Marine Guard of four men…”
“Yes, sir.” General Clark walked to the door and ordered four armed Marines into the Oval Office. “Stand on either side of the President’s chair and be prepared for him to do something careless,” said the Commandant.
“Sir,” said General Scannell. “This sheet of paper contains your resignation. You will see it already has the Presidential Seal embossed on it…Read and sign…”
The President read the sentence…“I hereby resign the office of President of the United States for reasons of failing health. Signed by my own hand on this twenty-ninth day of September 2009.”
“And if I refuse…?”
“We shall place you under arrest for deliberately, and willfully, endangering the citizens of the United States by refusing to take military precautions in the face of an enemy threat. That would mean, of course, your instant impeachment, and disgrace. Sign it, sir, and sign it now, or we’ll carry you out of here. Time, for us at least, is very short.”
“But you cannot just appoint a new…”
“SHUT UP, McBRIDE!” rasped Admiral Morgan. “You’ve said plenty.”
The President was stunned into silence. With the generals glaring, he signed the resignation paper.
“You will now be escorted to a Navy helicopter out on the lawn and be flown to Camp David, where you will remain under house arrest until we have dealt with the Hamas threat…Is the First Lady in residence? Any other members of family?”
“Just the First Lady upstairs in the residence.”
“She will be brought to the helicopter immediately. At Camp David neither of you will be permitted any contact with the outside world whatsoever. No phones will be connected. Mobile phones will be confiscated.” General Scannell glanced at his watch and muttered, “Have him escorted out right now. We’re going straight to the office of the new President. Judge Moore is already in the Old Executive Building, specifically to swear him in.”
The operation had been conducted, so far, with immense precision.
The High Command of the United States Armed Forces was trusted implicitly to tell the truth and to operate objectively, free from political or civilian agendas. The members of the Supreme Court understood that perfectly, and the two Supreme Court Judges, required to authorize Judge Moore’s powers, had instantly complied to the request from the Pentagon.
The only politician who had been informed of the palace coup was Senator Edward Kennedy, the senior member of the Senate Armed Forces Committee, whose patriotism was unquestioned and whose personal motives to act on behalf of the United States were always impeccable.
In this instance, Admiral Morgan had assured everyone of the Senator’s support since, he said, the entire Kennedy compound was situated on the shores of Nantucket Sound, in the direct path of the ensuing tsunami.
“But I know Teddy,” he said. “If he lived on top of the goddamned Rockies, he’d still do the right thing about a threat like this. Also, he knows us, and he knows the Navy. He’s head of the Subcommittee on Sea Power. And he knows we wouldn’t be making this up. He’ll trust us, and he’ll give us his total support. You can count on it.”
And now Charles McBride was on his feet, with a Marine guard on each elbow, being frog-marched to the door of the Oval Office. Upstairs, Mrs. McBride was being escorted more gently along the corridor, carrying only her purse. Their personal possessions would be ferried up to Camp David in the early part of the evening. The announcement of his retirement, to a shocked nation, would be given in a broadcast within the hour, when President Bedford would cite McBride’s nervous breakdown.
The six White House visitors walked behind the Marine escort as far as the portico door to the lawn. One hundred yards away they could see the huge rotors of the helicopter already howling. Mrs. McBride emerged from a different door. General Clark remained to watch the U.S. Navy helicopter take off, bearing the President and his First Lady into exile from the seat of Government. The others headed directly to the office of Vice President Paul Bedford. They had agreed to ignore the intricacies of the Twenty-fifth Amendment, which essentially dealt with the transfer of power to the Vice President if a President was incapacitated and unable to carry out his duties. (The Twenty-fifth has only been used twice—once when President Reagan was shot, and once when President Bush underwent general anaesthesia in April 1989.)
In this instance, it was decided that the VP would be immediately sworn in. There was, after all, no possibility of McBride making any kind of a comeback.
Senator Kennedy had already arrived in the VP’s office, and Judge Moore intoned the sacred words that all Presidents must recite: “I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the Office of the President of the United States, and will, to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States.”
Section 2 of the Constitution made him, at that moment, Commander in Chief of the Army and Navy of the United States.
Within moments, he had signed the prepared document that appointed Adm. Arnold Morgan his Special Adviser for the forthcoming crisis with Hamas. He willingly signed the rider to the document that ensconced the Admiral in the Oval Office, as Supreme Commander of all U.S. military forces involved in Operation High Tide, “with civilian powers as far-reaching as may be necessary for safe evacuation of the citizens of the affected areas.”
> General Clark, the only person in the room with a working knowledge of a digital camera, photographed the entire scene for the public record, somehow managing to wipe out four pictures taken by Mrs. Bedford the previous week at Camp David in the process. But they had to avoid the intrusion of an official photographer and the endless ramifications of this incredible private ceremony being leaked to the media.
Senator Kennedy observed the formalities and swiftly headed back to the Capitol to brief the heads of Senate Committees on the oncoming political bombshell. The remainder of the House would learn of the shift of power at more or less the same time as the media, and indeed the nation. The Military Chiefs were confident that Teddy would combine his legendary down-home friendliness with the certain tough authority that was his trademark, to convince the elected representatives of the fifty States that the nation stood in mortal danger.
Meanwhile, back in the West Wing of the White House, it was plain that staff members had to be informed and then silenced, until the press had been given the news. Admiral Morgan, standing in the Oval Office with General Scannell, decreed that senior staff should report immediately to President Reagan’s specially built Situation Room in the basement of the West Wing. There they would be briefed by the Admiral himself, and there they would watch the television address to the nation by the new President of the United States. A guard of four Marines outside the door would ensure that no one left the room, and all mobile phones would be surrendered to the guards as each senior staffer arrived.
Scimitar SL-2 (2004) Page 29
