Except for the three international students, who had difficulty comprehending the topic and the dynamic, rapid-fire exchange between the instructor and Hunter, the class of fifteen chuckled at Duncan’s disparaging comment on Congress.
“Members serve at the pleasure of the President,” Dr. Norton said. “What does that mean?”
Hunter was reluctant to answer again. “Anyone?” asked Norton.
Finally, Duncan said, “Political appointees serve at the pleasure of the President. He nominated them, and they remain in those positions unless they resign or until the President asks them to. Not everyone at that level serves at the pleasure of the President. The chairman of the Federal Reserve Board doesn’t, and the President can’t dismiss him. Neither can he dismiss the director of the FBI, who has a ten-year appointment. There may be others in that category. Vice Presidents can’t be fired. I think generally, if the President appointed someone, he can be asked to resign by the President if he isn’t doing well or isn’t carrying out the President’s policies.”
“So a President can terminate without cause?”
Hunter sensed a trap. He’d been baited into the exchange, and the instructor was about to pounce on him for showing off. It was graduate school all over again. I did the same thing to my own students, he thought.
“I would say,” Hunter said, “that despite his unfettered power, there must be a reason for the decision. Of course, at the pleasure of the President implies there doesn’t need to be a justifiable reason. The President is the ultimate decision-maker in those things under his purview.”
“That’s outstanding. That’s also an outstanding segue into this course. For the next few weeks, we’ll be analyzing and dissecting presidential decisions from George Washington to the current Commander in Chief. We’ll look at the political forces surrounding them at the time of their decision-making process, and we’ll look at the men and women who tried to carry out the president’s decisions and directives.
“I want you to be especially watchful that at the level of the President, when faced with a real crisis, there’s no really right decision. There are military decisions and political decisions. We shall see in almost all cases that presidents are compelled to choose between one or the other. Kennedy either bombs Cuba and starts World War Three, or he does nothing and looks like a weakling.
“Oftentimes, it isn’t that the decision is the lesser of two evils. When presidents are compelled to make decisions, as we shall see, many people die. Let’s get started.”
Three hours later, as Hunter walked from the classroom, someone said, “For a while there, I thought he was looking for a fight.”
The SEAL following Hunter out offered his hand before swapping introductions. The SEAL carried himself with poise and confidence, giving his name as Don Jorgenson.
“He wasn’t, really,” Hunter replied. “He was annoyed I popped up and answered him. It’s a classic instructor tactic to get the attention of the new students, because they’re the smart ones, and we’re the dumb ones. We better pay attention. Otherwise, they’ll have no problem embarrassing us in class.
“I just let him know I wasn’t easily intimidated. I teach a little grad school myself and thought we’d be a little more advanced than that here.”
“That’s interesting. Where and what did you teach?”
“Embry Riddle Aeronautical University. I taught just about everything from aircraft and spacecraft development to accident investigation to helicopter operations.” He pointed at the badge on the man’s chest. “I doubt Embry Riddle has a center on a SEAL base, but I don’t know.”
“They don’t. At air stations, yes. Good to meet you. See you tomorrow, Duncan.”
Hunter glimpsed the Navy Cross at the top of the man’s medals, followed by multiple awards for everything else. He was a true war hero. “You, too, Sir.”
As Jorgenson walked off, Duncan thought, Typical SEAL—a man of few words.
After descending into the bowels of the War College to find the bookstore, Hunter queued with the other students to receive two large shopping bags full of books. The hemp rope handles cut into his hands. There were at least twenty pounds of books in each bag.
Straining under the load he uttered to no one in particular said, “My pleasure reading has just dropped to zero.”
The sight of dozens of students laboring to carry the two shopping bags of books across the parking lot to their vehicles was mildly entertaining. The men tried to look masculine and strong, carrying the bags with erect backs, but Duncan passed more than one car with an exhausted male student trying to catch his breath. The female students carried one bag, typically with both hands. As the male students drove away, the female students returned to Hunter Hall for their second load of books. Hard to be chivalrous when your hands are full of books.
Hunter dumped the bag of books in his truck and quickly walked to the gym and racquetball courts, hoping to find someone to play against. A former near-world-class athlete, a racquetball champion in the Marine Corps and a National Singles Championship competitor, he didn't anticipate any high-caliber playing at the NWC.
As he approached the courts at the end of the large gymnasium, three men, obviously racquetball players, stopped talking and sized up the newcomer.
“New student?” one asked.
“That’s me. Duncan Hunter.” He held out his hand. The older man shook it. “Bill Poole.”
“Glad to meet you, Bill.”
“This is Sanjay. He’s the champ around here and our local rocket scientist. This is Bill Hall.”
“Sanjay. Bill.”
“Duncan.”
“Do you have room for a fourth?” Duncan asked.
“Those two are supposed to play,” Bill Hall said. “You and me?”
“That’ll work. Let me change my shoes and warm up a little, and I’ll be ready.”
The three men noticed the multiple tags on Hunter’s bag, as Bill Poole kept up a running dialogue.
Duncan learned that Bill Poole was Captain Bill Poole, OIC of all international students. Bill Hall was a retired lieutenant commander, USN submariner, and worked at the National Wargaming Center. Dr. Sanjay Prakash was a sonar scientist at the Navy’s sonar research lab.
After dispatching Bill Hall in fifteen minutes and Bill Poole in twenty, Duncan moved to the doctor. Twenty minutes later, after many good-natured exchanges of points, Duncan ended the match with a backhanded down-the-line kill shot.
Sanjay said he had to get back to work.
“Thanks for the games,” Duncan said. “You have a great touch, Sanjay. Obviously, you play squash.”
“Yes, thank you, but there’s no one to play with.”
“Tell you what. I don’t get to play squash very often. I’ll get a squash racket, and you can crush me like a bug. My goal before leaving is to beat you at your own game. How’s that?”
Dr. Prakash smiled. “That would be great.”
The men turned from the center of the court and noticed an observer through the viewing windows. Duncan immediately recognized the SEAL from the front row at class. The miniature, gray-haired Schwarzenegger smiled at him and walked back to the weight room before Duncan and the sonar scientist left the court.
CHAPTER FOUR
1100 August 7, 2002
Marine Corps Recruit Depot San Diego, California
Platoon Sergeant Staff Sergeant Joe Crofton said, “At ease. Recruit Miller, you’ve done very well. The platoon commander recommended you for meritorious promotion to lance corporal and your choice of military occupational skill. You indicated you want to be a Scout Sniper, 0317. After setting the all-time range record of 250, the battalion commander probably found it difficult not to grant your request.
“I have to tell you, Recruit Miller, that I never heard of anyone leaving the Navy, joining the Marine Corps, and then going straight to Scout Sniper Platoon from boot camp. I expect you to go back to San Onofre and get Recon Marine MOS 0321 before heading to
Sniper School. You’re one tall motherfucker, Miller, and I’m afraid you’ll have your hands full with that course. There’ll be tremendous pressure on you to succeed.”
“Sir, the recruit will not fail, Sir!”
“Recruit Miller, what’s the motto of a Marine Scout Sniper?”
“Sir, one shot, one kill, Sir! Oorah!”
“Recruit Miller, what’s the mission of a Marine Scout Sniper?”
“Sir, a Scout Sniper is a Marine highly skilled in field craft and marksmanship who delivers long-range precision fire on selected targets from concealed positions in support of combat operations, Sir!”
“I think the shooting won’t be your problem. It’s the low crawling that usually gets the best shooters, especially the tall ones. You can hide a dingy, but it’s hard to hide a fuckin’ battleship. Do you understand me, Recruit?”
“Sir, yes, Sir!”
“Well, good luck, Miller. Work hard, and don’t fuckin’ embarrass me.”
“Sir, the recruit will not embarrass the platoon sergeant, Sir!”
“Dismissed.”
“Sir, Dismissed! Aye, aye, Sir!”
As Miller saluted, Staff Sergeant Joe Crofton noticed a tattoo on the back of Miller’s hand. The black letters SS were very small. He’d been around several Marine snipers during his career, and they all had that mark in the same place. Scout Snipers adopted the SS banner more commonly known as the World War Two German Waffen-SS insignia.
That tattoo might be premature, he thought, but you have to give the kid credit. He sure shoots like a sniper.
CHAPTER FIVE
0900 August 10, 2002
Auditorium, Naval War College
Directed to proceed to Spruance Hall and the 1,100-seat auditorium for a presentation, Duncan Hunter walked down the port aisle and sat four rows from the front. He looked around to see if anyone from his seminar class would be brave enough to join him. As one of the very few civil servants attending the NWC, he was viewed as an odd bird. Most of the students sat in the rearmost rows, and none came to join him.
As a former college professor, he made it a point to set an example and not be swayed by childish views about sitting at the front of the class. He would not retreat to the rear of the auditorium. Glancing at his Rolex, he wondered when the presentation would begin.
As his eyes lifted from his watch, Class President Captain Bill McGee walked in through a hidden front side entrance. The big, gray-haired man with small, round glasses and a chest covered in ribbons and gold badges strode into view to his place at the front of the assembly. Scanning the class from the back of the hall to the front, he stopped when he saw Duncan.
“Would you join me up front?” he asked. Another glance at Hunter’s Brooks Brother’s suit, French cuffs, and enameled coin cufflinks told McGee the man wasn’t a typical civil servant. He didn’t like civil servants, especially those from three-letter agencies. He immediately scolded himself. It might have been a mistake to invite the sharply dressed man to sit with him. He usually disliked men who were younger, taller, and better-looking. He also generally disliked men who were white.
While at school, he convinced himself it would be better to sit with a white man than another black man. As the man in the suit moved around the seats to sit beside him, McGee was struck by his grace, fluidity, and composure. He moved like Sean Connery from the old James Bond movies.
Bill McGee momentarily pushed aside his thoughts of disliking the man for another time and place. As a youngster, he’d been infatuated with the James Bond books and persona and was intrigued by the man’s amazing cars, gizmos, and unique weapons. However, there were no black James Bonds to emulate, just movie caricatures of cool, hip, soul brothers with afros and guns shooting each other when drug deals went bad.
As a SEAL, McGee was an improbable James Bond. He had his share of beautiful women and exciting adventures at home and abroad, and he got to play with the most-exciting weapons imaginable, classified and unclassified.
After two failed marriages and his last mission, which failed spectacularly, he resigned himself to the fact that his glory days were over, and a new chapter in his life had begun. He viewed the assignment at the War College as a gift, a time to reconnect with his new wife and young daughters, not run off to a far-flung part of the globe to create mayhem under the cover of darkness. Even James Bond had to settle down to become a respectable old fart, but McGee never read that book.
As the man in the suit walked around seats to join him, his movements stirred old memories of the desire to be the guy they called on to save the mission, save the war, and the world. At first glance, the GS guy was at least interesting. He might even be real.
“Yes, Sir,” Hunter said, surprised at the request.
Several hundred sets of eyes watched the SEAL enter from the auditorium’s lower level and stop in front of the civilian a few rows up. A moment later, the man in the suit stood, walked around a few seats, and joined the SEAL in the front row. They shook hands, and the two sat side-by-side.
The SEAL, resplendent in his white uniform with a foot of ribbons and the SEAL trident, offered his hand. “Bill McGee. I have to sit up front, and everyone’s afraid to sit with me.”
The former Marine Corps officer kicked in, showing respect for the man with three Navy Crosses, and shook the rock-hard hand. “Duncan Hunter. Glad to meet you, Sir. I’ll keep you company.”
They sat in the middle of the front row.
Trying to say something that didn’t sound stupid, Hunter leaned over and said, “I don’t know many SEALs, but I went to flight school with one named Scott Reamer back in ’83. I think he was a SEAL during his enlisted days. Somehow, he got a commission, and I distinctly remember he wanted to fly A-6s to provide close air support to Marines and SEALs or something like that. He embarrassed the rest of us when he had to get into uniform with his boatload of ribbons and SEAL badge when all the rest of the student pilots had firewatch ribbons.”
McGee broke into a wide smile, showing perfect teeth. Before he could respond, the assembly was called to attention, and the NWC faculty and staff entered the auditorium.
A Marine Corps lieutenant colonel approached the lectern and asked the assembly to take their seats. He made a few comments that ensured no foreign students were present, then said, “This lecture is classified SECRET—NOFORN. I’d like to introduce Dr. Elizabeth McIntosh. She’s been with the Central Intelligence Agency since 1975, serving in positions from field agent to chief of station. She’s held the George H. W. Brush Chair of International Intelligence at the Naval War College since August 2000. She received a master’s in international affairs from Boston College and her PhD in Russian studies from Harvard in 1984. Ladies and Gentlemen, Dr. McIntosh.”
The little old lady who gave Hunter directions to Hunter Hall took the stage.
Duncan smiled, shook his head unconsciously, and stifled a chuckle.
With a nod to the class President, she said, “Captain McGee, Mr. Hunter, and the class of 2003, on behalf of the CIA and the Naval War College, I welcome you to Newport and hope you have a great year.”
McGee, noticeably narrowing his eyebrows while continuing to look straight ahead, gave Duncan a nudge at the mention of his name. Like a junior in high school, Duncan nudged back.
“In the weeks after 9/11, the American public knew nothing of a top-secret interagency response. The first clues were news reports out of Afghanistan that a CIA paramilitary officer had been killed, and an American Taliban had been captured. Johnny Michael “Mike” Spann had been a Marine Corps officer before coming to the Central Intelligence Agency’s Special Activities Division. Mike Spann was the first American killed in combat during the US invasion of Afghanistan in 2001.
“His partner, Dave, is here today to give you an eyewitness account of what happened at the Qala-i-Jangi compound near Mazari Sharif in northern Afghanistan. I think Dave has some pictures. Dave, it’s all yours.”
For the next hour, th
e intelligence officer named “Dave” mesmerized the assembly with how he and Mike Spann entered Afghanistan, met with the Afghan Northern Alliance and Delta Force, and worked their way to Mazari Sharif. They found and interrogated the man the press called the American Taliban. He gave a minute-by-minute account of the subsequent uprising that killed Mike Spann and how Northern Alliance troops, backed by US air strikes, US Army Special Forces, and British Special Forces, crushed the uprising that took Spann’s life and almost took Dave’s.
He concluded with, “Mike Spann was awarded the Intelligence Star posthumously and is buried in Section 34 at Arlington National Cemetery. Because the Intelligence Star is the equivalent of the Silver Star, Mike was approved for burial in Arlington. Dr. McIntosh, I thank you very much for inviting me. I can take a few questions if that would be OK.”
After the assembly, McGee turned to Duncan. “So how does the head spook know you? You CIA?”
Hunter shook his head. “You wouldn’t believe me. It’s absolutely stupid.”
“Try me.”
Duncan told the story.
McGee smiled. “That’s pretty good. What are you doing for lunch Duncan?”
“I was going to grab something here and then head to the gym.”
“That’s exactly what I was going to do.”
CHAPTER SIX
1115 August 10,2002
Naval War College Café
McGee selected soup and orange juice. Hunter eyeballed the chili and put a diet Coke on the tray. He noticed slight head movement from his companion, as the SEAL’s eyes rapidly scanned the café. He tried to veer them toward the open window seats overlooking the bay, but the SEAL suddenly moved toward a corner away from the windows.
That’s a little odd, Hunter thought, then forgot about it. “So you went to flight school with Scott Reamer? He was one of my rock stars back in the late ‘70s. I know he was picked up on an officer commissioning program, then I lost track of him.”
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