Executive Treason
Page 50
The commander’s junior didn’t understand. “How? We have done what no army has ever done in history. We have captured the American president.”
“We have done little more than put ourselves in the enemy’s sight. Unless, this is the Prophet’s way of determining whether we deserve to continue.” Komari actually believed what he was saying. “Perhaps we can take the heads of our prisoners?”
Atef was aghast. “Sir!”
“Atef, the Great Satan is certain to try to hunt us down. We shot a boatload of unbelievers. We destroyed their jet fighter. But they don’t know who or where we are. If we try to bargain for the president’s life, we will reveal ourselves. They are smart. They have their technology. But if we kill them and wait for their searches to end, we will be free to strike again. After all, as it was with the revelation of God to the Prophet Muhammad, out jihad demands we command the right and forbid the wrong. Our right is to kill the Americans. We forbid them from interrupting our holy cause. We must, as in the hadith—the word of the Prophet—avert injustice by action.”
It seemed to make sense to Atef. “So it is a test. Allah be praised.”
The Pentagon
“Issue the Warning Order,” J3 declared. The commander of USASOCOM didn’t want to lose another moment.
“Yes, sir,” replied Admiral Zach Standish of NAVSPECWARCOM. The Navy Special Warfare Command oversaw the SEALs and their two other components, the Special Boat Squadron (SBS) and the SEAL Swimmer Deliver Vehicles (SDVs).
“Where are the nearest SDVs?” the general asked.
Standish replied, “The 7th Fleet has two on the Essex.”
“No subs?”
“Too far away. But here’s the problem, we don’t have a full team onboard right now.”
“Why not?”
“They went into the Solomons after the attack,” Standish explained. “So, we’ll have to bring in another platoon to hook up with the Essex.”
J3 asked the obvious. “Where’s the nearest? Coronado?”
“No, luckily Pearl.” Pearl Harbor.
J3 calculated the number of men the two submersibles could transport. Eight. It would have to be enough. Actually, SEALs were known to work best in tight eight-man groups.
“Deploy them.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And confirm when the Warning Order has been received and what time the Team will be airborne.”
“And their mission, sir?”
“We’re a go for a D.A.” A Direct Action: military-speak for a combat operation.
The Warning Order set a number of critical things in order. It put the U.S. Navy SEALs on notice, it established the operational chain of command, it readied combat and tech support, and it got SEALs where they needed to go. Heaven and Earth opened with the issuance of a Warning Order. Generally the act provided SEALs with up to twelve hours to prepare. They’d have a lot less today.
The White House
Situation Room
“What are we looking at?” Katie was confused by the banks of monitors. The chief justice was by her side.
“Satellite views fibered in from the Pentagon’s National Military Command Center, the NMCC,” explained Roarke. “They’re fed from various agencies including the National Geospatial Agency in Herndon, Virginia, west of D.C. There’s also intel from surveillance planes over the target area and we’re seeing tactical maps of the Indonesian islands. But I can’t help you there.”
“There are so many,” she observed.
“Thousands. But,” he pointed to a large hi-def monitor, “fewer in the immediate vicinity. That’s what they’re focusing on.”
“Then he’s alive? The president is alive?”
“We don’t know. All we’re doing is tracking a boat we presume he’s on. We’re waiting for infrared, closer satellite pictures, and more telemetry.”
Eve Goldman walked in with Bernie Bernstein. He was just finishing briefing her when Chief Justice Leopold joined them.
“Madame Attorney General,” the austere Supreme Court judge said.
“Chief justice,” she replied. Both sounded grim. “We have some work to do.” It was an understatement.
Katie stepped forward and said hello to Eve Goldman. “Attorney General, good to see you again. I mean…” She tried to apologize for her flub. Good was out of place.
“We’re all frazzled, Ms. Kessler. And under the circumstances, it is good to see you.”
Katie immediately felt better.
The AG continued. “I understand you’ve been doing some comprehensive research. Anything that bears discussion now?”
Brad Rutberg and Bernie Bernstein moved closer to the conversation.
“I’m afraid I have a great deal of long-range thinking. Succession is inherently flawed as legislated. But as far as today?” Katie looked to Chief Justice Browning for support. “There is only the law.”
He agreed without opinion.
“But,” she said surprising everyone, “I actually do have one thought.”
“Ms. Kessler, not another of your polemics,” the nation’s senior justice contended.
“If you’ll allow me, sir. I’ve read a great deal about bumping.”
“We’re not facing that situation,” he pointed out.
“No, but for argument sake, if the Speaker of the House is not able to assume office at the moment that a successor must be named, then the senate pro tem serves as acting president. Right?”
“That’s right,” Rutberg chimed in.
“It could be because the Speaker was killed in a catastrophic event,” Katie continued.
“Arguably so,” the chief justice remarked.
“But the House majority could quickly elect a new speaker and according to law, he or she would bump the acting president.”
Browning failed to see where her argument was going. “You’re outlining a completely different scenario, Ms. Kessler.”
“I am, your honor.”
“Then what is your point?”
The attorney general also wanted to know. “Please, counselor. Congressman Patrick is on his way. With the president down and presumed incapacitated, perhaps even dead, we must proceed accordingly.” Even if it means making that moron Patrick president, she said to herself.
“Really?” Katie said. “I think there may be another possibility.” She showed a devilish, almost political smile. “A bit of bumping, but quite within reason.”
“What? What kind of possibility?” Chief Justice Browning demanded.
“A decision designed to buy us some time.”
“No more riddles, Ms. Kessler! State what you mean.”
“It will require an additional call before the Speaker is informed. When he is, I don’t think he’ll like it.”
“I don’t care what the hell he likes!” blurted Bernie Bernstein, quite in character.
The lawyers politely ignored the comment even though they agreed. Chief Justice Browning raised his eyebrow. Kessler had a way of getting to him.
“Ms. Kessler,” Browning commanded, “Let’s hear it. The Constitution is calling.”
The Cabinet Room
White House
minutes later
“Mr. Speaker, please take a seat,” the marine guard said. “Someone will be up to see you shortly.”
“Up?” Up meaning up from the Situation Room or the War Room? “Look, Colonel.” Patrick got right in the officer’s face. “I don’t like surprises. I was ordered here told that there was a matter of national urgency.” He was actually told emergency, but he remembered wrong. “The Secret Service didn’t say a goddamned thing about what’s going on. Bernstein didn’t either when he called. Now you. I don’t like guessing games.”
The marine locked eyes with the Speaker. “Congressman, friends don’t consider me much of a game player either.”
“Then we understand each other.”
“Not at all, Mr. Speaker
. Now if you’ll excuse me.”
The White House
War Room
fifteen minutes later
While the discussion about succession stayed in the Situation Room, military planning moved into the White House War Room. The FBI’s Robert Mulligan was invited in, along with Presley Freedman and Scott Roarke. So were the secretaries of defense and homeland security.
“What do we know about this place?” Mulligan asked Secretary of Defense T.J. Harriman.
“Lots. And it all speaks to the president’s initiative in Australia. The Malukus consist of 1,027 islands. Only seven of them are considered big. About 622 are uninhabited. And that’s only a fraction of Indonesia,” explained the SecDef, a former CEO of Ford. “You want to start a revolution? That’s the place. You can strike and hide with ease. That’s what a Muslim vigilante group called Laskar Jihad—or Holy War Forces—have been doing for years. And for years they were just playing with matches. Now they’re into their own scorched earth program. The worst part is they’ve got plentiful fuel—the country’s Christians. Since ‘99, they’ve been burning their way through the islands, picking up recruits and trading drugs for weapons. The NDI tells me that a considerable amount of their firepower comes from the Chinese.”
“And no one’s done anything about them?”
“Mr. Director, it’s a fucking huge country. In fact, Indonesia is the biggest Muslim nation in the world. Let’s just say that up till now, except for some training initiatives we coordinated for the Indonesian Army, it ain’t been our problem.”
“I guess that’s changed,” Roarke remarked.
“Yes, it has.”
The National Director of Intelligence finished scanning a file and joined the conversation. “To the secretary’s point, this is a copy of a letter written to United Nations Secretary General Kofi Annan in 2000. It was signed by members of the Moluccan Christian Communication Forum.” He gave it to Harriman. “The Forum asked for help. They reported that jihad forces vowed to fight to their last drop of blood. They claimed that rebels were preparing for a more deadly attack. The Forum pleaded for the international community to step in. They argued that the stability of the region is threatened and the Malukus are becoming a terrifying breeding ground for international terrorism.”
“And what did the U.N. say?” Roarke asked, following up on his previous question.
“Basically, paraphrasing the secretary’s words, ain’t been their problem.”
“Jesus Christ! Why doesn’t everyone just open their borders and tell the terrorists to come right in. No taxes and kill as many people as you want,” Bernstein complained.
“My sentiments exactly,” the Secretary of Homeland Security added.
“Well, that’s exactly the point President Taylor was arguing in Australia,” said Jack Evans. “So let’s talk about how we free him and get on with it.”
At that moment, General Johnson called the briefing to order.
“All right everybody, listen up. As Secretary Harriman began explaining, the target is in the Banda Sea.” He called up a computer map on one 2″ plasma TV screen. “It’s a nearly enclosed sea, occupying about 18,000 square miles. The Banda is bounded by the southern Malukus and Ceram, Burn and Sula to the north.” He kept the map on one screen and called up a closer view on another plasma.
“Intel suggests the terrorists have landed on Haruku Island in the southeastern portion of the Banda. Haruku is one of a pair of islands, separated by a narrow passageway.” J3 walked in front of the screen and pointed to a cove, between two marked points: Naira and Timitu. “These were Christian cities. But a Laskar Jihad-led revolt put them in Muslim hands. Now most of Haruku, and its neighbor Saparua, is Muslim-held territory. The Christians who survived were relocated to the north. That means we will be going into an extremely hostile zone.”
“How big a force will we send?” FBI Director Robert Mulligan asked.
“Not how big, Mr. Director,” J3 responded. “How small.”
The Pentagon
“Status?” demanded General Johnson.
“Just confirmed from CTF-71—in a manner of speaking, they’re halfway there and getting closer.” Rear Admiral Erwin “Skip” Gatson explained that the team had been on leave in Honolulu. “They were due to ship back to Coronado in two days.” Gatson referred to the West Coast home of the SEALs at the Navy Amphibious Base in Coronado, California. “But we got them in the air twenty-two minutes ago.”
“Good, Skip,” J3 said over the secure telecom line. Gatson was Commander, Battle Force, 7th Fleet aboard the USS Blue Ridge, and a life-long personal friend of Johnson’s. J3′s next addition to the conference call was Air Force General Reed Heath.
“Talk to me, Reed. What are the AWACS seeing?”
“The signal is five by five. Transit has stopped.”
Stopped? J3 wondered if that was good or bad, whether the enemy knew who they had, and if that would even make a difference.
“Assume they know what kind of package they have, Reed. What do you think they’re doing?”
“Easy. Same thing we are. Trying to figure out what the hell to do.”
J3 had come to the exact same conclusion.
General Jonas Jackson Johnson shot a glance at the two clocks on the wall—the time in D.C. and the clock he set to Maluku time sixteen hours ahead. Halfway around the world it was 0417 hrs. “They barely have an hour of darkness left. Okay, they rushed to cover. They took Top Gun with them. So he’s alive. Given that, they’re going to wait until darkness again. They’ll hunker down, maybe weigh the benefits of negotiating, and delay any action until night. Any alternate views?”
“No,” the two others said in unison.
“Then that gives us fifteen hours to launch an offensive. Your boys up to it?” J3 asked Gatson.
“Yes, sir. We’re just going to need some good eyes overhead. Ours and Reed’s.”
“Anything you need, Skip,” the Air Force officer added.
“Good. We’ll get Predators up from Anderson.” The low-altitude, quiet unmanned aerial drones or UAVs, launched from Guam, would provide the SEALs with real-time guidance.
“We’ll give you all the pictures you need, Skip,” General Heath added.
“Thank you. Pull all your thoughts together and get back to me in thirty. Make sure your SEALs are rested, Skip. We’ll need them sharp.”
“Yes, sir.”
SEALs, an acronym for SEa, Air, and Land, are the Navy’s foremost special operations force. If the U.S. needs an enemy ship destroyed in a buttressed harbor, the job goes to the SEALs. When a beach needs to be “softened up” before a large-scale attack, SEALs get the call. They take out bridges, roads, railway lines, and communications centers. They parachute into global hot spots, though they’re more likely to swim into an area of operation. And they can swim for a very, very long time. Water is a SEAL’s best friend.
President John F. Kennedy commissioned the SEALs, the Navy’s former Underwater Demotion Team, on January 1, 1962, as an elite maritime special operations unit capable of striking anywhere in the world.
Skip Gatson tagged SEAL team THREE, one of eight operational platoons. The platoons are comprised of sixteen SEALs, which are divided into two squads of eight or four of four. Each SEAL platoon is generally commanded by a Navy lieutenant (0-3 grade). Today, the honors went to Lt. James Nolt. On Gatson’s call, Nolt selected the seven men he wanted with him. He was going in, too.
Over the Pacific
“Gentlemen, we have ourselves a genuine situation.”
Nolt shouted over the light whine of the C-17 Globemaster III engines. The SEAL team commander was ordered to brief his men in two parts. The first, while in the air; the second, after they parachuted to their South Pacific LZ near the USS Essex.
Much of Nolt’s Louisiana drawl fell off as he yelled. Not that it mattered. He only used it for effect and the SEALs knew it.
“If you didn�
��t believe me before we took off, believe it now. This is not a drill. We’re flying due west, then south. In six hours we’ll jump, you do the math and figure out where we’re going. A buddy in the 7th Fleet will lend you a shower. We’ll have a full briefing, a little trip in a pair of SDVs, and then a nice swim. Our mission is pretty straightforward. Enemy forces have taken a VIP and his entourage. Our job is to locate and neutralize the enemy, and get our people out for their first class trip home. Questions?”
“Who’s the bigshot?” asked Mario Pintar, one of the snipers in the team. He was laying out his gear in the C-7′s voluminous interior cabin. The space was large enough to play a regulation basketball game.
“Next question,” Nolt replied.
Pintar stopped his work. “Come again?”
Ordinarily, Special Ops forces heading into action would never be denied the identity and nature of the target. But Nolt had been instructed to wait for more ISR—intelligence, surveillance, and reconnaissance information. They wanted to know whether the president was alive.
“Next question,” Nolt repeated.
“Okay, don’t tell me,” Pintar said under his breath.
“What’s the size of the enemy force?” Julio Lopez asked.
“Undetermined at this time.”
“Unified army or guerillas, sir?” This question came from the youngest SEAL on the team, Brian Showalter. He still used “sir,” something SEALs generally ignored.
“Guerilla rebels. We suspect they’ve been supplied by the Chinese and other non-allied countries. But that’s an assumption only.”
“Any injured in the VIP’s party?” SEAL Harold Chaskes asked. He was a combatant who also served as medic.
“Unknown. Possibly.”
There were no further questions except for the ones that Nolt wouldn’t answer now. “So, what do you say we sit around the campfire? For old times’ sake.”
The SEALs grumbled. They knew what was coming.
“Lopez, let’s hear it.”
“Never underestimate the enemy,” he yelled over the whine of the engines. “No matter how untrained or disorganized.”