First Strike
Jeremy Rumfitt
copyright©JM Rumfitt
The right of JM Rumfitt to be identified as the author
of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998
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No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication
may be made without the written permission of the author.
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this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution
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All characters in this publication are fictitious.
Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Also by Jeremy Rumfitt:-
Snow in the High Atlas
First Strike
Pinocchio and the Bunny –Huggers
The Confessions of Simon Barlow
Whistleblower
Sacred Seed
Inauguration Day
1
The world’s most powerful man went to the window of the Oval Office and gazed out across the barren rose garden at the blue and white February sky. President Michael Santos was halfway through his second year in office. The first Hispanic to occupy the White House and the only President in history for whom English was a second language, he’d been elected by the narrowest majority on record. The President’s rendezvous with history had come out of clear blue sky on September 11th 2001 and in the months that followed the attack he had the highest approval rating of any President in history. The pundits said he was a shoe-in for a second term. But Michael Santos knew political capital could not be set aside for later. You had to spend it while you had it. Sooner or later the polls were going to evaporate. It was only a matter of when and where they stabilised and what the President could accomplish while they were briefly in the stratosphere.
But by late February 2003, some eighteen months after the attack, President Santos could already glimpse on the horizon the dangers that imperilled his position. The economy was heading for recession. The dollar was in free-fall. Unemployment was soaring to record levels. The President’s approval rating had plummeted to a high but assailable sixty-eight percentage points. What President Santos needed was an issue. Something big. Something behind which the American people could unite. To secure his place in history, President Santos needed Saddam Hussein’s scrotum, hanging from his gun belt.
Meanwhile the President’s most pressing problem was holding the hawks in his cabinet in check as Secretary of Defence Karl Herzfeld pushed for a pre-emptive strike against Iraq. Herzfeld went on garnering support as Saddam Hussein obstructed the UN inspectors and the Security Council dithered. The leading hawk in the cabinet, Secretary of Defence Herzfeld was a grey, dull looking man in a dull grey business suit. His skin was sallow but his blue bespectacled eyes held an unexpected hint of humour. For reasons that surprised even him, Herzfeld was the most respected politician in America with the sole exception of the President himself, as he bathed in the afterglow of public adulation that followed 9/11.
The President turned back to the room, silhouetted in the bright light from the window. He stood nearly six feet tall with close-cropped hair, sunken cheeks and the deep-set troubled eyes of office. He spoke with the slightest trace of an accent.
“Where are we on weapons of mass destruction?”
“We’re working on it, Mr President,” said Herzfeld.
“We’ve been working on it for fifteen years.”
“The CIA’s just not coming up with the right intelligence. Looks like Saddam may have the chemicals but not the delivery systems.”
“Did it ever occur to you, Karl, that maybe, just maybe, that’s because there are no WMDs? That perhaps Saddam really did destroy them all, just like he says.”
Herzfeld winced.
“Saddam’s smart. Plus he has a country the size of France to hide them in.”
“Concealing a stockpile of WMDs wouldn’t be his problem, Karl, I understand that. Any cave system in any mountain range would do, so the possibilities inside Iraq are endless. But these things need to be manufactured in modern production plants. How do you hide an entire chemical factory with access roads and secure storage facilities?”
“Trust me, Mr President. I just know they’re out there.”
“If they’re out there, Karl, how come we can’t trace a single sign of them? We have full satellite coverage of the entire Middle East. We can listen to the whole electromagnetic spectrum. We can read the plates on every truck that moves. We monitor every phone call, fax and email. Saddam can’t order a Goddamn pizza unless we know about it.”
“Believe me, Mr President. Weapons of mass destruction will be found.”
“Then we’d better find them quickly. The Security Council meets in a couple of weeks. If we haven’t found them by then the French are going to piss on your parade.”
“That’s exactly why we shouldn’t pussyfoot around. We should launch a pre-emptive strike. Now. While we still have the chance.” Herzfeld made ready to leave. “But it’s not the French I’m worried about, Mr President, it’s the heat. If this thing isn’t over by April the temperatures will make a land war impossible.”
***
Karl Herzfeld returned to his office at the Pentagon overlooking the tree-lined courtyard at the hub of the world’s largest office building where twenty-three thousand employees, military and civilian, occupied four million square feet of space. On the far side of the courtyard gangs of construction workers still toiled day and night to repair the damage done on 9/11. Herzfeld had been at NATO Headquarters in Brussels at the time of the attack and watched the Twin Towers crumble on television. Like millions of his countrymen, Karl Herzfeld had made a vow that day. Whatever the cost, America would be avenged. But to be avenged, America needed an adversary. A target other than Al Qaeda. Al Qaeda was amorphous. You couldn’t nuke it. The most sophisticated missiles, smart bombs, daisy-cutters, were all impotent against it. America was not equipped to fight an idea. The world’s sole superpower was only equipped to fight an army. And Saddam Hussein had an army. But the tectonic plates of global politics were shifting decisively in Herzfeld’s favour. And as American Airlines Flight 77 ploughed into the Pentagon at 9.38 a.m. on 9/11, Secretary of Defence Karl Herzfeld was already formulating plans for a first strike against Iraq.
Herzfeld summoned his most trusted aide. Colonel Arthur Preston of the Joint Special Operations Command wore the ribbon of the Distinguished Service Cross. A livid scar ran the length of his right cheek, a proud reminder of the career-defining moment in Vietnam that had earned him the honour. He’d disarmed one of Charlie’s bombs under persistent enemy fire, saved an entire company of men. Herzfeld envied the Colonel his record. The Secretary of Defence had not fought in any war. Never even donned a uniform.
“I don’t know what those bastards up at Langley think they’re doing,” said Herzfeld. “The CIA has all this fucking equipment, supercomputers, geostatic satellites, spy planes, UAVs. Mossad has people inside the regime. We’ve interrogated dozens of defectors, scientists, technicians, army officers, even Saddam’s son-in-law for Christ sake. So why can’t the CIA come up with the Goddamn goods?”
“If they can’t produce the evidence we need,” Preston mused, “Maybe we should provide some.”
“Have you talked things over with the Brits?”
“The MOD will copy us with anything they get, but I’m not expecting much. The Brits just don’t have the technical resources we do.”
“Of course they don’t. But let’s not underestimate the PR value of having them on board. We need a patsy to take some of the heat and for that the Brits are perfect. But then they’ve had a lot of practice.”
Herzfeld went to the drinks cabinet and helped himself to a chilled Bud.
“Do you think they understand the timescale, the need to get things moving quickly?”
“Yes, sir, I discussed that directly with the PM’s private office. They’ll be ready to roll immediately we give the word.”
“I thought they had a problem with public opinion?” Herzfeld took a swig of beer.
“That’s right, they do. But it’s worse than just public opinion. The PM has a problem with a clutch of rebels in his party. But he’s prepared to tough it out. He’s keen to preserve what he calls the Special Relationship, thinks it gives him some kind of influence over the President.”
“The Special Relationship?” Herzfeld grinned. “That old chestnut? Well who’s arguing, just so long as it works in our favour? Did you get that stuff I asked for?”
Colonel Preston opened his briefcase and placed a manila envelope on the desk between them.
“These should do the trick.”
***
Secretary of Defence Herzfeld and CIA Director William Bradshaw sat at a coffee table in Herzfeld’s spacious office. They removed their jackets and loosened their ties. Herzfeld kicked off his shoes and slouched in an armchair with his feet on the table, a can of ice cold Bud in his hand. He turned to the CIA Director and said,
“OK, Bill, off the record, what’s the worst case scenario?” His manner was dismissive.
Bill Bradshaw was in his early fifties, bald, short and overweight with horn-rimmed glasses worn halfway down his nose. He looked more like a librarian than America’s chief spook.
“Simple. The worst case is that Saddam is telling the truth. There are no weapons of mass destruction.”
This was Herzfeld’s worst unspoken fear. That the UN inspectors should establish beyond doubt there were no WMDs before the war even got started.
“You mean you haven’t found any,” Herzfeld interjected.
Bradshaw ignored him.
“OK, Karl, let’s look at some verifiable facts. We know Saddam had chemical and biological weapons. How could we not know? For Christ sake we supplied him with anthrax, botulin and E.coli, as well as the precursors for chemical agents. Of course back then we thought he was a good guy, fighting a proxy war on our behalf against the Ayatollahs. We also know he never got anywhere near developing a nuclear bomb, though he certainly has the materials to make a radiological device. But then anyone can put together a Dirty Bomb, all it takes is a lot of cash and a small amount of expertise, there’s nuclear waste just lying around all over the Goddamn place. But anyway, all that was way before the last Gulf War. Worst case is cruise missiles destroyed most of his arsenal and now the bastard’s tellin’ us the truth. The shelves are empty. And if cruise missiles didn’t do the job, we’ve had twelve years of crippling sanctions. Saddam’s cash flow dried up to a trickle. Iraq’s annual military expenditure plummeted from twenty-two billion dollars prior to Desert Storm to just over one billion now. That’s barely enough to pay the wages, Karl. Doesn’t leave much for R&D and nothing at all for the purchasing department.”
Bradshaw went to the drinks cabinet, helped himself to a can of Bud and resumed his seat.
“And don’t forget, up until ’98 Saddam did in fact cooperate with the UN inspectors. Half a million tons of chemical agents and thousands more tons of precursors went up in smoke, under UN supervision. Anything he has left now would be way past its use-by date, that stuff doesn’t last forever, it degrades. Saddam openly declared 13,000 artillery shells primed with mustard gas. UN inspectors destroyed them. They also dismantled 6,500 rockets armed with sarin. And if that weren’t enough, UN inspectors closed down all of Iraq’s known chemical and biological production plants. And we know for sure they haven’t been re-activated. These are facts, Karl. Now that’s what I call intelligence.” He took a sip of his Bud. “If we do go back in, our troops will be more exposed to our own depleted uranium shells that anything Saddam can throw at us.”
“What about mobile facilities?” Herzfeld took a drink of beer.
“I’ve never believed in a mobile capability. There are too many technical difficulties.”
“So how come the Brits know mobile labs exist? The PM said as much in Parliament. You can’t go much higher than that, on either side of the pond. The American people think the guy’s a saint.”
“OK, Karl, if the Brits really do know mobile labs exist, let them show us where they are. It simply makes no sense. Chemical labs on the move would shake around like crazy. Bumping along across the desert sealed inside a truckload of lethal chemicals, Jesus, Karl, that’s suicidal. A lab needs a dependable electricity supply - a cooling and ventilation system that’s 100% reliable, 100% of the time, operating in combat conditions. Technically that’s damn near impossible. And anyway, if mobile labs really did exist we’d have spotted one by now. Believe me, Karl, Saddam’s claim he’s clean is perfectly plausible. And anyway there’s been a sea change in Iraq. UN inspectors have unfettered access to sites all over the country now, including Saddam’s palaces. They just need a little more time.”
Herzfeld tried another tack. “What about Saddam’s links to Al Qaeda?”
“Once again, there’s simply no credible evidence. And believe me, we’ve looked hard.”
“So how come all the polls show two thirds of the American people believe those ties exist?”
Herzfeld’s face lit up in an unexpected smile.
“Because they’re still in shock. Because they’re ill-informed. Because they’ve been misled. Hell, Karl, how should I know? Maybe they just want to believe it. Fact is, bin Laden hates Saddam’s guts. Saddam killed more Muslims fighting his neighbours than anybody else in history. And Saddam runs a secular regime. There are Christian churches in Baghdad, even a Synagogue. That’s anathema to bin Laden, in his eyes Saddam is an infidel. Face it, Karl, you have the wrong target in your sights. If you want to hurt Al Qaeda, hurt the Saudis.”
“In my book the Saudis are the good guys.”
“Bin Laden is a Saudi. Saudi money funded 9/11. Fifteen out of nineteen hijackers were Saudis. How many were Iraqi? Not one. Not a single one. For Christ sake, Karl, what more do you want? You and I both know this war is a smoke screen, it won’t help the fight against terrorism one bit. Right now Al Qaeda has no presence in Iraq. They sure as hell will, once we start to bomb the crap out of Baghdad. For every Muslim kid we kill, five will join Al Qaeda.”
Bill Bradshaw took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes and yawned.
“What this Administration really needs is a policy based on the intelligence the CIA provides.”
“This Administration already has a policy, Bill. What we need from you is the intelligence to underpin it.”
“Haven’t you got that the wrong way round?”
Herzfeld got up, went to his desk and retrieved the manila envelope from a locked drawer.
“Take a look at these, Bill.”
Bradshaw opened the envelope and pulled out half a dozen black and white eight by ten photographs, some of which were slightly out of focus. The first one showed the Director of the CIA buck naked, fondling the genitals of a young oriental boy. They were kissing. Bradshaw didn’t bother to examine the rest.
“I especially like the shot where he’s sucking your dick, Bill.”
Herzfeld resumed his seat and took another swig of beer.
“OK, Bill, now I have your full attention, I don’t care how you do it but get me some fucking evidence.”
***
2
Since David Frost interviewed Nixon on his resignation the White House had used the British media to address the American people obliquely. And President Santos had reason to be grateful to one particular British journalist. Melanie Drake, Chief Rep
orter of the London Echo, arrived at the White House punctually at 10.15 a.m. She wore a grey suit, flat shoes, and carried a briefcase but no handbag. Her auburn hair cascaded to her shoulders. Her eyes were green. She went through two security checks, one at the entrance to the White House and one in the antechamber of the Oval Office where a guard removed the scissors and a nail file from her make-up bag.
Melanie felt a little apprehensive as she waited in the outer office. She hadn’t spoken to the President since he’d won the nomination. She’d been there in New Hampshire when he’d snatched the primary against the odds and followed his faltering campaign as he’d eked out a fragile lead in the run-up to November, laboriously assembling a coalition of the poor, the under privileged, the ethnically diverse, as the big money went elsewhere. The White House press secretary opened the door to the Oval Office and motioned Melanie to step inside. President Santos stood up as she entered and offered his hand.
“Miss Drake. Always a pleasure. How long has it been?”
“Not since the night you won the nomination, Mr President.”
Melanie noted how attractive he’d become in office. He’d lost weight and gained authority. He looked sort of...Presidential.
The President smiled.
“You were the only journalist that night who thought I had any chance of winning. Or that maybe I deserved to. It took guts to say that when everybody else was rooting for the opposition. That’s something I’ll never forget, Miss Drake. You’ll always be welcome at the Santos White House.”
“Thank you, Mr President.”
Melanie opened her briefcase, took out her pad and a ballpoint pen. At the top of the sheet she wrote the time, the date and the location. The conversation would be taped but Melanie would note down her impressions; the way the President emphasised a given phrase, the time he took to formulate an answer.
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