By Order of the President

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I don’t want to hear one more goddamned word about a how-many-casualties pool. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” Generals Naylor and Young said, almost in unison.

  General Schwarzkopf momentarily locked eyes with each of them and walked out of the office.

  “So what do we do with this young officer?” General Young asked.

  “You’re the personnel officer, Oz. You tell me.”

  “Okay. There aren’t many options. Or at least good ones,” General Young said. “If he got out of West Point six months ago, and is an Apache pilot, we can presume two things: one, that he can fly helicopters . . .”

  “If my memory serves, it takes longer than six months to get qualified in an Apache, after you’ve got X many hundred hours and X many years flying Hueys.”

  “I think you’re right. Can I go on?”

  “Sorry.”

  “We can presume he can fly helicopters—the Huey, at least, since you have doubts that he should be flying the Apache—and is qualified in no other useful skill, like being an Infantry or Armor platoon leader.”

  “Okay.”

  “And if he stays in Aviation, and all those terrible things you think Aviation brass is doing to him are true—and I think you’re probably right—and is an Apache pilot, they will continue to put him in an Apache cockpit . . .”

  “Where he will get killed, and probably get a lot of people with him killed,” Naylor interrupted.

  “Allan, by now you should have vented your temper,” General Young said. “The problem is a given. Now, let’s find a solution.”

  “Sorry, Oz.”

  “Schwarzkopf has given you a blank check. At one end of that range of options is a message saying this young man is grounded, by order of H. Normal himself.”

  This time when Naylor heard “H. Normal” it didn’t seem at all funny.

  “I don’t think we want to do that,” General Young went on, “for a number of reasons that should be self-evident. So what’s left? We have to get him out of Aviation, but where can we send him? I have a suggestion which I sort of thought you would think of first. You set it up.”

  “What did I set up?”

  “The 2303rd Civil Government Detachment,” Young said, “commanded by Colonel Bruce J. McNab. A classmate of ours. Who we can talk to. You, or me, or both of us.”

  “And I told you when I set it up that I didn’t like it; that what it was was Green Beanie McNab playing James Bond. General Schwarzkopf was told to do it by Colin Powell personally, and he told me to do it and not to ask any more questions than I had to. But we both know that whatever Scotty McNab’s involved with, it doesn’t have very much to do with civil government.”

  “We don’t think it has much to do with civil government, ” Young said. “Unless you know something I don’t?”

  Naylor shook his head, and then asked, “What would Castillo do there?”

  “There’s six, maybe eight Hueys on McNab’s TO&E,” Young said, referencing the Table of Organization & Equipment. “He could fly one of those.”

  “For all I know, Scotty is planning to fly into Baghdad in one or more of those Hueys and try to kidnap, or assassinate, Saddam Hussein.”

  “I frankly wouldn’t be surprised. But, to repeat, you or me, or both of us, could have a word with him, and make sure he understands this young officer is not to be put in harm’s way for the benefit of Army Aviation public relations. ”

  “If McNab’s doing something covert . . .” Naylor said, thoughtfully. “I said that about Hussein to be clever, but, now that I think about it, I’m not so sure it’s that far off the mark—he’s certainly got some cover operation up and running to hide it. A perfectly legitimate military operation, possibly even having something to do with civil governments. ”

  “Probably,” Young agreed.

  “From which he can detach whatever number of people he needs to conduct whatever, almost certainly illegal, operation he wants to do without attracting much attention.”

  Young nodded in agreement.

  “Oz, how about you transferring Castillo to the 2303rd Civil Government Detachment and I will get on the horn to Colonel Scotty McNab and tell him that whatever he does with Castillo is not to be even remotely connected with what he is doing covertly?”

  “Done,” Young said. “But I think I’d better talk to Scotty, not you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it takes you out of the loop,” Young said. “Over the years, Allan, you’ve spoken to me of Lieutenant Castillo. Often.”

  “Have I?”

  “Yeah. And I got the feeling you’re really fond of him.”

  “Guilty.”

  “This way, I received the impact recommendation and wondered how this young officer could be flying an Apache six months out of West Point, drew the same conclusions you did, went to H. Normal, got his permission to fix it, and am doing so.”

  “I owe you a big one, Oz,” Naylor said.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll get it back,” General Young said.

  [EIGHT]

  Office of the Assistant Chief of Staff, J-3 United States Central Command Ministry of Defense and Aviation Air Force Base Riyadh, Saudi Arabia 1530 1 March 1991

  “Sir,” Master Sergeant Jack Dunham said, a strange look on his face, “there’s an officer out there . . .”—he gestured toward the closed door—“. . . who said, and I quote, sir, ‘Be a good fellow, Sergeant, present the compliments of Colonel Bruce J. McNab to the general and ask the general if I might have a few moments of his valuable time.’ ”

  Major General Allan Naylor replied, “Why do I have the feeling, Jack, that you think Colonel McNab could not melt inconspicuously into a group of, say, a dozen other colonels? ”

  “I’ve got twenty-four years’ service, General, and I never saw . . .”

  Naylor chuckled and smiled.

  “My compliments to Colonel McNab, Sergeant, and inform him that I would be delighted to see him at his convenience. ”

  “Yes, sir,” Dunham said, then went to the door and opened it and said, “General Naylor will see you, Colonel.”

  “Good show!” a voice boomed in an English accent, and through the door came a small, muscular, ruddy-faced man sporting a flowing red mustache. He was wearing aviator sunglasses. His chest, thickly coated with red hair, was visible through a mostly unbuttoned khaki jacket, the sleeves of which were rolled up. General Naylor was sure the khaki “African Hunter’s Safari Jacket” had not passed through the U.S. Army Quartermaster Corps, and neither had Colonel McNab’s khaki shorts, knee-length brown stockings, or hunting boots.

  On McNab’s head was an Arabian headdress, circled with two gold cords, which Naylor had recently learned indicated the wearer was an Arabian nobleman. The white cape of whatever the headdress was called hung to McNab’s shoulders. In the center of it, barely visible between the two gold cords, was the silver eagle of a colonel. An Uzi 9mm submachine gun hung from leather straps around his neck. A spare magazine for the Uzi protruded from an upper pocket of the shooting jacket and the outlines of fragmentation grenades bulged both lower pockets.

  He saluted.

  “Thank you ever so much, General, for granting me your valuable time.”

  Naylor returned the salute.

  “Close the door, please, Colonel,” Naylor said.

  “Yes, of course, sir. Forgive me,” Colonel McNab said and went and closed the door. Then he turned and smiled at Naylor. “I was hoping that you would not be overwhelmed to see me. But for old times’ sake, you may kiss me. Chastely, of course.”

  Despite himself, Naylor laughed and smiled.

  “It’s good to see you, Scotty,” he said and came around his desk and offered his hand. McNab wrapped his arms around him in a bear hug.

  “How the hell did you get into the building dressed like that?”

  “Easily. For one, I was on the list of those summoned to the Schwarzkopf throne room.
For another—perhaps as important —to whom do you think Stormin’ Normal’s bodyguards owe their primary allegiance?”

  “I wondered where they came from,” Naylor admitted.

  “Nurtured to greatness by my own capable hands. You’ve noticed, I’m sure, that he’s still walking around? Despite the many people—most of them on his staff—who would love to kill him?”

  “What did General Schwarzkopf want? Did someone tell him about your uniform? Using the term loosely.”

  “To answer that, I have to overcome my well-known modesty,” McNab said. “I got another medal, and General Schwarzkopf wanted to tell me himself that, terribly belatedly, the powers that be have recognized my potential and sent it to that collection of clowns on Capitol Hill known as the Senate, seeking their acquiescence in my becoming a brigadier general.”

  “It’s overdue, Scotty,” Naylor said.

  “There are those, Allan my boy, who are going to beat their breasts and gnash their teeth while shrieking ‘the injustice of it all.’ Infidels are not supposed to get into heaven.”

  Naylor thought: He’s right. A whole hell of a lot of colonels who have spent their careers getting their tickets punched and never making waves are going to shit a brick when they hear Scotty McNab got his star.

  “When you pin the star on,” Naylor said, “you’ll find that it’s anything but heaven.”

  “I told Powell I would just as soon stay where I was, thank you just the same. He talked me into it, saying it was the price I had to pay for being right again.”

  He means that. I am in the presence of the only colonel in the U.S. Army who would tell the chairman of the Joint Chiefs he didn’t want to be a general.

  “Right about what?”

  “Who do you think won this war, Freddy Franks and his tanks? Chuck Horner and his airplanes?”

  “I think they had a lot to do with it.”

  “I am a profound admirer of Generals Franks and Horner and you know it, but Special Ops won this war. We took out the Iraqi radar and communications. The only airplanes— with a couple of exceptions—Chuck Horner lost were due to pilot error or aircraft failure and he admits it. The greatest loss of life was caused by that one Scud we didn’t take out and that hit the barracks in Saudi Arabia. By the time Freddy drove across the berms, the Iraqis had no communications worth mentioning and thus no command and control.”

  “The one Scud you didn’t take out?”

  “Or render inoperable. Or bring back with us. I understand the Air Force was really disappointed to learn how primitive those things are.”

  “What decoration did you get?”

  McNab reached in his jacket pocket, rooted down beside the Uzi magazine, came out with a Distinguished Service Medal, and dangled it back and forth for a moment.

  I can’t imagine Schwarzkopf pinning the DSM on that khaki jacket, but obviously that’s exactly what just happened.

  “I gather the presentation ceremony was rather informal,” Naylor said. Then he asked, “You do have some reason for being dressed like that?”

  “Aside from I like it, you mean?”

  Naylor nodded. “You want some coffee, Scotty?”

  “I’ve got a footlocker full of booze on my dune buggy outside,” McNab said. “Formerly the property of the U.S. embassy in Kuwait City. I thought you might like a drink.”

  “Against the rules.”

  “You haven’t changed, have you?”

  “If I drink, other people will want to and think they can.”

  “They don’t have to know. You don’t have to stand in your door and shout, ‘Hey, everybody. Fuck the Arabs, I’m going to have a snort.’ ”

  “And you haven’t changed, either, I see,” Naylor said.

  “You wouldn’t love me, Allan, if I did,” McNab said.

  “I wouldn’t love you no matter what you did,” Naylor said.

  “You just want to see me cry,” McNab said.

  “Now, that’s a thought,” Naylor said.

  McNab smiled at him.

  “You know where you’re going when you get the star?” Naylor asked.

  “Bragg. Deputy commander, or some such, of the Special Warfare Center. What I’m going to be doing is writing up what we did right in this war so we can do it right when we have to do it again.”

  “You think we’re going to have to do it again?”

  “Yeah, of course we are. MacArthur was right when he said, ‘There is no substitute for victory,’ and so was whoever said, ‘Those who don’t read history are doomed to repeat it.’ ”

  “I guess what the president was worried about was a lengthy occupation with a hell of a lot of guerrilla warfare,” Naylor said.

  “Freddy Franks told me (a) he could have had his tanks in Baghdad in probably less than forty-eight hours and (b) he was really worried about a lengthy occupation with a hell of a lot of guerrilla warfare. I had the feeling he was more than a little relieved he didn’t have to make the decision.”

  “You really think we’re going to have to do this again?”

  “The only question is when,” McNab said. “Next year. Two years from now. A decade. But we’ll be here again. Saddam Hussein is a devout student of Stalin’s Keep the People In Line techniques. A real sonofabitch. We’re going to have to take him out sooner or later. Christ knows that if I could have found the sonofabitch, I would have taken him out myself. ”

  “I hope you’re wrong,” Naylor said.

  “The cross resting so heavily on my manly shoulders for all these years has been that I rarely am wrong,” McNab said.

  “Jesus Christ, you’re impossible!” Naylor said, laughing.

  “ ‘It is difficult to be modest when you’re great,’ ” McNab said. “Frank Lloyd Wright said that.”

  “I’ll try to remember,” Naylor said. “Is there something I can do for you, Scotty? Or is this just a visit?”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” McNab said. “First, I want to thank you for sending me Second Lieutenant Castillo. Which I just did. He almost restored my respect for Hudson High.”

  “Let me have that again?”

  “You haven’t heard my speech? ‘What’s Wrong with West Point’?”

  “I got a copy of Donn Starry’s speech. The one he gave to the Association of Graduates? The one that began, ‘I have many memories of my four years as an inmate of this institution, none of them favorable’?”

  “Ah, yes. But General Starry has always hated to say anything that might in any way offend anyone. Mine wasn’t so polite.”

  “I can’t imagine you being anything but polite, Scotty. But that’s not what I was asking. You ‘just heard’ that I sent you Castillo?”

  “I went to Oz Young and said, mustering up my best manners, ‘Thank you for sending me Castillo. And now I want to keep him.’ Whereupon Oz said, ‘I can’t do it. See Allan Naylor. He’s the one who sent you Castillo.’ ”

  “Oz said that, did he?”

  “He led me to believe that you are that splendid young officer’s mentor, or sort of a de facto loving stepfather, or both.”

  “I’ve known him since he was twelve,” Naylor said, “at which age he became an orphan. I’ve sort of kept my eye on him.”

  “He let me know, just now, that he has the pleasure of your acquaintance—just that, not that you have a personal thing going. He said if there was time, he would like to pay his respects.”

  “He’s here?”

  “At the moment, he’s my pilot. I don’t trust just anyone to haul my dune buggy around.”

  “You brought your dune buggy here? Slung under a helicopter? ”

  “Lieutenant Castillo at this very moment is seeing that it is loaded aboard the C-5 that will carry me to the Land of the Big PX later today.”

  “You’re taking your dune buggy to the States with you?”

  “I told them it was going to the museum at Bragg.”

  “My God!” Naylor said, and then without thinking added, “I’d love t
o see him.”

  “I told him he had until 1600. I’m sure he’ll show up here to see you.” McNab paused. “I want to keep him, Allan.”

  “What for?”

  “For openers, my aide-de-camp,” McNab said. “While I’m writing up what we did right here, I’ll run him through Special Forces training.”

  “I thought you had to have five years of service to even apply for Special Forces training.”

  “That’s right,” McNab said. “And you need three years and I don’t know how many hundred hours of pilot time before you can apply for the Apache program. Oz told me about that, too.”

  “This will probably piss you off, Scotty, but I don’t like the idea of him being in Special Forces.”

  “Because like just about everybody else in the Army, you don’t like Special Forces? We don’t play by the rules? God only knows what those crazy bastards will do next?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Naylor said.

  “But that’s what you meant,” McNab said. “Allan, you’re just going to have to get used to the idea that Special Operations is where the Army is going. Can I say something that will piss you off?”

  “I’m surprised that you asked first. Shoot.”

  “You are, old buddy, behaving like the Cavalry types who told I. D. White that he was making a terrible mistake, pissing his assured career in Cavalry away when he left his horses at Fort Riley in 1941 and went to Fort Knox to play with tanks.”

  “Possibly,” Naylor said, aware that he was annoyed.

  “And like the paratroop types who said the same thing to Alan Burdette, Jack Tolson, and the others when they stopped jumping out of airplanes at Benning and Bragg and went to Camp Rucker in the early fifties to learn how to fly. That was supposed to have ended their chances to get a star.”

  “Okay.”

  “White wound up with four stars, Burdette and Tolson with three. They did not throw their careers away because they could see the future. I’m not asking this kid to do what I did ...”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When I took the Special Forces route, Bull Simon himself told me he wanted to be sure I understood that I would be lucky to make light bird in Special Forces and that my chances of getting a star were right up there with my chances of being taken bodily into heaven.”