By Order of the President
Page 34
“Bring it in here, Wes, and put it on speakerphone.”
Sergeant Major Suggins came into the office carrying the secure telephone, and its thick connecting cable, and placed the instrument on a table between Naylor, Potter, and McFadden. Then he pushed the SPEAKERPHONE button.
Why do I know telling him to do that was a mistake?
The answer came immediately.
“Good evening, sir,” the voice of the commanding general of XVIII Airborne Corps, Lieutenant General Bruce J. McNab, boomed over the speaker. “My delay in getting to the telephone was caused by an irresistible summons of nature. My apologies, sir.”
“Thank you for sharing that with me, General,” Naylor said, his annoyance audible in his voice.
“You’re most welcome, sir,” McNab said, brightly.
“Goddammit, Scotty, do you always have to be such a wiseass?” Naylor flared.
Naylor was immediately sorry and embarrassed.
“If the general has in any way offended the general, sir,” McNab said, sounding very much like a West Point plebe answering the wrath of an upperclassman, “the general is sorry. Sir.”
When Naylor glanced at the others, Sergeant Major Suggins was studying the ceiling, General McFadden the floor, and General Potter his wristwatch.
Sonofabitch!
“Scotty, do you know where Abéché, Chad, is?” Naylor asked.
“One moment, sir,” McNab said.
Everyone heard what sounded like fingers snapping. Ten seconds later, General McNab went on.
“Sir, Abéché, Chad, is in a remote section of the country. The coordinates are 13.50.49 north latitude . . .”
“I know where it is, Scotty,” Naylor interrupted. “The question was, ‘Do you know?’ A simple ‘Yes, sir’ would have sufficed.”
“Yes, sir.”
“There is a possibility that the 727 stolen from Luanda, Angola, is, or was, there.”
“There’s a 9,200-foot runway, more than enough for a 727. What’s your source?”
Naylor did not answer the question. Instead, he asked, “How soon could you get someone in there to find out for sure, Scotty?”
“Sir, black or out in the open?”
“Under the circumstances, General, I don’t believe we’ll have time to enter into any diplomatic negotiations with anyone, ” Naylor said.
Everyone heard, faintly but clearly, General McNab issue an order. “Tommy, sound boots and saddles for Gray Fox.”
Then, more clearly, they heard General McNab say, “I understand, sir. Sir, how much support may I expect?”
“What do you need, Scotty?”
“I’d like something available to back up the C-22.”
C-22 is the USAF designation for the Boeing 727-100. Ostensibly, all of them are assigned to the Air National Guard. One, however—with a number of modifications—is kept in a closely guarded hangar at Pope Air Force Base, which adjoins Fort Bragg.
“You intend to fly into Abéché?” Naylor blurted.
“No, sir. What I have in mind is Royal Air Maroc flying over Abéché at 35,000 feet,” McNab said, his tone suggesting he was talking to a backward child. “Royal Air Maroc, you know, has permission to overfly all those unfriendly countries between Morocco and Saudi Arabia.”
What he did not say, but which everyone at the table understood, was that McNab intended to parachute people from his 727 onto the Abéché airfield.
“You think that’ll do it, Scotty?”
“Yes, sir. That’ll do it. What am I supposed to do with the airplane if it’s there?”
“Right now, just find out if it’s there or if it was there.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Will communications be a problem?”
“No, sir.”
“I mean to communicate between there and here?”
“We’ll have communications between here and there; linking to you is not a problem.”
“Why do you want backup for your airplane?”
“I’d sort of like to get my people back, sir. And the communications equipment. Some of that stuff costs a lot of money.”
“How quietly can you do this, Scotty?”
“I doubt if anyone will even suspect we’re there, sir. Unless, of course, the airplane is there and you tell me to take it out. A blown-up airplane would tend to make people suspect that something was not going quite the way they wanted it to.”
“Worst-case scenario, Scotty. Something goes wrong and they find out you’re there?”
"That’s why I want a little backup. A C-17 would be nice.”
The Boeing C-17 Globemaster III was a cargo aircraft, capable of using unimproved landing fields. Its four 40,400-thrust -pound engines could drive it at three-quarters the speed of sound to a service ceiling of 45,000 feet with nearly 160,000 pounds of cargo. With in-air refueling, it was capable of flying anywhere on the globe.
Naylor looked at McFadden, who nodded, meaning there was a C-17 immediately available.
And probably more than one; McFadden’s nod had been immediate.
“How do you plan to use it?”
“I’m an optimist. They don’t find out we’re there. Abéché is not what you can call a bustling airport. Tommy just handed me a data sheet saying there’s a once-a-week flight from N’Djamena and that’s irregular. I’m going to put maybe four or five people on the ground. They find out about the 727. I am not ordered to take it out. They hide out somewhere near the end of the runway. The C-17—en route somewhere; I haven’t figured that out yet—makes a discretionary landing at Abéché. It goes to the end of the runway, opens the door, my guys jump in, and the C-17 takes off. More or less the same scenario if I’m ordered to blow the 727, except that my guys hide out in the boonies near the nearest flat area a C-17 can use. Worst scenario, my guys are on the run from indignant Chad authorities. I’ll have some heavy firepower on the C-17 and twenty people. They jump onto the flat area and hold it long enough for the C-17 to touch down and get everybody on board.”
“I don’t want you to start World War III, Scotty,” Naylor thought aloud.
“Funny, I thought we were already fighting World War III,” McNab replied.
“I think you take my point, General,” Naylor said, coldly.
“I take your point, sir.”
“Where do you want the C-17?” Naylor asked.
“Here, as soon as I can have it. It can follow us to Menara.”
“Menara?” General McFadden asked.
“Menara, Morocco,” McNab replied. “Who was that?”
“General McFadden,” Naylor said.
“Good evening, sir,” McNab said.
“Good evening, General McNab,” McFadden said. “Have you considered a Pave Low?”
“Yes, sir. Time- and distance-wise, it wouldn’t work here.”
“How are you, Scotty?” Potter said.
“I recognize that unpleasant nasal voice. How are you, George? More important, how many other people are eavesdropping on this fascinating conversation?”
“That’s it, Scotty,” Naylor replied. “Generals McFadden and Potter, Wes Suggins, and me.”
“Good. I’m a devout believer in the theory that the more people who know a secret, the sooner the secret is compromised. ”
“On that subject, General,” Naylor said, “the CIA is not privy to this operation and are not to be made privy to it.”
“Jesus, I must have done something right! Thank you for sharing that with me, General.”
General Naylor glanced at Command Sergeant Major Suggins and Lieutenant General Potter, both of whom were trying and failing to suppress smiles.
“How soon can you get started on this, Scotty?” Naylor asked.
“We shoot for wheels up in sixty minutes and generally shave a chunk off that.”
“Okay,” Naylor said. “Get the operation going, General McNab.”
“Yes, sir.”
[TWO]
Royal Air Force Base Menara, Mor
occo 0930 9 June 2005
Among other modifications made to USAF C-22 tail number 6404 was provision for removable fuel bladders. When installed, they gave the aircraft transoceanic range. When 6404 landed—after a six-hour ten-minute flight from Pope Air Force Base—at Menara, which is 120 miles south of Casablanca, it had 2.4 hours of fuel remaining in its main tanks.
Enough, for example, so that it could have diverted to any number of U.S. airbases in Europe, from Spain to Germany, had that been necessary. Diversion was not necessary. At 0805 local time—an hour off the Moroccan coast—the Casablanca control operator cleared U.S. Air Force 6404 to make a refueling stop at Menara.
It touched down smoothly at 0925 and, five minutes later, it had been tugged into a hangar, whereupon the hangar doors had closed.
Royal Moroccan Air Force technicians quickly plugged in power and air-conditioning ducts. The rear door of the aircraft —under the tail—extended from the fuselage, and two men came quickly down the stairs, both wearing khaki pants and white T-shirts.
A slight man in a light brown flight suit stood at the foot of the stairs. A leather patch on the chest of the flight suit identified him as a colonel—and pilot—of the Royal Moroccan Air Force. Behind him stood another pilot colonel in a flight suit. He was older, much stockier, and had a thick, British-style mustache.
Both Moroccan officers saluted and both Americans returned them.
“Good morning, General,” the slight man said in only faintly accented English.
“Good morning, Your Royal Highness,” Lieutenant General Bruce J. McNab, USA, replied as he returned the salute. “I am deeply honored that Your Royal Highness has found time in his busy schedule for me.”
“I always have time for you, General,” the colonel said. “And not only because I’m fond of you.”
“Let me guess,” McNab said, “a member of your family has questions.”
“ ‘I need a favor’ covers a lot of ground, General, even between friends.”
“You remember Colonel Thomas, don’t you, Your Royal Highness?”
“Of course,” the colonel said. “It’s good to see you again, Tommy.”
“Always a pleasure, sir,” Lieutenant Colonel H. Alexander Thomas said.
“And how are you, Colonel?” McNab asked.
“Very well, General,” the man with the mustache said.
The slim man made a gesture with his hand and McNab followed him until they stood beside the landing gear.
“An American 727 was stolen a couple of weeks ago from Luanda,” McNab said.
“I saw that.”
“There is some reason to believe it’s either on the ground, or was, at Abéché, Chad. I’m supposed to find out if that’s so.”
“And retake it? Or destroy it?”
“My orders right now are just to see if it is, or was, there,” McNab said.
“Orders subject to change, of course.”
“I don’t think they will be. If retaking it was on the agenda, I would have been told, I think, to send a crew with my people. If they wanted to take it out, sending in an unmanned aerial vehicle would be a lot cheaper and less risky than this.” He pointed to the C-22.
The slim man didn’t say anything for a long, thoughtful moment.
“That’s it, General?”
“That’s all I have, Your Royal Highness.”
“And the basic plan?”
“Drop five people on Abéché. From a Royal Air Maroc transport overflying Chad en route to Jiddah. Have them find out what they can.”
“How are you going to get them out?”
"A C-17’s about two hours behind me. I’m going to use that.”
“So all you want to do is fly to Jiddah?”
“And back here.”
Again, the slim man thought over what he had heard.
“Is that somehow disturbing to you?” McNab asked.
“Why was the airplane stolen? Do you know, can you tell me?”
“I can tell you that we think it was stolen by a Somalian group who call themselves the ‘Holy Legion of Muhammad. ’ ”
“Never heard of them,” the slender man said. “Somalian? ”
“Neither had we, Your Royal Highness,” McNab said. “There are two possible scenarios, neither with much to support them. The first is that they intend to crash it into the ka’ba in Mecca . . .”
“That’s absurd!”
“It sounds absurd, Your Royal Highness, but, on the other hand, the airplane—if it is in Abéché—is within range of Mecca.”
“The Holy Legion of Muhammad?” the slim man repeated and then raised his voice and called, “Satu!”
The bearded colonel walked quickly to them.
“Your Highness?”
“One moment,” the slim man said. “And the other scenario, General?”
“That they intend to crash it into the Liberty Bell in Philadelphia,” McNab said.
“I don’t know what that means.”
“In Philadelphia, where our Founding Fathers signed our Declaration of Independence, is Constitution Hall . . .”
“I know about Constitution Hall,” the slim man said. “I’ve actually been there, as a matter of fact. But what’s that got to do with a bell?”
“Immediately adjacent to it, Your Royal Highness, is the Liberty Bell. It has a certain emotional, historical significance to Americans. Much like Constitution Hall itself.”
“I wonder why the Holy Legion of Muhammad would be interested,” the slim man said. “For that matter, I wonder how they even heard of it. What do we know about these people, Satu?”
“What people, Your Highness?”
“The Holy Legion of Muhammad,” the slim man said, impatiently. “They’re Somalis.”
“I never heard of them, Your Highness.”
“To answer your question, General,” the slim man said, “yes, I find this disturbing. I will have to ask a certain member of my family how to proceed. But in the meantime, I think you should ask Tommy to begin the chameleon process. ”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You and I will go to the officers’ mess for breakfast,” the slim man said. “Colonel Ben-Satu will stay here long enough to ensure that Tommy has whatever he needs. Then he finds out what he can about the Holy Legion of Muhammad and brings that information to the mess.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“Tommy!” the slim man raised his voice.
“Coming, sir!” Lieutenant Colonel Thomas said as he started at a trot toward them.
“Yes, sir?”
“How many men do you have with you?”
“Counting the Air Force, Your Highness . . .”
“Yes, by all means, let’s count the Air Force,” the slim man said.
“Fifteen, sir. That includes the general and me.”
“Good. Let’s count you two as well,” the slim man said. “I will have the mess send breakfast for thirteen here. When you believe your chameleon operation is sufficiently under way, you might wish to join General McNab and me at the mess. I’ll leave a car for you.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“Tommy, please make sure that none of your men leave the hangar for any purpose.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Colonel Ben-Satu will ensure that you have whatever you need.”
“Thank you, Your Highness.”
“Shall we go, Scotty?” the slim man said.
There were three identical black Mercedes 320L sedans outside the hangar. One of them took the slim man and McNab to the officers’ mess, a long, sand-colored building near the flight line.
The twenty-odd officers in the dining room rose as one man when someone spotted the slim man, who immediately waved them back into their chairs.
He led McNab to a table in the corner of the room.
“Order fried eggs, potatoes, toast, and coffee for me, please,” the slim man said. “I have a couple of calls to make.”
Then he walked ou
t of the room.
Ten minutes later, he came back into the dining room. All of the officers—now including McNab and Thomas—rose to their feet and were immediately waved back into them by the slim man.
“That was quick, Tommy,” the slim man said as he sat down.
“They don’t need me to help with the plane, sir,” Thomas said. “I’m just in the way.”
A waiter delivered three plates of fried eggs, potatoes, and toast.
“That fellow we were talking about earlier, Scotty?” the slim man said.
“Yes, sir?”
“He doesn’t believe either of your scenarios, either, but he thinks that looking into it is a very good idea.”
“Thank you, Your Royal Highness.”
“And, of course, he is pleased to be of some small service to an old friend,” the slim man said. “He asked me tell you that.”
“I’m honored that he thinks of me as an old friend,” McNab said.
“I’m sure he does, but I believe he was talking of our countries,” the slim man said. “Did you know, Tommy, that Morocco was the first nation to recognize the U.S.? Even before it was the U.S. In 1777?”
“No, Your Highness. I didn’t know that,” Lieutenant Colonel Thomas confessed.
“My own history is a little fuzzy. But I think your seat of government was then in Philadelphia.”
“I believe it was,” McNab said.
“And was this bell—the ‘Liberty Bell,’ you said? Was that in Philadelphia at the time? And, if so, what is the connection? ”
“Your Highness, I am more than a little ashamed to say I have no idea,” General McNab confessed. “It probably was but I just don’t know.”
The slim man waved a finger at General McNab.
“That is terrible,” he said.
[THREE]
Royal Air Force Base Menara, Morocco 1220 9 June 2005
A red-and-yellow tug pulled what three hours earlier had been U.S. Air Force C-22 tail number 6404 from the hangar.
What the slim man had called “the chameleon process” had been completed twenty minutes before.
Plastic decalcomania had been applied to the fuselage with just enough adhesive to hold them in place for a short time. There were now green and red stripes running from the nose to the tail down both sides of the 727’s fuselage. The words ROYAL AIR MAROC now appeared from just aft of the flight compartment windows rearward. There was now a red shooting star on both sides of the vertical stabilizer. Beneath it, in the largest letters of all, were the initials R A M in red.