By Order of the President

by W. E. B Griffin

  On his part, General Withers regarded Secretary Beiderman as someone who suffered from a severe superiority complex and who had proven again and again that he could be a ruthless sonofabitch. But, on the other hand, Withers had learned that Beiderman said what he was thinking, never said anything he didn’t mean, and whose word was as good as gold—all attributes General Withers had seldom found in other civilian officials of government and certainly not in political appointees.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Secretary,” General Withers said.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Beiderman said, gesturing for everybody to sit down in the chairs arrayed in a semicircle before his desk.

  “Before we get into the briefing,” Beiderman began as he opened the cigar humidor on his desk and removed an eight-inch -long, very black Dominican Lonsdale, “personal curiosity. Did they ever find that 727 that was stolen?”

  Smoking was forbidden in the Pentagon. General Withers had heard a story—which he believed—that when someone had brought this to Beiderman’s attention, the secretary’s response was that so far as he was concerned the vice of smoking was henceforth to be considered within the Defense Department in the same light as carnal relations between members of the same sex; that is, “Don’t ask, don’t tell.”

  General Withers waited until Secretary Beiderman had gone through the ritual of cutting off the end of the cigar with a silver cutter and then had lit it with a gold butane lighter before replying.

  “Mr. Secretary, actually, that’s at the head of my list.”

  That caught Beiderman’s attention.

  “Uh-oh. What’s happening?”

  General Withers made a waving gesture with his left hand. The lieutenant and the lieutenant colonel immediately stood up and walked out of the office.

  “What the hell is going on, Withers?” Beiderman demanded. “Your people don’t have the need to know?”

  “This is a matter of some delicacy, Mr. Secretary,” General Withers said.

  “For Christ’s sake, out with it.”

  “I regret that I don’t have the complete picture, Mr. Secretary, ” General Withers said.

  “Jesus Christ! Let’s have what you do have!”

  “Mr. Secretary, are you aware of a Gray Fox operation currently in progress?”

  “No, I am not.”

  “I have information that there is such a Gray Fox operation. ”

  “Authorized by whom? To do what?”

  “I have information that the initial foreign shores destination was the Royal Moroccan Air Force Base at Menara.”

  “My questions were, ‘Who authorized it?’ and ‘To do what?’ ”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Did you ask?”

  “I have been unable to make contact with General McNab, Mr. Secretary. He’s the Eighteenth Airborne Corps . . .”

  “I know who he is. What about his deputy?”

  “His deputy referred me to Central Command, sir.”

  “And?”

  “General Naylor—I had some difficulty getting him on the phone, sir—finally told me that I didn’t have the need to know.”

  “He said there was an operation and you didn’t have the need to know? Or that you didn’t have the need to know about Gray Fox operations generally?”

  “General Naylor’s comments could be interpreted either way, sir.”

  Secretary Beiderman picked up one of the telephones on his desk and said, “Teresa, get Naylor on a secure line for me and don’t let them stall you.”

  General Withers unzipped a compartment of his briefcase and came out with a single sheet of paper.

  “And there’s this, Mr. Secretary.”

  Beiderman snatched it from him.

  “What the hell is this?” he asked. “A goddamned letter of commendation?”

  “Yes, sir. It was delivered first thing this morning by helicopter, sir.”

  “The president sent this to you by helicopter?” Beiderman asked, incredulously, and then without giving Withers a chance to reply went on: “Who the hell is Major H. Richard Miller, Jr.? And what the hell did he do of a ‘covert nature’ in Luanda, Angola? ‘Demonstrating wisdom normally expected only of officers of far senior grade and experience’? And how the hell did the president . . .”

  He broke off in midsentence when a light on his telephone began to flash. He snatched the telephone from its cradle.

  “Is that you, Naylor?—

  “I’ve got General Withers in here and he tells me when he asked you about a Gray Fox operation supposedly now under way you told him he didn’t have the need to know. Is that right?—

  “For Christ’s sake, he’s the commanding general of the Defense Intelligence Agency and he doesn’t have the goddamned need to know?—

  “More to the point, General, what is this Gray Fox operation? And how come this is the first I’ve heard of it?—

  “Those were your orders? Orders from who?—

  “The president personally? Or someone who said he was speaking for the president?—

  “And this was when?—

  “And the president specifically said I was not to be informed? —

  “No one was to be informed? And you assumed that included the secretary of defense?—

  “Those were your orders, huh? Jesus Christ, Naylor!” He slammed the handset into the cradle and then immediately picked it up again.

  “Teresa, see if you can get the president on the line,” he ordered and slammed the handset down again.

  He looked at Withers.

  “That airplane was stolen from Luanda, right? There’s a connection between that and this major?”

  “Apparently, sir.”

  “Which is?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “You don’t know?” Beiderman snapped. “This little chat is becoming surreal, General!”

  “Mr. Secretary, Major Miller was the assistant military attaché in Luanda when the aircraft was stolen. He was assigned to DIA, sir.”

  “So?”

  “He was also the CIA station chief there,” Withers said. “From which post he was relieved for cause by the DCI. When I was so informed, I relieved him of his attaché assignment and ordered him returned to Central Command.”

  “I thought you said he worked for you in DIA?”

  “It’s an administrative thing, sir.”

  “Relieved for cause? What cause?”

  Withers took another sheet of paper from his briefcase and read from it.

  “ ‘A security breach of the most serious nature; insubordination; exceeding his lawful authority; and conduct unbecoming an officer and gentleman.’ I don’t know the specific details, Mr. Secretary. That’s what I got from the DCI . . .”

  “The DCI himself? Or one of his ‘senior subordinates’?”

  “The message was signed by the DCI himself, sir.”

  “What the hell is the conduct unbecoming charge all about?”

  “I believe Major Miller behaved inappropriately toward his immediate superior in a social situation, sir.”

  “You mean he’s a fag?”

  “His immediate superior is a female, sir.”

  “And he was fucking her or just trying to fuck her? Which?”

  General Withers looked uncomfortably toward the office door. Beiderman followed his gaze. Mrs. Teresa Slater was standing in, a half smile on her face, one eyebrow raised.

  “Am I interrupting one of those man-to-man chats?” she asked.

  Beiderman smiled at her.

  “Answer the question, General,” he said.

  “I believe the latter, Mr. Secretary,” General Withers said.

  “The DCI is trying to hang this horny major of yours and the president sends him a letter of commendation— special delivery by helicopter—for ‘demonstrating wisdom normally expected only of officers of far senior grade and experience’? I’d love to know what the hell that’s all about.”

  “I had ordered an investigatio
n into Major Miller’s behavior, sir. Before I received the president’s letter, I . . .”

  “I think I’d hold off on that for a while, General,” Beiderman interrupted and then looked at Mrs. Salter. “Teresa?”

  “Dr. Cohen is on the line, boss,” she said. “When I insisted on speaking to the president, they switched me to her.”

  Beiderman snatched a telephone from its cradle.

  “Natalie,” he began abruptly, “what the hell is going on?”

  Secretary Beiderman was a great admirer of the national security advisor and he thought the feeling was at least partially reciprocated.

  “The president’s not available at the moment,” Dr. Cohen said.

  “That brings us right back to question one,” Beiderman said.

  “Will this wait until, say, six, seven tonight?”

  “Never answer a question with a question. Didn’t your mother teach you that’s not nice?”

  “My mother never thought I would have a job like this.”

  “You don’t happen to know of a Gray Fox operation that’s currently running, do you?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “That’s funny. I thought the Memo of Understanding said that both you and I would always be advised of a Gray Fox operation.”

  “Are you sure there is one?”

  “According to General Withers there is. Are you stalling me, Natalie? In the public interest?”

  “No,” she said, simply, and he immediately decided she was telling him the truth.

  “Where’s the president?”

  There was a brief but perceptible pause before she answered.

  “He’s at Camp David with Matt Hall.”

  “What’s that all about?”

  “I can’t tell you. Or anyone else. I’m not even supposed to tell you where he is.”

  “Or whether Matt is in trouble?”

  “Or whether Matt is or is not in trouble. Will this wait until six or seven?”

  “No. It won’t.”

  “Your call, Fred. I’ll have the switchboard patch you through to Camp David.”

  “Thank you, no. But you might call out there and tell them I’m on my way out there.”

  “You can’t go to Camp David without permission, Fred.”

  “What are they going to do? Shoot down my helicopter? Unless there’s something else nobody’s telling me, I’m still the secretary of defense. Thanks, Natalie.”

  He put the handset in the cradle.

  “Call the helipad, Teresa, and then take General Wither’s briefing. If there’s anything important, call me on the chopper. ” He looked at General Withers. “Don’t tell me you didn’t even suspect that Teresa always listens to everything said in this office?”

  “Yes, sir,” General Withers said.

  Secretary Beiderman didn’t reply. He was already through his office door.

  [SIX]

  Camp David Catoctin Mountains, Maryland 1720 9 June 2005

  “Well, that’s interesting, Matt,” the president of the United States said, looking across the low table at Secretary of Homeland Security Hall. “The secretary of defense is on his way here.”

  “In connection with this?” Hall asked.

  The president nodded.

  “He tried to call me at the White House. Natalie’s taking calls like that. He asked her if she was familiar with a Gray Fox operation under way. She was not and said so. Whereupon Beiderman told her he had General Withers in his office and Withers said he knew there was one, with some connection to a Moroccan airfield.”

  “Oh, shit!”

  “Natalie and the secretary of defense are always supposed to be kept in the loop about a Gray Fox operation.”

  “And I didn’t tell either of them,” Hall said.

  “A simple oversight, Matt? Or on purpose?”

  “I just didn’t do it, Mr. President,” Hall said. “I suppose subconsciously I didn’t want Beiderman to . . . I don’t know. And I guess I didn’t tell Natalie—didn’t want to tell Natalie because I didn’t want to hear her clear arguments that running a Gray Fox was ill advised.”

  “The result of which is that I now have Natalie and Beiderman with severely ruffled feathers. Justifiably ruffled feathers, Matt, and I will have to atone for that.”

  “With all respect, sir, you’re wrong,” Hall said. He stood up. “Natalie and Beiderman know we’re old friends. They will understand why you brought me out here to explain why I have to go. They will have no reason to be angry with you. I screwed this up and I’ll take the rap.”

  The president met his eyes but didn’t say anything.

  “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. President, I’ll go find a typewriter and prepare my resignation. With your permission, sir, I think that it would be best if I’m gone by the time Secretary Beiderman gets here.”

  After a long moment, the president said, softly, “I’m really sorry, old pal.”

  “Not half as sorry as I am, Mr. President,” Hall said.

  He was halfway across the room when the light on the telephone flashed.

  The president picked it up and said, “Hello?—

  “Who is this? Who’s calling?—

  “This is the president, General Naylor. I picked up Secretary Hall’s line. He’s not here at the moment. May I give him a message?”

  Hall stopped and asked with his eyes if he should, or perhaps could, stay.

  The president signaled him to come back and sit down.

  “Well, let’s have it, please, General Naylor.”

  Thirty seconds later, the president said, “General, you probably won’t understand this but this is one of those times when bad news is also good news. Please relay my deepest appreciation and admiration to General McNab and all his men—

  “Oh, here’s Secretary Hall, General. Perhaps you’d like to tell him what you just told me?”

  He handed the telephone to Hall.

  In the phone booth in Tampa, General Naylor faintly heard the president of the United States say, “Jesus Christ, Matt, talk about getting saved by the fucking bell!”

  XIII

  [ONE]

  Camp David Catoctin Mountains, Maryland 1730 9 June 2005

  There was a discreet knock at the door of the president’s living room and then the door was slowly swung open. The president, who was sitting slumped back in a pillow-upholstered armchair across a low table from Secretary of Homeland Security Hall—who was talking on the telephone —waved Secretary of Defense Frederick K. Beiderman into the room and then onto a couch facing the table.

  The president raised an index finger in a signal that could mean “Wait” or “Quiet while Hall’s on the phone.”

  Beiderman sat down, more than a little tensely, on the edge of the couch.

  The president gestured toward the steward and asked with a raised eyebrow if Beiderman wanted anything. Beiderman shook his head. The president signaled to the steward that he should refill his and Hall’s glasses.

  Beiderman looked between the president and Hall. The president touched his ear, which Beiderman understood to mean that he was supposed to listen to Hall’s end of the conversation.

  He didn’t hear much.

  “The secretary of defense just came in,” Hall was saying. “I’ll have to get back to you, Charley.”

  He looked at Beiderman as he replaced the handset in its cradle.

  The president smiled at Beiderman.

  “What an unexpected pleasure, Mr. Secretary,” he said. “Actually, Matt and I were just talking about you.”

  Secretary Beiderman was visibly not amused.

  “All your righteous indignation should be directed at me,” the president said. “Everything that’s been done—or should have been done and wasn’t—was at my orders.”

  Beiderman didn’t say anything.

  “No comment?” the president asked.

  “Mr. President, are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

  “Two things of importance
,” the president said. “The first, and this comes from a source that so far has been right on the money, is that a group of Somalian terrorists stole the 727 in Angola to crash it into the Liberty Bell. The plane made a stop in Abéché, Chad, to change its markings and install fuel bladders and now—right now—is apparently en route from there to someplace unknown on its way to Philadelphia.”

  “May I ask why I have not been informed, Mr. President? ” Beiderman asked, coldly.

  “The second thing,” the president went on, ignoring the question, “is that the police commissioner of Philadelphia— who had to be told of the possibility—intends to inform the mayor of Philadelphia at four-fifteen tomorrow afternoon. The ramifications of that are obvious: It will be received by the public with a yawn as just another elevation of the terror threat color code—or with mass hysteria. Matt and I have been waiting for you so that we can set up a conference call between here and Natalie Cohen, so that we may chew the situation over between us and decide what we should do.”

  “How reliable is your source?” Beiderman said. “The Liberty Bell? Jesus Christ, why the Liberty Bell?”

  “That’s everyone’s reaction, frankly. We really don’t know why it’s a target. Matt was just on the telephone with Major Castillo, who is in Philadelphia, and who hopes to have an answer to that later tonight.”

  “Who the hell is Major Castillo?” Beiderman blurted.

  “The man I charged with finding out who among the intelligence community knew what about the missing airplane and when they knew it,” the president said. “He’s Matt’s executive assistant.”

  “I don’t understand, Mr. President.”

  “I know, and it’s my fault you don’t,” the president said. “I’m sure you may have a question or two . . .”

  He chuckled.

  “Am I missing something?” Beiderman snapped. “Is there something funny here that I’m missing?”

  “It’s not funny at all,” the president said. “Levity, flippancy, is often the outward reaction of people who are terri fied.” He paused. “And I am, Fred.”

  Beiderman looked at him intently for a moment.

  “How reliable is your source, Mr. President? That someone intends to crash that airplane into the Liberty Bell?”