by Dale Brown
“Excuse me, Mr. President, but is that going to be your official public position — that the U.S. won’t protect American interests in Turkmenistan or anywhere else in the world?” Secretary of State Kercheval asked incredulously. “With all due respect, sir — what kind of policy is that?”
“It’s a realistic one,” Thorn said. “It’s a responsible one. I’m not going to force any country to sell oil to the United States, and I’m not going to send American fighting men and women to protect a company’s right to make money overseas. If it’s too dangerous to be in the business of drilling and shipping oil in Turkmenistan, then perhaps we shouldn’t be over there doing it.”
“Sir, it’s dangerous only because terrorists or authoritarian governments are interfering,” Kercheval argued. “American companies spend billions of dollars developing business opportunities in countries like Turkmenistan — they expect and deserve a return on their investment, and they expect and deserve some protection from their government. It’s in the Constitution you so love to quote, Mr. President: ‘life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness… ‘ “
“That’s in the Declaration of Independence, Mr. Kercheval, not the Constitution,” Thorn corrected him.
“Whatever,” Kercheval said. Thorn blinked in surprise at the “whatever” thrown out so flippantly at him by his secretary of state — to Thorn, confusing the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution was a very big deal — but he did not interrupt. Kercheval knew that arguing the contents of American historical documents with Thomas Nathaniel Thorn was a losing battle. “The point, sir, is that the U.S. government has an obligation to protect its citizens and ensure stability and free enterprise.”
“We have had this discussion many times in the past, Edward,” the president said with a hint of exasperation. This surprised Robert Goff, the man who knew Thomas Thorn the best. Normally, Thorn was the most patient man he had ever known. He could debate any issue in any venue, day or night, and be assured of winning almost every point. Now, in a forum where discussion and consensus were most important, he seemed impatient and unwilling to talk. “As the commander in chief, I am not interested in sending U.S. troops overseas to force any leader or regime to do business with the United States. If Turkmenistan fails to live up to its obligations, TransCal should pull out—”
“ ‘Pull out’? Mr. President, TransCal has invested billions in building those oil and gas lines in Turkmenistan,” Kercheval argued. “They’d lose it all if the government there suddenly decides to renege—”
“Edward, let’s table this discussion for the time being,” the president said. “I’m ordering no action in Turkmenistan for now. If contracts between American companies and the Turkmen government are violated, I’ll have the attorney general’s office expedite handling of lawsuits and trade sanctions. Otherwise we do nothing. I would like position papers on this topic submitted to the vice president as soon as possible. End of discussion.”
“My objections are on the record, sir?” Kercheval asked.
“Yes. Next matter: Chinese intentions in the South China Sea. What do we have on this?”
The meeting lasted another hour, with the same pattern: the latest intelligence information, the usual lively, sometimes heated discussions, followed by a general policy statement from the president. Edward Kercheval grew quieter and quieter as the meeting went on.
And the president, vice president, and secretary of defense found out why, moments after everyone else had departed.
“Mr. President, I regret to inform you that I cannot any longer support your administration and your policies, and I intend to submit my resignation to you immediately,” Kercheval said formally, standing almost at attention in front of the president’s desk.
Busick and Goff wore completely stunned expressions. Finally Busick spluttered, “For Christ’s sake, Edward, what in hell do you want to do that for?”
“Edward, there’s no need to resign,” President Thorn said, holding up a hand to silence Busick. “I fully intend to do something to protect our interests in Central Asia — as soon as we reach a consensus about where our interests lie. For now my decision is to do nothing. I expect everyone to contribute to the discussion. Lester will put it all together for me, and I’ll make a decision. But I’m not going to act without careful deliberation.”
“Mr. President, I don’t expect you to act precipitously,” Kercheval said. “But I do expect you to issue some sort of statement declaring your support for American interests in Turkmenistan.”
“The president does support American interests, in Turkmenistan and everywhere in the world,” Robert Goff interjected. “Why issue such a statement just for Turkmenistan?”
“Goff’s right, Ed. There’s nothing going on in Turkmenistan yet,” Vice President Busick emphasized. “You heard Morgan — a few Taliban runnin’ around doesn’t mean all of TransCal’s investments go up in smoke. Relax, for Christ’s sake. Don’t get flustered here.”
Kercheval ignored them all. “Mr. President, I find I simply can’t support your foreign-policy decisions. It’s not just Turkmenistan; it’s your policy regarding our alliances, our treaty commitments, our military, and our overall guardianship of peace in the world. I was happy for the first few years to mouth your words in place of my own. I feel I can no longer do that.”
Thomas Thorn looked at Kercheval for a long moment, then nodded. “I understand, Edward,” he said.
“How do you wish me to depart, sir?”
“Nominate your replacement. Give us time to talk to him, check him out, and let him meet and greet the folks in Congress,” the president said. “Once we have a good solid core group of senators warming up to him, you can depart.”
“Yeah, you can tell the press you have some unexplained brain disorder,” Busick muttered.
“Mr. Busick—”
“It’s all right, Mr. President. I suppose I deserve that,” Kercheval said. He glared at Busick and added, “I expected nothing else.” Busick scowled at him but said nothing. “And I expected nothing less from you, sir. Even under adversity you are a gentleman. I intend to nominate Deputy Secretary of State Maureen Hershel as my replacement, and I will prepare a perfectly plausible and palatable explanation for my departure.” He shook hands with Thorn, nodded to Goff and Busick, and departed.
“Snake,” Busick said under his breath.
“Lester, have Miss Hershel come see me right away.” Busick nodded. He was familiar with her. Maureen Hershel was a career State Department official and an expert on many different facets of running the department, from administration to operations.
“What a damned prick,” Busick exclaimed as he picked up the telephone beside him.
“Those comments will cease immediately,” Thorn ordered. “Keep them to yourself. Edward Kercheval was a valuable and trusted member of this administration and is still a good friend and a great American. He follows his heart and his conscience, as we all do, but that doesn’t diminish his loyalty to his country or his service and dedication to this administration.”
“Mr. President, no one who takes an oath to serve the administration resigns except under extreme personal crisis,” Busick said as he waited to be put through to Hershel’s office. “In other words, he had better be on his deathbed or a convicted ax murderer if he wants to bail before the end of a term. He serves at the pleasure of the president, not at his own personal pleasure. He resigns only to save the administration the embarrassment of kicking him out or prosecuting him. Edward is an experienced Washington player — he knows what he’s doing. This will look bad for him, but it will look very, very bad for us.”
“Hershel is a good choice,” Goff said. “Former FBI, very good credentials, good background, lots of international experience.”
“She’s a babe, I know that,” Busick remarked. Goff nodded agreement, even though he knew that the president would not approve of such locker-room talk. “Well, at least Kercheval did something right. But Jesus
— a year before the election, and Kercheval punches out. The only thing that’s going to save our political butts now is if he develops a brain tumor or rectal cancer or something.”
“Lester, let’s move on,” Thorn said. “Edward resigned. We’ve got a good and experienced replacement for him. I’m not concerned about the political fallout right now. Tonight, after the paperwork is cleared up and the phone stops ringing, I’ll start worrying about the politics.”
Robert Goff stayed behind after the vice president departed. He walked with the president to his study, adjacent to the Oval Office. “Mr. President, I think we need to sit down and have a talk with Kercheval,” Goff said. “Invite him to dinner in the residence. Feel him out, find out what he wants.”
“I think I know what he wants, Robert,” Thorn said. “He wants me to act more like a traditional president. He wants me to be engaged in world affairs, not passive. I respect that. But I can’t do it his way. He has every right to quit.”
“No, he doesn’t have a right to quit,” Goff insisted. “The vice president said it: Accepting a cabinet post is a position of trust and responsibility, not only to you but to the government. There are times and ways to leave the post — in case of illness or between terms. Resigning just because you disagree with a particular policy is not right.”
“I’m sorry he resigned, and I know it’ll be hard on us, especially with an election coming up,” Thorn said, “but it can’t be helped. Let’s get his replacement up to speed as soon as possible, and I’d like to speak with the leadership so we can get through the confirmation hearings quickly.”
“They’ll be waiting for you, that’s for sure,” Goff said. “Thomas, let me make a suggestion—”
“All right, Robert, I’ll call Edward and find out if he wants to meet and talk,” the president said resignedly. “But I don’t think it’ll do any good.”
“I was going to suggest something else,” Goff said. “Morgan seems pretty sure of something stirring over in Central Asia. I know you said you don’t feel that events in Turkmenistan warrant sending American troops….”
“That’s right. I don’t.” The president looked at Goff. “But you’re not talking about troops — you’re talking about something else. Robot planes, perhaps?”
It was scary, Robert Goff thought, to consider how intelligent Thomas Thorn was. A guy with a mind and a body as sharp as his would make a very, very dangerous adversary. “We’ve scheduled a campaign swing out west anyway for next week — that Lake Tahoe environmental forum speech, followed by appearances in Reno, San Francisco, Monterey, Santa Barbara, Las Vegas, and L.A. I suggest we make a stop prior to arriving in Reno.”
“Battle Mountain?”
Goff nodded. “General McLanahan did a great job standing up that unit so fast,” he said. “His first mission over Afghanistan was a success, despite what Morgan suggested. I authorized a mission to recover the drone shot down out there, and I predict that’ll be a success, too.”
“I agree, and I’m proud of McLanahan. He’s suffered a tremendous loss recently, he’s suddenly become a single parent, yet he’s worked hard and done well,” the president said.
“I know we’ve already got the travel schedule built,” Goff said, “but McLanahan might be able to give you some options in case we do need to conduct operations over there.”
“I don’t foresee conducting any military operations in any of the ‘Stans, Robert,” the president said. “But… you are considering McLanahan’s facility as an alternate national command center, correct? Battle Mountain is the underground air base, right?”
“It certainly is,” Goff replied, smiling. “And it does have a very sophisticated communications system — extensive satellite earth stations, microwave, extremely low frequency — for communications with their robot aircraft. It’s also far from any other major target complexes or population centers, and it has a twelve-thousand-foot-long runway — the facilities to handle the Airborne National Command Post as well as Air Force One. It would make an ideal alternate command center.”
“Then get together with Lester and build in a visit,” the president said. “I imagine you’ll get a briefing from him beforehand on his Afghanistan operation and his take on the situation in Central Asia. If you think I’ll need to hear his report, build that into the schedule, too.”
“Yes, sir,” Goff replied. He paused and then looked carefully at his friend. “You don’t need an excuse to go talk to your troops, Thomas.”
“I know.”
“You also don’t have to come up with excuses to visit a military base just so you don’t appear as if you’re placating Edward Kercheval.”
“Do you think that’s what I’m doing?”
“I think you’re more disappointed than you let on about losing him,” Goff observed. “It’s important to you to give your cabinet a lot of responsibility, but it’s also important to show you’re in charge.”
“Do you think I rein Kercheval in too much?”
“Kercheval is a type A, action-oriented guy, Thomas,” Goff replied. “He’s also accustomed to being in charge. Secretaries of state in recent years have been very powerful individuals. Kercheval probably wishes he were as powerful and influential as Madeleine Albright, James Baker—”
“Or Robert Goff.”
“Or Robert Goff,” he echoed. “I encourage you to talk with Kercheval, sir, even though I know you won’t. There are plenty of folks just as well qualified as he. I only wish we didn’t have to take the flak I think we’re going to get.”
OVER VEDENO, CECENO-INGURSSKAJA PROVINCE, RUSSIAN FEDERATION
That same time
Damn, it was good to be alive, Anatoliy Gryzlov thought happily. He clasped his copilot on the shoulder and headed aft to stretch, have a cigarette, and enjoy life a bit before things got busy again.
Air Force General Anatoliy Gryzlov liked to get out of the office at least once a month and fly. With training hours in short supply, it was a luxury even most Russian general officers could not manage. But Gryzlov was different: Because he was the deputy minister of defense for the Russian government and the chief of the general staff of the military forces of the Russian Federation, he got everything he wanted. The troops loved seeing the former bomber pilot, test pilot, and cosmonaut at their base, and they were absolutely thrilled to see the fifty-nine-year-old chief of the general staff take command of a mission.
Unlike many Russian military men, Gryzlov was slight of stature, slender, and quick, with light brown hair cut short — he actually looked good in a flight suit, even a bulky winter-weight one. He found it easy to maneuver inside his favorite aircraft, the famed Tupolev-160 long-range strategic bomber, the one the West called the “Blackjack” bomber. Originally designed to attack the United States of America with nuclear weapons, the Tu-160 was still by far the world’s largest attack aircraft. Capable of supersonic dash speeds in excess of two thousand kilometers per hour at midaltitude and near-supersonic speeds at terrain-following altitude, the Tupolev-160 could deliver as many as twelve cruise missiles or a total of more than forty thousand kilograms of weapons at unrefueled ranges of well over fourteen thousand kilometers. Only forty were built, but the little wing at Engels Air Base near Saratov, six hundred kilometers southeast of Moscow, was the pride of the Russian air force.
Gryzlov made his way back from the cockpit and sat in the instructor’s seat between the navigator/bombardier and defensive-systems officers, who sat side by side in their ejection seats behind the two pilots. Although the Tu-160 was a dream to fly, and the best seat in the house was definitely the cockpit — except during landing, when the long nose and very high approach and landing speeds made landing the Blackjack very, very hairy — all the action was back here. He stopped at the “honey bucket” in the rest area between the pilots’ and systems officers’ compartments and took a pee, glancing wryly at the toilet-paper holder hanging on a wire next to the bucket — the only piece of wood, it was said, carried alof
t on a Russian attack plane.
The systems operators’ compartment was dark but spacious — there was even enough room for beach chairs and ice chests back here for very long flights, although they were not needed on this one. “How is it going, Major?” Gryzlov asked cross-cockpit.
“Very well, sir,” Major Boris Bolkeim, the navigator/bombardier, replied. He gave the DSO, or defensive systems officer, a swat on the shoulder, and the other man hurriedly safed his ejection seat and started to unstrap so Gryzlov could sit there. But Gryzlov shook his hand at the DSO to tell him to stay put and instead took the jump seat. “Twenty minutes to initial point. The system’s doing well.”
“Any warning broadcasts, Captain?”
“None, sir,” responded Captain Mikhail Osipov, the defensive systems officer. “All known frequencies are silent. I’m a little surprised.”
“Hopefully it means everyone’s done his job,” Gryzlov said. Bolkeim offered Gryzlov a Russian cigarette, but the chief of staff took out a pack of Marlboros, and both he and the DSO accepted hungrily. As they smoked, they chatted about the mission, the military, their families at home. It was just like old times, Gryzlov thought — taking a break before the action started, talking about everything and nothing in particular. This was the part of the job he really enjoyed, getting out into the field with the troops, having a little fun, and doing some serious business at the same time. Sure, he was showing his stars, too, but that wasn’t the main reason he did it.
It was not a particularly good time to be chief of the general staff. Anatoliy Gryzlov was unlucky enough to take over the position from the disgraced and imprisoned Valeriy Zhurbenko, who had tried to make a deal with a Russian mobster to force a number of Balkan states to agree to allow the mobster, Pavel Kazakov, to build a pipeline through their country. Gryzlov was nothing more than a politically expedient choice — he was a highly decorated and capable but profoundly unpolitical air force officer — just the way the Russian parliament wanted it.
