The Mercenary Option

by Dick Couch

  “I am very sorry,” Bijay concluded, “but it seems that your visit here has been for nothing.”

  It violated protocol for Major Singh to continue, but he had no alternative. “If you will permit me, may I speak?” Bijay nodded politely; the man had, after all, traveled a great distance to see him.

  “My regiment, the 9th Indian Gurkha Rifles, will offer you a commission as a subadar, a captain in the Indian Army, plus a generous signing bonus. We will also offer you a monthly honorarium equal to what you have been paid by your previous employer.” Major Singh paused for a moment while Bijay digested this. “We are also prepared to honor your years of service toward an Indian Army pension.”

  Singh studied the man across the table. He was tall for a Gurkha, but then he was part Indian with some Persian blood—an oddity for a Gurung from the mountain tribes. Like many who served in the British Brigade of Gurkhas, Bijay’s last name was the same as that of his tribe, the Gurung. Warrant Officer First Class Bijay Gurung was a famous warrior and known throughout Nepal. During the Gulf War, a small detachment of Gurkhas had been seconded to an elite force of the Special Air Service. The SAS, perhaps the best ground special operations unit in the world, is reluctant to work with outsiders, but they welcomed the Gurkhas. Since Bijay spoke flawless Arabic, he proved quite useful. One night they inserted into the western desert to pick up a downed Tornado pilot. It proved to be a Republican Guard trap. When they reached the pilot, they found themselves surrounded and badly outnumbered. Good as they are, the SAS is not infantry; Gurkhas are. Bijay led four other Gurkhas in a ferocious attack. The startled Iraqis fell back, thinking they had ambushed a company rather than a squad-sized unit. All five Gurkhas were wounded, but they broke the Iraqi line. The SAS troopers, along with the Tornado pilot, scrambled through the breach. The Gurkhas fought a rearguard action that allowed them to be rescued by an American special operations Pavehawk helicopter. On extraction, two of the Gurkhas were again hit by Iraqi fire and died of their wounds before the helicopter landed. For his bravery, then Corporal Bijay Gurung became the fourteenth Gurkha to be awarded the Victoria Cross, England’s highest award for bravery.

  Britain pays its retired Gurkhas who hold the V.C. the sum of one hundred pounds sterling per month. Only a few of them are alive today to collect their monthly bonus. Major Singh and the Indian Army were offering to match the hundred pounds Bijay now received, and this was in addition to his British pension. It was a very attractive offer, and Singh knew it. He also knew Bijay Gurung’s enlistment in an Indian Gurkha regiment would be worth all of that and more. The Indians had experienced difficulty of late in finding good recruits from the hill tribes. In spite of the draw-down by the British Brigade, few veterans wanted to soldier with the Indians; they felt it demeaned them. That could all change if Bijay Gurung joined an Indian Gurkha regiment.

  Bijay considered Singh’s offer. It was more than generous. With his pension from the British, along with the Indian Army pay as a captain and the double bonus, he would make more in a month than most prosperous businessmen in Kathmandu. Bijay tried to picture himself in the uniform of an Indian Gurkha regiment with the pips of a subaltern on his epaulets. He would have smiled at the notion, but that would have been impolite.

  “Major Singh, do you know why I no longer serve in the British Brigade?”

  “I do,” replied Singh.

  “Then you must know why I can never again serve the regimental colors, any regimental colors.”

  Major Singh started to speak, but Bijay’s features had suddenly hardened, so he remained silent.

  Thursday evening, February 21,

  the White House

  The vacuum system quietly and gently removed the cigar smoke from the room, but not quite fast enough for Armand Grummell. He sat in one of the leather chairs, polishing his glasses. That they were very fine cigars—Dominican, not Cuban—did not alleviate his displeasure at having to deal with the acrid smell. The stewards removed the last of the place settings and returned with after-dinner drinks. The ashtrays were already in place. The pleasure of each of the four men around the table was known to the servers and quietly placed in front of him. For Grummell, it was decaf coffee; for the others, their particular brand of scotch or bourbon. It was known by a select few, which included those present, that the ferocity by which Armand Grummell buffed his spectacles was a clear indication of his level of anxiety. This evening he burnished them as if he were trying to make fire. Their work done, the servers withdrew from the room.

  “Armand, why don’t you tell us about it?” the President said gently. “It will make you feel a little better.”

  Grummell snapped the Commander in Chief a sharp look and quickly returned to his cleaning task. The President had a mild exchange of eye contact with the other two men around the table, not without a hint of amusement. But it was very guarded. All three knew too well that if Armand Grummell was apprehensive or fearful, only a fool would ignore his reasons for being so.

  “Sir, I’m not so sure that this will not cause us more problems than it will solve.” Grummell had been the Director of Central Intelligence for close to fourteen years. He was rapidly becoming to the CIA what Hoover had been to the FBI, although Grummell’s intellect and integrity were in keeping with his tenure. He served the nation, not the administration, but that did not mean he was disloyal to his president. One of the first duties of any new Chief Executive during the last three decades was to see if he could convince Armand Grummell to stay on. He was close to seventy-five, a widower, and enjoyed a level of trust among the political establishment of both persuasions that rivaled Walter Cronkite.

  “Go on,” William St. Claire prompted. President Bill St. Claire, or Saint Bill as his friends called him behind his back, respected, admired, and genuinely liked his DCI. If Grummell was troubled, then he had good reason for concern. Bill St. Claire was well into his first term. He had had his beefs with an opposition Congress, but by and large, his constituents considered him a good steward of the state. He had been accused of being a caretaker president on domestic issues, but consistently received high marks on foreign policy. One of the reasons for his good start was Armand Grummell.

  The other two men around the table were no less appreciative of Grummell’s talents, nor could they rest easy with an issue with which he was having problems. James Powers had been a classmate of the President’s at Choate and Cornell. He had proved a capable Secretary of State, due more to his managerial skills than his ability at statecraft. He was totally loyal to Bill St. Claire and a little envious of the esteem in which his president held his DCI. But Powers could find little fault with Grummell. He was certain Grummell knew how he felt about him, but the older man had always treated him with dignity and respect. But then he treated everyone that way. Anthony Barbata thought Armand Grummell was a stitch. He treated Grummell with exaggerated deference, like a Mafia don, but there was a twinkle in his eye as he did so. In some ways Grummell reminded Barbata of the butler in the movie Arthur—perceptive, polite to a fault, honest, and wise. Yet he respected and genuinely admired Grummell, and they understood one another. As a result, there was a spirit of trust and cooperation that was seldom found between the Director of Central Intelligence and the Secretary of Defense. Barbata could ask him anything in confidence, and Grummell would respect that confidence. All of them knew Grummell was a professional and a team player, but above all, he was a patriot.

  These four men, meeting informally like this, made most of the major foreign policy decisions that affected the United States. They also passed final judgment on most national security issues. That they did so in the absence of the National Security Adviser was a testimony to the faith the President placed in these three men.

  “There are too many variables. To begin with,” Grummell said, grasping his left index finger with his right hand, “there are the Russians. One of the keys to stability in Central and Southwest Asia, and much of the Middle East, is Russia. Putin and his c
rowd stand to make a lot of money if the Caspian product goes north.” He moved to grasp two left fingers. “Secondly, Iran wants the project to come across their territory. They have done little to merit our consideration, but by offending Iran, we put off any hope we may have had to advance the cause of the conservative mullahs. Thirdly, anything that benefits Pakistan will put us at odds with the Indians. And I don’t have to remind you that India is the only democracy in the region. Then there is due consideration we must afford Turkey. They have stood by us in the region, and allowed us bases to stage military operations into northern Iraq. They will want to know why we do not bring this their way, to a Black Sea port and on through the Dardanelles. The Turks have been our friends; this will put that friendship at risk.” Apparently satisfied with his work, he paused to hook an ear with one wire shank of his glasses and dragged the spotless lenses across his face to the other ear. Spectacles in place, he continued. “But it’s the Saudis I fear the most. The Saudis cannot like the fact that a fully developed Caspian region could reach more than half their production in ten years. The House of Saud is not fully in control of their country, but so far they have been able to buy off their opposition. This Caspian venture will threaten that, which means it will threaten the royal family.”

  A weighty silence hung in air. President St. Claire trusted these colleagues implicitly, and he liked the dynamic by which they worked through issues. None were afraid to speak their mind, and none took a slight away from the table if their opinion ran contrary to the consensus or the decision of the President. President Bill St. Claire wanted to know how they individually felt about the issue.

  “Jim?”

  “I agree with Armand…up to a point. I am concerned about Russia and Turkey, but what choice do they have? And this will help both of them regarding their problems with Islamic fundamentalists—problems primarily funded by the Saudis.” James Powers looked like a Secretary of State—rich silver hair, generous eyebrows, and a face that was pink, firm, and well-proportioned. He gave the impression of firmness, not rigidity, and power rather than strength. And he was a very good thinker. “I do have some reservations regarding our relations with Iran. Iran is probably the closest thing to a representative form of government in the region. They still support Hezbollah and terrorism, but that support has been waning of late. We’re making progress with Iran; I’d hate to see that progress end or be reversed by all this. The Indians, well, the Indians will settle with the Paks at a time and place of their own choosing, and there will be damn little we can do to stop them. Even with my reservations about Iran, I say we do it.”

  “How about you, Tony?”

  Anthony Barbata had brought a reputation of brilliance and perseverance from the courtroom to the defense department. The senior members of the uniformed services either loved or hated him, but few were ambivalent about the fiery SecDef. He had been a passionate and tenacious trial lawyer, and now the Department of Defense was his client. But he had always demanded total honesty from his clients. That hadn’t changed. A few admirals, generals, and service secretaries had been slow to grasp this, and tried to be less than candid with him. They were now wearing suits and serving on boards of directors for defense contractors or working as lobbyists. Barbata had a degree in engineering from MIT, an MBA from Harvard, and a law degree from Columbia. He looked like an older, very fit version of Sal Mineo.

  “I got special operations people all over Afghanistan, northern Iraq, and even a few in western Iran chasing these al Qaeda thugs. It’s like herding squirrels. We chase ’em, we kill a few, but I’m not sure we’re staying ahead of the breeding grounds in Pakistan and Saudi Arabia, let alone the smaller camps in Iran and Iraq. If we build it, we will have to guard it. And that will give us a clear reason for a strong presence there. We have a lot of technology at our disposal, but we will still have to have people on the ground. We’ll be in a position to help the Paks clean their own house, and the basing to effectively move anywhere in Southwest Asia or to launch into Iran if and when we have to. It will allow us to carry a bigger stick and use it to better advantage. And it will scare the living shit out of those warlords that think they can outlast our special operations probes. I like it.”

  After a long pause, the President spoke. “So do I. The nation seems to be putting 9/11 behind them. We’re losing popular support for preemptive measures, and we have to be in a position to respond. At this juncture, there seems to be a great deal to recommend this course of action. I am, however, sorry that you oppose the plan, Armand.”

  “Oh, I didn’t say that I opposed the plan, Mr. President. And I agree that we may have no other alternative. I simply wanted to point out that there are many variables. And that equates to a great deal of risk.” Grummell was again aggressively polishing his glasses.

  The President was silent for several minutes. This was what Barbata and Powers secretly between them called the moment of truth. A decision was coming from Bill St. Claire, and they would all get behind it.

  “Very well,” the Chief Executive proclaimed after a heavy sigh. “I’d like to announce this in a press conference in two weeks. Jim, get me a prioritized list of the key heads of state within NATO along with the regional players, and when you feel we should let them know. Since most of these are calls I will have to make personally, I’ll want the hard ones first. Tony, get your service chiefs on this as soon as possible. I’ll want to know the scope of our deployed posture to begin the project, through the construction phase and when we go operational. And Armand, I want you to stay skeptical and be the devil’s advocate on this. I’d like to front-run as many of the problems as possible.” He paused for just a moment. “Okay then, let’s make it happen.”

  The President rose, as did the other three men. “One more thing,” James Powers interjected. “What are we going to call this project? Perhaps it should have a name of our choosing.”

  They paused and looked at Bill St. Claire. “How about the Trans-Afghan Pipeline?” he offered. “Or TAP for short.”

  There was a general murmur of agreement as they filed out of the small West Wing conference room.

  Late Thursday evening, February 21,

  Martha’s Vineyard

  The Simpson estate occupied a large tract of land near Chilmark. Considering the size of the property and quality of the grounds, the turn-of-the-century Cape Cod salt-box was modest. The house rested on a gentle knoll with an excellent view of South Beach and the Atlantic Ocean. For sheer grandeur, it was an unremarkable dwelling when compared with other estate homes on the Vineyard, but Prudence Simpson had restored it to the last detail. The home was dated, yet it had a charm and warmth that were hard to replicate with modern construction. Joe felt it was her legacy to him. After her death, he was not so sure he could bear it, seeing her empty chair by the fire—listening for her to call to him from the kitchen. But then he and Joey had spent part of that first lonely summer there together, and that had helped. It would never again be a place he could call home, but it was the place he always seemed to come back to. Now that he had just buried his only son, the familiar surroundings had become that much more distant.

  Several concerned friends had tried to violate his request to be left alone that evening. He had turned them away as graciously as possible. Joe Simpson was quite used to being by himself, and now he desperately felt he needed solitude. He was not sure he could bear to again hear whispers behind his back—“That poor man, first Prudence and now Joey.”

  As soon as he reached the estate, he had poured himself three fingers of bourbon, then made straight for the bedroom to shed his wet clothes. He stood in the hot shower for over fifteen minutes before he stopped shaking. Now, dressed in corduroy slacks and a wool Pendleton, he sat before the fire with a second bourbon. A shudder passed through him, causing him to spill some of the amber liquid on the hand-tied rug, but he took no notice. Then the intercom to the entrance buzzed, announcing that someone was at the front gate. Simpson tried to ignore i
t, but the caller was rudely insistent. Finally, he pushed himself from the wingback to answer.

  “Who is it?” he asked impatiently, ready to be polite but firm if it was a friend seeking to comfort him, and not so polite if it was another reporter.

  “Joe, it’s Frankie. Open the gate.”

  “Oh, hello, Frank. Listen, it’s late, and now’s just not a good time. I really—”

  “C’mon, Joe, open the fuckin’ gate. I’m freezin’ my nuts off out here. Don’t make me hop the fence and walk all the way up there in this weather.”

  Simpson smiled and shook his head. He tapped in a code and pushed a large button on the gate release panel. A half mile down the lane from the house, an electrically operated solenoid dragged back the heavy iron gate. A sensor noted the passing of a single car and automatically rolled the gate back into place. Simpson opened the door to a short, balding man who was stomping the snow from his shoes on the front mat.

  “Christ, what a night. It’s supposed to turn really cold and ice up.” He handed Simpson a paper bag that contained a bottle. Without preamble, he shucked his overcoat and slung it on the hall tree. Then he retrieved the sack from Simpson’s hand and headed for the bar in the living room. Simpson followed. There the shorter man poured two healthy measures of Wild Turkey and handed one to his host.