Mission Compromised

by Oliver North

  Captain Dan Robertson was the only one who wasn't going to grouse about the assignment. He had been an MH-53 Pave Low Special Operations helicopter pilot since graduating from the Air Force Academy and follow-on flight schools. During Desert Storm, he had taken his “Big Bird” deep into occupied Kuwait and Iraq to insert and extract Delta operators, rescue downed Navy and Air Force pilots, and, on one occasion, pull out a Marine recon patrol amidst heavy enemy fire.

  He would have kept doing that kind of flying for the rest of his life, but Special Ops in the Air Force was a dead-end street. The most he could hope to command would be a squadron—and then what? He had two Distinguished Flying Crosses, a Purple Heart, and a broken marriage. He hadn't told anyone up the chain of command, but he had been planning to put in an application with U.S. Air when the orders for the White House landed on his desk.

  Although none of the three young officers knew it, all of them, like Newman, had been “profiled” and then selected by name for the NSC. The WHDB computers had picked them out of more than a million men and women in the military based on criteria established by Harrod with the help of Admiral Wilburn Robbins, the former chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the only current or former member of the top brass to back the President's candidacy in 1992.

  The President had rewarded Robbins for his political fealty by naming him the ambassador to London. From there, Robbins stayed in touch with Simon Harrod on a near-daily basis. The portly old admiral had negotiated the deal for the British to participate with the U.S. in the formation of the ISEG and had told Harrod what qualities he should seek in those who would be coordinating the ISEG's activities.

  Harrod had taken the admiral's criteria, including the requirements that the people selected be single or divorced and have served in combat, to Arnold Granish and his data dinks in the WHDB facility. Less than forty-eight hours later, Harrod had the names of nine officers, three each from the Army, Navy, and Air Force, who met the selection criteria. After reviewing them, Harrod had chosen these three because they simply looked better than the others from their respective services. His only regret was that none of them had turned out to be a woman or a minority. He knew that an all-white, all-male Special Projects Office didn't meet the President's diversity goals, but he had to work with what he was given.

  After the round of introductions, Newman began to think that this assignment might not be so intolerable after all. At least he would be working with kindred spirits. If nothing else, this little office in the southeast corner of the OEOB would be a place where the military was respected. He contemplated inviting his three new colleagues to walk across Lafayette Park and join him at the Army & Navy Club for a drink and the telling of a few lies and war stories—but then he checked his watch. It was nearly 9:00 P.M.

  “Let's make a break for it,” he said. “We have an early day of it at Andrews and probably a late night tomorrow night. Does anyone need a lift in the morning?”

  No one did, so they all lined up silently at the door while Newman punched in the code to rearm the security system. Then they all piled out the door and waited while he spun the combination lock on the door and reset the lock on the wall panel.

  As they headed down the silent corridor and the elevator, they joked quietly with each other about what the penalty might be for forgetting any of the combinations to the various locks. The ribald speculation continued all the way out onto West Executive Avenue.

  It had gotten cold enough that each breath produced a billow of vapor that shone in the bright lights illuminating the white mansion just a few yards away. Newman headed for the Situation Room to run the “credit cards” with the lock and security system combinations through the microshredder. The other three waved good-night and walked toward the South West Gate and their cars on the Ellipse.

  After a few minutes, Newman came back out and went to his car. As he headed slowly up West Executive Avenue toward the North West Gate, it occurred to him that he was glad his wife wouldn't be home for two more days. That would give him time to concoct an appropriate answer to Rachel's inevitable questions: “What's your new job at the White House like, Peter? What do you do there?”

  He wanted to have an answer better than the truth. He just couldn't tell her that he would be planning assassinations for the United Nations.

  RACHEL

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Barclay Suites Hotel

  ________________________________________

  14th and Pine Street

  Chicago, IL

  Tuesday, 29 November 1994

  2214 Hours, Local

  Rachel Newman stood in front of the spacious tenth-floor window of the hotel suite. She had a commanding view of Lake Michigan and Grant Park. Across the street in the Sheraton Plaza she could see that few of the windows were still lit, and as she watched, occasionally the shadows of the occupants would move past. A few of the windows were dimly lit by the blue of flickering television screens, most of which were airing the local news.

  The weather had turned colder since she had checked in. Snow flurries had been falling on the way from O'Hare in the TWA van, and she wondered if her flight out in the morning would leave on time. Rachel shivered as she stood by the window. The room was nicely warmed, but the glass pane did little to shut out the chill that was making the night outside so frosty.

  As she stood there gazing out the window of the parlor, her unfocused staring was broken by a man's shadow moving across the drapes. As he came nearer, she turned to face him. His two strong arms enveloped her and held her tightly. Then Rachel took his face in her hands and reached up to kiss him. They lingered in the embrace for a long moment. Then, smiling mischievously, the man released his hold and from behind her back produced a small, exquisitely-wrapped gift box and extended it to her with obvious anticipation. Rachel undid the wrappings and, with a little embarrassment, pulled out a bright-red garment, just a wispy piece of lingerie, meant for only one thing. She giggled and said, “Just what is it that you have in mind, Captain Vecchio?”

  Mitch Vecchio was an eighteen-year veteran pilot. He had met Rachel three years earlier when they were assigned to the same crew. All that spring they seemed to fly together often. Some of her fellow flight attendants noticed the interest Mitch paid her, and one friend even cautioned her, “Watch yourself with that guy, Rachel. I know him. He may be a nice package, but he's a married man with a roving eye and fast hands, if you know what I mean.”

  Rachel did, and though she enjoyed the flattering attention Mitch bestowed upon her, she kept him at arm's length until little more than a year ago—shortly after Jim Newman was killed in Somalia. A week after her brother-in-law was buried at Arlington, Rachel and Captain Vecchio were paired on the flight to London. While the two were alone in the TWA flight crew office at Heathrow, completing the postflight paperwork, a CNN broadcast announced that the U.S. was considering pulling its troops out of Somalia. Mitch turned to Rachel and said, “It's about time. We had no business being in that sewer in the first place.” Rachel burst into tears.

  Mitch, with what seemed to be genuine concern, hastened to comfort her. “What's wrong, Rache. What did I say?”

  She tried to respond but was so wracked with sobs that he handed her his clean handkerchief, and while she dried her tears, he put his arm around her. Then he said with great sincerity, “I'm so sorry, Rachel. I didn't mean to upset you. What did I say?”

  With those words, the handsome pilot unwittingly opened the floodgates for Rachel. She told him about her brooding husband's rejection and anger, how all he talked about was revenge, and how cruel he had been to her when his brother was killed. Mitch Vecchio was a willing and sympathetic listener. And over the course of the next two hours, he let Rachel unload on him.

  Rachel told him how her husband seemed to shut her out of his life and how he seemingly had no love for her. “It's like he has a mistress that I can't compete with,” Rachel told him.

  “What do you mean you can
't compete?” Mitch asked. “You're a smart, gorgeous woman. You're fun to be with … you have a great personality. And did I mention gorgeous?” he added with a smile.

  “It's no use, Mitch. I can't compete with his mistress,” Rachel said. She was no longer sad. Her voice now had an angry edge.

  “Your husband really has a mistress?” he asked.

  “His mistress is the Marine Corps. It's a crazy love that he has for the Corps and its people and the things they do. I once thought I understood him, but if I ever did, I don't anymore. And I sure don't understand the military,” Rachel added through clenched teeth.

  They were seated now on the leather couch in the lounge. Mitch reached over and put his arm gently on her shoulder and said, “You shouldn't have to understand, Rachel. You aren't in the military, and you shouldn't be expected to act like you are. You deserve to have a life of your own—and you deserve to have a man who loves you just the way you are.”

  Two months later they shared their first hotel room during a layover in Chicago. In fact, it was at the Sheraton Plaza, the building on East Superior just across the street from the Barclay. For eleven months now, Rachel had rationalized cheating on her husband by telling herself that theirs was “equal opportunity infidelity.” He found affirmation, satisfaction, even affection in his Marine Corps. So why shouldn't she find that same kind of intimacy with someone else?

  Rachel awoke with a little start. She turned her head and looked at the alarm clock on the nightstand beside the bed. The red numbers glowed dimly: 4:15.

  Her lover's arm was across her, so she gently removed it and slid quietly out of the bed. Mitch rolled over on his back, snoring gently. She picked up the bedspread that had fallen to the floor during the night and wrapped it around her shoulders as she walked over to the window and looked out.

  The lights and flickering televisions that had illuminated windows in the hotel across the street were now all off. In the glow of the cityscape outside, snow was falling, and Rachel leaned forward, her forehead touching the cold pane of glass, to see what was accumulating on the street below.

  In the pools of light made by the streetlights, she could see white on the pavement. She wondered if their 0950 flight to San Diego would be departing on time. Then, as she watched the white flakes being tossed by the wind outside, she had another thought: Christmas. And suddenly hot tears were flowing down her cheeks. She didn't make a sound, but her mind was racing: What in the world am I doing? It's almost Christmas, and here I am in a hotel bedroom with another man! What am I going to do, give both Peter and Mitch Christmas presents? What would Mom and Dad say if they knew where I am right now? What would Peter do if he knew? Oh dear God… where is all this taking me?

  After contemplating these questions for a few minutes and without coming up with any satisfactory answers, Rachel wiped the tears off her face with the edge of the bedspread. She went into the bathroom and closed the door before she turned on the light so as not to awaken her lover. Lover. Is that what Mitch is? Is he my lover? No … he doesn't love me—and he certainly has no intention of leaving his wife and two kids for me.

  For all his other faults, Mitchell Vecchio had at least been forthright about that. He had made certain that Rachel understood that their relationship was open and nonexclusive. Mitch was honest with her—if not with his own wife—and he let Rachel know right from the start that their affair was for pleasure and could have no commitment beyond that. Rachel had agreed to those terms because she held out hope that the man she had once loved would somehow come to his senses. But what do I want him to do? I'm not even sure I know myself, so what should I expect from Peter? Rachel asked herself.

  As she bent over the sink to splash cold water on her face, she tried not to think about her husband. Thinking about Peter too often reminded her of her many betrayals. But then she remembered that he was to have started a new job today at the White House. Rachel wondered what kind of a position he held now and what he'd be doing.

  How she wished he'd share his life with her. She didn't want to go on punishing him by having an affair. She smiled to herself at the irony of that thought. How can I be punishing him when he knows nothing about it? Rachel thought. It was true. She was the one who felt the punishing guilt every time she spent a night with the pilot who was sleeping soundly in the bedroom on the other side of the bathroom door.

  Mitch couldn't care less about guilt or morality and almost seemed to enjoy cheating on his wife. During one of their trysts in Houston, the pilot had explained his philosophy of life: “Rachel, life is like a string that's only so long,” he said, holding out his arms. “You can either tie that string up in knots and always worry about how you're going to untangle it, or you can stretch it as tight as you can and make it go as far as possible. I don't like knots. I aim to have as much fun as I can, and when the string runs out, that's it.” But he also told Rachel that he was driven to distraction by his wife's materialism and how he was always stressed financially because of her shopping and spending. Someday he'd have to deal with that knot, but for now he'd just have fun.

  Rachel didn't go back to bed. She knew she wouldn't be able to go back to sleep, so she took a long hot shower, washed her hair, and took her time brushing it out and putting on her makeup. At 6:00 A.M. she finished packing her black, TWA-issue tow-along bag, and while Mitch was in the bathroom shaving, she slipped out of the room and headed for the Barclay's fifth-floor dining room.

  She intended to grab a bagel, some yogurt, and a cup of coffee before joining the rest of their crew across the street at the Sheraton, where the TWA shuttle would meet them for the trip back to O'Hare. But as Rachel walked into the dining room, she saw a familiar face across the room. She walked over to the table.

  “Inga? Inga Linstad?” she said. “Hi, remember me—Rachel Newman? We were classmates in Saint Louis at the flight attendants' course.”

  “Of course, Rachel. How are you? I remember—you were the only nurse in our class. And I see that you are still with TWA. Do you still enjoy the work?”

  “Most of the time,” replied Rachel. “There are good days and bad days—you know how it is—but I've never had a day as bad as the ones you had over there in the Middle East. Where was it—Egypt?”

  “Close,” said Inga, softly. “It was Lebanon. We sure could have used your nursing skills on that trip, Rachel.”

  Inga Linstad was a virtual legend in the airline industry. She had been the senior flight attendant aboard TWA Flight 837 when it was hijacked out of Athens by Hizballah terrorists. The plane had been forced to land in Beirut, and for six days, the passengers and crew were subjected to terrible brutality. By the time the terrorists were granted safe passage off the plane and disappeared into the chaos of Lebanon, three American passengers and two crewmembers were dead and seven others aboard the aircraft had been wounded. The surviving passengers and crew credited Inga Linstad's calm demeanor, firmness, and courage with saving their lives.

  Since then, though Inga was still officially on the TWA roster, she had been employed throughout the industry to train new pilots, flight attendants, even airline executives on dealing with these types of crises. Her face was well known to almost everyone in the airline business. At TWA she was their heroine-in-residence.

  The waiter came to the table to take Inga's order. Inga looked up at Rachel and asked, “Won't you join me for breakfast?”

  The two women placed their orders and settled in to catch up on each other's lives.

  “What brings you to Chicago, Inga?” asked Rachel.

  “Oh, I had a briefing for United yesterday out at O'Hare. I'm headed out today for more of the same on the West Coast. They were nice enough to put me up here instead of across the street, where our crews normally stay, so I can avoid the crowds. I really don't much like all the attention, Rachel. I was just doing my duty. Yet everyone makes such a fuss about it.”

  “But you're a real hero, Inga,” protested Rachel. “That's why everyone wants to hea
r what you have to say.”

  Inga shrugged and tried to change the subject. “So, is TWA now putting up flight crews here at the Barclay Suites?” she asked innocently.

  Rachel felt the warmth rising in her cheeks. She and Mitch were staying in this hotel for the same reason as Inga—but with different motives. Inga wanted to avoid being seen by her airline colleagues out of her inherent modesty. Rachel and Mitch were staying here to avoid the wagging tongues of their colleagues, out of Rachel's sense of guilt. No matter how much they tried to convince themselves otherwise, they both knew what they were doing was wrong.

  Unable to fabricate a plausible lie fast enough, Rachel ignored the question and asked one of her own: “Tell me, Inga, I've seen the training video TWA did about the incident on 837, but it didn't really give me a sense of what it was like when it happened. Weren't you terrified when the terrorists started killing people?”

  “Yes, it was a terrible thing,” Inga replied softly. “Lori, the flight attendant who they killed first, was a very close friend. She and I had flown together since she came out of training, and we roomed together on every trip.” Inga paused, then continued even more softly than before, her voice just barely above a whisper. “I haven't told this to many people, Rachel, but Jerry, the First Officer, who they killed second, had asked me to marry him. We were going to see my parents when we got back to St. Louis so Jerry could ask my father for my hand. Sometimes I feel very sad because even though it's been eight years, I miss him so much.”