“Stand by, Captain. That clearance will come in about ten minutes. Land and park wherever they tell you and just wait. I’m on my way. I’ll be arriving within an hour and a half in a Learjet thirty-five and will park beside you.”
He folded the GSM phone as the secretary reappeared at his side to report the attaché was unavailable.
“Relay the call to the car if you can get the attaché before I take off, Isabel,” Campbell said. He scooped up his briefcase and headed for the door, stopping in the hallway to concentrate on the dilemma rapidly evolving in his mind. The equation, he thought, might well be more complicated than he’d initially estimated. Sigonella was Italian soil, but now he was going to have to navigate through legal difficulties and diplomatic complications raised because he was a British lawyer representing a South American nation trying to assert Italian jurisdiction over a leased American military installation in order to arrest a former U.S. President under an international warrant!
His esteem for his adversary went up a notch.
U.S. Air Force C-17 70042, Call Sign “REACH 70042,” in Flight
The aircraft commander of Reach 70042, like all pilots for the Air Force’s Air Mobility Command, had been thoroughly trained on how to handle an unexpected message suddenly received in flight ordering them to divert somewhere other than the original destination. There was always the chance that the message could be bogus, even if the radio link it came in on was satellite-based or otherwise secure. Whoever was sending the diversion order had to stand by to be challenged by the aircrew from an ever-changing code table. If the ground station answered with the right coded response, the aircrew would obey and change course.
The call from the main AMC command post at Scott Air Force Base in Illinois had come as a complete surprise to the crew of Reach 70042. Cruising at flight level four one zero in a brand-new Boeing/Douglas C-17 Globemaster III on a routine nonstop flight from Spain to Daha-ran, Saudi Arabia, Aircraft Commander Ginny Thompson had taken an embarrassingly long time to dig the “secrets” out of her flight suit ankle pocket, and even more time to find the right table and extract the right codes. They were passing south of the southeastern edge of Italy by the time she made the appropriate transmission and received the answering authentication.
“They match,” she announced. “It’s real.”
“And that would mean?” the male first lieutenant in the copilot’s seat asked.
“Punch in the identifier for Sigonella NAS and get us a revised clearance. The orders are to proceed immediately at best speed, and I think we’re only about a hundred miles out.”
“Close. We’re ninety-eight miles,” the copilot said, finishing the task of reprogramming the flight management computer.
When Rome Control had cleared them to reverse course and descend, Major Thompson molded her right hand to the control stick and disconnected the autopilot, smoothly bringing the huge transport around in a left bank as she started the descent and pulled the power back on all four engines.
“Bill, go back and brief the loadmasters,” she told the copilot. “Make sure they’re awake.”
“Did I hear that right?” the lieutenant asked. “Did he say a former DV code 1 pickup?”
“That’s what I thought I heard, but that couldn’t be right.”
“That would be a former President of the United States, right? A ‘DV 1’?”
“Yes,” she said. “Although I don’t think I’ve ever heard the word former used with a distinguished visitor code before. Anyway, we’re supposed to be ready to go instantly. Be sure they understand that.”
“Roger.”
“We’ll be there in twenty minutes,” she added, wondering what the nature of the emergency might be. If there was a former chief executive at Sigonella, was it a medical problem? Were they supposed to fly him out as a medevac? If so, they should have been told. It took time for the loadmasters to set up the cabin. No, she thought, that wouldn’t make sense. More than likely someone other than a former President needed a fast, free ride home.
They obviously got the DV code wrong.
Laramie, Wyoming
The wait was becoming excruciating by the time John Harris phoned to confirm they were on the ramp in Sicily.
“Great,” Jay replied.
“Now what?” the President asked gently.
“Well, now I talk to the White House. Is anyone trying to leave or come aboard?”
“No,” Harris said, his voice deep and concerned. “The doors are closed, and we have a lot of very unhappy commercial passengers aboard, but right now the engines are still running and we’re just sitting here. No one’s approaching as far as I can see.”
“John, whatever you do, do not get off that aircraft until I tell you, okay?”
“Very well. I think I understand.”
“I’m gambling a bit, but while the Italians might be inclined to come into a leased military installation, they will be very slow to actually invade a foreign flag carrier to remove anyone. Stand by, now. Let me call the White House on the cell phone. If the line goes dead, phone me back at five-minute intervals.”
Jay put the receiver of the house phone back on the counter and picked up the cell phone, punching in the number he’d been given to the White House Situation Room.
“This is Jay Reinhart,” he announced when a male voice answered. “I need to speak to . . .”
“Stand by, sir.”
There were a few electronic clicks before another male voice filled the earpiece.
“Mr. Reinhart?”
“Yes.”
“This is Lieutenant General Bill Davidsen. I’m Deputy Chief of Staff of the Air Force. I asked that you be put through to me if you called.”
“Thanks, General. I want to let you know that President Harris has landed at Sigonella Naval Air Station in Sicily and is currently sitting in the commercial aircraft on the Navy ramp.”
“Yes, we know, Mr. Reinhart. We got the information just ten minutes ago from Italian Air Traffic Control.”
“General, you need to know that I have President Harris holding on another line,” Jay said. “I’ve advised him to stay on the airplane. I think I need to coordinate with the commander of that Navy facility.”
“Mr. Reinhart, we’re already in motion. We had a C-17 passing less than a hundred miles away and we’ve turned him toward Sigonella. Now, we still need approval from President Cavanaugh, but the plan is to get that C-17 on the ground in about twenty minutes, transfer President Harris from that civilian craft to the C-17, and then get him the hell out of there and fly him nonstop back to the States.”
“Thank God, General!” Jay exclaimed, sighing in relief. “That’s wonderful news.”
“I’d better talk to President Harris directly at this point, Mr. Reinhart. Can you tie the lines together?”
“Uh, no, I don’t have the equipment. I could have him call you on that number, though.”
“Good. As fast as possible.”
“But, General, as his lawyer, I have to keep everybody focused on the fact that there’s an international arrest warrant out there and some powerful people who will be trying to serve it. I must stay in the loop and on the line. Can you conference me in at the same time if I break the connection and have him call?”
“Yes, Mr. Reinhart. As soon as he calls, we’ll patch you back in.”
Jay passed his home number, relayed the plan to John Harris on the home phone, and disconnected both calls. He sat staring at his home phone, mentally calculating how long it would take to establish the three-way connection and trying to envision what was happening at that moment in Sigonella. He could imagine the big C-17 barreling toward the Navy base at four hundred fifty knots, and he could imagine that Stuart Campbell would be closing in on Sigonella as well with a certified copy of the warrant, an Italian arrest version, and a carefully planned formation of Italian authorities ready to make the arrest. But if the President could make the transfer to the C-17 before Campbell
found an Italian official brave enough to authorize an intrusion onto leased American military real estate, he would be safe. There was no way they would try to stop an Air Force aircraft from departing in such a confused diplomatic situation.
He checked his watch again. Twenty minutes, the general had said, before the Air Force transport arrived, and maybe another five minutes to taxi to the ramp and open a door. He could feel his heart pounding and wished there was some sort of television camera on the ramp broadcasting on the World Wide Web. Waiting was an agony.
This may all be over in forty-five minutes! he told himself.
For the first time in over an hour, he got to his feet and opened the refrigerator for more orange juice, thinking how nice it would be to build up the fire and sit there for hours with a cigar, something he seldom let himself do anymore.
Escapist thinking!
He closed the refrigerator and looked to the left, catching a glimpse of the open bedroom door. Linda’s angry departure flooded back on a tide of guilt. Had it really been necessary to hurt her? It seemed like days ago, but once the President was safely airborne, maybe he should chase her down, go to her house, somehow try to explain what he meant.
Thank God we’re going to get him out of there! I can’t imagine what would have happened otherwise.
Images of a frantic flight to Europe, an endless string of twenty-four-hour days, voluminous research, and high-stakes poker with Harris’s adversaries unreeled like the blueprint of an unfathomable nightmare, now that he didn’t have to pretend to himself that he could handle it. The reality that it wasn’t quite over yet was better suppressed.
He sat on the kitchen stool and stared at the phone, which remained silent.
FOURTEEN
The White House—Washington, D.C.—Monday—10:30 A.M. Local
Interrupting the President when he was immersed in a serious meeting was contrary to White House policy, and Chief of Staff Jack Rollins was the man who’d set the policy in the first place.
Yet, there had to be exceptions.
Rollins hesitated outside the door to the Cabinet Room, aware of the voices filtering through from the intense discussion on the other side. They had one last chance to arm-twist the budget through the House, and the President was the only one with the charisma and political IOU’s to do it. He’d been working his magic on twelve angry swing-vote congressmen for the last thirty minutes, but the Harris situation was becoming critical and it was time to act.
Jack Rollins opened the door and moved quietly to Cavanaugh’s side.
“Excuse me, folks,” the President told the group when he saw Rollins enter and come over to stand by his side. Rollins whispered in his ear, “The situation with Harris is ripening. We’ll be to a major decision point within twenty minutes.”
“Give me a few seconds,” the President said to the group as he stood and moved to the door with a hand on Rollins’s shoulder.
“You need me right this minute?” the President asked.
“I think we do, sir. The Air Force has already set a rescue in motion, but it needs your sign-off.”
“Why don’t I just authorize it from here?” the President asked.
“I wouldn’t do that, Mr. President,” Jack Rollins counseled. “There are some volatile aspects still unfolding.”
Cavanaugh nodded. “Okay. Ten minutes.”
“Should I send someone in to get you?”
“No, Jack. I need to finish this. I’ll be there as quickly as I can.”
Rollins slipped out as the President turned back to the assembled group.
Once again the Oval Office was filling with worried advisors watching the clock. General Davidsen flanked Jack Rollins beside the President’s desk with a phone to his ear. Press Secretary Diane Beecher and National Security Advisor Roger Villems occupied one of the couches facing the Deputy Attorney General and Assistant Secretary of State on the other, all of them holding coffee cups and balancing notebooks and briefing papers.
At the opposite end of the Oval—as staffers referred to the world’s most photographed office—the newest member of the administration stood in deep thought by the fireplace. Michael Goldboro, the Assistant to the President for National Security affairs, otherwise known as the National Security Advisor, had scanned the briefing papers and reread the Treaty Against Torture before coming over from the Executive Office Building by specific request of the President. A quiet man with darting, suspicious eyes, his years as a tenured professor at Georgetown, plus a long list of honored books and papers on the history and future of statecraft, had made him a favorite of President Cavanaugh’s—though the Ivy Leaguers in the Cavanaugh administration and the Democratic Party considered him a poor successor to an office once held by Henry Kissinger. Goldboro was well aware of his nonacceptance, and as a result, he chose his battles with great care.
General Davidsen pulled the receiver away and motioned to Jack Rollins.
“We’re getting critical on timing here, Jack.”
“Tell me.”
“The C-17 is on the ramp and waiting, but the commander of the base, a Navy captain, tells me he’s got a delegation from Catania at the gate, including a magistrate, a bunch of police officers, and someone from the Carabinieri national police. He also says he was bullied into letting both a private jet and an empty chartered airliner land, both of them from Rome.”
Rollins nodded. “Are they ready to make the transfer?”
“President Harris is ready. I was just talking to him. Our crew is ready to crank and go as soon as he’s aboard. They’ve positioned Navy security police around both airplanes, but no one’s trying to force their way . . . hold on.”
The general put the phone back to his ear, listening and responding for a minute before turning to Rollins again.
“Now they’re making demands, Jack. There’s a representative of the Italian Foreign Ministry aboard that private jet, and there is a demand being relayed, presumably from him, that the base commander essentially step aside and surrender the 737 and all the passengers, including the President, to Italian authority.”
“Who’s the Navy skipper on that base?”
“Captain Swanson.”
“Is he asking for instructions?”
“Not yet. He’s informed them that the base is under the jurisdiction of the U.S. Navy, and any unauthorized attempt to enter will meet with armed resistance.”
“Strong words.” He turned toward the sitting area, where Assistant Secretary of State Rudy Baker was in animated conversation.
“Rudy? May I ask for your help?” Rollins said. Baker got up and moved to stand beside them, listening intently as General Davidsen briefed him.
“That base commander does not have the right to refuse access to Italian law enforcement officers,” Baker said, noting that Alex McLaughlin, the Assistant Attorney General, had followed him over from the couch and was listening intently.
“What do you mean he doesn’t have the authority to refuse?” the general asked.
Baker nodded, his brow deeply furrowed. “That isn’t United States soil, gentlemen. It’s Italian.”
“It’s a leased base, Mr. Baker,” the general said.
“Leased, yes, but not immune to Italian legal authority. Let me talk to him,” Baker said, stepping closer and taking the phone from the general to introduce himself.
“Captain Swanson, you can’t keep them out if they insist on entering the base.”
He listened carefully, shaking his head. “No, Captain, listen to me. You do not have the legal right to protect that real estate as if it were American territory, and if your orders are otherwise, they’re wrong. You’ll create a substantial diplomatic mess with the Italians if you keep this up.”
Baker looked at Jack Rollins and rolled his eyes before interrupting the Navy commander. “I . . . I . . . excuse me, Captain, can I get an edge in word wise? Thank you. I know I’m not in your direct chain of command, okay? But I’m trying to advise you on the real
ity of the situation. They didn’t cede that land—they merely rented it to us. You above all people should understand the Status of Forces Agreement with Italy, since you’re charged with upholding it. By the time you’re through, you may just get us kicked out of there and the base closed. This has to be handled delicately.”
Rudy Baker listened to the reply, nodding his head. “All right. We’ll see to it that your commander is briefed. But in the meantime, please realize that you’re walking on razor blades.”
He handed the phone back to the general. “He says he’s going to let them on NAS-One, which is the main, nonflying portion of the base about four miles from the flight line. But he says he’s going to keep them away from NAS-Two at this point, which is the ramp and the aircraft. He said they have agreed that they won’t enter NAS-Two without his approval.” He lifted the phone. “Captain, please stand by.” He handed the receiver back to the general and turned to Jack Rollins and Alex McLaughlin. “If we’re going to snag him out of there, we’d better do it right now. Otherwise this will deteriorate into an impossible standoff. Right now, letting President Harris get on our Air Force jet and leave is simply an “Oops, we’re sorry we didn’t stop to ask your approval” situation. In ten or twenty minutes, however, any rescue will become a direct challenge to the sovereign authority of Italy, and I’ll bet my desk we’ll lose the lease on the base.”
“We need the President’s approval,” Jack Rollins said. “Anybody disagree?”
“We also need someone, if not the President,” Baker continued, “to brief the Chief of Naval Operations quickly so they can get this cowboy under control.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Assistant Secretary,” General Davidsen said, his voice acidic and his hand still over the mouthpiece, “but I believe Captain Swanson is quite under control and admirably handling a difficult situation.”
Rudy Baker sighed and raised a hand. “Sorry, General. Bad choice of words.”
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