Hazardous Duty - PA 8

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Sir! Sir!” the Marine Guard sergeant called excitedly from behind the bulletproof glass of his station. “You can’t do that!”

  “In the embassy, waiting for the attaché,” Naylor said.

  “Good man! I’ll alert Natalie.”

  Naylor put the CaseyBerry back in his shirt pocket.

  “I can’t do what, Sergeant?”

  “Use a cell phone in here.”

  “This one worked just fine.”

  “Sir, you’re not allowed to have a cell phone in here!”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re not a member of the embassy staff. I’ll have to ask you for your cell phone.”

  “No.”

  “Sir, I’ll have to insist.”

  “Sergeant, the last I heard, sergeants can’t insist that lieutenant colonels do anything; it’s the other way around.”

  “Sir, I’ll have to insist.”

  “You already said that. The only way you’re going to get my cell phone, Sergeant, is to pry it from my cold dead fingers.”

  As the sergeant considered that option, the situation was put on hold when the door to the plaza outside burst open and a spectacularly dressed officer entered.

  “What the hell is going on here?” he demanded.

  Naylor decided there was likely to be just one officer in the embassy who would be wearing the mess dress uniform of a full colonel of the USAF, and consequently this man had to be Colonel Freedman, the Defense attaché.

  “Colonel, he has a cell phone and won’t give it up!” the Marine sergeant announced righteously.

  “Who the hell are you?” Colonel Freedman demanded.

  “Lieutenant Colonel Allan B. Naylor, Junior, sir. Are you the Defense attaché, sir?”

  Naylor saw in Colonel Freedman’s eyes that the Air Force officer was aware that there was an Allan B. Naylor, Senior, and of the latter’s place in the military hierarchy.

  “I’m Anthony Freedman, the Defense attaché. What can I do for you, Colonel?”

  Freedman put out his hand and Naylor took it.

  “Sir, I need the embassy’s communications facilities to send a Top Secret Message to Washington.”

  Freedman considered that, nodded, and said, “Well, we can take care of that for you, Colonel. But just to dot all the ‘i’s… may I see your ID and your orders?”

  Naylor handed him his identity card. Freedman examined it, handed it back, and then asked, “And your orders, Colonel?”

  “I’m acting VOCICCENCOM, sir,” Naylor said.

  That was the acronym—pronounced “Voe-Sik-Sen-Com”—for Verbal Order, Commander in Chief, Central Command. While it was in common usage around Central Command, and the Pentagon, the Office of the Defense Attaché in Buenos Aires is pretty near the foot of the military hierarchal totem pole and it was obvious from the look on Colonel Freedman’s face that he had no idea what it meant.

  And equally obvious that he wasn’t going to admit that he didn’t to an Army lieutenant colonel.

  “Yes, of course you are. But in the absence of written orders, Colonel, how can I know that?”

  “Sir, may I suggest you call CICCENCOM at Combined Base MacDill for verification?”

  CICCENCOM, pronounced Sik-Sen-Com, is the acronym for Commander in Chief, Central Command.

  “Right,” Colonel Freedman said. “Sergeant, call what he said.”

  “The extension is six-six-one,” Naylor said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Two minutes later the sergeant reported, “Sir, they say the Sik-Sen-Sen… Sik-Sen-Com… is not available.”

  “Try extension seven-seven-one, Sergeant,” Naylor suggested. “That’s the DEPCICCENCOM.”

  DEPCICCENCOM, pronounced Dep-Sik-Sen-Com, is the acronym for Deputy Commander in Chief, Central Command.

  Two minutes later, the sergeant reported, “I have General Albert McFadden on the line, sir. He wants to know who’s calling and how you got his personal number.”

  Colonel Freedman’s face, as he reached for the telephone, which the sergeant was passing through an opening in the bulletproof glass, showed that he knew very well who the four-star Air Force general he was about to talk to was.

  “Sir, this is Colonel Anthony Freedman, the Defense attaché…

  “I was given this number by Lieutenant Colonel Naylor, who says you can verify he’s here acting… What the hell was it, Naylor?”

  “VOCICCENCOM, sir.”

  “Vok-Ick… Vodka-Ick…

  “Yes, sir, General, Voe-Sik-Sen-Com. That’s it, sir.

  “No, sir. Now that I think about it, I can’t imagine why a fine officer like Colonel Naylor would say something like that if it wasn’t the case.”

  Colonel Freedman held out the phone to Naylor.

  “The general wants to talk to you, Colonel.”

  Naylor took the phone.

  “Good afternoon, sir.

  “Not a problem, sir. I spoke to the sheriff and the district attorney and they both assured me no one will be arrested just so long as we use chips and there’s no cash on the tables.

  “Sir, I can only suggest the chaplain got carried away when he said we’re all going to go to jail.

  “I really hope to be there, sir, but there’s no telling how long this job will take.

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. My regards to Mrs. McFadden.”

  Naylor handed the telephone back through the opening in the bulletproof glass. Then he saw the look on Colonel Freedman’s face and took pity on him.

  “General McFadden’s wife,” he explained, “is raising money for the Parent–Teacher’s Association by running Las Vegas Night at the VFW Hall in Tampa. In addition to my other duties, I’m the de facto president of the school board. The chaplain, who thinks gambling is a sin, even for a good cause, has been giving us trouble, and the general was a little worried. I was able to put his concerns to rest.”

  “Yes, of course you were,” Colonel Freedman said. “Now, about this Top Secret Message you want to transmit?”

  “I’d prefer to get into that, sir, in a secure environment, sir.”

  “Yes, of course you would. I can’t imagine what I was thinking,” Colonel Freedman said. “Sergeant, unlock the door.”

  “Colonel, he’s still got his cell phone.”

  “What cell phone?”

  “The one in his pocket, sir. The one he said I’d have to pry from his cold dead fingers.”

  “Just push the button and unlock the damned door, damn it!”

  There was a buzz, and the door to the interior of the building swung open. Freedman led Naylor to an elevator, which took them to the top story of the building. The commo center was behind two locked steel doors that were about in the middle of the corridor.

  There was an American man on duty, visibly surprised to see the Defense attaché there after duty hours and wearing his spectacular mess dress uniform.

  “The colonel has a message to send—”

  “Encrypt and send,” Naylor corrected him. “And if you don’t mind, I’ll operate the equipment myself. Just get me on the State Department circuit.”

  Naylor sat down at the table, and as he waited for the technician to connect him with the State Department took a sheet of paper from his pocket and laid it next to the encryption device keyboard.

  When he became aware that Colonel Freedman was trying desperately to sneak a look at the message, Naylor considered laying his hand on it, or turning it over, but in the end handed it to the Defense attaché.

  “You’re onto State,” the technician announced.

  Naylor waited until Freedman had finished reading, then laid the sheet of paper next to the keyboard again, tripped the ENCRYPT/TRANSMIT lever, and began to type. I
t didn’t take long.

  TOP SECRET

  URGENT

  DUPLICATION FORBIDDEN

  TO: POTUS

  SUBJECT: CGC

  VIA SECRETARY OF STATE

  MAKE AVAILABLE (EYES ONLY) TO:

  DIRECTOR, CIA

  SECRETARY OF DEFENSE

  DIRECTOR OF NATIONAL INTELLIGENCE

  C IN C CENTRAL COMMAND

  SITREP #1

  US EMBASSY BUENOS AIRES 2020 ZULU 7 JUNE 2007

  1-TELEPHONE CONTACT ESTABLISHED WITH CGC 0600 ZULU 7 JUNE

  2-FACE TO FACE MEETING PROBABLE WITHIN TWENTY-FOUR TO THIRTY-SIX HOURS AT TO BE DETERMINED LOCATION

  3-UNDERSIGNED AND VDA BELIEVE CGC AMENABLE TO CALL TO EXTENDED HAZARDOUS DUTY IF HIS PHYSICAL CONDITION PERMITS.

  NAYLOR, LTC

  TOP SECRET

  “That doesn’t make a lot of sense to me,” Colonel Freedman said, as Naylor waited for the machine to report the message had been received and decoded.

  “I suppose not,” Naylor said.

  The message wasn’t supposed to make a lot of sense to anyone except the President. Actually, it was intended to pacify the President, by deceiving him into thinking his orders to get Castillo on extended hazardous duty were being executed.

  “Who is CGC? A person, presumably.”

  “Sir, you’re not cleared for that information.”

  Freedman was annoyed but tried hard not to let it show.

  “I understand,” he said. “I’m not asking for classified information I shouldn’t have—”

  “It’s a question of Need to Know, sir.”

  “What I’m curious about, Colonel, and I don’t think it gets into a classified area, is why send the message at all? I mean, we had General McFadden on the phone. Presumably he knows what this is all about and—”

  “I could have just given him the essence of it, paraphrased a bit?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Two reasons, sir. Because this is going to the President, and when you’re dealing with POTUS you go by the book. And also because General McFadden does not know what this is all about, just that I am acting pursuant to a VOCICCENCOM.”

  “I can understand that.”

  “And now I have to get out of here, sir. I have something else to do that can’t wait.”

  “I understand. I’ll walk you out.”

  “I really appreciate your assistance, sir.”

  “Not at all. Glad that I could be of service.”

  When Naylor had passed through the door of the embassy, the Marine sergeant asked, “Sir, what the hell was that all about?”

  “You’re not cleared for information at that level, Sergeant,” Colonel Freedman replied. “And you should know better than to ask.”

  Major Kiril Koshkov was waiting with the Mercedes SUV when Lieutenant Colonel Naylor came through the gate in the embassy fence.

  Colonel Freedman watched until Naylor got in the Mercedes and it drove off. Then he looked at his watch and said, “Damn, I’m going to be late,” and hurried to his embassy car (actually a black GMC Yukon armored with ballistic steel) and told the driver to take him to the embassy of the Republic of Botswana.

  The Botswanese really knew how to throw a cocktail party.

  Aleksandr Pevsner’s Mercedes SUV took Naylor and Koshkov back to the airport, where they fired up Castillo’s Mustang and flew back to Bariloche.

  [FOUR]

  Office of the Director

  The Central Intelligence Agency

  Langley, Virginia

  1910 7 June 2007

  As A. Franklin Lammelle, the CIA director, removed a dart from the right ear of the photograph of Vladimir Putin he used as a target and was in the process of removing a second from Mr. Putin’s nose, his CaseyBerry buzzed.

  He shoved the dart back into Putin’s left nostril, took the CaseyBerry from his shirt pocket, looked to see who was calling, and then inquired, “And how may the CIA be of service to the Queen of Foggy Bottom?”

  Natalie Cohen, the United States secretary of State, got right to the point.

  “I have an URGENT from Buenos Aires,” she said.

  “Junior called to say he was at the embassy,” Lammelle replied.

  “What do I do with it?”

  “Unless memory fails, Madam Secretary, we were agreed that you would now dispatch a member of your security staff to make the other addressees familiar with it. ‘Eyes Only’ means you can’t send them a copy as it is one of those quote Duplication Forbidden end quote documents.”

  “You’re an ‘other addressee,’ Frank.”

  “Well, you can skip me. I know what it says. I wrote it.”

  “And Truman Ellsworth is in Budapest, looking for Castillo. What do I do about him?”

  “I’ve given that some thought, as a matter of fact. When you see the President, you can tell him where ol’ Truman is. One more proof that his faithful staff is carrying out his orders.”

  “Faithfully carrying out his orders is not what we’re doing, Frank, and you know it.”

  “Consider the alternative, Natalie.”

  She didn’t respond to that directly. “And what do I do with General Naylor?”

  “If the President convenes another meeting, you can show the message to General Naylor when he shows up.”

  “And what do I do if I call the White House and he is available?”

  “The last I heard was that Senator Foghorn and the other Good Ol’ Boys have already shown up at the White House for a little white lightning and two-bit-limit poker. I don’t think he will be available tonight.”

  “And what if he decides to take Senator Fog… Forman into his confidence about this?”

  “I think that’s unlikely; he knows what a loud mouth Forman has. But we’ll just have to wait and see.”

  “I’m very nervous about this whole thing.”

  “Well, so am I. That’s why I’m paid the big bucks. You have to have nerves of steel to be the DCI.”

  “Oh, God!” she said, and broke the connection.

  He immediately called her back.

  “What?”

  “Our ‘keep me posted’ deal is still in place, right?”

  “That’s why I’m paid the big bucks, Frank. Your word has to be good when you’re sec State.”

  [FIVE]

  1920 7 June 2007

  “Mrs. Clendennen’s personal extension.”

  “This is Natalie Cohen. Is the First Lady available?”

  “One moment, please.”

  “Hey, sweetie! How are you?”

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Clendennen—”

  “Natalie, honey, I keep telling you and telling you that you can call me Belinda-Sue.”

  “Belinda-Sue, that’s very kind of you.”

  “Don’t be silly. We girls have to stick together, particularly since there are so few of us around here. What can I do for you, honey?”

  “Well, I know the President would like to hear they’ve found Lieutenant Colonel Castillo, but when I called just now, they said he was in conference, and I wondered if you thought I should insist on talking to him, or whether telling him can wait until the morning.”

  “Just between us, honey, what he’s doing is playing pinochle in Lincoln’s bedroom with the boys from Buildings, Bridges, and Monuments.”

  “Excuse me? With whom?”

  “When Zeke was in the House, he was co-chairman—with Senator Forman—of the Joint Select Committee on Buildings, Bridges, and Monuments. You know, when one of them loses an election and has to go home, they name a building or a bridge after him. Or put up a statue, a monument they call it, if his hometown allows it. Zeke said it’s the on
ly really bipartisan committee in Congress. No arguments, no gridlock. Everybody gets one of the three.”

  “Oh, yes, I’d forgotten,” the secretary said.

  “Just between us girls, honey, he’s likely to be a little hungover tomorrow, so keep that in mind when you come in the morning.”

  “You think it would be best if I came to the White House in the morning?”

  “I’ll call the chief of staff to put you on the list as Number One. That’s the eight-thirty slot.”

  “Thank you, Belinda-Sue.”

  “My pleasure, honey,” the First Lady said. And then went on, “Say, I just thought, the next time he gets together with those bums, I’ll give you a ring, and you can come over and we’ll hoist a few belts ourselves. What’s gander for the goose, as they say.”

  “That would be very nice, Belinda-Sue,” the secretary said.

  [SIX]

  The Oval Office

  The White House

  1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, N.W.

  Washington, D.C.

  0825 8 June 2007

  President Joshua Ezekiel Clendennen, followed by Supervisory Secret Service Agent Robert J. Mulligan, walked into the Oval Office. The President’s secretary and Presidental Spokesman Robin Hoboken, who stood waiting, watched as Mulligan pulled out the chair behind the presidential desk and the President sat down.

  Mulligan went to the wall beside the windows looking out into the Rose Garden and leaned on it.

  The President jabbed his finger in the direction of the coffee service on a side table, indicating he could use a cup, and said, “And put a little Hair of the Dog in it.”

  “Yes, Mr. President,” his secretary said.

  “No,” the President said, pointing at Hoboken. “Let Whatsisname here do that. I need a confidential word with him. You go file something or something.”

  “Yes, Mr. President,” his secretary said, and left the office.

  Robin Hoboken went to the side table and poured a cup of coffee three-quarters full. Then he went to a bookcase and took from behind a book a large white medicine bottle labeled “Take Two Ounces Orally at First Sign of Catarrh Attack.”

  He added two ounces of the palliative to the President’s coffee cup and then presented the cup and its saucer to the President.