Hazardous Duty - PA 8

by W. E. B Griffin

  [SEVEN]

  Green Acres Farm

  Near Hershey, Pennsylvania

  0830 17 June 2007

  “Nice breakfast, Frank,” FBI Director Mark Schmidt said to DCI Lammelle. “Really nice ham!”

  “We do it all here on the farm,” Lammelle replied. “Breed the pigs, slaughter them, and cure the hams and bacon in our own smokehouse. We had a Russian—an SVR biological warfare chemist we turned in Africa—in here a couple of years ago who showed us how to do that. Before him, we used to sell the live pigs to an Amish farmer.”

  “May I suggest we get started?” General Allan B. Naylor asked, with an unmistakable tone of annoyance in his voice.

  As someone once suggested, the best-laid plans of mice and men “gang aft agley,” which meant they often don’t come to pass. In this case, not everyone who was to participate in what Secretary Cohen was diplomatically calling “the conversation” was able to make it to Green Acres Farm as early as Secretary Cohen had hoped.

  The first delayed arrival, that of DCI Lammelle, had been caused by the motion picture star Shawn Ohio, whose portrayal of CIA agent Dirk Eastwood in a series of films had made him the thirty-fourth-highest-paid actor in Hollywood. In his private life Mr. Ohio was somewhat to the left of his screen persona. He was a great admirer of Hugo Chávez, and deeply convinced that Mr. Chávez had been grossly wronged by the CIA.

  To bring this outrage to the attention of the American people, Mr. Ohio, wearing a T-shirt, the back of which was emblazoned with the legend GET THE CIA OUT OF VENEZUELA AND GIVE HUGO HIS TUPOLEV BACK!! had covered his hands with Magic Glue and attached himself to the plate-glass doors leading to the foyer of CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia.

  It had taken some time to get Mr. Ohio out of sight of the members of the media—including Mr. C. Harry Whelan of Wolf News—he had brought with him, and into the hands of the Virginia State Police, as it proved to be extremely difficult to separate Magic Glue–covered hands from plate glass. Mr. Ohio, who was really not nearly as stupid as some of his right-wing critics alleged, had learned this technique after he had handcuffed himself to the fence around the White House on two previous occasions of protest. Then it had taken only seconds to detach him with bolt cutters.

  His demonstration this time had caused DCI Lammelle to delay his departure for Pennsylvania by nearly two hours. Lammelle did not feel comfortable in leaving until Mr. Ohio was firmly—and safely—in the hands of the state police, as he feared the CIA security officers might not enthusiastically obey his admonition not to hurt the sonofabitch. If that should happen, Mr. Lammelle knew, Mr. Whelan would bring it to the world’s attention on Wolf News, as would the other media members via their respective outlets. The world would love to see and hear the real CIA clubbing a fictional CIA hero into unconsciousness while he was glued to their front door, and the media knew it.

  And then Director of National Intelligence Truman Ellsworth had telephoned at nine p.m. to say he was lost somewhere in the vicinity of Intercourse, Pennsylvania, and God only knew when he would be at Green Acres. Secretary Cohen had then decided they would hold off starting the meeting until after breakfast the next morning, when everybody would be there and fresh to deal with the problem.

  Gathered around the picnic table set up for breakfast on the veranda of the farmhouse were Attorney General Palmer, Defense Secretary Beiderman, DNI Ellsworth, DCI Lammelle, FBI Director Schmidt, and Generals Naylor and McNab.

  Secretary Cohen began the conversation by saying, “General McNab, you have the floor.”

  “The President arrived at Fort Bragg unannounced,” General McNab began simply, “and in a C-37A, not in his 737.”

  “What’s a C-37A?” FBI Director Schmidt asked.

  “A Gulfstream,” DCI Lammelle answered for him, adding, “Mark, for Christ’s sake, if you keep interrupting, we’ll be here all day.”

  Schmidt was unrepentant.

  “I want to get the facts straight. This is important business we’re undertaking.”

  “Please continue, General McNab,” Secretary Cohen said.

  “Yes, ma’am,” McNab went on. “With him, the President had…”

  Five minutes later, McNab concluded with: “As he left the President implied that I might be promoted if the seizure of the airfield by Clendennen’s Commandos went smoothly, and that my promotion might be further speeded if I showed more enthusiasm for getting Clendennen’s Commandos to wear Clan Clendennen kilts. After the President left, I called Secretary Cohen and reported his visit.”

  “He’s bonkers, absolutely bonkers,” Lammelle said.

  “You’re speaking of the President of the United States, Mr. Lammelle,” Secretary Beiderman said.

  “Unfortunately,” Lammelle said.

  “Who, to judge by his sending the Secret Service to the Greenbrier to see if Natalie was really there to play golf, believes there is a plot to remove him from office,” the attorney general said.

  “Isn’t there?” Beiderman challenged.

  “Let’s talk about seizing the airfield,” Truman Ellsworth said, ignoring the question. “First of all, where is it?”

  “It’s in, or on, a dry lake in the middle of Mexico,” Lammelle answered.

  “And how difficult would it be to seize, General McNab?”

  “I would not accept an order to seize it,” McNab replied.

  “But if you were?” Ellsworth pursued.

  “Ordered to seize it, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “I would refuse the order.”

  “And he would be in his rights to do so,” the attorney general said. “It is not unlawful to refuse to obey an unlawful order.”

  “Splitting legal hairs, as we were both taught to do at our beloved Yale School of Law, Freddie,” Ellsworth went on, “that is not precisely the case. Under the War Powers Act—and please correct me if I err—the President can order military action for a period not to exceed thirty days anywhere in the world he feels the need.”

  “Point well taken, Ellsworth. I clearly remember Professor Hathaway’s brilliant—”

  “Good ol’ Oona,” Ellsworth interjected. “A giant in the law!”

  “. . . lectures on the subject,” the attorney general went on. “I believe that would be ‘giantess of the law,’ Ellsworth.”

  “Right you are! I stand corrected!”

  “Let me ask a question,” FBI Director Schmidt asked.

  “Certainly,” Ellsworth and Palmer said over one another.

  “If the President ordered Secretary Beiderman to seize this airfield, and Beiderman ordered General Naylor to carry it out, and then General Naylor ordered General McNab to conduct the operation, and General McNab refused, then what?”

  “In that circumstance, I would resign,” Secretary Cohen said.

  “With all possible respect, Madam Secretary,” Schmidt said, “that question was addressed to Secretary Beiderman and General Naylor. What would you do, General Naylor, if you issued an order and General McNab, in effect, said go piss up a rope? Excuse the language, Madam Secretary.”

  “If General McNab refused the order—”

  “Presumably you think it would be a lawful order?” Ellsworth asked.

  “Yes, sir. I believe the President has the authority to issue such an order.”

  “And if General McNab refused to accept it?”

  “Then I would have no alternative but to relieve him of his command and place him under arrest.”

  “And then what?”

  “What do you mean, ‘and then what’?”

  “What does it sound like, General?”

  “Well, charges would be drawn up, and then—”

  “I meant to the order to seize the airfield.”

  “Oh, I see what you me
an. Well, sir, on General McNab’s relief, command would pass to his deputy—”

  “Enough!” Natalie Cohen said softly, but with such great intensity that every head around the table turned to her.

  “General McNab is not going to be relieved,” she said. “Aside from Frank Lammelle, he’s the only one of you who seems to both comprehend the situation and know what he’s doing.

  “Now, I’m going to go around the table and see if there is at least one thing on which we all agree. The question is, ‘Do you believe that the President’s mental state poses a genuine threat to the United States?’ Just that, and I want a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ not a learned, legal hairsplitting. Mr. Attorney General…”

  Attorney General Palmer met her eyes for a long moment and then said, “Yes.”

  So, one by one, did everyone around the picnic table.

  When the last man, General McNab, had spoken, she nodded and said, “Thank you. Now in the same manner, I’m going to ask another question and again want a yes or no answer. The second question is, ‘Do you have a specific course of action you would take if you were in my position, that is, as secretary of State, to keep the President from proceeding with his plan to seize the airfield, which would be an act of war?’ Understand that I am not asking for your opinion about what we should do about the President, just about stopping him from executing his seize-the-airfield plans. And again I’ll start with the attorney general. Mr. Palmer?”

  When everyone had answered in the negative, she said, “Thank you,” again, and added, “I am left with no choice but to take whatever action, or actions, I feel are necessary to keep this situation from getting any further out of control. I will accept full responsibility for so doing. The flip side of that coin is that I am not going to ask permission, either individually or as a result of a vote, for what I will do. If this is unsatisfactory to any of you, I will return to Washington and place my resignation on President Clendennen’s desk today. If I hear no objections, I will assume I have your permission to proceed.”

  Although several of the men around the picnic table seemed on the verge of objecting, none did.

  Director of National Intelligence Ellsworth, however, asked, “May I ask what you plan to do, Madam Secretary?”

  She chuckled.

  “I’m going to do what President Clendennen said he was going to do. Put the problem before someone who thinks out of the box and see what he has to say.”

  “I don’t think I follow you, Madam Secretary,” Ellsworth said.

  She didn’t reply, instead taking her CaseyBerry from her attaché case and punching autodial and the loudspeaker button.

  “Yes, ma’am, Madam Secretary,” Castillo’s voice came over the line. “And how are you?”

  “Colonel, I need you here,” she said.

  “Is she talking to Castillo?” FBI Director Schmidt asked incredulously.

  “No, ma’am,” Castillo said. “Sorry. The deal I made was I stall You Know Who for as long as it takes, meanwhile staying out of sight, and more importantly out of reach of any claws You Know Who might want to extend toward me.”

  “Colonel, I realize that I have no authority to order you to do anything. But if I had that authority, I would.”

  “I knew this call would be a disaster when you called me ‘Colonel,’” Castillo said. “What’s happened?”

  “If you’re not coming, there’s no point in telling you.”

  There was a ten-second—which seemed much longer—pause.

  “I’m floating down the Rhine… .”

  “So the CaseyBerry tells me.”

  “It’ll take me three hours, maybe a little more, to get to the airplane. Andrews?”

  “Fort Bragg would be better.”

  “Does General McNab know I’m—”

  “We’re,” a sultry voice injected.

  “. . . know we’re coming?”

  “General McNab is with me now. So is Frank.”

  “I knew I shouldn’t have answered the damn phone,” Castillo said, and the green LEDs on Secretary Cohen’s phone died.

  “And who was the woman who chimed in?” FBI Director Schmidt asked.

  “She’s the colonel’s fiancée, Mark,” Lammelle said. “Stunning redhead. In a previous life, she was an SVR lieutenant colonel.”

  “You look very thoughtful, General,” Cohen said to McNab. “Is there something you want to say?”

  “I was thinking, Madam Secretary, that you and Charley’s abuela are the only people in the world who could get him to come to the States.”

  “No, I’m sure he would come if you asked,” she said.

  “Not for me?” Lammelle asked.

  “Not for you or anyone else,” she said.

  She immediately regretted the comment when she saw General Naylor’s face, but it was too late to take the words back, or even try to lamely include Naylor.

  And I’m supposed to be a diplomat.

  IX

  [ONE]

  Office of the Secretary of State

  The Harry S Truman Building

  2201 C Street, N.W.

  Washington, D.C.

  1425 17 June 2007

  When her CaseyBerry vibrated and she looked at it and saw that Charley Castillo was calling, Secretary Cohen’s first reactions were relief and pleasure.

  He’s calling to tell me he’s on his way to Fort Bragg.

  But even as she pushed the TALK button and put the cellular to her ear, she had second, worrisome thoughts.

  If there is one absolutely predictable facet of dealing with Lieutenant Colonel Castillo it is that he is absolutely unpredictable.

  “Hello, Charley. I gather you got off all right?”

  “Goddamn it, Max! Give Sweaty her shoe back!”

  “And that Miss Alekseeva and your adorable dog are with you,” Secretary Cohen added.

  “Technically, that’s Mrs. Alekseeva, Madam Secretary. Or the Widow Alekseeva.”

  “Yes, of course. Where are you, Charley?”

  “According to the Garmin GPS monitor on the wall, thirty-five thousand feet over Aberdeen, Scotland, making nearly seven hundred and fifty knots.”

  “And when do you think you’ll be at Fort Bragg?”

  “That’s what I called to talk to you about, ma’am.”

  I knew it. I knew it. I knew it.

  “What’s on your mind, Charley?”

  “Well, in the car on the way to Hersfeld, I called General McNab…”

  I should have known he would do that.

  “. . . and he told me about You Know Who’s Commandos, and the kilts and so on. And he also said that since You Know Who’s visit is now known all over Bragg and Pope, my going there is not likely to pass unnoticed. If we land the Gulfstream at Pope, the Air Force band there will be ready to play ‘Hail to the Chief’ as I come down the door stairs.”

  Why do I know this is going to get worse?

  “So where do you think you should go?”

  “Sweaty also picked up on what you said to Frank and the others about you doing what You Know Who wants to do himself.”

  “What was that, Charley?”

  “Getting somebody else who will be thinking out of the box to evaluate the problem.”

  “And who would that be, Charley?”

  “And, no offense, Madam Secretary, but Sweaty also picked up on what you said about you having no authority to order me to do anything.”

  I am not surprised.

  “All of which means what, Charley?”

  “I’m not going to Fort Bragg—”

  “We’re not going to Fort Bragg,” the Widow Alekseeva’s voice came over the connection.

  “Sweaty had some thoughts about that, too,
Madam Secretary. She said, and I think we have to agree with her, that if you don’t know where we’ll be, you won’t have to lie to You Know Who if he asks where we are.”

  “So you’re not going to tell me where you’re going or what you’re going to do when you get there?”

  “That about sums it up, Madam Secretary. As soon as I have anything, I will of course let you know.”

  Presuming, of course, that your beloved red-haired beauty thinks that’s the thing to do. You’re putty in her hands, Charley.

  Probably not as much as Mortimer is in mine, but putty nonetheless.

  Why couldn’t you, Widow Alekseeva, be ugly with stainless steel teeth?

  “In that case, there’s not much point in further conversation, is there?”

  “I suppose not. Wait! Sweaty wants to know if you saw Shawn Ohio glued to the CIA’s door. We saw it on Wolf World Wide News. Sweaty said it was the funniest thing she’s seen since Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin took off his shirt and showed the world his biceps.”

  “I saw it,” the secretary said. “But speaking of Wolf News: May I ask if Mr. Danton is with you?”

  “Yes, of course you may, Madam Secretary,” Castillo said, and the green LEDs on the secretary’s CaseyBerry ceased to glow.

  [TWO]

  Wolf News World Headquarters

  The Wolf News Building

  Avenue of the Americas and Forty-third Street

  New York City, New York

  0001 18 June 2007

  It was said, probably accurately, that there were more television monitors in the Wolf News newsroom than there were in the Sony and Sanyo warehouses combined. It was here that Wolf News not only maintained contact with its journalists worldwide but kept its eye on what the competition was up to.

  This latter task was normally assigned to the most junior of the newsroom staff, the reason offered being that watching the competition broadened their journalistic horizons. Cynics said it was because somebody had to do it, and better that someone on the payroll who couldn’t find his or her buttocks with either or both hands do it than someone who could be put to laboring on more useful tasks.