by Al Ruksenas
“Good, George. I’d hate to disappoint them. What about Victor?”
“Sherwyck? He should have been here by now,” the chief of staff commented.
“Show him to the Cabinet Room when he arrives.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What about Michelle McConnell? Anything new on her daughter?”
“Nothing yet, sir. We should know something as soon as our operatives report from Beirut. General Bradley’s informed us that his officers made contact with the Israeli Mossad and they transported them to the rendezvous site near Lebanese waters.”
The President waited expectantly.
“And that’s all we have so far, sir. The two officers should have made contact by now.”
“Other developments?”
“No, sir. The terrorist angle is the only scenario we have. Nothing else pans out.”
“That’s all we’ve got?”
“That’s all we’ve got.”
“No one’s taking credit for a kidnapping?”
“Not yet, sir.”
“No announcements? No demands?”
“No, sir.”
“That’s a little strange, isn’t it?”
“Well, sir, there’s nothing predictable about these kinds of groups,” Brandon attempted as an answer. “That’s why our Omega operatives are following the only solid lead we have.”
“That Warlock connection?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What about Victor? Nothing from him? Wasn’t he with her last?”
“So, we understand, Mr. President. No one’s spoken with him.”
“I will when he gets here. He’s the only one I know who keeps the President waiting. If he wasn’t a friend, I’d kick him you know where.” The President was growing irritated.
“Yes, sir,” the chief of staff concurred. “You and others in line behind you.”
They both chuckled.
The intercom on the President’s desk sounded with a mellow tone: “Mr. President. Mister McCallister is here. Shall I send him in?”
The President leaned towards his speaker phone. “Yes, Dottie, send him in.”
“Mr. President,” Paul McCallister acknowledged as he walked in. He strode to an armchair next to George Brandon’s opposite the President.
“Coffee?” the President invited as he sat down.
“Thank you, sir.”
McCallister looked fit and confident and had the bearing of a man who had achieved success in life and was recognized for it. His face still had the even tan of frequent winter visits to southern climates and his demeanor was authoritative. His New York brokerage firm was one of the top three in the nation and McCallister knew that his service in the White House would guarantee his position for as long as he wanted, even though he had to temporarily sacrifice salary, stock options, fringe benefits and other perquisites in the multi‐millions of dollars.
Where Brandon had worked his way up with the President, McCallister had been called to service by him, because McCallister had an intricate private network of international contacts through his work with multi‐national corporations. In fact, the President was confident—and for good reason—that McCallister’s network rivaled that of the State Department itself.
“Mr. President,” McCallister began. He adjusted his tie and suit jacket and leisurely poured himself a cup of coffee. “We did some preliminary investigation and have a list of potential replacements for Secretary Stack. Your apprehension about Philip Taylor, the Deputy Secretary, is well‐founded.”
“Is that your opinion, Paul? Or your favorite pundits?” the President retorted with a friendly laugh and pointed to the monitors.
“Well, sir, that’s where the pundits get their information, isn’t it? From us.”
“It’s a vicious circle,” Brandon added jocularly. “Do we influence them or do they influence us?”
“Well, I’ll tell you fella’s,” the President said more seriously. “More than once I’ve heard some news analyst give reasons for my actions that never entered my mind. But they sure sounded damn good—so I adopted their rationale.”
The advisers looked at him with knowing approval.
“Tell me something the media hasn’t said about Philip Taylor as the wrong choice.”
“Well. Mr. President, not too much actually,” McCallister started. “As you know, his public pronouncements prior to his present appointment would put you in a very awkward situation. If Taylor took over at Defense, the Russians would get mixed signals on our intentions. We’re too far along on some real progress in arms control that would be good for our defensive posture and some real peace of mind; at least for a number of years to come. Taylor is definitely out.”
McCallister turned his gaze to George Brandon, who nodded agreement, then turned his gaze back to the President.
“I know, Paul,” the President declared. “That’s what I was saying yesterday. So, let’s get to the alternatives.”
“We have four good possibilities,” George Brandon said, looking towards McCallister.
“Former Senator Farris is probably the best choice,” McCallister began.
“Let me decide that. Who else do you have?” the President interjected.
“Yes, sir,” McCallister replied. “Besides James Farris, we have Evelyn Allport of the America Foundation. She’s had a very good public profile over the last couple of years. Her strategic analyses are widely read. She was right on the money on the track that space weaponry would take. Very prophetic. I think she commands tremendous public trust.”
“She’s clean too,” the chief of staff added.
“A rare quality, indeed,” the President said with emphasis. “Nowadays that trait seems more valuable than talent.”
“All four have very good backgrounds, Mr. President,” George Brandon assured.
“They damn better,” the President declared with growing intensity. “I want no more fiascos about Presidential appointments. It’s as if the last couple of Administrations were jinxed or something. Scandals. Resignations. Financial frauds. High level crooks with tentacles reaching into the White House. I’ll tell you again, gentlemen—” The President was now preaching. “There’ll be none of that while I’m in the White House. I may not go down in history as the best President this nation has had, but I’ll be damned if I’m ever accused of betraying the public trust.”
Brandon and McCallister both shifted in their seats and looked at the President somberly.
“And no bimbos buzzing around members of my Administration.”
“Certainly not, Mr. President,” the chief of staff felt compelled to assure.
“It goes without saying, Mr. President.” McCallister emphasized in a tone that suggested he was affronted at the very thought.
“I know, gentlemen, I know. I’m just re‐emphasizing my convictions.”
“Yes, sir,” George Brandon continued. “William Cobb is another good choice. He’s a retired general and his present position as U.S. Ambassador to the United Nations makes him a perfect blend of warrior and peacekeeper.”
“That’s a thought,” the President replied and leaned back in his plush leather chair, as if some burden had just been lifted from him. “In fact, Cobb sounds very good. He’s solid, intellectual, faithful to his uniform. But he was never a slave to the military mind. That’s why I picked him for the United Nations. He’s an excellent candidate, gentlemen.” The President leaned forward again and rested his arms on his desk.
Both the chief of staff and senior presidential adviser smiled with satisfaction, pleased that they had screened at least one replacement for the Secretary of Defense who had immediately caught the President’s interest.
“Who’s the fourth?” the President asked. He arose from his chair and walked towards the window overlooking the Rose Garden.
“Gordon Thomas,” McCallister and Brandon replied almost in unison as they rose from their own chairs and followed.
“Gordon Thomas. Yes. P
ossible. Thomas is a ranking member of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee. Jimmy Farris is a former Senator, good connections with military brass.”
“They both have a good grasp of our defense needs,” Paul McCallister offered.
“Certainly, Paul,” the President replied. “I’d say they’re a toss up. I guess the only advantage Thomas may have is that fatherly shock of white hair.”
McCallister and Brandon both smiled at the President’s remark.
The President unconsciously stroked his own snowy hair along his temple and thought to himself whether that wasn’t the only visible reason why he, himself, was popular.
“Well, at least we all agree on Philip Taylor,” the President said jovially. “He can’t be the one, even though he would seem a natural choice as the next most senior official in the Defense Department.”
“Would you like some other names, sir?” the chief of staff offered.
“No. I think any of these four are good choices. I’ll let you know my decision. It’s too bad we have to decide at all,” the President said after a thoughtful pause. “Ron was an outstanding public servant. What a weird accident. It shouldn’t have happened at all.”
George Brandon and Paul McCallister nodded their heads in silent, solemn agreement.
The intercom sounded again. “Mr. President?”
“Yes, Dottie.”
“Stanford Howard is here. He says he has some urgent news.”
“Send him in.” He turned to his chief of staff. “Some national security issue?”
“I don’t know, Mr. President,” Brandon replied. “It must be something new.”
The national security adviser entered with a concerned look on his face. “Mr. President,” Howard intoned as he walked towards the Chief Executive’s desk, ignoring Brandon and McCallister. “General Starr of the Joint Chiefs is dead.”
“What?” the President exclaimed.
Howard looked quickly to Brandon and McCallister.
“Apparently, something spooked his horse near the old Pawtomack Canal. We’re still investigating.”
“Investigating what?” the President demanded.
“Whether it was an accident or not.”
“What the ff…?” the President caught his last word.
Chapter 16
Colonel Caine searched the two bodies lying in the cockpit of the bullet‐riddled cruiser, while his fellow commando hauled in their tattered rubber raft. Colonel Jones ripped the transceiver from a special pocket inside the raft and threw it overboard.
“This one must be the chief,” Caine said. “He’s got a scrap of paper in his pocket. Coordinates scribbled on it.”
“Our general location, no doubt,” Jones replied as he took the wheel of the ocean going speedboat.
They heard splashing sounds to the port side and instinctively grabbed their weapons. Caine leaned over to see a body being jostled sporadically. “It’s one of them. Something’s chomping at him.”
“Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy,” Colonel Jones said coldly.
“What about his buddies?” Caine asked. “We should give them a decent burial at sea.”
“It’ll bring the sharks. Might keep them around here when we’re in the water near shore.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Caine replied. He grabbed one of the bodies under the armpits, lifted it to the gunwale and shoved it overboard.
“Do you think they’re devout militants?” Jones wondered.
“I don’t see how ‘assassin’ and ‘devout’ go together,” Caine grunted as he pushed the second body overboard.
Colonel Jones aimed the cruiser toward the Lebanese coast fifteen miles away, while Caine rigged the go fast with plastic explosives.
As dawn approached they were several miles off the escarpment rocks that jutted out from the northwest part of the city—a signature landmark of Beirut. Beyond them in lighted profile against the fading darkness stood the oceanfront buildings of the Raouche district along the Avenue du General DeGaulle.
“A brown Peugeot sedan’s supposed to meet us at the escarpment overlooking Pigeon Rocks,” Jones affirmed as he cut the engines about one‐half mile offshore.
“The ultimate test,” Caine replied, heaving out the anchor. “Will they be waiting?” He opened the engine cowling in the rear and set a triggering device to detonate the explosives upon ignition.
The officers lowered their motorized skid into the water, put on their scuba gear and abandoned the cruiser. They signaled each other, adjusted their breathing devices, grabbed onto the skid and steered it just beneath the swells towards shore. Each surfaced several times to double check their bearings and within fifteen minutes the grinding of the skid on the bottom told them they were at the foot of the cliffs. They were at an overhang of the steep and jagged escarpment, out of view of several seaside patios and cafes overlooking the famous Pigeon Rocks.
Caine steered the skid north along the cliffs and into a secluded, narrow u‐shaped grotto under an area of warehouses beyond the promenade overlooking Pigeon Rocks. They grounded the skid on the tiny strip of beach under the cliffs and quickly removed their scuba gear. Caine hurriedly emptied the canisters of their supplies, while Jones turned the underwater sled back towards the sea. He swam with it into deeper water then drove the skid into the bottom.
Back in the grotto, they quickly changed into the casual clothes provided and divided their deadly cargo into their back packs. Each thrust his military issue Beretta into his belt.
“How do I look?” Caine asked. He zipped up a maroon windbreaker over his pistol.
“Like an infiltrator dressed as a tourist,” Jones replied. “What about the scuba gear?”
“Either way, we’re not swimming. Let’s bury it.”
Caine looked along the steep cliffs and pointed to his left. “There’s a path up that way.” They climbed their way to the top and were soon on the boulevard in front of a large parking area and warehouse. They walked south along the boulevard and after a sharp hairpin turn found themselves in the area above Pigeon Rocks, joining light pedestrian traffic in the early morning hour. An old man on a donkey heavily laden with vegetables was riding nearby, while cars, trucks and a bus wended their way past him. The city was waking to a new day.
The two Americans approached the overlook, gazed at the ocean for a minute and spotted a speck offshore that was the cruiser they had rigged to explode. They looked back along the sidewalk, past several large buildings on the opposite side of the boulevard, towards their landing spot.
They focused on a sandy overlook where a brown Peugeot sedan was to meet them. Seeing nothing, they looked at each other and wordlessly concluded that their contacts must have been in on the plan to assassinate them.
“Looks like nobody’s bothering to show up,” Colonel Jones intoned. He turned his gaze back toward the sea and leaned on a railing.
Just as he said so, he saw a motorboat with four men aboard speeding through the swells in the direction of the cruiser. He tapped Caine who was still looking for the contact car.
“They’re coming from the marina,” Jones said.
“They’re in a hurry,” Caine observed. ”A couple of ‘em are sporting heavy weapons.”
“Looking for their buddies.”
The two Americans turned again towards their rendezvous spot when they noticed a dusty, orange Volvo station wagon driving in their direction. It passed them, made a u‐turn on the divided boulevard, passed them again going in the opposite direction, then abruptly turned left onto the sandy overlook.
“Worth trying?” Jones asked.
“We have nothing else to do,” Caine replied.
They walked cautiously towards the station wagon.
“Like expected, but it’s not a Peugeot,” Caine said as they hurried their step.
“It’s not a man either,” added Jones.
They approached the station wagon, one from each side.
“Pardon me, Miss,” Jones asked
in French from a respectable distance on the passenger side. “Can you tell us the way to the National Museum?”
