Brown, Dale - Independent 04

by Storming Heaven (v1. 1)

  “Mr. President, critics can label this plan whatever they like,” Hardcastle responded. “My objective is simply to defend our major international airports from aerial attack.” “Mr. President, I think the FBI can handle this crisis without having to resort to this extreme military option,” Lowe said, holding up her copy of the plan Hardcastle had proposed to the Secretary of Defense. “You’re talking about surface-to-air missiles, fighters escorting commercial airliners, free-fire zones around major cities and airports . . . ?” She shook her head in disbelief. “Ludicrous. This is not some damned Dale Brown novel, this is real- life.”

  “It has to be set up and executed as if this was an overseas American military installation under attack by a foreign hostile military force,” Hardcastle explained. “Sir, the plan presupposes that we want air traffic in this country to continue at the highest possible level of efficiency.”

  “That goes without saying, Admiral.”

  “Then, sir, it will be easier than taking candy from a baby for Henri Cazaux to attack any airport at will, unless we have a layered, iron-clad defense network around every major U.S. airport. It is absolutely essential that we act to screen air traffic moving in and out of our major airports in case Cazaux slips past our dragnets and tries to attack.”

  “I don’t like the sound of this one bit,” the President remarked, wishing like hell that it wasn’t his Administration that had to deal with this shit. Why couldn’t they have just elected his wife? Let her handle it, that’s what he wanted. “But I invited you here because enough people think your plan might have merit during this emergency. What is it you propose, Admiral?”

  “Sir, my plan has two major elements,” Hardcastle explained. “First, we control and monitor the movement of every aircraft in the United States, using civilian and military radar systems. Second, we use airborne and ground- based air defense systems to track, identify, and, if necessary, engage any aircraft that is not properly identified or deviates from its proper course.”

  “This is the Hammerheads all over again,” Lani Wilkes said with an expression of disgust, as if someone had passed gas. “Another assault on the Bill of Rights, eh, Admiral?”

  “Until you catch Cazaux, there is no other way to keep air traffic in this country moving safely, Judge Wilkes.” “You make it sound so sterile, Admiral,” Transportation Secretary Mersky interjected. “Putting every aircraft in the United States on an instrument flight plan? That’ll overload our air traffic controllers. All others can’t fly? That’ll ground hundreds of thousands of planes. And your term ‘engage’ is a polite term for ‘shoot down,’ as in ‘shoot down a commercial airliner’ if it strays too far off course or turns the wrong way on a missed approach in bad weather.” “Admiral Hardcastle, I simply don’t think this plan will work—or if it is implemented, it won’t do any good and will cause more panic and confusion than it will help,” the Vice President added stiffly. “Every plane flying into a major airport in the country has to be escorted by an armed fighter? This has got to be a violation of Constitutional rights.”

  “The only way to positively identify a suspect aircraft is to intercept it and check it visually, sir,” Vincenti interjected. “And in many cases, the only way to divert a suspect away from a restricted area is by a fighter intercept. The ground-based air defense systems are a last resort only. Obviously, shooting at a terrorist plane only a few miles from a major airport will still cause massive destruction on the airport, although if it doesn’t hit its intended target then the engagement was a success.

  “The intercept must be as far from the intended target and as far from major population centers as possible. A Stinger missile has a range of perhaps one to two miles, and the cannon on an Avenger mobile air defense unit has an effective range of half that. But a terrorist hit by an Avenger cannon or a Stinger missile will more than likely still crash on the airport, although the damage and death it causes should be greatly reduced. Patriot has a maximum range of about sixty miles, the Hawk missile perhaps twenty—this is the minimum range a suspected terrorist should be allowed to approach.”

  “This is nuts .. .” someone muttered.

  There were murmurs of concurrence around the room. “The main means of identification, control, and engagement must be by armed fighter interceptors, which are vectored into the intercept by AWACS radar planes. Then, intercept the suspect as far from the target as possible— preferably hundreds of miles away,” Vincenti went on. “All suspected terrorist aircraft must be kept away from major airports, and the best way to divert an airliner to another airport where it can be inspected is with an interceptor.” “This is insane!” Deputy Attorney General Lowe said. “Can you imagine an American Airlines flight with two hundred people on board looking out and seeing a fighter on its wing? Jesus, what if there’s an accident? An accidental shoot-down will cause mass hysteria.”

  “General Lowe, I think we’ve already got mass confusion bordering on hysteria right now,” Hardcastle said. “My flight from California to Washington was delayed for hours because someone’s flight plan was lost and they wouldn’t allow the aircraft into their airspace. I heard air traffic controllers panicking on the radio every time a plane strayed a couple miles off course—it didn’t matter that the plane was a little corporate job a hundred miles away from any major airport. Sir, we’ve got to take control of this situation or the public will panic.”

  “Mr. President, with all due respect to Colonel Vincenti, we should ask Admiral Hardcastle and his staff to pack up their Patriot missiles and F-16 fighter planes and go back to the TV talk shows,” Lowe said bitterly. “We don’t need his brand of frontier justice to keep control of this situation.”

  “I agree, Mr. President,” FBI Director Lani Wilkes chimed in. “Sir, Cazaux is going to make a mistake. If that was his handiwork in Memphis, the net will only pull tighter.”

  “Okay, Liz,” the President said, holding up his hands. “Tell me what you’ve got in mind for restoring confidence in air travelers?”

  While Lowe spoke, Deborah Harley, Martindale’s special assistant assigned to Hardcastle for this meeting, leaned forward in her seat behind Hardcastle and slipped him a note. He turned to her. Harley was in her late forties, a pretty blonde with bright green eyes and a thin but persistent smile. “What’s this, Miss Harley?” he asked.

  “An observation, Admiral,” she whispered. Her smile seemed pleasant enough, but her eyes were hard and insistent.

  Hardcastle frowned. He did not know Harley, but had seen her on numerous occasions with Martindale in a variety of functions—sometimes she acted as a secretary, a chauffeur, a bodyguard, or even as a wife. Martindale, divorced after being voted out of office in the last election, had a variety of beautiful women drifting in and out of his life—the tabloids kept constant tabs on Martindale’s frequent flings—but only Deborah Harley returned. She was beautiful and mysterious and could even be considered alluring—perfect “tabloid bait”—but the tabloids never pursued her. Hardcastle had never spoken more than a few pleasantries to her. She was all business.

  He had trouble reading her unfamiliar handwriting—the message looked like, “It’s a SITREP.” He was about to ask her what she meant when the President addressed him: “How does that sound to you, Admiral?”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Hardcastle responded, folding the note and shoving it into a pocket, unread. “Say again?”

  “Jesus, Admiral, we’re having a meeting over here, ” Lowe muttered irritably. “I suggested to the President that one way to monitor air traffic is to restrict all flights from and to towered fields on IFR flight plans only, where tower personnel can visually identify all departing aircraft and we can use the ATC computers to help monitor all traffic. In that way, we can keep a good portion of general aviation traffic moving, eliminate the pop-up radar targets, and we don’t endanger civil air traffic with missiles and guns.”

  “If you’ll notice, that’s all part of my plan, General Lowe,” Hardcastle
said. “I think it’s essential for authorities to know precisely what the origin of each and every flight is. As the system works now, a flight under visual flight rules can enter the air traffic control system anywhere. This is called a ‘pop-up’ flight plan, and we need to eliminate them. Cazaux can load up a cargo plane with explosives from some isolated desert base, take off, then simply call up ATC and get a flight plan to a major airport. He’ll get first-class ATC service—right to his bomb-release point. By restricting flights from only towered airports, federal authorities can directly determine who’s in the system. If a personal inspection is warranted, we have a chance to do it—”

  “A visual inspection?” Lowe interjected. “You mean visually inspect every plane that looks suspicious? Hardcastle, do you have any idea how many planes that is?”

  “On average, one plane over seventy-five thousand pounds gross weight takes off every five seconds from the thirty largest American airports,” Hardcastle replied. “That’s over seventeen thousand flights per day. But three- quarters of those are scheduled passenger flights, which leaves about four thousand flights per day that are cargo flights or flights of unknown purpose or cargo—business, private, small commercial, expedited freight, all that. That’s about one hundred and thirty flights per day from each of the nation’s thirty largest airports, or about five per hour. I believe those flights can be inspected. If we organize local, state, and federal authorities, including reserve law enforcement personnel and the military, we can inspect each and every flight.

  “But I don’t have any illusions that this system will be airtight,” Hardcastle went on. “The Border Security Force had a tight, overlapping, redundant air surveillance network, and smugglers still found ways around it. Cazaux is clever as well as dangerous—I work under the assumption that he’ll figure out a way to beat the system. But we must have a way to stop Cazaux before he gets over the airport terminal, and that means an integrated air defense network. We must have the ability to monitor, precisely track, and, if necessary, attack any hostile aircraft anywhere in the airspace system, primarily around the thirty-three major airports under Class B airspace in the United States.”

  “I’m strongly opposed to this idea, Mr. President,” Lowe insisted. “I think it’ll result in accidents and needless civilian deaths. It’s like letting Dirty Harry loose on the airports.”

  “I’m afraid I’m opposed to the idea as well, Mr. President,” Transportation Secretary Mersky interjected. “There will be problems integrating civil air traffic control functions with military requirements.”

  “But it can be done, Secretary Mersky,” Hardcastle said. “I proved that with the Hammerheads. I’ve had plenty of success with this type of emergency, Mr. President. We.can implement this program in just a few days. I think it’s vital, sir.”

  The President fell silent, apparently thinking it over; then he turned to Hardcastle and said, “All right, Ian. I don’t like the idea, but we gotta move on this thing.” The President withdrew a card from his jacket pocket, glanced at it, then said, “Ladies and gentlemen, Deputy Attorney General Lowe, I’m going to announce to Congress that under 10 U.S.C. 332 and 333, I’m directing a military response to this crisis situation. Deputy Lowe, under the law I’m appointing a military representative as your deputy director of the Executive Committee on Terrorism. He’ll interface with Justice and various branches of the military and coordinate an effective response. I want to emphasize that the military’s involvement is limited to protection of major airports around the country, not in law enforcement matters.”

  The President then turned toward Hardcastle and continued, “It’s time to put your money where your mouth is, Admiral, so I’ll just come right out and say it: I want you to head the program, Admiral. You are going to be the military liaison to the Executive Committee on Terrorism.”

  Hardcastle could have fallen out of his chair in surprise. He gasped, “Excuse me, sir ... ?”

  “I’ve got no other choice,” the President drawled simply, sounding a bit defeated. “Cazaux’s out there. Judge Wilkes is closing in on him, but until she nails him, we’ve got to act decisively. My own Cabinet is divided on the subject. I need the best in the business to head this thing, and as much as I hate to admit it, you’re the best candidate. What’d you say, Admiral? You want in?” Hardcastle glanced quickly at Scheer, Mersky, Lowe, and Wilkes: all but Wilkes stared straight ahead, emotionless. Only Wilkes seemed angry enough to spit bullets. “I need your answer, Ian. This can’t wait any longer. I need you to get together with Dr. Scheer and get the hardware moving into place.”

  “Then I’m your man, Mr. President,” Hardcastle said. “I’ll start immediately.”

  “Good answer,” the President said, relieved, hoping he could get the hell out of there. “I’ll announce it at this afternoon’s press conference. You’ll be under Mike Lifter, title of Special Assistant to the President for National Security. However, I’d still like all of you to report to Deputy Attorney General Lowe on all antiterrorist stuff—let her talk to me about our responses. You’ll get commensurate three- star pay, standard nondisclosure agreement, you know the drill. Happy to have you aboard, Admiral. I’ll let you, Mike, and Don Scheer get at it. Good luck.”

  With that, Hardcastle had been dismissed. He rose, led his staff out with him, and was joined outside the Oval Office by National Security Advisor Michael Lifter and a military aide.

  “We’ve set up a staff meeting at the Pentagon,” Lifter said. He was a tall, thin, severe-looking man with small, dark, nervous eyes and a high forehead that made him look sinister and secretive. “Secretary Scheer will meet us there' along with the Chairman. I’m sure they’ll have a videoconference set up with General Lawson of A-COM.” The Chairman, Hardcastle knew, was the popular (at least with the media, the military, and the public—less so with the President and the Cabinet) and powerful Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Army General Philip T. Freeman. Army General Thomas Lawson was CINCACOM, Commander in Chief, U.S. Atlantic Command, the major military command charged with the defense of the “lower forty-eight” states. Hardcastle did not know Lawson; he would have chosen Air Force General Charles Skye instead—perfect name for an Air Force four-star general and former Thunderbirds demonstration-team solo pilot—who was commander of U.S. Space Command and automatically “triple-hatted” as commander of the U.S. Aerospace Defense Command and the joint U.S.-Canadian North American Air Defense Command. But it was the President’s call. “We can take my car . . .”

  “Sir, if you don’t mind, we’ll follow you over,” Deborah Harley suddenly interjected.

  Lifter looked a bit puzzled. He glanced at Harley, dismissed her with an impassive blink of his snakelike eyes, then back at Hardcastle: “I have some important matters to go over with you, Admiral.”

  “Well meet you over there in the Chairman’s office, Mr. Lifter,” Harley said.

  There was no ignoring her this time. Lifter nodded, swallowed, muttered a curt “Very well. One hour. The secretary has your toll passes and plates.”

  As they collected their government plates and toll plaza passes from the White House Operations secretary and exited the White House, Hardcastle said, “Miss Harley, what in the hell was that about? And what in blazes did that note say?”

  “It said, Admiral, that you were being set up, and they executed it perfectly,” Harley said. “You didn’t see it coming?”

  “See what coming?” Sheehan asked.

  “How about you, Colonel Vincenti?” Harley asked. “What did you see?”

  “I saw ‘good cop, bad cop,’ ” Vincenti said. “Hate to say it, Admiral, but they played you like a fiddle.”

  “Did you really think it was a good idea to head this air defense task force, Admiral?” Harley asked. “May I ask why you agreed to do it?”

  “Because I can help with this situation,” Hardcastle replied. His mind’s eye was furiously replaying the sequence of events in his head, and the more he recalled,
the worse he realized he looked. “Damn it, I can help with this situation. I can directly implement my plan.”

  “Admiral, your plan has merit,” Harley said, “but you’re not part of this Administration. You won’t be allowed to implement your program the way you want—you’re an assistant to the National Security Advisor, and Lifter’s only an adviser, not in the military chain of command. Furthermore, you won’t be permitted to speak to the press or the public, including the Project 2000 Task Force. Under the terms of the White House Non-Disclosure Agreement, the Chief of Staff,.through the director of White House communications, tells you to whom you can and cannot give statements. If you bust their guidelines— and I guarantee, if they want you to bust the rules, you will—they can throw you in prison. They’ve done it many times in the past. While you’re stuffing some congressman’s newsletters in minimum security, they’ll roast your reputation so badly you’ll be lucky to be allowed to lead a Cub Scout pack anywhere near Washington. Minority Leader Wescott, Senator Heyerdahl, even former Vice President Martindale can’t help you then. You’ve been very effectively squelched, Admiral Hardcastle, and you did it to yourself. Looks like you just canceled all your TV appearances for a while.” Harley shrugged, giving him a cheerful but tired smile. “Don’t feel bad, Admiral. The President is very good at flimflamming someone—so good, he does it to himself and his wife all the time.”

  Hardcastle was tight-lipped and scowling as he emerged . from the White House, but just as their car was driven over to them at the entrance to the West Wing, he turned to Harley and said, “I may have been porked by the President, Miss Harley, but they still appointed me Special Assistant to the National Security Advisor. I want to test the boundaries of that office, and you’re going to help me do it.”

  Deborah Harley’s shoulders quivered and her eyes brightened in anticipation for a moment, but then her expression turned downcast. “I’m sorry, Admiral, but I’ve got a job—”