Cobra

by David E. Meadows

  “No, sir. No, ya Maadi. I have never thought that,” he whined as he slid down the wall to squat with his hands above his head. Incoherent mumbling drifted up from the man. The thick black hair hung listless along the sides of the man’s face.

  Adib leaned forward and whispered, “Are you all right, my Colonel?”

  Alqahiray ignored the question. He turned to the other officer, paused as he watched the man raise his head slightly and tighten his cheeks for the expected blow. Alqahiray smiled and dropped his hand. “I doubt it would do more than just cause my hand to turn red and hurt my shoulder again.” Alqahiray pointed to the crying man on the floor.

  The soldier never moved but remained at attention, refusing to succumb to Alqahiray’s motion for him to look at his comrade.

  Alqahiray shrugged and pulled another Old Navy cigarette from a packet and lit it.

  “Come, Sergeant Adib. Let’s take these two fine intelligence officers to the laboratory.” He turned to the brave one. “I think you will find it enlightening, Captain. You are brave now, my friend. I hope you don’t disappoint me. I want to see how brave you are in the days to come. I truly believe you want to support the revolution, and I have a way in which both of you may redeem yourselves. And if you should succeed and live, then you may have your freedom to return to the cause.” He laughed.

  Alqahiray turned left and marched down the hallway.

  Fluorescent lights shining off the white walls gave the hallway a pristine, bright look, reflecting the leader’s shadow moving along the wall as he walked.

  Sergeant Adib moved to where the prisoner squatted, drew back his boot, and kicked the feet out from under the man.

  “Don’t hit me. Please, don’t hit me,” the man cried, curling into a fetal position.

  “Get up, imbecile. You coward. Or I shall personally shoot you myself.”

  He reached to his side and unbuttoned his holster.

  If the frightened intelligence officer knew what was to come, he would have remained on the floor and allowed Sergeant Adib to kill him. The prisoner scrambled to his feet. Tears ran down his cheeks as he whimpered softly.

  Adib motioned. The guards shoved the prisoners down the hallway as they followed the tall, lean sergeant through the corridor. The whimpering made Adib angry. He would ask Alqahiray for permission to kill the coward.

  TWO

  President Crawford ran his hand through his hair. The gray had become prominent over the sandy brown strands during the past few months. He wanted to show more gray, associating himself better with the population sector that poured out in record numbers to elect him for this second term. The key had been his health care bill. He had begun to allow a few gray strands to show. He leaned closer to the mirror for a moment before shaking his head. However, he hadn’t intended to leave office as gray as Clinton.

  “Mr. President?”

  President Crawford turned away from the brass wall mirror in the Oval Office. “Sorry, Bob,” he said to the secretary of state. “My mind wandered slightly. Could you repeat what you said?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. President,” Bob Gilfort, the silver-haired secretary of state replied. He understood the pressure on the president of the United States. Not only did the man have combat operations in Korea and North Africa ongoing, but two days ago, his wife was admitted to Bethesda Naval Hospital. Publicly, the word was exhaustion. Actually, she tried to take every pill in the medicine cabinet in the White House living quarters and would have succeeded if the maid bringing fresh towels hadn’t stumbled upon her. The psychiatrists diagnosed acute depression.

  “The French are tying up our nominee, Admiral Walter Hastings, as Admiral Prang’s replacement. We are pushing the political buttons as much as possible to expedite the replacement. The French want to leave it the way it is, with their French General Jacques Leblanc as the head of NATO’s Allied Forces Southern Command. They are fighting us every inch of the way.”

  “Can’t really blame them for that, can we?” President Crawford asked in a melancholy tone. “According to the British prime minister, the combined British and French fleet north of ours is now the primary naval force in the Med. They have two carriers; we have one.”

  “Their two carriers don’t have one-tenth the firepower of the Stennis.

  They’re baby carriers, Mr. President!” Roger Maddock interjected.

  “Say it as you will, Roger, but the Europeans don’t seem to feel they need us. They know as well as we do our focus is on Korea while their focus is on the turmoil and threat this new country of Barbary and North Africa presents them. We don’t have the influence we did ten years ago.

  They respect us, but they resent us … a conundrum. I think it is another fallout of globalization and … ” His voice trailed off.

  Roger Maddock, the secretary of defense, leaned forward from his seat on the couch. “Mr. President, we must stick to our position on the senior military officer of Allied Forces Southern Command being an American,” he said firmly. “As we have discussed, the primary military force in AFSouth is the United States Sixth Fleet and the United States Third Air Force. The last thing we want is someone other than an American in that position. Can you imagine the impact on our leadership if Sixth Fleet comes under the command of a Frenchman? You can’t trust the frogs as far as you can throw them.”

  President Crawford walked back to the straight-backed chair with the presidential emblem embroidered on its seat and sat down. “Don’t French-bait me, Roger. The French are a very independent people and one with whom we have had a long and historic tie. I know you have had some bad experiences with them in the past, but when all is said and done, they are usually there beside us when we need them. They stood by us during the war on terrorism. The truth is that when we needed our allies most, they were there. The French maneuver to promote their own interests just as we do to promote ours.”

  Roger leaned back. Yeah, I’ll give them their Evian water, champagne and good wine. “Yes, sir, Mr. President. But we still need to stand firm on our position that the senior military officer for Allied Forces South should be American.”

  “And we will.”

  “That’s what we’re doing,” Bob Gilfort added, reaching down and straightening his pants cuff so it flipped inside of his crossed legs.

  “The British have edged back into our camp. At yesterday’s meeting of the NATO Security Council, the British ambassador endorsed Admiral Hastings, Roger.”

  “I know,” Roger said testily.

  Gilfort turned to the president. “Mr. President, I am one hundred percent sure Admiral Hastings will be confirmed. Our NATO allies understand the military might needed for the North African crisis rests with the United States. With the offensive going our way in Korea, we may even be able to redirect the carriers to the Mediterranean.”

  “Thanks, Bob. I hope you are right about Admiral Hastings,” President Crawford replied. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and put his head in his hands. “But what if Hastings’s appointment continues to stay mired in European politics? We need an alternative position, a close-hold one. An alternative developed while we have the time. We don’t want to be in the position where we are running around at the last minute trying to decide which way we go. We need an alternative we can live with and support.”

  Roger and Bob exchanged a quick glance as the president shook his head back and forth.

  “Sir, not to be accused of French-baiting again, but the French also know we have our hands full with Korea. They are viewing this as an opportunity for-them to grab authority they shirked during the Cold War.

  Now—”

  “Roger, never allow your emotions to get wrapped around a position. It makes it nearly impossible to back away. I agree with some of your perspectives on the French. Still, we have to understand their thoughts, their strategy, and their interests. A strategy that promotes French interests is the same as ours promoting American interests.”

  “I had a pleasant phone call
with the British minister of defense earlier this morning, Mr. President,” Roger continued. “The gist of the conversation is that the British have heard — rumors, of course — that if Korea doesn’t wrap up soon, we may have to pull all of our forces out of the Mediterranean to meet force requirements over there. I diverted discussion on that topic.” Roger Maddock looked down at his notes. “On a second topic — the British Fleet joining Sixth Fleet as a combined naval force — he agreed to discussions. Last week in our conversation he diverted me by saying it was too soon. This is a positive change to my weekly recommendation during our telephone discussions. I believe our longtime ally, Great Britain, is about to return to our side.”

  President Crawford pursed his lips in thought. “I talked with the prime minister a couple of days ago, and he inquired about the future of American military forces in the Mediterranean and Europe. I think the British concern is the French. Just as we have long historical ties with both countries, their historical ties with the French have been ones of animosity and conflict.”

  “Do we have any idea what the British thoughts are behind the scenes?”

  Bob Gilfort uncrossed his legs to put his coffee cup down. “Need to ask them. The British sport of diplomacy has always kept them far out front of their true capability of national power. Wish we had similar resources.”

  “Touche, Bob,” President Crawford mumbled. “I know the State Department gets less than one percent of the budget, but Congress is the culprit, not the administration. What we should have done is fought harder for State’s funding. If we had, then we would have not lost the influence we have overseas.”

  Bob nodded, ignoring the opportunity to object. The State Department was always the loser in congressional funding, even though diplomacy was listed along with economics, military, and information as an element of national power. “The big loss has been our inability to be a presence in all the international venues we should have been. Noblesse oblige — if you have the power, then you must accept the responsibility and do it in such a manner that your allies never think of you as smug or arrogant.”

  “Our European allies sometimes view us as a Johnny-come lately to the international scene,” Roger added, “even though we have been a world power since World War I. That’s over one hundred years. Sometimes I get the feeling at meetings with them that they believe they know how to run the world — had more experience doing it — and if we would just listen to them, everything would be all right.”

  “I wonder if the British and French understand what our strategy is for North Africa? I wonder if they know how we are turning the tide on the ground in Korea?” Bob Gilfort asked.

  “We haven’t seen the tide turn yet, Bob.” “Mr. President, we are not losing in Korea,” Roger said, agreeing with the secretary of state.

  The president looked up. “No, Roger, and we aren’t winning, either. With the military force we have already in Korea, there should be little doubt about winning, but even with a larger force than theirs, we cannot seem to drive those sons of bitches back across the thirty-sixth parallel.

  “But, we have stopped their advance—”

  “And we won’t as long as we keep our military forces diverted with the ongoing events in Europe and North Africa. We need to focus on Korea. We may even have to mobilize — I hate to use that word and do not want to see it in the press — more military forces to Korea.”

  “Mr. President, we have activated National Guard units in—”

  “Roger, we are doing all the politically correct things we need to do.

  The polls show the American people are firmly behind us. How long they are going to maintain this support is probably directly tied to when CNN begins twenty-four-hour coverage of body bags coming off military transports arriving at Dover and Travis Air Force Bases.”

  “You should see the grief I am getting from certain senators who oppose our actions in Korea and who take strong exception to their hometown boys and girls — National Guard units— being called up.”

  The door opened and Franco Donelli, the president’s short, out-of-shape national security advisor entered. “Morning, Mr. President, Bob, Roger.

  Sorry, I’m running a little late. I was going over the morning intelligence summaries.” He crossed to a chair beside the president and sat down. “They seem to be getting thicker and thicker every day.” He crossed his legs, putting the left over the top of the right knee.

  “Wonder why that is?” Roger sniped, earning him a disapproving glare from the chief of staff. Lately, Franco had taken to arriving late for most meetings with the president. Roger would never have tolerated this from a subordinate. He wondered why the president put up with the arrogant fool.

  “Franco, glad you’re here. I want to discuss what I think we need to do,” the president said, interrupting Roger and Franco before another blowout occurred like the one two days ago. Just what he needed along with everything else would be Washington Post and New York Times headlines about the secretary of defense whipping the national security advisor’s ass in the middle of the White House. We are supposed to be the cool, calm heads of the American political system. Crawford looked at Roger, who still jogged two or three miles every other day and worked out with weights on the odd days. Franco, on the other hand, had problems keeping up with him when he walked. So many things the press could latch onto right now, including his wife, which he would protect physically from such a prospect.

  “Yes, sir?” Franco asked.

  “Gentlemen, what is our strategy for these crises? No, better yet, what is our grand strategy for the United States?”

  “It’s to win the war in Korea and the crisis in North Africa.” Roger Maddock answered.

  Bob Gilfort started to say something, thought better of it, and remained quiet, waiting for the president to have his say.

  “No, Roger. First, it is not a war in Korea. It is a combat operation.

  To me, a war is a nation fighting for its survival. None of us believes either of these crises will affect America’s survival. What they do affect is America’s leadership in this century. Since World War II we have led the world in two areas: economics and military. I mean, look at how nations and global businesses determine their wealth. They determine it in U.S. dollars. Even nations when looking at their gross domestic production, GDP, do it in dollars. We have had no competition. We won the Cold War by outspending the Soviets and doing it by forcing them to spend their money on a non-economic productive source. Defense! We were able to do it without affecting the overall health of our economy and kept a strong enough military that we drove international terrorism back within their own national borders. There is only one other currency that even reaches the shadow of the American dollar.”

  The president stood and walked over to his desk and picked up a pencil. He reached up and straightened his red tie. “Today, we have nations and businesses comparing their wealth against the U.S. dollar and the euro. The euro is our competitor. Military might? Yeah, we are still the only superpower in the world, and we should retain that title until at least the year 2030— probably even to 2050. I don’t see another country, with the exception of the Chinese, trying to compete with our military, but right now we have a carrier battle group and two amphibious task forces tied up in the Mediterranean. The Army is tied down in Bosnia with nearly a whole division. And the Air Force? We have already taken them effectively from the European scene and redeployed them to Korea! If I could only move the Army as fast as I can the Air Force.”

  President Crawford sat down at the desk and began to drum the pencil on it. “What I want to do is reduce our military presence in Europe and use Powell’s overwhelming might doctrine in Korea.” He held up his hand. “I know what you’re going to tell me. If we pull out of the Mediterranean and Europe, it will be very hard if not impossible to return.” He sighed. “For the time being, we will continue on and see how the new developments in Korea turn. If the tide turns with the lying little bastards ret
reating back toward the thirty-eighth parallel, then we won’t take the remainder of the military and naval presence out of the European and Mediterranean Theater. But if it stalls or they advance even one mile, then we will go forward with an unilateral pullout of American forces. I have no intention of losing in Korea. Our reputation and the confidence of the world in the United States rests on our ability to meet commitments and display the fortitude to stay the course. So, that is what confronts us.”

  Bob Gilfort leaned forward after several seconds of silence. “You mentioned grand strategy, Mr. President. What are your thoughts on the grand strategy for the challenges we are going to face in the coming months?”

  President Crawford opened his mouth to answer, stopped, and hunched his shoulders. “Don’t know myself, Bob.” He picked up a folder in front of him and tossed it across the desk. “Right there is where all this started. Right here is the catalyst that started the second war of the twenty-first century.” He tapped the folder with his index finger.

  “General Stanhope, director of the National Security Agency, dropped this off yesterday during our meeting. It shows how the USS Gearing — the most modern warship of the United States Navy — was lured into Libyan territorial waters by an information warfare attack against the geopositional satellites that provide navigational data to ships at sea.” He leaned back in his chair. ‘ new class of destroyers — what does the Navy call them?”

  President Crawford shut his eyes, and there was the USS John Rodgers. He always knew the military was trained to do what the skipper of this Spruance-class destroyer did, but he never really believed anyone would.

  To sail a warship between the aircraft carrier USS John Stennis and approaching torpedoes, knowing he was going to die, took a special type of person. He doubted he could have willingly sacrificed himself.

  Politics was not a profession where self-sacrifice was the norm, and a drowning politician usually tried to take those around him with him.

  President Crawford reached up and tweaked the bridge of his nose. The spot where the growth had been removed weeks ago was nearly healed. He wondered briefly what type of man Commander Warren Lee Spangle had been.